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

their usual professional fortitude as they stowed the oars and tied up to a chain.
Their inspector, however, seemed less placatory.
    ‘Make way, mongrels!’ said Mr Newsome as he stepped from the galley up the stairs and into the group of ruffians. ‘You think yourself wits, but your humour may have earned you
trouble. Constables – while I am about my business, I want you to check that all of these wherries are numbered and logged to the last letter of the regulations. Any that are not will be
towed away and destroyed on my return.’
    A mutter of discontent rippled through the watermen and the constables in the galley smiled to each other, momentarily pleased to be working with their unorthodox superior.
    Thus it was that Mr Newsome made his way past the fishing-net frames and smack baskets to the main artery of Pickle Herring-street itself, which, on that afternoon, seemed less like a public
highway and more like an eruption of cargo from the overloaded vaults around it. Wire-bound bales stamped with merchants’ marks were piled as high as a man on both sides, and barrels tumbled
chaotically in wait for the cranes. Everywhere, men toiled with weight and wheel to process the trade of the world.
    ‘Excuse me,’ said Mr Newsome, addressing a foreman supervising the hoisting of tobacco bales into a third-storey aperture, ‘I am seeking a certain John Tarr of this street. He
is an ex-pilot, I believe.’
    ‘Aye – ten yards on,’ replied the man, waving an arm but not taking his eyes from the swaying package. ‘Turn right at Walden’s Wool. You’ll find him down
Tripe-alley.’
    Mr Newsome walked as directed among the wagons (mindful of the waterman’s allusion to the pedestrian who had recently fallen under their wheels) and saw the sign of the wool warehouse.
Turning right as directed, he could see the river and the manifold masts of the Pool at the conclusion of Tripe-alley, but there was otherwise no sign of habitation – just the blank brick
edifices of warehouse ends. He muttered a blasphemy and started to pick his way through a muddy tangle of worn rope, rotten timber and cat-chewed rat corpses.
    ‘John Tarr! Are you down here? John Tarr, I say!’
    At the alley’s end, the silhouette of a figure appeared: squat, stolid and wearing a formless corduroy cap upon its head. A long, thin cigar protruded from the mouth.
    ‘John Tarr?’ said Mr Newsome, seeing the face properly now. The man had the leathery look of a South Sea mariner, his face etched with lines like a whaler’s hull after a
three-year voyage. A lifetime of pulling on oars and ropes had given his arms and shoulders some natural bulk, though he seemed to be doing nothing in this place other than watching the vessels
upon the water. A rough-hewn bench by the muddy bank appeared to have been situated for the very purpose, and the ex-pilot beckoned his visiter to come closer.
    ‘Aye, I am Tarr.’ The voice matched the face: a brine-seasoned, weather-hewn instrument that exhaled a cloud of smoke from the twig-like cigar.
    ‘What are you doing down here, Mr Tarr, if I may ask. I see no houses.’
    ‘I might ask the same of you, Inspector.’
    ‘You know me?’
    ‘I saw the galley row over from the Tower and I saw you in it. Two constables and their inspector is standard for a galley. You held no oar. Won’t you take a seat and watch the river
with me?’
    ‘Thank you – I will. Your sight is certainly acute. I am Inspector Newsome of the Detec—, of the Thames Police, and I am told that you are the man to speak to concerning the
tides of the river and . . . and other related matters.’
    ‘I was a Trinity House pilot. I was a waterman. I have been a ferry skipper. I know the river as well as any man, and I know it as little as any man.’
    ‘Well, you are better placed than I am to answer my question. If a body washes up among the colliers of the Pool on the Surrey side about fifty yards east of London-bridge, where might