India Black and the Gentleman Thief

FIFTEEN


Several very dull days passed, during which Vincent dropped in periodically to inform us that Welch had lost a pile of coins at cards or found a new whore and lavished her with trinkets. Neither French nor I enjoyed this forced inactivity. Nor did the presence of the marchioness add a festive note, as her presence prevented French and me from having the sort of conversation that had been lurking in the background like the proverbial elephant in the room.

The one bright spot in the whole affair was the day French stepped out for a couple of hours and returned with a wrapped parcel, which he deposited in my hands with a flourish.

“Courtesy of Her Majesty’s government,” he said, “but I took the liberty of selecting it.”

I stripped off the paper and found a wooden chest with the name “P. Webley & Son” engraved on a brass plaque on the lid. My heart beat faster. “I do hope this isn’t a piece of jewelry in here.”

French snorted, which he does from time to time, although there is nothing gentlemanly about it. “Would I dare bring you a rope of pearls? Go on, open it.”

I lifted the lid and beheld my new weapon. French had had the kindness to select another .442 Bulldog revolver, but this one put my previous weapon to shame. It was nickel-plated, elaborately engraved and sported thick ivory grips. The whole thing shone like a diamond necklace against the royal blue velvet interior of the box.

“Well done, French,” I said as a I checked the grip and spun the cylinder. I took aim at the Georgian candlestick on the mantel. “It’s a beauty.”

“Please limit your use of the weapon to villains, India.” He smiled mockingly, and I knew this was a peace offering.

Despite the distraction of my new revolver, which I carried around and practiced drawing and aiming at various mutts, I noticed that Vincent was looking pale and drawn, and that his leg was giving him trouble. He had a pronounced limp now and he winced when he sat down to bread and cheese in the kitchen. French badgered him to take a respite and leave most of the work to the gang of street Arabs Vincent called his friends. The runt, being a plucky chap, refused. But one night when the rain bucketed down and there was a chill in the air, he arrived at the kitchen door soaked to the skin and shaking uncontrollably. French ordered him to bed. I expected fireworks but Vincent must have been feeling bloody awful for he acquiesced readily enough, provided he was permitted to venture out once more to arrange matters with his cohorts.

“I’ll go with you,” said French. “The boys will have to come to me with their reports.”

Vincent coughed and nodded, and the two wrapped themselves up and vanished into the storm. I sat at the table and nursed a whisky while I waited for their return. Oh, I could have made myself useful, but the marchioness had assumed command and was barking orders at Fergus and Mrs. Drinkwater to lay a fire in Vincent’s room and to prepare a nourishing broth for the boy.

“I hope the lad will be alright. Shame on ye and French for makin’ him walk the streets for days on end.”

“Vincent never does anything he doesn’t want to do. Besides, we had little choice. Welch knows French and me and could easily have identified us.”

“Ye’d have thought the prime minister of Great Britain might have more than two agents workin’ for him. Why didn’t ye ask for help?”

I didn’t have a good answer to the question. In fact, the thought of requesting assistance from Dizzy had never occurred to me. No doubt he would have provided additional men to help shadow Welch, but French, Vincent and I were used to acting alone. I suppose we thought we could handle just about anything, having had some success at capturing Russian spies and saving the Queen and dismantling an anarchist operation.


I elected to change the topic rather than respond to the marchioness’s question. It’s a tactic I’ve learned from politicians.

“Shouldn’t Vincent have a hot water bottle for his feet?”

“Aye. I’ll see to it, as ye seem to have nothin’ better to do than drink whisky and twiddle yer thumbs.”

An hour later French and Vincent returned with Vincent wobbling into the kitchen on unsteady legs, supported by French. He summoned Fergus and together they carried Vincent up the stairs. The marchioness slammed drawers and opened cupboards until she found a ladle and filled a bowl with the broth Fergus had prepared. She took it upstairs herself.

French came down and slumped into a chair. He’d removed his outer garments, but his boots and trousers were sodden. I poured him a large glass of whisky.

“How’s Vincent?”

“He has a fever. If it’s no better in the morning, we’ll summon the doctor. Fergus and Aunt Margaret are looking after him.”

“Fergus is an efficient bloke. He’ll get Vincent up on his pins in no time. And if he doesn’t, the marchioness will drive Vincent mad and he’ll recover just to escape her clutches.”

French laughed. “She’s an indomitable soul, isn’t she?”

“That’s one way to describe her. Did you meet Vincent’s friends?”

“He introduced me to his lieutenant, a lad named Tommy. My word, he was a wretched little thing. No shoes and a shirt that was nothing more than holes held together by a few rags. He seems bright, though.”

“He’ll have spent his life dodging villains and do-gooders. Trailing an oblivious army captain won’t be a challenge.”

As I predicted, and I am rarely wrong, it was not. French set up headquarters in the kitchen, where he received a steady stream of odiferous urchins with reports of Welch’s location and activities. The youngsters left clutching a few coins and French spent his time writing down copious notes, trying to discern a pattern in Welch’s movements and jotting down descriptions of Welch’s associates. Occasionally, French would dart off to some mysterious destination where, he informed me, he checked the descriptions of Welch’s contacts against the sketches of the tsar’s agents known to be working in Britain. It was just possible that if a Russian spy was operating in Ganipur, then one of the tsar’s men might be keeping an eye on the weapons’ transfers here in England. If the captain had any direct communication with an agent of the tsar, then we could take Welch into custody and exert some leverage, in the proper British manner, of course. These forays proved futile, however, and we were all feeling a bit down at the mouth about the state of affairs when our fortunes changed.

It was a quiet afternoon at Lotus House. The marchioness was upstairs reading the Bible to Vincent, poor little blighter, and Fergus and Mrs. Drinkwater were mucking about in the kitchen while French sat at the deal table there and drank cup after cup of strong tea. I was beginning to wonder about the marchioness’s manservant and my cook. They’d been at loggerheads for weeks and now they were as cozy as two old cats. Fergus was dishing out advice on how to make a proper tart and Mrs. Drinkwater was actually listening, staring intently with a queer expression on her face as the wall-eyed cove sifted flour. I’d only ever seen her look that way at a bottle of gin. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the old lush had been struck by Cupid’s arrow.

I had retired to the study for some blissful, solitary amusement of my own: relishing a glass of brandy and reviewing my account books without the marchioness leaning over my shoulder. I was pondering the question of whether it was lawful to turf out your aunt and her retinue, or merely immoral—neither situation giving me much pause, if I am truthful—when French rushed into the study, his hair standing on end and his eyes bright with excitement.

“Get your revolver, India. We’re off.”

The prospect of gunplay is a wonderful tonic. I snapped out of my lethargy and retrieved my new Webley Bulldog from my desk. I popped open the cylinder and rotated it. It was fully loaded as I had left it but it never hurts to inspect one’s equipment. I wouldn’t have put it past the marchioness to remove all the bullets from the gun after my various threats against her collies. My precautions were unnecessary, however, and I looked forward to the opportunity to test out the revolver, preferably on the chap who had carved up Colonel Mayhew.

“Where are we going?” I asked, as I filled a pouch with extra cartridges.

“I’ve had word from Tommy. He followed Welch to Waterloo Station and Welch boarded a train to Redhill, in Surrey, not half an hour ago.”

“Let’s hope he’s going to meet the man who’s pulling the strings. I shall be cross if the captain is off to some local hunt.”

“Whatever the purpose of his journey, we’re going to follow him. It’s the only aberration we’ve seen in his schedule.”

We rushed upstairs so that French could inform Vincent of our plans. He wanted to come with us, naturally, but French dissuaded him by asking him to stay at Lotus House in the event we needed him to deliver a message to Dizzy. The marchioness demanded that we keep her informed and I lied and said that we would. I fetched a hat and a purse and deposited the Webley and my spare ammunition in it. Then we were off to Waterloo Station.

The station was a nightmare to navigate, as it always is. Fine ladies who’d come to the city for a day’s shopping traipsed along the platforms, trailed by porters juggling armfuls of parcels. Shop assistants and office clerks jostled for position on the outward-bound trains, headed back to their homes in the suburbs. Middle-class families negotiated the crowd and aristocratic types lounged about with their luggage piled high, guarded by an army of servants. The clamour was deafening, as the conductors shouted and the trains came huffing into the station with their brakes squealing.

French was in a fever, worried that there would be no more trains to Surrey until tomorrow, but as luck would have it there was one leaving within the hour. French bought tickets for us in the first-class carriage, an action of which I heartily approved. If one must chase villains, one should do so in style.

It was an hour’s journey to Redhill and we spent it in the company of a vicar and his wife, which meant that French and I were unable to discuss Welch, the arms thefts, Lady Daphne or any other topics of interest. We were limited to tame subjects such as the weather, the novels of Mrs. Gaskell, spaniels, the Old Testament, fossils and gardening. The vicar and his wife were enthusiastic about all of the foregoing. I need hardly say that I was not, but I summoned the fortitude to smile and look interested and to interject a few comments where appropriate. French professed a fondness for Euhoplites ammonites, lying bastard. Well, I assume he’s lying but perhaps there really is a rose of that name, or an ancient tribe of the Hebrew race.

We exited the train at the small station at Redhill. I was greatly relieved that the vicar and his wife were traveling on to Newhaven for I fear that if they’d lived in the Redhill area a dinner invitation would have been issued and I’d have been forced to draw the Webley.

We waited until the rest of the passengers had cleared the station and then wandered around the platform, looking bewildered. After we’d performed that pantomime for a few minutes, French marched up to the ticket kiosk.


“Pardon me. My wife and I were supposed to be met here by a friend. He hasn’t arrived and I wondered if you might have seen him earlier.” He described Captain Welch.

The ticket chappie didn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir. I’ve seen your friend. He arrived on the four o’clock from London and hired a carriage.”

“Hired a carriage, you say?” French looked befuddled. “Now where would he be going?”

The ticket chappie shrugged. “Don’t know. But you can ask Isaac over there. ’Twas his rig your friend hired.”

A venerable fellow with a seamed face lounged on the ground with his back propped against the wheel of a dilapidated carriage. The bony nag between the traces cropped grass and twitched his ears at our approach. The driver knocked the dead ashes from his pipe and fumbled in his pocket for his tobacco pouch.

“Would you folks be needing a carriage?” he asked.

“Perhaps,” said French. “We were to meet a friend here. I understand that he hired you.” He hadn’t finished his description of Welch before Isaac was nodding.

“He did.”

French turned to me. “That’s deuced odd. Welch said he’d wait at the station for us.”

“He must have changed his mind,” I said, playing my part.

“He could have sent a telegram,” French fretted. “I suppose he’s gone on ahead and wants us to follow.” He addressed Isaac. “Could you drive us to the captain’s destination? It seems we are to meet him there, rather than here.”

“Aye, I can take you to Hilltop Farm. It’s out by Salfords, but I reckon you know that.”

“Mmm,” French murmured noncommittally.

“Quite a distance,” said Isaac around his pipe. “Reckon it’s three miles or more. That’ll cost.”

“Of course,” said French.

Isaac looked us up and down, taking in French’s tailored clothes and my own elegant self and then named a sum that would have made the most hardened blackmailer blush. French agreed to it without blinking, though I daresay he’d have a hard time prying the reimbursement out of those niggling clerks in Whitehall. As the sun was sinking from sight, our driver/extortionist lit the lamps on either side of the carriage before clucking at the horse and slapping his rump with the reins.

Our route took us through the countryside for a short while. As it was rapidly growing dark, I can’t describe the scenery well but I suspect it had all the virtues of the countryside: the smell of manure, muddy farmyards and vicious geese. We trundled across a wooden bridge and into the small village of Salfords and approached a public house called the Duke of Wellington, from which light and laughter spilled into the night. It was a substantial establishment and I thought longingly of a stiff drink and a bite to eat, but Isaac snapped his whip and we surged past. We drove on for a quarter of an hour. The lights from distant farmhouses dotted the landscape. We were at the back of beyond by now, and I was feeling some trepidation about following Welch into this dark and remote region. London is dangerous, but nothing makes my skin prickle like quiet roads and isolated farms. At least in the city I know where danger lurks. I’m out of my element among the cabbages and cows.

Isaac hauled in the reins and the carriage slowed and turned into a graveled drive flanked by two tall stone columns.

French leaned forward. “You can set us down here. It’s a fine evening for a stroll. We’ll walk the rest of the way.”

Isaac gave him a look I expect he usually reserved for the village idiot, and accepted his fare with a shrug. We waited until he’d turned the carriage and rattled off down the road toward Redhill.

“We’ve certainly made ourselves conspicuous,” I said. “We’ve no luggage and we’ve just gotten out of a perfectly good carriage to stretch our legs and take the air. The story will be all over the county by morning.”

“It can’t be helped,” said French. “I assume there’s a house at the end of this drive and that Welch is in it. We could hardly allow Isaac to drop us at the front door. We need to be cautious, India. We saw what these fellows did to Mayhew and they’re liable to do the same to us if they catch us wandering around.”

The reminder of the carnage in Mayhew’s room sent a chill through my bones. I grasped French’s coattail and we set off, skirting the drive by traversing an adjoining field. The pasture was dotted with trees and thick with grass. My skirt dragged over the turf, producing a swishing sound that could be heard in the next county. Low clouds scudded over the sky, occasionally obscuring the nearly full moon that shed a bit of light over the countryside. A breeze had kicked up, smelling of rain. I do not enjoy the elements, and was considering informing French that I would wait for him at the Duke of Wellington when he hissed sharply and dropped to a crouch. I followed suit, craning my neck around his solid figure to locate the reason for his wariness. He touched my arm and pointed ahead of us. I dutifully peered in the direction he indicated. A pinprick of light appeared, faded to a tiny red dot, then flared again.

“A guard,” French whispered. “Having a smoke. Let’s avoid him.”

We set off at an angle, bent over at the waist to lower our profiles against the night sky. We crept along like this for some distance until we had flanked the guard. He’d been stationed on the drive, some distance from the house, but now I could see a large structure looming ahead of us. It was a two-storey house of brick, squat and ugly, with a tiled roof. A low verandah ran across the entire length of the house. From the number of windows, I estimated there were only two rooms on either side of the double front door situated at the center of the facade. Each of the rooms nearest the main door had a set of French doors facing the verandah. Curtains had been drawn at the windows, but thin lines of yellow lamplight indicated that the first room on the left as you entered the house was occupied. The remainder of the house was dark, and not a little foreboding. An ornamental hedge in need of clipping ran parallel to the front of the house. The gravel drive ran through an opening in the hedge and expanded into a large courtyard of chipped stone.

French put his lips to my ear. “There may be other guards. You go left and I’ll go right. We’ll meet on the other side, just opposite of where we are now. Have your Bulldog ready.”

I counted this as a significant and positive development in our relationship. Not so very long ago, French would have insisted that he conduct the reconnaissance alone. I was pleased to be deemed capable of creeping about in the darkness looking for criminals.

French drew his weapon, and I saw that he had replaced his Webley Boxer with a new one. The pistol was chambered for .577 cartridges, which are about the size of your average railroad spike. The bloody thing could take down an elephant. The recoil from the shot could take down the shooter. I’d shot the gun once, at a Russian spy, and damned near concussed myself.

Bending low, I scuttled to the shelter of the ornamental hedge and surveyed the grounds. With the light emanating from the windows, the figure of a sentinel would be outlined against the house, that is unless of course the chap was hunkered down somewhere out of sight. But I had to assume that any sentry would be up and patrolling the area for interlopers rather than having a kip while he waited for them, meaning us, to come to him.

I gripped the handle of my revolver and proceeded at a stealthy pace, using the hedge as a backdrop to hide my silhouette. The hedge would also hide me from the view of the guard down the drive, in the event he turned around and looked at the house. It was slow work and nerve-wracking to boot. I’d slide a few steps forward and pause, straining my eyes as I searched the inky shadows for a silent form. My shoulders and neck ached with tension. I hadn’t forgotten the butcher’s job our opponents had done on poor Colonel Mayhew, and I half expected a blade at my throat at any moment.


I edged around the corner and found myself at the back of the house. There was another gravel courtyard here, containing a stone drinking trough for the farm stock, and an assortment of dilapidated outbuildings. A soft whicker emanated from one of them and I tiptoed across the crushed stone to find that one building was in use as a stable. Two horses in the stalls lifted their heads when I poked mine inside, and I saw a carriage covered by a canvas tarp to keep out the dust. I slithered out and crept warily through a shed (the prior occupants of which had been, by the smell inside, chickens) and another small building that might have been a smokehouse, based on the acrid odor of old soot.

I will confess that my journey was ponderous and by the time I’d ascertained that there was no one lurking in the gloom and had sidled up to our rendezvous, French was wound as tight as a spring.

“What took you so long?” he snapped.

“I was being thorough. I hope you didn’t miss anything in your rush to meet me,” I snapped back.

French snorted, which I thought a feeble reply. “I didn’t see anyone. Did you?

“No. It looks as if there’s only the one bloke down the drive. There’s a team of horses in the stable and a carriage,” I reported.

“Let’s see if we can find a way into the house,” said French. “Only one of the rooms at the front appears occupied.”

We crouched behind the stone trough for a bit, to be sure that our approach had not been noticed. Have I mentioned how much I detest waiting? I’d be very pleased with this secret agent business if only it involved shooting Russians and did not require that I hang about watching people or places, with no dinner and no means of amusement. After three hours or so (alright, it wasn’t that long, but it surely felt like it), French deemed it safe to try the windows at the back of the house. All were locked. There was a door too, which likely led into the kitchen, but as it also was bolted we could not confirm our hypothesis.

“Confound it,” said French, when we’d exhausted the last of our possibilities. “There’s got to be a way in.”

“Shall we try the front?”

French sucked in his breath. “It’s too risky. What if the guard walks up the drive, or turns round and sees us?”

“Our only other option then is to wait until whoever is in there leaves the house and follow him, or them. But we could wait here for days.”

French hesitated, but the idea of staking out the house held as little appeal for him as it did for me. “I had hoped to avoid this, but we’ll have to break in. The noise may alert the guard or people in the house. If it does, then dash out of here and head north for a distance. Then cut back west. You’ll reach the main road and you can walk to the Duke of Wellington. I’ll meet you there.”

“An excellent plan, French. Which way is north?”

“Bloody hell.” He stabbed a finger at the fields behind the house.

“So west would lie in that direction?” I held out a hand uncertainly. “But isn’t the road behind us? Wouldn’t that be south? If I go north and then west, how will I cross a road that’s south of us?”

“Because the damned road curves. Didn’t you notice how we changed directions as we drove?”

“You mean to tell me that you did?”

“Naturally.”

“Well, I’ll be hanged if I know which way is north or south and I’m damned sure that if I’m being chased over the fields like a bloody fox that I won’t remember which is which. I have a much simpler plan. If we are pursued, I shall just run until I’m exhausted. Then I’ll cower in a ditch until dawn and head for the first farmhouse I see and beg to be taken to the nearest station. I’ll meet you back at Lotus House. Agreed?”

“We’re wasting time,” said French. “Just do what you like. You always do, anyway.”

“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said all night.”

We crept back to the last window we had tried, which, being as far from the presumably occupied room at the front of the house as was possible, represented our best chance of entering undetected. French extracted his knife from his boot and inserted it into the frame, trying to pry open the latch. The grating of the blade against the metal fastening sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet of the countryside. My ears were pricked for any noise from within the house. French worked the blade back and forth. I heard a creaking noise, followed by a crack that to me sounded as loud as a gunshot. French and I froze.

“What happened?” I whispered.

“The frame is rotten. I’ve split the wood.”

We waited for what seemed an eternity, but the house remained quiet and the sentinel down the drive did not come to investigate.

“I believe I can dig out enough of that frame to get to the lock,” said French. He probed the wood with his blade, flicking small pieces of it away with each movement of his hand. It can’t have been very noisy, for the timber was old and soft, but each time French dug the blade into the frame it sounded to my ears as if a corps of lumbermen was felling oaks.

There was a snapping sound and French grunted in satisfaction. “Just a few more minutes and I’ll have this lock out.”

He was as good as his word and in no time at all he had pulled the lock from the flaking wood and set it on the ground. He grasped the sash and pushed upward gently, and the window slid open—not, I would note, as silently as we would have desired, but with much rasping and shuddering. This necessitated another wait, but finally French was satisfied that we remained undetected and levered himself up and over the window ledge. He was gone for a few moments sussing out the situation, but returned soon to offer me his hand. I wished I’d had time to change into my trousers, for scrambling through a window encumbered by a full skirt is deuced difficult.

We were in the kitchen. I could see the bulk of a cooking stove against one wall and a row of cabinets against another. Crockery, pots and pans were heaped on a table in the center of the room. A small wooden table and four chairs occupied one end of the room. The air in the room was fusty, and smelled of stale food.

French put a hand on my arm and whispered. “Through the door is a dining room, and then the entrance hall. There appear to be four rooms on each side of the main hall and I assume the same number of rooms upstairs. Welch is in a room at the front of the house with another man. I could only get a glimpse in there. It appears to be used as a library. I don’t think there’s anyone else in the house, but I didn’t have time to check the rooms upstairs. I don’t see any lights up there but keep your eyes open just the same.”

I tugged my Bulldog from my purse. French took my hand firmly in his and we negotiated our way out of the kitchen and into the dining room. When my eyes adjusted to the dark, I could see that the furniture was covered in sheets. This room also smelled musty, and there was an air of disuse and neglect about the place. We navigated around the furniture and reached the entry hall. French poked his head around the door frame and then pulled me closer, gesturing for me to have a look for myself. Directly in front of me I saw the side of a set of stairs leading from the ground floor to the first. The space beneath it had been sealed off and there was a small door into a cupboard. I reckoned the space would be used for storage. Turning my head toward the left, I could see a white sheet draped over a large dresser or chest. Ten feet beyond the chest lay the front door to the house. Craning my neck farther out of the dining room entrance, I could see a set of double doors between the chest and the main entrance. The doors were closed. I could tell that because a thin wafer of yellow light issued from the room French had referred to as the library. The door to this room, which stood directly opposite the set of closed doors, was cracked open a few inches. I heard muffled conversation.


French touched my hand and we left the safety of the dining room and crept into the entrance hall, edging closer to the library. I winced as a floorboard squeaked under my weight. We stopped short of the open door and huddled against the wall. There was a lively discussion taking place in that room, but the occupants were obviously sticklers for privacy for they were speaking in hushed tones. Once I heard Welch’s voice raised in protest but someone shushed him peremptorily and the palaver continued. I could hear only snatches of the exchange. I heard the words “weapons” and “shipment,” but the heavy oak door effectively deadened most of the sound from the room. Still, some of the tone came through and from it I gauged that Welch was the inferior in the room. It was frustrating not to be able to hear what was being said, but short of sashaying in and seizing the men at gunpoint . . .

Well, why not? I nudged French and held up the Bulldog so that he could see it in the faint light filtering through the edges of the door. I mimed opening the door and charging in with gun in hand. French frowned and shook his head.

“Why not?” I said against his ear.

“No proof,” he whispered into mine.

I’ve no problem with securing evidence, but I do think it somewhat overrated as an effective means of solving a problem. What the devil were we doing here, if we weren’t going to take Welch and his compatriots prisoners and present them to Dizzy wrapped in a bow? We might never have another chance like this. I fumed and blustered (as well as one can when one must remain silent) and French waved me off and put his eye to the crack in the door, ostentatiously ignoring me.

A chair grated on the floor and French jerked back his head. He seized my arm and we slunk away down the corridor to the dining room. French pulled the door behind us, leaving an opening just wide enough for us to peer out into the entry hall. I had to crouch under French’s arm to see, but I had a good view. Yellow light flooded the hall as Welch opened the door. He was dressed in a dark suit and carrying a grey bowler.

“Then I shall hear from you soon?” He turned the hat in his hand nervously.

“You shall. In the meantime, you must keep your head.” The voice was a honeyed tenor with the faintest of accents. “Those two who are nosing around have nothing on you and cannot tie you to the thefts. As long as you remain silent, you are safe.”

“I’m glad you think so, but I feel damned uneasy about the matter.” The captain clapped the bowler on his head.

“You shall contact me if the investigation gets any closer?” his companion asked. He stepped into the light. From my vantage point I caught a glimpse of a slender old coot, with a wrinkled face and a slight stoop. One of those Levantine types, I said to myself, for his skin had an olive tone and his eyes looked almost black in the dim light. He was a foreigner, which would account for the accent I’d detected.

Welch laughed, but there was no humour in it. “Yes, I will contact you. In fact, I’ll be on your doorstep. You did say you could smuggle me out of England on a moment’s notice, didn’t you?”

“I can arrange all sorts of things,” said the older man. “Transportation poses no problem. Rest assured, Captain Welch. I shall look after you.” He clapped a hand on Welch’s shoulder. “Speaking of transportation, how do you plan to return to London?”

“There’s an inn down the road. I’ll walk there and spend the night, then catch the first train in the morning.”

“There is a train back to town tonight, leaving at nine o’clock. I shall have Dudley harness the horses and drive you to the station. You should make it with time to spare.”

“That’s very good of you,” said Welch.

“It is my pleasure.”

The two men shook hands and walked out to the verandah facing the gravel drive. I heard the older man call to the guard, Dudley, and direct him to make haste and see that the captain made the last train to the city. I heard the crunch of footsteps as Dudley walked off quickly to the rear of the house, making for the stables. The older man offered Welch a cigar and they smoked in companionable silence until the clatter of hooves and the jingle of harness heralded the arrival of Dudley in the brougham. Welch thanked his host and climbed into the carriage. French and I waited quietly while the sound of the brougham disappeared down the drive. The slender fellow entered the house and returned to the room where he’d met Welch. I heard his chair creak as he settled into it. The faint smell of cigar smoke reached my nostrils.

French pulled at my sleeve and I stood aside as he eased open the dining room door. We crept stealthily away, quiet as two Apaches looking for scalps. I didn’t take an easy breath until we were well away from the building and were hunkered down in the deep shadows cast by a line of trees.

“I suppose we’ve improved our skills at breaking and entering, but I’ll be damned if we accomplished anything else tonight.” I tend to get fractious when I’m hungry, and I was starving.

“We’ve confirmed that Welch is involved in the thefts although we haven’t a shred of evidence to prove it,” French said. “Frankly, I’m not terribly worried about rounding up Welch. He’s a mere puppet. The chap we want is that foreign fellow back there.”

“We could have picked up both of them tonight.”

“I know that you’re itching to haul out that Bulldog, but as I said, we’ve no proof against either of them.”

“Then we’re no further along than when we left London. And I’ve missed my dinner.”

“We have made progress tonight. We have a new lead to follow. We’ll walk to the Duke of Wellington and I shall buy you a meal. We’ll catch the first train back to London in the morning and I’ll make arrangements to watch the house and our mysterious foreigner.”

“Are you sure this man and Dudley are actually living in the house? It may only serve as a meeting place. Dudley could return from dropping Welch at the station and he and the old chap could be gone before dawn. As much as I’d like to eat, I think we should stay here and watch the place.”

French thought it over. “You’re right. We’ll stay.”

“The next time we dash out of London, remind me to fill a flask with whisky. It’s going to be a long night.”

Our revised plan required that we return to the house, so reluctantly we left the shelter of the trees and cautiously retraced our steps. We settled ourselves among some rhododendron bushes. From here we could see the drive and the front entrance to the house. It was growing chilly and a fine mist had started to fall. I cursed Colonel Mayhew, Martini-Henrys, Captain Welch, all foreigners and French. I suppose there are rules of etiquette governing how ladies are to sit upon the ground, perhaps when they are at a picnic beside a stream on a sunny day, with servants in attendance to hand out finger sandwiches and such, but I wasn’t in a mind to follow any rules. I just plopped down on my bum, drew up my knees, wrapped my arms around them and rested my check on my arms. My stomach sounded like Mount Vesuvius just before it blew and I’d developed a headache.

There was a moment of excitement when Dudley returned. French and I both sat up straight, our discomfort forgotten. The guard did not stop at the house but drove around to the stables and we heard the distinct noises of harness being removed and hung up and the stall doors being shut. Dudley swung into view and crossed over to the verandah, entering the door without knocking. Obviously, the men weren’t leaving tonight. That fact was confirmed a quarter hour later when the lights were extinguished.


“Gone to bed,” French muttered.

“I wonder if there’s any food in the house. I’m tempted to sneak in and see if there’s a crust in the larder.”

“If they’re still inside in the morning, I’ll go to the village and send a telegram to the prime minister. I’ll bring you back something to eat.”

“Why can’t I walk to the village?”

“You’re a vain woman, India. I can’t imagine that you’ll want to go anywhere in a stained dress and with your hair in a tangle.”

He had a point. I acquiesced to his plan, though it meant he’d be wolfing down some clabber well before I got my hands on any. I added a comb to the list of items I needed to bring on our next outing.

The hours passed slowly. I tried a number of tricks to stay awake: counting to one thousand (I wouldn’t recommend that as it had a pronounced soporific effect), devising schemes for ejecting the marchioness and contemplating the contents of my next meal. I gave that last one up as it was too painful and finally decided that it didn’t much matter if I fell asleep as our quarry surely would be driving the brougham if they left and the sound would wake me. I was just nodding off when someone stuck the barrel of a revolver in my ear.

“Don’t say a word,” a voice hissed.

Next to me French’s head jerked. He must have been dozing as well.

“If you’ve got a weapon, take it out slowly and toss it behind you.”

French was turning round.

“Don’t move,” said the voice.

“Homer?”

“French?”