Chesterton was halfway down the central aisle when the sound of rattling wheels reached through the gloom, followed by the unmistakable clop of hooves and the jingle of harness as horses were reined in, then O’Donnell could be heard directing the drivers as to where to halt their wagons.
Seconds later, two hefty men in long coats came striding into the warehouse.
Watching from their hiding spot, Stokes and Barnaby tensed.
“Good. You’re here.” Chesterton raised the lamp and pointed to the line of crates. “All of these are to go. Load them up and take them to the dock. By the time you get there,The Viscountshould have come alongside and be waiting to take them on board.”
“Right you are, sir.” One of the men saluted, then the pair moved to pick up the crate on top of the nearest stack.
Shouts and yells erupted outside.
The three in the warehouse froze, then swung to face the door.
For several seconds, disorientating sounds of pandemonium rolled through the open doorway.
Then Chesterton cursed and, with his two helpers, turned to flee or possibly hide, only to come face-to-face with Morgan,Walsh, and several other constables, all with truncheons in their hands and grim expressions on their faces.
The pair of drivers immediately halted and held up their hands in surrender.
With rather more to lose, lamp still in hand, Chesterton whirled to flee through the doorway, possibly thinking to slip away through the melee engulfing the yard outside.
Instead, he found himself facing Stokes with Barnaby at his side. They stood squarely blocking the aisle, and with his crates of illicit guns piled on either side, Chesterton had nowhere to run.
No way to escape.
Barnaby could see that realization dawn on the man, and Chesterton’s shoulders slumped.
“Damn!” he muttered and let the lamp hang.
Stokes stepped forward, took the lamp from him, handed it to Barnaby, and arrested Chesterton for gun running. “And,” Stokes added with grim relish, “who knows what other crimes we’ll find you guilty of?”
Barnaby saw confusion pass across Chesterton’s face, but then Morgan came up and took him in charge, and together with Stokes, Barnaby walked outside to see what had transpired in the yard.
Six drays had turned up. The drivers and their helpers, at least two for every wagon, had all been captured and were being corralled in the center of the yard. O’Donnell was in charge of taking names and, once the prisoners’ hands had been securely tied, sending them off in the care of a constable, to be loaded into the police wagons that had been summoned from where they’d been waiting in concealment farther up Fort Road.
The next half hour and more went in organizing the prisoners, and they also had to return the horses and drays to Tilbury. Stokes had decided that the wisest course was toorder constables to drive the horses and wagons to the drivers’ families, but that meant sending a police coach along to ferry the constables back to Scotland Yard.
Barnaby stood to one side of the yard and watched, listened, and thought.
Finally, Stokes was free and came to join him, pausing only to beckon to Morgan and Walsh to bring their principal prisoner out of the warehouse.
The yard was largely empty when the constables, each holding one of Chesterton’s arms, marched him out into the light of the waning moon.
Chesterton looked slightly rumpled, but appeared defeated and, if anything, puzzled.
When the trio halted before Stokes and Barnaby, Chesterton shook his head and looked at them. “This was such a sweet operation. What gave us away?”
Barnaby glanced at Stokes and sensed the swift internal debate Stokes waged before he replied, “Killing Thomas Cardwell.”
Chesterton’s bafflement was undeniably genuine. “Who?”
Having shut and locked the warehouse doors and left the key with the four constables who would remain on guard until more wagons were sent from London to remove the crates of illegal guns, O’Donnell came up and saluted. “All locked tight, and the others are all away.”
Stokes looked at Chesterton, then said, “We can discuss Cardwell’s demise tomorrow. For tonight, sleep well in your cell.”
Stokes nodded to his men. “Take him away.”
Standing beside Stokes, Barnaby watched as Chesterton was led to a police wagon reserved solely for him. The constables loaded him into the closed coach, and Walsh followed, then Morgan took the reins and, with O’Donnell beside him on thebox, sent the coach rumbling down the track before turning for London.
