India Black and the Gentleman Thief

by Carol K. Carr

  After a moment the clerk recovered himself. “May I help you?” he stammered.

  “Yes. I’m looking for a chap named Mayhew. We’ve lost touch and I’d like to have a chat with the old fellow.”

  “First name?”

  “Francis. Colonel Francis Mayhew.”

  “Regiment?”

  “I’m not certain. He started in the Buffs,” said French smoothly, “but I believe he may have transferred since.”

  “Ah, the Third Regiment of Foot. Date of enlistment?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

  The clerk sighed at the idiocy of those who hadn’t the wit to keep track of friends and all relevant information pertaining thereto and went off to rummage through several filing cabinets. He opened one, then another, and then a third, muttering to himself all the while. He had no luck in the cabinets, for he closed the drawer of the last with a bang and went to the other side of the room where row upon row of clothbound journals were stored. He ran a finger over a shelf of dusty volumes, selected one, and paged through it slowly. He uttered a soft cry of discovery, and carried the heavy book over to us.

  “Here he is,” he announced. “Francis John Albert Mayhew. Not with the Buffs, sir. He’s with the Twenty-third, sir. Royal Welch Fusiliers. Currently serving in the quartermaster general’s office. That’s on the next floor up. They’ll know where to find him.”

  I thanked him prettily and got an enormous grin for my reward. I was pleased to note that the dull scratching of pens on paper had not resumed by the time we left the room. No doubt it had something to do with the view of me exiting the chamber. I often have that effect upon chaps.

  We climbed another flight of stairs and repeated our enquiries to another clerk. Due to the fact that he had only to search through a few hundred names rather than tens of thousands, he found Mayhew’s address after a brief search.

  “Colonel Mayhew resides at 18 Milner Street, sir.”

  “He lives in London? Then he’s stationed here, at the War Office?” asked French.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Damn and blast. It would be just our luck for the colonel to amble through the door and find his disheveled madam and a disfigured stranger enquiring after his whereabouts.

  “But he’s not in today, sir.”

  I felt French relax at my side. I breathed a bit easier as well. I’d rather have my scene with Mayhew in the privacy of his abode.

  “I trust he’s well,” said French.

  “I wouldn’t know, sir. I just know who the colonel is and that his desk is down the hall and he hasn’t been there at all today.”

  “Surely he doesn’t work on Sundays?”

  “Yes, sir, he does.” The clerk smiled thinly. “You know the army, sir. Someone’s got to be on duty.”

  “I do hope he isn’t ill,” said French, turning to me. “Perhaps we’d better pay him a call and see if the fellow is alright.”

  I murmured my agreement with this plan.

  In the corridor, French said, “Thank you, India.”

  “For what?”

  “For letting me handle this.”

  “You are competent at some things, French.”

  He spared a brief smile for me.

  We had descended to the ground floor and were almost to the door when I heard a shout.

  “French, old boy! Is that you? Where the devil have you been hiding?”

  I heard French’s sharp intake of breath. He did not look at me, but pasted a frozen smile on his face and turned round. “Bunny Alcock,” he said, with forced enthusiasm.

  I took a look at the tanned and muscular fellow striding toward us. Bunny? I’ve no idea what’s wrong with the British upper class. Despite their wealth and breeding, they persist in tagging each other with the most infantile nicknames: Boy, Tubby, Stinky, Bunny. It does make you wonder how we’ve managed to hang on to the Empire with these puerile types running the show. I was anxious to meet Bunny, however, for it was clear that French would have preferred I did not.

  Bunny sported a wicked gleam in his eyes and a sabre slash across one cheekbone. Whip-thin and brown as a nut, he looked as if he’d just returned from one of the colonies.

  “Good God,” he said as he drew close, inspecting our faces. “What the deuce happened to you, French?”

  “Carriage accident.”

  “You don’t say. Must have been a real smash-up. You look shattered.” Bunny turned his attention to me, doffing his hat. “It appears, ma’am, that you too were a victim of the accident.” He said it innocently enough, but the gleam in his eye was positively wicked.

  “Bunny, allow me to introduce Miss Black,” said French. “My cousin.”

  I’d been wondering how French would handle this situation. Now I knew. He’d chosen cowardice. I gave Bunny a charming smile, the effect of which was no doubt dimmed somewhat by the ugly gash in my lip.

  “The pleasure is mine, ma’am.” Bunny winked roguishly at French. “I’d no idea you had such delectable creatures in the family. I would have cultivated your friendship assiduously, in hope of an introduction.”

  “French is rather good at keeping secrets,” I said. I do not believe that I succeeded in removing the acerbity from my tone.

  “He’s quite accomplished in that field,” Bunny agreed. “I didn’t even know he was engaged until a few weeks ago. I heard it in the mess, at dinner. My congratulations, French. When are the nuptials?”

  I was rather interested in that information myself. I’d known French for several months now, but he’d omitted advising me of several interesting details about his life, such as his Christian name, his military background, and the fact that he was betrothed to Lady Daphne Kenilworth, daughter of the Duke of Allingham. To add insult to injury, a bloody Russian spy had been the one to share these details with me, and he’d done so just last night. For some reason, French seemed worried about the fiancée, as though she presented some obstacle to the relationship between him and me. French can be so drearily ethical. I had no doubt that much of his reticence on the subject of his beloved was due to his reluctance to dash my hopes of a cozy hearth scene with children about my feet and French gazing devotedly into my eyes. Dear, sweet fellow. I could have told him (and would have done so if only there’d been a minute to spare in the last twenty-four hours) that his marital arrangements were irrelevant to me. I had no wish to shackle myself to any man. I am an independent woman. I own property and I make a damned good living. I must remember to inform French of this.

  French pressed my arm, shifting me toward the door. “Wonderful to see you, old boy. Sorry to dash, but we’re late for an appointment.”

  “Tea with a maiden aunt?” Bunny asked and brayed like a donkey at his own wit. “I’ll be at the club most evenings, French. Drop in some night and I’ll stand you a drink.” He tipped his hat to me, grinning devilishly.

  Outside I shook French’s hand from my arm and stalked toward the hansom. “Your assistance is unnecessary. I can manage on my own. ‘Cousin,’” I added.

  “It would have taken all day to explain who you were and why we look as if we’d lost a prizefight. Besides, Bunny is an incorrigible gossip and I’d rather he knew as little as possible about me or you or us. God knows, he’ll fabricate something anyway, but why give him even the slightest morsel?”

  French handed me into the cab and gave Colonel Mayhew’s address to the driver. We snapped back into our seats as the cab jolted forward. French stared out the window and I could almost feel the poncy bastard willing me to silence. Well, it would never do to let him think that was an effective strategy with me.

  “By the way, French, when is the marriage to be held?”

  He cursed loudly and swung to face me. “Confound it! Why must you prick me like this? Do you not understand how I feel about you? And yet I’ve made a vow to another. What
am I to do about that, eh?” His expression was agonized.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but for once in my life thought better of it. I’m quite comfortable flirting with a chap, or tearing a strip off him, but I’d rather have a Saturday night without customers than blather on with a fellow about romance—not, mind you, that I’ve done much of that. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do that with French, if you must know the truth. When he looked at me and those steely grey eyes softened, my heart fluttered and my stomach quaked. I was fond of him, you see. Well, perhaps more than just fond. That’s why I hated to see the poor chap in such a bind. Having very little concern for society and its conventions, it’s dashed difficult for me to understand how these moral dilemmas can turn a perfectly reasonable chap into a dithering wreck, but I knew that French was in no state to discuss the matter at the moment. Nor did further probing into his knowledge of my past seem wise at this time.

  I pondered for a moment, considering what a sympathetic and caring woman would do in this situation. It was a bit of a stretch for me, but in the end I think I did the right thing. I reached across the divide that separated us and rested my hand lightly on French’s thigh. After a long moment, so long that I considered withdrawing my peace offering, I saw the corner of his mouth turn up ever so slightly, and his hand came down to rest on mine. Well, you have to throw the fellows a bone now and then, or they’ll grow discouraged and wander off. We rode the rest of the way to Mayhew’s address in silence.

  THREE

  The colonel had taken rooms in one of those awful row houses that developers had been throwing up all over London for the past few years. No doubt you’ve seen them, those hulking structures of orange-red brick crowned with a variety of fantastical stone ornaments, with a fern in every bay window. This one was just off a leafy green square, down a quiet side street. As it was just rising eleven o’clock on Sunday morning, the pavement was deserted and not a carriage or cab could be seen.

  “Quiet as a tomb,” observed French after he’d paid our fare and the hansom had creaked away, wheels sounding unnaturally loud in the silence.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised to find that the colonel is holding down a pew somewhere. He seems to be a great one for rectitude.”

  “I do hope we haven’t wasted a trip,” said French, looking irritable at the thought that someone would venture out to observe the sacraments without consulting him.

  “Perhaps we can find a café or a stall where we can have a cup of coffee. Lord knows, we have a great deal to discuss.”

  French looked sour at the prospect of an intimate discussion and rapped on the door of Mayhew’s lodgings. I smoothed a stray lock of hair into place and trusted that my immaculate coiffure might distract attention from my swollen lip.

  The door opened wide enough to permit one suspicious eye to stare out at us. The eye narrowed at the sight of our bruised countenances. “Yes? What is it? If you’re selling something, go away. It’s the Sabbath.”

  French swept off his hat. “So it is, ma’am, and I’m very sorry to disturb you on your day of rest. I am Major French of the Forty-second, and this is my cousin, Miss Black. We are acquaintances of Colonel Mayhew and would like to speak with him.”

  The eye swept from French’s face to mine, and appeared unconvinced. “Friends of the colonel, you say?”

  “Pardon our appearance, ma’am. Our carriage overturned on the way to town yesterday, and we suffered a few injuries.”

  “We are fortunate that we were not seriously hurt,” I added, “but John, our poor driver, was most grievously injured. He’ll be in hospital for some time.”

  My fabricated concern for our fictitious employee had the desired effect. I must learn to exhibit these normal human emotions more frequently, as it does seem to engender a bit of trust among the naïve. The door opened wider to reveal an elderly, thin-faced woman in a prim dress of dark wool. The suspicion had disappeared from her eyes, replaced by a maternal concern.

  “My goodness. What a fright you must have had.” She cocked her head at French. “Major, did you say?”

  “Yes, ma’am. The Black Watch, ma’am. The ‘Gallant Forty-twa,’ as they call us in Scotland.”

  “Heavens! I remember your brave lads from the Battle of Alma, back in ’54. You gave those Russians a proper thumping.” She beamed at French, why I don’t know, as he would have been a lad in short pants in those days, but that didn’t stop him from basking in the old girl’s approval. “I’m Mrs. Sullivan. Won’t you come in?”

  We followed her into a dim parlour crowded with furniture, and took a seat on a faded velvet settee. The landlady settled into a rocker and automatically picked up her knitting from the basket on the floor. She looked ready to settle in for a long palaver about the Crimean War, and I could see French squirming.

  “Colonel Mayhew?” he prompted.

  “Yes, of course. I’m sorry, but the colonel isn’t here. He always spends Sunday at the War Office. He’s got quite a responsible job there, you know.”

  French frowned. “That’s odd. We’ve just come from there and the colonel was not in his office. One of the clerks told us he hadn’t been in today. Have you seen him this morning?”

  “No, I have not. He never takes breakfast on Sunday, as he likes to be at his desk bright and early and always has something brought in to the office. I do worry that he doesn’t eat regular meals, you know. I’ve told him many times, I’ve said, ‘Colonel, you must have something nourishing to eat before you leave for work.’ The army’s food is inadequate, as you well know, and I worry that Colonel Mayhew isn’t getting a proper meal with porridge and bacon and eggs. Men like that sort of thing, you know. Builds them up. I expect you eat a proper breakfast, Major.”

  “I do,” said French, who had politely held his tongue during this soliloquy, though I could see he was champing at the bit to ask more questions. “The clerk thought the colonel might be ill. Did you hear Colonel Mayhew depart at his usual time?”

  The landlady shook her head. “I never do. I always visit my sister on Saturdays. She has a small cottage in the country and I take the train out to see her. I spend the night with her and then return to London on Sunday morning. The colonel always departs for his office before I arrive home from the station.” She cocked her head. “Dear me. I’ve forgotten my manners. May I offer you some refreshments? A cup of tea, perhaps, and some biscuits?”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said French. “But we can’t stay. We only dropped by to have a quick word with the colonel. Would you mind seeing if he’s in his room? Perhaps he is ill and he’s still sleeping. That would put my mind at ease.”

  “Certainly, Major. I’d be delighted to be of assistance. Though, mind you, if the poor man is asleep I won’t disturb him.”

  “Oh, best not to, I think. He’ll need his rest, and we can come back at another time.”

  The landlady dropped her yarn and needles into the basket and bustled out of the room. We heard her tread on the stairs.

  “It’s odd,” mused French, “that the colonel is not at his desk this morning and hasn’t bothered to send word why he is not.”

  “Perhaps he went to Lotus House to retrieve his envelope.”

  “Damnation. I wish I had thought of that. One of us should have stayed behind.”

  I’ve heard a lot of screams in my time, but I shall never forget the one that echoed through the house at that instant. A thin, quavering cry brought a chill to my bones, and then the cry became the full-throated shriek of a woman who was staring evil in the face. French was out of the room in a flash and I was close on his heels. The scream was still echoing down the staircase when we cleared the last riser and looked anxiously for its source.

  Mrs. Sullivan reeled out of a room at the end of the hall, wailing like a soul that’s just glimpsed Hades. I’ve said I won’t forget that scream, and I’ll be remembering the landlady’s fac
e for the rest of my days. It was a mask of terror, the eyes staring and sightless, the mouth wrenched open in a rictus of fear and horror. French dashed down the hall and past Mrs. Sullivan, entering the room she’d just exited. I reckoned he thought I’d do the womanly thing and rush to the landlady’s aid, shushing her cry and leading her away for a cup of tea or something stronger, but I’ve an unhealthy curiosity and so I darted past the tottering figure and into the room behind French.

  Oh, how I wish I hadn’t. The room looked like an abattoir, only no self-respecting butcher would have created this much mayhem. Blood pooled on the floor and spattered the walls. The smell was revolting. I put my forearm over my mouth to avoid breathing in the sickly sweet aroma. I had nearly crashed into French, as he’d pulled up short as soon as he’d entered the room. He turned now and grasped my arms.

  “Don’t look,” he muttered. His face was pale and his lips tightly crimped. He looked as nauseous as I felt.

  “Dear God,” I muttered. “Mayhew?”

  “Dead, poor fellow.”

  “No one could lose this much blood and still be alive,” I said with some asperity. Torture always makes me snappish, and torture, I am afraid, is the only thing that could account for the amount of blood now drying on the damask wallpaper and the pine floors.

  “What the devil did they do to him?”

  A vein throbbed in French’s temple. “They cut the man to bloody pieces.”

  “Do you think they were after the envelope?”

  “What else could it be? Someone wanted it very badly and Mayhew thought it would be safer with you.” He ushered me out the door, closing it behind him. “This would explain why those fellows showed up this morning at Lotus House. It looks as if Mayhew held out as long as he could, but he must have told them what he’d done with the envelope. Then they slit his throat and came after it.”

  Mrs. Sullivan had managed to wobble down the stairs and was leaning against the newel, sobbing hysterically. She glanced up as we came into view and let out a piercing howl.