Read Chapter 21: Rescue on the Dock

The North Quay warehouse loomed against a bruised sky, its corrugated iron walls streaked with rust and birdlime. Arthur pressed himself into the shadow of a stacked pallet of timber, watching the single lit window at the far end. No movement. No guards on the perimeter. That was wrong.

He circled wide, keeping low, his breath fogging in the cold air off the Thames. The dock was quiet this hour—cranes frozen mid-gesture, barges creaking against their moorings. A foghorn moaned somewhere out on the water, and Arthur used the sound to cover his footsteps as he crossed the open ground to the warehouse's rear door.

The lock was new. He'd expected that. He slipped the paperclip from his pocket, the same one he'd used to open the diary's clasp hours ago, and worked the mechanism with the patience of a man who'd spent thirty years coaxing stubborn signals into compliance. The lock gave with a soft click.

Inside was darkness and the smell of oil and damp rope. Arthur waited for his eyes to adjust, listening for breathing beyond his own. Nothing. He moved forward, step by careful step, past coiled hawsers and stacked crates stamped with shipping lines from ports he'd never seen.

Then he saw the light—a single bare bulb hanging over a cleared space in the centre of the floor. And beneath it, chained to a steel ring bolted into the concrete, was Eddie Marsh.

Arthur's breath caught. The man from the photograph—the undercover policeman—was barely recognisable. His face was a ruin of bruises, one eye swollen shut, his lip split and crusted. He wore the remains of a railway porter's uniform, and his wrists were bound above his head with rusted manacles.

Arthur moved to him, crouching low. "Eddie."

Eddie's one good eye fluttered open, unfocused. His mouth worked, cracked lips parting. "You're... you're the signalman."

"Arthur Phelps. I found your diary."

A sound came from Eddie's throat, something between a laugh and a cough. "Took you long enough."

"I'm getting you out of here." Arthur reached for the manacles, then stopped. He looked closer. The chain ran from Eddie's wrists to the ring, but there was slack—too much slack for a man meant to be held. And the floor around Eddie was clean, swept, while the rest of the warehouse was thick with dust.

Trap.

The door slammed at the far end of the warehouse. Lights blazed on—industrial floods that seared Arthur's eyes. He spun, hand going to his pocket, but there was nothing there but a paperclip and a dead man's diary.

Victor stepped into the light, flanked by three men Arthur had never seen. Big men. Armed.

"Signalman Phelps," Victor said, his voice carrying across the warehouse with theatrical ease. "I wondered when you'd arrive. Scar said you'd found the diary. I knew the policeman's note would bring you here eventually. Just didn't bank on you being quite so quick about it."

Arthur's mind raced. Behind him, Eddie made a small sound of warning.

"What do you want, Victor?"

"The same thing I've always wanted." Victor walked closer, his shoes clicking on the concrete. "The money. And now, the satisfaction of watching you die a second time. You've been inconvenient, Arthur. More inconvenient than a man of your station has any right to be."

"Flattered." Arthur was buying time, his fingers working behind his back at the manacle chain. He'd found the keyhole—too large for the paperclip, but the mechanism was old. Simple. He twisted the clip, bending it into a new shape.

"You killed my crew," Arthur said, keeping Victor talking. "Men who trusted you."

"Men who were expendable." Victor shrugged. "That's the nature of the game. You were all means to an end. And the end, Arthur, was always going to be mine."

Behind Arthur, he heard the manacle click.

"Run," Eddie whispered.

Arthur didn't hesitate. He grabbed Eddie's arm, hauling the man to his feet, and broke for the side wall—the one with the loading door, the one that opened onto the water. Gunfire erupted behind him, the crack of shots ringing off the metal walls, and Arthur felt the air whip past his ear as a bullet missed by inches.

He threw himself at the loading door's release bar. It gave. The door rolled up with a scream of metal, revealing the black water of the dock beyond the concrete apron.

"Help me," he grunted, dragging Eddie forward. But Eddie stumbled, his legs giving out. He was too weak—days, maybe weeks, of captivity had stripped him of everything but bone and will.

Arthur made a decision in the split second it took for another bullet to ping off the doorframe beside his head.

He hauled Eddie toward a lifeboat crane at the edge of the dock. A small wooden boat hung from its davits, rigged for lowering. Arthur shoved Eddie over the side of the dock apron, letting him drop into the boat with a heavy thud.

"Stay down," he hissed. "Don't make a sound."

Then he turned and ran, deliberately loud, deliberately visible, along the water's edge toward a line of stacked shipping containers. He heard Victor shout, heard the pound of boots on concrete behind him.

Arthur ran. He ran with the memory of his father's watch in his pocket, and Eddie's diary pressed against his chest, and a dead man's words ringing in his ears. He ran until the warehouse was a distant shadow, until Victor's men were just shapes behind him, until he found the narrow alley between two dock buildings and slipped into it, pressing himself flat against the brick.

He held his breath as the footsteps thundered past. Voices called out, fading. Then silence.

Arthur waited. Counted to a hundred. Then another hundred.

When he finally moved, his legs were shaking. He made his way back to the lifeboat by a different route, hugging the shadows, every sense straining for the sound of pursuit.

Eddie was where he'd left him, curled in the bottom of the boat, barely conscious.

Arthur climbed in beside him, and for a long moment neither of them spoke. The boat rocked gently on the Thames. Somewhere above them, a gull cried out.

"Victor," Eddie rasped. "He knows about the Baron."

Arthur stared at him. "The Baron?"

Eddie's hand found Arthur's arm, grip surprisingly strong. "Victor works for him. He's the one who planned it all. He's the one who'll come for us now." His eyes fluttered closed. "There's... there's a list. In the diary. The last pages. I hid it in the binding."

Arthur felt the weight of the diary against his chest. He hadn't checked the binding. He'd been too focused on the message.

"Rest," he said quietly. "We're not safe yet."

But for the first time in hours, Arthur allowed himself to breathe.