Wrexford handed over two shillings.
As she had hoped, the appearance of another grimy urchin turned no heads. Crouching down, she murmured a quick question to the boy.
The reply caused her to grit her teeth.
“Which way did they go?” she replied, carefully slipping the coins into his pile of unraveled hemp.
Strings flicked a glance to the right.
Charlotte rose and circled around a cooper’s shop before slipping back to the alleyway where Wrexford was waiting.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered on hearing what Strings had told her. He didn’t appear to like it any more than she did. “From here on in, I will lead the way.”
She wasn’t fool enough to argue.
The path that Strings had indicated led to a section of warehouses near the loading docks. Shadows flitted through the fetid air. A prickling of fear spurred her to stay right on Wrexford’s heels. Daggett was a hardened military man, skilled in hand-to-hand combat with knife or sword . . .
He was also a cold-blooded killer.
Sheffield wouldn’t stand a chance if he was cork-brained enough to confront him. As for Raven . . .
Damn. Damn. Damn.
* * *
Hawk wriggled through the gap in the crates and crawled through the trapdoor leading into the storage shed where Tyler had taken cover.
“Smoke says Dusty saw an unfamiliar ship tie up to one of the wharves behind the coal warehouses,” he informed the valet. “He noticed on account of it being a fast schooner instead of one of the usual collier scows that makes the runs between here and Newcastle.”
Tyler gave a satisfied grunt. “I think we can take that to mean my suspicion was right, and Captain Reginald Lyman is working hand in glove with Daggett. He possesses just such a ship and will do any deed, no matter how sordid, if he’s handsomely paid for it.”
The valet’s initial inquiries regarding the Royal Society’s shipment of plants had led them to a small Scottish shipping firm that carried perishable produce from London to the north. The head clerk had confirmed that they were usual agents for sending specimens from the Royal Botanic Gardens to various ports in Britain. However, he had gone on to explain that a man had shown up the previous afternoon with orders that the recently-delivered crates were to be handed over. A change in plans had been made, and the specimens needed to go by a different route.
The paperwork had all been in order, assured the head clerk. And so he hadn’t thought twice about off-loading the requested cargo and allowing the crates to be hauled away . . .
“Oiy,” agreed Hawk. “It makes sense that a niffy-naffy cove like Lyman would be involved. I heard Lord Wrexford say that he’s a dirty dish who betrayed his country.”
“A thoroughly dirty dish,” agreed Tyler. Further questions around the docks had elicited the welcome information that Lyman’s schooner had not yet set sail. “However, we need to get proof that the specimen is aboard his ship before we go rushing back to Wrexford and have him summon the authorities.”
The boy looked at him uncertainly. “Are—Are you sure we shouldn’t send word to him first? He—”
“As I said, I feel I’ve put you all in danger because of my carelessness,” cut in Tyler. “I wish to be sure before I sound the alarm. If for some reason I’m wrong, and send everyone on a wild goose chase, there’s a chance the real culprit may get away with his crimes.”
Hawk’s narrow face pinched in remorse. “If only I had caught a glimpse of the man’s face when he tossed the glass into the greenery, then we would have known the identity of the murderer, and the specimen wouldn’t be in danger.”
“So we both wish to make amends,” replied the valet. “I’ve an idea. You know these wharves better than I do. Can you get us close to the coal docks without being spotted?”
With nary a hesitation, Hawk nodded. “Follow me.”
Quick as an eel, the boy led the way through the serpentine maze of narrow walkways that cut through docklands. Spars, rigging, ironworks, casks—a myriad of nautical supplies were crammed into the spaces between the rows of warehouses. The area was a hub of commerce for merchant ships from all over the world, and the raucous shouts of the stevedores loading and unloading cargo jumbled with the banging from the forges of blacksmiths and workshops of the carpenters. Amid all the jostling and cacophony, it wasn’t hard for the two of them to slip by unnoticed.
Things turned a little quieter when they approached the coal warehouses, though the clatter of rock against metal as the cargo carts rumbled up and down the ramps created its own unique din. Several large collier brigs sat high in the water, the last of their dirty, dusty loads being hoisted out of the holds. A few smaller keelboats were being prepared to head upriver with local deliveries . . .
“Look there,” said Tyler as he and Hawk took cover behind a large tarp-covered stack of sail canvas. “At the far end, between the collier and coastal packet boat.”
“That looks to be a real flier,” murmured Hawk, on spotting the sleek ship tied to the stanchions.
“Aye, it’s one of those Baltimore Clippers built in America, and they’re said to be fast as the wind.” The valet slithered out on his belly for a better angle of sight down to the wharf. The area around the ship looked to be deserted.
