“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.
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 encount
ers 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 f
ix 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.
India Black and the Gentleman Thief Page 7