“They took the lady this morning, and we know she is somewhere in Lambeth.”
Mr Sullivan’s bright expression fell. “I want Markle in custody, but we do not have the men to look door by door. I need a precise location before I can gather the men to arrest him.”
“We hoped you might have some idea of what a man like Markle would be doing on that side of the river rather than wait days for him to make contact.”
“He was seen near Ha’penny Hatch,” Fitzwilliam added, “and the hackney driver said he complained about not being let out where he wanted.”
Mr Sullivan started fidgeting with his fingers as he looked at the wall, saying, “Hmm” several times. Darcy and Fitzwilliam exchanged a curious look while Mr Sullivan thought while twiddling and shifting his weight. He then went to the bookcase and pulled out a large folio and set it on a table.
“As custom house officers, we know areas along the river are a smugglers’ depot. They sail from Kent to the sea and use small-scale Thames-side quays. We just seized twelve-hundred weight of sugar from a ship moored on the Thames.”
The officer furiously flipped through pages until he came to a map of the south side of the river. He bent over it, his face very near the pages, gesturing for them to come near. “You say Markle was by Ha’penny Hatch?” He stabbed the map with this finger. “Say again, what did the driver overhear?”
Darcy feared Mr Sullivan was not capable enough to help him, but said, “We are not certain, but we think Markle was cross that he was not let out nearer to where he wanted to be. He mentioned wanting to be closer to ‘the yard.’”
There were more “hmms” and quick taps of his fingers against the map. “Love maps,” Mr Sullivan muttered. “An interest of mine. That area is all commercial, you know. Warehouses, manufacturers, breweries, timber merchants, cloth factories.” He then stood upright and snapped his finger. “Timber!”
While Mr Sullivan hummed to himself and pulled out another volume, Fitzwilliam swore under his breath. “This is the man who is to retrieve your betrothed from a murderer?”
“Smugglers sometimes have arrangements to hide goods with the legitimate merchants along the river,” Mr Sullivan went on, undeterred. “He meant Lett, the name, not ‘let’ as inpermission.” He met their blank expressions with a grin. “Lett is a timber merchant in Lambeth.” He pointed at the book in his arms. “Come, see?”
Darcy went near, struggling to understand Mr Sullivan until he saw it for himself. In the middle of the directory page he read, “Thomas Lett & Sons, Timber-merchant, Narrow-Wall, Lambeth.” He looked up at Fitzwilliam, feeling some of his hope restored. “Markle meant a timber yard along the river.”
Mr Sullivan gave a wide crooked grin as he slammed shut the directory. “And now we know exactly which one!”
His cousin’s shoulders settled back down and he gave a nod. “Can you assemble men to lay siege to the timber yard and recover Miss Bennet?”
“That is what we will ultimately do, but as far as the business of this office and its nine commissioners are concerned, we are arresting a known smuggler for whom a warrant has been issued for the murder of one of our revenue men.”
Mr Sullivan lifted a quill cutter from his desk and turned it over in his hands as he spoke. “Smuggling is theft, and Markle ought to be transported or jailed like his brother-in-law. Magistrates often cannot try smugglers in their own counties, you know. Too many are bribed or afraid. And many people feel they may shun paying any duty on their goods. But killing an officer while smuggling is punishable by death, and that is how we will stop him.”
“And there is no force in this country to pursue Markle or others like him,” added Darcy.
Mr Sullivan nodded enthusiastically, still fidgeting with the quill cutter. “Bow Street and its policing of this country has hitherto been imperfect, to say the least. We cannot look at every hiding place all over Kent and Sussex nor check every warehouse along the river. Getting your betrothed kidnapped to lure Markle out for us was a grand idea, Mr Darcy.”
He bowed. “It was primarily Miss Bennet’s idea.”
“And not a good one,” Fitzwilliam muttered.
Darcy threw him a look. Rather than continue his frustrated asides, Fitzwilliam asked, “All I have seen here are commissioners and clerks. Who can you assemble who is capable of attacking the yard?”
Mr Sullivan grinned. “For surveying and collecting duties, a number of out-door officers are employed in different districts or divisions throughout the kingdom to prevent frauds and losses. There are never enough,” he added with a rueful sigh. “But we are not all clerks with ink on our fingers, Colonel. I can have about six capable men assembled, and the Marine Police will help from the water.”
He attempted to clap his hands together once, but had forgotten he still held the quill cutter. Mr Sullivan tossed it to his desk with a laugh, saying, “I shall have it all arranged, and the men will attack the yard around midnight.”
“Midnight!” Darcy cried. “Miss Bennet cannot wait eight more hours to be rescued.”
Mr Sullivan’s eager expression faded. “Is it perhaps you who cannot wait, Mr Darcy?”
Fitzwilliam barked a laugh. “This man is not as impercipient as I thought,” he muttered to himself.
Darcy felt his hold on his self-control slipping from his grasp. “We know where Miss Bennet is, and I do not want Markle to move her or harm her.”
“He does not know you followed him,” Mr Sullivan said with a shrug. “The plan all along was to await his summons, correct?”
He could make no reply, but his grudging nod seemed to make Mr Sullivan reconsider. “The sun will set around eight o’clock, and by nine it will be dark along the river and docks.” He looked at the map again, tapping his fingers across it as he did. “Two boats on the Thames, and six men?—”
“Eight,” Fitzwilliam corrected, and Darcy felt most of his frustration at his cousin fade.
