“Hold,” Carmichael called. “You can’t break it open. They’ll know we’ve been here.”

“They’ll know someone’s been here, that much is likely. But they won’t know it was us. And we did not come up here to have an appraising look at the contents of the room. I must know what they are hiding.”

He gave me an accepting but unenthusiastic nod, and so I broke open the nearest crate. Inside, it was full of thick rolls of cloths of bright floral patterns. I held the candle closer.

“What is it?” I asked Carmichael.

He took a piece of cloth in his hands, rubbed it between his fingers, stroked it, and put it near to the candle. “It ain’t nothing,” he said quietly. “It’s just the same cloths they bring into the other warehouses.”

We opened half a dozen more at random; again, nothing but standard East Indian cloth imports. Carmichael shook his head. “I can’t make sense of it,” he said. “Why would they go to the trouble of playing these freaks with hidden meetings and late night secreting away of deliveries. This ain’t nothing but the ordinary.”

I took a moment to consider why it was that a member of the Court of Committees would trouble himself to collect a clandestine network in order to warehouse goods that might as well be stored anywhere. “Is this a matter of stealing?” I asked. “Do they plan to sell the contents of this room for their own profit?”

“Stealing?” Carmichael let out a laugh. “To what end? In another month, the market for these cloths will be gone.”

“A black market, perhaps? They mean to continue to sell the material clandestinely?”

Again, Carmichael shook his head. “No, the law don’t forbid the trade in calicoes, only the wearing of them. If they wish to keep on selling the cloth, they can, but there won’t be anyone to buy it. Come Christmas, they won’t be able to give it away. Here in England, all this will be worth less than nothing.”

“And you are certain that the cloth is ordinary?”

He nodded most solemnly. “’Tis but ordinary calico.”

I felt certain I must be overlooking something of some significance. Carmichael, too, kept a puzzled look upon his face. “Maybe if you could get a look at the manifests,” he suggested. “Could it be that there’s some meaning not in the crates themselves but in from where they come or whither they’re bound?”

It was a good suggestion, and I was about to say as much when we heard the unmistakable sound of a door opening on the first floor and muffled though agitated voices.

“The devil’s arse,” Carmichael cursed. “They must have seen the light through the window after all. You’ve got to get out of here.”

“How?”

“The window. That one there. That side of the building has rugged stones, so that if you’ve got a good purchase you can get yourself up to the roof and hide.”

“And what about you?”

“I’ll have to close the window behind you. Now, don’t worry about me, Mr. Weaver. I know these warehouses like a child knows his own street. They’ll not find me, I’ll warrant.”

“I can’t leave you to fend for yourself.”

“There ain’t no choice in it. We can’t risk them finding you, for both our sakes. And trust me, they’ll never know I was here. I’ve got a few minutes to put all back in order, lock the door, and slip into a crevice where they won’t look. Come find me tomorrow, but for now you’ve got to get out that window.”

I did not love to do it, but I saw the sense of his plan, and I understood Carmichael had proposed it not out of an altruistic impulse but because it was the soundest course. So I allowed him to lead me toward the window he had in mind. It was stuck with disuse, but I managed to pry it open and have a look out. The stones were, indeed, quite rough. A man afraid of heights or unused to handling himself in awkward situations-such as the uninvited entry or exit from premises not his own-might have trembled at this sight, but I could only think that, in the past, I’d managed far worse and in rain and snow too.

“I’ll leave the window open just enough to give you something to grip when you return,” he said. “But I’ll have to lock the door behind me, so those picks of yours had better be good.”

It was not the picks that would be tested but the picker, but I had my share of experience, so I merely nodded. “You are certain you wish to remain?”

“’Tis the best course. Now off with ye.”

So I was off, out the window. Balancing on the thankfully ample ledge in the darkness of night, I caught hold of a jutting rock and forced myself up to a ledgelike protrusion, and then another, and then, with an ease I found almost troubling, I was on the roof. There I pressed myself flat where I might have a good view of the door. I could hear from the building a muffled commotion, but no more than that. And then nothing but the sounds of London at night: the distant cries of street vendors, the squawks of eager or outraged whores, the clatter of hooves on stone. Across the courtyard I heard the coughing and cackling and grumbling of the watchmen.

A light rain soaked my greatcoat and clothing through to my skin, but still I remained until I saw a group of men depart from the warehouse. From my lofty position I could not hear their words or determine who they were, except that there were four of them and one, from the size of the bulk under his coat, I believed must be Aadil. Another must have hurt himself on the stairs, I thought, because one of his fellows helped him along.

I continued to wait for some hours until I feared that light would soon destroy my cover, and so, with much greater difficulty and trepidation than on my ascent, I carefully made my way back down the ledge of the wall to the window sill and pried open the window-already ajar as Carmichael had promised. I then found that my picks were unnecessary, for the door had been left closed but unlocked. I knew not if my ally had done this by mistake, as an aid to me, or if the men come to inspect the premises had been careless. At the time I hardly cared. I should have cared, I later realized, but at the time I did not.

Now, without benefit of a candle, I made my careful way down the stairs, wondering all the while if Carmichael would rejoin me or if he had somehow managed to slip out without my noticing. There was no sign of him, however, and once on the ground floor, I studied the premises through a window until I felt certain I could leave undetected. It was then a matter of another half an hour of snaking through shadows to avoid the watchmen and make my departure. I arrived home in time to sleep an hour before rising once more to greet the day and the terrible news it would bring.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

BECAUSE I WAS TIRED AND SULLEN FROM MY DIFFICULT AND ultimately unproductive night, I did not notice the dour mood when I arrived at the warehouses in the East India yard-at least not at first. It took me a few minutes to see that the watchmen and warehouse workers all were equally sullen and gloomy.

“What’s happening?” I asked one of them.

“There’s been an accident,” he told me. “In the early morning. No one knows what he was doing there; he had no business. Aadil thinks he was stealing, but Carmichael was in the west warehouse-where all the teas are kept, you know. And there was an accident.”

“Was he hurt?” I demanded.

“Aye,” the fellow told me. “He was hurt unto death. Crushed like a rat under the teas he was aiming to steal.”

TEAS.

A clever enough cover, I supposed, since whatever Forester and Aadil were up to, it had nothing to do with teas. And as there could be no defensible reason why Carmichael would have been moving crates in a tea warehouse in the small hours of the night, the only available conclusion was that he had been guilty of that most common of crimes, pilfering from the warehouses to augment his meager income.