India Black and the Gentleman Thief

SIX


Peter Bradley, handsome devil, gentleman thief and former lover of yours truly, when I was a mere slip of a girl. Back then, he’d been using the name “Philip Barrett.” I’ve no idea which, if either, was his real name. But knowing Philip as I do, and that would be intimately and in every sense of the word, I had no trouble believing he might be involved in something shady. In fact, his presence here confirmed that something illicit was in the cards. This was hardly the time, however, to enlighten French as to my history with Philip.

Bugger. What to do now? French was staring fixedly at the door to the Jolly Tar. I reckoned I didn’t have much time, as it wouldn’t take long for the captain to relate the story of our visit and then return to the ship and Philip would bolt for cover, only I could see from French’s posture that he had no intention of letting the chap go anywhere without a chat about Colonel Mayhew and the bill of lading. I spent an uncomfortable five minutes gnawing my thumbnail and debating various schemes for extracting myself from this situation without undue suspicion from French. I’ve a quick wit and a great deal of experience at wiggling out of tight places, as you might expect from a tart, but I’ll be damned if my wits hadn’t taken the express to Liverpool and left the rest of me on the station platform. I was still weighing my options when the tavern door swung open and the captain scurried away in the direction of the river. We sank back into the shop’s entrance and plastered ourselves against the display window, but the skipper was in a hurry to catch the tide and he strode off without so much as a glance at his surroundings.

As Tate’s footfalls faded in the distance, French stuck his head out the entrance. His hand reached back to grip mine. “Bradley is leaving.” His body tensed to take the first step in pursuit.

I pulled him back. “What do you intend to do?”

French looked puzzled. “Why, follow him, of course. And if the opportunity arises, I may have a word with the fellow.”

Confound it. The first course might prove harmless provided Philip didn’t discover us lurking after him, but the second would be disastrous. One look at French’s scowling face and I knew that he would not settle for merely trailing Philip around London. He was remembering the scene in Mayhew’s room. In truth, it would be deuced hard to forget what little I’d seen there, but I knew that Philip wouldn’t have done such a thing. When it comes to the dirty work Philip will be found on the sidelines, buffing his nails. Someone else had done in the colonel, of that I was sure.

French was tugging at my hand impatiently. “Curse it, India! Let’s move.”

I followed him reluctantly into the street. Ahead of us Philip strolled down the pavement, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He’d always been a cool fellow and he looked completely relaxed at the moment.

French increased his pace and I hung back as best I could. He looked round at me once, frustrated at my slow gait, and I tottered a bit on my heel. I grimaced and gestured down at my boot, which did nothing to slow his momentum but rather more to annoy him.

“Do hurry,” he commanded, “or we’ll lose him.”

My plan exactly, but I took a few quick steps so that French would think my heart was in this chase. No doubt you’re wondering why it wasn’t. It’s a bit complicated. I knew that Philip was up to his sandy eyebrows in something. He had been a thief when I’d known him and I doubt that he’d changed his spots since then. There was some connection between him and Mayhew, and no man deserved to die as Mayhew had. Yes, Philip was a wrong ’un. But we had a history, albeit a chequered one and I was loath to throw the man under the wagon wheels just yet. I might at a later date, mind you, but for the moment I’d rather let him go and find him, without French in the vicinity, which I had no doubt I could do easily. There was the further complication of my past relationship with Philip, which I would prefer to reveal to French in my own fashion and at a time of my choosing. And then there was Lotus House. Philip, you see, had been responsible, in a peculiar way, for providing the capital for my venture into brothel ownership. Oddly, I felt I owed him something, if nothing more than a private chat before French ran him to ground. It’s a funny old world, but there you have it. I had a number of reasons to handle Philip by myself.

Which explains why I did what I did next. Despite my efforts at slowing French’s headlong rush, we’d gained ground on Philip. French put on speed and I realized that I couldn’t drag him back and stall the proceedings much longer. So I tripped him. It was dead easy. One minute we were cruising along and the next I’d wobbled a bit, clutching at him, and then as I exclaimed “my boot!” I stuck that article between his legs and he went flying, sprawling headlong onto the pavement. The fall drove the air from his lungs and he grunted. For verisimilitude, I pitched down beside him, grasping an ankle and moaning loudly.

“Christ,” he muttered, when he’d drawn breath. He sat up and struggled to untangle himself from my skirts, which had quite inexplicably become entwined with his legs. I told you the damned things are a nuisance. He flailed about, flinging my skirts in a way that I might have found arousing in other circumstances, until he was finally able to struggle to his feet. He stared down the street but Philip had walked on, oblivious to the drama being played out behind him and all for his benefit, the ungrateful bastard. French, usually so calm and detached, raged up and down the pavement, alternately cursing our bad luck and my clumsiness.

“Thank you,” I said. “I can get up by myself.”

Begrudgingly, he extended a hand and hauled me upright. I brushed myself off and noticed a small rent in my skirt, and my scuffed boots. Well, some sacrifices are necessary if we are to avoid humiliating encounters with previous lovers.

“Damnation!” French said, rather more loudly than necessary. “Bradley could be anywhere by now. What the devil happened?”

I feigned an examination of my boot. “I believe the heel is loose. My ankle twisted and I fell.” I looked at him, cow-eyed. “I am sorry, French. I know you wanted to catch that fellow. But we’ll find him again. I’m sure of it.”

“Just how do you propose we do that?” French growled. “He’s been warned by the captain that we’re on to him. He won’t use the mail drop at the tobacconist’s shop again. It’s too dangerous now.”

“You’ll think of something. You always do.” I’m not above soothing the male ego from time to time, especially when I’ve been the cause of its disquiet.

French dusted the knees of his trousers and offered me an arm. “Well, no use crying over spilt milk. Let’s go back to the dock and see if Vincent has anything new to report.”

Vincent did not, except that the Comet had weighed anchor and was just now disappearing down the Thames, bound for Calcutta. He was incredulous that French and I had managed to lose our quarry and when French explained that the reason for our ineptitude was a sartorial malfunction on my part, Vincent’s disgust knew no bounds. I could see that I’d gone down in the smelly little runt’s estimation but I had other things to worry about at the moment.

? ? ?

French was not in a pleasant frame of mind that evening. He declined to share with me the joint Mrs. Drinkwater had burned, and took himself off sulkily. I was sure he was angry at losing track of Philip, considering that an egregious professional mistake for a man of his experience. But he gave me a long, searching gaze as he departed that left me wondering if perhaps my dramatic efforts had been too enthusiastic. In any event, I watched him stalk off with a faint feeling of apprehension that only increased as I sat down to draught a missive to the marchioness. French had been in no mind to stay and discuss genealogical matters with me, but I’d remembered his insistence that the marchioness must be the one to tell me why she had sought me out, so I penned a short note to the old bag along the lines of “I know you’re my great-aunt so stop larking about and tell me why you’ve hunted me down.” Then I took a glass of whisky to the bath and lay in the hot water, thinking about my next move with regard to Philip Barrett.


As I said, years ago, when I was a young tart, Philip had been a customer of mine. Indeed he’d been more than a customer; we’d taken to walking out together though my abbess at the time, Mrs. Moore, was not best pleased about it. I can’t say that I blame her, for I was the star attraction at her house and she didn’t want me spending too much time with one client. I’ve never been good at obeying instructions and besides, it was difficult resisting the fellow. Along with those blond locks he had hazel eyes flecked with green, a wickedly charming smile and a physique one might describe as heroic. He was a smoothboots, and though Mrs. Moore preferred he only come by when his pockets were lined, he could always get round her with some flirtatious nonsense.

Those were halcyon days, when Philip and I strolled through Hyde Park and laughed at the pretentious bints parading along Rotten Row in carriages purchased for them by their aristocratic lovers. While I’ve never been a romantic, I had entertained the notion that Philip and I might grow senile together, provided Philip could come up with the ready to make my dotage comfortable. You see, he was the second son of an impoverished family, and had to make his own fortune if there was to be one. And that is why he’d invited me along on a week’s visit to the country to masquerade as his wife and charm a rich and randy American goat named Harold White. I was to put my energy into enchanting the old fool while Philip finagled a lucrative contract out of him. Now the best-laid plans, et cetera, so you won’t be surprised to hear that it all ended in tears.

For Philip, that is. His idea of gainful employment was relieving the great and good of their jewels. He’d been using me as camouflage while he plotted to steal White’s prized possession, a dirty great ruby worth a good deal of money. I’d discovered his nefarious plan and turned the tables on him, lifting the ruby from him and secreting it in a London bank until Philip had hied off to the Continent with White on his scent. I waited a year, and then I pawned the ruby and purchased Lotus House with the proceeds.

Now you would think I’d be perfectly happy for French to collar Philip and connect him to some sort of criminal enterprise, seeing as how the chap had deceived me and left me to shoulder the blame for the theft. But to tell the truth, I’ve always felt just the tiniest bit of guilt at doing Philip out of that jewel. Certainly he’d set me up, but you can’t blame a fellow for trying to get ahead in life. I might have done the same under the circumstances. And then there’s the fact that Philip is so confoundedly handsome. His smile had the most unusual effect on me. In fact, I hadn’t felt quite such a frisson until French had entered the picture with his handsome, brooding face and those dark, wavy locks. The men didn’t bear the slightest resemblance to each other, except that under rather quiet exteriors ran a deep current of excitement that I found enticing. I’ve always been drawn to rakehells, you see, and it was just my luck that a certified one in the form of Philip Barrett had reappeared in my life just as I was prying open the lock on another fanciable chap. What’s a girl to do?

First and foremost, I needed to find Philip before French did. Oh, I had no intention of telling the scoundrel what I knew and why I was searching for him. No, I intended to be as subtle as a serpent, wheedling information from Philip and then deciding on a course of action. It would be hard going, as subtlety is not my strong suit, but then I’m capable of doing most anything and I had complete faith in my ability to crack open Philip like a nutshell. I’d only hurt the bloke if necessary.

I was contemplating the effort of rising from the warm bath and preparing for bed when Mrs. Drinkwater rapped on the door. I knew it was she, for I’d heard footsteps staggering uncertainly down the hall, tacking from side to side until she reached the door, where she stood outside breathing audibly until she managed to announce herself.

“What is it?” I asked.

“A gennelman. From Scotland Yard. He says.”

“Oh, bother. Tell him to go away and call again tomorrow.”

“He said you’d say that. And he said to tell you he ain’t going nowhere until you come down and talk to him.”

“Did the gentleman give you a name?”

Mrs. Drinkwater hiccupped. “Inspector Allen.”

“Officious twit,” I said and rose from the bath. “Tell him I’ll be down in a minute, and if a woman in a dressing gown is too much for him, he’d better take himself off now.”

I could picture Mrs. Drinkwater staring quizzically at the door, trying to decipher my message. I took pity on her. “Just tell him I’ll be down shortly. And don’t tell him that I called him an officious twit.”

“Right.” I heard the uneven cadence of Mrs. Drinkwater’s footsteps receding down the hallway and with a sigh, rose and toweled myself. Then I draped myself in a peach silk dressing gown that showed my delightful figure to fullest advantage and eased my feet into a pair of soft leather slippers. Let us see how Inspector Allen handles the undiluted effect of India Black, I thought. Well, a woman must have every advantage she can when dealing with the opposite sex.

I found the inspector in the study, rummaging through my desk drawers.

“Looking for a price list, Inspector? I doubt you can afford any of the services here. They’re beyond an inspector’s salary, I should think.” I ran the risk of angering the little tick, but I think it’s best to get on the front foot immediately with the peelers.

He straightened up and shut the drawer he’d been searching.

“You’re probably right about the prices, Miss Black. But then, I’ve no interest in the wares you flog here.”

“Oh, you’re that type. You should have said so. I can fix you up easily enough. There’s a house down the street that caters to—”

“Nor am I interested in your laboured attempts at comedy. I’m investigating a murder, a most horrific one, I might add, and I’ve no time for verbal fencing. Let’s get down to brass tacks.”

“That suits me,” I said, sashaying over to the sideboard where I keep my liquor and pouring myself a generous brandy. I did not offer the inspector a drink. “I’ve had an exhausting few weeks on assignment for the prime minister and I need my rest.”

“Pah,” said the inspector. “You’ve got gall, saying that. And I don’t care if Major French does work for the prime minister. He’s got a nerve walking around with his dolly bird on his arm. That’s shocking, that is.”

“Spare me your official disapproval.” I looked at him intently. “Or is it personal? I’ve often found that men who are sexually repressed or suffer from an unhealthy conjugal relationship with their wives are prone to the most exaggerated expressions of moral outrage when it comes to tarts. Which is it in your case?”

I haven’t gotten where I have by being intimidated by men like the inspector. I’ve met his sort before and bested better men than he. I’d pricked him with my comments, as he had swelled up like one of those American opossums and was baring his teeth at me.

“I’d watch my tongue if I were you. You’re in no position to cross swords with me.”

“Oh, but I am. Ask your questions and then leave. You are a tiresome man.”

That might have been one comment too many, but under the circumstances I think you’ll agree that I was entitled to be cranky. I’d merely broken up a nest of anarchists, captured a Russian spy, been beaten in my own home, seen a horrific crime scene and encountered a prior lover from whom I’d stolen a valuable jewel, all in a little over twenty-four hours. I was incapable of being charming and obsequious after that. Well, I’m never capable of being obsequious.


The inspector jammed his hands in his pockets and regarded me balefully. “You lied about your relationship with Colonel Mayhew.”

“I don’t believe I described my relationship with the man.”

“Not in so many words, but Major French said that he was an acquaintance of the colonel and that you were his cousin. I don’t know if the major told the truth about the colonel, but I know damned well he didn’t tell the truth about you.”

I shrugged. “You should take up that matter with Major French.”

“I intend to do just that. But I’m speaking to you at the moment. You didn’t deny the major’s depiction of your relationship.”

“Why should I?”

“And furthermore, you had a connection to the victim. Colonel Mayhew patronized your establishment here. I’ve been checking into your background, Miss Black. You’re known to the local police. I’ve talked to some of your girls. They knew Mayhew. So tell me, just what were you and Major French doing at Mayhew’s lodgings this morning?”

“We certainly weren’t killing him. You saw that room. The killer or killers would have been covered with blood. You might have noticed, if you had been paying attention, that French and I were spotless.”

“I noticed you’d both been in a fight, and it’s clear from the scene that the colonel fought for his life. I reckon you two got those cuts and bruises from Mayhew.”

“It would make no sense at all for us to have done the deed, bathed and returned to the scene of the crime,” I scoffed.

“Criminals aren’t always logical,” the inspector said stubbornly.

“Neither are the police, apparently.”

“I think you had better explain just what Colonel Mayhew got up to here at your place of business.”

“I can’t vouch for his personal proclivities, but I should have thought that you’d understand the purposes of his visits in at least general terms. If you want the details, I’ll have to summon the last girl with him, but now that I think of it, it’s been weeks since the cove was in here and I’ll have to ask around.”

“You didn’t service him yourself?”

I laughed scornfully. “Certainly not. I own this establishment. I don’t work in it.”

The inspector was wandering through the room, picking up an object and examining it, then replacing it and moving on to the next. He had reached my desk and I saw his eyes light up at the sight of the silver dagger I used to open envelopes.

“What’s this?” He snatched it up and waved it at me triumphantly.

“I’d have thought a man in your line of work would have recognized a knife when he saw one.” I said it calmly, but I was getting deuced annoyed with the fellow.

Allen hefted the dagger in his hand. “I’ll tell you what I think.”

“At least you won’t waste much of my time.”

He ignored me. “I think I’m holding a murder weapon in my hand.”

“You think I murdered Colonel Mayhew? Why on earth would I do that?”

“He was blackmailing you. He knew something about you that you wanted kept secret.” The fellow was talking rapidly, as if to convince himself. “He threatened to expose you.”

“Expose me?” I laughed. “Inspector, it took you all of three hours to find out I run a brothel. I don’t exactly operate on the sly. It would be damned hard for customers to find me if I did.”

“Oh, I’ll grant you that you might not care about the average bloke finding out about you, but I’d wager that you might not want Major French to know whatever Mayhew knew. You think he’s your ticket out of here, don’t you? The handsome Major French.” He was mocking me now, the bastard, and I’d had enough.

“Is this what passes for deductive reasoning at the Yard? As you’ve pointed out yourself, Major French knows what I do. What did you call his appearing with me on his arm? Shocking?”

That set the inspector back on his heels, but only for a moment. “Alright, then. Maybe Mayhew threatened to tell someone else. Like the prime minister, eh?” He paused to gloat. “That’s it. We can’t have one of our government chaps running around with a tart, can we?”

I shook my head wearily. “Dear, dear. For a policeman, you are singularly unimaginative. Government chaps are rather prone to consorting with fallen women. Indeed, they’re some of my best customers, which is something you should probably consider if you insist on pursuing this line of enquiry.”

Inspector Allen was still stroking his pet theory. “Or maybe Colonel Mayhew was considering sharing the news with Major French’s family. He comes from good stock. I doubt he’d be pleased at having his liaison with you paraded in front of kith and kin.”

That hit rather closer to the mark than the previous barbs the inspector had flung at me. I couldn’t argue with Allen’s premise, but I disliked having this wretched fellow state it quite so baldly. I did not expect French to trot me off to meet his pater and mater, but I’m not accustomed to hiding my light under a bushel for very long. At some point French and I needed to sort out the business of managing our association or relationship or whatever you would call it. I was bloody well provoked at having an insect like the inspector remind me that the sorting needed doing.

“Major French and I are agents of Her Majesty’s government,” I said. “You may confirm that with Lord Beaconsfield, the prime minister. And I would suggest you ask Major French if he is concerned with our acquaintance becoming known among his circle. I can tell you nothing on that score. And now, unless Colonel Mayhew scrawled my name in blood or you have a witness placing me at the scene, I would suggest that you have no reason to remain here disturbing me with your conjectures. If you wish to speak with me again, you will make an appointment. If you intend to turn up here at the drop of a hat just to harass me, I shall be forced to speak to some of those ‘government chaps’ you mentioned earlier. One of them will have a word with your governor. You will kindly see yourself out.”

I spun on my heel and marched out of the study, not waiting for a reply. What a maddening fellow. I did not need him lurking around every corner, keeping an eye on me while I tried to find Philip. Not for the first time, I wished that Colonel Mayhew (God rest his soul) had left his envelope with the landlord at his local. That bill of lading was turning out to be an infernal nuisance.

? ? ?

You would think that after the events of the last twenty-four hours I would trundle off to bed and enjoy some well-deserved rest. Indeed I did have a kip, but only for a few hours, for I had a mission and unfortunately it could not be accomplished in the light of day. London’s criminal class works nonstop round the clock but most coves prefer the cover of darkness. I wouldn’t find Philip strolling the streets, of course. Fellows like Philip—the cracksmen, burglars and attic thieves who plied their trade in the West End and Portman Square—would be up on the rooftops after dark, breaking into the garrets and upper floors of the fashionable homes to be found there, lifting the precious stones and jewelry of the occupants. I wasn’t hoping to find my former paramour in the flesh. I was planning to put out the word that I’d heard Philip was in London and wanted to see him again. That should be a simple enough task, requiring only a bit of legwork and a few coins.


I dozed in a chair and woke when the bells of St. Martin struck midnight. I dressed quietly and slipped down the stairs to my study, where I collected my revolver from the desk drawer and tucked it into my purse. A woman alone would be presumed to be a prostitute (an astute observation, since she usually was) and could expect a bit of rough language and less than subtle propositions. I’ve found that chaps are less inclined to pester me when I show them the business end of the .442 Webley.

Once I’d locked the door to Lotus House I made for the Strand, that roaring thoroughfare that never sleeps. At this time of night, the street would be humming with life, most of it of the low variety, which suited my needs perfectly. It’s not a long walk from Lotus House, and I rather enjoyed striding along in the cool evening air. I wandered over to Haymarket and walked south to Pall Mall, then angled down Cockspur Street, passed Trafalgar Square (scene of one of my greatest triumphs) and turned left onto the Strand. The noise along the street was deafening. The swells were out in abundance in swallowtail coats and top hats, ambling along with their walking sticks under their arms and smirking at the girls working the streets. An army of dippers and mutchers, men, women and children would be out tonight, relieving these rich fellows, the “square-rigged swells” they called them, of their money and their watches. The tricksters would be working the crowd, fleecing fellows with card tricks and games of skittles. The tipsters and bookmakers would be doing a roaring trade before the evening’s entertainment began in the alleys off the Strand—the dog matches, the prizefights with human contenders, and the ratting exhibitions. It’s not a world for the delicate flowers of society.

You may be wondering why I’d venture out alone into such a heathen place. In truth, I was at very little risk. I had my Bulldog revolver in the unlikely event that things went bad, but I wasn’t worried about sauntering along the pavement without a male companion. Certainly a single female would attract attention along the Strand, and when you’re as delicious as I am, you can expect a fair amount of attention from the male of the species at any time. But at this time of night, single women walking the Strand were common. The troopers and ladybirds would be working the lower class, and the toffers would be trolling for the nobs. With my sophistication and beauty, I’d be taken as an adventuress, a demimondaine, and the only thing I’d have to worry about was a drunken swell pawing me on the street while his friends egged him on. I was quite capable of handling that sort of situation. I’d been doing it all my life. The trick was to avoid trouble but still keep the fellow as a potential customer. There’s a technique to that, but I digress.

Near Adam Street I spotted a barefoot youngster with a shapeless cap and threadbare clothes. I stopped to have a word with him, whispering my instructions. When I dropped a few coins in his hand he accelerated away, bound for the rookeries that lay just a few blocks north. I’d spent quite enough time there during my idyll with the anarchists and I was thoroughly tired of the filth and foulness to be found in the Seven Dials area. I’d sent the boy to spread the word that I was looking for an old friend, describing Philip and using the name I’d known him by rather than “Peter Bradley.” I didn’t expect Philip to be staying in such a seamy part of the city, but the blocks teemed with cheats and card sharps, punishers and palmers—in short, with every type of criminal. The rookeries were cramped, squalid, dingy and tortuously narrow. The police preferred to stay well clear and leave them to the undesirables. Someone in the area would know Philip and I had no doubt that word would reach him that India Black sought his company.

But I had other stops to make that night, and so I ambled along to the Gaiety Theatre on Aldwych and had a chat with the manager of the Billiards Room there. Philip enjoyed a game now and then and the Gaiety’s hall had been a favourite of his. I dropped a discreet word in the ear of the ma?tre ’d at the Gaiety’s restaurant, and to the barmen at its several saloons. Then it was back into the night air for a stroll to Romano’s, for Philip had been fond of dining there, and then on to Wiltons as Philip had always had a passion for their oysters and stout. I visited a few more restaurants and taverns along the Strand, and when I’d completed these rounds I traversed a dark and twisting alley to a door set well back into a brick wall, with a dimly lit lantern glowing feebly above it. I knocked and waited. A panel in the door slid open and light spilled into the alley. I heard an exclamation and the panel slammed shut, then the door opened and I was enveloped in an embrace.

“India Black! What the hell are you doing here, my girl? This ain’t your part of town no more.”

“Nat, you old villain,” I said. “It’s bloody good to see you.”

The old villain wore a rusty black suit and an ancient beaver hat that had been made before I’d been born. Nat sported a splendid mustache and a bristling pair of muttonchops. Between the brim of his hat and the soup-strainer, a pair of beady black eyes gleamed at me.

“Haven’t seen you in ages,” he said.

“Haven’t had a ruby to fence in ages,” I said.

His belly shook and the black eyes twinkled. “Don’t stand out there in the dark. Come in and have a drink with me.”

I stepped into Nat’s establishment and looked around. I’d been here before, on the day I’d pawned the Rajah’s Ruby. I’d known Nat for years before I ever did business with him. He had a reputation for honesty (well, relatively speaking) and was circumspect, a man who paid top dollar and dealt with his accounts promptly. I’d been more than pleased with the price the old Shylock had paid me for the ruby. I had no doubt he’d sold it for a substantial profit, but I didn’t begrudge the man his mite.

Nat ran a flash house, where, as alert readers will have gathered, stolen goods were fenced. But a flash house was more than that, being a combination of a club and a school. Palmers arrived with the goods they’d shoplifted and the fingersmiths kept Nat in a steady supply of pocket watches. They were always welcome to sit down to a glass of rum or brandy and share the latest gossip, and the young ones were allowed to hang around the edges of the group and imbibe useful knowledge, such as how to ask a passing toff to help you with a drunk friend while you lifted the swell’s wallet. There were dozens of these enterprises around the city, but I’d only crossed the threshold of Nat’s.

He had a crowd tonight which was not what I wanted, so I drew him aside and asked for a quiet word.

He nodded sagely and shouted at the group of fellows gathered around the fire. “Drink up, boys. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

That bunch needed no encouragement, for they were downing the liquor at a fast pace. There was a lot of good-natured ribbing and a few ribald comments, which is only to be expected when I walk into a room, but Nat shushed them with a glance and led me down a dark hall to his cramped office. The room was blue with smoke. Nat had been at work, as I could see by the open ledger and the weighted scales on his desk.

He offered me a chair and a drink, and I spun him a story about the old friend I wanted to find. I didn’t ask Nat outright if he knew Philip. The old duffer was tight-lipped when it came to his clients, but I reckoned that one of London’s best fences would know most of the jewel thieves who plied their trade in the city. I do believe Nat was a romantic at heart, for he heard me out with a sympathetic expression and patted my hand and told me not to give it another thought: If Philip Barrett was in the city, Nat would find him for me.


I walked home well pleased with my night’s work.