Byrne swallowed, his throat bobbing. “Try…try theBlackwater. She’s got kerosene and the like. Might besomething else on her the Fenians would find helpful. Rumor has it they mislabel crates. One might find dynamite in a machinery crate, for example.” He tipped his head toward the river. “You can’t miss her.”
Henry considered the information, trying to decide how truthful the man was being. Surely he knew they’d be back if they discovered he had lied. “Thanks. If we’re lucky, maybe we’ll prevent another senseless explosion.” It wouldn’t hurt to remind him of the serious reason for their questions.
“An’ I wish you luck.” Based on Byrne’s grim expression, he thought they’d need it.
Henry led the way out of the alley and back to the street.
“TheBlackwater, eh?” Fletcher glanced at him. “Shall we have a look?”
“Might as well.” They’d need to tread carefully. Few in this area would appreciate the police nosing around, and they were more than outnumbered.
It was a short walk to the dock, and within ten minutes they’d found the ship. Long gang planks stretched from its deck with all manner of goods being unloaded, people everywhere, shouted instructions, and the scent of the Thames—not a pleasant one.
“Hard to believe we can just ask anyone and hope for an answer,” Fletcher murmured as they paused to watch the bustling dock.
“Chances are that will draw attention of the wrong kind.” Henry didn’t like the idea when his head and side still ached. Entering into an altercation of any sort was less than appealing, and in truth, he’d be of little help to his friend.
“True, but it might lead to a clue.” His sergeant glanced around the area. “Standing here isn’t getting us anywhere.”
Henry couldn’t deny the truth of that statement and started forward, Fletcher matching his stride. A variety of accents were discernible as the men shouted to one another. Taking care not to get in the way, they approached a stack of crates with Henry hoping to strike up a conversation with someone.
It took only a couple of minutes before a man who appeared to be somewhat in charge approached. “Can I help you, gentlemen?” He studied Fletcher’s uniform with a certain measure of distrust glittering in his eyes, face tanned beneath the broad brim of his hat.
“We are inquiring about any unexpected shipments you may have received of late.” Though Henry wasn’t sure how to begin the conversation, he had to start somewhere.
The man frowned. “Unexpected? How so?”
“We’ve received information that crates occasionally arrive from America…mislabeled.” When the man only looked at him blankly, Henry decided honesty was his best hope. “You’re aware of the bombing yesterday?”
Unease flickered over his expression. “Who isn’t? Terrible thing, them bombs going off everywhere.”
“We’re in search of those who make them.” Henry waited a beat for him to digest the information. “We have reason to believe the items needed to make those bombs are coming from America on ships like this one.” Henry tipped his head toward theBlackwater.
The stranger’s face didn’t register surprise, but rather disappointment. “Blast. I confess I’ve heard the same—can’t say I’ve seen any of it for myself, mind.”
That suggested he hadn’t looked hard, perhaps preferring not to know what was going on beneath his nose. It never failed to amaze Henry how often that was the case. As if ignoring wrongdoing made it go away.
“Any men about you don’t recognize?” he asked.
The man scoffed, his gaze sweeping over the ship, gang planks, goods, wagons, and men in a matter of seconds. “Many. But that don’t mean something illegal is happening. There are too many for anyone to track.”
Henry released a frustrated breath, able to see the man’s point. If it was this chaotic every time a ship came in, it would take determined clerks many hours to account for every single item that was hauled off the ship and ensure it was put in the proper place.
“Do you mind if we have a look around, assuming we can manage to stay out of the way?” Henry asked. The idea of being jostled by the workers made him uneasy, let alone the thought of being struck by a moving crate or barrel.
“As long as you don’t go on the ship,” the man agreed reluctantly. With a parting nod he walked away, calling out to a worker carrying a crate as he went.
“Perhaps Byrne has it right,” Fletcher suggested in an undertone as he studied the area. “Might be interesting to find the crates of machinery and see how many of those there are.”
“Any suggestion where they might be?” Henry asked, grateful for Fletcher’s experience in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. Heknew his way around a dock better than most. Certainly better than himself.
“Let’s try over there.” Fletcher led the way, winding through the throng and ignoring several glares cast at his uniform, though Henry found it comforting when a few men gave the sergeant a respectful nod. Did they somehow recognize a Navy man?
It took a bit of searching but they finally found the machinery crates, though it was impossible to tell what was in them, let alone whether they were mislabeled. Some were stacked higher than their heads, as were the nearby barrels that lined one side of the dock.
“They must be flagged somehow, otherwise how would they know which was which?” Fletcher mused.
“And they would need to know to handle them with caution if they held explosives.” Henry scowled. This wasn’t getting them anywhere. He shifted his attention to the workers, looking for anyone who gave them a wide berth.
