“Good Lord, gentlemen. You believe me smitten? I am fond of Mrs. Davies, it is true, and young Robbie, but marriage?” He laughed again, the sound deep and loud. “I have told you many times, Lacey, I am an avowed bachelor.”
To the rumble of his laughter, we rounded the corner into Wellclose Square and to Robbie’s and his mother’s home.
WE SPENTanother pleasant hour with the lovely Mrs. Davies in her parlor, explaining to her what had happened. She applauded in delight when we described the villain being taken away.
“You should have no more worries, dear lady,” Grenville assured her.
I would not be as sanguine until all parties were locked away. I would ask Sir Montague to either send patrollers to guard her house or contact his cronies in the Tower to do the same.
Eden decided to remain behind with Mrs. Davies when we departed. We pried Harry from the rear yard where he was teaching Robbie the boxing moves Brewster had showed him and returned him to his grandmother. Mrs. Beadle was surprised to learn the identity of the killer, but relieved he’d been arrested.
“None want to stay in a boarding house where men are murdered in their bedchambers,” she declared. “But if it had to do with the excise men, then there’s no worry. No one likesthem,” she finished with conviction.
I bade Jackson return Grenville and me to the Thames River Police. Once there, Thompson thanked me for this coup and told me he’d given his prisoner to the Constable of the Tower, who had jurisdiction over Wellclose Square and its environs.
“If he’s convicted, it might well be treason,” Thompson said. “Stealing weapons from Britain and supplying them to other countries.” He shook his head. “I’m sure it was bloody lucrative. He already gave me names, which I have passed on to the Runners. I may have hinted to Seabrook that his charges might be reduced to smuggling and theft, rather than treason if he assisted me.” Thompson shrugged, his worn coat swaying. “Don’t know what the judges at the Old Bailey will decide to convict him on.”
“Where has Brewster got to?” I asked after we’d said our farewells. A swift glance around told me he was nowhere in sight. “His wife will want him home in one piece.”
“He said he was going back to the warehouse that burned yesterday. He gave no reason. I bade him a good day.”
He had me curious, but I thanked Thompson for the information. Thompson waved me off. “If you ever wish to lay a gun-running ring, an art smuggler, and the answer to stolen warehouse merchandise at my feet again, please do.” He turned away, whistling.
“I must fetch Brewster, if you do not mind,” I said to Grenville as we ascended into the carriage once more.
“Not at all. Then we will retire to South Audley Street to sup, drink wine, and regale Donata and Peter with our adventures.”
“Donata will be relieved it is all over,” I said as the carriage started forward. “I think she will not want me pursuing villains for a long time to come.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I do have a proposal for you, Lacey, but I’ll not make it until we are with Donata. Marianne already knows about it.”
“Leaving me to stew in curiosity?”
“I am afraid so.”
Grenville’s expression was amused, and I did not pander to his vanity by begging to know what he meant.
Jackson let us out in front of the Custom House once again, and Grenville and I trudged down the lane to what was left of Creasey’s warehouse.
I imagined the bodies had been taken away, and I wondered if any of Creasey’s men had survived. We would know, in time, I supposed.
Brewster stood near one of the blank brick walls in the middle of the ground floor of Creasey’s warehouse. The blown-out windows let in far more light now that the filthy panes were gone. Glass, bricks, and wood had been strewn thickly across the floor, the shell of the walls still standing.
Brewster held a sledgehammer in his strong hands, and as we entered, stepping carefully, he bashed it into the wall beside him.
“Brewster,” I called. “What the devil are you doing?”
Brewster pounded the hammer through bricks and the plaster behind them, then withdrew it and wiped his brow. “Oi. There ye are, guv. I was pondering, if I’m honest, where Creasey’s stolen goods had got to. None’s been found, I’m hearing, and now that Creasey has met his maker, he can’t tell us, can he?”
“You believe them behind the wall?” Grenville scanned the long line of blackened bricks. “Are you certain?”
“Why would the man live above empty storerooms?” Brewster asked. “Unless they weren’t truly empty. I came back here and measured the inside versus where the walls should fall on the outside. Came up several feet shy. It’s an old trick, and Creasey was an old thief.”
Before we could comment on that, Brewster hefted the sledgehammer and continued his bashing. He and his cronies had done the same to my house in Norfolk once upon a time, searching it for stashes of stolen paintings. It had been the first time I’d met Brewster, in fact.
“Aha.” Brewster cracked bricks that were not as sturdy as they appeared, and they and the sooty plaster backing them fell away.
There, between studs of a false wall, lay a neat line of crates and wooden barrels. Brewster dropped the hammer and used a pry bar to yank the lid off a crate.
