Chapter Thirty-One
The earl’s businessdoomed Emma Corbin to disappointment as it often did. Eli did not attend his family’s Sunday dinner. By the time they sat down to her lovingly prepared capon, Eli rode, hell-bent, along Manchester Road, well past his overnight stop, ignoring custom and law by traveling on the Sabbath.
Consultation with Goodfellow had concluded with a dictate to travel on horseback for speed and flexibility. Eli had agreed but argued he could manage on his own, every able-bodied guard needed at the hall. In the end, he’d accepted the company of Tommy Withers, the Clarion groom, who rode behind him, armed and avidly scanning the road, pleased to have a role. He wasn’t needed.
They arrived in Manchester late in the afternoon, well before dark, and bespoke a room at a modest hotel, stabling their mounts for the duration. The courts wouldn’t open until morning. Eli, torn among checking on the Hancock drapery, seeking out Holliday, and investigating Fanny’s abduction, concluded none were likely to be fruitful on Sunday.
Still, he changed into his dockworker garb, determined to begin seeking an answer to one question that plagued him. Manchester had no true port for ocean-going vessels. How were the criminals transporting their hostages?
The Sunday law didn’t ban taverns from serving food, and he determined to seek out a dockside eatery. Tommy, who had collapsed in whoops of laughter over Eli’s appearance, followed along with no complaints about the walk, weapons tucked away on his person. There would be stories told in the Clarion servants’ hall when they returned.
Eli had learned on the previous trip that goods came into Manchester via the Bridgewater Canal from Runcorn and the ports at Liverpool. Some—much fewer—still came via the Mersey and Irwell Navigation system. It seemed an unlikely candidate for the felonious activity in question, but the Irwell River was closer on a late Sunday afternoon. They passed a succession of quays and wharfs, empty of activity but surrounded by coal barges and other small vessels feeding the manufactories and commerce of Manchester. Soon enough they were engulfed in the sweltering heat of the Riverman’s Heaven, a filthy, rat-infested public house steps from the river.
The bulk of people clustered around tables and sipping from chipped teacups at a rough bar gave every appearance of laborers, although Eli’s innate caution told him rogues of all sorts were likely scattered among them.
He and Tommy ordered food, expecting little.
“Tea?” the server inquired.
“Is that the only choice?” Tommy asked. Eli suppressed a laugh.
“On Sunday? That or river water. Pick your poison.”
The tea served in mugs was hot and strong, the food filling and surprisingly tasty. Eli wondered what might have been in the cups at the bar.Contraband hidden in porcelain?
He regaled a puzzled Tommy with talk of the London docks, spinning his informative afternoon into the implication of long experience. “Of course, there’s work to be had here, if you’re looking. Different and not as much but plenty of it. You’d make more in London, but then, the expense of living would eat it up.” He cringed at the sound of his voice, convinced it marked him as an outsider at best, some sort of government agent at worst. It may have.
A gentleman—a term Eli applied loosely—in a stained shirt with a towel tied around his waist approached the table. He glanced around the room, pulled up a chair, and sat. “From London, did we hear?” he asked.
“I spent time on the docks there,” Eli answered.
“Not much, I’ll wager.” The man pinned Eli with a pointed study of his person.
Lies never worked, or if they did, they died quickly. Eli decided the truth—some of it, at least—would serve him better. He inclined his head. “A brief but highly educational stint.”
“And more with the river police?” the man asked, not trying to keep his voice down.
“I’ve met them. Also briefly. I’m not one of them,” Eli swore.
Their visitor’s gaze didn’t waver. Neither did he attack them, for which Eli was grateful. “Here to add to your education?”
“Something like that,” Eli said. “River traffic is different from the Port of London.”
“That it is.” The gaze remained steady.
Eli returned it.
“What is your question?” the man asked eventually.
“I’m wondering how a determined man—or group of men—might get goods out of Manchester and out to sea,” Eli said.
That startled his interrogator. “Same as it comes—in boats and barges. Mostly materials in, finished goods out. Down to the ports in Liverpool and Birkenhead.”
“What if the cargo was…questionable?” Eli asked.
A snort of laughter met that one. “Free trade? You’re on the wrong end of that stick. It comes from the seaports, the inlets and coves, inland. Not the other way around.”
Eli shook his head. “Not free trade. I know nothing of that. What if these persons don’t want their cargo seen? There are bound to be inspectors on the quay.”
