Free The Thieves' Labyrinth (Albert Newsome 3) by James McCreet

– as are the canvas trousers. As with the boots, they were of a reasonably good quality, so I presume our man was a ship’s
mate. We also found a folding marline spike in his pocket with the initials “M.H.” branded into its handle.’
    ‘So we can safely assume the man was a sailor.’
    ‘It would seem so. He had a pocketbook with some money in it – alas, nothing more that would identify him. The chain about his ankles was standard medium-gauge iron that might be
found anywhere along the Thames. It must have been attached in a hurry, or else there was initially more, for as we know, it was insufficient to act as an anchor.’
    ‘Well, I am sure this is all most intriguing, Mr Newsome, but I have finished my examination and I have other duties. Shall I arrange to have the body interred as usual?’
    ‘Yes, thank you, doctor. But before you do so, I would like Constable Jones to make me a detailed pencil likeness of the victim’s face. You may leave it on my desk when it is done .
. . and I will take that tooth with me.’
    ‘I was hoping to keep it as a curiosity . . .’
    ‘It is a clue in an investigation. I must take it from you.’
    ‘Very well, Inspector – if you must. Where does your investigation go now?’
    ‘Back to the accursed river again. I need to discern, if possible, where that body might first have entered the water.’
    ‘I wish you luck. The tides are a mystery that few understand. In fact, you might want to speak to a retired pilot many of the constables consult on such riverine matters. He goes by the
name of John Tarr, though he is sometimes termed “the Thames sage”.’
    ‘ Tarr? I fear you are mocking me now, doctor.’
    ‘I am quite serious. He claims it as his family name. He can be found at Pickle Herring-street, apparently. Everyone knows him there, although I hear he is somewhat eccentric.’
    ‘Perhaps I will seek him out. In the meantime I thank you again for accommodating me regarding the examination of “M.H.” here.’
    In a city born of its river, can there be any place more representative of that heritage than Pickle Herring-street on the Surrey shore? Its stairs, wharf and warehousing were
as familiar to those ocean-rovers of glorious Elizabeth as they are to Victoria’s merchants, and the bustle about those alleys has not ceased for centuries of trade.
    Coal dust crackles underfoot, barrels roll down planks from wagons, cries echo from cavernous storage spaces, and the tackle of innumerable cranes rattles and creaks at loading platforms. High
above the thoroughfare, criss-crossing wooden walkways convey clerks from office to office so that one might fancy being upon the deck of an enormous brig rather than a street. And everywhere, the
smell of cargoes: oranges of Spain, the pungent fish basket, the musty wine cask, tobacco’s sweet scent, and the odd enticement of tar. It is said that dogs go mad here.
    At the shore-side stairs, waves slap at moss-mottled stone and rinse the steps with solutions of sand. And as the river went about its timeless business that afternoon, a police galley crossed
between colliers and smacks from the Tower to steer among the tethered wherries of the watermen.
    One might be assured that those particular gentlemen of the river were, as ever, reluctant to meet any Thames policeman, whatever rank he might hold. For as a teacher has to apply the birch now
and again to his charges, so the uniformed men of the river are obliged daily to figuratively lash the waterman for his fractious nature.
    ‘Ho! Come to investigate my stolen wherry, have you?’ shouted one.
    ‘Nah – they’ve come about the young feller had his brains splashed all over by that dray Tuesday last,’ offered another.
    ‘Hush your blather!’ said a third. ‘They’ll be here about that body we pulled out two months gone. Better late than never!’
    These jibes raised a collective laugh from the other watermen, which the constables in the galley bore with