“It is motive for murder.”
“Quite.” Seabrook shook his head. “This could be a very bad business, Captain. I thank you for alerting me. But I assure you, my men checked the cargo on theDusty Rosethoroughly and found nothing of the sort.”
“Perhaps the guns disappeared, just as other cargo on your docks has.”
Seabrook grasped his pen between both hands. “A terrible thought. It is one thing to have crates of cocoa go astray, but not boxes of army carbines. Surely the captain of the ship would notice arms coming aboard.” He trailed off thoughtfully. “Unless he is in on it.”
“Not necessarily. Cargo is checked, but how thoroughly? Could a smuggler hide a few guns in boxes of, say, coffee? Layers of beans in the top and bottom, weapons in the middle? So that when a customs officer pulls off the lid and probes, he finds only the padding of coffee, or whatever the manifest shows the box should contain.”
“Yes.” Seabrook looked grim. “That has been done before, and we do keep a lookout for that, but some of these smugglers are dashed clever.”
“Why bother?” This from Brewster in the corner. “Why try to hide such things among legitimate cargo? Be easier to hire your own ship, slip it into a hidden cove, and unload it under the customs officers’ noses, with them being none the wiser … Begging your pardon, sir.”
The last was for politeness only. Brewster believed customs agents to be fools and had said so many a time.
“Such an endeavor would be expensive,” Seabrook said, taking no offense. “One would have to be certain the captain one hires won’t make off with the cargo and sell it himself. Brandy smuggling is rife and was uncontrollable during the war, but brandy isn’t as perilous as a carbine in the wrong hands.”
“Wouldn’t smuggle guns, me,” Brewster said. “Too dangerous by half.”
“You are right, sir,” Seabrook agreed. “One never knows if they’ll be used to overthrow a king or simply to cause general mischief.”
“The magistrates should know about Laybourne,” I said. “If I’m wrong, then he’ll be cleared.”
“Of course.” Seabrook nodded. “I’ll send word at once, before he can flee to—High Harrogate, you said? Sounds as though once he sells his stash he will retire to blissful life in the country.”
“He may have nothing to do with Warrilow’s death,” I said. “He was asleep at the time of the murder and has witnesses to say he took a dose of laudanum.” I wanted to clear Eden of the crime, but I had to be fair.
“I will keep this in mind. Thank you for your candor, Captain.”
The statement signaled that he was ready for us to go, and I rose. “One more question I have for you, Mr. Seabrook, while I am here. Your men seized an artwork from Mr. Fitzgerald, a painted box. Why did they?”
“Eh?” Seabrook’s brow wrinkled a moment. “Oh, yes, that. I have chappies who are experts in art, and they wondered if Fitzgerald had stolen the thing. But Fitzgerald was able to produce paperwork that said it belonged to him. He paid a man on St. Maarten three hundred guineas for it. Imagine.”
“He must have wanted it very much,” I agreed.
“That amount of money for a painted box, I ask you.” Seabrook shook his head. “Well, I’m not much of a man for art. Commodities I understand. That is why the other fellows are in charge of looking at paintings and the like.” He chuckled.
“So, you found nothing wrong with Fitzgerald’s receipt?”
“No, all was legitimate. I charged him a duty for bringing an expensive luxury into the country, which he paid without fuss.” Seabrook’s eyes twinkled. “We customs men thrive on such things, you know.”
I expected a response from Brewster, but he remained stoic, while I laughed courteously.
I had no more questions for the man and thanked him for his assistance.
“Not at all, Captain. I welcome the respite from the mundane tasks that fill my day. Drop in anytime. I enjoy chatting with those not in my tedious business.”
Seabrook came forward and shook my hand. I thanked him again, and Brewster and I departed his office, much to the clerk’s relief. Bristow slipped in to see his master as we left, carrying another ream of paper to slap on the overworked man’s desk.
Brewster and I went down the stairs, navigated the long room, and made our way outside. The hackney waited, as promised, and Brewster hurried me toward it.
“That box is worth far more than three hundred guineas, guv,” Brewster told me as the hackney driver took us toward Mayfair. He’d chosen to ride inside, likely to discuss this point.
“What did you say the artist’s name was? Van …”
“Van Hoogstraten. Probably is one of his. I’d need to have a look at it to be sure.”
“Fitzgerald did say the man he bought it from was in need of money. Fitzgerald might have sensed this and driven a hard bargain.”
