Lying inside on a bed of straw were six rifles.
Barnaby reached into the crate and lifted one out. Stokes and Jordan did the same.
Almost immediately, Stokes grunted. He pointed to a small plaque affixed to the base of the rifle’s stock. “These are Enfields,” he growled.
Upturning the rifle he was holding, Barnaby squinted at its plaque. “From the Royal Small Arms Factory, no less.”
“That’s not what the crates say,” Jordan pointed out.
“And that,” Stokes informed them all, “means that these are not official production.”
Unclear on the implication, Barnaby ventured, “So these are unofficial production…meaning they’ve been diverted from the proper channels?”
Grimly, Stokes nodded. “Sadly, there are always those who think to make a quick quid on the side.”
“Well”—Penelope spread her arms and turned, gesturing to the crates all around—“this certainly qualifies as a nefarious activity. Thomas was perfectly correct in labeling it that.”
Stokes shook his head, then turned away and started giving orders to his men to arrest the three watchmen and take them to the Yard.
That done, Stokes faced the three younger gentlemen. “You said Chesterton expected a part of his delivery on Monday?”
All three nodded. “That’s what he said,” Harrison confirmed.
“And,” Gibson added, “he met us on Monday evening, all bright and chipper, and paid us with a smile on his face.”
Obviously, Gibson now saw through Chesterton’s cheery demeanor.
Jordan offered, “That sounds as if someone connected with the delivery paid him. Presumably for the storage and watchmen and possibly for arranging transport to Tilbury Dock.”
Barnaby was eyeing the crates. “That also makes it likely that Chesterton will move this lot on soon.”
Stokes grunted. “Let’s see what the watchmen have to say.”
Along with Stokes, Jordan, and the three younger gentlemen, Barnaby walked out of the warehouse. Penelope and Ruth trailed behind, quietly discussing what their discovery might mean.
Outside, the three deflated and slightly bruised watchmen were having their hands tied behind their backs. All three looked thoroughly disgusted.
Stokes halted before the group and addressed the man who’d first approached them. “When is this lot”—Stokes tipped his head toward the warehouse—“scheduled to be moved on?”
Through narrowed eyes, the watchman studied Stokes, then glanced at his mates.
One lifted his heavy shoulders in a shrug. “Chesterton’s done us no good. This was supposed to be no trouble, yet here we are.”
The other nodded. “Tell ’im. No ’arm to us either way, I’m thinking.”
“Sound advice,” Stokes said. “If you cooperate, I’ll put in a good word with the magistrate.”
The watchman pursed his lips, then nodded. “Fair enough. Chesterton’s set it up for tonight. It’s all arranged. The drays arrive about half after nine. He’s usually here by then, counting the crates.”
Jordan asked, “Did you ever hear the names of any of those in charge of the deliveries or managing the transfer to the docks?”
The three men shook their heads, and the watchman said, “We were told to stay in the shack at such times, which suited us.”
One of his mates added, “With crews of that sort, we didn’t really want to know more ’n we had to.”
Jordan grimaced and met Stokes’s eyes.
Stokes dipped his head to the three men. “Thank you.” To the constables, he said, “Take them away.”
