Daughter on his Doorstep (HC #2)

18: Dock Evidence Spies

Nervous that they'd miss the man when he exited, Vincent remained at the corner, his eyes trained on the front door of the building, as Thomas hurried back to the office. He disappeared down an alleyway to the left of Forsythe's office, remaining out of sight for a few tense minutes. When he eventually popped back out onto the street, Vincent let out a sigh of relief.

"There's another door, as you suspected," Thomas said when he reached him, raking his curls out of his face, "but only one entrance to the alleyway. When he emerges – regardless of which door – we shall see him."

And, although it took another half hour, they did.

The image Vincent had built in his mind of the man – a sailor who chewed tobacco and hit women – was surprisingly accurate. He was a short, stout man who was either bald or wore his hair cropped close to his skull, and who walked with his shoulders rounded over. He poked his head out of the alley, slowly scanning the street, before he flicked up the colour of his oiled coat and took off quickly down the street. He could not have looked more suspicious if he'd tried.

As cautiously as they were able, Thomas and Vincent gave chase.

At every corner, they hesitated, worrying that the man might look over his shoulder and spot them, but at only the second block the fog gave way to rain. They were quickly soaked through, but the downpour provided plenty of incentive for the man to hurry, whilst also concealing them if he did decide to look.

After twenty minutes, it became clear where he was leading them.

"And so we return," Thomas commented, leaning in close to Vincent so that he could hear him over the rain. Under similar circumstances, Vincent had blamed the heat of him for the shiver that ran up his arm. Now he knew better. "Who would have guessed that a mystery that began with a shipping company would lead us to spend so much time at the docks?"

Vincent nodded, assuming it was sarcasm.

The buildings on their left were factories and storage locations, their doors firmly shut against the weather, but on their right were lines and lines of docked ships. Rotting, wooden boardwalks ran out in parallel lines, with everything from rowboats to small fishing vessels moored. Without the haze of the rain, they might have been able to spot the larger ships, anchored further out to sea, to which many of the smaller boats belonged.

Suddenly, Vincent threw out a hand, setting it firmly against Thomas' chest as their quarry took a sharp right turn, stepping out onto the pier with more confidence than Vincent thought the old wood deserved. He scurried along, his pursuers squinting after him, and just at the end of their vision, he veered to the right and disappeared into one of the larger ships.

Thomas pressed forward, but Vincent's hand at his chest held firm. He sent him a questioning look, eyebrow raised, but its impact was severely limited by the water cascading down his face.

"What are you doing?" he asked instead, raking saturated hair out of his face. "We've found the boat."

Vincent shook his head, feeling a familiar sinkhole opening in his chest; telling people what they did not want to hear was always particularly uncomfortable. "There... I... Without knowing the women are onboard, we have no legal recourse."

"Well, let's go find out!"

The hand at his chest wasn't enough to prevent him from taking a step forward, so Vincent had to step bodily in front of him instead. "The flag," he cautioned, tilting his head towards the ship.

The rain and winds whipped the strip of cloth flying from the mast of the ship. Despite the weather, one thing was clear; the colours were not British.