India Black and the Gentleman Thief

by Carol K. Carr

  Fergus looked sullen. “I willna let anyone ridicule the mistress.”

  “No doubt she deserved the abuse,” I snapped. “That fat bastard is one of my best customers.”

  The marchioness opened one eye and stretched luxuriously. “He’s a rude bastard, as well as fat. Why d’ye tolerate the feller?”

  “This is my house, and I’m the one who decides whether a customer is welcome. I’ll thank you both to keep your noses where they belong. If I’m not here to run things, then Clara Swansdown is in charge, and you’ll do as she says.” By this time I was nearly shouting. “And in heaven’s name, what the devil were you two doing hobnobbing with the clients anyway?”

  The marchioness pursed her lips. “We were just lookin’ for some entertainment, y’see. What’s the harm in a glass or two with the chaps? Everything was goin’ splendid until that idiot mouthed off about the Scots.”

  “And then you had to defend your honour?”

  The marchioness nodded vigorously, completely missing, or perhaps ignoring, my sarcasm. “Precisely.”

  “In the future, I’ll thank you to stay away from the clients. Go to the theatre, or the music hall. Read a book. Pet your damned collies. But whatever you do, do not step foot out of this study.”

  “How am I goin’ to get to me bed?” asked the marchioness innocently.

  I gave her the look I usually reserve for tarts.

  She gave me her toothless smile. “Ain’t it time for tea yet? I’m famished. Fergus?”

  But her loyal retainer had already slipped from the room. Mrs. Drinkwater would not be happy and I suppose I should have pattered off to the kitchen and sent Fergus packing, but I was hungry too, and reckoned my chances of an edible meal to be substantially greater with the dour Scot in the larder.

  French arrived, which set the dogs to barking again, and then Vincent breezed in, his ugly mug breaking into smiles that stimulated the canines once more. By the time they’d quieted down and the marchioness and French and Vincent had exchanged pleasantries, Fergus had returned with the tea tray and we all fell on it like starving wolves. If I allowed this to continue, Mrs. Drinkwater was likely to storm out and I’d have to look for a new cook and housekeeper, a prospect I did not relish. Have you ever tried to hire household staff for a brothel? Good servants are hard to come by, and those who can do their work while ignoring naked women and priapic gentlemen are rare as hen’s teeth. I pondered just how rare they were as I savoured a flaky scone slathered in butter and dressed with a generous helping of plum jam.

  “I got news,” Vincent announced. Through a mouthful of cake, per usual. “One of the boys says the Sea Lark is loadin’ for India, and some crates from the Bradley Tool Company went aboard this afternoon. She sails tomorrow mornin’, on the tide.”

  “Well done, Vincent. Pity we weren’t there to see if Bradley accompanied the cargo.” French’s praise made the young scoundrel blush.

  “’Tweren’t nuffink to do wif me. I just know who to ask.”

  The marchioness had been listening with interest. “What are you lot up to? Is somebody else tryin’ to kill the Queen? I’ll bet you ten quid it’s the damned Irish.”

  “Not this time, Aunt Margaret.” French explained the events of the preceding two days. I’d have let the old woman die of curiosity, but then French did not have to worry about the marchioness interfering with his business. Now there was a thought. I made a mental note to apply the screws to French and persuade him to invite the marchioness and Fergus chez French. After all, he was the marchioness’s nephew and thus by all rights he should have the pleasure of at least half of her company while she was here in London.

  The marchioness sputtered with indignation at the report of the attack on French and me and the theft of the envelope. She clucked in sympathy over the description of Mayhew’s body, and, damn her wretched soul, she looked thoughtful at French’s bitterness at having lost the trail of the handsome blond Peter Bradley, due to India’s defective boot heel. The marchioness cut her eyes in my direction, her lips pursed. Damn and blast. Philip had seen her when he’d come to Lotus House this morning. Had the marchioness caught sight of him? She must have, or she wouldn’t be giving me the fisheye at the moment. I was beginning to doubt whether I’d be able to keep all the plates spinning in the air while this game played itself out.

  “What’ll ye do next?” the marchioness asked French.

  “Vincent and I will visit the Sea Lark tonight and attempt to get a look inside the crates.”

  “And what do you suppose I’ll be doing tonight?” I asked. “Knitting a shawl for Her Ladyship? I’m coming with you, French.”

  French looked pained. “I wish you’d reconsider, India. We’ll have to climb aboard the ship and search the hold. Vincent and I can move about more easily than you can in your skirts.”

  “An excellent point, but one that can be easily addressed,” I said. “I must acquire some trousers.”

  TEN

  I’ve mentioned several times how deuced inconvenient it is to perform one’s duties as a government agent when one is encumbered by yards of cloth hanging from one’s waist. I’d been meaning to have my dressmaker fit me out with trousers for some time, and had spent more than a few moments contemplating her shocked expression when I requested a pair. What with one thing and another, I hadn’t had time to go to her premises. I announced my intention of going there immediately. I already had in mind what I wanted: a pair of smart woolen trousers in a charcoal colour so dark it was almost black, and lined with crimson silk. It would look fetching with a white silk blouse and my red jacket with the silver braid and pewter buttons. Very military it was, though shockingly masculine, but when you’ve a figure like mine, you can pull off such things. I described my plans to French, who hooted with laughter and then, when he’d brought himself under control, advised that my planned ensemble might draw attention at the docks. Bugger, he had a point.

  And a solution, as it turns out. It appears that Her Majesty’s government keeps a fair amount of old theatre costumes and discarded clothing around so that agents who have to don a disguise will have ready access. French planned to outfit himself from the stockpile and offered to bring me a few items that would not stand out on the wharves. I have a firm rule about letting men choose clothes for me, but then I have a firm rule about keeping my sluts in line and the marchioness was proving no help at all in this endeavour. Consequently I provided French with a list of measurements and sent him off with instructions that if the clothes could not be fashionable, they must be clean. I had faith that French would abide by this directive as he’s as fastidious as a cat about his own appearance. Vincent, being an authentic specimen, needed no assistance in dressing for the part of a ragged dockworker.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon dealing with the minutiae of running a first-class brothel that has been invaded by Scottish hordes and their wolf packs. The dogs needed mince and Mrs. Drinkwater and Fergus were at loggerheads over who would fix dinner. My cook, while exercising her housekeeping duties, had collected enough dog hair to knit a large blanket. The girls were getting lax, as I had expected, wandering into the study to enquire if the marchioness was about and coddling Maggie with tidbits from the kitchen. The hag herself was out of sight, tucked up in my bed, snoring like a stevedore with a ferocious cold.

  An hour later, French returned with several sacks of trousers and jackets. I rummaged through them and found a suitable outfit for the evening. The breeches were coarse wool and would have to be held up by string, but their baggy fit covered the natural curve of my hips. I chose a loosely woven cotton shirt, a tweed jacket of ancient vintage and a striped scarf to wind round my neck. French handed me a flat cap such as half of London’s labourers wear, and with my hair tucked up inside I looked, well, not particularly masculine, but I could pass as an adolescent boy. The clothes, as promised, were clean, though they’d seen much wear
. I swaggered around the study in my costume, marveling at the ease of movement in my trousers. I’d have to have more than one pair of these made up, when I found the time.

  The evening passed pleasantly enough. Among French, Vincent and me, we managed to keep the marchioness occupied during business hours that night. Fergus dealt for us and we played hand after boisterous hand of vingt-et-un. The marchioness wanted to play for cash, and to appease her we did, although I had to stake Vincent as he didn’t have a penny. Once, my ancient houseguest stood up and wandered about the room, coming close to the doorway into the hall, but French was up on his legs in a hurry and succeeded in cutting her off and herding her back to the table, where she made short work of us at the cards.

  Near midnight, I shut down the casino, leaving Vincent to protest that he had had no chance of making back his money and it wasn’t fair. I had to point out to him that it was my money he’d lost, which did little to cheer him up. Possession is nine points of the law, in Vincent’s opinion. The marchioness cackled and promised to give him another crack at her. Then she wished us luck and said she’d be waiting up for us. As we left, I heard her ordering Fergus to fetch her a drink and bring the Bible, as she was in the mood for the Book of Judges tonight. The three of us set out to find a cab to carry us to the river. French had a pack slung over his shoulder containing a few implements we would need for the night’s work. I’d slipped my Bulldog in the pocket of my jacket.

  The Sea Lark was anchored in the Regent’s Canal Docks on the north side of the Thames, where the river curves between the Lower Pool and Limehouse Reach. It was a long drive from Lotus House to the edge of the Limehouse district of the city. The area is teeming with foreigners who find casual employment on the wharves. Lascars and Chinese roam the streets and every other dilapidated building houses an opium den or a brothel. Life is cheap in this part of London and I was glad to leave the street behind and scramble out onto the great wooden piers.

  It was a perfect night for skullduggery. A half-moon hung in the sky, casting the faintest of silver light. A thick mist rolled up from the Thames. There was much activity on the wharves and quays, for London’s docks are never quiet, but the noise was muted by the fog, and the oil lanterns that burned at warehouse doors and in the cabins of the many ships gave off a viscid yellow glow that dissipated only a few feet from the source. We made our way cautiously along the wharves, stepping smartly to avoid the workmen who appeared out of the thick brume bearing heavy loads on their shoulders. We had to dodge around the ladders propped up against the warehouse walls while chaps scrambled up and down them carrying sacks of grain and chests of tea and tobacco.

  We reconnoitered our target first, strolling down the busy quays to where the Sea Lark rode low in the water, heavily laden with her cargo. It was nearing midnight now. High tide would occur in just over eight hours, so we had plenty of time to creep aboard and do a thorough search. The steamship was an ungainly-looking vessel, broad of beam with a large funnel set amidships. Three lifeboats were roped to either side of the deck near the bow, and a low superstructure contained cabins, from which light glowed through the portholes. The cranes had been rolled away from the quay and the hatches to the cargo holds had been battened down. It was clear that the ship’s consignment had been stowed away for the voyage. This was good news for us, as we should be able to trundle about in the hold without any interruption. Now we just needed to find a way on board, and that proved easier than you might think.

  We’d considered our options and had debated hiring a small boat upriver and floating downstream until we reached the docks, then rowing up quietly to the Sea Lark. French would toss the grappling hook he carried in his pack over the rail and would shinny up the rope, securing it safely so that Vincent and I could scramble up after him. I wasn’t keen on this plan, involving as it did a lot of luck on our part (no one would hear the sound of the grappling hook on deck, no one would wander aft to find yours truly floundering up the side of the ship, etc.) and no little skill.

  Our second choice, and my preferred one, was to walk boldly aboard. That posed far less risk to us as the gangway was busy with coves carrying on provisions for the voyage. A steady procession of men was unloading supplies from a fleet of wagons parked on the quay. We need only equip ourselves with a basket of bread or a cask of rum, avert our faces from the bloke who was standing on the wharf at the bottom of the gangway marking his list, and we’d be on the deck. And so I found myself with French in the shadow of an archway leading into a courtyard, rubbing a handful of coal dust into my face and along the backs of my hands.

  “Not so much, India,” French said, spitting in his palm and scrubbing my cheeks. “You look like a bloody blackamoor. You need only appear grimy, as if you’ve been working all day.”

  I enjoyed the feeling of his warm palm against my cheek. But never let it be said that India Black is easily distracted from the work at hand. “I do hope this disguise is adequate.”

  “Keep the sack you’re given on the side of your head close to the bloke with the list, and don’t speak. If he asks you a question, just mumble. And remember you’re supposed to be a bloke, so mumble in a deep voice. Ready?”

  I tugged my cap over my eyes and produced an alto murmur. French chuckled.

  Then he and I and Vincent strode confidently into the throng of men who moved between the wagons and the Sea Lark. Vincent took the lead and I followed him, with French bringing up the rear. We took our place in the line of men waiting to pick up provisions and shuffled forward.

  “Don’t worry,” French whispered in my ear.

  I nodded, but I confess to being nervous. I’m a dab hand at playing maids and shepherdesses and maidens without sin, but this was my first appearance as a man and I found it a bit unsettling. There was nothing to be done but to put my back into the performance, so I spit and slouched and scratched and prayed I’d pass muster.

  Vincent reached the wagons and put out his hands expectantly. An obliging cove in the wagon bed dropped a sack of flour onto Vincent’s shoulder. “Ten pounds flour,” said the cove, and “ten pounds flour,” echoed the fellow with the list, labouriously marking the paper with the stub of a pencil. Vincent walked off briskly.

  I took my place by the wagon (careful to keep my chin tucked and my cap pulled low over my eyes), reaching up with my smudged hands. A moment later and a bag of flour descended onto my shoulder, emitting a fine cloud of white powder that enveloped my head. I had taken a breath when the weight of the bag had hit my shoulder and now I inhaled a quantity of the white stuff. My nose itched. I balanced the bag with one hand and scratched my nose with the other. It was no use. I tried, Lord knows I tried, but I couldn’t help myself. I sneezed. I’d half stifled it, but the half that escaped sounded high and girlish, which I suppose is how nature intended it to sound.

  The cove in the wagon paused in the act of lifting another sack of flour. The cove with the list looked up from his paper. Vincent, halfway up the gangway, froze. I heard French suck in his breath. I ducked my head, hefted my sack and marched off. Behind me, I heard French say, “Bloody man always has a cold.” Then the gangway was vibrating under my feet and the fellow in the wagon said “ten pounds flour,” and his compatriot with the checklist echoed his words. The gangway shook as French stepped on it and followed me aboard.

  At the top of the gangway, a solid chap in a striped jersey and knitted cap waved French, Vincent and me forward to an open hatch, where we handed off our bags of flour to be stowed in the ship’s hold. We should have joined the line of workmen threading its way back down the gangplank. Instead, we melted into the shadows at the first opportunity, where we held a hurried conference.

  “We must get to the cargo hold,” French whispered.

  “I thought we were here for tea with the captain,” I retorted.

  He ignored my sally. “I don’t think we can loosen a hatch on deck without being seen. Perhaps we
should go below and try working our way into the hold.”

  “I don’t know, guv. I fink we’ll stand out like a donkey in the Derby, ’specially India. She don’t exackly look like a bloke. Not up close, she don’t. It’s them . . .” I saw the shadowy movement of his hands as he carved two curves in the air at chest level.

  “But there’ll be so many men moving around below deck that we stand a good chance of being ignored. And India will just have to keep her head down and her mouth closed. Granted, that latter feat may be difficult for her to—”

  “Stop wittering like two old pussies at the garden gate. Time is wasting. Do I need to remind you that this ship will be sailing in a few hours? And even though the thought of leaving the marchioness far behind is attractive, I’d rather go someplace other than Calcutta. Let’s try the forward hatch.” And so saying I slipped away from my two partners, who would no doubt have stood there until the first mate wandered by and tossed us off the ship.

  I led the way toward the bow, darting from shadow to shadow and ducking under the wedges of yellow light that spilled out of cabin windows. There were one or two lads about, coiling long pieces of rope, puffing on pipes and joshing one another. They seemed uninterested in anything other than bragging about their exploits in London’s taverns and whorehouses. We dropped to the deck and crawled along the planks, keeping the superstructure between us and the sailors. I marveled at the ease with which I conducted this maneuver in my trousers and reflected that it was just like men to keep such an advantage to themselves. They do natter on about sportsmanship and the like, but has any one of them bothered to inform the fair sex that movement is considerably easier in britches? No, they have not.

  We scuttled like crabs to the hatch closest to the bow of the ship. A dim lantern burned at the rail, but otherwise the deck was shrouded in darkness here. I had thought the hatch might be locked, but there was only a hasp, its slotted, hinged metal plate fitting over a loop of the same material. An iron bolt was thrust through the loop, holding the hasp closed. Vincent scrabbled forward and began working the bolt from its moorings. He moved cautiously, but even the slightest tug on the bolt resulted in a rasping noise that seemed audible over the noise on the quay and the wind off the river. I was as nervous as a sheep sniffing wolf on the breeze by the time the lad eased the pin from the loop and found a crevice in which to deposit it. It wouldn’t do for the bloody thing to be rolling about on the deck as the ship rose and fell gently with the motion of the water.