“You’re quite right, General. The situation is intolerable,” said Dizzy. “The question then becomes, how do we remedy it?”
“We’ve got a man in India who’s looking into the thefts,” said Sir Hereward. “He’s chasing a lead or two, but I’m afraid I’ve nothing more to report than that.”
“The India Office is investigating the matter? Why hasn’t the quartermaster general’s office been notified?” General Buckley looked sourly at Sir Hereward. “You should have turned the matter over to the army. It’s a military affair, and I don’t see why the India Office believes itself competent to handle the enquiry.”
An Arctic chill wafted through the room. Sir Hereward drew himself up. “It occurred to us to contact the army, but then we remembered that it was the army who’d lost track of the rifles, and perhaps its officers were not best suited to scrutinize themselves.”
The chap from the army took affront at this and began to swell like a toad that had been prodded with a stick. I hoped this wouldn’t dissolve into one of those interminable finger-pointing episodes of which the civil service and the military are so fond. I checked the clock on the wall. I’d give it three minutes, and then I was leaving. Unless it came to blows, of course, and then I’d hang around to watch the outcome.
Dizzy, however, was not of a mind to let the argument proceed. That would mean that Sir Hereward and the general did all the talking and if there’s one thing Dizzy can’t abide, it’s giving up the floor and remaining mute. All politicians love the sound of their own voices, but none loves it more than the prime minister. Mind you, he’d have given those Roman orators a run for their money and it could be a pleasure to hear the man in full flow, but only if the subject interested you. I’d pay money to hear Dizzy maul the Russians anytime, but if the topic turns to the disestablishment of the Church of England then, thank you, no, I’ll hie myself off to the nearest pub. With the exception of a few members of the cloth, the rest of the populace, I expect, would join me.
Dizzy cut in smoothly now. “Both the India Office and the army have a vested interest in seeing this matter resolved as quickly and efficiently as possible. That is why I have requested that Mr. French and Miss Black delve into the issue.” He held up a hand in response to a squawk of protest from the general. “It would be wise to allow an objective third party to look into the matter. General Buckley, I’d like you to collect all the documents relating to the shipment of rifles and ammunition which bear Colonel Mayhew’s signature, and send them to me by runner. I shall see that they are delivered to Mr. French and Miss Black. When they have discovered the culprit or culprits behind these thefts, we shall discuss their punishment with the appropriate military officers. We shall also discuss any changes to the quartermaster general’s procedures that we find to be necessary as a result of this situation.”
Dizzy turned to Sir Hereward. “Are you in communication with your agent in India?”
“I am, sir.”
“Then you will advise him to continue his investigation in India, and you will keep me informed of his findings.”
Sir Hereward hooked a finger in his collar and stretched it gently. “I should like to do that, sir, but I fear that it is impossible to carry out your instructions.”
“Oh?” Dizzy looked down his nose at the civil servant. As the prime minister has a nose the size of your average bowsprit, it took rather a long time for that searching gaze to find its mark.
“The last telegram I received from my agent advised me that he was boarding a ship bound for London. He had a lead to follow here, he said, but he did not have time to explain the matter in full and did not want to commit anything to writing which others might read. I assume I will hear from him in due course.”
“And you must advise me at once if you do. We can’t have your agent and my agents tripping over each other.”
“Indeed not.”
Our meeting broke up then, with instructions from Dizzy to the general and Sir Hereward to advise no one, other than their immediate superiors, about the subject of our conversation. General Buckley huffily announced that he knew how to be as discreet as the next man, jammed his hat on his head and strode off. Sir Hereward took a rather more graceful leave of us, assuring us he’d contact Dizzy just as soon as he heard from his man, and Dizzy thanked him prettily.
Then it was our turn to leave, and Dizzy shook hands with us both.
“There’s liable to be bad blood between the two offices. I don’t doubt that I’ll have to arbitrate matters before long. Let me know how you get along, and whether there is anything I can provide you. Now off with you both, and catch me a thief.”
It was a pleasant afternoon, so we decided to forgo a cab ride and strolled in the direction of Lotus House. French walked along with his hands in his pockets. I could tell he was cogitating about something.
“I’m glad Dizzy told the general to supply us with his records. I doubt he’d have cooperated with us otherwise,” I said.
French grunted.
“I wonder what Sir Hereward’s agent has found that’s bringing him to England. We’ll have to link up with the chap when he gets here.”
“Mmm.”
“You’re a bit broody,” I said.
“Am I?”
“Yes, you are.” This elicited a faint growl. We trudged on in silence.
“And why the devil did the gang kill Mayhew?” I wasn’t about to let French repress my natural investigative instincts. “Haven’t they heard of the goose that laid the golden egg? How will they get their hands on the rifles now?”
That finally got his attention. He took his hands out of his pockets and smoothed the wrinkles from his coat. “That’s a damned good observation.”
“Yes, I know.”
His lips quirked and I could see that he was biting back a smile. He glanced at me and the smile disappeared, to be replaced by a look of irritation. Now the poncy bastard was scowling at me.
“What is it?” I asked. “Piles giving you trouble? Your valet forgot to iron your cravat this morning?” I grabbed his coat sleeve and swung him round to face me. “Out with it, French. I won’t stand for you sulking like a child. If you’ve something to say to me, then say it.”
“You’ll have to choose, you know.”
“Choose?”
“Between that bloody Philip, and your duty.”
Normally, any discussion of my “duty” would cause me to howl with derisive laughter. The only duty I recognized was the obligation I felt to pile the sovereigns as high as I could, but one look at French’s face and I could tell he was deadly serious. It wouldn’t do to mock. On the other hand, I do not take kindly to getting a Bible lesson from a sinner.
“And what of your duty to Lady Daphne?”
Rage kindled in his eyes. “That is a low blow, India. The circumstances are entirely different.”
“Are they?”
“Certainly. I know that you’re fond of that bastard, though God knows why. I know you think you owe him a favour for cutting us loose on that ship—”
“I do owe him, and so do you. We owe him our lives.”
“But he’s in league with a gang of murderers. He may not have known those thugs would kill poor Mayhew in such a devilish fashion, but he knows now what they’ve done, and what they planned to do to us. You can’t make excuses for the man.”
“I don’t have to, not to you or anyone else. Hang it, French, he is on a boat to India. If there’s one thing I know about Philip, it’s that he’s a coward. Now that he’s got the wind up, I expect he’ll find plenty of excuses to linger in Calcutta. We won’t see him again.”
“Why do you persist in protecting that wretched man?” French’s face was twisted in anger.
Sometimes I can be as thick as two bricks, but usually not when it comes to men. I’ve a remarkable insight when it comes to the sons of
Adam, if I do say so myself. However, upon reflection, it occurred to me that my transactions with the male sex have been of a commercial nature for the past several years, and that I was severely out of practice when it came to matters of the heart. Not that I put much stock in such things, but I’m aware that some people can be overwrought when it comes to love and affection.
“Aha! This has nothing at all to do with my duty as a government agent, does it? You’re jealous, French.” In retrospect, I should have sounded a tad less triumphant.
I expected him to vehemently deny such a charge, but instead he looked bleakly at me and said, “I am.”
That flummoxed me. I do wish French would play this game by the same rules other men do. He was supposed to hotly dispute my evaluation, and assert that I had misinterpreted his interest and all the normal sorts of bluff and bluster that accompany such a conversation. I opened my mouth to tell him so.
“And I am jealous of Lady Daphne,” I said, and then I blushed. God help me, the words had just spilled out. I clapped a hand over my lips, horrified that something else equally revealing might issue forth.
French smiled wanly. “I’m glad to hear you say that. I wondered whether you cared for me at all. I was afraid I might be just another chap to you.”
“You are sui generis, French.” I took his arm and steered him toward Lotus House. “I will make this promise to you. If resolving the case means that we must apprehend Philip, then I will not stand in the way.”
“Fair enough.”
We walked along in silence for a few minutes. Then French spoke. “As for Lady Daphne . . .”
I put a finger on his lips, a daring move on the pavement of a busy London street and one that would normally have caused French to bolt for a hiding place. Today, he remained motionless, his eyes boring into mine. “If you cannot come to me with an easy conscience, I will understand,” I said, poking him in the ribs. “I’ll be annoyed, naturally, and probably not very nice to you for a long time, but I will understand.”
I thought my little speech, which had cost me a great deal of something I value rather highly, namely my pride, would ease the poncy bastard’s mind, but I’ll be damned if he didn’t look even more troubled than before I’d absolved him of any obligation to me. These gentlemen are a breed I know nothing about, and if they’re all as irresolute as French I’m not sure I want to learn more. How is it that a chap can whoop and smile and charge into battle, but mope around like a bloody spaniel when it comes to women? Well, I’d done all I could to relieve French’s mind about that blond wench of his, at great cost to myself, for I’ll admit I’ve grown very fond of the bloke and had been looking forward to finding out if his manservant starched his unmentionables. It was down to French now, and he would have to decide what his blasted honour could bear. There was nothing more for me to say.
And I particularly did not want to say that the decision as to whether the case required Philip’s capture would be mine and mine alone.
• • •
It was teatime when we returned to Lotus House, and Fergus had supplied an excellent repast that was being enjoyed en famille in the study by the marchioness, the whores, Vincent (in a pink silk peignoir that I recognized immediately as it came from my wardrobe), Fergus, Maggie and her pups, the other three dogs, and to my astonishment, Mrs. Drinkwater.
The marchioness, who was making herself comfortable in the chair behind my desk, spied us and waved a scone in our direction. “Come in and put on the feedbag.”
“Why are you wearing my dressing gown, Vincent?” I asked.
“Och, one of the puppies had an accident on Fergus’s gown and it’s being washed now,” said the marchioness.
“That pink gown is a favourite of mine. If one of the puppies has an accident on it, he or she will be tossed into the street.”
“Settle yerself, India. I’ll pay for any damage.”
A couple of the tarts stopped stuffing their faces and vacated their chairs, deuced considerate of them, I thought, seeing as how I was their employer and until today they had never been invited to sit in my study. I needed to have a word with the marchioness, and soon, before I lost control of my employees.
At least Mrs. Drinkwater remembered that I paid her wages. She lumbered out of her chair and cut two slices of fruitcake, handing them to French and me. “Have a piece of this excellent cake. Fergus made it.”
Now I knew how the little Corsican felt at Waterloo when the mighty Imperial Guard broke and ran. If my cook had gone over to the enemy, then the battle was lost. I should start planning my exile now.
“You look very fetching, Vincent.” I tasted the cake and found it delicious, which no doubt accounted for Vincent’s presence in such a getup.
He smiled serenely. I noticed that one of Maggie’s pups was asleep in his lap.
The tarts chattered and the marchioness held a spirited debate with Vincent over the virtues of collies versus deerhounds. Vincent had a decided opinion about the matter, though he wouldn’t have known a Scottish deerhound from a pony. Fergus declaimed the virtues of candied ginger to Mrs. Drinkwater, who hung on every word. French stretched out his legs and drank tea while he looked benignly around the room. I found myself studying the domestic scene with a sense of foreboding. If this kind of thing continued at Lotus House, I’d soon be darning socks for Vincent and cleaning up after puppies while the marchioness plotted new ways to squeeze the clients.
In my current state, was it any wonder that I was almost pleased to see Inspector Allen? I was in a devil of a mood and ready to lock horns with the world and the supercilious twit had the nerve to waltz unannounced into my study. Conversation ceased. The collies bounded to their feet and began to bark hysterically. Maggie lunged at the inspector, teeth snapping. The tarts looked up alertly.
“No need for alarm, ladies. He’s not a customer,” I said.
“Who the devil are you?” shouted the marchioness over the uproar.
The policeman bristled. “I’m Inspector Allen of Scotland Yard. Who the devil are you?”
The marchioness flung back her head. “I am the Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine.”
Allen had been looking a trifle flustered at the turmoil as any reasonable man would, but the presence of aristocracy positively bewildered him, particularly as said member of the aristocracy was an ancient biddy made up to look like a witch doctor.
“Fergus,” I said. “Take the dogs to the kitchen. Vincent, you help him. Girls, upstairs to your rooms. Mrs. Drinkwater—”
“I’m leaving,” she said. I’d wager ten pounds she was headed straight for the gin.
It took some time, but eventually the room was cleared of dogs, tarts, servants and Vincent. I debated whether to insist that the marchioness retire to her room, but I knew the old pussy would ignore me and I didn’t care to display any weakness to the chap from the Yard.
I have to hand it to the inspector: He was game. He tackled the marchioness right at the kickoff. “May I enquire as to your presence here?” he asked her.
“You may not,” she snapped.
If there’s one thing I enjoy, it’s seeing a policeman slapped in the face. It’s a fault of mine, I know, but if you’d had as many run-ins with the peelers as I’ve had over the years, you’d be forgiven for feeling a bit of pleasure when one of them gets it in the eye.
Allen, deciding the marchioness was not to be trifled with, turned away from her loftily and swiveled his guns in my direction. “I am still waiting for you to produce an alibi for the night of Colonel Mayhew’s death, Miss Black.”
“Now see here,” said French. “Are you accusing Miss Black of being involved in the colonel’s murder?”
“Stands to reason, doesn’t it? The colonel was blackmailing her. She decided to put a stop to it.”
“Blackmailing her?” French jumped to his feet, his expression thunderous. I
put a restraining hand on his arm.
“Calm down, French. I have a perfectly good alibi for the night of the murder, as you well know. Inspector, I shall insist that we visit the prime minister so that he can confirm that I was in his presence for most of Saturday night and a good part of Sunday morning.”
“Right. Lord Beaconsfield is going to give you an alibi.”
“Yes, he is.”
“Blackmail?” French repeated. “Why would Mayhew blackmail India?”
I had been hoping that the inspector wouldn’t trot out his theories regarding Mayhew’s disclosure of my relationship with French to the poncy bastard’s friends and families.
“Your conjectures are irrelevant, Inspector. I insist that you speak to the prime minister, or I shall do so myself.”
“You insist,” said Allen, sneering at me. “A woman of your class is in no position to insist that an inspector from Scotland Yard do anything at all.”
“Your class,” the marchioness echoed, rising from her seat.
Allen looked contemptuously at me. “You’re a whore.”
The marchioness emitted a strangled oath. French stood stock-still, the colour draining from his face, then let out an inarticulate roar and launched himself at the inspector. It wasn’t wise, but it was damned chivalrous of the fellow. I just hoped that Dizzy would view French’s action in the same light. I’d have intervened but French was too quick for me. He flew at Allen, catching him in a waist-high tackle that sent the two of them crashing to the floor. The windows rattled. In the kitchen, the dogs began to yelp. The study door flew open and Fergus charged through it with Mrs. Drinkwater in hot pursuit. Fergus took one look at the two figures struggling on the floor and seized the poker from the fireplace. Vincent hobbled in, still wearing the pink silk dressing gown, and threw himself into the melee. Fergus bobbed and weaved like an aging boxer, looking for a clear shot at Allen’s head. The marchioness danced around behind Fergus.
“Lachlan!” she screamed. “Stop that this instant!”
India Black and the Gentleman Thief Page 19
