Page 20

C onsumed by curiosity, Penelope held Barnaby’s hand as, with their expanded group now including Gibson, Harrison, and Josh as well as O’Donnell, Morgan, Walsh, and a bevy of constables Stokes had summoned, they marched up the gravel track leading to the large doors of Harrison’s father’s rather ramshackle warehouse, set back from Brennan Road.

The constabulary had arrived minutes behind them, having been roused to action by a message from Stokes ferried hotfoot to Scotland Yard by a runner he’d dispatched before climbing into the carriage in Falcon Street.

As soon as the reinforcements had joined them, Stokes had led the company up the short track, with Harrison, Gibson, and Josh flanking him and Barnaby, Penelope, Jordan, and Ruth following, with the uniformed police at their backs.

The warehouse was entirely unprepossessing and appeared to have stood for decades.

Its planks were worn gray with the weather, and the roof looked decidedly rickety.

Interestingly, a thick chain was looped through the large iron handles on the doors, holding them shut, and the chain was secured with an impressively large and heavy padlock.

Beside one door, a rough shack abutted the front wall. As they neared, a beefy man came out of the shack, his eyes narrowing as he took in their numbers. He settled into a wide-legged stance a few paces before the warehouse doors and, politely enough, bobbed his head. “Can I help ye?”

Stokes halted a yard before the man. “I’m Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard.” He tipped his head toward the warehouse. “You’ll oblige me by opening the doors and showing us what’s inside.”

The man frowned. “I don’t rightly know as I can do that. Pretty sure the master wouldn’t want me to.”

On the words, two even bigger and heavier men came out of the shack. They sauntered closer, but hung back a yard or so behind their mate.

Stokes barely took note of them. Focusing on the first man, Stokes smiled his sharpest, most shark-like smile.

“I really don’t care what your master thinks, and”—he gestured to Harrison, standing beside him—“this man is the owner’s representative.

In case you don’t know, the owner has a legal right to enter at any time. ”

Penelope approved of that tack, and it certainly gave the three men arrayed against them pause.

Stokes didn’t give them more time to think, much less argue. He called over his shoulder, “O’Donnell.”

As the police contingent streamed forward, still addressing the first man, Stokes calmly continued, “I suggest you unlock the door. Then you can wait here with your mates and my constables while the rest of us examine what your master—Mr. Chesterton, I assume—has stored inside.”

The man eyed the police gathering around him and his mates, then glanced at the pair of bruisers behind him.

After a second, he swung back to face Stokes.

“Chesterton didn’t say anything about us having to deal with the p’lice, and what’s more, he ain’t paying us to, so…

” He turned and lumbered toward the shack. “Lemme get the key.”

While he was fetching it, Stokes delegated six constables to remain with the three men and sent three more to scout around the warehouse.

The watchman returned with a key in his huge hand.

Stokes waved him to the doors.

The man sighed and plodded to the padlock, unlocked it and pulled it away, then unlooped the chains, freeing the doors.

Morgan and Walsh were waiting to step in and haul the heavy doors wide.

Along with the others assembled, Penelope peered into a dimly lit cavern and waited for her eyes to adjust.

Stokes sent the watchman to join his fellows, then led the way into the gloom.

All their company eagerly followed, everyone as keen as Penelope to learn what secrets lay hidden in the warehouse.

They halted a few yards inside. Weak light streamed through the open doorway, but as their eyes adjusted, they could see well enough—well enough to study the stacks of wooden crates that seemed to cover quite half the floor space of the cavernous building.

Each crate was about four feet long and two feet square on the ends.

Penelope bustled forward to examine the nearest more closely.

With his head raised, Barnaby had been doing a quick survey. “I estimate there are something like a hundred crates all told.”

Stokes was examining a crate when Penelope exclaimed, “There are marks burned into the sides of the crates—like brands.”

Jordan crouched to peer at one such mark, then he whistled and rose. He looked at Stokes, then at Barnaby. “I think these are guns. Rifles. The type that are used by the army.”

Harrison’s eyes flew wide. “Guns?”

Josh looked equally startled. “But…what would Corny want with guns?”

Gibson was frowning. “More to the point, why be so secretive and hide them away?”

Jordan supplied the answer. “These have to be contraband.” He looked at Stokes. “Legal gun trading is done via the government docks, not Tilbury.”

Barnaby said, “Tilbury Dock is primarily used by merchant shipping.” He met Stokes’s gaze. “Almost certainly, these are en route to be smuggled out of the country.”

“Are they made here?” Penelope was still studying the burned-on marks. “Or are they imported and being sold on?”

“An excellent question,” Stokes said.

“Sir,” Walsh called from deeper in the warehouse. “There’s an open crate here and another way in. You might want to take a look.”

They found Walsh and Morgan waiting by the rearmost stack of crates.

Walsh pointed at the wall toward the rear corner of the warehouse. “The rear door’s been forced, then put back to look like it’s still secure.”

“Presumably,” Stokes said, “that’s how Thomas got in.”

“Most likely he came to this stack,” Morgan said. “It’s the closest.” He gestured at the uppermost crate, which was open. “The lid was loose. Lifted right off.”

Lying inside on a bed of straw were six rifles.

Barnaby reached into the crate and lifted one out. Stokes and Jordan did the same.

Almost immediately, Stokes grunted. He pointed to a small plaque affixed to the base of the rifle’s stock. “These are Enfields,” he growled.

Upturning the rifle he was holding, Barnaby squinted at its plaque. “From the Royal Small Arms Factory, no less.”

“That’s not what the crates say,” Jordan pointed out.

“And that,” Stokes informed them all, “means that these are not official production.”

Unclear on the implication, Barnaby ventured, “So these are unofficial production…meaning they’ve been diverted from the proper channels?”

Grimly, Stokes nodded. “Sadly, there are always those who think to make a quick quid on the side.”

“Well”—Penelope spread her arms and turned, gesturing to the crates all around—“this certainly qualifies as a nefarious activity. Thomas was perfectly correct in labeling it that.”

Stokes shook his head, then turned away and started giving orders to his men to arrest the three watchmen and take them to the Yard.

That done, Stokes faced the three younger gentlemen. “You said Chesterton expected a part of his delivery on Monday?”

All three nodded. “That’s what he said,” Harrison confirmed.

“And,” Gibson added, “he met us on Monday evening, all bright and chipper, and paid us with a smile on his face.”

Obviously, Gibson now saw through Chesterton’s cheery demeanor.

Jordan offered, “That sounds as if someone connected with the delivery paid him. Presumably for the storage and watchmen and possibly for arranging transport to Tilbury Dock.”

Barnaby was eyeing the crates. “That also makes it likely that Chesterton will move this lot on soon.”

Stokes grunted. “Let’s see what the watchmen have to say.”

Along with Stokes, Jordan, and the three younger gentlemen, Barnaby walked out of the warehouse. Penelope and Ruth trailed behind, quietly discussing what their discovery might mean.

Outside, the three deflated and slightly bruised watchmen were having their hands tied behind their backs. All three looked thoroughly disgusted.

Stokes halted before the group and addressed the man who’d first approached them. “When is this lot”—Stokes tipped his head toward the warehouse—“scheduled to be moved on?”

Through narrowed eyes, the watchman studied Stokes, then glanced at his mates.

One lifted his heavy shoulders in a shrug. “Chesterton’s done us no good. This was supposed to be no trouble, yet here we are.”

The other nodded. “Tell ’im. No ’arm to us either way, I’m thinking.”

“Sound advice,” Stokes said. “If you cooperate, I’ll put in a good word with the magistrate.”

The watchman pursed his lips, then nodded. “Fair enough. Chesterton’s set it up for tonight. It’s all arranged. The drays arrive about half after nine. He’s usually here by then, counting the crates.”

Jordan asked, “Did you ever hear the names of any of those in charge of the deliveries or managing the transfer to the docks?”

The three men shook their heads, and the watchman said, “We were told to stay in the shack at such times, which suited us.”

One of his mates added, “With crews of that sort, we didn’t really want to know more ’n we had to.”

Jordan grimaced and met Stokes’s eyes.

Stokes dipped his head to the three men. “Thank you.” To the constables, he said, “Take them away.”

The constables obliged and, after prodding the men to get them started, accompanied them down the track to where a police wagon waited on the street.

With the captives dealt with, Stokes turned to the younger gentlemen. “Now, as for you three, you need to avoid this area entirely and make sure you don’t run into Chesterton. We’ll be here tonight in force, and hopefully before midnight, we’ll have him in our tender care.”

“Will we be called into court to give evidence?” Josh asked.

Stokes waggled his head. “That depends on how sensible Chesterton is, but it’s possible none of you will be called as witnesses.” He glanced at the rest of their company. “We have more than enough respectable witnesses without dragging you three in.”