The Custom House Murders (Captain Lacey Mysteries #15) - Ashley Gardner Page 0,71

he feared what Warrilow knew.”

“Many speculations,” Thompson said. “What we do know is that Warrilow had a stolen weapon and that Laybourne looked worried when you mentioned it.”

“May I examine the carbine once more? I might learn more about where it came from—I used to shoot the things once upon a time.”

Thompson shook his head. “I handed it to a commander in the Seventh Regiment. He confirmed it was indeed a new weapon and wondered where I’d found it.”

“Where did the smugglers obtain it?” I asked.

“A question worth answering. The guns might originate here in England, might have been on the docks awaiting transport, and Laybourne and his colleagues stole them. Might have had nothing to do with the ship Laybourne and Warrilow sailed on. Perhaps Warrilow was passing once they landed and saw them.”

“More speculation.” I fidgeted. Brewster, who never liked being near any sort of police, had walked down the docks. “Do you mind if I speak with someone from the army about it?”

“Not at all. Please share what you discover.”

“I will, of course.”

We shook hands, and I stumped away to find Brewster.

He was having a chat with a man fishing off the end of a wharf. Around us, the tall ships loomed, hulls like giant walls, bare masts reaching for the gray skies. I hadn’t sailed in a ship like this since my journey to Egypt, which had been a fine one. I’d enjoyed the fresh wind in my face, the bright sun, and glimpses of faraway shores. Grenville, on the other hand, had been miserable with seasickness, poor fellow.

As I approached, Brewster gave the fisherman a nod and ambled toward me. “Always good to speak to the local folk,” he said.

“Does he know anything about the murders?”

“Not really. Heard of them—everyone around here has. But he does know about what’s on ships and where they come from. He fishes in that spot every day.”

“Ah. Then he has solved the mystery of the guns and knows the mastermind?”

Brewster sent me a disparaging glance. “Very amusing, guv. But he watched the Dusty Rose unload. Sometimes, if he’s near, he’ll help lift a particularly heavy crate or extra box. He says before Dusty Rose docked, there were men extremely restless that the ship was late. Most of the dockhands are resigned, like, when a ship isn’t on time—as many aren’t. They just do the job when it’s in front of them. These blokes were nervous and unhappy. When the ship finally came in, they leapt out ready to cart things off. Took off the first load—that is once custom agents were done nicking half of it.”

“Were they upset about the customs men?” I asked. “If they were waiting for their contraband, I imagine the excise men crawling all over the cargo was terrifying.”

“Fisherman didn’t say. They just champed at the bit until the cargo master shouted they could start unloading, and then they dove in, grabbed crates, shoved them on carts and dashed off. Never came back. The other dock men had to do the rest of the unloading on their own.”

“Had he ever seen these impatient men before?”

“He said not, but he couldn’t be sure. But they weren’t friends he’s made over the years, and none greeted him.”

“Thank you.” I turned to Brewster as we approached our coach. “Very thorough questioning.”

Brewster shrugged and steadied me with a strong arm as I scrambled into the carriage. “Watching His Nibs put people through it for so long, I learned the knack.”

I WENT to Laybourne’s boarding house, though I knew I’d find nothing there. Indeed, when we arrived, the curious had flocked to the place, wanting a piece of stone or brick from the house where a murder had occurred. I pushed my way through, but the landlady refused to let me in.

“Go on,” she shouted at me from the doorstep. “How do I know you ain’t the murderer, come back to finish me off?”

“I assure you madam—”

“Be off with ya. And take that ruffian with you. Cook says he was downstairs yesterday, asking all sorts.”

“Waste of me time,” Brewster growled. “And not even a cuppa tea for me pains.”

The landlady slammed the door. I waded through the crowd to the carriage, Brewster following.

Before I could ascend, I caught sight of Harry, who’d presumably come to view the scene as well. I waved to him. He hesitated, but when he saw Brewster with me, he slid readily through the throng to us.

“Another murder, sir,” he announced when he reached Brewster. “We