Steam Dogs Page 2

  Admittedly, the construction of the three main docks had greatly simplified navigation of the Thames and made shipments of lumber more profitable, even as it changed the topography of the island forever. And after construction of the Millwall dock, more than 600 vessels could be safely accommodated in port. No longer did Torkjelson need to haul his cargo all the way to London. A modern series of locks and basins, a railroad line, and five-story warehouses dockside made for efficient loading and unloading. Ships entered the north import dock from the east for unloading of their cargo, then moved into the middle dock to lade the ships with supplies and export, before exiting back into the Thames in the direction from whence they came. The south dock was used strictly for the loading and unloading of timber.

  This was Captain Torkjelson’s fifteenth shipment of lumber for England, so he was familiar with the sounds and scents of the docks at night. In other ports, he might sit in the pilothouse or on deck with the men to enjoy his nightly dram, but not here. While the docklands were more modern and secure than any other port they called at, the Isle of Dogs was a dismal place. Night or day, it didn’t matter. Thick, coal dust-laden fog obscured what little there was to see. So different here from steaming onto his hometown district of Hammerfest at night, where the skies were so clear and cold he could see the lights of shore from ten miles out. A welcome that could bring tears to the eyes of even the most hardened seaman.

  Twenty-foot brick walls surrounded each of the docks, but he made sure the men paired up when they went ashore on leave here. Outside these walls lurked desperate men and women, any one of them eager to prey on an innocent sailor in unfamiliar territory. Five years ago, before the big London bank crash, the neighboring towns of Millwall on the west side of the Island, and to a lesser extent Blackwall on the east had been respectable places. They'd been filled with solid, working class sorts—ship builders, mostly, but iron, glass, and coal workers, too. But the jobs vanished along with the crash. Those who could, had long since found jobs elsewhere. The few wretches who remained were either starving or mad.

  As he drained his glass of the cardamom-flavored liquor, a stealthy tread sounded on the boards above him. He paused, questioning whether he’d heard rightly.

  There it was it again. This time, the thrum of bare feet ran directly overhead.

  No alarm raised, but he’d learned long ago to trust his intuition. He slipped on his watch coat and pulled his woolen cap down over his ears, then stepped up through the companionway to the deck.

  He stifled a cough as he reached the acrid murk on deck. With the lumber unloaded, and the decks swabbed clean, the Valkyrie's broad teak deck now gleamed with all the elegance of a ballroom dance floor. At the forecastle, some fifty yards away, Halvorson sat hunched over, his body a vague silhouette in the lamplight.

  Something about the sailor’s posture didn’t seem right.

  Torkjelson moved across the deck, his boots clomping loud in the sudden stillness. “Everything all right, Oskar?” He coughed, a wracking bark that wrenched the air from his lungs. How could people stand to live here?

  Oskar stirred, but didn’t answer.

  Captain Torkjelson frowned and stumbled on the slick deck. “Halvorson,” he choked. He could not catch his breath. The fog was getting thicker. Grittier. Blacker.

  When Halvorson finally turned, the sight of him sent Torkjelson to his knees.

  In the thin glow of lamplight, Halvorson’s eyes glowed beneath an unnatural blue film.

  Frantically, Torkjelson scrambled backwards on the slimy deck, noticing that the seaman’s shoes were gone. Not only that, his feet were huge. The thing coming toward him wasn’t Halvorson—and it was growing larger with every step

  It wasn’t even human.

  It loomed over him, its fetid breath cold as the grave.

  “Draugr!” Torkjelson gasped. Impossible! Feared creatures of ancient legend, the captain had no doubt that this thing somehow possessed the body and soul of his first mate.

  It grabbed him by his throat; its bloated fingers a chalky blue. Huge, clacking teeth. If it bites me, I’m done for. His lungs screamed for oxygen. Got to get away! His limbs refused to move. He felt as if he were swimming against a powerful current. Must warn the others!

  The last sound he heard was a low, deep chuckle.

  CHAPTER 2

  Cubitt Town Station House, ISLE OF DOGS

  APRIL 16, 1871

  Inspector Roman Greenslade stepped outside the Isle of Dogs Police station house, into the grey dampness of Manchester Road. Although well past mid-morning, a heavy layer of coalsmoke and soot kept the watery sun at bay, enveloping the island in a shroud of permanent dusk. The damp air smelled of the Thames and raw sewage, while two blocks away, the screaming cries of gulls reached a crescendo. Their shrieks informed him better than any messenger that the first of the fishing boats had returned with the day’s catch.

  As he waited for the new recruit to join him, Roman fiddled at his teeth with a sterling silver toothpick. Tipped at one end with a tiny ruby, the folly had been a gift from his father, Padraig, back in the days when they still spoke to each other. Back before the war.

  A later start this morning than usual, because he’d spent the better part of the morning explaining the new man’s duties and helping him get settled into the upstairs dormitory. Normally, one of the other constables would show Stackpoole his patrol beat, but Supervisor Wickes had asked him to take the lad under his wing for the first few days, as they were so very short-handed and attracting and keeping good men was so very difficult. The Isle of Dogs was regarded by most as the worst station assignment in the London Metropolitan Police.

  Not because of the crime, although they had more than their fair share of thefts and vandalism. Rather, it was the island’s dire poverty and general air of wretchedness, which most found too depressing to tolerate for long. That, along with the foul weather, barren landscape, and a well-earned reputation as being the most haunted of London’s suburbs.

  The last two recruits hadn’t lasted a month, and the one before had transferred out at the first opportunity. Neither Mrs. Loman’s excellent cooking nor the newer station house had been enough to win them over. Most of the new recruits either wanted a posh assignment like Highgate, or the rough areas, like Wapping and Whitechapel. Even with the new recruit, the station was still down a man.

  Constable Owain Stackpoole stepped outside the stationhouse, closing the door carefully behind him. He was a plain sort, with the pale, sullen face of a Welsh farm boy. A bit on the doughy side, he said he’d come to London for better wages. The Isle of Dogs was his first assignment, and he’d earned a five-guinea bonus for agreeing to a two-year stint on the island.

  Almost immediately, he wrinkled his nose in an expression of distaste.

  It always surprised Roman how much overlanders hated the stink of the place. Born and raised here, he rarely noticed it, except perhaps on those warmer days of summer when the reek reached truly eye-watering proportions. He smoothed the front of his wool coat. “You ready, then?”

  A tight smile. “Lead on, Inspector.”

  He’d been called on to investigate a problem at the docks this morning, but decided to begin Stackpoole’s first patrol with the very worst the island had to offer. He headed west, toward Stebondale Street, an eight-block swath of misery and derelict buildings. The area was a haven for more gamblers, thieves, prostitutes, and mudlarks than anywhere in or outside of London.

  As they patrolled the street, Roman automatically scanned the upper floors of the brick storefronts lining the street, searching for movement, open doors or broken windows that might indicate that squatters or thieves had gained access. He pointed out the most dangerous areas to Stackpoole, paying particular attention to those which weren’t safe to enter, even in daylight.

  With the station house less than two blocks behind them, Stackpoole already seemed a bit glassy-eyed and green about the gills. He kept a white-knuckled grip on his truncheon. r />
  “Look smart now, lad.” Roman pulled the constable away from a sudden cascade of night soil emptied from a chamber pot form a window above. He won’t last the year, Roman predicted.

  They made their way past a cluster of surly drunks and emaciated beggars huddled together for warmth on the boardwalk outside the Builder’s Arms. Not one coat or blanket between the dozen of them, they wore the tattered uniform of the destitute—mud-clotted rags.

  By way of example, Roman paused to kick at the feet and legs of the sleeping beggars piled up against the buildings. “Get on with you, now. All of you, go on.” Feeble arms and legs stirred in silent protest.

  The expression of disgust on Stackpoole’s wide freckled face wasn’t just from the smell. “Aren’t we going to haul them in for vagrancy?”

  “Oh they’d love that.” Roman shoved the toe of his heavy boot into the drunken backside of one of the men he recognized. “Move along, McGann, you old dragsman. Drunk tank’s full. You can’t sleep here.”

  The grizzled old fellow grunted and lumbered to his feet--glaring up at them in that peculiar hunch-backed way of his. His thick-skinned cheeks glowed red from drink and windburn. “Rather than harassing a perfectly innocent man, why don’t ye do something about finding that dognapper? Thems valuable dogs.”

  “Yes, I imagine so. Don’t give me that look, Finn. I know what you use them for.”

  “You’ve got it wrong, Inspector. Thems not fightin’ dogs, they’re me wee little pets. Raised them from blind little beggars, I did.”

  In some ways, Finn reminded him of his own father, Padraig, who also had a soft spot for dogs, horses, and whiskey. Years ago, Finn and Padraig had served together in the original Bow Street Horse patrol. When the Met Police absorbed the patrol, Finn stayed on until the drink took him over, but Padraig hated the politics and left after only a year, and bought the Iron Arms pub in Blackwall, which he still owned. Drunk that he was, Roman always found Finn to be the more reasonable of the two.

  “Those dogs didn’t get scarred up from sleeping by the stove.”

  “Now why would ye say something like that? Them’s me only support. I got no way to pay me debts wi’out Digger and Jiggsy. Somebody took ‘em and you gots to find ‘em. Probably up in some Limehouse pet shop by now.”

  Just like his own father, Finn had an unreasonable mistrust for anyone who wasn’t an islander. Roman waved him off. “Right. I’ll keep my eye out for them. Move along.”

  They waited until Finn and the rest of the group rounded the corner. Roman knew better than to think they’d find somewhere else to sleep; they’d return to the boardwalk just as soon as he and Stackpoole moved on.

  “You think someone really stole his dogs?” Stackpoole asked.

  “No. They’ve probably been eaten. This is the distress, Stackpoole.” He stretched out his arms expansively. “We’re right in the bloody thick of it. After the bank failure, the shipyards closed; the whole island went belly up. It’s why we have so many vacant buildings to keep after. More than half of the people who live here are either on the dole or starving. Those who can work have left already. The rest are stealing or doing whatever they can to get by. There’s no hope here for them. They’ve got nothing. It’s not that I’m unsympathetic but I can’t fix it, and neither can you. We’re here to protect property, prevent crime, and keep order. Life on the island isn’t for everyone.”

  He noted Stackpoole’s determined nod, and the tension he’d felt all morning began to ease. Not a coward then, just first-day jitters. He supposed he’d been just as tense when PC Billings escorted him through his first rounds seven years ago. It didn’t matter that he’d grown up here, and knew most of the residents; once he’d become a policeman, they treated him as a stranger. He was no longer one of their own.

  They reached the end of Stebondale and turned north onto Manchester Road, the major thoroughfare for the east side of the Island. The horse traffic was heavier here, but, but rush hour was over, and at this time of day, foot traffic was light.

  “The island is split into three beats. Millwall on the West, Blackwall on the East, and Cubitt Town, the Air Fields, and the horse Ferry to the South. The only access on and off the island is the main road, which rings the island above the high-water mark. On the east, it’s called Manchester Road, but in the south and on the west side of the island, it’s just Ferry Road.”

  The road led them north. Behind a row of close-set houses facing the river, Roman nodded to the great man-made bay ahead of them.

  “Technically speaking, it’s the construction of the docks that separated us from the mainland. This is Blackwall Basin, which serves as the entrance lock for all ships entering the docks. From there, it’s like a giant loop. The ships proceed west into the Import Dock, where they offload their goods directly onto the trains. Once they’re unloaded, they exit on the west and the canal turns them around heading east, where they enter the Export Dock, where there’s also a railroad spur there to deliver goods for lading.”

  Stackpoole whistled. “That’s a right lot of area to cover, eh?”

  “Not at all. We don’t patrol inside the docks; they’ve got their own private security force.”

  “If the docks are outside our responsibility, what’re we up to then, Inspector?”

  “Ah, professional courtesy. They sent a runner this morning, asking for assistance. It doesn’t happen often, unless they run into something unusual, then they’ll request the presence of an officer.”

  Roman turned west, leading the way across a set of train tracks, along the well-worn footpath leading toward the tall brick security wall ahead of them. This part of the island was as devoid of grass and trees as a desert, home only to warehouses, tall ships, and the occasional scream of a steam locomotive whistle. There were no shops here, no markets, not even a stray handcart vendor. Even the rows of houses facing the river seemed to have turned their backs to them. The walls loomed ominously above them, shutting out the spring sunlight.

  Stackpoole drew his attention to a knee-high tumble of black stones surrounded by white pebbles piled up beside the road. “That what I think it is?”

  “Aye. Fae cairns. To keep the wraiths and shades away. We’ve got more than our share of superstitious folk and magickers living here, Constable. There’s the herbalist, Mrs. Walker, several gypsy families, a retired wizard, and even one of those Chinese fellows who sticks needles into you for a cure, if you can believe it.”

  “Um, wraiths?”

  Roman shrugged. “Ghosts. Spirits of the dead, what have you. There used be a gallows on the docks in Blackwall where they hanged river pirates. And another across the river below Greenwich. There’s more than a little bit of magick in the land here. Especially in the south marshes. Farmers swear that the grass here can fatten the thinnest sheep, or cure the sickest horse.”

  “What about the wraiths, then, Inspector?”

  “They can’t hurt you. Most people can’t even see them. But some are more sensitive to magick than others. The islanders who’ve lived here the longest tend to cling to the old ways. If you’ve an eye for it, you’ll see subtle signs everywhere you look. At the peak of eaves on barn, or runes carved over doorways, or those little piles of stones.”

  The color had drained from Stackpoole’s face.

  Roman gave him a mirthless grin. “You’re not superstitious, are you, constable?” It was easy to forget that outsiders didn’t experience the island’s magick in the same way. He’d grown up with wraiths, ghosts, and fey cairns of power. It wasn’t that he liked it—just the opposite. Contact with even the smallest bit of magick left an invisible residue on his skin that instinctively made him want to wash it off. It was just something, like the smell of the place, he supposed, that he’d learned to live with. No one raised on the island thought anything of it.

  The other man scrutinized the empty landscape. His upper lip trembled. “Can’t say as I’d be happy to meet a ghost out on the road some night.”

 
“That’s what your lantern is for. To be honest, the biggest risk to your safety is from getting run down by drunks or hooligans racing carriages down Ferry Road at night. Not many come out here. It’s too far from the pubs, and those walls,” he nodded to the security walls ahead of them. “Those walls completely surround the docks. Nowadays it’s what they call a closed system,. No way in or out except through a pair of locked gates. Not even the police can get inside without a man to let us in. The Company manages all their own security, so unless there’s call for assistance, you’ve nothing to worry about.”

  #

  Two guards in military uniform greeted them at the stout Iron Gate at the west entrance of the Export Dock. The blue woolen tunics they wore were similar to those worn by the Metropolitan Police, but the collar was trimmed in red, and the trousers bore a wide red stripe running down the outside seam. To Roman’s mind, the gold braid around the cuffs and the double row of brass buttons down the front made them a bit grand for patrolling the docks.

  He introduced Stackpoole to two of the Company’s security men, Hardesty and Trammes. Both men seemed relieved to see them, which to Roman's experience, that was highly unusual, as relations between Company men and the Police were historically quite stiff. That the Company held itself outside the law chapped at the heart of every police officer on the island. As they followed the Company men into the secured area around the docks, Roman wondered what had so rattled them.