The far end of the alley gave a wide-open view up the length of the basin itself. The expanse of water was so large that Lawrence would have described it as a lake. The breeze chased fans of chop away into the distance and toyed with trees on islands out towards the middle. It would appear that all the businesses had electric lighting, for the basin was entirely surrounded by a band of speckled yellow stars. Under different circumstances, it would have been a charming sight.
Looking sharply sideways towards what must be the Newman’s business, he was startled to see a large, sleek flying boat moored just outside the mouth of their private harbour. It was without question the same flying boat he had watched land the previous afternoon. At ground level, it seemed clumsier and chunkier than it had airborne, much as a seagull loses its grace when it folds its wings. It was moored with its nose a few yards from a broad wooden bridge that enabled people to walk across the mouth of the Newman’s private harbour. Within their harbour were perhaps half a dozen moored barges.
Lawrence remained crouched, mulling over his position. He could see figures moving about in the Newman’s yard, loading crates into one of the barges. He tapped his teeth, thinking as he observed. A loaded barge meant ultramarines would be reporting with a hauling team.
The Newman’s yard was enclosed by brick warehouses with slate roofs—they looked substantial compared to the tarred wooden sheds of the industrial asylums. On the far side of the Newman’s harbour was a large house. This was a mix of brick and wooden clinker, as if it had been added to as the family grew with the business. The entire business property was secured by a tall fence of iron bars topped by stainless steel barbed wire. That was high quality stuff, there was money in this place, at least by slummy standards.
It was now so light that he felt conspicuous crouched at the end of the alley. He stood up and walked along the quay to the gate of the Newman’s compound. By this time an enormous mastiff in the yard had spotted him and was glaring, its chain tinkling. This drew the attention of the men loading the barge. They glared at him too.
He held up both hands in a friendly gesture and waved, but did not call out. A public-school accent would not be normal here. One of the men began striding over. Lawrence knew this must be Bartram from Sarah-Kelly’s description of her eldest brother: “Looks just like a walking badger, except he’s not that pretty”. His gait was quick on his stumpy badger’s legs, whilst his long, powerful arms swung more slowly. He had a noticeable paunch and a double-chin. He took a quick drag at a rolled cigarette as he came up to the gate, his eyes summing Lawrence from boots to scratched face .
“Who are you and what do you want?”
“I am Lawrence Aldingford.” Lawrence spoke quietly.
Bartram displayed no surprise. His face did not so much as twitch. The only change was an introspection in the eyes as a calculation took place. Lawrence recognised a man accustomed to making swift judgements of safety. There was nothing he could do to change Bartram’s mind. All he could do was wait and hope. Bartram delved in a pocket and drew out a key with which he unlocked the gate and pulled it open.
“Follow me inside—and keep your mouth shut.”
Lawrence did exactly that, while relief flooded him. The mastiff followed his every inch, training its head in silence. They passed a couple of immensely strong, wide men lifting a sack of potatoes into one of the barges. Bartram said to them:
“I’ll be back out in a min. This guy’s got news about Sarah-Kelly.”
He led inside the house. Lawrence entered a glorious warmth and smell of bacon, toast and coffee. The whole ground floor was one room, the roof held up by an ad hoc arrangement of props to control the worst of the sagging. He could hear children thumping around and laughing upstairs. An attractive women—startlingly like Sarah-Kelly apart from being older and a bit stouter—turned from the cast iron range. She wore a long black skirt and a pure white apron. Her face opened in curiosity on seeing Lawrence, although she said nothing until Bartram spoke.
“Sit there.” Bartram shot an arm out at a worn leather armchair with its back to the windows. He made a tour of the ground floor, searching all its alcoves and obscured areas, before coming back to the woman at the stove. He said in a low voice: “That’s Lawrence Aldingford, Sarah-Kelly’s boyfriend who got fogged up in Oban. We’ve got to help him.”
“Of course we will.”
“The big problem is his voice, well actually, his whole manner. You know what the courtier class of town are like—superiority is bred into them.”
“Can’t he put on an accent?”
Bartram looked over at Lawrence.
“Do you think you can put on a slummy accent?”
Under-sergeant Brummie came to mind. His whine still echoed around Lawrence’s mind, having put up with it almost every day he had been the Value System.
“How about Soho?” Lawrence suggested.
“Say: ‘Do you reckon he saw us?’”
Lawrence gave it a try. Their faces grew patient.
“Maybe not Soho,” Bartram said. “Tell you what, get a wash and a change of clothes and in the meantime we’ll think of something else. Rosa will get one of the gals to wash all your stuff…” He bent closer to inspect the overalls, then stooped to examine the boots. “Lift your foot up,
