India Black and the Gentleman Thief (2 page)
Read India Black and the Gentleman Thief Online
Authors: Carol K. Carr
Tags: #Historical, #Mystery, #Romance
Now French is a capable fellow and knows a few tricks when it comes to wrestling with Russian agents and assassin types, and I had no doubt that on a good day he could hold his own even when the odds were stacked against him. But we’d been up all night, chasing anarchists and dodging bullets, and for good measure French had taken a dip in the Thames while pursuing one particularly pesky Slavic foe. He’d also had a glass or two of champagne. All that is by way of telling you that I didn’t think French would be in tip-top form today and might have his hands full with these three lads. Yes, he would need my help and I’d rush right in there and offer it to him just as soon as I could sit upright without being sick all over the floor.
This was proving difficult, and my first attempt was unsuccessful. Oh, dear. Mrs. Drinkwater would not be pleased. I gathered myself and made a second try and was relieved when I managed to roll up to a sitting position. My head swam and I closed my eyes against the wave of nausea that crashed over me. But I could tell from the noises emanating from the study that if I intended to be of any assistance at all, I’d best chivvy myself along and get in there. The sounds of battle were dying. I forced myself upright as I heard the sickening thump of a fist hitting flesh and a groan that could only have come from French.
I staggered through the door and took in the scene. French, as you might expect, was putting up a good fight but it was clear he was nearing the end. He’d landed a few blows, for one fellow’s nose was streaming gore and the chap who’d shoved me was wiping blood from his mouth. But poor French had his back to the fireplace and our assailants were closing in on him like a pack of wolves. I caught the glint of a knife blade and the sight galvanized me into action. I forgot my throbbing head and charged into battle. No one was going to skewer French, unless it was me. I had not forgotten he owed me an explanation, you see.
I hurdled an overturned chair, snatched the champagne bottle from its silver bucket and stormed the breach like the Forlorn Hope at Badajoz. Well, there was no breach, really, but I made one by smashing the bottle over the head of the bloke nearest me. He collapsed to the floor and the other two stopped pummeling French long enough to stare at me in openmouthed surprise, which gave French just enough time to grab a candlestick from the mantel and swing it in a vicious arc that terminated on the wrist of the fellow with the knife. He howled like a banshee and dropped the weapon. French swooped to the floor, reaching for it. But the cool fellow who’d toppled me kicked away the blade and brought a fist down on French’s head. French grunted once and folded faster than a piece of campaign furniture. He was out of this fight.
So was I. It was all I could do to stay on my feet and much as it pains me to admit this, I had nothing left. The bloke who’d pushed me down could see it as well. He stalked over to me, clearly upset that he’d wasted valuable time thrashing French and me.
“The envelope,” he demanded.
“What envelope?” I should have known better, but then I don’t take kindly to being attacked by strangers in my own house.
I received a backhanded slap across my mouth from the fellow. I staggered a step or two, then fell to my knees. My head spun. A drop of blood fell from my lip and splashed on the floor.
“On the desk,” I heard myself say, in a voice I hardly recognized. I like to think it was quivering with anger, but I suspect it was fear.
I followed the sounds of my attacker’s footsteps as he walked to the desk. I heard paper rustling.
Someone screamed. I turned my head and saw the gaggle of whores I’d been worried about earlier, crowding through the study door.
“Here!” shouted Clara Swansdown. “What are you lot up to?”
The ringleader barked instructions and he and his cronies made for the door. I wondered briefly whether the tarts would make a stand. God knows I wouldn’t have, so I didn’t blame them when they parted like the Red Sea, gaping at the thugs as they strode out of the study and through the front door. Colonel Mayhew’s envelope accompanied them.
“Anything broken?” I enquired from the sofa, where I reclined with a pillow under my head.
“I don’t believe so,” said French, “although my nose hurts like the devil and I can’t see out of my right eye.” The girls were still fluttering about, offering to disrobe French so that they could examine his wounds, and demanding that I send for a raw beefsteak to put on his eye.
“There’s no need to go to that expense,” I snapped. “Mrs. Drinkwater, prepare some tea. No, on second thought, bring us each a glass of whisky and then clear the room.”
It took quite an effort for Mrs. Drinkwater to pour out the spirits without diving in herself, but she exerted iron control and managed to deliver a glass to French and one to me. Then she scuttled out, no doubt to retrieve a bottle from her not-so-secret stash, and driving the whores before her. They were loath to leave, having not seen such excitement around Lotus House since Sir Theodore Fotheringill had challenged the Canon of Seagate to a duel over a greyhound bitch. The door closed behind the rabble and I drew a relieved breath.
“What the devil just happened to us?” I asked.
French winced as his fingertip probed a tender spot on his torso. “Obviously, those chaps wanted that bill of lading. I’d wager they followed the messenger here.”
“I had reached the same conclusion,” I said acidly.
“Perhaps your question should not have indicated that you hadn’t.” French could be quite cranky after taking a walloping.
“I’m not going to take this lying down, you know. No one trespasses in my home and beats me like a cart horse.”
“They were jolly good at their trade.” French had his own compress and now pressed it to his eyes. “They thrashed me dreadfully.”
“It
was
three against one. I thought you stood up manfully to the brutes.”
He gave me a wry smile. “Thank you for that, India. And may I add that I was most pleased to see you stumble into view with that bottle in your hand. Otherwise, you’d be summoning a doctor right now.”
“Should I?”
He pinched his nose lightly and shuddered. “My nose may be crooked after this, but I don’t think it’s broken.” He swallowed his whisky in one gulp.
I staggered upright and refilled both our glasses. “Forget about your nose. No one cares if a chap has a nose like a turnip. What about my lip? I’ve got money riding on this lip.”
French scowled, as he usually does when I allude to my profession. He drained the second serving of whisky and rose unsteadily to his feet.
“Do you think you should be moving about just yet?”
French smoothed his weskit and examined his face in the mirror over the mantel. “Like you, I take exception to being beaten for no apparent reason. We’re going to find out what’s behind this attack. Tidy yourself. I intend to have a chat with Colonel Mayhew.”
• • •
Now you may wonder why French and I did not leave well enough alone and simply be glad that we’d seen the backs of those three thugs. But as I’ve explained, neither of us is the type to slink away after being thoroughly skunked. We had a reputation to uphold. And while French might pretend to be above such things, I possess enough curiosity to scribble a thousand cats. I wasn’t about to let the unexplained mystery of Colonel Mayhew’s envelope go unsolved. I reckoned French felt the same, for all his lofty airs. What was so important about a bill of lading for tools that a gang of miscreants would lay into us without so much as a by-your-leave?
And if Colonel Mayhew had deliberately endangered me by sending the envelope to Lotus House, well, then, it’s safe to assume the chap would never make general after I was through with him.
We freshened ourselves as best we could. I offered French a bit of powder for the scrapes and bruises on his face, but he declined. Unfortunately powder did nothing to cover the bump on my forehead or my swollen lips. I’d be avoiding mirrors for a bit. Another reason, in my mind, to seek vengeance. I’m rather proud of my looks, if I do say so myself. I’ve sable hair that sets off my brilliant blue eyes and a creamy complexion that I’ve worked hard to maintain. I consoled myself with the thought that my luscious figure usually proves the main attraction anyway, and as our attackers had done nothing to damage those goods I still had more than enough firepower at my disposal.
And lest you think that French and I are rank amateurs and would likely stumble into a situation that proved too much for us, let me remind you that he and I are old hands at this sort of thing, being agents of Her Majesty’s government and having had, I modestly admit, a modicum of success at the game of espionage. Why, we had even saved Her Royal Rotundity from an assassin up at that draughty heap called Balmoral. A few run-of-the-mill villains and an army colonel would hardly present a challenge.
We availed ourselves of a café on the corner of Haymarket and Charles Streets, for after the events of the previous night and this morning we required sustenance. Mrs. Drinkwater could no doubt have rustled up some comestibles, but as they would have been inedible we declined to punish ourselves further. I retain Mrs. Drinkwater as my cook not because she can cook but because she is totally oblivious to half-naked tarts and drunken clients, being, as she usually is, three sheets to the wind most of the time. I expect the nudity doesn’t even register.
After a hearty repast and several cups of coffee, French hailed a cab.
“To the War Office,” he instructed the driver. We lurched away from the curb and headed down Haymarket, turning right onto Pall Mall.
“We’ll obtain Mayhew’s address from the records office and then pay the man a visit,” French explained as we rode along.
Our journey would take a few minutes and being the sort that doesn’t waste an opportunity, I thought I’d gently broach the subject of the marchioness’s letter.
“What the deuce do you know about my family, you treacherous bugger?”
French looked pained. “Must we speak of that now?”
“We must,” I said, mimicking his poncy pronunciation. “Spill it, or there’ll be the devil to pay.”
He sighed and touched a welt that had risen on his cheek, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. I had thought French was past expecting sympathy from me. He must be desperate to avoid this conversation.
I poked him in the ribs, which made him jump. He swore loudly.
“Oh, very well. Two years ago the marchioness retained my services. She asked me to find you.”
“I believe I know why,” I said. “She’s my great-aunt, isn’t she? My grandfather’s sister.” I am good at mathematics and accounts, you see, and had added up a couple of sums to reach this conclusion. I’d spent a bit of time tracking my mother’s last movements around London and found she’d spent a few years as the mistress of that dreadful scoundrel, Charles Goodwood, the Earl of Clantham. He hadn’t been able to tell me much, but he did remember that my mother had told him she’d taken refuge with her aunt when her father had discovered her affair with the family’s groom and banished my mother from the family home.
“Yes.”
“But why did she choose you?”
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “She is acquainted with my family. She knew I’d served as an intelligence officer in the army and I suppose she thought I possessed the necessary skills to locate you.” He leaned out the window. “Would you believe it? Here’s the War Office already.”
We had indeed arrived at that unprepossessing building. The government had certainly saved a bit of money by eschewing architectural style in favor of three utilitarian stories of red brick and Portland stone. A paved courtyard ringed by a waist-high iron fence separated the building from the street. Guards occupied two small stone buildings on either side of a gated entrance to the courtyard.
The cab was still moving when French wrenched open the door and jumped out. I shifted in my seat, preparatory to following him, but he stuck his head inside and gave me his most charming smile.
“I’ll only be a moment.”
“I’m coming with you,” I said.
“I’d rather you waited here. You’ll prove too much of a distraction to those poor clerks in there.”
“You flatter me.” I shoved him to one side, exited the hansom and trotted off to the guardhouse. I heard a stifled oath behind me and then French caught me by the elbow.
“I’ll do the talking, India. This is my bailiwick.”
I shook off his hand. “French, I could swear that you’re ashamed of me.”
“I am not.” He sounded indignant. “But you have an annoying habit of putting yourself forward even when someone else is better suited to the task. No,” he said, reconsidering. “That’s not precisely what I mean to say. What I meant is that you have an annoying habit of considering yourself better than anyone else at just about everything.”
As I am rather more capable than most, I found this comment perplexing and said so.
“Never mind.” French had to concede as by now we’d reached the guardhouse. He pushed past me and addressed a uniformed figure.
“Good morning, Sergeant.”
The sergeant, a big fellow, gazed placidly at us. “Morning, sir. May I be of assistance, sir?”
Soldiers are like whores; they recognize each other instantly whenever they meet. Despite French’s civilian clothes, the sergeant had responded to his military bearing. His battered face did not elicit a reaction from the guard, who probably reckoned French had gotten his black eyes and bruises leading a charge against some inferior native force in some hot and dusty land far from England’s verdant fields.
“We’d like to consult the rolls, Sergeant. I’m searching for an old friend.”
“Of course, sir. Go right in. Up the stairs to the second floor. The second door on the right is the records office.” The sergeant’s eyes shifted to me for a second, lingering on my thick lip and the knot on my forehead, but his expression never changed. They train them well in the army.
French thanked the fellow and we crossed the courtyard to the entrance. Inside, the building was buzzing with activity on this day of rest. A hard life, the army. Even whores usually get a rest on Sunday. Clerks ran up and down stairs, dashing officers strode purposefully from room to room and bright young fellows who’d just received their commissions swanned around giddily. I have a fondness for uniforms and the men in them and found myself rather distracted by all the glittering medals and the broad chests upon which they were displayed. I’d been rather pleased to learn that French was a soldier himself, a major in the Forty-second Regiment of Foot. I had
not
been pleased to learn that information from a Russian spy and not from French himself. Another issue to take up with his nibs. I sent him a look as sharp as a dagger just to keep the fellow on his toes, and he loftily ignored it.
The records office was a drab room, with a row of dingy windows facing out onto the Mall and a ceiling stained the colour of mud from years of pipe and cigar smoke. There were six desks in the room, and each sported an earnest young fellow with ink-stained fingers and a myopic expression. French chose the one nearest the door and we walked briskly to his desk. The clerk had a wispy brown mustache and thick spectacles, and looked amiable, if a little vague.
French dropped his hat on the desk. “I’m Major French of the Forty-second. This is Miss Black.”
The youngster wasn’t nearly as well trained as the guard. He gaped at us. I’d like to think it was my beauty that struck him dumb, but perhaps it was our various bumps and abrasions. He was not alone, however, for all activity in the room had ceased while the occupants gazed at us.
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.
