“With murder, for one thing — and much else.”
“Murder? Oh, dear!”
“But it is now in your hands, sir. The onus has been lifted from me and now rests upon you.”
And with that I hopped down the steps to the walkway, waved, and, grinning, ran fast as I could in the direction of the coach house. There were letters to be posted — three altogether, one each to magistrates in York, Bardwell, and Salisbury; they were answers to inquiries of the kind that Sir John himself often sent to men of the law situated in parts of the country, both near and far. And so, once arrived at the coach house, all that needed be done was duck inside the postal office and present the three letters to the clerk.
Then it was on to Lloyd’s Coffee House, one of my favorite locations in all of London. It was no ordinary coffee house, as you may be sure. Located at a convenient corner in the City of London, it housed a brisk trade in maritime insurance. It was a place wherein there was ever a great buzz of talk, occasional shouts, and bleats of laughter from the “brokers,” so-called, who sat at the tables round about the large room. The shouts were directed at the front corner, where a fellow stood before a large slate board, making notations in chalk upon it, which followed the names and destinations of ships that would sail from London that day and the next. Thus were ships and their cargoes insured by the men who sat at the tables, conversing, jesting, and drinking Londons finest coffee. Many who came to look upon this scene were shocked that matters so serious should be handled so casually.
None indeed was more casual than Mr. Alfred Humber. For years he had been a friend of Sir Johns. He was said to be quite wealthy, but one would never have guessed it, for though he dressed well enough to mix in any company, there was naught of foolish fashion or frippery in his choice of clothes. He was comfortably stout — or perhaps a bit heavier than that suggests — yet at near sixty years of age he carried himself well still, and went by foot all about the town. Though a bachelor, he had two great loves: music, an enthusiasm he shared with Sir John; and coffee, which he shared with me.
“Ah, Jeremy,” said he as I presented myself, “come sit down with us and have a cup. George, move over, “ said he to his young assistant. “Make room for him, if you will. “
George, a few years older than myself, accommodated me agreeably enough, moving to another chair and leaving his vacant for me. All this he accomplished without moving his eyes from the ever-changing numbers on the slate board at the front of the room. As I settled myself, Mr. Humber waved down a server, and a moment later I had before me a cup of deep brown, near black liquid, wafting aromatic steam upward to delight my nose.
“What have you, lad?” said Mr. Humber. “A message from Sir John? a letter?”
“No, sir, only a request for your help in the way of information.”
“Well, make the request, by all means, and I shall do my best to fulfill it.”
I brought from my pocket the letter Sir John had dictated to the Chief Justice of Virginia and put it before Mr. Humber. “This concerns a court matter. Because the post to the American colonies is so uncertain, he would like your advice on which ship would best carry it. We take it that the next to depart is not necessarily the best choice.”
“Oh, by no means,” said he as he fetched up his spectacles from his waistcoat pocket and fitted them over his ears. “Let me see where it is directed. . ah, the colony of Virginia, is it?”
“Yes, sir — as you see, Mr. Humber.”
“That’s another matter entirely.”
“Oh? How is that, sir?”
“Most of the ships headed for a port in Virginia are engaged in the triangle trade.”
At that I frowned. “I can’t say that I’m familiar with the term.”
“Well, it simply means that before ever they set sail for Virginia, they will first call at one of the trading ports in West Africa and take on a black cargo.”
“A black cargo? Do you mean slaves?”
“Well, of course that’s what they wilt be once they reach Virginia.” Mr. Humber peered at me for a moment; the lenses of his spectacles did magnify his eyes somewhat, giving to him a rather owlish appearance. “Now, your face is easily read, Jeremy, and I want you to know that I myself approve of such commerce as little as you obviously do. Nevertheless, the trade is quite lucrative, and one should not allow his personal feelings to influence him in such matters.” To punctuate that, he gave a nod of his head so emphatic that his spectacles jumped on the bridge of his nose.
“I understand, sir,” said I, which was not at all the same thing as to say that I agreed.
“Very well, then, you would be far better off if you sent your letter on a ship bound for one of the northern ports and made arrangements to have it posted from, say, Boston or New York to Virginia. “
“Do they move letters from colony to colony?” I asked. It was a matter I had never before considered.
“Oh, indeed. Things move quite well up and down the ocean coast, though not so well into the interior. From what I hear, they’re quite well organized. They like to pretend they could do quite well without our help.” He himself chuckled at that. “George?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Humber, sir?” His eyes left the big slate at last but with obvious reluctance.
“What is the next ship departing for one of the northern colonial ports — Boston? Philadelphia? New York?”
“That would be the Ocean Rover, sailing next week from St. Saviour’s Dock in Bermondsey for New York. “ He spoke from memory.
“What is the cargo this trip?”
“Bricks, books, and livestock.”
“And the captain is as before. .?”
“Uriah Harrison.”
“Ah, a good man, Jeremy — experienced, of sound judgment, altogether capable. I should be happy to provide a note to Captain Harrison requesting special handling for Sir John’s letter. So you see? If you content yourself with the delay of a week until the Ocean Rover sails, you will ultimately save at least a month. Would that not be preferable?”
“Oh, much,” said I. “By all means, write the note, sir, and I shall take it with the letter across to Bermondsey.”
That indeed is what I did, crossing over the Thames by London Bridge, following the guidance given me by Mr. Humber, continuing along Tooley Street off the bridge, which led into others and brought me at last to the timber yard that stood hard by the dock. I was as unfamiliar as most Londoners who lived north of the river with this rather disreputable district. There may well have been greater crime and villainy in and about Covent Garden, yet the Borough of Bermondsey had a worse name. This was due, for the most part, to the presence of a number of docks and a great many wharves along the south bank of the Thames. There ships put in, paid off their crews, and sent them out, whoring and drinking late into the night. Seamen ashore are, for some reason, believed to be the greatest sinners of all.
Having arrived at my destination, I made inquiries after the Ocean Rover and found it riding at anchor nearby. It was, by any measure, a good-sized merchant vessel, one built close to the dimensions and to my untrained eyes, approximating the shape of a Royal Navy frigate. Only one figure was visible on deck, and he a junior officer who idled above on the poop. I thought it best to hail him. “HALLOOO, the Ocean Rover!”
The figure moved across the poop deck for a better look at me. He cupped his hands round his mouth and let forth a mighty bellow: “What is it you want?”
“Captain Harrisson!” I yelled back. “Where is he?”
He did a most curious thing: He pointed — though not to the left, nor to the right, but apparently directly at me. What did he mean? That I was Captain Harrison? Of course not.
“Where is he?” I repeated.