Horacio Ashmont's Arc

Chapter 5 of 12

Horacio stood in the storm cellar and let his eyes adjust to the lantern light. The space stretched back farther than he'd first noticed, branching into smaller rooms that had once served some purpose he couldn't name. He moved deeper, boots scraping on dry stone. The first alcove held ornate wooden chests lined against the wall, their brass fittings tarnished but intact. He lifted the lid of the nearest one. Golden-brown balls filled the interior—opium, enough to supply half the East End for months. The other chests held the same. Someone wealthy had stored a fortune down here, the kind of contraband that required protection and secrecy. He found a shipping crate in the corner, its wood stamped with Chinese characters. A curled parchment lay inside, covered in calligraphy he couldn't read but recognized as a merchant's receipt. The name at the bottom was written in English: H. Wong, with a date from three years past. Horacio picked through the remaining alcoves, searching for what happened next in the story. The third room gave him his answer. A silver snuffbox lay on its side near the far wall, ornate scrollwork on the lid catching the lantern light. He opened it. Inside, folded tight, was a notice of seizure from the Crown's customs office. The merchant's name appeared there too—Nigel Abernathy, convicted of smuggling, all assets forfeit to the Treasury. Scrooge's name sat at the bottom as the purchasing agent who'd bought the townhouse at auction. The cellar had been cleaned out by the law, every chest except these few that the officers must have missed in the dark. He closed the snuffbox and slipped it into his coat. The evidence explained why the cellar stood empty and why no one had come looking for what remained. It also meant the opium was legally abandoned, worth more than any room above a tavern if he could find a buyer. But moving it would mean using his tunnels for smuggling, the one thing he'd sworn never to allow. Horacio looked back at the chests and thought of Martha's cough, of Young Tom shivering in the damp, of twenty-nine pounds that wouldn't last the winter. He left the opium where it sat and walked back toward the chamber, carrying only the proof that some men fell faster than others.