The Custom House Murders (Captain Lacey Mysteries #15) - Ashley Gardner Page 0,26

or known who they were.”

Thompson swung one thin arm, the other burdened with the sack. His coat looked in danger of sliding from his shoulders at any time, but remarkably, it never did.

“It hasn’t been the only theft.” His usually good-natured expression creased into a frown. “It’s buggering me something fierce. Cargos are being robbed, half gone by the time they reach the warehouses. Only part—never all of it. Some ships are only missing a few things, but I’m damned if I know how the thieves are doing it. When the ships come in, the cargo masters check the manifests, and all is well. The laborers are watched carefully as they unload and put the goods into carts to be trundled to the warehouse. When the cargo reaches the warehouse, usually all appears to be well again. But—when the goods are to be packed up and shipped to whoever ordered them, they’ve vanished.”

“You said usually all appears to be well.”

Thompson scratched his head under his battered hat. “Sometimes an entire cart never turns up at the warehouse. A search is put out but cart, horse, and driver are gone.”

“Someone pays the driver to take the cart elsewhere,” Brewster suggested.

“Presumably,” Thompson said. “But the driver is never seen again. Even if the drivers are innocent victims of robbery, they make themselves scarce, probably fearing they’ll be held responsible for thousands of pounds of goods.”

“Or the poor buggers are killed,” Brewster said.

“I believe we’d find more bodies turning up, if that were the case. Plus we never find the horses or carts again either.” Thompson shook his head. “Most of the time, as I say, the goods reach the warehouses. The warehouses are well guarded, and there is never a sign of a break-in. But again, when the time comes for those goods to be moved on, they’re gone, as though they never existed. I have men stationed to watch houses where we know stolen goods are traded, but they have nothing to report. It is a true mystery.”

“There is a man who lives not a stone’s throw from the wharves that deals in that sort of thing,” I said. “Name of Creasey. From what I understand, he’s a thief and a smuggler.”

Thompson gave me a wise nod. “Thief, smuggler, murderer, dealer in stolen goods … I know all about him, Captain. I have eyes on him, but he hasn’t lifted a finger in months.”

“James Denis claims he’s responsible for stolen merchandise,” I said. “Denis’s network is thorough.”

Brewster snorted. “Aye, I’d say it is.”

“Would that I could have a quarter hour to ask Mr. Denis all about it,” Thompson said with a meditative glance at the warehouses around us. “What has he told you, Captain?”

“Very little. Only that Creasey is extremely dangerous.”

“I know that as well.” Thompson sighed. “I have no evidence on him, unfortunately. If I did, I’d be making many arrests and laughing as loudly as your Runner, Pomeroy.”

“If I discover anything more about him from Mr. Denis, I will tell you,” I promised.

“Thank you.” Thompson gave me a brief smile then sobered. “I would stay clear of Mr. Creasey, Captain. He dislikes anyone poking in his business, and those who do often end up in the river.”

“That’s what I tell ’im,” Brewster said. “Not that he’ll listen.”

“I’m not as heedless as all that,” I said. “I have met Mr. Creasey, and I am not in a hurry to face him again. He’s a cold, hard man. I’ll not go poking him, as you say.”

I discerned by Brewster’s and Thompson’s expressions that neither man believed me.

BEFORE I LEFT Thompson at the Wapping Docks, I asked to look at the carbine once again. Thompson relinquished it to me, and I studied the pieces of the gun on a table in a dim room inside the River Police quarters, with Brewster hovering beside me.

“It’s fairly new.” I brought up the barrel and sighted down it. “It’s rifled, as you can see.” I peered inside the metal barrel at the spiral grooves. “In very good condition.”

“Warrilow was a small planter?” Brewster asked. “Maybe he kept it to keep birds off his land. Or his laborers frightened into working harder.”

“A farmer would carry a different sort of gun,” I said. “This is a military weapon. It makes me wonder very much indeed where he obtained it.”

Thompson cocked his head. “He bought it from a former military man, perhaps?”

“Possibly. Antigua is British. The many forts there are used to fend off attacks on the fortified