THE WINTER SKY was as dark as soot by late afternoon, with formless tufts of grey cloud obscuring the smattering of stars. Butter slowed the rowing boat to a crawl, as Quaint spied the docks through a pocket-sized pair of opera glasses. The fog had obviously put off other sailors and this stretch of the Thames was silent as a tomb, with visibility down to a minimum. Butter scanned around him, anxiously waiting for a sign that would indicate their destination.
'We should be coming up to Blythesgate pretty soon, Butter; I recognise the wharf's buildings. There's the Chinese textile emporium, and there's Arlow's mill,' said Quaint. 'There! Just ahead, that's it. That's Blythesgate!'
A short time later, Cornelius Quaint and Butter were standing in front of a vast warehouse. Its walls were a hotchpotch of colours and mismatched materials, from corrugated tin and iron, to large sheets of wood and salvaged planks. Trickles of rust seeped like gunshot wounds from the various bolts and nails holding the building together. Quaint stared up as far as the fog would permit him, and he raised the lantern to the door. A battered sign hung loosely from two hooks just above his eye level, creaking in the wind.
'Blythesgate fish market,' Quaint said. 'Shall we go inside and take a look?'
'But it is tight-up locked, Mr Quaint,' said Butter, eyeing the massive chain wrapped around the warehouse door.
'Don't worry, old chap,' said Quaint, with a devilish glint in his eyes. 'We'll no doubt find a more suitable entrance around the rear of the premises.'
As Quaint and Butter walked to the end of the warehouse, they pushed past a collection of large wooden delivery crates, not unlike tiny coffins. Each one of the crates was damp, stained white from the salty seawater, and reeking of fish from that day's catch. The trawlers would arrive early in the morning in Blythesgate, eager to sell their wares from the long, arduous day at sea and, to ensure their goods were kept fresh, they were packed in crates and covered in ice. The stench from the crates was fairly strong, and Quaint was pleased to move into the shadows of the alleyway that ran along the side of the market warehouse.
The buildings along the docks were positioned closely to each other to make the most of their highly sought after dockland location. Huge, narrow tenements nestled next to storage warehouses, taverns to entice the seamen, as well as a variety of other more questionable pursuits. The entire stretch along the docks was virtually a different world from the rest of London, designed to cater to the needs of the passing traveller, or sailor, but as time had progressed, a more sinister element had taken up residence there, and more and more buildings had been built to accommodate the rash of interest in sea-faring commerce. Brothels were conveniently tucked away down every alleyway, and opium dens were even easier to find. Taverns were scattered about to pick up the flotsam and jetsam that wanted to empty neither their purses nor their minds on illicit sex or opiate distractions. The wharf was a disturbing, dark place once night fell, but Quaint moved confidently about with either ignorance or arrogance as his guide. The alleyway still presented potential for danger even at that time of day, and the wary traveller never dropped his guard. Not yet night-it was almost dark, and soon the local populace would be crawling from wherever they hid themselves during daylight hours.
Soon Butter and Quaint were in a much wider alleyway, bereft of light, save the slow-rising moon in the sky, barely visible through the crevices of the alleys. The fog was less evident now; the warmth between the buildings keeping it at bay, and Quaint was able to see the rear of the fish market more clearly. An array of large boxes were scattered about, containing the remnants of melted ice, and the same strong smell of fish as the crates at the front of the building. Quaint eyed the crates, his gaze drifting up the warehouse, to a small window above.
'These boxes have been intentionally placed here. They look as if they've been dragged from the front, according to these tracks in the dirt,' said Quaint to Butter, as he bent down onto his haunches and placed his hand into a crate, pulling out a handful of crushed ice. 'And not too long ago, by the looks of it.'
'Are you sure, boss?' asked Butter. His eyes travelled up the marketplace wall, past the patchwork slates of iron and wood, to the open window. 'It seem a lot of effort. Why he not just go to train, avoid police there?'
'I'm banking on Madame Destine's visions being correct, and that Prometheus was being pursued, so he went to ground,' surmised Quaint, as he pulled at his bottom lip between thumb and forefinger. 'Destine smelled fish, and this place is just about as good a place to start looking as anywhere. Come on, I'll hoist you up.'
'Me, boss? Up there, boss?' asked Butter.
'Of course, man!' said Quaint indignantly. 'Unless you think a little shrimp like you could lift a man my size?'
'Little shrimp? Boss, back home I slay a walrus of eight feet long, after tremendous battle lasted all of day and all of night. It was a spectacle!'
'My offence at the walrus reference notwithstanding, Butter, we don't have much choice, so let's just get going, shall we?' said Quaint, squatting down, and linking his hands together to form a stirrup. 'Allez-oop!'
Around the front of the building, their shadows flitting like tomcats in the night, a collection of assorted ruffians arrived unannounced. Mr Reynolds's little urchin spy had earned himself a hot meal for informing the man of Quaint's intended destination, and with the Bishop's money paying for the hired muscle, the men had congregated outside Blythesgate fish market with the sole intention of causing Cornelius Quaint some grievous bodily harm…