India Black and the Gentleman Thief

India Black and the Gentleman Thief By Carol K. Carr



ONE



At that moment, I’d have given anything to have a rapier in my hand. I’d have used it to fillet French. I believe the poncy bastard knew it too, for he was casting about the room for a means of escape.

Now I ask you, after scattering a nest of anarchist vipers and nabbing one of Tsar Alexander’s best agents and finally settling down to a glass of champagne with a chap you’ve had your eye on for donkey’s years and that same fellow has finally discovered that indeed you are a woman and a deuced fine one at that—I ask you, is it fair that all this bliss should disappear like so much fairy dust? Damned right, it’s not fair. One moment I was admiring the dark, lithe figure of French and calculating how many glasses of champagne it would take before I could carry the bloke off to bed, and the next I was contemplating a missive from that maddening old trout, the Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine, informing me that the object of my affection (French, in the event you had forgotten) was well-informed about the murky past of yours truly.

Dedicated readers of these memoirs will recall that ever since the marchioness had informed me that she had known my mother, screeching out this information at a train station in Perth as her carriage pulled away, I had been attempting to find out just what the wretched woman knew. Her correspondence had been evasive until this letter.

I quote her message here, so you’ll appreciate just how much kindling the marchioness had dumped on this particular fire.

Dear Miss Black,

If you want to know about your mother, ask French.

Sincerely yours,

Lady Margaret Aberkill

Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine



I do not think I need to emphasize just how irritated I was to find that French knew more about my family history than I did. Hence my desire for a rapier. Lacking that weapon, I brandished the marchioness’s letter at him.

“I suggest you find a means of defending yourself, as I intend to tear you limb from limb. After you’ve told me what you know, of course.”

I do believe the fellow actually considered for a moment whether I would make good on the threat. I could see the wheels turning as he reckoned his chances. In the end, he made the right choice. He believed me. He’s no coward, though. He drew himself up and put on his usual mask of polite indifference.

“I assume that note is from the marchioness and that she has informed you that I can shed some light upon your past.”

“Brilliant deduction. Now, if you and the marchioness are through playing your little game, please be so good as to explain what you know about my family and how you’ve come by the information.”

Despite what the gospel grinders would have us believe, I am convinced that the Whiskery Old Gent Upstairs plays favourites from time to time. Clearly he took pity on French, for just as the treacherous knave opened his mouth, someone hammered on the front door with such purpose that the champagne glasses trembled on the mantel.

I was disposed to ignore the caller at the door, for though I like custom as much as the next madam I was preoccupied with other matters just then.

French leapt to his feet. “I’ll answer that.”

“Let it go,” I snarled.

“It might be a messenger from the prime minister.”

“I don’t care if it is. Dizzy can find some other agent to take care of his problem. We’re in the middle of a discussion and I won’t brook any interference.”

Really, Benjamin Disraeli was becoming a bloody nuisance. You’d think that after I (with a little help from French and that odiferous street Arab, Vincent) had exposed that anarchist cell and captured a nasty Russian agent, the prime minister would slacken the reins.

The pounding on the door resumed. Bugger. If I didn’t answer the summons I’d soon have a gaggle of whores descending the stairs in their dressing gowns, standing around like a herd of cows and scratching their backsides while they gazed at French’s tousled black curls and giggled behind their hands.

“Damnation!” I shook an admonitory finger at French as I scuttled past him. “Don’t move, French. I’m not finished with you.”

I yanked open the door and confronted the bloke on the porch. He was a wormy little runt but polite, for he swept off his hat and pushed a hand through a thatch of brown hair, combing it down with his fingers.

“Miss Black?”

“We’re not open yet. Come back later.”

I was already closing the door when he thrust a boot inside.

“Wait, ma’am. Please. I got somethin’ here for you.”

I pushed open the door warily. When you’re a government agent, or, come to that, the proprietress of a thriving brothel, you’ve got to be on the qui vive at all times. One slip in concentration and you might be kidnapped or assaulted or worse.

However, I had already taken my measure of the fellow at the door and concluded that even in a fair fight, I had the advantage over the scrawny specimen in front of me. Not that I’d be fighting fair, you understand. I’ve always preferred the underhanded method myself, as it saves time.

Anyway, this bloke really did have something in his hand, which he thrust at me.

It was a buff envelope of good quality and light as a feather.

“Colonel Mayhew sent it,” his messenger said.

I examined the envelope and handed it back. “You’re mistaken. It’s addressed to Colonel Mayhew.”

The impertinent fellow shoved it back at me. “I know. Colonel Mayhew give it to me to bring ’ere. ’E said ’e’d be along dreckly to pick it up from you.”

I expelled an exasperated breath. The colonel was a client, albeit not the best. He ambled into Lotus House from time to time and deigned to purchase a bottle once a year. The girls didn’t care for him much, as he tended to pay only for services rendered and considered the giving of gratuities a mortal sin. He usually appeared in mufti, but his sweeping mustache, erect bearing and inability to make conversation that did not include the words “cannon” and “trumpet” revealed him as the soldier he was. In fact, he hardly spoke a word when he was on the premises, preferring to drink a single glass of brandy before selecting one of the girls and following her upstairs. I suspect the colonel did not receive many invitations to parties.

I hadn’t seen the man in a month, or perhaps longer, and he’d never used my brothel as a postal box before. I found it deuced strange that he did so now and frankly, it wasn’t at all to my liking. I discourage my clients from viewing Lotus House as a gentleman’s club where they can have a meal or exchange messages. I might consider offering such services in the future, but only at a price.

“Did the colonel say when he’d be by to pick up the envelope?”

“No, ma’am. Just said he’d be here soon, or somethin’ like that.”

“And when did he give you this?”

“Last night, ma’am. Round ten o’clock it must ’ave been. I brung it ’ere, but some battle-axe tol’ me she wouldn’t be responsible for it and to bring it back this mornin’.”

Mrs. Drinkwater, no doubt. My cook and housekeeper (I use those terms charitably) did the minimum amount of work necessary to remain in my good graces and was not likely to take on additional duties without first negotiating an increase in her wages. Frankly, it was just as well that she hadn’t taken the envelope last night as very likely it would still be tucked in the pocket of her apron, where it would have remained until she was sober enough to remember its existence, if she ever did.


I was not inclined to take Colonel Mayhew’s envelope but I was inclined to get back to my study and find out what French knew about my genealogical predecessors. Consequently, I sought to avoid a protracted discussion and consented to keep the bloody thing. The colonel’s messenger looked relieved and stuck out a hand, no doubt expecting a coin for his trouble. I disabused him of the notion by shutting the door in his face.

I strode back into the study, like Boudicca about to confront the Romans.

“What’s that you have there?” French asked, in a blatant attempt to divert my attention.

“It’s an envelope from one of my clients, addressed to him.”

“Curious,” said French.

I picked up a silver dagger I keep on my desk for opening letters and slid the blade into the fold.

“What are you doing?” asked French, though it was perfectly obvious what I was doing. “You’re going to open the man’s personal correspondence?”

“You’re a ruddy spy, French. I thought spies enjoyed intercepting messages.”

“In the line of duty, of course.”

“I consider it my duty to find out what’s in here. There’s obviously a reason Colonel Mayhew sent it to Lotus House. I don’t like my business being used as an accommodation address without my permission. Next thing you know, I’ll have every thief in London lined up to leave his swag with me.”

“The colonel’s swag is very flat indeed.”

“A counterfeit bond doesn’t take up much room,” I retorted. I will not be mocked.

The dagger’s blade made a soft ripping noise as it sliced through the envelope. I turned it upside down and shook it. A single piece of paper floated onto my desk.

French leaned over to look at it at the same time as I did and our heads knocked together gently.

“Pardon me,” said French.

“So sorry,” I mumbled. Deuced if we weren’t as polite to each other as old married folk. That would never do. “Your reprieve only lasts until I’ve examined this document, French.”

“I did not expect otherwise.”

I rubbed my temple absently and scanned the sheet of paper. “Bill of lading dated two weeks ago, for the merchant ship Comet, sailing on the twentieth of this month—”

“That’s tonight,” French interjected.

I ignored this gratuitous comment and read on. “Ten crates of tools, various, including shovels, axes, hammers and rakes. Consigned by the Bradley Tool Company, Peter Bradley, principal, of 28 Salisbury Street, for delivery to the authorized agent of the South Indian Railway Company, at Calcutta.”

“That’s odd,” mused French. “Why would a British army colonel care about a transaction between two private companies? And why would he send the bill of lading to you?”

“He didn’t send it to me. He intended to retrieve it from Lotus House. And in answer to your first question, I haven’t a clue as to why Mayhew would have this bill of lading.” I shrugged. “Perhaps he’s an officer in the Royal Engineers. They’re always slapping together a bridge or a road. The army could have hired this railway company to do some work. The colonel needed the bill of lading before he’d reimburse the Bradley Tool Company.”

“I also find that odd. Tools such as these are easily manufactured in India. Why would the army purchase them in England and ship them halfway around the world?”

I could see that French wanted to have a long chat about that bill of lading, probably to delay our pending discussion about the marchioness’s message and any bodily injury that might result therefrom. I wasn’t having that.

“Well, whatever the colonel’s interest in the bill of lading, I can’t see that it affects me one way or the other. I shall give it to him when he’s next in and inform him that I will not be acting as his agent in future.” I stuffed the sheet back in the envelope and dropped it on my desk. “Now, then. You were about to explain to me . . .”

Someone knocked at the front door. Bloody hell. Usually the clients were just leaving Lotus House at this hour of the morning; now they were clamouring to get in.

“Perhaps it’s Mayhew,” said French.

I marched to the door, prepared to chew off the ears of the unfortunate colonel.

But it was not Colonel Mayhew at the door. I pulled up short, taken aback at the sight of the three men gathered on my doorstep. They were rough brutes, and certainly not the type of clients who would cause me to run upstairs and roust three tarts out of their beds.

“Yes?” I asked in a brusque voice that implied I had better things to be doing, as indeed I did.

The chap closest to me tugged his battered bowler down over his ears. Then he closed the distance between us, hooked the toe of his boot behind my knee and shoved me in the chest. I toppled over like a skittle. My head bounced off the Carrara tiles of the foyer and I lay crumpled on the floor like yesterday’s washing. The bloke who’d walloped me spared me a glance as he stepped over me, his face as cold and smooth as the marble floor beneath my cheek.

Dear old French came riding to the rescue. My ears were ringing and there was a droning sound in my head that did not bode well for the future, but even so I heard his bellow of rage as he hurtled through the door from the study. My attacker was caught off guard. His hand moved to his pocket but if he had a weapon he had no time to draw it before French buried his head in the man’s stomach and sent him flying across the foyer into the wall. The house shook and flakes of plaster fluttered lazily to the floor.

For a moment there wasn’t a sound, save for my moans and the rasping breaths of the fellow against the wall. Then one of his companions shouted and French turned to meet the other two blokes as they rushed at him. They hit him high and low and the three of them staggered back into the study. I heard an almighty crash. The man French had felled shook his head, growled menacingly and clambered to his feet. He was a bit unsteady on his pins, but he staggered off to join the tussle in the study.

Now French is a capable fellow and knows a few tricks when it comes to wrestling with Russian agents and assassin types, and I had no doubt that on a good day he could hold his own even when the odds were stacked against him. But we’d been up all night, chasing anarchists and dodging bullets, and for good measure French had taken a dip in the Thames while pursuing one particularly pesky Slavic foe. He’d also had a glass or two of champagne. All that is by way of telling you that I didn’t think French would be in tip-top form today and might have his hands full with these three lads. Yes, he would need my help and I’d rush right in there and offer it to him just as soon as I could sit upright without being sick all over the floor.

This was proving difficult, and my first attempt was unsuccessful. Oh, dear. Mrs. Drinkwater would not be pleased. I gathered myself and made a second try and was relieved when I managed to roll up to a sitting position. My head swam and I closed my eyes against the wave of nausea that crashed over me. But I could tell from the noises emanating from the study that if I intended to be of any assistance at all, I’d best chivvy myself along and get in there. The sounds of battle were dying. I forced myself upright as I heard the sickening thump of a fist hitting flesh and a groan that could only have come from French.

I staggered through the door and took in the scene. French, as you might expect, was putting up a good fight but it was clear he was nearing the end. He’d landed a few blows, for one fellow’s nose was streaming gore and the chap who’d shoved me was wiping blood from his mouth. But poor French had his back to the fireplace and our assailants were closing in on him like a pack of wolves. I caught the glint of a knife blade and the sight galvanized me into action. I forgot my throbbing head and charged into battle. No one was going to skewer French, unless it was me. I had not forgotten he owed me an explanation, you see.


I hurdled an overturned chair, snatched the champagne bottle from its silver bucket and stormed the breach like the Forlorn Hope at Badajoz. Well, there was no breach, really, but I made one by smashing the bottle over the head of the bloke nearest me. He collapsed to the floor and the other two stopped pummeling French long enough to stare at me in openmouthed surprise, which gave French just enough time to grab a candlestick from the mantel and swing it in a vicious arc that terminated on the wrist of the fellow with the knife. He howled like a banshee and dropped the weapon. French swooped to the floor, reaching for it. But the cool fellow who’d toppled me kicked away the blade and brought a fist down on French’s head. French grunted once and folded faster than a piece of campaign furniture. He was out of this fight.

So was I. It was all I could do to stay on my feet and much as it pains me to admit this, I had nothing left. The bloke who’d pushed me down could see it as well. He stalked over to me, clearly upset that he’d wasted valuable time thrashing French and me.

“The envelope,” he demanded.

“What envelope?” I should have known better, but then I don’t take kindly to being attacked by strangers in my own house.

I received a backhanded slap across my mouth from the fellow. I staggered a step or two, then fell to my knees. My head spun. A drop of blood fell from my lip and splashed on the floor.

“On the desk,” I heard myself say, in a voice I hardly recognized. I like to think it was quivering with anger, but I suspect it was fear.

I followed the sounds of my attacker’s footsteps as he walked to the desk. I heard paper rustling.

Someone screamed. I turned my head and saw the gaggle of whores I’d been worried about earlier, crowding through the study door.

“Here!” shouted Clara Swansdown. “What are you lot up to?”

The ringleader barked instructions and he and his cronies made for the door. I wondered briefly whether the tarts would make a stand. God knows I wouldn’t have, so I didn’t blame them when they parted like the Red Sea, gaping at the thugs as they strode out of the study and through the front door. Colonel Mayhew’s envelope accompanied them.