India Black and the Gentleman Thief

FOUR


The lads at the War Office were stupefied to learn that Colonel Mayhew had joined the great heavenly choir and henceforth would not be spending the Sabbath at his desk down the hall. French spared the youngsters the details of the killing, which was just as well as I didn’t have the heart to hear them myself, but the word “murder” sent them into a swoon and it was difficult prying any information from them. I had never seen French in his role as major, and I confess to feeling pleasantly stimulated by his stoic demeanour and air of command. If he’d only been wearing a uniform I might not have been able to restrain myself, but as he was still wearing his crumpled suit from the night before his virtue was safe for the moment.

While I’d been thinking about how splendid French would appear in the No. 1 Dress Uniform of the Forty-second Regiment of Foot, he’d been informing the clerks that we would be in the colonel’s office. I fear for England, I really do, for if a major in street clothes and a whore can waltz into the War Office and sift through a fellow’s belongings with nary an objection, our country’s secrets might as well be published in the newspapers. It must have been French’s plummy vowels that paved the way for us. We took advantage of the lax security and hurried off to Mayhew’s compartment to plunder his desk.

The colonel’s office was fastidious. There was a pile of official documents stacked neatly on one corner, a writing pad perfectly flush with the edge of the desk and a pen lined up precisely above the center point of the pad. I wondered if we’d find a ruler in the colonel’s effects.

“Hurry,” said French. “It might occur to those young idiots out there that we have no business in here.” He picked up the stack of papers and paged through them rapidly. I opened a drawer and discovered an astonishing variety of forms.

“How does the army find time to fight?” I asked. “There’s enough paper here to bury a regiment, after it had been properly equipped, armed and fed, of course.” I contemplated a life spent counting buttons and bayonets and shuddered.

“I say, what do you think you’re doing? This office is restricted.” The speaker was a diffident, owlish fellow with pale blue eyes that bulged disconcertingly in a round, flushed face. He sported the insignia of a captain on his sleeve.

French straightened from his perusal of the colonel’s desk. “I’m Major French of the Forty-second, seconded to the prime minister’s office. Who are you?”

French’s recitation of his credentials had had the desired effect. The captain blinked.

“I am Captain Bernard Welch. In the absence of Colonel Mayhew, I am in charge of this department today.”

“Well, Captain, you may not have heard the news yet but you will soon. Colonel Mayhew is dead. I was asked to look into the matter.” French was running a pretty bluff, but as he had no official standing in the investigation of the colonel’s death I figured it wouldn’t be long before someone who did would meander along and start asking difficult questions.

Captain Welch’s mouth had flopped open, almost resting on his chest. He stared at French in disbelief. “Dead? What has happened? Has there been an accident?”

“The colonel has been murdered.”

I hoped the rest of our military lads were made of sterner stuff, for the captain swayed and had to grasp the back of a chair for support. “Good Lord,” he whispered. “Murdered, you say? When? Why?” His flushed cheeks had grown pale.

“He was killed last night, or early this morning. It’s your last question that interests me. You say you’re in charge here.” French brandished a sheaf of paper from Mayhew’s desk. “I gather that the colonel was responsible for the supply of provisions to our troops.”

The captain swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

“And you work for him?”

“I do, sir. I mean, I did. I handled all the correspondence, draughted orders for his signature, traveled with him on depot inspections and that sort of thing.” The captain was regaining his composure as he spoke. “I do apologize, sir, but I must ask you again what you are doing here. You said you represented the prime minister. Why isn’t this matter being handled by Scotland Yard, or military authorities? And you, ma’am? May I ask why you are here with the major?”

French smiled approvingly. “I can see you’re an astute fellow. You must have served the colonel well. You’re quite right to wonder why I’m here, and why I am accompanied by this young lady. Her presence is an accident. Mine is not. But I’m afraid I cannot tell you anything more about the prime minister’s interest in the colonel’s death. A matter of state security, you understand, which I am not at liberty to disclose. Scotland Yard will be along directly to sort out the criminal matter. In the meantime, I must ask you some questions.”

It’s a good thing the army spends a fair amount of time hammering the duty of obedience into its recruits, for French’s crisp tone and assumption of authority overrode Captain Welch’s suspicions.

“What can you tell me of Colonel Mayhew? Was he a solitary man? Did he have friends here at the War Office?”

The captain gave that a think. “He was a quiet fellow, sir. I know he lived alone, because he mentioned his landlady once or twice. Just in passing, sir, nothing inappropriate. The colonel was a great one for the rules, sir. God help the sergeant who turned in a jumbled report, or didn’t complete a form properly.”

“And his friends?”

“None that I know of, sir, but then I wouldn’t. I saw him here at the office, that’s all.”

“Was he a pleasant man? A difficult man?”

The captain shrugged. “Pleasant enough. As long as you did your job he had very little to say to you. If you didn’t, well, the colonel could have a sharp tongue.”

“A professional soldier, then, and not a sociable fellow.”

“I would say that sums up the colonel perfectly.”

You’ll notice that I hadn’t said a word up until this point, and didn’t plan on saying any after this point either. I could have peppered the young fellow with questions of my own, but I reckoned that French’s rank would be more effective in eliciting answers from Captain Welch. Mind you, I believe I should receive some credit for having the wit to stay out of the proceedings.

French removed his hunter from his pocket and checked the time. He knew as well as I that Inspector Allen could arrive at any minute and finding the two of us here conducting our own investigation might annoy the chap.

“Had you noticed any change in the colonel’s demeanour recently?”

A frown of puzzlement crossed the captain’s face. “What do you mean, sir?”

“Was he upset or angry about anything?”

“He didn’t appear to be.”

“Was he apprehensive, or nervous?”

“No, sir. He was just the same as usual.”

“Had he argued with anyone recently? Another officer, perhaps?”

The captain blushed at the prospect of gossiping about his superiors. “No, sir.”

“Did he seem at all afraid or fearful?”

The captain looked shocked at the idea of the stolid Colonel Mayhew succumbing to fright. “Oh, no. He was not the type to scare easily.”

French looked impatient and I could hardly blame him. We hadn’t learned a thing from Captain Welch and we needed to vacate the premises.


“Thank you, Captain. That will do. I’ll finish looking through the colonel’s desk and then we’ll find our own way out.”

Captain Welch blushed pinkly. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t let you do that. Not without proper authorization.”

“You’d like a note from Lord Beaconsfield himself?”

I feared French’s sarcasm would be wasted on the earnest captain, and I was proved right. Though his blush deepened, the young officer braced himself and said, “I’m afraid that if there is any question about your jurisdiction, sir, I shall have to refer you to my superior officer. You do understand, Major, that I must follow protocol, especially in the matter of murder.”

We were beaten and we knew it. French chose not to bully the lad and I was glad of that; I do feel it’s demeaning to bluster when you’ve been soundly thumped. We withdrew with an air of having gotten what we came for, leaving the captain staring after us, and beat a hasty retreat down the back stairs and out through the rear door.

“That was not our most successful foray,” I said as we hurried down the pavement in search of a hansom.

“We at least learned the extent of the colonel’s responsibilities. If he’s assigned to the quartermaster general then he had his fingers in moving supplies, some of which might be transferred pursuant to a bill of lading.”

“But as you pointed out, the tools that were shipped could have been purchased in India. Why buy them here? And why single out that one bill of lading? And why send it to Lotus House?”

“There are too many questions. Let’s summon a cab and get cracking. I want to find some answers.”

? ? ?

We returned to Lotus House to find that Vincent had dropped by for a visit and was dozing on my sofa. Now I am fond of Vincent, though I would never admit as much to him, but the lad hasn’t bathed in a very long time (if ever) and smells stronger than a donkey’s carcass left to rot in the Nubian sun. You will understand, then, why I rapped on the sole of his boots with the poker and ordered him off my furniture. He woke with a yawn and feigned indifference to the rather discourteous means I had employed to relocate him. I reflected that the next time I needed to dislodge Vincent, I’d whack him on the head. He may have saved my life on occasion (well, at least three that I can recall), but the little bugger is getting entirely too comfortable in my study.

Vincent scratched an armpit vigorously and I wondered how many fleas were now cavorting in the cushions of my sofa. “Any chance o’ gettin’ a bite to eat?”

“I’m famished,” French agreed.

“If you want to take your chances at being poisoned, I can ask Mrs. Drinkwater to bring us something.”

“I’ll risk it,” said French.

Vincent was studying us critically. “What the devil ’appened to you two?”

I excused myself to arrange something to eat. A nuisance, that, as first I had to wake my cook from her usual Sunday afternoon stupor. Mrs. Drinkwater always has “a little lie down” on Sunday afternoons, “to recover from the stress of the week.” You’d have a lie down too, if the night before you had ingested a quart of the infamous “blue ruin” gin so potent you could preserve anatomical specimens in it.

Vincent’s eyes were shining with excitement when I returned to the study, so I assumed that French had shared the details of Colonel Mayhew’s death with the scamp. Vincent is a bloodthirsty creature.

“Somethin’s fishy, guv.” The lad shook his head and looked solemn.

“Thank you, Vincent. French and I are aware that something is amiss. Was it the three thugs who convinced you, French, or the colonel’s body?”

Sarcasm is wasted on Vincent.

“Wot are we gonna do about this?” he asked. Naturally, he directed the question to French, a habit of Vincent’s that I am determined to break.

I cut in quickly, before French could issue orders. “You are off to the docks, to look for the Comet. She’ll be sailing on the evening tide tonight, so you’ll need to find her quickly.” I could see that Vincent was mulling how he would single-handedly highjack the ship. “Don’t you dare go aboard until French and I get there.”

“And what will we be doing?” French sounded amused.

“We’ll be visiting the premises occupied by the Bradley Tool Company.”

“It’s Sunday,” French objected. “There won’t be anyone around.”

“Perfect. No one will disturb us as we go through their files. I trust that your training encompassed basic lock-picking skills? Should I loan you a hairpin?”

French announced he had a report to prepare for the prime minister and busied himself at my desk with pen and ink while Mrs. Drinkwater bustled about in the kitchen, producing a nourishing repast of rock-hard biscuits and weak tea. French completed his task and we tucked in, discussing our plans and arranging a time and place for a rendezvous. Then each of us had a belt of brandy to steel ourselves for the afternoon’s work.

Vincent hurried off in the direction of the Thames and French and I strolled until an empty hansom came rattling along. French raised a languid hand and waved it down. We settled in and I opened up the artillery barrage on fortress French.

“If the marchioness has known of my existence all these years, why did she wait so long before she tried to find me? And why didn’t she attempt to locate my mother?”

French looked pained, as well he might. We were a good fifteen minutes away from our destination and India Black can inflict a lot of damage in a quarter of an hour.

“I don’t know. As you’re in communication with her, why don’t you ask her?”

“I’ve been trying to pry some answers out of her for ages. Do you think I’d bother asking you if the marchioness would part with her secrets?”

“Perhaps if you asked politely—”

“I’ve been bloody polite. And deferential, and firm, and threatening. Nothing has worked. She’s been deuced evasive. Believe me, I sympathize with the old bat. I can well imagine that most elderly ladies would be shocked to discover that their long-lost great-niece is a—”

“India, stop!”

My word, the man is touchy about my profession.

“The marchioness had her reasons for sending me to find you. But she must be the one to tell you those reasons. And she’ll answer your other questions, as well, if you only give her some time. You must see that this situation is also difficult for her.”

“Pish. If you hadn’t interrupted me a moment ago, I’d have told you that while some ancient types might be swooning right now, the marchioness is as tough as old boots. She isn’t the kind of woman to go all faint and fluttery at the news that I own a brothel.” Cue French’s distressed expression, which I ignored. “Frankly, I’m tired of dancing with the woman.”

“Please, one more letter. And I’ll write to her as well.”

“And if she doesn’t reply, or brushes off our requests?”

“Then we shall go to Scotland and demand answers.”

“You won’t get any,” I said. “She’ll retreat to her room and refuse to see us.”

“She’ll see me.”

I thought he sounded smug and told him so. But when I asked why he was so bloody sure the decrepit witch would admit him to her house, he gave me a cryptic smile and refused to speak about the matter, which of course annoyed me greatly.


“Very well, French. We’ll play this match as you suggest. I’ll write the confounded vulture once more, and then I’m finished playing nicely. You’d better hope the marchioness tells me the truth, or we’ll be on the first train to Scotland and it’s a damned long journey.”

This alarmed him, as I knew it would, and wiped the smile from his face.

“We’re still a few minutes from Salisbury Street,” I said. “Plenty of time for you to tell me how you found me.”

He squirmed uncomfortably and looked out the window. Then it dawned on me.

“You didn’t really find me, did you? I mean, you might have been looking but it was sheer bloody luck that you stumbled across me. If poor Latham hadn’t died at Lotus House, the marchioness might still be waiting to find her great-niece.”

Sir Archibald Latham, former customer and clerk in the War Office (otherwise known as “Bowser” to the tarts for his soulful eyes and tendency to hump anything in sight), had clocked out of his earthly shift at Lotus House in the middle of a session with one of my bints. Archie had been carrying a secret memo describing the state of Britain’s armed forces (appalling, I suppose, best described it), and Russian agents had nabbed the deceased clerk’s case and made a run for the Continent. The prime minister had dispatched French to shadow the tsar’s agents and keep an eye on Latham, and that, I suspected, had led French to my door.

I laughed. “Good God. What are the odds? Eight thousand whores in London and Bowser chooses Lotus House in which to die. It must have been a shock to learn that the woman you’d been dispatched to find was the madam there.”

French looked at me sourly. “I was on your track already, but I was bloody surprised to find that Latham frequented Lotus House. His death and subsequent developments certainly altered my plans for approaching you.”

“Subsequent developments?” I affected an air of nonchalance. “Ah, yes. You mean the way you blackmailed me into helping you get that memorandum. By the way, did you explain to the marchioness just how you manipulated me? I can’t think that she’ll appreciate your methods of extortion.” Privately, however, I reckoned the old trout would have done the same or worse. From experience, I knew the marchioness did not concern herself overmuch with trifles such as the Christian virtues. I must admit, I rather admired her for that view as my own philosophy regarding principles is equally elastic.

By this time, to French’s great relief, we had reached our destination. We swung out of the hansom into a short street of offices and shops. The pavements were deserted, the premises shuttered. After the sound of the horse’s hooves had died in the distance, the stillness was absolute. For my money, there’s nothing half so eerie as an uninhabited thoroughfare on a Sunday afternoon in London. I’d rather stroll alone through the rookery in Seven Dials in the wee hours of the morning (with my Bulldog revolver in my pocket, naturally) than wander down this desolate street. Every doorway seemed to hold menace, every window a shadowy figure that traced our progress down the pavement. Of course, I’m not the skittish type, but this utter silence was disturbing. I like the sound of loud voices and thrumming wheels. It sounds like money to me. The calm of this quiet afternoon was unnatural and disturbing. On the other hand, it was a first-rate opportunity for rummaging through offices without fear of discovery.

“What was the address?” French asked.

“Number twenty-eight.”

“Across the street, then.”

We set out across the boulevard, for once without fear of being ridden down by a coach or an omnibus. We walked slowly, searching the doorways for the street number. We found the address of the Bradley Tool Company and stood on the pavement in front of the building, giving it a lengthy perusal.

“You’re sure this is the right number?” asked French

“Yes.”

It belonged to a tobacconist’s shop.