India Black and the Gentleman Thief

FIVE


“An accommodation address,” said French. The practice was prevalent in London, with the large number of folks arriving daily from the provinces and lacking a permanent address at which to receive their mail.

Nevertheless, I found it odd that a commercial enterprise like a tool company was using a mail drop. “My suspicions are aroused,” I announced.

French shrugged. “There might be an innocent explanation. Perhaps the owners’ main office is elsewhere, but they want to give clients the impression of a bustling enterprise with a London location.”

I was skeptical and said so. “Who cares where shovels and picks are manufactured, as long as the price is right?” That’s the trouble with these silver-spoon chaps; they’ve no experience in the world of commerce.

“I merely suggested a motive for the firm maintaining an accommodation address.”

“Another motive might be that there’s no such firm as the Bradley Tool Company at all.” I conned the street furtively. “Shall we break in and have a look round?”

“We might as well, as I won’t have a moment’s peace if I suggest that we return tomorrow and speak to the proprietor.”

I must be making progress with French, as he is improving at correctly gauging my moods.

So I played sentry while French busied himself with the lock. It seemed to take an inordinately long time for the prime minister’s trusted agent to pick a simple mortise lock but finally the door swung open and we piled inside, closing the door quietly behind us. We took a moment, letting our eyes adjust to the gloom until we could discern the layout of the shop. It was a tiny place, barely wide enough for two gentlemen to walk abreast, which cheered me no end as it meant that we wouldn’t have to spend much time searching the premises. A wooden counter occupied the wall to our left, with row upon row of glass jars containing loose tobacco neatly labeled in copperplate script and arranged on ledges. On our right were freestanding shelves displaying a variety of pipes and boxes of cigars, matches, pipe cleaners and cigar cutters. The rear wall was bare, save for a closed wooden door.

I stepped behind the counter while French exercised his skills on the door, which presumably led to an office. I hoped it led to an office and not to the owner’s living quarters.

I rummaged through the contents of the counter, composed of last week’s newspapers, a couple of filthy pipes, and a half-empty bottle of cheap brandy.

“There’s nothing here,” I called to French, and received a muffled reply. He’d succeeded with the second lock and I joined him in the cramped closet that did indeed serve as the owner’s office. There was room only for a chair and a small desk, where French had seated himself and was now rooting through the drawers.

“Ledgers,” he murmured, “business correspondence regarding the shop, orders from customers. Ah, here’s a packet of mail.” He drew out a stack of letters and shuffled through it quickly. He extracted an envelope and handed it to me. It was addressed to Peter Bradley of the Bradley Tool Company and bore a return address in Calcutta for the South Indian Railway Company.

I inserted a nail into the flap.

“Stop,” said French.

“Don’t you want to know what’s in here?” I asked.

“Naturally, but if it’s only another mysterious bill of lading we won’t have advanced our knowledge by much and we’ll have alerted the owner of the shop that someone’s been trifling with Peter Bradley’s mail. If there is something dodgy going on, then the men behind this affair will disappear and we’ll be none the wiser.”


“But there might be a clue in here.” I brandished the envelope.

“There may be. But wouldn’t you rather get a look at the fellow who comes to collect it?”

I hadn’t considered that, but then patience is not my strongest virtue. In fact, I’d be hard-pressed to characterize my adherence to any particular virtue as strong. I’m more of a vice woman, myself. But I digress.

And I did have to concede that his nibs had a point, though I wouldn’t admit as much to him. Undoubtedly it would be better to suss out the character who visited the shop to pick up the mail and perhaps learn something of greater value.

“Well, you may be content to loiter about all day, or have that scamp Vincent do it, but I’ve got a business to run and I can’t be wasting my time watching a shop door.”

“You’re not terribly busy during the day, India. But if you want Vincent and me to track down these fellows, we will.”

Confound it. Of course I didn’t want to be left out of anything, and he knew it.

“I don’t mind lending a hand when I’m needed,” I said, and turned away before the quirk of French’s lips developed into a smirk.

We tidied the office and shop so as to leave no trace of our visit, and hurried off to meet Vincent at our rendezvous point. Even on a Sunday the docks were bustling, for as the saying goes, “Time and tide wait for no man.” There were tens of thousands of heathens around the world who, though they were unaware of this fact, were desperately in need of England’s products, and thousands of British folk who wouldn’t be able to face Monday morning without drinking a cup of China tea, laden with West Indian sugar, while lounging in their dressing gowns. So the docks of London hum like a beehive at all hours of the day and night, and the workers here do not observe the Sabbath. The wharves and piers are a rough place, for the men who work there are a crude lot. On the other hand, they do appreciate beauty when they see it, for I received more than my fair share of appreciative comments as French and I proceeded to our meeting with Vincent.

This did not sit well with French. “Curse it, India, why must you attract attention like this? It’s damned awkward when we’re trying to slip around unnoticed.”

“You might as well ask why the stars shine at night. I’m a force of nature. And my appearance might be useful in extracting information from these fellows. They’re much more likely to talk to me than to a swell like you.”

Vincent had loped up, just in time to hear my comment.

“She’s right, guv. But I reckon more of these lads will talk to me than either of you.”

“It’s not a contest,” I said, irked that Vincent was probably correct. “And will you two stop nattering like a couple of old women? Where’s the Comet?”

“If hit was a contest, I’d win,” said Vincent. “I already talked to the blokes who loaded ’er out. They finished a couple ’ours ago. She’ll sail with tonight’s tide, which ain’t that long from now so if we’re gonna take a gander at ’er, we better get after hit. She’s docked at the east pier, in St. Katharine Docks.”

The location of the Comet required a short stroll from where we had met. I used the time to question Vincent.

“Did you ask the navvies what cargo she carries?” I asked.

“A bit o’ everything. Pig iron, oak lumber, wool, and”—he glanced slyly at us—“about a dozen crates o’ shovels and rakes.”

“Well done, Vincent.”

“Save your praise, French,” I said. “All Vincent has accomplished is to verify that Mayhew’s bill of lading was correct.”

Vincent looked injured. I’d thought the ragamuffin impervious to slights, but I had wounded him with my comment.

“I mean, well done, Vincent, for confirming that information.”

“’Tweren’t nothin’.” Vincent sniffed.

French cut in. “Do you know if the captain’s aboard?”

“Aye, he’s there alright.”

“Then I believe I’ll have a conversation with him. You two wait here.”

“Not on your life, French. I’m coming with you. The captain may prove susceptible to my charms.”

French looked sour, but could not dispute the truth of my assertion. “Very well. Vincent, tag along and talk to your friends again. See what more you can learn. Have the navvies loaded any other crates from the Bradley Tool Company on other ships? Did Peter Bradley oversee the loading of the crates? You know what to ask.”

Vincent darted off, with one last sulky glare in my direction. He hadn’t forgiven me, but I was untroubled by this fact. Vincent being Vincent, I’d soon bring him round with a few glasses of my Rémy Martin.

French and I set off for the pier at a brisk pace. We had to dodge piles of rope and keep our eyes peeled for laden cargo nets swinging overhead. More than once the dockworkers shouted abuse at us for walking where we shouldn’t. There was a tang of salt in the air, which meant the tide had flowed from the Atlantic up the Thames and would soon be flowing out again, carrying upon it a score of ships, including our quarry.

The Comet proved to be an iron-hulled monstrosity sporting two funnels from which grey smoke eddied, to be snatched away by the river breezes. She was rigged for sail, as well, and sported paddle wheels.

Noting them, French said, “A regular visitor to Calcutta, I’d wager. Those paddle wheels allow her to sail up the Hooghly River. It’s too shallow for screws.”

“You surprise me. I wouldn’t have tagged you as the maritime sort.”

“The army has to travel, and along the way I’ve picked up a bit of knowledge about local conditions.”

“You’ve been to India, then?” I was going to have to get this fellow drunk and pry his secrets out of him, after I’d had my wanton way with him, of course.

“Yes,” he said briefly, and sidestepping a navvie carrying a sack of sugar slung over his shoulder, offered me his arm as we ascended the gangway.

A stout cove with a bristling red beard and narrow eyes was defending the ship against all boarders. We stepped onto the wooden deck to be confronted by this Viking, clutching the ship’s manifest.

“May I help you, sir?” He was courteous, but his manner made it clear that we were there under sufferance and we’d need a bloody good reason to stay on board.

“I am here to see the captain,” said French, nodding at the man with that supercilious air he occasionally adopts and which I find insufferable.

The ginger fellow was not impressed, either. “What’s your business with the captain?”

“I should prefer to discuss that with him personally.”

The bearded fellow cocked his head. “He’s a busy man, our captain. We’ll be sailing soon. I reckon if you want to see him you’ll have to tell me why, or he’ll have my head for wasting his time.”

“I am with the prime minister’s office.”

“And my old pa is the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

French gave a pained smile, reached into his pocket and extracted a small square of paper, which he handed to the man.

The fellow studied it for moment. “Wait here,” he said and disappeared down the nearest hatch.

“What the devil was that?”

“A note from the prime minister, requesting that I be afforded every courtesy.”

“Why don’t I have one of those? And when did you get it? Why didn’t you trot it out for Captain Welch when he questioned your authority?”


French waved his hand vaguely, ignoring the latter two questions and answering the first. “I haven’t seen the necessity of getting one for you.”

“You haven’t seen the necessity? I’ll have a word with Dizzy the next time I see him.”

The ginger-bearded chap reappeared in the hatch, followed by the very prototype of the English sea dog. The captain was a grizzled veteran of many voyages, with a seamed face the colour of walnut and straggly white hair peeking out from his cap. He had a pipe clamped between his teeth, which gave him the appearance of an angry canine with a tobacco habit.

“I’m Captain Tate. What the devil do you want?” He thundered at French in a voice that nearly sent me over the rails. I suppose he was accustomed to bellowing orders above a roaring gale. He spared me a glance, and then treated himself to a longer second look. With difficulty, he tore his gaze from my bounteous charms and addressed French again. “Well? Ralph here says you’re with the government.”

“The prime minister’s office,” muttered Ralph through his flame-coloured beard.

“Oh, aye, so it was. And what do you do for the prime minister, mister—”

“It’s Major French, and I’m here to verify some information regarding one your clients, the Bradley Tool Company. I understand you’re carrying cargo for them.”

The captain shrugged. “So I am. Tools, if I remember correctly.” He consulted Ralph. “Do I remember correctly?”

Ralph thumbed through the documents in his hand. “You do, Captain. Ten crates of various tools to be delivered to the South Indian Railway Company.”

“Have you carried freight for the Bradley Tool Company before?”

The captain scratched his chin. “Name of the company sounds familiar.”

“Have you met Mr. Peter Bradley?”

The captain’s forehead furrowed as he squinted into the sun. He cast a critical eye at the tide. “Might have done, once. Yes, I reckon I have. An old chap come aboard the first time we shipped for the company.”

“Can you describe him?”

“What’s this about, Major? This bloke hasn’t done anything illegal, has he? If so, you’ll need to speak to my employers. All I do is ship what they tell me to ship, and make sure it arrives on time. You should talk with Mr. Winston down at the office. He won’t be there today, it being Sunday, but he’ll be in tomorrow. Now then, I’ll bid you good afternoon, for I’m a busy man and we’ll be hauling anchor in a few hours’ time.”

“One moment, captain. Please describe the man from the tool company and I’ll leave you to get on with your work.”

“He was just a man. Nothing peculiar about him.” The captain sucked his pipe, frowning. “The far side of sixty, I’d say. Grey hair and a beard. Well-dressed and well-spoken.” The old salt looked irritable at having to expend mental energy in describing something other than wind and water.

“Thank you, Captain. We’ve taken enough of your time.” French tucked my hand into the crook of his arm and drew me away. Behind us Tate harrumphed and I heard him stump away across the deck.

“That wasn’t particularly helpful,” I hissed in French’s ear as we descended the gangplank. “You let him off too easily.”

“What did you expect me to do, haul the man to the Tower and put him on the rack?”

“I’d have gotten more out of him,” I said, serenely confident. “If he weren’t sailing soon, I’d come back here tonight and have his life story by midnight. I’ve a gift for getting information from men.” Well, it’s been true of every man I’ve ever met with the possible exception of French, who was as silent and inscrutable as the bloody Sphinx. I considered that my theory might need revision, but rejected the notion as ridiculous. French might prove a tougher nut to crack, but given enough time I was sure I’d wrest his secrets from him.

We waited for Vincent in a doorway for a good thirty minutes. I was getting restless, anticipating a drink of whisky and an early night, preferably early enough to give French a bit of instruction in interrogation techniques, when the odiferous lad turned up. French related our encounter with the captain and as he spoke a sly grin appeared on Vincent’s face, which grew broader as the story neared its end.

“Oi! There’s somethin’ afoot, alright. I went back to those blokes who loaded the crates and they said they do it regular-like. The ship sails to India every two or three months, and for nearly a year, they been stowin’ tools from this Bradley company on board.” Vincent’s smile was now triumphant. “And they say that ever’ time they load, the same bloke comes down to watch ’em put the crates on board, and then the captain takes him down to the Jolly Tar and they have a pint and a chin wag.”

“An elderly man, with grey hair and a beard?” asked French.

“Not ’ardly. ’E’s a young bloke with blond hair.”

? ? ?

The fact that the captain had been less than honest with French and me did not surprise us. After all, we are agents of the Crown and we’re accustomed to a certain amount of subterfuge and obfuscation in our line of work. And then I’m a whore, so I’m well acquainted with the probity of the average man, which, I can tell you, is in short supply. Tate’s deceit, however, did prompt a few more questions in my mind.

“I’ll lay odds that the captain sends word to the blond bloke that we’ve been asking about him,” I said. “Do you really think it was a good idea to produce that note from Dizzy? Now the blackguards will know that government agents have an interest in their affairs.”

“A moment ago, you wanted your own note from the prime minister,” said French.

“Wot note?” If Vincent had been a terrier, his body would have quivered. “’Ow come I ain’t got a note from ole Dizzy? Wot’s it say, anyway?”

“The city would not be safe if you carried around an imprimatur from Dizzy. You’d plunder the place in a week,” I told him.

Vincent smiled wistfully. “Wouldn’t that be sweet? Oh, the fings I could do.”

“Will you two forget about the bloody note? If you must know, I wrote it myself and forged the prime minister’s name.”

“I find that shocking, French,” I said. “What sort of upbringing did you have? How did you get your hands on the prime minister’s letterhead? Is it a good likeness of Dizzy’s signature? Could you write a letter of recommendation for me and sign it with his name? I’ll hang it on the wall at Lotus House.”

French gave me that steely eyed gaze of his, which he knows very well has absolutely no effect on me. “If we could just return to the matter at hand—”

“Certainly, French. Let us apply some logic to the situation. If the captain gave us a false description of the man who consigned the tools for shipping, then the captain must be involved in this conspiracy, or fraud, or whatever it is we’re investigating.”

“Or he might just be the cautious type, who doesn’t want to disclose any information about his clients to two strangers, even after one of them trots out a note from the prime minister.”

“Either way, I would guess that he’ll try to contact the blond fellow to let him know that someone is asking questions about his business.”


“I agree,” said French, which was a pleasant surprise as he usually finds fault with most of my suggestions. “But will the captain send a messenger or deliver the news himself?”

“The ship will be sailing soon,” I pointed out. “Would the captain leave the Comet at a time like this?”

“I don’t know. I suggest we watch and see if anything happens.”

We had a natter about who would watch whom and who would follow whom and finally decided that if the captain left the ship or dispatched a fellow to communicate with Bradley, then French and I would follow. Vincent was deputed to remain at the docks, keeping an eye on the ship to see if anything untoward developed, a situation that did not please him as it did not involve trailing a shadowy figure through the streets of London and thus did not fully employ his native abilities.

“Someone needs to stay here, Vincent. I’d prefer it be you. You’ve got a knack for getting information out of these navvies if you see something suspicious. They’re not likely to talk to India or me. It’s better if we follow any messenger the captain sends.” French gazed round at the bustling dock. “Though there are dozens of men here. We’ll be deuced lucky if we recognize the captain’s errand boy.”

“You won’t ’ave to worry about that,” said Vincent. He pointed at the Comet. “Ain’t that the captain?”

It was indeed the ship’s master, trotting down the gangplank with a worried expression on his face.

“By Jove, we’ve flushed him.” French was triumphant. “Off we go, India.”

“Oi, ’ow long do I ’ave to wait ’ere?” Vincent asked in a plaintive voice. He looked downcast at the prospect of loafing quayside while the action moved elsewhere. I can’t say I blame him, but that lad has no appreciation for the hierarchy involved in this espionage game. He’s the low man on the totem pole, a fact that he consistently fails to realize. Come to think of it, I’m not sure French does either, for he has a distressing tendency to try to relegate me to the role of fetching and carrying just when things get interesting. I usually have to bully him into letting me in on the exciting bits.

We left Vincent with hasty assurances that one or both of us would return just as soon as we learned the captain’s destination, and scuttled off in pursuit of our quarry. We’d almost left it too long, for the skipper was vanishing around a corner and we had to quick march after him. And here I’ll just mention, once again, how bloody unfair it is that women are saddled with skirts. I’d like to see a chap try to conduct surveillance or spar with a thug while wearing a dress. You can bet the directive abolishing frocks would go out posthaste. I’ve been threatening to have a pair of trousers made and one of these days, I will. In a suitably dashing style, of course. A pair of trousers might prove a boon in other ways as well. Men find me hard to resist as it is. Just imagine the effect of yours truly in a pair of form-fitting britches. But I digress.

The sea dog was trundling along, moving at the pace of a man who’d consumed a bad sausage for dinner and wanted to get home to the comforts of the lavvy at the back of the garden. We’d left the docks behind and entered the warren of streets that spreads out from the river. Tracking the captain was proving a dicey proposition as there were few people on the pavement and we could not lose ourselves in a crowd. We hung back, skipping from doorway to doorway so as to have a place to dodge into if our prey turned round. Then Captain Tate would turn a corner and we’d rush forward to keep him in sight.

It’s dashed odd how invigorating espionage can be. My line of work has its own excitements, but they’re nothing in comparison to slinking after a fellow with your heart in your mouth, praying that he won’t look over his shoulder. Our captain, however, seemed oblivious to the thought that we might be on his trail. He hurried along, emitting a steady stream of smoke from his pipe, which gave him the appearance of a locomotive carving through the countryside. You could see he was on a mission and working against the clock, as he had only a little time to spare before he had to be back on board ship and ready to sail. I was glad the cove had a deadline to meet, for it worked to our advantage. He was fixed on getting to his destination and paid no attention to his surroundings.

The captain crossed to the other side of the street and made for a tavern in the middle of the block.

French pointed to the sign. “The Jolly Tar,” he said under his breath, and drew me into the entrance to a nearby shop. The skipper jerked open the door to the tavern and marched inside.

French frowned. “That’s strange,” he said. “Do you think the captain had time to send a message to Bradley to meet him here? Or did they have a prearranged meeting?”

“Or is Captain Tate just downing one last pint of British ale before he sails for India?”

Our exchange of rhetorical questions was disrupted by the emergence of a tall, gawky youth from the pub. He broke into a gallop and shot away down the street.

“Athletics training, or did the captain send him on an errand?” I asked.

“As he’s already disappeared into thin air, we’ll never find out.” French swore loudly. “We’ve missed our chance to follow him.”

“No surprise, that. He ran like a scalded cat. We’d never catch him, and we’d make ourselves conspicuous if we tried. We might as well wait a little longer. If he returns to the tavern, he might have a message for the captain. We could tackle the lad after Tate goes back to the ship and find out where he went.”

“It’s as good a plan as any.”

I despise wasting time, unless I’m choosing how to do it. That is to say, lolling in front of a fire on a misty autumn day with a decanter of brandy at hand is a perfectly acceptable way to pass the hours, as is imbibing a flute of champagne on a warm summer’s evening. But standing hunched in a shop entrance endeavouring to blend into the woodwork is hard going. I’ll thank you not to point out that if the exercise was so deuced dull, why had I been the one to suggest it? You will recall that we had damned few clues to follow in this business. If I am honest (though I don’t as a general rule strive to be), we had none except the gangling fellow who might be delivering a note to Peter Bradley at the moment. And then there was the fact that Inspector Allen seemed to think French and I might have spent the night torturing poor Colonel Mayhew. Under the circumstances, it seemed reasonable to suggest we hang around the Jolly Tar for a bit. That did not mean I had to enjoy the experience.

I confess to daydreaming a bit, planning a quiet evening with French, and wavering between the idea of dragging the fellow off to my boudoir or beating him over the head until he confessed all he knew about the marchioness’s search for me, when I felt the object of my thoughts stiffen beside me. I do not mean that in the biblical sense. French snapped to attention and I heard his quick intake of breath. I peered around him to see what had aroused his sudden interest.

The cloddish youth had returned and hot on his heels was a tall, well-built dandy. As they entered the tavern the chap swept off his hat, revealing a shock of wheat-coloured hair.

“Bradley,” said French, sounding pleased. I was not pleased. This was going to be bloody awkward. You see, I knew the blond dandy. And I do mean that in the biblical sense.