At the bottom of the ladder, Lee stepped aside. “Officer Hawkwood, welcome to the Narwhale.”
Emerging from the warehouse, Jago hawked and spat on to the cobbles. So much for that idea. He had searched the building from top to bottom. No Hawkwood, and no mysterious undersea boat either. But there had been a dead body, and given what he had been told by Hawkwood, it hadn’t been difficult to guess the identity of the corpse. It had to be the clockmaker. Which meant it was likely the conspirators had been using the warehouse as a rendezvous. And the old man’s death could only mean one thing: he had outlived his usefulness. The American, William Lee, was covering his tracks. Which meant Jago had to get word to James Read, and fast.
But where the hell was Hawkwood?
Back at the jetty, Jago stared down at the river. At least the bloody dinghy was still there. He knew he was missing something, but what? Then it hit him. When he’d searched the warehouse, the doors to the underground loading dock had been open. When he had arrived at the jetty with Hawkwood the doors had been closed. The thought occurred to Jago that instead of watching the warehouse and the comings and goings on the wharf, he should have been paying more attention to the bloody water. And there was something else.
The old man’s blood was still wet.
Jago looked around quickly, his eyes lifting. Then he was running.
They were known as widow walks: balconies that ran around the top floors of the warehouses and riverside storage buildings. It was here that sailors’ wives kept watch for the ships carrying their menfolk home. Years ago, from the highest platform on a fine day, an observer with a keen eye and a good spyglass could see clear across the flat expanse of the Isle of Dogs to the East India Docks, Bugsbys Marsh and the stretch of river beyond. On some of the older buildings a spyglass was a permanent fixture, enabling merchants and ship owners first sight of returning vessels. In nature the early bird catches the worm. And so it was in commerce. News that a ship had been sighted would radiate through the city like ripples in a pond. Tea, tobacco, spices and silks; the earliest arrivals always commanded the best prices. For want of a spyglass a healthy profit could be won or lost.
From the high balcony of Maggot & Sons, Wool Merchants, Jago, with a borrowed telescope jammed against his right eye, quartered the river. Part of his brain told him that looking on top of the water for a vessel that could travel beneath the surface was an exercise in futility, but he didn’t know what else to do and he had to do something.
Jago recalled the words of James Read: We must apply logic.
If the open doors meant that the submersible had been in the warehouse and departed, possibly with Hawkwood on board, how far could it have travelled? Jago, ignoring the vessels traversing the river, turned the lens on to the traffic heading downstream. How long was the submersible? Twenty feet? He began to concentrate on the smaller craft, increasing the distance from the jetty with each sweep.
Jago didn’t believe in miracles. Not until the glass settled on a small triangular patch of dun-coloured sail receding slowly down the left-hand side of the river. He blinked the sweat out of his eye and moved the glass down the mast. Just another wherry was his first thought. No cargo save what looked like a small cask at the stern and another upturned one forward of the mast. Flour, probably, or molasses. One man at the tiller, two more further down the boat, one seated at the gunwale, his back to the stern. Jago cursed and went to move the glass away, when, as if conscious of being spied upon, the man at the tiller turned. A sharp, familiar face floated into view. Jago stiffened, and swore.
Will Sparrow!
Jago tried quickly to bring the features of the other men into focus, but the boat heeled suddenly and the sail obscured his view. Jago cursed, tried to steady the glass once more, but the faces of the anonymous duo remained obstinately out of view. Jago knew a decision was required.
For the second time that morning, he began to run.
18
“Narwhale?” Hawkwood said.
Lee stroked the bulkhead affectionately. “Monodon monoceros. A small whale, native of the northern oceans. With one unique feature: a single horn in the centre of its forehead. Tulpius named it unicornus marinum, the unicorn of the sea. You know of the unicorn, Captain? A mythical beast, small, fast, elusive, it attacks the powerful, braves all dangers, seeks out carnage and has no equal in battle.” Lee smiled. “A small indulgence of mine. Much more romantic than naming her after a shellfish, wouldn’t you agree?”
Hawkwood said nothing. Who the hell was Tulpius? he wondered.
He looked around. The interior of the vessel was like nothing he’d encountered before. They were in the space below the tower, the only part of the boat where a crew member could stand fully upright.
The deck was flat, but the hull, supported by a frame of metal stays not unlike the ribcage of a large fish, curved around them, enclosing them inside a bewildering array of levers, cranks and cogwheels, the solid manifestation of the drawing he had found in Warlock’s baton. He was immediately aware that the inside of the boat was smaller than its outer measurements suggested.
“She’s double-hulled,” Lee explained, patting the bulkhead. “Keeps us watertight and we use the space between for storage and ballast.” Lee tapped his foot on the deck. “Main ballast is down below. We don’t need much. Ten pounds or thereabouts.” Lee pointed to a small lever. “Pump water in, we sink. Pump water out, we float. The same way a fish moves through the ocean. They have a swim bladder. It’s by the bladder’s dilations and contractions that the volume of the fish is increased or diminished, enabling it to rise to the surface or sink to the bottom.”
Lee was like a child with a new toy, pointing to and explaining the function of the controls; from the handles that turned the blades at bow and stern—Lee called them wings—to the cranks that controlled the horizontal and vertical rudders. Depth was measured by a crude barometer, direction by a small compass. Lee nodded through the tangle of ratchets and gears, towards what looked like a large copper globe tucked against the aft bulkhead. “And that’s our air reservoir; two hundred and fifty cubic feet; enough to sustain four men and two candles for five hours. We used to precipitate carbonic acid with lime or carry bottles of oxygen, but they took up too much damned room. With this system, I can release air into the vessel when I require it.”
Four men! Hawkwood tried to imagine what that would be like in such a confined space. Even with just the two of them below and Sparrow still on deck, the sense of claustrophobia was stifling, as was the smell; it carried with it the slight redolence that lingered in a ship’s bilges; breathable but not exactly pleasant.
Lee grinned at Hawkwood’s expression. “Snug, ain’t she? But don’t worry, We won’t be down as long as that. Maybe an hour or two. Spent six hours in her once, bottom of Le Havre basin. That was a day to remember! Mind you, that’s nothing compared to the Mute.”
“Mute?” Hawkwood said.
“Fulton’s new design. He tells me she’ll be nearly four times as long as this boat. Probably be able to stay down ten, twelve hours at a time.”