I edged around the corner and found myself at the back of the house. There was another gravel courtyard here, containing a stone drinking trough for the farm stock, and an assortment of dilapidated outbuildings. A soft whicker emanated from one of them and I tiptoed across the crushed stone to find that one building was in use as a stable. Two horses in the stalls lifted their heads when I poked mine inside, and I saw a carriage covered by a canvas tarp to keep out the dust. I slithered out and crept warily through a shed (the prior occupants of which had been, by the smell inside, chickens) and another small building that might have been a smokehouse, based on the acrid odor of old soot.
I will confess that my journey was ponderous and by the time I’d ascertained that there was no one lurking in the gloom and had sidled up to our rendezvous, French was wound as tight as a spring.
“What took you so long?” he snapped.
“I was being thorough. I hope you didn’t miss anything in your rush to meet me,” I snapped back.
French snorted, which I thought a feeble reply. “I didn’t see anyone. Did you?
“No. It looks as if there’s only the one bloke down the drive. There’s a team of horses in the stable and a carriage,” I reported.
“Let’s see if we can find a way into the house,” said French. “Only one of the rooms at the front appears occupied.”
We crouched behind the stone trough for a bit, to be sure that our approach had not been noticed. Have I mentioned how much I detest waiting? I’d be very pleased with this secret agent business if only it involved shooting Russians and did not require that I hang about watching people or places, with no dinner and no means of amusement. After three hours or so (alright, it wasn’t that long, but it surely felt like it), French deemed it safe to try the windows at the back of the house. All were locked. There was a door too, which likely led into the kitchen, but as it also was bolted we could not confirm our hypothesis.
“Confound it,” said French, when we’d exhausted the last of our possibilities. “There’s got to be a way in.”
“Shall we try the front?”
French sucked in his breath. “It’s too risky. What if the guard walks up the drive, or turns round and sees us?”
“Our only other option then is to wait until whoever is in there leaves the house and follow him, or them. But we could wait here for days.”
French hesitated, but the idea of staking out the house held as little appeal for him as it did for me. “I had hoped to avoid this, but we’ll have to break in. The noise may alert the guard or people in the house. If it does, then dash out of here and head north for a distance. Then cut back west. You’ll reach the main road and you can walk to the Duke of Wellington. I’ll meet you there.”
“An excellent plan, French. Which way is north?”
“Bloody hell.” He stabbed a finger at the fields behind the house.
“So west would lie in that direction?” I held out a hand uncertainly. “But isn’t the road behind us? Wouldn’t that be south? If I go north and then west, how will I cross a road that’s south of us?”
“Because the damned road curves. Didn’t you notice how we changed directions as we drove?”
“You mean to tell me that you did?”
“Naturally.”
“Well, I’ll be hanged if I know which way is north or south and I’m damned sure that if I’m being chased over the fields like a bloody fox that I won’t remember which is which. I have a much simpler plan. If we are pursued, I shall just run until I’m exhausted. Then I’ll cower in a ditch until dawn and head for the first farmhouse I see and beg to be taken to the nearest station. I’ll meet you back at Lotus House. Agreed?”
“We’re wasting time,” said French. “Just do what you like. You always do, anyway.”
“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said all night.”
We crept back to the last window we had tried, which, being as far from the presumably occupied room at the front of the house as was possible, represented our best chance of entering undetected. French extracted his knife from his boot and inserted it into the frame, trying to pry open the latch. The grating of the blade against the metal fastening sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet of the countryside. My ears were pricked for any noise from within the house. French worked the blade back and forth. I heard a creaking noise, followed by a crack that to me sounded as loud as a gunshot. French and I froze.
“What happened?” I whispered.
“The frame is rotten. I’ve split the wood.”
We waited for what seemed an eternity, but the house remained quiet and the sentinel down the drive did not come to investigate.
“I believe I can dig out enough of that frame to get to the lock,” said French. He probed the wood with his blade, flicking small pieces of it away with each movement of his hand. It can’t have been very noisy, for the timber was old and soft, but each time French dug the blade into the frame it sounded to my ears as if a corps of lumbermen was felling oaks.
There was a snapping sound and French grunted in satisfaction. “Just a few more minutes and I’ll have this lock out.”
He was as good as his word and in no time at all he had pulled the lock from the flaking wood and set it on the ground. He grasped the sash and pushed upward gently, and the window slid open—not, I would note, as silently as we would have desired, but with much rasping and shuddering. This necessitated another wait, but finally French was satisfied that we remained undetected and levered himself up and over the window ledge. He was gone for a few moments sussing out the situation, but returned soon to offer me his hand. I wished I’d had time to change into my trousers, for scrambling through a window encumbered by a full skirt is deuced difficult.
We were in the kitchen. I could see the bulk of a cooking stove against one wall and a row of cabinets against another. Crockery, pots and pans were heaped on a table in the center of the room. A small wooden table and four chairs occupied one end of the room. The air in the room was fusty, and smelled of stale food.
French put a hand on my arm and whispered. “Through the door is a dining room, and then the entrance hall. There appear to be four rooms on each side of the main hall and I assume the same number of rooms upstairs. Welch is in a room at the front of the house with another man. I could only get a glimpse in there. It appears to be used as a library. I don’t think there’s anyone else in the house, but I didn’t have time to check the rooms upstairs. I don’t see any lights up there but keep your eyes open just the same.”
I tugged my Bulldog from my purse. French took my hand firmly in his and we negotiated our way out of the kitchen and into the dining room. When my eyes adjusted to the dark, I could see that the furniture was covered in sheets. This room also smelled musty, and there was an air of disuse and neglect about the place. We navigated around the furniture and reached the entry hall. French poked his head around the door frame and then pulled me closer, gesturing for me to have a look for myself. Directly in front of me I saw the side of a set of stairs leading from the ground floor to the first. The space beneath it had been sealed off and there was a small door into a cupboard. I reckoned the space would be used for storage. Turning my head toward the left, I could see a white sheet draped over a large dresser or chest. Ten feet beyond the chest lay the front door to the house. Craning my neck farther out of the dining room entrance, I could see a set of double doors between the chest and the main entrance. The doors were closed. I could tell that because a thin wafer of yellow light issued from the room French had referred to as the library. The door to this room, which stood directly opposite the set of closed doors, was cracked open a few inches. I heard muffled conversation.
French touched my hand and we left the safety of the dining room and crept into the entrance hall, edging closer to the library. I winced as a floorboard squeaked under my weight. We stopped short of the open door
and huddled against the wall. There was a lively discussion taking place in that room, but the occupants were obviously sticklers for privacy for they were speaking in hushed tones. Once I heard Welch’s voice raised in protest but someone shushed him peremptorily and the palaver continued. I could hear only snatches of the exchange. I heard the words “weapons” and “shipment,” but the heavy oak door effectively deadened most of the sound from the room. Still, some of the tone came through and from it I gauged that Welch was the inferior in the room. It was frustrating not to be able to hear what was being said, but short of sashaying in and seizing the men at gunpoint . . .
Well, why not? I nudged French and held up the Bulldog so that he could see it in the faint light filtering through the edges of the door. I mimed opening the door and charging in with gun in hand. French frowned and shook his head.
“Why not?” I said against his ear.
“No proof,” he whispered into mine.
I’ve no problem with securing evidence, but I do think it somewhat overrated as an effective means of solving a problem. What the devil were we doing here, if we weren’t going to take Welch and his compatriots prisoners and present them to Dizzy wrapped in a bow? We might never have another chance like this. I fumed and blustered (as well as one can when one must remain silent) and French waved me off and put his eye to the crack in the door, ostentatiously ignoring me.
A chair grated on the floor and French jerked back his head. He seized my arm and we slunk away down the corridor to the dining room. French pulled the door behind us, leaving an opening just wide enough for us to peer out into the entry hall. I had to crouch under French’s arm to see, but I had a good view. Yellow light flooded the hall as Welch opened the door. He was dressed in a dark suit and carrying a grey bowler.
“Then I shall hear from you soon?” He turned the hat in his hand nervously.
“You shall. In the meantime, you must keep your head.” The voice was a honeyed tenor with the faintest of accents. “Those two who are nosing around have nothing on you and cannot tie you to the thefts. As long as you remain silent, you are safe.”
“I’m glad you think so, but I feel damned uneasy about the matter.” The captain clapped the bowler on his head.
“You shall contact me if the investigation gets any closer?” his companion asked. He stepped into the light. From my vantage point I caught a glimpse of a slender old coot, with a wrinkled face and a slight stoop. One of those Levantine types, I said to myself, for his skin had an olive tone and his eyes looked almost black in the dim light. He was a foreigner, which would account for the accent I’d detected.
Welch laughed, but there was no humour in it. “Yes, I will contact you. In fact, I’ll be on your doorstep. You did say you could smuggle me out of England on a moment’s notice, didn’t you?”
“I can arrange all sorts of things,” said the older man. “Transportation poses no problem. Rest assured, Captain Welch. I shall look after you.” He clapped a hand on Welch’s shoulder. “Speaking of transportation, how do you plan to return to London?”
“There’s an inn down the road. I’ll walk there and spend the night, then catch the first train in the morning.”
“There is a train back to town tonight, leaving at nine o’clock. I shall have Dudley harness the horses and drive you to the station. You should make it with time to spare.”
“That’s very good of you,” said Welch.
“It is my pleasure.”
The two men shook hands and walked out to the verandah facing the gravel drive. I heard the older man call to the guard, Dudley, and direct him to make haste and see that the captain made the last train to the city. I heard the crunch of footsteps as Dudley walked off quickly to the rear of the house, making for the stables. The older man offered Welch a cigar and they smoked in companionable silence until the clatter of hooves and the jingle of harness heralded the arrival of Dudley in the brougham. Welch thanked his host and climbed into the carriage. French and I waited quietly while the sound of the brougham disappeared down the drive. The slender fellow entered the house and returned to the room where he’d met Welch. I heard his chair creak as he settled into it. The faint smell of cigar smoke reached my nostrils.
French pulled at my sleeve and I stood aside as he eased open the dining room door. We crept stealthily away, quiet as two Apaches looking for scalps. I didn’t take an easy breath until we were well away from the building and were hunkered down in the deep shadows cast by a line of trees.
“I suppose we’ve improved our skills at breaking and entering, but I’ll be damned if we accomplished anything else tonight.” I tend to get fractious when I’m hungry, and I was starving.
“We’ve confirmed that Welch is involved in the thefts although we haven’t a shred of evidence to prove it,” French said. “Frankly, I’m not terribly worried about rounding up Welch. He’s a mere puppet. The chap we want is that foreign fellow back there.”
“We could have picked up both of them tonight.”
“I know that you’re itching to haul out that Bulldog, but as I said, we’ve no proof against either of them.”
“Then we’re no further along than when we left London. And I’ve missed my dinner.”
“We have made progress tonight. We have a new lead to follow. We’ll walk to the Duke of Wellington and I shall buy you a meal. We’ll catch the first train back to London in the morning and I’ll make arrangements to watch the house and our mysterious foreigner.”
“Are you sure this man and Dudley are actually living in the house? It may only serve as a meeting place. Dudley could return from dropping Welch at the station and he and the old chap could be gone before dawn. As much as I’d like to eat, I think we should stay here and watch the place.”
French thought it over. “You’re right. We’ll stay.”
“The next time we dash out of London, remind me to fill a flask with whisky. It’s going to be a long night.”
Our revised plan required that we return to the house, so reluctantly we left the shelter of the trees and cautiously retraced our steps. We settled ourselves among some rhododendron bushes. From here we could see the drive and the front entrance to the house. It was growing chilly and a fine mist had started to fall. I cursed Colonel Mayhew, Martini-Henrys, Captain Welch, all foreigners and French. I suppose there are rules of etiquette governing how ladies are to sit upon the ground, perhaps when they are at a picnic beside a stream on a sunny day, with servants in attendance to hand out finger sandwiches and such, but I wasn’t in a mind to follow any rules. I just plopped down on my bum, drew up my knees, wrapped my arms around them and rested my check on my arms. My stomach sounded like Mount Vesuvius just before it blew and I’d developed a headache.
There was a moment of excitement when Dudley returned. French and I both sat up straight, our discomfort forgotten. The guard did not stop at the house but drove around to the stables and we heard the distinct noises of harness being removed and hung up and the stall doors being shut. Dudley swung into view and crossed over to the verandah, entering the door without knocking. Obviously, the men weren’t leaving tonight. That fact was confirmed a quarter hour later when the lights were extinguished.
“Gone to bed,” French muttered.
“I wonder if there’s any food in the house. I’m tempted to sneak in and see if there’s a crust in the larder.”
“If they’re still inside in the morning, I’ll go to the village and send a telegram to the prime minister. I’ll bring you back something to eat.”
“Why can’t I walk to the village?”
“You’re a vain woman, India. I can’t imagine that you’ll want to go anywhere in a stained dress and with your hair in a tangle.”
He had a point. I acquiesced to his plan, though it meant he’d be wolfing down some clabber well before I got my hands on any. I added a comb to the list of items I neede
d to bring on our next outing.
The hours passed slowly. I tried a number of tricks to stay awake: counting to one thousand (I wouldn’t recommend that as it had a pronounced soporific effect), devising schemes for ejecting the marchioness and contemplating the contents of my next meal. I gave that last one up as it was too painful and finally decided that it didn’t much matter if I fell asleep as our quarry surely would be driving the brougham if they left and the sound would wake me. I was just nodding off when someone stuck the barrel of a revolver in my ear.
“Don’t say a word,” a voice hissed.
Next to me French’s head jerked. He must have been dozing as well.
“If you’ve got a weapon, take it out slowly and toss it behind you.”
French was turning round.
“Don’t move,” said the voice.
“Homer?”
“French?”
SIXTEEN
At least this chap had a flask of whisky and a thermos of tea, and he proved very generous with both as well he should have, being, as it turned out, an old acquaintance of French’s from army days. We’d retreated to the end of the drive, out of earshot of anyone who may have been in the house, and gathered in a tight huddle.
“Homer, may I present Miss India Black? India, this is Tom Homer. We served together in the Forty-second.”
The clouds had obscured the moon and it was too dark to see all of Homer’s face, but I could tell he was a stocky chap with a full beard, and could hear his cheerful voice.
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Black. Now then, French, you must tell me what the devil you and this young lady are doing prowling around an old farm in the middle of the night.”
“Very much the same as you, I suspect. We’re on the trail of thieves who’ve been helping themselves to rifles and ammunition from British armouries. I’ve a feeling you’re here on the same mission. Are you working for the India Office?”
Homer chuckled. “There’s no moss on you, French. How is it that you know who I’m working for and what I’m doing here, but I had no idea that you were involved in this matter? And pardon my impertinence, miss, but what is your role is this affair?”
India Black and the Gentleman Thief Page 23