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

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have entered the water? Is there any means of calculating it?’
    ‘Ho! Do you know women, Inspector?’
    ‘Women? What has that to do with the question?’
    ‘A woman is a force of nature, Inspector. One might learn no science to predict her actions. She is like fire or the sea – a mystery to men, and a great danger. The river is like a
woman – only less predictable, more lethal.’
    Mr Tarr took the cigar from his mouth and pointed to his interlocutor with it as if adding a glowing full stop to the proclamation.
    ‘I see,’ said Mr Newsome. ‘Perhaps, in my ignorance, I have mistaken the daily change of tides to be a somewhat predictable pattern—’
    ‘“Predictable”, you say? Perhaps before Old London-bridge was demolished – but no longer. Did you know that the flood tide has greater velocity on the Surrey side of
Blackfriars when the Middlesex side simultaneously has flat water? Shoals appear and disappear at their own whim. When the north-easterlies blow uninterrupted, the channel chokes on water and
breaks its banks. And yet dead water will appear mid-flow, stirring flotsam as the tides flow round. The bed of the river is to blame, of course. It is dredged, it is shifted, it is moulded by
accretions of human filth from the sewers. Who knows what it is doing there beneath the cloaking water or what secrets it holds? Predictable? No. No. It is haunted .’
    ‘Haunted?’ Mr Newsome maintained his mask of earnest enquiry with difficulty.
    ‘How many lives are lost to it every year? Fifty? One hundred? There are forty jumpers annually from Waterloo-bridge alone. Multiply that by centuries and ask yourself: where do those
damned souls go? Not to heaven, certainly – not with the taint of their sin upon them. No – they remain there in the depths, in the cold blackness. It is their sorrow that
animates the tides. They call to others, and keep them at their pleasure before releasing their flesh back to the world.’
    ‘I recall reading a more scientific explanation, but no matter. Perhaps an example will prove more helpful. Last month, a woman’s body was pulled out of the river at Blackwall. She
had leapt from London-bridge four weeks previously – but where had she been since then? At the bottom of the river? Moving out to sea and back again in a ceaseless cycle? Is there something
in the tides or the patterns of the river that make Blackwall a more appropriate place to find bodies fallen in at the bridge? Then again, some bodies falling from Waterloo-bridge have been
reliably found at Cuckold’s Point. Some bodies are never found at all. There must be some knowledge not known to almanacks but known to men such as you.’
    ‘Some places are darker than others, Inspector. They harbour more souls and seek more to share their hopelessness. Waterloo is doubtlessly one such place. They are the spots where your
bodies linger, unseen, until delivered up once again to the sun.’
    ‘Well, I see I have wasted my time coming to you for information, Mr Tarr.’ Mr Newsome made to stand.
    ‘The river becomes darker, Inspector. Time was when every vessel moved by the power of wind or arm alone. Time was when every vessel was natural wood. Now all is steam and iron and copper.
We have lost our feeling for the river and have made it just another thoroughfare to suit our ends. And yet it continues to claim souls, does it not? What would we see if the waters were to recede
and reveal the history in its mud? The ribs of Roman galleys? The ribs of men sacrificed to religion, commerce and despair? Predictable? Ho! Predict your own end, Inspector!’
    Mr Newsome stared sidelong at the ex-pilot to discern if he was mocking, or merely mad. The latter seemed the likelier assumption, so he began walking towards Tripe-alley.
    ‘I will bid you good day, Mr Tarr. I leave you to the comfort of your insanity.’
    ‘Beware the beasts of the river!’
    The inspector stopped and felt for the tooth in his