What do you mean, there are no press gangs operating near the Arsenal?”
Grey thought Jones would explode like a milling shed, walls and roof flying every which way. His heavy face quivered with rage, eyes bulging as he loomed over the diminutive harbormaster of the Royal Dockyards.
The harbormaster, accustomed to dealing with volatile sea captains, was unmoved.
“Putting aside the matter of courtesy—the navy would not normally so intrude upon the operations of another service—” he said mildly, “there are no ships outfitting in the yards just at present. If they are not outfitting, they do not require additional crew. If they do not require seamen, plainly the captains do not send out press gangs to acquire them. Quod erat demonstrandum,” he added, obviously considering this the coup de grace.
The captain seemed disposed to argue the point—or to assault the harbormaster. Feeling that this would be counter to their best interests, Grey seized him by the arm and propelled him out of the office.
“That whoreson is lying to us!”
“Possibly,” Grey said, urging Jones down the length of the dock by main force. “But possibly not. Come, let us see whether Tom has discovered anything.”
Whether ships were outfitting in the yards or not, ships were most assuredly being built and repaired there. The ribs and keelson of a large ship rose like a whale’s skeleton on one side, while on the other, a newly completed keel lay in the channel, swarms of men covering it like ants, laying deck in a racket of hammers and curses.
The shipyard was littered with timbers, planking, rolls of copper, hogsheads of nails, barrels of tar, coils of rope, heaps of sawdust, mallets, saws, drawknives, planes, and all the other bewildering impedimenta of shipbuilding. Men were everywhere; England was at war, and the dockyards buzzed like a hive.
Out in the river, small craft plied to and fro, sails white against the brown of the Thames and the dark shapes of the prison hulks anchored in the distance. Two larger ships lay at anchor, though, and these were the focus of Grey’s attention.
Not sure precisely where Tom Byrd might be, he took Jones firmly by the arm and sauntered to and fro, whistling “Lilibulero.” Passing workmen spared them a glance now and then, but the docks were thick with tradesmen and uniforms; they were not conspicuous.
Eventually his valet stepped cautiously out from behind a large heap of timbers, a small brass spyglass in hand.
“Yes, me lord?”
“For God’s sake, put that away, Tom, or you’ll be taken up as a French spy. I’d have the devil of a time getting you out of a naval prison.”
Seeing that his employer was not joking, Tom tucked the spyglass hastily inside his jacket.
“Have you seen anyone familiar?”
“Well, I can’t be sure, me lord, but I think I’ve maybe spotted a cove as was one of the press gang I saw.”
“Where?” Jones’s eyebrows bristled, eyes gleaming beneath them with readiness to strangle someone.
Byrd nodded toward the water.
“He was a-going out to one o’ the big ships, sir. That un.” He nodded toward the vessel on the left, a three-masted thing with its canvas furled. “Maybe half an hour gone; I’ve not seen him come back.”
Grey stood for a moment, gazing at the ships. He had vivid memories of his last venture on the high seas, and thus a marked disinclination to set foot on board a ship again. On the other hand, his involuntary voyage had been at the hands of the East India Company, and it did not appear that either of the ships presently at anchor intended any immediate departure.
Jones quivered at his side, like a hunting dog scenting pheasant on the wind.
“All right,” Grey said, resigned. “No help for it, I suppose. Stick close, though, Tom. I don’t want to see you pressed.”
Him, me lord.” Tom Byrd spoke under his breath, with the barest of nods toward a man who stood with his back to them, shouting something up into the rigging. “I’m sure.”
“All right. See if you can find out who he is, without making too much of a stir. I think we’ll have time.”
Turning his back, Grey strolled nonchalantly to the rail, where he stood looking toward the Woolwich shore. The Arsenal was no more than a splotch of dark buildings at this distance, set amid the ruffled acres of its proving grounds. Below, he could hear the sounds of Jones’s impromptu search party.
Captain Hanson of the Sunrise had been surprised, to say the least, by their sudden appearance, and had reiterated the harbormaster’s statement about press gangs. Still, he was not harried at present, was a young and naturally amiable man—and was acquainted with Grey’s brother. He had therefore graciously invited Jones to search the ship if he liked—in case his Mister Gormley had somehow smuggled himself aboard—accompanied by the third lieutenant and two or three able seamen to open or lift anything he would like to look into or under.
It was apparent from this that there was nothing suspicious to be found aboard, but Jones had had little choice but to conduct his search, leaving Grey to converse with the captain—and Tom to circle warily about the decks, in hopes of spotting the man he had seen in the fog.
Captain Hanson had after a short time excused himself, offering Grey the use of his cabin—an offer Grey had politely declined, saying that he would prefer to take the air on deck until his friend was at liberty.
He turned his back to the rail, glancing casually over the deck. The man Tom had picked out was certainly one who invited recognition; he bore a strong resemblance to a Barbary ape, that part of his hair not tarred into a pigtail standing up in a ginger crest on his head.
He seemed also to be in a position of some authority; at the moment, he had one foot resting on a barrel, an elbow resting on the raised knee, and his chin upon the palm of his hand, squinting quizzically at something—the cut of the jib? The lie of the bilge? Grey knew nothing of nautical terms.
It wouldn’t do to stare; he turned back to the shore, noting as he did so Tom, in cordial conversation with a young sailor near the back—well, aft, he did know that much—of the ship.
What next? He was sure that Jones would not find Gormley aboard the Sunrise. He supposed they would have to go and search the other ship, as well. He’d seen men shouting to and fro between the ships—the other lay not more than a few hundred yards away; doubtless the Barbary ape could have taken Gormley there without difficulty—though he had no idea why he should have done so.
The ape—Grey glanced covertly at the man again—was plainly part of the crew of the Sunrise. And yet Captain Hanson had said unequivocally that he had sent out no press gangs. Ergo, if Tom were correct in his identification—and a face like that one would be memorable, coming out of the fog—the ape had been conducting some private enterprise of his own.
Now, that was an interesting notion. And if they failed to find any trace of Gormley on the other ship, it might be worth having Tom brought face to face with both Captain Hanson and the ape, to tell his story. Grey supposed that any captain worth his salt would be interested to know if his crew were conducting a clandestine trade in bodies.
The thought gave him a faint chill. Christ, what if it were bodies? The ape and his cohorts might be augmenting their pay by dealing as resurrection men, providing cadavers to the dissection rooms.
No. He dismissed the grisly vision of a dead and eviscerated Gormless as both too dramatic and too complicated to be true. Back to Occam, then. Given multiple alternatives, the simplest explanation is most likely to be true. And the simplest explanation for the disappearance of Herbert Gormley was, firstly, that Tom had seen the Barbary ape but had not seen Gormley, being mistaken in his identification. Or secondly—and equally likely, he thought, knowing Tom—that his valet had seen them both, and the ape had done something unaccountable with his captives.
They were presently operating under the second assumption, but perhaps that had been reckless of him. If…
All thought was momentarily suspended, his eye caught by a small boat halfway out from the shore. Or, rather, by the glint of sunlight on yellow hair. Grey uttered an oath which caused the sailor nearest him to drop his jaw, and leaned out over the rail, trying for a better look.
“He’s called Appledore,” said a voice in his ear, startling him.
“Who’s called Appledore?”
“Him what we’re watching, me lord—he’s a bosun’s mate, they say. And”—Tom swelled a bit with excited importance—“he was ashore Wednesday, and came back to the ship at…well, I don’t quite know, the peculiar way they have of telling time on ships, all bells and watches and such, but it was late.”
“Excellent,” he said, scarcely listening. “Tom, give me your spyglass.”
He clapped the instrument to his eye, catching wild swathes of river, sky, and clouds, until suddenly he brought the boat in view, its contents sharp and clear. There were two men in the boat. One of them was unfamiliar, a heavyset fellow muffled in a coat and cocked hat, a portmanteau at his feet. The man rowing in his shirtsleeves, though, yellow hair a-flutter in the wind, was Neil the Cunt. Which almost certainly meant that the other gentleman must be Howard Stoughton, master founder of the Royal Brass Foundry.
The small boat was not making for either of the two large ships, but steering a course a little way to the south. Following the direction of its bow, he saw a small, brisk-looking craft tacking slowly to and fro.
“Stay here.” Grey thrust the spyglass back into Tom’s hands. “See that small boat, with two men? Don’t take your eyes off it!”
“Where you going, me lord?” Tom, startled, was trying to look at his employer and through the glass at the same time, but Grey was already halfway to the door that led below.
“To organize a boarding party!” he called over his shoulder, and plunged without hesitation into the bowels of the Sunrise.