Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [95]
“Matches,” Pitt answered, coming close to the old pier and the steps.
“We’re looking for dynamite, for God’s sake!” Voisey hissed.
“Then we’ll have to be very careful,” Pitt replied.
Voisey swore, and walked softly behind him to the steps.
“Tide’s coming in,” Pitt said after a minute or two. “We’re lucky.”
“What difference does that make?” Voisey was on his heels.
“Steps will be dry,” Pitt answered. He fished in his pocket and pulled out a box of matches. He struck one briefly, sheltering it with his hand. It stayed alight just long enough for him to read the name on the stern of the nearest boat. “Blue Betsy,” he said softly. “There are three more. Come on.”
“I suppose you do know it’s here?” Voisey asked.
“No. But I will in five minutes.” Pitt went farther down the stairs. The water was only a couple of feet below him now. It looked solid, like molten metal, as if he could walk on it out to the moored ships a dozen yards away, their riding lights skittering brokenly across the ripples.
The second boat was not the Josephine either. They were obliged to board it, climbing with extreme care across its deck and crouching with another briefly flaming match to peer at the third.
“Josephine!” Pitt said with intense satisfaction.
Voisey said nothing.
Pitt led the way, moving with great care in case the wood of the deck should be slippery. A fall might injure him, or even send him into the water. Perhaps the worst risk of all would be that of raising the alarm, at least from one of the larger boats, which would have watchmen.
The Josephine was lower in the water, and they had a slight jump down onto the deck. Pitt moved forward, dropping to his hands and knees to be less conspicuous, and to make balancing easier as the boat tipped with his weight.
Voisey copied him.
They moved in silence, feeling for the hatch, and then for the way to open it. The boat was very old; there was a smell of rot in the wood and several planks were spongy to the touch. It was certainly not seaworthy; it was no more than a floating container in which to store things that would not be hurt by the damp.
The hatch opened easily. There was no lock on it, just a simple handle. Pitt was faintly disturbed by this. Had the dynamite gone already? Or was there some other way in which it was protected?
“What are you waiting for?” Voisey whispered.
Pitt wished it were Tellman with him. Reason told him Voisey could not afford to betray him now, but his instinct said he might.
Was he going, or not? Suddenly the glimmering lights of the river and the sense of space, the salt and fish smells of the tide, even the stink of the mud, seemed like freedom. The air in the dark hold was stale, with a faint chemical odor.
In the shelter of the open hatch cover, Pitt lit another match and lowered it very carefully. Whatever happened, even if it burned his fingers, he must not drop it. He could feel Voisey only inches behind him.
The hold was almost empty. It was several moments before he saw the packages wrapped up and piled in the farthest corner. They could be dynamite, but they could also be any number of other things—even old newspapers, for all he could tell from here.
“I’m going down,” he said quietly. “So are you,” he added.
“Don’t you want me to stay up here and keep watch?” Voisey asked, a trace of amusement in his voice.
“No, I don’t!” Pitt snapped. “I need someone to hold the match.”
Voisey gave a soft, nervous laugh. “I thought perhaps you didn’t trust me.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, we can’t get through the hatch at the same time,” Voisey pointed out. “One of us has to go first. No point in tossing a coin, couldn’t see which way it landed anyway. Since I trust you, I’ll go first.” And he pushed past. After a moment’s consideration of exactly how to do it, he dropped fairly lightly onto the floor of the hold.
Pitt followed him,