coat and hat.
A hired coach arrived as Brewster emerged from the outside stairs at the same moment I exited the house.
“Wapping Docks,” I told the driver. “The River Police.”
The driver pursed his lips but nodded, starting the horses the moment Brewster and I were aboard.
“I killed him,” I announced.
Brewster’s eyes widened in alarm. “Don’t say such when you’re near the River Police. Ye were in bed all night with your lady.”
“I mean that my words killed him. I reported my suspicions to Seabrook, and Seabrook said he’d tell a magistrate. Whoever was working with Laybourne knew this and murdered him before he could be arrested and reveal his cohorts.”
“Or a passing burglar did it. Mayhap there is a gang robbing houses in that area and knocking those in the head what try to stop them.”
“Hardly likely, and you know this. Depend upon it, Laybourne was a gun runner, but only part of a gang. If he went before a magistrate, he might well decide to give up the names of everyone involved. What would he have to lose?”
Brewster grunted, but ceased arguing.
Thompson was in when we reached the house of the River Police and came outside to meet me.
“Bad business,” he said, before I even spoke. “The Constable of the Tower has sent men to investigate, and so has Whitechapel. I heard this morning and went to the house in Cable Street. Mr. Laybourne’s throat was slit.”
I had perused the newspaper story while I’d waited for the coach and Brewster. The journalist had relished in the gore, talking about the blood splashed on the walls and the pools on the floor, though he’d likely not seen it for himself.
“Do they have any idea of the culprit?”
“None at all,” Thompson answered. “The landlady heard nothing. Was asleep, she says. Her bloodshot eyes tell me she was inebriated, so I believe her. The front door was unlocked—anyone could have gone inside. But Mr. Laybourne was the target, apparently, as no other tenant was hurt, and nothing was stolen. None of the lodgers heard anything either.”
Thompson’s pained expression told me what he thought of these heedless lodgers.
“I believe he was the owner of the carbine we found at Warrilow’s.” I quickly told him of my visit to Laybourne yesterday, and what Denis had suggested about the stolen cargo. “I told the customs official who had searched Laybourne’s ship. He reported to the magistrates.”
Thompson’s thin brows rose. “I’d heard nothing of this, but the other houses don’t always share information. True, the murder might have to do with weapons smuggling, but one gun in pieces is not the same as finding a stash.”
“If that stash can be found now,” I said glumly. “I ought to have marched Laybourne straight to you or Sir Montague in Whitechapel instead of leaving him to his meal.”
“You cannot arrest every man you speak to for showing fear. He might have been worried about something entirely different.”
“Yet, it seems he was not.”
“True, but now I and the other magistrates will be on the lookout. That carbine was new, not a collector’s gun. And your Mr. Denis might be right about how the cargos are being stolen. Doctoring the manifests mid-voyage—perhaps taking out a page or two—is a clever way to go about it. When the ships are unloaded, all the goods are accounted for, and the extra boxes are carted away before anyone realizes it.” He tapped his lips in thought. “Are these weapons part of that cargo? Perhaps loaded with some other goods and then that page of the manifest dropped overboard along the journey?”
“Can you question the ship’s captain?”
Thompson pulled his threadbare coat tighter across his chest. “My job is to make certain thieves don’t swarm aboard the ships as they lay at anchor and help themselves to goods. Or steal from the warehouses. Smuggling is up to the excise men and the company the captain works for. Not that we don’t assist each other from time to time.”
Thompson normally maintained a calm facade but I saw a spark of animation in his eyes. Catching a gun smuggler would bring him accolades.
“This is obviously a dangerous venture,” I said. “I had the idea that Laybourne murdered Warrilow—somehow—because Warrilow had discovered the guns being transported and either threatened to expose him or demanded money for his silence. But now Laybourne is dead. Killed by the man he worked for? Perhaps the true gun smuggler heard Laybourne would be questioned and feared what he would tell. The same way