India Black and the Gentleman Thief

by Carol K. Carr

  French looked relieved as well. “Thank you. We’ll look for him at his office.”

  Out on the pavement, French whistled and we waited until Vincent had materialized from an alley across the street.

  “Nobody about, guv,” he reported. “Where’s Welch?”

  “I don’t know,” said French.

  “Vasapoulis had Dudley drive the captain to the station last night, but perhaps he didn’t make the last train,” I said. “He might have spent the night in Redhill. But if that’s the case then he certainly would have caught the first train this morning. Yet we didn’t see him at the station.”

  French hailed a cab and we clambered aboard. “To the War Office,” French commanded the driver.

  “He might have taken a later train,” French mused. “There was a local leaving at midmorning. If he took that train he should be back in the city by now. Perhaps he did go directly to the office.”

  Vincent and I waited in the hansom while French darted into the War Office building. He returned moments later and climbed into the cab, his face grim. “Welch failed to appear for work this morning.”

  “Do you think that Vasapoulis . . .” I said, then stopped before I could verbalize the sinister suggestion.

  “I fear he may have decided that Welch was a weak link who needed to be eliminated.”

  “Or Welch might have come to the same conclusion and left London before Vasapoulis could kill him,” I said.

  “I hope you’re right, but I can’t help remembering that the last time we saw Welch he was in the company of Dudley.” French hadn’t shaved since yesterday and now he scraped a thumb thoughtfully across the bristles on his chin. “Vincent, I want you to go back to Welch’s lodgings and see if he turns up there. If he does, send a message to Lotus House.”

  “What do you propose to do?” I asked.

  “We should return to Hilltop Farm. Since Welch has disappeared, our only hope of pinning the thefts on Vasapoulis is to help Homer get a look inside that case.”

  “If Dudley dispatched Welch last night then he and Vasapoulis may already be on a ship out of England,” I observed gloomily.

  “Perhaps. We shall just have to hope they are still at the farm.”

  “You know, Vasapoulis is not a British citizen,” I said. “What’s to prevent us from taking him into custody and filing a trumped-up charge against him?”

  “That would be a perversion of the justice system, which in my view is one of the great glories of the British system of government.”

  “Don’t be sanctimonious, French. What’s a little perversion of justice if we can snag an arms dealer? And he’s a murderer to boot. I should think you’d like him locked away.”

  “As desirable as the ends are, I don’t think they justify the means.”

  “Well, if you want to play it straight, then we’ll have to lay hands on that case of his and hope that it contains something other than the morning paper and a packet of sandwiches.”

  Before leaving for Surrey, I insisted that we return to Lotus House for provisions. Fergus and Mrs. Drinkwater were dragooned into rustling up some comestibles. I did not plan on forgoing my dinner for the second night running. I added a flask each of rum and brandy, extra ammunition for the Bulldog, a pencil and paper, some pound coins and a waxed cotton jacket in the event it rained. Then I donned the trousers and jacket I’d worn the night of our ill-fated foray onto the Sea Lark. If there was going to be action, I did not intend to be cursing my skirts while I pursued our quarry. French checked his Boxer and tucked it into a holster at the small of his back. He drew his knife from his boot and ran a thumb along the edge. From inside his jacket he drew a short wooden truncheon. I hadn’t known he carried a billy club. I’d have to get one of those. I opened the Bulldog’s cylinder and confirmed it was fully loaded, then tucked my silver dagger into my boot. If French had a knife, then I needed a knife. I rather liked the piratical air it lent to my costume.

  The marchioness looked me over approvingly. “Damned useful things, trousers. I’ve often considered wearin’ ’em meself. Very convenient for muckin’ about in the garden and walkin’ the hounds.”

  “I plan to have a pair made in tartan when I get to Scotland. There is a family tartan, isn’t there?”

  The marchioness cackled. “Aye, and it’s a beauty. But we say trews, not trousers, north of the border.”

  “I suppose I shall have to bow to respectability and cover these with a skirt.” I sent Mrs. Drinkwater to fetch one for me.

  While we waited, French issued instructions to the marchioness. “Aunt Margaret, if Vincent returns with news or sends a message to you, send a telegram to Mr. Scott at the Duke of Wellington in Salfords.”

  “Ye’ll be masqueradin’ as Mr. Scott?”

  “I will.”

  “And who will ye be, I wonder?” The marchioness fixed her beady eyes on me. Confound the woman, I almost blushed at her words.

  “If we follow our usual pattern, French will be swanning it up at the pub while I’m parked under a bush in a rainstorm, keeping watch on the villain.”

  The marchioness hooted. “Off with ye, then, and don’t come back without that Greek’s head on a platter.”

  “You’re a bloodthirsty old cat. You’ve spent too much time reading the Old Testament.”

  “Heads on platters can be mighty useful. Has a salutary effect on the other thieves and traitors.”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  SEVENTEEN

  Our search for Welch and provisioning at Lotus House had eaten up a good part of the day and it was midafternoon before we were back on a train to Redhill. We were both feeling a bit disheartened for fear that we’d let Welch slip through our fingers, or that Dudley might have murdered the captain under our noses.

  “What shall we do when we arrive?” I asked.

  “We’ll call in at the Duke of Wellington to be sure that Vincent hasn’t tried to reach us. Then we’ll go back to Hilltop Farm to find Homer and see if he had any luck in getting into the house and searching Vasapoulis’s case.”

  “If he had, wouldn’t we have heard from him?”

  “Perhaps. But it’s several miles from the farm to the nearest telegraph, which is at the station, and I doubt he’d trust anyone to send a message for him. He’d want to keep Vasapoulis in sight. I anticipate that he’ll be waiting for us somewhere in the vicinity of the house.”

  As the train slid into the station, French leaned forward to peer intently out the window.

  “Damn and blast, India. Something’s happened.”

  The platform was abuzz with activity of the official sort. Two blue-coated constables with bewildered expressions watched as bowler-hatted men with notebooks in hand debated strenuously. The press had arrived in the person of an alert little chap in a garish tweed suit, brandishing his own notebook. A half-dozen spectators had gathered to watch the show.

  “You don’t suppose it’s Homer . . .” I left my question unfinished.

  French’s jaw was clenched. “I hope not. When we get off the train, I’ll talk to the man in charge and see what I can learn.”

  “Your curiosity may arouse his interest.”

  “I’ve a story to tell him. Just follow my lead.”

  “I will,” I said. “This time.”

  We disembarked and French tucked my hand into the crook of his elbow. He steered us in the direction of a harried-looking chap with a pock-marked face, a Roman nose and grey eyes that narrowed sharply when we appeared in his field of vision.

  “Pardon me,” said French, doffing his hat. “I’m Major French and this is my wife, India. We have come down from London for a quiet country outing, but your presence at the station, needless to say, has alarmed us. Has something occurred in the neighborhood? We had planned to walk to the Duke of Wellington and enjoy the countryside for a few da
ys.” He gestured toward the basket we carried containing food and drink and my other necessaries.

  At French’s introduction, the fellow had touched the brim of his hat and nodded to us. “Very pleased to meet you, sir, ma’am. I’m Inspector Cole. As you’ve ascertained, we’ve had a situation develop here and I do believe it would be best if you reconsidered your plans for the day.”

  “What a shame,” said French. “Can you tell us what has happened?”

  The inspector glanced at me, and I could see he was eager to spare my feelings.

  I squeezed French’s arm. “I’ll wait by the ticket office, dear. From the inspector’s face, I can see that his information may be too indelicate for a lady to hear.” God, it chapped me to say that, but I reckoned French would get more out of the inspector if I weren’t around to inhibit the conversation. I dutifully retreated and spent the next few minutes gazing around the station with the petulant expression of a vacuous wench who’s just had her holiday ruined.

  French and the inspector held a brief discussion, with French listening more than speaking but occasionally asking a question. When they’d finished, French thanked the law officer and came to join me.

  “What’s happened?” I demanded when French was within speaking distance.

  “A man’s body was discovered this morning in a field not far from the station. From the description, it would appear to be Welch.”

  “The poor fool. He was in over his head. Did the inspector say how he died?”

  “Strangled, with his own tie.”

  “At least they didn’t slash him to ribbons.”

  “Unlike Mayhew, they did not need information from Welch. Only silence.”

  “We need to find Homer.”

  “Granted. The inspector does not think it wise for us to dally here. He urged me to take seats on the next train back to London. I informed him that we should be perfectly safe if we travel to the Duke of Wellington as we’ll be there long before dark.”

  “Does the inspector know that it’s Welch who’s been murdered?”

  “No, and I did not inform him of that fact.”

  “Do you plan to?”

  “Not yet. It would be deuced hard to explain how I know the victim without going into some detail about the matter. And I want to talk to Homer first. We shall certainly have to tell the prime minister and devise a plan, but until we know what Homer has found, it would be premature for us to share information with the local constabulary.”

  “Who found the body? And when?”

  “A farmer, who went out to check his crop and found a man’s body shoved under a pile of leaves in a covert. That was around four hours ago. The inspector has just arrived and has barely had time to start his investigation.”

  “Bloody hell,” I said. “You know the ticketmaster and Isaac the carriage driver will remember us from yesterday, enquiring about Welch. We left a trail a mile wide.”

  “Yes, we did. And the inspector is going to be on it, but not for a while yet. He’s a garrulous chap, the inspector, and he was pleased to inform me that he is waiting for the ticketmaster who was on duty yesterday to be located and questioned. The inspector has also been told that if the captain was looking for transportation he would have hired old Isaac, who is presently delivering a load of provisions to a local village and won’t be back for several hours.”

  “We’d better cut out of here before the ticketmaster or Isaac returns and describes us to Inspector Cole.”

  “I told the man that the Duke of Wellington was our destination. We’ll head in that direction, and get off the main road at the first opportunity.”

  We sauntered out of the station and down the road in the direction of Salfords. When we came to the nearest copse of trees we glanced around surreptitiously but the station still bustled with activity as the inspector and his fellow policemen planned their campaign. No one was looking in our direction. We plunged into the thicket and dropped to the ground. I fumbled with my skirt.

  “What the devil are you doing?” asked French.

  “Removing my skirt. Fleeing from the law will be much easier in trousers.”

  “When you’re ready, let’s move. I won’t feel comfortable until we’re miles from that station.”

  When I hear the word “miles” I automatically associate the distance with a hansom cab or a carriage. I can assure you, I am not one of those hearty types who thinks a hike of several furlongs is a reasonable way to spend an afternoon. Nevertheless, that is how we occupied the rest of that afternoon. You could not describe our physical exertion as even a vigorous walk. It was more like an army training exercise: dashing from cover to cover, crawling beneath fence rails, leaping stone boundaries, creeping on our bellies through open fields of rye and wheat. Boys are said to enjoy this sort of thing and I expect Vincent would have found it great fun, but within a quarter hour all the flesh had been scraped from my elbows and knees. My hairpins had come loose and my hands were as filthy as any street urchin’s. I seriously considered surrendering myself to Inspector Cole and his minions, on the off chance that the nearest gaol would offer at least a jug of water and some soap.

  French forced a grueling pace, his long strides eating up the ground. I had to trot along to stay up with him. I am not used to trotting. It is undignified, not to mention debilitating. By the time the sun had fallen to the horizon and French deemed it safe enough for us to rest, I was jolly well wrung out. If I’d been a horse, the glue factory would have been in my immediate future. I believe I emitted a quiet moan when I collapsed to the ground, for French suppressed a smile and fished out the flask of rum from our basket.

  “That was hard going. Can you carry on after a rest?”

  “Don’t worry about me.” I chugged rum and coughed. “I can walk all the way to London if it’s necessary. Will it be necessary?”

  “No. We’re not far from the farm.” French munched on a roll from the basket and scanned the sky. “It will be dark soon, and we’ll be able to approach the house.”

  “We may find Inspector Cole and his men waiting for us. If he’s talked to either the ticketmaster or Isaac, then he’ll know that we were here last night.”

  “I’m not concerned about us. We can easily prove our innocence. But if Cole appears at Hilltop Farm, Vasapoulis will either fight or flee. Neither he nor Dudley will be apprehended easily. I doubt the inspector has ever encountered anyone as ruthless as those two. I doubt that he or his constables are armed. They may walk right into a death trap. Perhaps I should have warned the fellow.”

  “Cole may prove to be made of sterner stuff than you think. For all we know, the inspector may have Vasapoulis in custody already.”

  “If he does, the Greek won’t be there long,” said French. “The man’s an international arms dealer. He slips across borders like we cross the street. He’ll have powerful connections. And I doubt that he’ll use his real name when he announces himself to Inspector Cole. Vasapoulis will be hiding behind a web of identities. In fact, Vasapoulis probably isn’t his real name either. In any event, Inspector Cole is playing out of his league. Vasapoulis will be free almost as soon as he’s gaoled. If he’s gaoled.”

  “If that’s the situation, then we will need to be there when Vasapoulis is granted bail and walks out a free man. It may be time to call in more of Dizzy’s agents to help us shadow him.”

  A second, more tempting thought struck me. “If Cole arrests Vasapoulis, then we’ll have the perfect opportunity to look in that case of his. Either he’ll leave it behind at the house or he’ll take it with him to gaol. If he does the latter, then we merely have to inform Cole of our identity and have a good look through the contents.”

  “First, we must find Homer and see if he’s gained any evidence against Vasapoulis. Then we’ll plan for all contingencies.”

  It was dark now, and the lights from the farmhouses gl
owed warm and inviting in the distance. A full moon had risen and a soft silver light blanketed the countryside. There was hardly a breath of wind, and noises carried far in the still night air. I heard the sound of a cart on a nearby lane, the tuneless whistling of the driver and the weary footsteps of the nag.

  “Are you ready, India?”

  We gathered our things and cautiously made for the farmhouse, taking a circuitous route that led across pasture and field. Once a humpbacked bull raised his head as we skirted past and a calf shied away from us, his hooves thundering across the ground. I’ll tell you, I’d rather be accosted by a gang of cutthroats than thread my way through a field of cattle. Oh, they look nice enough, with those sad brown eyes and those docile expressions, but they’re ruddy great beasts who could knock you down with one swish of a tail, and they seem rather territorial to boot. That bull was far too interested in our passage for my liking. By the time we’d cleared the pasture my heart was racing like a locomotive.

  We found shelter behind a hedge and French softly whistled a series of notes. A moment later his signal was answered by a muted trill. Homer joined us, emerging so quietly from the darkness that I nearly fainted when his stocky frame dropped to the ground next to me.

  “What news?” he asked.

  I handed him bread and meat and offered the flask of rum while French briefed him in low tones. At the news of Welch’s death, Homer gave a start.

  “Good God. These fellows are callous.”

  “All the more reason for us to proceed carefully. Were you able to get into the house?”

  Homer sighed. “I was halfway through that window you’d so thoughtfully left open when I heard a noise from the other side of the building. I shot out of there and it’s a good thing I did, for that Dudley fellow came out of the house and patrolled the area. He did it twice more before dawn. I hid in the rhododendrons and watched.”

  “Didn’t Dudley notice the broken window frame?” I asked in alarm.

  “No. I closed the window and jammed the lock back in the frame as best I could. Then I smeared a bit of dirt around the casing. It won’t fool anyone under close inspection, but from a distance you wouldn’t notice anything amiss. And Dudley didn’t bother to inspect the windows, though he did try the back door to see that it was locked.”