Page 45 of Dead Beside the Thames
“Indeed.” The marchioness was trying not to look pleased. Her sons might be at the top of the suspects list, but she’djust ensured that the investigators understood that the list remained impossibly long. With a faint smile curving her lips, the marchioness said, “I’m glad you came to speak with me, Mrs. Adair. If there’s anything more I can do to help, please do ask.”
Penelope eyed the marchioness and shut her lips on the observation that, given the outcome of this interview, which had only increased her frustration, she would think again before repeating the exercise. Instead, she inclined her head politely, thanked the marchioness for her time, then rose and quit the house.
Stokes stood at an intersection on the lane that followed the riverbank a short block back from the embankment and impatiently waited for news of what he hoped would, at last, be a definitive sighting.
Typically, it had been Morgan who had first heard the whisper—a mere thread of a rumor—of a fight by the Cole Stairs. More specific and insistent questioning had elicited the information that this fight was thought to have occurred not long after midnight on Saturday night.
Subsequently, O’Donnell, Morgan, and the junior constables had concentrated their efforts along the narrow lanes and alleyways surrounding the Cole Stairs. Unlike most of the river “stairs,” the Cole Stairs were partly natural—an outcrop of gray rock that swept along the river’s curve for more than fifty yards, and along most of that length, the rock shelf was several yards wide. For centuries uncounted, the rivermen had used the shelf as a loading dock, and several sets of steps had been carved into the river-facing edges, giving easy access to the water.
Stokes had taken station directly north of the center of the shelf, where the junction of Gold Street and Dean Street formed a small square. All around, lanes and alleys barely wide enough for a man to walk along snaked between warehouses and other buildings. The area was among the older sections along the north bank of the Thames, and the stone along the river’s edge was dark with age and dank with weed, and the scent of the river was pervasive.
Although the autumn sky far above was reasonably clear, between the buildings, shaded from the sun, the day felt gloomy.
Finally, Stokes saw a fresh-faced constable chivvying a weakly protesting boatman up the cobbled lane toward the square.
The constable fetched up before Stokes and, with an eager smile, presented the boatman with “Says he saw two men wrestling by the bank here on Saturday night, guv.”
Stokes eyed the boatman, a slight, wiry fellow. But he was clear-eyed and, Stokes judged, had his wits firmly about him. Stokes acknowledged the constable’s information with a brief nod and asked the boatman, “Where were you when you saw these men?”
Transparently disgruntled but knowing better than to think he could slide away with a mumble, the boatman replied, “I was just about where you’re standing now. I’d been in the Drunken Duck.” He tipped his head to the east, toward a large, dark-timbered building a little way along Dean Street. The sign of a staggering duck holding a frothing mug of ale jutted out from above the door. “I don’t normally drink ’round ’ere—usually, I stay closer to ’ome in Bermondsey—but that night, one of me mates ’auled me down ’ere. Said the porter were right good. And it was. But I was heading off ’ome, must’ve been before one judging by the bells, and I came along ’ere. I’d left me boat tied up at Shadwell Dock, and that’s where I was ’eading.”
“Your mate?” Stokes’s fingers itched to draw out his notebook, but doing so would only make the boatman more nervous and less likely to be forthcoming.
“He stayed on. It was just me, walking back to me boat.” He paused, then added, “Mind you, there were others about, ’eading to their ’omes and such, but I don’t know who they be.”
Stokes nodded. “Right. So you were standing here when you saw these men.” Stokes stepped forward to stand at the boatman’s right, and obligingly, the boatman turned and joined Stokes in looking toward the river. Stokes said, “Point to where you saw them.”
Without hesitation, the boatman raised a hand and pointed straight toward the river, to the Cole Stairs. “There. They was right there. Other side of the embankment wall, on the main part of the Cole Stairs. Two big men—large, heavy bruisers—wrestling hard as can be.”
Stokes observed, “That’s a fair way to see in the dark.”
The boatman scoffed. “I’m a boatman—we need sharp eyes. ’Sides, the rain had blown over, and the moon was out, and with moonlight playing on the water, I could see the pair’s outlines well enough.”
Stokes accepted the assurance. “So what, exactly, did you see? Was it just the pair of them, or were there others hanging about who might have been a part of it?”
“Nah. It was just the pair of ’em, I’m sure of that. Watched ’em as I walked across this square, but I didn’t stop to gawp. Not the sort of thing you do ’round ’ere—it’s not ’ealthy, if you get me drift.”
Stokes nodded, imagining the scene in his mind. “So just the two of them. Think back. How were they standing? Face to face or…?”
Frowning, the boatman took his time, then offered, “Well, to begin with they were, one lashing out at the other, but now youmention it, that changed, and one of ’em was facing the river and ’ad ’is back to the other. And that other man—I’d say ’e was the taller and heavier—had his arms up, elbows high.” The boatman raised his hands to his collarbone and stuck his elbows out level with his shoulders. “Like this. And ’e was rocking a little, side to side. Like pretending to be a waddling duck.”
Stokes caught the eager constable’s eye in time to shake his head. He was not about to ask the boatman if the larger man could possibly have been strangling the other; he’d leave that to the coroner. Instead, Stokes asked, “Did you see anything else?”
“Nah. I didn’t ’ang ’round, just put me ’ead down and kept walking. None of me business what they were up to, was it?” The boatman hesitated, then asked, “Given you lot are running ’round all ’bout and asking ’bout this fight, what ’appened?”
Stokes hesitated, then replied, “A large, heavy bruiser of a man was pulled out of the river on Sunday. We’re trying to learn where he went into the water, and it’s likely what you saw gives us our answer.” Stokes turned to the constable. “Deliver this man to Morgan. He’ll take a formal statement.”
The boatman looked hopeful. “And then I can go?”
Stokes suppressed a cynical smile. “Just be sure to give Morgan your real name and address, and the chances are you won’t hear from us again.”
Stokes watched the boatman and constable head toward the main body of police canvassing the lanes. Normally, the boatman would be called to give evidence at the inquest into Sedbury’s death, but Stokes had a strong premonition that there would be no public inquest held into the death of Viscount Sedbury, the Marquess of Rattenby’s late, much-detested, and entirely unlamented heir.
Stokes was standing staring, unseeing, at the Cole Stairs and mentally reviewing the customary outcomes when the nobility and the justice system collided when Barnaby hove into view.
Barnaby trudged up from the riverbank and, when he saw Stokes had noticed him, briefly waved and smiled. As soon as he was close enough, he called, “O’Donnell said you might have found a witness.”
Stokes allowed a satisfied smile to bloom. “It appears we have. At last.”
