Page 55 of Dead Beside the Thames
Barnaby grinned. “I bet Morgan’s excited now.”
Stokes nodded. “He volunteered to keep an eye on the place for the rest of the night, although if Weatherspoon’s made no move to leave yet, I doubt he’ll bolt now. O’Donnell’s rounding up some experienced men and will meet us near the stairs.”
Barnaby raised his coffee cup. “So when are we leaving?”
Stokes eyed the half-filled platters before him. “How about as soon as I’ve soothed my hunger pangs.”
Penelope huffed, drained her teacup, set it down with aclink, and rose. “Five minutes,” she declared and bustled out.
Barnaby smiled and sipped while Stokes dutifully applied himself to the ham and eggs.
Six minutes later, the three of them walked down the front steps to where Penelope’s carriage stood waiting by the curb. They gained the pavement only to be hailed by Charlie, who was heading their way with Claudia, Jonathon, and Bryan.
“Ho!” Charlie called. “Where are you off to?”
The four lengthened their strides, patently eager to join the investigators.
Claudia said, “We were just coming to see what you thought we should do next.”
Stokes exchanged a resigned look with Barnaby, then explained that they’d located Weatherspoon.
Naturally, Jonathon, Bryan, Charlie, and Claudia insisted on being a part of the expedition to the Drunken Duck. With no way of deterring let alone denying the four, Stokes reluctantly agreed, and when Barnaby tipped his head toward their carriage, Penelope promptly climbed up. As Barnaby and Stokes prepared to follow, Jonathon hailed a passing hackney, and Charlie did the same.
Charlie called to Barnaby, “Lead on—we’ll follow.”
With a nod and an inward sigh, Barnaby climbed into the carriage and sat beside Penelope, and as soon as Stokes was aboard, the carriage rattled off.
The bells had just finished pealing for ten o’clock when their company joined a bevy of uniformed policemen gathered at the corner of the lane within sight of the Drunken Duck’s front door.
Morgan had been waiting for them and promptly reported, “No sign of activity inside the place.” He looked toward the pub. “But apparently, that’s normal. According to other locals, he usually opens his door sometime after eleven.”
Barnaby glanced at the buildings around them. Many were already alive with the hustle and bustle of a working day. “It’s likely Weatherspoon’s up and about, but keeping his door and shutters closed against any early drinkers.”
“Is there a rear entrance?” Stokes asked.
Morgan nodded. “Into a yard, and from that, into a runnel at the rear of the buildings.”
Stokes sent three beefy constables to wait in the runnel in case Weatherspoon tried to flee.
Given that Stokes kept both O’Donnell and Morgan with their group, Barnaby concluded that Stokes thought Weatherspoon fleeing wasn’t at all likely and had to agree. The man had stayed put so far; he was clearly not disposed to run.
Stokes gave the constables five minutes to get into position—five minutes their group spent in impatient fidgeting—then, flanked by O’Donnell and Morgan, Stokes walked down the lane. With Penelope by his side, Barnaby followed, and the rest of their company trailed behind them.
Barnaby noticed that several others who had been in the lane stopped what they were doing and watched. He had to wonder how the locals would take the arrest of one of their own—one, moreover, who, if their reluctance to identify him was anything to judge by, seemed to be respected by many—but Stokes had brought a sizeable force. Ten more constables followed their group down the lane, taking up positions here and there, plainly on guard against any interference.
Stokes reached the Drunken Duck and halted before the door. Morgan stepped forward and thumped his fist on the panel, but refrained from announcing them as police.
They waited. Barnaby wasn’t sure any of them were breathing and certainly not deeply.
Then the sound of bolts being drawn back reached them.
The door swung open, revealing a massive bear of a man filling the entryway. Taller than Jonathon definitely, and much more heavily built, that this man had been a blacksmith for most of his life wasn’t hard to believe. Despite the shadows, Barnaby confirmed that Weatherspoon had curly dark hair, streaked here and there with gray.
Weatherspoon stared, his gaze swiftly taking them in. His eyes widened a fraction on seeing Jonathon and Bryan, then he looked at Stokes and grunted. “Wondered when you’d get here.” He tipped his head into the pub. “Best come inside.”
Weatherspoon turned and retreated into the dimness. Stokes threw a glance of mild surprise at Barnaby and followed.
Their host led them into a large taproom. The heavy black-painted beams running across the smoke-stained ceiling made Barnaby want to duck, but although the atmosphere still smelled faintly of hops and stale ale, enough air had seeped through the slatted shutters during the night to alleviate the worst of the fug.
