“I would say that sums up the colonel perfectly.”
You’ll notice that I hadn’t said a word up until this point, and didn’t plan on saying any after this point either. I could have peppered the young fellow with questions of my own, but I reckoned that French’s rank would be more effective in eliciting answers from Captain Welch. Mind you, I believe I should receive some credit for having the wit to stay out of the proceedings.
French removed his hunter from his pocket and checked the time. He knew as well as I that Inspector Allen could arrive at any minute and finding the two of us here conducting our own investigation might annoy the chap.
“Had you noticed any change in the colonel’s demeanour recently?”
A frown of puzzlement crossed the captain’s face. “What do you mean, sir?”
“Was he upset or angry about anything?”
“He didn’t appear to be.”
“Was he apprehensive, or nervous?”
“No, sir. He was just the same as usual.”
“Had he argued with anyone recently? Another officer, perhaps?”
The captain blushed at the prospect of gossiping about his superiors. “No, sir.”
“Did he seem at all afraid or fearful?”
The captain looked shocked at the idea of the stolid Colonel Mayhew succumbing to fright. “Oh, no. He was not the type to scare easily.”
French looked impatient and I could hardly blame him. We hadn’t learned a thing from Captain Welch and we needed to vacate the premises.
“Thank you, Captain. That will do. I’ll finish looking through the colonel’s desk and then we’ll find our own way out.”
Captain Welch blushed pinkly. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t let you do that. Not without proper authorization.”
“You’d like a note from Lord Beaconsfield himself?”
I feared French’s sarcasm would be wasted on the earnest captain, and I was proved right. Though his blush deepened, the young officer braced himself and said, “I’m afraid that if there is any question about your jurisdiction, sir, I shall have to refer you to my superior officer. You do understand, Major, that I must follow protocol, especially in the matter of murder.”
We were beaten and we knew it. French chose not to bully the lad and I was glad of that; I do feel it’s demeaning to bluster when you’ve been soundly thumped. We withdrew with an air of having gotten what we came for, leaving the captain staring after us, and beat a hasty retreat down the back stairs and out through the rear door.
“That was not our most successful foray,” I said as we hurried down the pavement in search of a hansom.
“We at least learned the extent of the colonel’s responsibilities. If he’s assigned to the quartermaster general then he had his fingers in moving supplies, some of which might be transferred pursuant to a bill of lading.”
“But as you pointed out, the tools that were shipped could have been purchased in India. Why buy them here? And why single out that one bill of lading? And why send it to Lotus House?”
“There are too many questions. Let’s summon a cab and get cracking. I want to find some answers.”
• • •
We returned to Lotus House to find that Vincent had dropped by for a visit and was dozing on my sofa. Now I am fond of Vincent, though I would never admit as much to him, but the lad hasn’t bathed in a very long time (if ever) and smells stronger than a donkey’s carcass left to rot in the Nubian sun. You will understand, then, why I rapped on the sole of his boots with the poker and ordered him off my furniture. He woke with a yawn and feigned indifference to the rather discourteous means I had employed to relocate him. I reflected that the next time I needed to dislodge Vincent, I’d whack him on the head. He may have saved my life on occasion (well, at least three that I can recall), but the little bugger is getting entirely too comfortable in my study.
Vincent scratched an armpit vigorously and I wondered how many fleas were now cavorting in the cushions of my sofa. “Any chance o’ gettin’ a bite to eat?”
“I’m famished,” French agreed.
“If you want to take your chances at being poisoned, I can ask Mrs. Drinkwater to bring us something.”
“I’ll risk it,” said French.
Vincent was studying us critically. “What the devil ’appened to you two?”
I excused myself to arrange something to eat. A nuisance, that, as first I had to wake my cook from her usual Sunday afternoon stupor. Mrs. Drinkwater always has “a little lie down” on Sunday afternoons, “to recover from the stress of the week.” You’d have a lie down too, if the night before you had ingested a quart of the infamous “blue ruin” gin so potent you could preserve anatomical specimens in it.
Vincent’s eyes were shining with excitement when I returned to the study, so I assumed that French had shared the details of Colonel Mayhew’s death with the scamp. Vincent is a bloodthirsty creature.
“Somethin’s fishy, guv.” The lad shook his head and looked solemn.
“Thank you, Vincent. French and I are aware that something is amiss. Was it the three thugs who convinced you, French, or the colonel’s body?”
Sarcasm is wasted on Vincent.
“Wot are we gonna do about this?” he asked. Naturally, he directed the question to French, a habit of Vincent’s that I am determined to break.
I cut in quickly, before French could issue orders. “You are off to the docks, to look for the Comet. She’ll be sailing on the evening tide tonight, so you’ll need to find her quickly.” I could see that Vincent was mulling how he would single-handedly highjack the ship. “Don’t you dare go aboard until French and I get there.”
“And what will we be doing?” French sounded amused.
“We’ll be visiting the premises occupied by the Bradley Tool Company.”
“It’s Sunday,” French objected. “There won’t be anyone around.”
“Perfect. No one will disturb us as we go through their files. I trust that your training encompassed basic lock-picking skills? Should I loan you a hairpin?”
French announced he had a report to prepare for the prime minister and busied himself at my desk with pen and ink while Mrs. Drinkwater bustled about in the kitchen, producing a nourishing repast of rock-hard biscuits and weak tea. French completed his task and we tucked in, discussing our plans and arranging a time and place for a rendezvous. Then each of us had a belt of brandy to steel ourselves for the afternoon’s work.
Vincent hurried off in the direction of the Thames and French and I strolled until an empty hansom came rattling along. French raised a languid hand and waved it down. We settled in and I opened up the artillery barrage on fortress French.
“If the marchioness has known of my existence all these years, why did she wait so long before she tried to find me? And why didn’t she attempt to locate my mother?”
French looked pained, as well he might. We were a good fifteen minutes away from our destination and India Black can inflict a lot of damage in a quarter of an hour.
“I don’t know. As you’re in communication with her, why don’t you ask her?”
“I’ve been trying to pry some answers out of her for ages. Do you think I’d bother asking you if the marchioness would part with her secrets?”
“Perhaps if you asked politely—”
“I’ve been bloody polite. And deferential, and firm, and threatening. Nothing has worked. She’s been deuced evasive. Believe me, I sympathize with the old bat. I can well imagine that most elderly ladies would be shocked to discover that their long-lost great-niece is a—”
“India, stop!”
My word, the man is touchy about my profession.
“The marchioness had her reasons for sending me to find you. But she must be the one to tell you those reasons. And she’ll answer your other questions, as well, i
f you only give her some time. You must see that this situation is also difficult for her.”
“Pish. If you hadn’t interrupted me a moment ago, I’d have told you that while some ancient types might be swooning right now, the marchioness is as tough as old boots. She isn’t the kind of woman to go all faint and fluttery at the news that I own a brothel.” Cue French’s distressed expression, which I ignored. “Frankly, I’m tired of dancing with the woman.”
“Please, one more letter. And I’ll write to her as well.”
“And if she doesn’t reply, or brushes off our requests?”
“Then we shall go to Scotland and demand answers.”
“You won’t get any,” I said. “She’ll retreat to her room and refuse to see us.”
“She’ll see me.”
I thought he sounded smug and told him so. But when I asked why he was so bloody sure the decrepit witch would admit him to her house, he gave me a cryptic smile and refused to speak about the matter, which of course annoyed me greatly.
“Very well, French. We’ll play this match as you suggest. I’ll write the confounded vulture once more, and then I’m finished playing nicely. You’d better hope the marchioness tells me the truth, or we’ll be on the first train to Scotland and it’s a damned long journey.”
This alarmed him, as I knew it would, and wiped the smile from his face.
“We’re still a few minutes from Salisbury Street,” I said. “Plenty of time for you to tell me how you found me.”
He squirmed uncomfortably and looked out the window. Then it dawned on me.
“You didn’t really find me, did you? I mean, you might have been looking but it was sheer bloody luck that you stumbled across me. If poor Latham hadn’t died at Lotus House, the marchioness might still be waiting to find her great-niece.”
Sir Archibald Latham, former customer and clerk in the War Office (otherwise known as “Bowser” to the tarts for his soulful eyes and tendency to hump anything in sight), had clocked out of his earthly shift at Lotus House in the middle of a session with one of my bints. Archie had been carrying a secret memo describing the state of Britain’s armed forces (appalling, I suppose, best described it), and Russian agents had nabbed the deceased clerk’s case and made a run for the Continent. The prime minister had dispatched French to shadow the tsar’s agents and keep an eye on Latham, and that, I suspected, had led French to my door.
I laughed. “Good God. What are the odds? Eight thousand whores in London and Bowser chooses Lotus House in which to die. It must have been a shock to learn that the woman you’d been dispatched to find was the madam there.”
French looked at me sourly. “I was on your track already, but I was bloody surprised to find that Latham frequented Lotus House. His death and subsequent developments certainly altered my plans for approaching you.”
“Subsequent developments?” I affected an air of nonchalance. “Ah, yes. You mean the way you blackmailed me into helping you get that memorandum. By the way, did you explain to the marchioness just how you manipulated me? I can’t think that she’ll appreciate your methods of extortion.” Privately, however, I reckoned the old trout would have done the same or worse. From experience, I knew the marchioness did not concern herself overmuch with trifles such as the Christian virtues. I must admit, I rather admired her for that view as my own philosophy regarding principles is equally elastic.
By this time, to French’s great relief, we had reached our destination. We swung out of the hansom into a short street of offices and shops. The pavements were deserted, the premises shuttered. After the sound of the horse’s hooves had died in the distance, the stillness was absolute. For my money, there’s nothing half so eerie as an uninhabited thoroughfare on a Sunday afternoon in London. I’d rather stroll alone through the rookery in Seven Dials in the wee hours of the morning (with my Bulldog revolver in my pocket, naturally) than wander down this desolate street. Every doorway seemed to hold menace, every window a shadowy figure that traced our progress down the pavement. Of course, I’m not the skittish type, but this utter silence was disturbing. I like the sound of loud voices and thrumming wheels. It sounds like money to me. The calm of this quiet afternoon was unnatural and disturbing. On the other hand, it was a first-rate opportunity for rummaging through offices without fear of discovery.
“What was the address?” French asked.
“Number twenty-eight.”
“Across the street, then.”
We set out across the boulevard, for once without fear of being ridden down by a coach or an omnibus. We walked slowly, searching the doorways for the street number. We found the address of the Bradley Tool Company and stood on the pavement in front of the building, giving it a lengthy perusal.
“You’re sure this is the right number?” asked French
“Yes.”
It belonged to a tobacconist’s shop.
FIVE
“An accommodation address,” said French. The practice was prevalent in London, with the large number of folks arriving daily from the provinces and lacking a permanent address at which to receive their mail.
Nevertheless, I found it odd that a commercial enterprise like a tool company was using a mail drop. “My suspicions are aroused,” I announced.
French shrugged. “There might be an innocent explanation. Perhaps the owners’ main office is elsewhere, but they want to give clients the impression of a bustling enterprise with a London location.”
I was skeptical and said so. “Who cares where shovels and picks are manufactured, as long as the price is right?” That’s the trouble with these silver-spoon chaps; they’ve no experience in the world of commerce.
“I merely suggested a motive for the firm maintaining an accommodation address.”
“Another motive might be that there’s no such firm as the Bradley Tool Company at all.” I conned the street furtively. “Shall we break in and have a look round?”
“We might as well, as I won’t have a moment’s peace if I suggest that we return tomorrow and speak to the proprietor.”
I must be making progress with French, as he is improving at correctly gauging my moods.
So I played sentry while French busied himself with the lock. It seemed to take an inordinately long time for the prime minister’s trusted agent to pick a simple mortise lock but finally the door swung open and we piled inside, closing the door quietly behind us. We took a moment, letting our eyes adjust to the gloom until we could discern the layout of the shop. It was a tiny place, barely wide enough for two gentlemen to walk abreast, which cheered me no end as it meant that we wouldn’t have to spend much time searching the premises. A wooden counter occupied the wall to our left, with row upon row of glass jars containing loose tobacco neatly labeled in copperplate script and arranged on ledges. On our right were freestanding shelves displaying a variety of pipes and boxes of cigars, matches, pipe cleaners and cigar cutters. The rear wall was bare, save for a closed wooden door.
I stepped behind the counter while French exercised his skills on the door, which presumably led to an office. I hoped it led to an office and not to the owner’s living quarters.
I rummaged through the contents of the counter, composed of last week’s newspapers, a couple of filthy pipes, and a half-empty bottle of cheap brandy.
“There’s nothing here,” I called to French, and received a muffled reply. He’d succeeded with the second lock and I joined him in the cramped closet that did indeed serve as the owner’s office. There was room only for a chair and a small desk, where French had seated himself and was now rooting through the drawers.
“Ledgers,” he murmured, “business correspondence regarding the shop, orders from customers. Ah, here’s a packet of mail.” He drew out a stack of letters and shuffled through it quickly. He extracted an envelope and handed it to me. It was addressed to Peter Bradley of the Bradley Tool Comp
any and bore a return address in Calcutta for the South Indian Railway Company.
I inserted a nail into the flap.
“Stop,” said French.
“Don’t you want to know what’s in here?” I asked.
“Naturally, but if it’s only another mysterious bill of lading we won’t have advanced our knowledge by much and we’ll have alerted the owner of the shop that someone’s been trifling with Peter Bradley’s mail. If there is something dodgy going on, then the men behind this affair will disappear and we’ll be none the wiser.”
“But there might be a clue in here.” I brandished the envelope.
“There may be. But wouldn’t you rather get a look at the fellow who comes to collect it?”
I hadn’t considered that, but then patience is not my strongest virtue. In fact, I’d be hard-pressed to characterize my adherence to any particular virtue as strong. I’m more of a vice woman, myself. But I digress.
And I did have to concede that his nibs had a point, though I wouldn’t admit as much to him. Undoubtedly it would be better to suss out the character who visited the shop to pick up the mail and perhaps learn something of greater value.
“Well, you may be content to loiter about all day, or have that scamp Vincent do it, but I’ve got a business to run and I can’t be wasting my time watching a shop door.”
“You’re not terribly busy during the day, India. But if you want Vincent and me to track down these fellows, we will.”
Confound it. Of course I didn’t want to be left out of anything, and he knew it.
“I don’t mind lending a hand when I’m needed,” I said, and turned away before the quirk of French’s lips developed into a smirk.
We tidied the office and shop so as to leave no trace of our visit, and hurried off to meet Vincent at our rendezvous point. Even on a Sunday the docks were bustling, for as the saying goes, “Time and tide wait for no man.” There were tens of thousands of heathens around the world who, though they were unaware of this fact, were desperately in need of England’s products, and thousands of British folk who wouldn’t be able to face Monday morning without drinking a cup of China tea, laden with West Indian sugar, while lounging in their dressing gowns. So the docks of London hum like a beehive at all hours of the day and night, and the workers here do not observe the Sabbath. The wharves and piers are a rough place, for the men who work there are a crude lot. On the other hand, they do appreciate beauty when they see it, for I received more than my fair share of appreciative comments as French and I proceeded to our meeting with Vincent.
India Black and the Gentleman Thief Page 5
