India Black and the Gentleman Thief

TEN


I’ve mentioned several times how deuced inconvenient it is to perform one’s duties as a government agent when one is encumbered by yards of cloth hanging from one’s waist. I’d been meaning to have my dressmaker fit me out with trousers for some time, and had spent more than a few moments contemplating her shocked expression when I requested a pair. What with one thing and another, I hadn’t had time to go to her premises. I announced my intention of going there immediately. I already had in mind what I wanted: a pair of smart woolen trousers in a charcoal colour so dark it was almost black, and lined with crimson silk. It would look fetching with a white silk blouse and my red jacket with the silver braid and pewter buttons. Very military it was, though shockingly masculine, but when you’ve a figure like mine, you can pull off such things. I described my plans to French, who hooted with laughter and then, when he’d brought himself under control, advised that my planned ensemble might draw attention at the docks. Bugger, he had a point.

And a solution, as it turns out. It appears that Her Majesty’s government keeps a fair amount of old theatre costumes and discarded clothing around so that agents who have to don a disguise will have ready access. French planned to outfit himself from the stockpile and offered to bring me a few items that would not stand out on the wharves. I have a firm rule about letting men choose clothes for me, but then I have a firm rule about keeping my sluts in line and the marchioness was proving no help at all in this endeavour. Consequently I provided French with a list of measurements and sent him off with instructions that if the clothes could not be fashionable, they must be clean. I had faith that French would abide by this directive as he’s as fastidious as a cat about his own appearance. Vincent, being an authentic specimen, needed no assistance in dressing for the part of a ragged dockworker.

I spent the rest of the afternoon dealing with the minutiae of running a first-class brothel that has been invaded by Scottish hordes and their wolf packs. The dogs needed mince and Mrs. Drinkwater and Fergus were at loggerheads over who would fix dinner. My cook, while exercising her housekeeping duties, had collected enough dog hair to knit a large blanket. The girls were getting lax, as I had expected, wandering into the study to enquire if the marchioness was about and coddling Maggie with tidbits from the kitchen. The hag herself was out of sight, tucked up in my bed, snoring like a stevedore with a ferocious cold.

An hour later, French returned with several sacks of trousers and jackets. I rummaged through them and found a suitable outfit for the evening. The breeches were coarse wool and would have to be held up by string, but their baggy fit covered the natural curve of my hips. I chose a loosely woven cotton shirt, a tweed jacket of ancient vintage and a striped scarf to wind round my neck. French handed me a flat cap such as half of London’s labourers wear, and with my hair tucked up inside I looked, well, not particularly masculine, but I could pass as an adolescent boy. The clothes, as promised, were clean, though they’d seen much wear. I swaggered around the study in my costume, marveling at the ease of movement in my trousers. I’d have to have more than one pair of these made up, when I found the time.


The evening passed pleasantly enough. Among French, Vincent and me, we managed to keep the marchioness occupied during business hours that night. Fergus dealt for us and we played hand after boisterous hand of vingt-et-un. The marchioness wanted to play for cash, and to appease her we did, although I had to stake Vincent as he didn’t have a penny. Once, my ancient houseguest stood up and wandered about the room, coming close to the doorway into the hall, but French was up on his legs in a hurry and succeeded in cutting her off and herding her back to the table, where she made short work of us at the cards.

Near midnight, I shut down the casino, leaving Vincent to protest that he had had no chance of making back his money and it wasn’t fair. I had to point out to him that it was my money he’d lost, which did little to cheer him up. Possession is nine points of the law, in Vincent’s opinion. The marchioness cackled and promised to give him another crack at her. Then she wished us luck and said she’d be waiting up for us. As we left, I heard her ordering Fergus to fetch her a drink and bring the Bible, as she was in the mood for the Book of Judges tonight. The three of us set out to find a cab to carry us to the river. French had a pack slung over his shoulder containing a few implements we would need for the night’s work. I’d slipped my Bulldog in the pocket of my jacket.

The Sea Lark was anchored in the Regent’s Canal Docks on the north side of the Thames, where the river curves between the Lower Pool and Limehouse Reach. It was a long drive from Lotus House to the edge of the Limehouse district of the city. The area is teeming with foreigners who find casual employment on the wharves. Lascars and Chinese roam the streets and every other dilapidated building houses an opium den or a brothel. Life is cheap in this part of London and I was glad to leave the street behind and scramble out onto the great wooden piers.

It was a perfect night for skullduggery. A half-moon hung in the sky, casting the faintest of silver light. A thick mist rolled up from the Thames. There was much activity on the wharves and quays, for London’s docks are never quiet, but the noise was muted by the fog, and the oil lanterns that burned at warehouse doors and in the cabins of the many ships gave off a viscid yellow glow that dissipated only a few feet from the source. We made our way cautiously along the wharves, stepping smartly to avoid the workmen who appeared out of the thick brume bearing heavy loads on their shoulders. We had to dodge around the ladders propped up against the warehouse walls while chaps scrambled up and down them carrying sacks of grain and chests of tea and tobacco.

We reconnoitered our target first, strolling down the busy quays to where the Sea Lark rode low in the water, heavily laden with her cargo. It was nearing midnight now. High tide would occur in just over eight hours, so we had plenty of time to creep aboard and do a thorough search. The steamship was an ungainly-looking vessel, broad of beam with a large funnel set amidships. Three lifeboats were roped to either side of the deck near the bow, and a low superstructure contained cabins, from which light glowed through the portholes. The cranes had been rolled away from the quay and the hatches to the cargo holds had been battened down. It was clear that the ship’s consignment had been stowed away for the voyage. This was good news for us, as we should be able to trundle about in the hold without any interruption. Now we just needed to find a way on board, and that proved easier than you might think.

We’d considered our options and had debated hiring a small boat upriver and floating downstream until we reached the docks, then rowing up quietly to the Sea Lark. French would toss the grappling hook he carried in his pack over the rail and would shinny up the rope, securing it safely so that Vincent and I could scramble up after him. I wasn’t keen on this plan, involving as it did a lot of luck on our part (no one would hear the sound of the grappling hook on deck, no one would wander aft to find yours truly floundering up the side of the ship, etc.) and no little skill.

Our second choice, and my preferred one, was to walk boldly aboard. That posed far less risk to us as the gangway was busy with coves carrying on provisions for the voyage. A steady procession of men was unloading supplies from a fleet of wagons parked on the quay. We need only equip ourselves with a basket of bread or a cask of rum, avert our faces from the bloke who was standing on the wharf at the bottom of the gangway marking his list, and we’d be on the deck. And so I found myself with French in the shadow of an archway leading into a courtyard, rubbing a handful of coal dust into my face and along the backs of my hands.

“Not so much, India,” French said, spitting in his palm and scrubbing my cheeks. “You look like a bloody blackamoor. You need only appear grimy, as if you’ve been working all day.”

I enjoyed the feeling of his warm palm against my cheek. But never let it be said that India Black is easily distracted from the work at hand. “I do hope this disguise is adequate.”

“Keep the sack you’re given on the side of your head close to the bloke with the list, and don’t speak. If he asks you a question, just mumble. And remember you’re supposed to be a bloke, so mumble in a deep voice. Ready?”

I tugged my cap over my eyes and produced an alto murmur. French chuckled.

Then he and I and Vincent strode confidently into the throng of men who moved between the wagons and the Sea Lark. Vincent took the lead and I followed him, with French bringing up the rear. We took our place in the line of men waiting to pick up provisions and shuffled forward.

“Don’t worry,” French whispered in my ear.

I nodded, but I confess to being nervous. I’m a dab hand at playing maids and shepherdesses and maidens without sin, but this was my first appearance as a man and I found it a bit unsettling. There was nothing to be done but to put my back into the performance, so I spit and slouched and scratched and prayed I’d pass muster.

Vincent reached the wagons and put out his hands expectantly. An obliging cove in the wagon bed dropped a sack of flour onto Vincent’s shoulder. “Ten pounds flour,” said the cove, and “ten pounds flour,” echoed the fellow with the list, labouriously marking the paper with the stub of a pencil. Vincent walked off briskly.

I took my place by the wagon (careful to keep my chin tucked and my cap pulled low over my eyes), reaching up with my smudged hands. A moment later and a bag of flour descended onto my shoulder, emitting a fine cloud of white powder that enveloped my head. I had taken a breath when the weight of the bag had hit my shoulder and now I inhaled a quantity of the white stuff. My nose itched. I balanced the bag with one hand and scratched my nose with the other. It was no use. I tried, Lord knows I tried, but I couldn’t help myself. I sneezed. I’d half stifled it, but the half that escaped sounded high and girlish, which I suppose is how nature intended it to sound.

The cove in the wagon paused in the act of lifting another sack of flour. The cove with the list looked up from his paper. Vincent, halfway up the gangway, froze. I heard French suck in his breath. I ducked my head, hefted my sack and marched off. Behind me, I heard French say, “Bloody man always has a cold.” Then the gangway was vibrating under my feet and the fellow in the wagon said “ten pounds flour,” and his compatriot with the checklist echoed his words. The gangway shook as French stepped on it and followed me aboard.

At the top of the gangway, a solid chap in a striped jersey and knitted cap waved French, Vincent and me forward to an open hatch, where we handed off our bags of flour to be stowed in the ship’s hold. We should have joined the line of workmen threading its way back down the gangplank. Instead, we melted into the shadows at the first opportunity, where we held a hurried conference.


“We must get to the cargo hold,” French whispered.

“I thought we were here for tea with the captain,” I retorted.

He ignored my sally. “I don’t think we can loosen a hatch on deck without being seen. Perhaps we should go below and try working our way into the hold.”

“I don’t know, guv. I fink we’ll stand out like a donkey in the Derby, ’specially India. She don’t exackly look like a bloke. Not up close, she don’t. It’s them . . .” I saw the shadowy movement of his hands as he carved two curves in the air at chest level.

“But there’ll be so many men moving around below deck that we stand a good chance of being ignored. And India will just have to keep her head down and her mouth closed. Granted, that latter feat may be difficult for her to—”

“Stop wittering like two old pussies at the garden gate. Time is wasting. Do I need to remind you that this ship will be sailing in a few hours? And even though the thought of leaving the marchioness far behind is attractive, I’d rather go someplace other than Calcutta. Let’s try the forward hatch.” And so saying I slipped away from my two partners, who would no doubt have stood there until the first mate wandered by and tossed us off the ship.

I led the way toward the bow, darting from shadow to shadow and ducking under the wedges of yellow light that spilled out of cabin windows. There were one or two lads about, coiling long pieces of rope, puffing on pipes and joshing one another. They seemed uninterested in anything other than bragging about their exploits in London’s taverns and whorehouses. We dropped to the deck and crawled along the planks, keeping the superstructure between us and the sailors. I marveled at the ease with which I conducted this maneuver in my trousers and reflected that it was just like men to keep such an advantage to themselves. They do natter on about sportsmanship and the like, but has any one of them bothered to inform the fair sex that movement is considerably easier in britches? No, they have not.

We scuttled like crabs to the hatch closest to the bow of the ship. A dim lantern burned at the rail, but otherwise the deck was shrouded in darkness here. I had thought the hatch might be locked, but there was only a hasp, its slotted, hinged metal plate fitting over a loop of the same material. An iron bolt was thrust through the loop, holding the hasp closed. Vincent scrabbled forward and began working the bolt from its moorings. He moved cautiously, but even the slightest tug on the bolt resulted in a rasping noise that seemed audible over the noise on the quay and the wind off the river. I was as nervous as a sheep sniffing wolf on the breeze by the time the lad eased the pin from the loop and found a crevice in which to deposit it. It wouldn’t do for the bloody thing to be rolling about on the deck as the ship rose and fell gently with the motion of the water.

Vincent clambered to his knees and tugged at the hatch cover, to no avail. In the darkness, I couldn’t tell whether it had moved at all. It dawned on me that this might be the end of our night’s adventures. It should have occurred to one of us that these hatches were made to withstand the lashings of wind and weather on a sea voyage and were not a thin piece of wood to be moved around by an underfed street Arab, a poncy gentleman and a woman.

“Damn,” French muttered in my ear. He’d reached the same conclusion about the hatch cover.

Vincent slumped down beside us, panting from his exertions. “Can’t do it, guv. She’s too ’eavy. I can get her up an inch but it’s stuck on t’other side.”

Light dawned, in the proverbial sense. “There must be a lock on that side of the hatch as well,” I said.

“Even if there is, the damned thing’s heavy,” said Vincent.

“Crawl around there and see if there’s another hasp,” I directed him.

“Why don’t you go yourself, instead o’ orderin’ me around?”

I tend to forget just how sensitive Vincent is to anyone except French instructing him to do something. One of these days he and I would have to have a chat about that. After all, I was a full-fledged agent now. Hadn’t the prime minister himself given me carte blanche to run the anarchist operation as I saw fit? Vincent was just being bloody-minded. It’s a state I recognize easily, being rather bloody-minded myself.

“It would be best if you went, Vincent,” said French smoothly. “You’re more skilled at creeping about without being seen.”

Naturally the little sod went off without a word of protest, having received a pat on the head from his hero. I was extremely annoyed but being the stalwart type said nothing while Vincent eased around the coaming surrounding the hatch and went to work on the second lock. He moved slowly, lifting his head to be sure that the sailors on deck were still occupied with their conversation, but finally I heard a stealthy rasp as the bolt was withdrawn and Vincent wriggled back around the hatch to join us.

The three of us arranged ourselves as best we could in the space we had and on French’s whispered count of three we heaved on the cover. It was heavy as lead but with both its hasps loose, we were able to lift it several inches. One of us would be able to squeeze through, but what of the other two?

“One moment,” said French. We eased down the cover and he disappeared into the darkness, returning a moment later with what appeared to be a large needle with a sharp point on one end and an eye at the other, through which a lanyard dangled.

“Marlinspike,” he whispered. “We’ll wedge it into the opening and crawl through.”

I looked dubiously at the thing. “It doesn’t look strong enough. Will it hold?”

“It’s made of iron. I reckon it will hold long enough for us to get inside.”

Now, I know what you’re thinking, and I was cogitating about the very same thing. “How the devil do we get out?”

“We’ll worry about that later.”

Just like a man—only concerned with ingress, never with egress. Had there been any way of actually exiting stage right at this point without blowing the gaff, I’d have done so. But there wasn’t, and thus I joined my companions in heaving up the hatch cover once more. French groaned and cursed and shoved his shoulder under the hatch to free one hand, which he used to jam the marlinspike between the deck and the cover. We let go gingerly and waited for the confounded hatch to slam shut, but the marlinspike held.

“It’ll be tricky work, sliding through the opening without dislodging that thing,” I observed.

French merely grunted. “You first, Vincent. Then India goes and I’ll come last.”

Vincent, being as thin as your average wharf cat, slid through the opening like melted butter. I’d expected a long drop, but the hold was full and I heard a thump quite near the opening as he came to rest on the cargo. I stuck my head through the hatch. Risky that, but I wanted to know what I was getting into.

“How far is the drop? What’s down there?”

“A few feet. I’m sittin’ on some crates. Don’t know wot’s in ’em. Slide in on your belly, feet first, and you’ll be alright.”

“Watch out below,” I whispered, and squirmed through the opening. Dealing with breasts proved a bit awkward, but by the time I’d managed to get them over the threshold, so to speak, the toes of my boots hit wood and I eased down onto a large container. There wasn’t enough space to stand upright, so I stooped down and duckwalked out of French’s way.


He dropped gracefully into the hold and then we all crouched together and pushed up the hatch so that he could extract the marlinspike.

With that task accomplished, I contemplated the next. The air was fetid, ripe with the smell of bilge water. It was dark as pitch in the hold.

“How the hell are we supposed to see down here?”

“I’m surprised you hadn’t thought of that before now,” French said. The poncy bastard was gloating. I could tell by the sound of his voice.

“Oh, do trot out your candle or whatever you’ve got in that pack and stop sounding so pleased with yourself.” The fact that French had remembered the necessity of light and I had not was irritating. I blame the marchioness. I doubt that French would have been as prepared if he’d had the old crone underfoot and wreaking havoc. Nevertheless, I was glad that he’d had the foresight to bring along a pack. I wondered what else he had inside there.

I heard the scrape of a match, and had to close my eyes for a moment against the sulphurous glare. When I opened them again, French had lit the stub of a candle and was nursing the flame, cupping his hands around it to ward off draughts. When he was satisfied that the wick was burning brightly, he produced two more candles from his pockets and handed one to Vincent and one to me. Then he lit them for us. It was rather solemn and vaguely religious, lighting those candles while the shadows reared dark and foreboding around us.

“You look like a parson,” I cracked.

He gave me a roguish grin that nearly made my candle melt. “Do you like parsons?”

“You two can do that another time,” Vincent said crisply. “Let’s hotfoot it through this ruddy place and get the ’ell out of ’ere.”

“What a killjoy you are, Vincent,” I said. “Lead on.”

French stuck the marlinspike in his belt and left his pack on top of the crates below the hatchway. “India, come with me. Vincent, you go to the other side. Remember, we’re looking for crates stamped either ‘Bradley Tool Company’ or ‘South Indian Railway Company.’ Or the crates might be labeled ‘tools.’”

“Perhaps I should go with Vincent,” I suggested. Had French forgotten that Vincent could not read?

He had not. “I wrote down the information and gave it to the lad earlier. He’ll recognize the words if he sees them.”

Vincent had not lingered to hear this conversation. He had taken off like a flash to the other side of the ship, disappearing over the edge of the crates with the agility of a monkey.

The cargo had been packed solidly to fill the hold. The only space in which to move about was on either side of the stacks of boxes, chests and crates, where the curved sides of the ship had left a bit of room to maneuver. French and I crawled on hands and knees to the edge of the piled cargo.

“There are some cracks between the crates you can use as footholds,” said French, and proceeded to prove his theory by dangling his feet over the edge and searching with his foot until he had found a space to wedge his toe. He made light work of it, and was soon at the bottom, standing on the deck that separated the hold from the bilge. My descent was slightly less nimble, but I made it to the deck with only a scraped elbow and one small tear in my trousers.

The space was narrow and we had to lean against the hull and shuffle along slowly. French rose on his toes to read the labels on the crates near the top of the hold, while I strained my eyes to decipher the scrawled marks on the crates near the bottom.

“Some of the tags must be facing the other way,” I said. “I can’t tell what’s in those boxes.”

“We can only do what’s possible, and hope that we find what we’re looking for.”

On that cheery note I bent over and resumed my efforts, creeping down the side of the hull. It was damned uncomfortable down there and about as exciting as sitting through the Sunday sermon twice. We made slow progress, as the stevedores had packed the hold tight. My back began to ache and my thoughts drifted to my comfortable bed back at Lotus House, until I remembered that the marchioness was the current occupant of that berth, which made me curse under my breath.

We’d been at it for a good hour, crawling along like caterpillars in the confines of the cramped space, when Vincent gave a low whistle and French and I stopped and listened.

“Oi, I fink I found somethin’.”

In an instant French was scaling the mountain of crates that towered over us, and I was right on his heels. We gained the top and hunched down to avoid the timbers over our heads.

“Whistle again, Vincent,” French commanded, and we followed the sound of the muted tone. French lay down on his stomach and peered over the edge of the crates. I joined him there and saw Vincent below us, the glow of his candle nearly swallowed by the looming shadows.

“There’s a bit o’ paper pasted on this one,” he said, holding the candle up to the side of a crate. “‘Bradley Tool Company’ it says.”

“Why don’t you stay here, India. It’s too narrow down there for us all, and I need room to work.”

I didn’t mind refraining from more acrobatic feats tonight and I was quite willing for French to scramble down alone to join Vincent. I lay on my stomach to watch.

“Hold my candle,” French told Vincent, and took the marlinspike from his belt. French inserted it into a space between the planks of the crate. I saw his shoulders hunch as he applied pressure and the plank groaned. He leaned into the spike, using it as a lever to force the board. The wood resisted and French removed the marlinspike and shoved it into a different position, at the corner of the crate. I heard the rasping of nails as they were pulled clear and suddenly French and Vincent had a plank in their hands, which they twisted persistently until one end came away from the crate. In the candlelight, I saw a few wisps of straw protruding from the opening.

“Careful with those candles,” I whispered. French and Vincent spared a moment from their labours to inform me that they were not mentally defective and were well aware of the dangers of fire.

French thrust his arms through the opening and pulled out double handfuls of straw, dropping them at his feet. He inserted his arms again and this time I knew he’d encountered something. I heard metal grind against metal. French was fishing about, trying to get a grip on the object he’d found. He leaned back against the bulkhead and tugged gently, working his arms back and forth.

A slender cylinder of wood and steel popped out and French nursed the rest of the article out of the crate with all the care of a midwife delivering her first babe. I looked down at the rifle cradled in French’s arms.

“Blimey,” said Vincent. “That ain’t a shovel.”

French looked grim. “Indeed not. It’s a .577 Martini-Henry rifle, capable of firing ten rounds per minute at a velocity of nine hundred feet per second.”

“Wot a peashooter.”

“It’s lethal in the right hands, and those hands belong to the army. These are military-issue weapons.”

I squirmed forward for a better look. “Mayhew worked for the quartermaster general’s office.”

“I had made the connection,” said French.

“So somebody stole these ’ere rifles from the army and they’re shippin’ ’em to somebody in India?”

“So it appears.”

“Wot do we do now?”

As so often happens in life, that decision was made for us. One moment we were gazing down at one of the British Empire’s most effective pieces of armament, and the next we were scuttling like rats for a hole. Someone had opened the door to the cargo hold and several men were now standing inside, carrying bull’s-eye lanterns and cursing a blue streak while they searched for the source of the sounds of flight.


I blew out my candle to avoid being seen, and scampered for the hatch, though my progress was impeded by the fact that I had to bend over to avoid smashing my head into the timbers overhead, and the fact that it was too damned dark to see anything. I heard French and Vincent swarming up the side of the cargo and the sounds of their footsteps trailing after me. I reached the hatch and prayed that my compatriots would be there soon as there was nothing I could do until they arrived. They seemed to take a confoundedly long time, but then French pounded to a halt beside me, gulping air like a blown horse, with Vincent right behind him. We put our hands against the hatch cover.

“Push now,” said French, but we needed no such instruction. We shoved with all our might. The hatch moved a fraction, but didn’t open.

“Hell and damnation,” French panted. “Someone put the bolts back in the hasps.”

Our pursuers had climbed to the top of the crates and were advancing on us. It was difficult to tell how many there were, as their lanterns cast a flood of light before them, obscuring them and illuminating us like actors on a stage. I took a breath and tried to steady my nerves. This might be awkward. We’d no doubt be mistaken as thieves and our disreputable attire wouldn’t help matters, but I felt sure we could talk our way out of this situation. If nothing else, we could pull out our trump card, old Dizzy himself, and see how long it took these chaps to tug their forelocks and apologize for inconveniencing us. So I didn’t fret myself, instead using the time it took them to close on us to prepare a speech of sorts. It’s always best to get on the front foot right away, and foreclose any offense by the other party.

I must admit to feeling slightly intimidated by the silent advance of the men with the lanterns. There was something diabolical in their slow, deliberate progression toward us over the boxes and chests. The lights moved forward inexorably, like the torches of some demonic clan seeking a sacrificial victim. Boots thumped hollowly on the wooden crates, and I could hear the men breathing heavily from their climb. If I’d caught someone pilfering things from Lotus House, I’d have shouted loud enough to wake the dead. These chaps, whoever they were, held their tongues. And that is when I pulled the Bulldog from my pocket.

“Stop or I’ll shoot,” I said.

French sucked in his breath. I heard the rustle of his coat as he extracted his Boxer revolver.

Naturally I expected a response to my command. What I heard was unexpected: a deep, throaty chuckle that did not sound at all amused. The lanterns flashed in my direction and I flung up my arm to shade my eyes. I couldn’t see a blasted thing in the glare. Then one man stepped forward. He was bent over with his head crooked up to stare at us. I recognized him immediately. It was the wretched fellow who’d tripped me in the foyer of Lotus House. I did not feel sanguine about this development. Then two more men edged forward and I recognized them as the other ruffians who’d manhandled French and me. God, what a nefarious bunch of villains they looked at the moment in the quavering yellow light from the lanterns and in the shadows that moved like ominous clouds as the ship swayed.

“Drop your weapons,” said their leader. “You are outnumbered. Even if you get off a shot you’ll be dead in the next second.”

I spared a quick glance at French, to find him looking at me. We hesitated.

“Lay down those barkers and be quick about it.”

French shrugged and knelt gently, placing his revolver at his feet. I emulated him, slowly. I didn’t relish the prospect of giving up my Bulldog, but we were outnumbered and there was no point in dying now when we might live to fight another day.

“I was afraid you’d become a nuisance,” said the man. “We should have dealt with you earlier.”

I remembered the blood-spattered walls of Colonel Mayhew’s room. The thought was not reassuring.

“Tie them up,” the man instructed his cohorts.

A fourth man had remained in the shadows. Now he took a step forward, but took care to remain out of the circle of light cast by the lanterns.

He cleared his throat. “What do you intend to do with them?”

My stomach clenched. It was Philip. My first instinct was to claim his acquaintance and beg for his help but it was clear that the leader of this dubious crowd was the man who had spoken first. Philip had sounded downright diffident, which was not surprising. He’d always been a gentleman thief and had never had a taste for violence. There had been a decided tremor to his voice. I locked my eyes on the maestro of the group, determined not to reveal, inadvertently or otherwise, my association with Philip.

“What I should have done before. We can’t afford to leave behind any witnesses. When we’ve reached open water, we’ll slit their throats and throw them overboard.”

I wished I’d shot the fellow.