flat, his big legs causing Thompson and me to move aside. “He pushed it onto the other joist. It’s heavy.”
Brewster grunted as he struggled with whatever he’d found. Thompson and I bent to him, hands on knees. Metal clanked, and finally, Brewster dragged out a canvas bag. Instead of passing it to us, he sat up and opened the bag’s drawstring, peering inside before he reached in.
He pulled out several tubes of metal and smooth pieces of wood, one with a wide, rectangular end. There was no mistaking the circle of metal with the pan and mechanism for striking it.
“That’s a carbine,” I said in surprise. “A cavalry weapon—looks to be British. One stripped down for cleaning or repair.”
Brewster laid out the pieces on the bag. “’Struth. What’s a bloke in the middle of London doing with a cavalry shooter?”
“A very good question,” Thompson said as he gazed at the disassembled gun. “Perhaps the last guest hid it there, not our man?”
“Bag’s hardly worn.” Brewster inspected it with a practiced eye. “Hasn’t lain in the dust down there any time.”
“Is this the murder weapon?” I lifted the heavy end piece, the stock, grooved to take the firing mechanism.
No blood showed on the wood or on the weapon’s barrel, plus the gun wasn’t wide enough for what Mr. Clay speculated had clubbed Warrilow.
“Doesn’t seem likely,” Thompson said.
“Why would a killer shove the gun under the floor but then not snatch up a watch, a ring, and seven shillings for his trouble?” Brewster demanded. “No, depend upon it, Captain, the murderer never knew this was here. Probably took whatever he used to kill the Warrilow cove away with him. Will be at the bottom of the Thames by now.”
“I am inclined to agree with you,” I said.
“This I will take.” Thompson waved at the carbine. “Will you pack the pieces up for me, Mr. Brewster? I’ll present it to the magistrate and see what he makes of it.”
Brewster set the carbine back into the bag without argument. “Guns are fiddly things,” he said as he climbed to his feet and handed the canvas sack to Thompson. “There as like to blow your fingers off as hit your target. Knife or a cosh, much easier.”
“There is something to what you say,” I told him. In the cavalry, I’d carried a carbine, but I’d preferred my calvary sword and the skill of my horse to shooting. The accuracy of the weapons had not been laudable.
We’d found nothing in the baggage or among the clothing, or indeed the carbine, to tell us whether Mr. Warrilow had family or friends in England, or even Antigua. A wedding band spoke of marriage, but Eden had not mentioned that Warrilow had a wife. A married man usually wore his wedding ring, but a widower might carry it in his pocket, or put it under the floorboards for safekeeping.
When Warrilow’s death was reported in the newspapers, with his name, family, if he had any, would surely come forward. Solicitors would need to locate his heirs in any case.
We left the room and went downstairs, Thompson with the carbine in its bag, into which he’d also placed the watch, ring, and coins. Mrs. Beadle waited for us at the foot of the staircase.
“Will this be the last time anyone searches that room?” she asked Thompson. “I have a boarding house to run.”
“I will tell them to stay away,” Thompson assured her. I doubted there’d be anything left to find. I trusted Brewster’s thoroughness. “If no one comes forward, you are welcome to sell the clothes.”
“Thank you.” She brightened. “Can get a nice price for decent garb. Good day to you, gents.”
I tipped my hat to Mrs. Beadle and followed Thompson and Brewster out into the road.
Traffic filled the street, carts bringing deliveries to the gin houses and taverns, women with baskets over their arms perusing the shops, men walking purposefully on whatever business they were attending. A few sailors lingered, probably waiting for the gin houses to open, assessing the streets for later revelry.
As we were on the north side of the square, we walked through a narrow lane to emerge on Cable Street. From there we went east and south again toward Wapping Docks.
I turned to the other question I wanted to ask Thompson as we walked. “I heard an amount of cargo was stolen from the ship Eden and Warrilow traveled on. The Dusty Rose. Perhaps that was a motive for Warrilow’s murder—he might have seen the thieves