Past the canneries were great icehouses, bustling with men and boys loading ice into insulated wagons. Every time the doors opened, cold rolled out in a wave across the road. Skeeter began to realize just how overwhelming London’s docklands really were as they passed the Ivory House, with its immense stockpiles of elephant tusks, and warehouses where eastern spices and enormous pallet-loads of exotic silks were trundled off the quays. The number of places Kaederman might hide was distressing; to search all of it would take a small army.
The Endurance proved to be a squat little tramp steamer, its days as a passenger boat eclipsed by vastly larger luxury ships. The hectic pace of loading was no less frantic than it had been aboard the Milverton. The captain was no less harried, either, but was slightly less brusque. “A Yank? No, I haven’t laid eyes on a Yank today nor yesterday, neither, and not a paying passenger the last three crossings. New crew hired? Not a single hand, no, sir, I’ve a good crew, treat ’em right. They’ve turned down offers of more money working for harsher masters and that’s a fact . . . No, no! The deliveries for the galley go into the center hold, not the bloody prow! You’ll break every egg in that crate, storing victuals in the bow, that’s where she takes the brunt of the waves!”
And off he went, correcting the error, leaving them to question crew hands. No one had laid eyes on anyone answering Kaederman’s description.
“Strike two,” Skeeter Jackson muttered, crossing the Endurance off his list. “Next stop, Regent’s Canal Dock, Stepney.”