EVEN FOR A Londoner thoroughly acquainted with the crowds of the city, the hubbub of the Royal Docks is nothing short of overwhelming. Chaos finds its form in burly sailors in all sorts of sunbaked hues wandering about; porters wheeling tall stacks, sacks, and crates to warehouses; customs officers and clerks analyzing the goods in front of them, noses deep in their books; small groups of passengers skeptically eyeing the ships for an upcoming voyage; weathered hands maneuvering chained sets of boxes from the ship to the quay; and, of course, the backdrop of ironclad hulls, towering spars, complicated rigging, and puffs of smoke from inbound ships.
After passing through the front gates, we threaded our way through the mess, attempting to fathom the disorganized layout. It seemed impossible to find one ship stationed among one hundred in all this madness, but somehow Mr. Kent managed without even inquiring for directions. He wove through the maze with purpose, and the rest of us struggled to keep pace, putting our trust in him. My only sense of our progress came from the waves of odors that consistently alternated between carcasses, spices, tobacco, and brine.
After some minutes, the trust proved to be well placed. We found ourselves looking up at the three tall masts of the fully rigged Aurora, fittingly reaching for the sun. Mr. Kent turned to us, his countenance showing some reservations. “Miss Wyndham, Miss Grey, perhaps it would be best for you to wait down here, and we will return shortly,” he said.
“I highly doubt a docked ship can be so offensive to our sensibilities after this past week,” I replied. “I’m coming.”
He said nothing, studying me closely.
“It’s no use—she will,” Sebastian added, scuffing his heel along the hard ground. Robert snorted as an addendum.
“Ah, well,” Mr. Kent said with a shrug. “If you say so. Up we go.”
He led the way, climbing the wood-and-rope platform onto the deck. From the moment we stepped onboard, the loud, vulgar dialogues of the workers and sailors were rather audible and unavoidable, though I must own that I scarcely understood their meanings. Only Sebastian’s raised eyebrows and reddened cheeks gave me some indication of the subjects of their discussion. As we made our way along the balustrade, most of the men gave us strange glances and I soon felt out of place in my fashion.
Mr. Kent sent me a teasing smirk. “I warned you.”
“Yes, I cannot stand it any longer. Lead me to the bow of the ship, where I may toss myself into the Thames out of despair.”
“Surely you can find your own way. I have pressing business to see to right now,” he replied.
He stopped in front of a luxurious captain’s quarters on the main deck, where two finely dressed men stared at us curiously. One of them—a tall, bespectacled man—lurched forward and spoke briskly: “Excuse me, but we don’t take passengers on this ship! She’s purely a merchant vess—”
“We are not looking for passage,” Mr. Kent interrupted. “We’re looking for Mr. Greene.”
“Who wants to know?” he seemed to grunt rather than ask.
“My name is Nicholas Kent. I’m a detective.” I groaned silently at the brazen lie. The tall man’s eyes involuntarily bulged for the briefest moment before he composed himself.
Mr. Kent noticed. “I simply must ask a few questions related to your cargo. Are you the owner of this ship?”
“I am, but I’m busy!” Mr. Greene declared, waving his cane and stepping back toward the cabin.
“Are you really?” Kent asked, staring closely at him.
“No.” Mr. Greene frowned, confused by his honesty.
Mr. Kent slipped the merchant some money. “If we may speak in private for a moment.”
Mr. Greene turned to the other man. “Captain, one minute!” he said, and the captain disappeared into his cabin with a tip of his hat.
Mr. Greene led us to an empty part of the ship and made no effort to hide his irritation. “Now, what do you want?”
“I wish to know if you import and sell a rare chemical called barbital.”
“You want to buy it?”
“No, but is there someone who has purchased it recently or is due to purchase it in the next day or two?”
“Yes,” the merchant said, his eyes looking increasingly frustrated with his mouth’s poor decisions. “But Mr. Kent! I don’t discuss my customers!”
“I understand and admire that,” Mr. Kent replied, “but this is a matter of life and death. Who do you sell to?”
“The boy.”
“The boy? Who might he be?”
“A servant, I don’t know for who.”
“And why is his name preceded with the?”
“He’s a frequent customer, goes to all the docks, pays more than the asking price for these rare chemicals from anyone selling. He arranges with the customs men and dockers to take it straight from the warehouse.”
Mr. Kent glanced back at us with a cocked eyebrow. He was on the right path. This had to be Dr. Beck’s servant.
“Where can I find him?”
“I don’t know.”
“When is he coming back here?”
“Always in the afternoon.”