“SeamusDoyle?Wotabout’im?” The man they’d been informed was the supervisor at the warehouse near the Wapping docks looked warily between Henry and Fletcher. “He ain’t shown up for work these past two days.”
The warehouse bustled with activity. Crates, barrels, and burlap sacks were stacked inside, workers swarming over them like bees on a hive.
Henry showed his warrant card but didn’t offer his name. It was on the card, and based on the man’s brief glance, he didn’t note it. “I’m looking for information on him. How long has he worked here?”
He hoped the fact the manager didn’t have an Irish accent meant he might be willing to talk. Not all Irish immigrants supported the Fenians, but one never knew. He and Fletcher had come to the warehouse directly after luncheon in an effort to hide what they were up to from their fellow officers, but so far hadn’t gained much insight.
“Not long enough for me to know much. Why? ‘e in trouble?”
It was an astonishing response. From the man’s reaction, Henry had to assume no one from the Special Irish Branch had been there. Unbelievable.
The bad news was that once they bothered to, they’d be told an officer had already come by. But it wasn’t as if he could ask questions without stating that he was with the police. And then there was Fletcher’s uniformed presence at his side.
“He’s suspected of being involved in the bombing that took place yesterday,” Henry revealed, getting straight to the point.
The manager’s eyes flared wide in surprise. “Damn. I wouldn’t have guessed.” He shook his head. “So many of them of late. So many injured. Makes you half-scared to leave your house. Who knows where the next one might go off?”
“We know he didn’t do it alone.” Henry glanced around the warehouse as Fletcher did the same. “Does he have any friends who work here?”
“None I noticed. You can ask some of the other workers.”
After getting Doyle’s home address and not much else, Henry and Fletcher walked around the warehouse, asking both those willing to talk and those not. Most men were the latter. They might not have known their fellow employee well, but few were eager to share information against him: except one.
“Doyle was always grumbling about politics,” the older man muttered. “Had a few relatives in America who wrote him often, and with every letter he’d get stirred up all over again. They tried to convince him to go there, but with family in Ireland, he wasn’t interested in straying far. That didn’t keep him from complaining, though.”
“Does he have relatives or friends in London?”
The man considered the question a moment, as if trying to remember. “One he spoke about. Works at a pub near the docks.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Can’t say I recall. But he’s behind the bar at the Black Mooring on Reardon Street.”
After speaking with more of the workers without results, Henry and Fletcher moved on to the pub, not wanting to linger overlong at the warehouse. Someone from the Special Irish Branch could arrive at any moment and would be less than pleased to discover them there.
The pub was easy enough to find, though the area was rough. Sailors, dockworkers, and clerks cascaded in organized chaos along the docks, with everyone rushing about. Timber had spilled from an overloaded wagon and blocked a portion of the street, but workers were quickly clearing it.
Business was brisk inside the dark pub with its low timbers and narrow windows, and it was clear the place had seen better days. A mixture of tar, tobacco smoke, and sweat scented the air. Oil lamps hung from iron hooks and the wooden tables were scarred from decades of use.
Henry and Fletcher were given wary looks as they made their way to the bar, but they ignored them.
“Wot’s yer pleasure?” the barman asked as he tossed a rag over one shoulder.
“Two pints and some information,” Henry replied as he set coins on the bar.
“’bout wot?” the man asked reluctantly, not taking the coins.
“We’re looking for the barkeep who knows Seamus Doyle,” Henry said carefully, trying to decide if he was already talking to him. “We have a few questions for him.”
“Doyle? That must be Patrick. He’s in the back.” He gestured in that direction, looking anywhere but at them as he picked up the coins. “I’ll fetch ’im.”
“Thank you.” Henry waited for the barman to step away before nodding at Fletcher.
Reading Henry’s mind, the sergeant strode out the door and hurried past the window while Henry watched for the barman’s return. It didn’t take long for the man to reappear.
“Such a shame, ‘e must’ve seen you and taken off,” the barman said with a smirk, as if it wasn’t clear he had warned him.
“Oh?” Henry waited a moment, satisfaction flooding him at the sight of Fletcher in the rear doorway where the barman had just been, gripping the arm of a struggling man. “Guess he didn’t get far.”
