The coachman pulled up the horses. Francis caught some of the foul oaths the man muttered as he was forced to climb down and close the door of the hack. He was still swearing into the night as he drove out the front entrance.
“You think you have problems! I bet someone hasn’t blocked your door, have they?” Francis bellowed.
Marching across to the pile of flotsam and jetsam which had been purposely dumped right in front of number twelve, he muttered, “I am going to commit bloody murder.”
A note nailed to one of the barrels caught his attention. He angrily swiped at it, tearing it away. From the look of it, he and his nemesis could at least agree on one thing. Threatening missives was the best way for them to communicate.
Holding the letter up close to his face, Francis strained to read it in the dim light. The brandy coursing through his veins wasn’t helping. With the door to his company offices blocked, he couldn’t go inside and avail himself of a candle.
With paper tightly held in his fist, he marched back toward the entrance and the gas lights which blazed outside the superintendent’s office. As he drew close, he slowed his steps. There were a few people about the place; the docks were never empty.
Whatever the contents of the note, he didn’t need other people to bear witness to his drunken rage. Trying to calm the fury which boiled within, Francis took a deep breath, then held the letter up to the light.
It took a long moment for him to be able to focus properly.
* * *
Saunders,
This game has been amusing, but even children understand when it is time to put away their toys. Keep your cursed barrels away from out the front of my offices. The same with your confounded ropes. If your barrels cross the line between our buildings one more time, I shall be forced to punish you by throwing them off the dock and into the water.
Be a good boy and find someone else more your age to play with. Let the grown-ups handle the business side of things.
Yours
P. Basden
* * *
It was fortunate that Francis was a healthy young man as the contents of the note sent his blood pressure rocketing to a dangerous level. He swayed on his feet, utterly gob smacked that someone would think they could do this to him.
Who the devil does P. Basden think he is?
Francis screwed the paper up into a ball and stuffed it into his coat pocket. He wasn’t about to throw it away—no, he was going to shove it down his neighbor’s throat.
“I am the one being childish?” He snorted. “And it’s three times that you have moved the barrels back over to my part of the wharf, not two. You should learn to count.”
He returned to the front of the warehouse, picked up an empty tea chest, then carried it over to the edge of the wharf and threw it into the water.
“See? I can throw my own rubbish into the dock.”
The tea chest landed with a splash. But being empty, it didn’t sink. Instead, it gently bobbed up and down on the waves, taunting him.
“That’s it. I am going to have it out with this bloody interloper, and right now.”
Francis stopped outside warehouse number fourteen and glanced up. The top floors were all in darkness, but there was a faint light shining through one of the windows on the ground floor. Someone was in the building. And they were about to feel the lash of his tongue. Hand fisted, he pounded on the door.
“Open up, Basden!” he bellowed.
When he didn’t get an immediate response, Francis attacked the door once more.
Bang. Bang. Bang. It hurt his hand, but at this juncture he was beyond reason.
“Open up, you blackguard!”
The clang of a key being turned in the lock had him ready to rush into the warehouse and confront his enemy. The door barely released, just a crack. Light shone through the opening, but he couldn’t make out who stood on the other side.
“You might think you can send me threatening notes, but I am Francis Saunders, and you clearly have no idea of the sort of power I wield,” he demanded.
