The Custom House Murders (Captain Lacey Mysteries #15) - Ashley Gardner Page 0,105

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.

“Ah, now that’s a fine sight to see,” he declared.

Grenville and I crowded around. Inside, nestled in a bed of straw, gleamed objects of gold, many of them. I made out the shape of a dog-headed Egyptian statue.

“Lucky thing these were shut back here,” Brewster said. “Saved them from the blast.”

I had to wonder if Denis had thought of that.

“I’ll take these to His Nibs,” Brewster said with a grin. “He’ll be chuffed.”

I had to agree that he would be.

CHAPTER 26

We helped Brewster load the crate he’d opened into the carriage. I wanted to alert Thompson and Sir Montague about his find, but Brewster forestalled me.

“Let me retrieve all His Nibs’ things first,” Brewster said. “Deliver that box to him and tell him to come identify the rest. Then ye can bring Mr. Thompson in. He’s a good bloke, for the law.”

Brewster was correct that once the magistrates seized these goods, the chances of Denis recovering his shipment was low. The items would be held as evidence and only slowly returned to whoever truly owned them—if that could even be determined.

We left Brewster happily tearing through the rest of the walls and returned to Mayfair.

“Do you think Eden and Mrs. Davies will make a match?” Grenville asked as we rode. “Despite his denials?”

I shrugged. “Eden has always been carefree, and I haven’t seen that change in him. But who knows? Mrs. Davies is beautiful and grateful, and her home is pleasant. I suspect Eden will drift more