when the price last soared, and even though that incident was nearly a year ago, we have enough corroboration to conclude that only those three had stock to sell at that time.”
A general hubbub ensued, centering on whether there was any easy way to narrow the list further.
Tony didn’t contribute; reaching out, he took the sheet lying in front of Christian and read the names. “So,” his voice fell into the lull as the prospect of a simple next step faded, “A. C. is associated with one of these three.”
“Yes, but,” Christian stressed, “two of the three are not involved. Given what we’ll need to do to ferret out a hidden partner, we need to be absolutely certain which of the three it is before we move in.”
Tony nodded. “If we get it wrong, we’ll alert A. C., and given his record in covering his tracks, all we’ll find is another corpse.”
Jack Warnefleet sat forward. “So how do we pinpoint the right merchant?”
“The right merchant landed cargoes before each prize was taken.” Tony looked across the table at Jack Hendon.
“You said once we had a merchant’s shipping line, we could verify the safe landing of A. C.’s cargo via the records at Lloyd’s. We have three merchants—if we learn which shipping lines they use, could we check all three lines for safe landings in the relevant weeks preceding each prize-taking, and check the cargoes landed?”
Jack held his gaze for a long moment, then asked, “How much time do we have?”
“By my calculation, not a lot. A. C.’s been quiet for nearly a week, but he must know we haven’t given up. He’ll try something else to deflect the investigation—he won’t succeed, but the faster we can conclude it, the better.” Tony paused, then added, “Who knows what he might do next?”
It was a point on which he tried not to speculate, yet it hovered in his mind, a constant threat. To Alicia, to him, to their future.
Jack was thinking, calculating—glancing around the table, he nodded. “Given our number, it’s possible. And it might be the best way. The first thing we need to learn is which shipping lines those three companies use, but to do that without alerting the companies, you’ll need to ask the shipping lines.”
“Can you do that?” Christian asked.
“Not me. As the owner of Hendon Shipping, the instant I start asking questions like that, there’ll be hell to pay.”
“No matter.” Charles shrugged. “You tell us what answers we need, and what questions will best elicit them, and leave it to us.”
“Right.”
“Easy enough.”
The others nodded. It was Tony who asked, “How many shipping lines are there?”
Jack met his gaze. “Seventy-three.”
When the others stopped groaning, Jack continued, “I’ll put a list together tonight—we can meet here first thing tomorrow. If we push, we should get the information by evening, and then”—he met Tony’s gaze again—“we’ll first need to get access to the shipping registers and get the ships’ names, then we’ll revisit Lloyd’s. We’ll be able to find the answer—which company A. C. is behind—there.”
Tony returned Jack’s gaze, then nodded. “Let’s do it.”
NINETEEN
THE NEXT DAY WAS CHAOTIC.
Six members of the Bastion Club attired as no gentleman would normally be met with Jack Hendon in the club’s meeting room at eight o’clock. Over breakfast, they divided his list on the basis of the location of the shipping lines’ offices, then each took a section and set out. They were masquerading as merchants, all appearing older and a great deal more conservative than they were.
Whoever discovered a link between any of the three merchants and a shipping line would send a messenger back to Jack at the club. They’d decided against calling a halt until all seventy-three shipping lines had been assessed; there was always the possibility that a merchant used more than one, especially if that merchant had something to hide.
Tony had taken a group of fourteen offices congregated around Wapping High Street. Charles, who had drawn the area next to that, shared a hackney down to the docks. They parted, and Tony began his search for a reliable shipping line to bring tea from his uncle’s plantations in Ceylon. Once he had a shipping manager keen to secure his fictitious uncle’s fictitious cargo, it was easy to ask for references in the form of other tea merchants the line had run cargoes for in the last few years.
By eleven o’clock, he’d visited six offices, and scored one hit. One line which, so the manager believed, had an exclusive contract with one of their three merchants.
Tony stopped in a tavern to refresh himself with a pint. Sitting at a table by a window, he sipped and looked out. He appeared to be watching the handcarts and drays and the bustling human traffic thronging the street; in reality, he saw none of it, his mind turned inward to more personal vistas.
Things had started to move; the pace always escalated toward the end of a chase. They’d soon have A. C., or at least his name. Dalziel would have his man; Tony would take great delight in delivering him personally.
He needed to keep his eye on the game, yet the very fact it was nearing its apogee had him thinking of what came next. Of Alicia and him, and their future life.
The closer the prospect drew, the more it commanded his attention, the more sensitive to threats to it he became. Last night in the hall, he’d been touched by premonition, by an unfocused, unspecific belief that something was wrong, or at least not right. Something in the way Alicia had reacted had pricked his instincts.
Yet when he’d returned home just after midnight, it was to find the others already back, and Alicia waiting for him in her bed. Explaining that they’d all wished for an early night, she’d encouraged him to tell her all he’d learned; she’d listened, patently interested, to their plans.
Then he’d joined her under the covers and she’d turned to him, welcomed him into her arms, into her body with her usual open and generous ardor. No hesitation, no holding back. No retreat.
When he’d left this morning, she’d still been asleep. He’d brushed a kiss to her lips and left her dreaming.
Perhaps that was all it was—that the social round, now frenetic, combined with the stress of watching over Adriana, was simply wearying her. God knew, it would weary him. When he’d returned to her last night, there’d been no sign of whatever he’d detected earlier, that slight disjunction that had seemed to exist between them.
He spent another five minutes slowly sipping his ale, then downed the rest in two swallows. He had eight more shipping lines to investigate. The sooner they could bring A. C.’s game to a conclusion, the better for them all.
Tony got back to the Bastion Club just after three o’clock. He was one of the last to return; the others were lounging around the table in the meeting room with Jack Hendon waiting impatiently for his report.
“Please say you’ve found a line working for Martinsons,” Jack demanded before Tony could even pull out a chair.
He sat and tossed his list on the table. “Croxtons in Wapping have, so the manager assures me, an exclusive contract.”
“Thank God for that.” Jack wrote the name down. “I was beginning to think our plan would go awry. We’ve identified two shipping lines for Drummond, one from the east, one from the west, reasonable in the circumstances, and four—two in each direction—for Ellicot. Croxton runs ships both east and west, so Martinsons can indeed use them exclusively. Now”—he looked down his list—“all we need is for Gervase to confirm none of the three—Martinsons, Ellicot, or Drummond—use any other line.”