Late in the afternoon, Tennant returned to the Yard and found Susan’s note. “Paddy,” he called to his sergeant. O’Malley appeared in the doorway. “Fetch four constables and a police wagon. We’re heading back to the river.”
On Upper Thames Street, a hackney cab and a police wagon rolled to a stop at the top of Trig Wharf. On foot, Tennant and his officers started down the darkening canyon of brick warehouses. Mist rose from the cooling river, and the slapping water against creaking pilings sounded eerie in the fog. The inspector counted down three warehouses on the left. The butler had spotted Hackett unlocking its door. Tennant saw lights and movement by the building and signaled his officers to stop.
A man in a dark cap and peacoat fumbled at the lock. As the door swung open, Tennant sent two constables forward, and they grabbed him under the arms.
A second man had been waiting by a wagon. He scrambled away, dashing around the corner to Trig Lane. Tennant dispatched the second pair of constables after the man. Five minutes later, they frog-marched him back to the inspector.
“Heading for a dinghy tied up at the bottom of the steps,” the taller copper said. “Couldn’t see it in the fog, but a steamboat fired its engine and chugged off.”
“What’s all this then?” O’Malley shone his bull’s-eye lantern into the wagon. The light illuminated four wooden crates markedMARTELL V.S.O.P COGNAC. The shipping labels readOSBORNE HOUSE.
Tennant said, “Let’s have a look inside the warehouse, Paddy.”
The sergeant found four bundles stashed inside two seaman’sbags. He tore the wrappings off one and pulled out two silk shirts and a paisley cravat. “Prince Bertie would like these back, I’m guessing.”
They found eight additional crates of expensive cognac hidden under a tarp. All had shipping labels for Osborne House. Then O’Malley raked the beam of his bull’s-eye lantern across the back of the warehouse, illuminating a bulky pile hidden by an oilcloth. He pulled away the covering, unearthing a stack of wooden boxes with markings Tennant recognized from the Waterford Police report.
“Well, well, Paddy. Our missing French rifles.”
Sir Lionel entered the smoking room of the Army and Navy Club. He spotted Frederick Locock sunk in a leather armchair. Dermott was about to clap him on the shoulder when he stopped. Locock looked like a sailboat that had been through rough seas, mainsail sagging, and lines in a tangle. An untouched glass of port sat at his elbow, and an open newspaper tented his knee.
Lionel took the chair next to him. “Freddie, old man,” he said. “Haven’t seen you since Alix’s ball. Were you in London for Christmas?”
Locock roused himself and sat up. “We spent it on the Isle of Wight with my father.”
“And your lady-wife and the little chap, how are they? Thriving?”
“Yes, although Mary is apt to fuss.”
“Ah, women. And you, Freddie. How are you?”
“I’m well.” Locock looked away, making a business of folding the paper and setting it aside.
Dermott waited. “Forgive me, old friend, but you don’t look well. Still, if you’d rather not talk about it, there’s always boxing or the weather.”
Locock ran his hand through his hair. “It’s this investigation.Father tells me that constables on the Isle of Wight are asking questions. And Tennant came to see me the other day, demanding an account of my movements.”
“Did your answers satisfy him?”
“I lied and said I was out walking.”
“Thin. May one ask why you didn’t tell Tennant the truth?”
“I can’t … honor forbids me to speak.”
So soon?Dermott thought. Locock had only been married six months. “As a gentleman, you can’t supply a name. I understand that. But Tennant strikes me as a man of the world. You could be, ah, explicit about your activities without mentioning the lady’s name.”
Locock shook his head. “That’s just what I cannot do.”
Dermott sat back, eyeing Locock under half-closed lids. “I shouldn’t worry too much. You’re one name on a long list that includes mine. And I’m somewhere nearer the top, I fancy.”
Locock picked up his glass. “I want to be crossed off it, Lionel.”
“Drink up, and I’ll get the next round.” Dermott signaled the waiter.
Oliver Montgomery strolled in, intercepting one of two glasses of port on their way to Dermott.
“I just left Marlborough House,” Montgomery said, “and you won’t believe it.”
