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Chapter 20: Unorthodox Channels
By the time that we had freed Horatia from the chair where she had been left, she had recovered herself sufficiently to tell us of what had happened. She had opened the back door to two women who had been masquerading as charitable souls collecting on behalf of a foundation for fallen women. The collection van in which they had arrived had the legend “Limehouse Foundation & Refuge” on its side. From her descriptions, the two were clearly Nygoya Mbute and Ms Mace. Having cheated their way into the house on the pretext of leaving a message for myself, they immediately assaulted Horatia. Mace had wrestled with her, pushing her back into the kitchen. Mbute had gripped her wrists, trying to prevent her struggles. Horatia found herself at a disadvantage. While her attackers were dressed in the modern style with short skirts that left them free to move, she was in the formal garb that I favour with a long hobble skirt and substantial corseting that made it hard for her to move freely. Even so, she had thought for a moment that she might reach the rack of kitchen knives and so defend herself but before she could do so she was overcome by her assailants’ superior strength and a blow from some heavy object on the back of her neck that had stretched her senseless on the floor of the hall.
When she recovered she found that she had been cruelly bound, gagged with a thick wad of cloth and trussed to one of the comfortable chairs in my living room where we later found her.
Luckily she regained her senses quickly enough to be able to overhear snatches of conversation between Mbute and Mace as they brought the Tusker sisters up from their basement prison and readied them for departure. “To the river….” … “Chang wants them now…” … “..catch the tide…” … “Limehouse Pier…” she related.
In one sense, to my annoyance, Mace and Mbute had considerable assistance from me. The girls had been quite helpless; strapped, hooded, gagged and caged so that they could be left while Harwell and I were visiting Sir Bristow. If they had not been secured so, I am sure that Horatia and the girls would, together, have resisted the intruders. However, that was not the case. Horatia alone had been easily overcome. All that Mace and Mbute had then needed to do was to remove the Tusker girls from the prison where I had so helpfully left them and convey them to the waiting vehicle outside.
Horatia’s insights were invaluable. She had shown considerable presence of mind in remembering each detail of her assailants’ conversations. We knew exactly what to do in order to give ourselves the best chance of apprehending the abductors and rescuing Estelle and Amanda.
Harwell and I ran from the Highgate house, finally succeeding in flagging down a Stanley near the gates of Highgate Cemetery. Tusker’s enthusiastic cry of “The Institute of Practicing Engineers, at full steam!” spurred the driver to his greatest efforts. I watched as the fine Gothic gateway of the cemetery receded behind us, hoping that its morbid aspect was not a harbinger for our enterprise. At Whitworth House, we explained the situation to Merriweather and he at once agreed to put the Institute’s launch at our disposal. Fairbody and Lee, the Tusker sisters’ putative grooms, joined us as we ran from the building. We hailed another cab and headed towards the Houses of Parliament.
At Boadicea Pier, we leapt from the cab. The Institute’s launch was already in steam waiting and we were soon under way. It seemed probable that Chang would take a small boat down river from Limehouse. Our best chance was to intercept them before they reached Chang’s own cargo vessel moored in the estuary beyond Tilbury.
The Institute’s launch was shuddering with the vibrations from her four cylinder engine as the small vessel cut into the last of the rising tide. The river was full, almost overflowing the protective walls that lined the Embankment. It was at slack water as we passed beneath the bascules of Tower Bridge. As we turned at Rotherhithe, Fairbody standing on the forepeak called out. “What’s that?”
A small boat had emerged at speed from a boat house on the Limehouse side and was now heading out into mid-stream. Sir Bristow passed across a spy glass. “Is it them?” he asked.
With the launch bouncing on the swell as a southerly wind kicked up the river’s surface it was hard to hold the glass steady but in one fleeting moment I saw Chang and Mace pushing the helpless pair of Tusker sisters along the deck and towards the vessel’s companion way. “Indeed,” I cried. “and we shall soon be on them.”
The launch could have gone no faster if I had a dozen of my students under the lash at its oars and it seemed that we would catch Chang’s vessel before it reached Greenwich. Then Fairbody called again. “It’s sinking!”
I raised the spy glass again and for a moment it seemed he was right. Chang’s vessel, its decks clear of any crew, seemed to have picked up speed and was even now sliding beneath the surface of the water. Seconds later it had gone, leaving only a trace of foam where it had been.
Sir Bristow, however, had the measure of Chang’s ingenuity. “A submersible!” he exclaimed. “Great heavens. There is only enough water at high tide to conceal them but we cannot hope to catch them now.”
“I’m not sure, Sir,” Lee ventured watching the swell of the river water that betrayed the presence of Chang’s vessel beneath. “It cannot spend long beneath the water while using its steam propulsion. If we stop at Greenwich Pier, I would like to send a telegraph message and then we can continue down-stream. I believe I can stop them before they reach Tilbury.”
The Institute’s launch drew alongside Greenwich Pier and Lee leapt ashore, heading for the Pier Master’s office. He was back moments later, a broad smile on his face. “I believe the situation is saved,” he said. “Let us continue downstream. I have asked for a constabulary cutter to meet us at Dartford.”
The launch was soon underway once more. Lee and Fairbody continued deep in conversation. Bristow, Tusker and myself remained baffled as to the reasons for the confidence of the two young engineers.
As we turned at Crayford Ness, a police cutter came alongside as promised and, with both vessels steaming hard on the turning tide the two young engineers leapt across to join the police boat and were soon busily explaining the situation.
Moments later, I realised the basis of Lee’s ingenious plan. Between Crayford and Tilbury a great concrete barrier had been built to protect the City of London from steadily increasing risks of flood. The sections of the barrier are normally held aloft on heavy gantries of iron and steel to allow shipping to pass beneath. Now, on Lee’s instructions, they were being lowered into place. Smoke belched from the chimneys of the winding houses on either bank of the river as the great concrete slabs were allowed to slide down until they sat on the river bed presenting an impenetrable wall to any vessel passing up or down stream. In a matter of minutes the river was entirely blocked and, it seemed, just in time.
Forced to a standstill by the closing of the barrier, Chang’s submersible emerged from beneath the waves. Water was still draining from its upper casing as the police cutter went alongside. Fairbody and Lee leapt aboard with armed constables forcing their way into the boat.
On the far side of the barrier a large ocean-going sailing junk could just be seen through the mists, raising its sails and setting course for the mouth of the Thames Estuary. Chang’s associates, realising that he was trapped, were abandoning him.
Sir Bristow, Tusker and I were content to watch as the police seized the submersible and brought out Mace, Chang, and his crew. All were transferred under guard to the constabulary cutter. At that point, Fairbody waved for us to join them. The five of us made our way below through the boat’s single hatch. The thickness of the hull designed to withstand the pressure of voyaging tens of feet below the surface of the water meant that the space within was cramped but we soon found our quarry. Towards the bow of the vessel, in a transverse bulkhead there was a series of small circular steel doors, each no wider than my own shoulders, and each closed by a wheel that served to lock and seal them. Within the first was confined the helpless Amanda Tusker, in the second, Estelle, and in the third, Ngoya Mbute.
With difficulty we slid each of the women from the tubes that were their prisons, setting them down on the deck. Estelle and Amanda were relieved to be freed but, no doubt as a result of their experiences in my hands, they seemed hardly disturbed by their confinement. Ngoya, on the other hand, angered by what she saw as the betrayal by her erstwhile collaborators in crime, and terrified by having been squeezed into the tube, was far less sanguine. As we emerged from the submersible she was handed over to be taken away with the rest of Chang’s gang.
I returned with the girls to Highgate. Their training was virtually complete. A few days were needed to allow them to recover fully from their abduction but by the week-end I was able to inform both Harwell Tusker and Sir Bristow that, as far as I was concerned, their weddings could go ahead.
© Freddie Clegg 2012
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