Things We Lost In The Flames
Chapter 14: …"All the things that we had…"
He spent the night hunkered down in a doorway in Soho, apparently asleep and slumped in a corner, but in actuality all his concentration turned onto the rear entrance of the Il Rondo. Just in case. As a derelict on the street wrapped in an elderly sleeping bag, no-one would notice him there, nor would want to.
Throughout the night people came and went until the doors were finally bolted at 5am, shortly after the last clubber left by the front entrance. Bouncers, security men, waitresses, clerks, cleaners. An overview of them all gave an ambience of the club; the widest range of ages, types and cultures. Stylish, confident, assured.
Last of all to leave were the Dixon Carrs themselves. Just in case there had ever been any doubt, the young man he recognised from the quay of Nyhavn wore an Italian suit with the jacket slung over one shoulder, the arm not fitting the left sleeve due to the cast. Pretty formidable proof of identification, if such was needed. Mark Dixon Carr held the door for his sister, who came out carrying two bottles of vodka and a shoulder strapped briefcase.
Sherlock looked at the vodka with interest and wished both bottles and briefcase to magic themselves into his hands. Solitary drinkers or illicit goods? Taking two full bottles home at what most people would consider nearer breakfast time than happy hour when there had already been many hours available for a drink did indeed look suspicious. He followed them at a respectable distance as they walked away, talking quietly together, entering the closest par park. The Citroen Cactus that came down the ramp and into the road was driven by the girl, and Sherlock had no doubt they would be returning direct to their home in Hampstead; the other side of the heath from the Smallwoods.
Now he had his cash wrapped notes to distribute amongst select members of his homeless network: Joely and Sasha, Deeza, Raz and Jeanne. The word would go out, and anything that could be known would be known and passed on. All he had to do now was wait.
Back at Baker Street he showered and changed.
At some time after daylight and before breakfast a piece of triangular cardboard that had been round a BLT sandwich was pushed through the letterbox. He recognised the writing - Deeza Davis, who he had approached in his usual overnight spot in a corner of St Paul's Churchyard.
'Ship narcs, fags, vodka thru club' the note said. "Weekly. Next date TBC."
Thank you, Deeza! I knew there was something!
He burned the laptop on research. And found out more about the Dixon Carr's than was good for him.
Twin only children of Essex MP Dean Dixon Carr. Wild children from the first, expelled or suspended from a range of preparatory and private schools, growing up batty but beautiful and following the usual trail of ski lodges, race meetings, parties, lock-downs and raves.
Excellent newspaper fodder; rich and beautiful and short of balance and boundaries. Always good for a photograph and a quote. But beyond the sybaritic style there was another, darker thread.
Mark Dixon Carr on a forces sponsored university degree course had being thrown off it (the red tops said he was too gung-ho and over keen on discipline. Read between the lines) three small paragraphs in London newspapers detailing fines in magistrates courts for street assaults - over enthusiastic martial art reactions to small or imagined slights. Charity fund raising events at the club in recompense to attempt to soften the image.
Reckless, quick with his fists and to anger; a veneer of civilisation and responsibility, a rich kid recklessness that did not seem to have matured or receded with age. Which fitted with what Sherlock had seen of his ego driven fighting skills.
Twin sister Marie seemed more focussed but hardly less dangerous. Sport was clearly her enthusiasm and forte - and mainly sports that were newly opening up to women; rugby, football, boxing, cage fighting. Little wonder she had been such a hard and shrewd opponent. A part of him reluctantly recognised he had done well to stand up against her for as long as he did. She was the real danger.
He could easily see the Dixon Carrs as acolytes of Magnussen; a meeting of amoral minds, a great and bottomless source of news, gossip, information. Gathering gossip is something they would see as fun. But also as the exercise of power, of gathering influence.
But that was not enough. If they were using the club as a front for smuggling, fencing and handling a range of illegal or illicit goods….well, that would be much more fun. And they needed stopping from both activities.
For now he would need to wait for results from the street, to garner more information.
He switched on his phone, impatient. Texts swarmed in.
10pm: You better? GL
DELETE
REPLY
08.14am: Fine. Busy. Any info on Mark and Marie Dixon Carr, the Il Rondo in Soho? SH
10.32pm: I asked a question. Any answer? JW
DELETE
11.03pm: Mark Dixon Carr does indeed have a broken arm. Says he tripped over a dog. How did you know? Pike.
DELETE
REPLY
08.20am: Because I am a detective. And I was that dog. Any other gossip on MDC and sister? Any links to CAM? SH
08.23am: Watch this space. Pike
DELETE.
Think
00.01am: Feeling better? Any weekend plans? Night night! XX Janine
DELETE
REPLY
08.22am: Yes. Thank you. Sunday afternoon? Regent's Park if fine? X SH
08.15am: Tea on the patio. Collect you 3pm? George
DELETE
THINK
08.26am: Yes. SH
So Lady Smallwood wanted to see him. Yes. Perhaps there is need to confer and update, see if she has made any progress with the contents of File 3113.
He paced the floor, finally picked up the Guarneri and returned to the Bach partita he had played for Magnussen.
Magnussen.
Think about getting to the man. Think.
o0o0o0o
He does not like sunshine and thinks summer sweaty and uncivilised. So as the day was a hot summer Saturday, he lay on a Victorian steamer style deckchair complete with canopy, in the dappled shade of an apple tree. His disgarded suit jacket hung on a trimmed branch, but he had not deigned to roll up his sleeves beyond turning over the cuffs.
He heard distant lawn mowers, children playing, traffic. The occasional plane flying overhead. The birds were singing, there was scent of late lilac and musk roses. All was right with the world.
"I think they are into extortion and running any illicit material you can think of. I know they are vicious. I only need more proof than my word that they are muscle and more for Charles Augustus Magnussen. My team is on the case." Lestrade, Pike, Deeza…
He reached out for a stick of celery and nibbled it without opening his eyes.
"And the purpose of pursuing the Dixon Carr's is, exactly?"
"To chop off some of Magnussen's tentacles. Dangerous ones. Chip away at his structure. Limit his information gathering, start to restrict his power. Work from either end to destroy that power. They are also a distraction that needs to be out of the way. I cannot waste more energy on them than I need."
He had sat there on the patio at the Smallwood's house in Hampstead for an hour, giving an edited debriefing of his trip to Copenhagen. Elizabeth had brought out a tray with a jug of iced homemade lemonade, cooling nibbles of hulled strawberries, celery and carrot sticks. It all felt disorientating and relaxing.
He had told them about the fight on the quayside, but had played it down. Lady Smallwood gave him a brief old fashioned and disillusioned glance at that; interjected softly and briefly:
"Colonel Bruhl spoke to me."
Which stopped Sherlock in mid sentence and made him look away and change the subject.
"This is about more than just you, I am afraid, Jack"
Lord Smallwood, sitting in a similar chair opposite him, shrugged in resignation.
"No less than I would expect," he commented.
Sherlock shafted a look at him. The man was clearly unwell but on medication which was managing whatever was wrong, and the patient was treating the situation with his usual intelligent imperturbability. He was in his early seventies but looked younger, with sharp blue eyes in an unlined pleasant, not quite handsome, face.
He was witty, reasonable, considerate and yet a sharp and decisive business brain. His likeability was palpable, and if such things entered Sherlock's mind, he would be appalled that someone should be using such a good man as a tool for blackmail.
"I really thought I had destroyed my correspondence with Ellie," he mused into the air. "I kept it originally because she was such a bright girl, with a charm and a sense of purpose about her; I had no problems seeing her achieving all her ambitions and was naively happy to help.
"When I got the anonymous letter threatening blackmail I just ignored it; it was only later when I searched all my archives I found I still had Ellie's letters and photographs. And it was only later, by looking more closely, did I realise what I now had were just photocopies. Someone was very thorough, and very careful."
"Was it Magnussen himself?"
"I fear so. About five years ago I was on a charity fund raising committee; Magnussen offered to sponsor an event. He came to our old house in Belsize Park; I do remember on one occasion leaving him alone in my study while I took a private call. That may have been his chance. To meddle. Then bide his time." His face closes in distaste. "Five years is a long time to sit on something."
Sherlock nodded in understanding.
"At the time you had no reason to suspect him of wrong doing. And with a mutual charitable cause, trust was natural in the circumstances."
"That is kind of you to say so, William. After all the trouble we are putting you to." Jack Smallwood smiled, and for a moment his wife leant over and squeezed his hand. Something in Sherlock Holmes froze, pulled back.
"That is my work," he replied politely, and the older man's smile disappeared. "Try not to blame yourself too much. Many factors have brought you to Magnussen's attention now. Your illness. Elizabeth's select committee. The increasing high profile of the Sondersun's."
"I know. But I am still sorry to have involved you. Please believe me. Your independence and singularity were my last hope for justice and privacy."
The older man wavered to his feet, put a hand out to steady himself on the back of Sherlock's chair as he moved.
"It is fine, Jack. Really. You will be fine."
He looked down into Sherlock's eyes, muttered "reality check" so only he could hear, and patted the younger man's hand in passing. His skin felt lizard dry to Sherlock's touch, like wrinkled parchment.
"Forgive me. I am very tired. I am going in."
His wife and his detective watched his progress until he disappeared into the cool darkness of the house.
Immediately Lady Smallwood turned on Sherlock like a terrier.
"What is happening? What have you not told me?"
Her voice, light and relaxed so far, suddenly snapped into the sharp timbre of her professional self.
Sherlock avoided looking at her.
"I told you Piet Bruhl spoke to me - he rang me - to tell me about what happened in Copenhagen. He thought you would have told me yourself by now. Why have you not? And why did you blank me when I mentioned it?"
He looked at her and took his time formulating a reply. For it was clear she would not look away until he did.
"I did not want to upset Jack. This case is turning out more difficult than I expected - darker and deeper. The more I find out about Magnussen, the less I like. The more vicious it becomes.
"I am increasingly convinced I have been on his radar for a long time - ever since I came back from the dead, in fact - and that although Jack's case seems to be that of just another victim in his regular line of control and coercion, I am also increasingly convinced he is working up to targeting Mycroft. The logical next target in the British government after the Smallwoods."
"Why?"
"Why not? It is only logical. Mycroft is the most powerful man in the country; so to follow Magnussen's psychology: go big, follow your ambition for ultimate influence. And anyway. Who else would you aim to snare after going for me first, using me as livebait? And he is definitely pursuing me, Elizabeth, with strong intent.
"There are no personal weaknesses I allow to influence me, but others - outsiders - would logically assume Mycroft is mine - and I his, just because we are brothers. When in truth no-one in the world would ever consider making any sacrifice for me."
"Yes. I agree." She paused, looked away into the middle distance, considering. Looked back at him. Took a slip of paper from her slacks pocket and handed it to him.
"What is this?"
"Your cheque. Full payment of your fee. I think it is best to remove you from the case now. Hand it over to our security forces. Which is what I should have done in the beginning."
He took it from her and looked at it.
"No," he said. He tore the cheque into tiny pieces and placed the pieces tidily on the drinks tray. "Not yet. You brought this to me. You committed me to it. You cannot take it away now."
"But I….."
"No, Elizabeth. And it is not just that I cannot give up a case half way through. This has become personal. I had not expected it to, but it has. It is not simply that my brother is the logical target, either. I have been part of both the problem and the solution to this for longer than either of us knew"
He did not tell her about his fears of a Magnussen connection to Mary Watson, his constant worry, and the unanswerable problem of Watson and bonfires. And Marie Dixon Carr's chatter about bonfires in Copenhagen which was looking increasingly relevant, even though he had no idea how.
"The key to this is getting to Magnussen's vaults where he keeps all his secrets and destroying them, and everything within. And yet how to do this thing? For no-one visits Magnussen - he is a recluse there, invites no visitors and guards his privacy. The fortress that is Appledore is impregnable. Believe me, I have tried….." for a moment his voice faded, lost.
And she noticed.
"What else are you not telling me, Sherlock?"
He shook his head, looked away.
"No," she insisted. "If you want to remain a part of this, you must tell me. Everything you have, everything you know. This is my directive, my overview. I need all your information while you are available to give it. Especially if I do finally have to take this from the personal to the professional and refer this upwards."
He drew a breath, not misunderstanding her meaning: if he was subverted, disgraced. Killed. He could understand her reasoning. Looked at her, looking for an escape route. But she held his eyes, refusing to give him one. He sighed, ducked his head in rare submission.
"I….made a miscalculation. I went to Magnussen's fortress and found it to be impregnable, shall we say. The man is manically secretive and security minded. But the security there is unbreachable. So that proves the vaults with all their secrets are there, doesn't it? As everyone tells me they are, including his own personal assistant.
"You don't have enough evidence for a search warrant, probably never would have. But Magnussen still needs stopping. The man does not entertain guests there. So an impasse exists that needs to be broken. I can't break in, I have tried. But I can get myself an invite. And if I get an invite, and get inside, I shall find the vaults and I shall destroy them. It appears I hold a unique key."
"Which is?"
"Me." Instead of raising his chin, eyes shining with his usual arrogance, Sherlock dropped his head sharply, expression unreadable. "He seems obsessed with me. Some sort of fixation, He wants to….to…" the words, equally unusually for him, stuttered to a stop.
"What? Buy you a lemonade? Coat you with icing sugar? Show you his stamp collection?"
His eyes remained on his feet, and she could not see his face or read his body language. She waited. Finally his head flicked up and back and he met her eyes defiantly. There was a strange dark light in those pale eyes, and a frisson of something she could not describe caught her spine.
"Be your age," he snapped before continuing more quietly: "I do not know how real this is - but Magnussen is wooing me. Real or a ruse? Either would achieve the same thing for him, so who cares? Me brought closer to him, closer to me being a lever against Mycroft. " He paused and shook his head. "I m having difficulty with the concept. Someone wanting me. A man I loathe wanting me. Having difficulty dealing with that. Satisfied?"
Perhaps this would have been less shocking to her if it had been in reference to anyone else; any other man - or woman - than the contained and isolated and damaged being that is Sherlock Holmes.
"Considering your looks rather than your personality, that should not be as surprising - or as shaming - as you seem to feel. Why does it disturb you so much?" She was being deliberately matter of fact, almost soothing in her coldness.
"It - I - " he started to speak, stopped again, his usual verbal fluency seeming to have deserted him. " I think - he - already -" shook his head and turned completely physically away from her.
"What you are telling me? Not telling me? I know you, William." She corrected herself; "Sherlock. I know your past. So why should this disturb you?"
His expression did not change, but she felt some indefinable reaction coming off him.
"I was attacked at Appledore. Drugged. Dumped twelve hours later on the doorstep of one of Magnussen's employees - someone who had written an article about me. Dumped in the dark, in the pouring rain. Photos were taken of me - ill, disorientated - and peddled to the national press, Please do not insult me by pretending you did not see them!"
She shrugged. "I ignore the popular press. Scoundrels and liars,"
"Quite so. But the fact remains that I lost twelve hours I cannot remember. I was pumped full of enough drugs over those twelve hours to have killed me if I had normal tolerances. Magnussen is dangerous, Elizabeth. Trust me."
"What drugs?"
"GHB and ketamine."
"I see."
"Do you? Do you really?" Scathing, scouring. "Do you know what those drugs do?"
"Yes. Date rape drugs. Are you trying to tell me he raped you while you were drugged? Somnophilia? Necrophiliac tendencies? It would make sense. In the circumstances."
"Do try to not let that bother you," His sarcasm could not disguise his disgust.
"Don't turn into the ravaged virgin over this. It does not suit you." Her voice sharply called him back to her.
The iceman and the virgin…..Oh!
"Am aware. Thank you. But you did insist on knowing."
She shrugged, and sighed, and leant forward to make him look her in the eyes.
"You are afraid he will drug you again. That he will have his way with you and then kill you."
"Such a quaint turn of phrase. But yes. It is the reasonable conclusion in the circumstances."
"Why does that worry you? After your…..past transgressions, shall we say."
He snapped a curt negative with his head. "Not going there."
Why have you let this get so far?"
"It is the only way in. The only Magnussen weak spot I can find, that will get me into Appledore."
"You have done this sort of thing before, Sherlock."
"Yes," His voice was slow and deliberate. "But that was a long time ago. When I was in a deep hole in a dark place. No choice then. Survival when shame is a luxury you cannot afford. Still, the younger you learn how debauched the human soul can be is a lesson never learnt too early, nor ever wasted."
He avoided looking at her, keeping his voice light, but she silently noted a reticent, deeply private man bleeding out.
"I clawed my way out of that with too much damage. Sex and emotion would never touch me again. Never mark me or break me. I have excised emotion - sentiment - from within myself. I have no sexuality. No feelings." He dragged a deep breath. "But this problem is nothing to do with my unforgiveable ….."
"Stop this self flagellation, William. It is not necessary."
"Oh, but it is. Does Magnussen know about my past on the street? What I did out there? If he does, when will he use it as a lever against me? If he does, what else would he use it for? To bend me to his will? Put me through it again? Accuse Mycroft of complicity? I cannot…." His arm flailed in a gesture of frustrated dismissal. "Still, it's only sex, Lady Smallwood. Nothing for you to worry about. So. Lie back and think of England. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer. Indeed so."
He laughed, voice on the edge of hysteria. Clamped his hands over his mouth to stop the sound in a deeply uncharacteristic gesture that spoke more than words.
"Control yourself, you pathetic boy."
"Yes, I know." He pushed his hands together, breathed deeply. She waited.
"Erm…." his voice wavered. He coughed and tried again. "Sorry. Erm….what have you learnt from the memory stick 3113.?"
"" I wondered when you were going to ask," she nodded. "We are still investigating all the names and links. But basically my committee feels there is enough there to bring him back to answer to us further. And there will be harder and more specific questions this time."
"About bloody time. He sidesteps you all too well."
"Indeed. But we are building a case. From the names on the stick we are able to make educated guesses about people who have dropped out of their lives, out of sight. It is laborious back tracking, but will prove incontrovertible in the end. And if cases present where extortion can be proved, we will pursue those through the courts."
"He will need stopping before then."
"I am not arguing with you." She nodded; knows they shared a hard accord.
She watched the slow sense of purpose creep back into his eyes and felt the smallest hope lighten her determination when he said:.
"Jack does not have time for the slow process of law. We need him off the hook now. If he is going to be ill, then he needs to be free of a worry that will make him worse."
She made a small ragged sound, and for a moment closed her eyes. "You understand….." she had run out of words.
He did not reply. Just waited. Finally she said:
"You have a plan. Tell me."
So he did. He told her. He told her about Ellie's reinvention of the correspondence. What he had arranged with Derek Rathbone. About his invitation from Magnussen to be his guest at Jack Smallwood's celebration at the Guild Hall.
What would happen there. And her role in it. Her role and Jack's.
"You can't do that. You really can't." She said it twice. Slowly. Sherlock ignored her both times. "This is not good for you." She said that twice, too. But when he asked her to suggest an alternative plan, she could not.
"This will work," he insisted. "It will be swift. It will stop Magnussen dead as far as Jack is concerned. Probably Mycroft too."
"But what about you?"
He ignored that question too.
"And Mycroft? Does he know? Will you tell him?"
The blank cold eyes gave her the answer even she baulked at.
"You will not warn him. You will not." Sherlock's power reached across the space between them and stopped her breathing; even for a woman who wielded huge power herself, made life and death decisions in her own right, affected countries and controls.
"Are you sure? Really sure?"
"The decision is made. Live with it."
The lemonade ran out then. So he left.
o0o0o0o
Things moved swiftly after that. A paper bag (that had contained a sausage roll, he deduced easily) pushed through the letterbox of 221B had scrawled on it:
South Dock drop. Monday 3am. Clarissa
Deeza deserved another twenty quid. Lestrade needed valium.
"How in God's name did you find this out, Sherlock? We've been skirting round these two for years. Clever little buggers with a charmed life, normally."
"Not this time," said the consulting detective with grim determination.
"OK, then. Wanna come with us? See the raid?"
"Oh, yes."
And it all happened at the speed of light.
South Dock in Rotherhithe is one of the least known docks still in existence in London. Yet has a large marina, boatyard and a cherished redevelopment of feature housing; a proper, almost rural, community in the centre of the city. A waterside place where criminality would barely be expected. But with enough pleasure shipping in and out through it's lock to the Thames - yachts, houseboats, Humber keels, Dutch barges and all - to draw little if any attention.
The Clarissa was a Forties Dutch barge; handsome, sturdy and with large capacity. Both vessel and situation were an inspired choice for shifting contraband.
Sherlock cancelled his Sunday afternoon in the park with Janine; he had things to do as he, Donovan and Lestrade checked the venue. Clarissa's mooringberth was empty as she was out in open water. Gathering up whatever was this week's cargo? Easy enough to rendezvous with a coaster or something larger out in the Thames estuary: Sherlock had seen the casual skill of regular sailors on England's coastal waters. How little coasters would race alongside each other through choppy seas as people on different boats chatted, exchanged newspapers and sandwiches, even mugs of tea, across gaps from vessel to vessel.
Negotiated difficult tides, shifting sands, the sunken warship, it's three masts above the water and still laden with explosives, that sat on the Nore sandbank near Sheerness, raced channels and sand spits and generally used the dangerous waterways as if they were an urban high street. Exchanging contraband would be easy in the circumstances.
Lestrade organised the raid; checked some background, found the Clarissa - registered to Dean Dixon Carr - was out of the dock on Fridays and returned every Monday. Regular as clockwork.
Family connections living along the lower reaches of the Thames, the occasional weekend charter, fishing weekends, family trips. All excuses so well established it was a routine assumed to be totally innocent.
So the coastguard was alerted to keep an eye on the distinctive black and green livery, and alerted New Scotland Yard when spotted heading back up river. Lestrade had a team in place within the half hour, and had men hidden in cars, vans and other boats when the Clarissa puttered slowly back onto her mooring.
Sherlock was with Donovan and Lestrade, out of sight in the back of a Transit van that claimed to belong to Sky Blue Catering when the vessel docked; a warm moonlit night, the world silent at 3am.
Two men emerged from Clarissa carrying heavy parcels, walking silently along the pontoon to the quayside and towards aa large SUV with covered rear. Both Mark and Marie Dixon Carr emerged from the front of the SUV, and took the parcels to the back.
The police watched and only pounced when the last bundle was packed into the vehicle. And then on Lestrade's command, all hell let loose.
Sherlock was out of the van like a greyhound from the traps, his eyes set on Marie Dixon Carr. "She's mine, Lestrade. Karma," he had said, and Lestrade had frowned, opened his mouth, but held back the question.
He ran forward, eyes fixed on his target. She took in the scene - the lights, the shouting, guns being brandished, the entrance to the dock barred by police vehicles, her brother slow and ungainly with his plaster cast, and so apprehended easily by two policemen - and she made a break for it, spinning round and running back towards Clarissa, the pontoon bouncing under her fast hard steps.
He was after her, calling her name.
"Marie! You can't escape!"
She flickered a look back over her shoulder at him. Ran and dived straight into the water. He was out of his jacket, dropping it on the planking, cutting into the water a scant second behind her.
His swift front crawl overtook her, and he reached forward to grab her legs. She twisted in his grasp and thrashed like a cat, swirled around him, somehow got her feet onto his shoulders and pushed down hard.
He managed to suck a breath before being forced down to the bottom of the dock as she struggled to keep him there beneath her, to drown him, no holds barred in her fury and desperation.
Eyes open in the water, his feet touched bottom and he bent and braced his knees, pushed fiercely back up through the silt. Turning as he rose, he clutched wildly at whatever was in the water with him and caught an ankle. Pulled hard downwards, saw her face inches from his in the murk.
Reached for a handful of hair, yanked it hard, dragged her, fighting and contorting, to the side.
His head broke the surface, and he shouted for help, heard running footsteps. Dragged the blonde haired girl to the side, lifted her onto the edge of the decking despite her struggles, and into the hands of Sgt Sally Donovan.
"Cuff…." he began.
Half in, half out of the water, he watched helpless as the girl squatted down as soon as both feet touched the decking to then jolt upwards, her heel rising into a powerful kick that took Donovan in the face.
Sally Donovan's catapulting body hit Sherlock Holmes full in the chest and took them both into the water. And by the time Sherlock had brought them both back to the side, Marie Dixon Carr had disappeared in the melee. And neither Sherlock nor six other policemen could find her.
He beat his fist on the side of the Transit van in frustration.
"We'll get her, Sherlock," Lestrade assured.
"Not soon enough, Lestrade. Not soon enough."
His words proved to be a dark prediction of the future.
TO BE CONTINUED….
Author's notes:
A BLT sandwich is a one of the most popular for eating on the move. It stands for Bacon, Lettuce and Tomato - in case there is anyone who doesn't know!
If you ever get the chance to take a journey up the Thames from the mouth of the estuary to Tower Bridge - do it. It is a tremendous trip, full of variety and rich history. And simply to pass under Tower Bridge on the Thames is an experience in itself. You will not believe how swiftly those huge Victorian bascules shift to snap the bridge open and closed to stop the traffic for as little time as possible.
The sunken warship full of explosives, it's three masts always exposed above the waterline whatever the state of the tide, is the American liberty ship the SS Richard Montgomery, which dragged it's anchor and got stuck on the sandbank, broke it's back and sank, laden with 1,400 tonnes of armaments, in 1944. The armaments are still on board, too dangerous to attempt to offload, and are regularly checked by divers or sonar for safety every year.