India Black and the Gentleman Thief

by Carol K. Carr

  Clara giggled. “Well, we’ve lost one or two. Them that aren’t sound on Scotland.” She looked meaningfully at the marchioness and lowered her voice. “You know how she is. Takes offense real easy about bagpipes and kilts and all that. We just steer the conversation away from any such things. Now she’s solid on dogs and stag hunting and the fellows love that sort of talk.”

  “The marchioness discusses stag hunting with my customers?” My tone may have been a trifle steely.

  Clara looked uneasy. “Well, we found it best to let her go on about the rut, instead of Culloden, whatever that is. Sure, and she nearly has a heart attack if you mention that word.”

  My own heart felt weak at the moment.

  “Did I do anything wrong?” Clara asked.

  “No, no. You’ve done just fine.” Well, I could hardly blame Clara for not corralling the old girl. I’d had no luck at that myself.

  That did not stop me from attempting to do so now. I sauntered over and sat down beside her on the sofa. “I hear you’re running the till these days.”

  She beamed at me, her pink gums shining. “Aye, we’ve done well.”

  We?

  “I’ve a knack for this, ye see? I’m a dab hand at chattin’ up the customers, and what fine fellers most of ’em are.” She leaned over to share a confidence. “Mind ye, some of ’em need a stern lecture about their manners. The English are terrible snobs, ain’t they? Ye’d think Adam Smith and David Hume were local boys from Sussex. But not to worry. I disabuse ’em of that notion right away.”

  “How many clients have we lost?”

  The marchioness waved a hand blithely. “Weel, now, that I couldn’t say. But I do know that if a feller takes offense at being told he’s wrong about the Act of Union, then he’s not worth havin’ as a customer.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “Your Lady—”

  “Auntie.”

  “Auntie,” I said through gritted teeth, “we . . .” Dear God, what was I saying? “I cannot afford to lose customers over their political views. In fact, I make it a point to discourage talk of politics at Lotus House. It only leads to bad feelings and loss of income.”

  “Pish,” said the marchioness.

  I’m ashamed to say that I gave it up. I’m a self-sufficient woman. I’ve handled Cossack guards and Scottish assassins and foreign anarchists, but I’ll be damned if I had the gumption to tackle one decrepit crone with a brace of puppies on her lap. What I needed was a quiet place to think over things, like how to break the ice with French, and how to eject Vincent and the marchioness at the first opportunity, and how to restore a bit of sanity to my life.

  “Ye know, I’ve been thinkin’.”

  I steadied myself. “Yes?”

  “I had no idea that this profession of yers was so damned lucrative.”

  The alarm bells began to ring. With justification, as it turns out.

  “The two of us would make a formidable team. Yer spendin’ way too much money on liquor. And why the devil don’t ye make those girls pay for their own rouge? Do ye have any idea what that’s costin’ you every month? Ye turn me loose and I can have this place shipshape in thirty days.”

  “What about Scotland?” I bleated.

  “What of it? I wouldn’t say this to just anyone, but seein’ as yer family, I’ll tell ye. It’s bitter in the winter.”

  “It can be very cold in London in January.”

  “Compared to Tullibardine, London will feel like Italy. Not that I’ve ever been to Italy, mind. I don’t hold with foreigners.”

  “But what about claiming my title? I’ll need your help to do that.” I was so bloody desperate I was willing to consider pootling off to Scotland to rid myself of my . . . well, “guest” is hardly the word for someone who had invaded my house and taken over my business.

  “Aye, there is that. We’ll have to go home soon, but then there’s no reason we can’t come back here. To tell the truth, ye’ll need some money. The house at Strathkinness needs a few repairs.”

  “Repairs?”

  “Aye. A new roof, and the drains will have to be seen to, and then there’ll be a few windows to replace.”

  “But what about the income from the estate?”

  The marchioness’s eyes skittered to the window and a vague expression crossed her face. “There’s that, of course, but a few extra bob would come in handy.”

  “What is the income from the estate?”

  The marchioness gently poked one of the puppies in her lap. “Look at that little feller. He’s prime. I’m thinkin’ of givin’ him to ye.”

  Now I knew very well the marchioness was trying to distract me, and I was not going to be played quite so easily. I was just about to tell her so when French walked in and provided a real distraction. He looked a bit haggard from his hours at the oars, and his hands were wrapped in cotton bandages.

  He bowed his head to the marchioness. “Good afternoon, Aunt Margaret.” He did not look at me.

  “Where’ve ye been, ye Sassenach rascal? Have ye seen the pups yet?”

  “I’ll look at them later. I’ve just stopped by to tell India that the prime minister has requested our presence at a meeting.”

  “What? Now?”

  “You’ve time to change. I’ll meet you in the lobby of the Langham in an hour’s time.” And with his message delivered, he strode off.

  The marchioness watched his retreating back with pursed lips. “Weel, he’s got a burr under his saddle, don’t he? What do ye suppose has vexed him so?”

  I knew perfectly well, but felt disinclined to share the information with her. But from the shrewd glance she shot in my direction, I had a feeling she might have guessed.

  THIRTEEN

  When the prime minister of Great Britain summons you it’s best to respond promptly, even if you’re in the middle of a discussion about the terms of your inheritance. I threw on some clothes, hailed a hansom and trotted off to the Langham Hotel, where Dizzy resided. He’d once had a fine London house but he’d sold it after the death of his beloved wife, Mary Anne. Hard to credit it, I know, but the crafty old Levantine had married a woman a decade his senior, and there hadn’t been much money in the match. That was quite enough to shock the ton, but deuced if the old boy hadn’t actually married out of love, a thing unheard of among the beau monde. To me, it was just another example of the old boy cocking a snook at “the quality” and I liked him all the more for it. But I digress.

  The doorman recognized me and gave me a brief nod, opening the heavy door for me. French was lounging in a chair in the lobby. He got up languidly and sauntered over, managing to gaze politely at a point just over my shoulder.

  “I’ve just seen a fellow in a top hat and an army chap making tracks for Dizzy’s room.” At least French was speaking to me. “Neither looked happy. I’ll wager we’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest.”

  “Splendid. It’s so tranquil at Lotus House that I’m bored to tears.”

  French stifled a laugh (another hopeful sign, I thought), and we hurried up the stairs. My heart had lifted at the prospect of action, and perhaps French’s had as well.

  There were stalwart fellows loitering about the hall and at the door of Dizzy’s sitting room. French nodded to the guard at the door, who knocked lightly to secure our admittance. A beefy chap opened the door and bowed us in. He might be playing the role of butler tonight, but I wouldn’t want to argue with him about where he’d stashed my umbrella. Dizzy was getting edgy, what with anarchists swarming all over London, intent upon blowing up government officials and aristocrats. I can’t say I blame him for feeling that a few lads with thick necks and scarred knuckles might be just the ticket.

  The prime minister rose at our entrance and advanced on us, beaming. I was glad to see the old fellow looking well again. He’d caught a nasty cough after spending the Christmas holidays
at Balmoral. The Queen likes fresh air, you see, and insists that the windows remain open even when the draughty old pile is enveloped in a bloody blizzard. Poor old Dizzy had suffered greatly from the chill, but he seemed to have recovered his health and spirit.

  “My dear Miss Black,” he said, catching my hands and squeezing them gently, those brilliant black eyes of his fixed on mine. The fellow is about as sincere as a three-shilling whore, but I am fond of him. I smiled back at him and told him how pleased I was to see him again.

  He acknowledged French with a slight bow and then led us over to the other occupants of the room.

  “Sir Hereward Digby of the India Office,” said Dizzy, indicating a disgruntled chap with a tuft of white hair like an ermine’s tail surrounding his bald pate, a round face and a fleshy nose marbled with blue veins.

  “And this is Major General Buckley, of the quartermaster general’s staff.”

  Buckley’s career had not been spent in the field. He was broad in the beam and the buttons of his uniform coat were strained to the point of danger. Over the years, his face had assumed a permanent expression of suspicion, and his mouth was crimped and posed to pronounce the fatal word “no” to any proposal. Both Digby and Buckley shot a curious glance at me when the prime minister introduced me to them.

  We all took a pew and Dizzy was kind enough to have tea and cakes brought in. We munched and sipped politely and made small talk until Dizzy signaled that it was time to discuss business by clearing his throat and depositing his cup and saucer on the table.

  “Just so that we are aware of how things stand, let me apprise you all of certain facts. Mr. French and Miss Black are agents in my employ.” At this revelation, the general jumped as if he’d been spurred and the chap from the India Office choked on his Earl Grey. Dizzy ignored the interruption and carried on. “Mr. French has advised me that they have learned that British rifles are being shipped to India under false bills of lading, and that a certain Colonel Mayhew, assigned to the quartermaster general’s department, has been murdered, most likely as a result of his association with this matter.”

  Dizzy cast a sidelong glance at French and me and we nodded to confirm his statement.

  “Consequently, I made enquiries of the army and General Buckley has confirmed that large numbers of rifles and a great amount of ammunition have gone missing from military armouries over the last few months.” Dizzy turned a grave visage toward Buckley and the military wallah nodded unhappily.

  Dizzy continued on, relentlessly. “It appears that the armaments were transferred by written order to the Bradley Tool Company, which was in turn responsible for shipping the arms on to our military depots in India.”

  “That is highly irregular,” said French, in a mild voice, but all the same Buckley shot him a vicious glance.

  “Indeed,” Dizzy concurred gravely. “The army may consign certain items to private companies for transportation to foreign ports, but never weapons. Those are carried by Her Majesty’s Royal Navy.”

  “Who signed the orders?” I asked.

  “Colonel Mayhew.” It was General Buckley who spoke. He leaned forward in his chair, his hands on his knees. “In each case, the colonel issued instructions to deliver the weapons to this fictitious company. In fact, this arrangement began to occur only after the colonel joined the quartermaster general’s staff.”

  “Was he responsible for these sorts of arrangements? The transport of weapons, I mean.” I was careful to keep my voice neutral.

  “It was within his purview, yes. Otherwise, the orders would have attracted attention. But since Colonel Mayhew was the officer responsible for such matters, no one thought to question him.”

  French withdrew a cheroot from his pocket. “May I?” he asked the prime minister.

  “Certainly. Tobacco is a powerful stimulant to the mind. We shall need the use of all our faculties to resolve this matter.”

  French smiled tightly. “Am I right in assuming that this matter goes beyond mere theft? I doubt Sir Hereward is here to discuss the army’s deficiencies.”

  The general bristled at this and Dizzy cut in smoothly to prevent an outburst. “You are correct, Mr. French. Just after you brought the matter of the stolen rifles to my attention, a memo from Sir Hereward crossed my desk. By the way, my esteemed colleague here keeps an eye on the princely states of India. It is a tiresome job, as there is always some rajah or rani arguing over the amount of the British subsidiary allowance they are receiving, and the Mussulmen are always disputing with the Hindu, and there’s usually a revolt brewing somewhere, which brings us to the matter at hand.” Dizzy waved a hand at the India Office bloke. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to explain.”

  Sir Hereward would. “As Lord Beaconsfield has said, I am responsible for all matters relating to the princely states. I, ahem, assume that you are all familiar with this term.” Naturally, the chap was looking at me.

  I looked vacant and put a finger to my mouth. “I say, aren’t those the little kingdoms and such that some Indian prince pretends to run, only really we’re in charge of the whole circus? And they’ve got such exotic names, those little chaps. Maharajah and nizam and nawab. I’m sure I don’t know how you keep them all straight. Where was I? Oh, yes. We keep the ruler sweet by paying him off and in exchange we get to collect all the tax revenue and pocket the profit from the state’s exports. And then when the chap bites the dust we refuse to acknowledge his heir and claim that the kingdom has reverted to us. Have I got that right?” I looked around innocently.

  Sir Hereward was not amused. “We provide valuable services to the rulers of these states, ma’am, and their subjects benefit. You must remember that these people are little more than savages. Without us, they would have no wells or irrigation, or any roads to transport their crops to market. And as for the reversion of the kingdoms to the British government—”

  “I believe we are straying from the point, Sir Hereward,” Dizzy said soothingly. “The rifles?”

  If it had been anyone other than the prime minister, I do believe the India Office chap would have stayed on his soapbox. As it was, he looked hurt for a moment and rubbed his hand over his bald pate.

  “Yes, of course. For the past few months, we’ve been dealing with a troubling situation in the state of Ganipur. The rajah there had assumed the throne on his father’s death and had seemed an excellent fellow. The British resident at the court thought the young man was shaping up nicely, listening to the resident’s advice and treating his people well. But two years ago, the rajah began to act strangely. He began to ignore the resident’s counsel, then the rajah became rather rude and offensive and finally, and after a few months, he told the resident to pack up and leave. When our chap refused, the rajah had his cavalry escort the poor devil to the border and left him there with his luggage in a heap by the side of the road. Well, we couldn’t have that.”

  “No, indeed,” I murmured. French’s elbow dug into my side.

  “What caused the disruption in the relationship?” he asked, to distract Sir Hereward.

  Sir Hereward’s fleshy face darkened. “Someone has been pouring poison into the rajah’s ear.”

  “Russians,” Dizzy hissed. Lord, that man hates the Russians, which I suppose is natural as Dizzy’s every waking moment is spent trying to keep the greedy bastards from weaseling their way into the British Empire. The Ivan is always poking about in Afghanistan or India, probing for a soft spot in the British armour so the Russians can stir up some discontent and make a few friends among the locals. I’m not overly fond of those Russian buggers myself but my hatred is rather more personal, having spent some time as a prisoner of those treacherous thugs.

  I braced myself for a lengthy diatribe from Dizzy against our Slavic foes, but Sir Hereward wasn’t ready to yield the floor.

  “Yes, the tsar has sent an agent to stir up things in Ganipur, and he has succeeded a
dmirably. In fact, the rajah has taken up arms against us and the army has been battling his troops for several months.”

  General Buckley, armchair strategist, gave the India Office chap a sour look. “Why the devil have we been fighting some jumped-up little heathen for months? We should have wiped out his forces and hanged the wretch by now.”

  Sir Hereward remained cool. “You’ll have to take that up with your associates at the War Office. I gather the rajah has rather a lot of troops, General, and our forces are stretched thin at the best of times. And he doesn’t stand and fight, you know. He attacks our supply chain and raids our camps, but he doesn’t collect his army in one spot. Ganipur is a hilly region, sir, and the rajah and his boys can disappear into those hills for weeks at a time.” Sir Hereward shifted in his chair and I could see that he was sharpening a lance point for General Buckley. “And then there’s the matter of the rajah’s arms. His army is not equipped with the usual motley assortment of ancient muskets and old swords. He’s contrived to get his hands on several hundred Martini-Henrys, straight out of England’s armouries.”

  Ooh, I would hate to have been on the receiving end of that stab.

  General Buckley subsided in his chair. “The stolen rifles have been delivered to the rajah of Ganipur?”

  As Sir Hereward had just said so, in plain English, I thought the general rather slow on the uptake.

  “Good God!” he exclaimed. “It can’t be.”

  “I’m afraid so, General. Two weeks ago we fought an engagement with the rajah’s forces and took a dozen prisoners. They were all equipped with Martini-Henrys.”

  “I don’t suppose they could have ambushed our brave lads and taken the rifles from the boys they cut down?”

  Sir Hereward shook his head. “We questioned the prisoners. To a man, they claim the rifles arrived at their encampment in crates, and they were each issued a new weapon and ammunition.”

  A bead of sweat appeared on the general’s upper lip. “I say,” he sputtered feebly, “that’s a damned bad show. Just wait until I get my hands on the blackguards who’ve done this—”