India Black and the Gentleman Thief

by Carol K. Carr

  Couple that with French’s declaration of interest or love or whatever it had been, and I felt there was a good chance we’d tumble onto a mattress sometime in this century.

  I took my own sweet time dressing, as any self-respecting female would, and sauntered down the stairs thirty minutes later. I found Vincent, French and Mrs. Drinkwater in the kitchen. My cook was pottering about happily among her pots and pans and piling inedible buns and biscuits in front of French, who was making a valiant effort not to wince at the sight. When Mrs. Drinkwater’s back was turned, Vincent spirited away the offerings and stuffed them into his pockets. He mumbled a greeting to me through a mouthful of crumbs.

  “I assume you have a task for the three of us,” I said to French.

  “We’re off to the docks again.”

  “The Comet sailed last night.”

  “Other shipping companies might have carried cargo for the Bradley Tool Company. It seems our only chance of catching up to the fellow, since your clumsiness prevented me from getting my hands on him yesterday.”

  I ignored that jab. “Do you have any idea how many shipping companies operate in London? It will be like finding a needle in a haystack.”

  “So you’d rather do nothing about those fellows who burst in here and delivered a good kicking to us? I’m not ready to forgive and forget just yet. I’d like another crack at them. But if you want to stay here where it’s safe, I understand.”

  “I know exactly what you’re doing, French. You’re manipulating me, or attempting to, and doing a damned poor job of it. India Black is not easily provoked by shallow taunts.”

  At this remark, French lifted an eyebrow and he and Vincent exchanged a smirk.

  I pressed on. “And I am especially not swayed by such a feeble attempt at machination as you just produced. I’m embarrassed for you, French.” He attempted to look chastened and failed. I suppressed a smile. The fellow’s finally learning how the game is played.

  I turned to exit the kitchen. “When you two have finished stuffing yourselves, kindly let me know. The sooner we get to the docks, the sooner we’ll solve this mystery and repay those chaps who split my lip.”

  It was a bright morning, with a breeze from the sea blowing the smoke from the tanneries and mills upriver away from the city, and making a visit to the wharves an almost pleasant prospect. Gulls plummeted from the sky to snatch bits and bobs from the brown waves. God knows what they were eating as I don’t believe there’s a fish alive that could survive the filthy water of the Thames. Small craft were bobbing about on the swells and the air was redolent with the smell of hemp, tar and fish, overladen with a briny tang. The docks had been busy on Sunday afternoon, but Monday morning had brought a new level of activity to the wharves.

  In fact, I’d never seen such activity. Despite living within a few miles of London’s docks all my life, I’d never troubled myself to set foot on them. Why would I? Consequently, the sight that now greeted my eyes was brand new. A forest of masts stretched away on the horizon. Workers in jaunty peaked caps and canvas smocks dodged nimbly about, wheeling barrows and humping bales of cotton and wool. Watermen plied the river in small craft, ferrying passengers and cargo upstream and down. Dozens of filthy creatures of indeterminate age and sex, London’s “mud larks,” prowled the tidal flats, looking for anything that might fetch a few pence.

  The odor was overwhelming. On the morning breezes wafted the smell of coffee and sulphur, tea and molasses. We wandered past warehouses stuffed to the gills with cured hides and crates of horn, which emitted a stench that made me clamp my handkerchief to my nose. I took a shallow breath and inhaled a lungful of air laden with the scent of cloves and nutmeg, coal smoke, human waste, tar, lumber and rum.

  If the smells were bewildering, the variety of men was stupefying. We passed labourers in rough clothes, their faces dyed blue from the indigo they’d been handling. Lascars roamed the wharves, dark faces shining in the pale river light, the Mussulmen among them sporting white turbans. Massive African sailors, with hard, ropy muscles and chiseled faces stalked among the bales and barrels, wicked-looking knives thrust into their waistbands. By comparison, the British seamen seemed small and gaunt, with faces tanned the colour of a fine saddle. Here and there, among the seafarers and the stevedores, strolled men of commerce, with tall hats and cigars in their hands, and trailed by frazzled clerks clutching sheaves of paper.

  Did I mention the noise? Empty barrels clattered over the planks of the wharves as they were rolled back to warehouses to be refilled. The Africans chanted harsh melodies as they worked and our jolly Jack tars sang ribald songs to pass the time. The streets rang with the sound of hundreds of wagons jouncing along over the stones and the shouts of their drivers as they jockeyed for position. The chains from the cranes rattled ominously overhead. The sound of hammering was incessant, as ships were refitted and made ready for sail. Oars splashed in the water, captains shouted orders and here and there a goat bleated or a horse neighed. Men cursed, coughed, laughed and spit.

  “Excellent idea you had, French,” I observed gloomily. “We’ll make short work of this. Why, there are only acres of docks to examine and hundreds of warehouses and ships. We should be finished by teatime.”

  French pivoted out of the way of a workman bearing a keg of nails, then had to swerve back to avoid being run down by a handcart. He took my arm and drew me to the relative safety of a nearby wall. Vincent followed and we huddled there, looking with dismay at the chaos that surrounded us.

  “I may have underestimated the difficulty of this task,” said French. “I’d planned to visit the warehouses to see if any cargo was being shipped by Bradley, but that would be a labour fit for Hercules.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind, Vincent.” I was feeling rather irritated at having been dragged down to the docks on this fool’s errand, and I was snappish. “We can’t stand about here all day, French. What do you propose to do?”

  “We find out wot ships are sailin’ for India and then we find out if they got any cargo on board from that tool company.”

  “There are hundreds of ships on the river, Vincent.”

  “I can bloody well see that, India. But wot can you tell just by lookin’ at ’em?”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “Well,” he said, with an exaggerated patience that put my teeth on edge. “If their masts and yards are shipped and their riggin’ slack, they ain’t goin’ anywhere. We walk right past ’em wifout even stoppin’.”

  “Wonderful. You’ve just eliminated half our work. It will still take us days to investigate the rest.”

  Vincent blew out a long breath. “Wot’s the matter wif you, India? This spy business ain’t all fun and games. You can’t shoot a Cossack every time you set foot out your door.”

  Being lectured by French is annoying; enduring the same treatment from Vincent is cause for rebellion.

  “I’m going back to Lotus House.”

  “No, you ain’t,” Vincent said firmly. “Did you ever stop and fink that those ’ooligans know you opened that envelope and seen that bill o’ ladin’? They know you’re on to ’em and they may fink it’s safer if you and French get the same treatment they give Mayhew. If that piece o’ paper was worf killin’ the colonel over, you and French might get your gullets slit.”

  “That is a far-fetched notion, Vincent.” I gathered my skirts in my hand, in preparation for my dash through the chaos of the docks in search of a cab.

  “He’s right, India. We’re in this up to our necks already,” said French. “The best way to remove any threat is to uncover whatever fiendish plot is afoot.”

  “Good God. You’re talking like Wilkie Collins now.”

  “Alright, then. Wait at Lotus House if you wish. Vincent and I’ll do the hard work. Don’t spare us a thought while you’re relaxing with a cup of tea in your hand. We’ll just be
down here at the docks, combing through—”

  “Oh, stop your gob, French. I’ll stay and flail about with you.”

  “Stop bickerin’ and listen up.” Vincent tugged down his cap and assumed an air of authority. “’Ere’s the plan. I’ll round up some of me mates and we’ll find out which ships are bound for India in the next fortnight. You two can visit the shippin’ agents.” He gave us a gap-toothed grin. “I doubt they’d let me in the door, anyway.”

  “There must be dozens of agents,” I interjected.

  Vincent sighed. “You could’ve visited six of ’em while you’ve been standin’ ’ere complainin’.”

  Sometimes it’s best to let the male creatures have their way. I don’t recommend this course of action often, but it can be useful on occasion. You are then free to trot out your cooperation at a later date and extract something useful in return. With this stratagem in mind, I graciously assented to the division of labour that Vincent had proposed. French wanted to accompany me on the rounds of shipping agents, but I pointed out that we could cover twice as much ground if we split up. Besides, I had no doubt I’d have better luck at prizing information out of the clerks than French would, hampered as he was by the absence of breasts and a dazzling smile.

  We arranged to meet back at our present location in a few hours’ time, and then Vincent hightailed it in search of his mates while French and I divvied up the docks. We wouldn’t come close to visiting them all today, but we had to start somewhere.

  I shall not bore you with a description of the mind-numbing hours that followed. Should I ever become a full-time member of the prime minister’s staff, I shall insist on being assigned a fresh young lad, eager to prove his abilities and therefore apt to pant like an eager hound at the prospect of spending the day roaming in and out of warehouses and offices, repeating the same yarn ad nauseam and leaving no stone unturned until he’d accomplished his task. My fictitious young fellow would have to be made of sterner stuff than I. After two hours I had wearied of introducing myself as Ethel Perry, who desired to ship a large crate of furniture to her dear brother Frederick, stationed near Calcutta. This person had briefly met a Mr. Peter Bradley, who had confided that he frequently shipped cargo to Calcutta and that she could rely upon him to help her find a shipping agent to handle the transaction. Unfortunately, Mr. Bradley was out of the country at the moment. Did this agent, perhaps, handle shipments for Mr. Bradley’s firm, the Bradley Tool Company? At this point I had to endure not only a negative reply to my question, but also a sales pitch of astonishing duration and force, advising me of the merits of the agent I had approached and the advantages of using the same to send my crate to India. Extracting myself from these conversations was a lengthy process. As I said, I had wearied of the matter only two hours into it, but I stuck it out for several hours more until I dragged myself back to my rendezvous with French and Vincent.

  “Any joy?” asked French as I arrived. In addition to being stubborn, men are so frequently unobservant. I was limp, sticky and footsore, and certainly did not look like a woman who’d had any success.

  “No,” I said tersely. “You?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Me neiver,” said Vincent. “But the boys are on it, and we’ll see what they can turn up.”

  • • •

  It had been a hard day’s work, but in the hansom on the way back to Lotus House I found myself feeling oddly cheerful. Granted, I was bone-tired from walking the wharves and bored witless with the exertions of the afternoon, but at least we were a step closer to finding Mayhew’s killers and the three coves who had used French and me as punching bags. And though I’d just spent the last few weeks dodging death and mayhem at the hands of those anarchist devils, I felt ready for action. There’s nothing like the prospect of a mystery to stir the loins of a government agent. The existence of a few chaps who don’t scruple at beatings and killings of the most savage variety adds an element of danger and a pleasant frisson to the situation. I was highly motivated to settle scores with the rapscallions who had invaded Lotus House and killed the poor colonel.

  I must learn to guard against my irrational exuberance, for it’s Sod’s Law that just when there’s a satisfactory prospect in the offing, something will turn up to remind you that man’s lot is a dismal one and all ends in dust and ashes. In this case, it was not something but someone who arrived to remind me of that immutable lesson.

  The hansom turned the corner and Vincent leaned out the window. “Oi. Are you movin’ ’ouse, India?”

  “What the deuce are you talking about?”

  “There’s a gang o’ workers carryin’ boxes and parcels into Lotus ’Ouse and a wall-eyed cove directin’ traffic.” Vincent’s brow wrinkled. “And where’d them dogs come from?”

  “Dogs?” I pushed him to one side and craned my neck out the window. There was indeed an unusual amount of activity surrounding my front door. A hired carriage was parked by the stoop and the driver, a portly gentleman with a red face, was standing dejectedly on the pavement while four collies pranced and shied about him, twisting their leads round his legs. Behind the carriage a cart was parked and three men laboured to remove a mountain of trunks and boxes and carry them into Lotus House. The wall-eyed cove Vincent had mentioned was barking orders at the workmen like a regimental sergeant. That seemed appropriate under the circumstances for it would require military efficiency to oversee the transfer of all this materiel, it being roughly equivalent to the amount Napoleon had needed for his invasion of Russia. The wall-eyed cove noticed our arrival and called a halt to the activity while he waited for us to disembark from the hansom, stalking over to greet us. At least I hoped he meant to greet us, as his visage was anything but welcoming. He was a villainous-looking fellow, with a pinched face and lips and one pale grey eye that stared straight at you while the other gazed off over your shoulder. It was deuced difficult to figure out whether the man was looking at you or admiring the scenery behind you, and I had to fight the urge to glance round to see if perhaps an attractive woman had hove into view.

  He mumbled something inaudible. Well, I might have heard it but for the frenzied yapping of the collies.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Then an eldritch screech slashed the air like a scimitar.

  “You bloody bitches, pipe down! Fergus, stop dawdlin’ and get my luggage inside. Good God, man! I could have had these bags inside by now. It’s time for my tea and I’m bloody hungry and the bloody cook here seems to have lost her wits, if she had any to start with.” A demented cackle echoed down the street.

  “Blimey,” said Vincent.

  “Dear God,” said French.

  As for me, I was speechless. The Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine had arrived at Lotus House.

  • • •

  The marchioness’s major domo suppressed a smile. “Aye, it’s her. Come down from Tullibardine to see Miss India Black. That’d be you, I suppose,” he said, one eye boring into me. “I be Fergus, Her Ladyship’s . . . ” He paused for a moment as he considered how best to describe the relationship. I hoped he would be discreet for I wasn’t up to contemplating the marchioness sharing a bed with this fellow. Not with his looks. Nor hers, for that matter. Fergus found the word for which he’d been searching. “Manservant,” he concluded. His gaze shifted to French.

  “How-de-do, Major.”

  “Hello, Fergus. Are you well?”

  “Alright, considerin’, you know.” He cast a suggestive glance at the marchioness, who had wobbled out of the front door and was watching us intently. She’s a doughty old bird, not much bigger than a flea and nearly as maddening. She looked much as I remembered her: the wizened face with the powder pressed into the cracks and a streak of rouge across each cheek, which gave her the appearance of a Sioux chief on the warpath. She peered at us through eyes cloudy from cataracts and her mouth hung open, showing the stumps of a few
discoloured teeth.

  French removed his hat and bowed stiffly. “Auntie.”

  Auntie?

  “And how’s my Sassenach nephew?” asked the marchioness.

  Nephew?

  “Ye two look like ye’ve been in the wars. Come in and have a drink. It’ll buck ye up.”

  I recovered my composure. “I don’t believe I need an invitation to enter my own home,” I remarked, not without some asperity.

  The marchioness hooted with laughter. “Still full o’ spunk, are ye?”

  She disappeared into the house and the rest of us trailed in after her, with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Fergus issued a set of instructions to the workman unloading the cart and started after us.

  “’Ere,” roared the carriage driver, over the yelping of the collies. “Wot am I supposed to do wif these ’ounds?”

  Fergus stumped off and retrieved the pups, which proved to be a difficult task as the carriage driver had assumed the appearance of a maypole and it took a while to unwind the leads from the poor chap. Then, to my horror, Fergus led the dogs up the steps.

  “Not in the house,” I said, barring the door with my arm. The marchioness had disappeared. French and Vincent had gone into the study, from which I’d soon be evicting Vincent as he had no right to be privy to the family secrets I felt sure would be revealed now that the marchioness was in town. Fergus was poised in the open door with the collies milling about his feet and panting at their leads. I caught sight of Mrs. Drinkwater, her mouth frozen open in horror. The bints had come spilling down the stairs in their dressing gowns, which reminded me that in an hour’s time I’d have a houseful of customers and the prospect of loosing four dogs and the marchioness on my clientele almost caused my heart to stop beating. I drew a deep breath.

  “I will not allow those dogs in my house,” I repeated.

  The marchioness elbowed me to one side. “O’ course they’re comin’ inside. Where do ye expect ’em to sleep? On the street?”

  “I don’t care where they sleep, as long as it’s not in the house.”