India Black and the Gentleman Thief

NINETEEN


I’ve never had the vapours before, but I came damned close during the exercise of loading humans, canines and luggage into the three hansoms and the wagon we’d hired to take us to King’s Cross station so that we might catch the train to Perth. The marchioness demanded that Vincent, Maggie and some of the pups accompany her in one cab, while French and I were to occupy another and Fergus and the remaining dogs were to ride in the third. I did my best to impose order on the process, but after having my directions countermanded at various times by French, Fergus, the marchioness and Vincent, and completely ignored by Maggie and the other collies, I finally admitted defeat and retreated to the pavement. I was joined there by approximately half the London population come to watch the free circus. When the final stray pup had been rounded up and the last chest lashed into place on the precariously tottering pile of luggage on the wagon, I deigned to join the traveling party. Mrs. Drinkwater and the bints came out to see us off, ululating like a group of Egyptian women at a funeral. I’ve always forbidden any embraces or displays of affection, so the tarts restricted themselves to wringing my hand and expressing their intentions to abide by the rules, which, I need hardly mention, I didn’t believe for one minute. Then the treacherous wenches fell on the marchioness, weeping copiously and demanding she return soon and bring the puppies and generally behaving as if their dear old granny was leaving town. The marchioness had a tear in her eye and looked as sad as if one of her favourite dogs had been run over by the mail coach. It was a damned good thing I was getting her out of here or I’d have had a palace coup on my hands.

We were standing in a knot on the pavement trying to extract ourselves from the clutches of my employees when a comely young fellow with mild blue eyes walked up briskly and doffed his hat to me.

“Miss Black?”

I recognized the amiable face under the cloud of blond curls. “Mr. Brown, how nice to see you again.”

French detached himself from the spectacle and wandered over. “Hello, Brown.”

“Hello, French.”

It was no surprise the two knew each other as they both worked for the prime minister. I’d made Brown’s acquaintance a few weeks ago, when Dizzy had dispatched him to Lotus House to plant some information among the anarchists.

“What brings you here?” asked French.

“I’ve a packet from the prime minister for you.” Brown handed it to French and I looked over his shoulder as he opened it. He pulled out a handful of papers and thumbed through them. He glanced up at Brown.

“What is this?”

“They are tickets, sir, for Reverend Edward Campbell and his wife, Rachel, and for their ward, Vincent Smith. You’ll be sailing tonight on the Castle Mail Packet Company’s steamship, the Dunrobin Castle, bound for Durban, in South Africa.”

“I can see that they are tickets, Brown. I meant, what is this about?”

“In a word, sir? Zulus.”