India Black and the Gentleman Thief (3 page)

“Quiet as a tomb,” observed French after he’d paid our fare and the hansom had creaked away, wheels sounding unnaturally loud in the silence.

“I wouldn’t be surprised to find that the colonel is holding down a pew somewhere. He seems to be a great one for rectitude.”

“I do hope we haven’t wasted a trip,” said French, looking irritable at the thought that someone would venture out to observe the sacraments without consulting him.

“Perhaps we can find a café or a stall where we can have a cup of coffee. Lord knows, we have a great deal to discuss.”

French looked sour at the prospect of an intimate discussion and rapped on the door of Mayhew’s lodgings. I smoothed a stray lock of hair into place and trusted that my immaculate coiffure might distract attention from my swollen lip.

The door opened wide enough to permit one suspicious eye to stare out at us. The eye narrowed at the sight of our bruised countenances. “Yes? What is it? If you’re selling something, go away. It’s the Sabbath.”

French swept off his hat. “So it is, ma’am, and I’m very sorry to disturb you on your day of rest. I am Major French of the Forty-second, and this is my cousin, Miss Black. We are acquaintances of Colonel Mayhew and would like to speak with him.”

The eye swept from French’s face to mine, and appeared unconvinced. “Friends of the colonel, you say?”

“Pardon our appearance, ma’am. Our carriage overturned on the way to town yesterday, and we suffered a few injuries.”

“We are fortunate that we were not seriously hurt,” I added, “but John, our poor driver, was most grievously injured. He’ll be in hospital for some time.”

My fabricated concern for our fictitious employee had the desired effect. I must learn to exhibit these normal human emotions more frequently, as it does seem to engender a bit of trust among the naïve. The door opened wider to reveal an elderly, thin-faced woman in a prim dress of dark wool. The suspicion had disappeared from her eyes, replaced by a maternal concern.

“My goodness. What a fright you must have had.” She cocked her head at French. “Major, did you say?”

“Yes, ma’am. The Black Watch, ma’am. The ‘Gallant Forty-twa,’ as they call us in Scotland.”

“Heavens! I remember your brave lads from the Battle of Alma, back in ’54. You gave those Russians a proper thumping.” She beamed at French, why I don’t know, as he would have been a lad in short pants in those days, but that didn’t stop him from basking in the old girl’s approval. “I’m Mrs. Sullivan. Won’t you come in?”

We followed her into a dim parlour crowded with furniture, and took a seat on a faded velvet settee. The landlady settled into a rocker and automatically picked up her knitting from the basket on the floor. She looked ready to settle in for a long palaver about the Crimean War, and I could see French squirming.

“Colonel Mayhew?” he prompted.

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry, but the colonel isn’t here. He always spends Sunday at the War Office. He’s got quite a responsible job there, you know.”

French frowned. “That’s odd. We’ve just come from there and the colonel was not in his office. One of the clerks told us he hadn’t been in today. Have you seen him this morning?”

“No, I have not. He never takes breakfast on Sunday, as he likes to be at his desk bright and early and always has something brought in to the office. I do worry that he doesn’t eat regular meals, you know. I’ve told him many times, I’ve said, ‘Colonel, you must have something nourishing to eat before you leave for work.’ The army’s food is inadequate, as you well know, and I worry that Colonel Mayhew isn’t getting a proper meal with porridge and bacon and eggs. Men like that sort of thing, you know. Builds them up. I expect you eat a proper breakfast, Major.”

“I do,” said French, who had politely held his tongue during this soliloquy, though I could see he was champing at the bit to ask more questions. “The clerk thought the colonel might be ill. Did you hear Colonel Mayhew depart at his usual time?”

The landlady shook her head. “I never do. I always visit my sister on Saturdays. She has a small cottage in the country and I take the train out to see her. I spend the night with her and then return to London on Sunday morning. The colonel always departs for his office before I arrive home from the station.” She cocked her head. “Dear me. I’ve forgotten my manners. May I offer you some refreshments? A cup of tea, perhaps, and some biscuits?”

“That’s very kind of you,” said French. “But we can’t stay. We only dropped by to have a quick word with the colonel. Would you mind seeing if he’s in his room? Perhaps he is ill and he’s still sleeping. That would put my mind at ease.”

“Certainly, Major. I’d be delighted to be of assistance. Though, mind you, if the poor man is asleep I won’t disturb him.”

“Oh, best not to, I think. He’ll need his rest, and we can come back at another time.”

The landlady dropped her yarn and needles into the basket and bustled out of the room. We heard her tread on the stairs.

“It’s odd,” mused French, “that the colonel is not at his desk this morning and hasn’t bothered to send word why he is not.”

“Perhaps he went to Lotus House to retrieve his envelope.”

“Damnation. I wish I had thought of that. One of us should have stayed behind.”

I’ve heard a lot of screams in my time, but I shall never forget the one that echoed through the house at that instant. A thin, quavering cry brought a chill to my bones, and then the cry became the full-throated shriek of a woman who was staring evil in the face. French was out of the room in a flash and I was close on his heels. The scream was still echoing down the staircase when we cleared the last riser and looked anxiously for its source.

Mrs. Sullivan reeled out of a room at the end of the hall, wailing like a soul that’s just glimpsed Hades. I’ve said I won’t forget that scream, and I’ll be remembering the landlady’s face for the rest of my days. It was a mask of terror, the eyes staring and sightless, the mouth wrenched open in a rictus of fear and horror. French dashed down the hall and past Mrs. Sullivan, entering the room she’d just exited. I reckoned he thought I’d do the womanly thing and rush to the landlady’s aid, shushing her cry and leading her away for a cup of tea or something stronger, but I’ve an unhealthy curiosity and so I darted past the tottering figure and into the room behind French.

Oh, how I wish I hadn’t. The room looked like an abattoir, only no self-respecting butcher would have created this much mayhem. Blood pooled on the floor and spattered the walls. The smell was revolting. I put my forearm over my mouth to avoid breathing in the sickly sweet aroma. I had nearly crashed into French, as he’d pulled up short as soon as he’d entered the room. He turned now and grasped my arms.

“Don’t look,” he muttered. His face was pale and his lips tightly crimped. He looked as nauseous as I felt.

“Dear God,” I muttered. “Mayhew?”

“Dead, poor fellow.”

“No one could lose this much blood and still be alive,” I said with some asperity. Torture always makes me snappish, and torture, I am afraid, is the only thing that could account for the amount of blood now drying on the damask wallpaper and the pine floors.

“What the devil did they do to him?”

A vein throbbed in French’s temple. “They cut the man to bloody pieces.”

“Do you think they were after the envelope?”

“What else could it be? Someone wanted it very badly and Mayhew thought it would be safer with you.” He ushered me out the door, closing it behind him. “This would explain why those fellows showed up this morning at Lotus House. It looks as if Mayhew held out as long as he could, but he must have told them what he’d done with the envelope. Then they slit his throat and came after it.”

Mrs. Sullivan had managed to wobble down the stairs and was leaning against the newel, sobbing hysterically. She glanced up as we came into view and let out a piercing howl.

“Murder!” she yelled. She looked at us frantically and scrambled for the door. She wrenched it open and stumbled down the steps to the pavement. “Help! Murder!” She staggered off in the direction of the square, shrieking.

“What should we do?”

French shrugged. “Nothing. As loudly as Mrs. Sullivan is screaming, she’ll have the local constable here in a few minutes.”

Mentioning the police had its usual effect upon me. “We can’t stay here and wait for the peelers to show,” I said, horrified. “Mrs. Sullivan may buy the carriage accident and the friends of the colonel routine, but I don’t relish being questioned by an inspector as to the depth of my acquaintance with the deceased.”

“Hmm. I see your point. That could be awkward. Why don’t you duck out the back and down the alley? I’ll tell the inspector that I’ve sent you home as you’ve suffered a terrible shock. If he’s a gentleman, he won’t press the issue. If he’s not, I’ll pull rank on him.”

“Splendid idea,” I said, and it was, but not, unfortunately, a timely one. For at that moment Mrs. Sullivan pelted into view with a constable on her heels.

• • •

I did not care for Inspector Allen. Nor, I believe, did the inspector care for me. He sauntered behind my chair with his hands in his pockets, a matchstick dangling from his lips.

“So, you are a cousin to Major French?”

The parlour had become an interrogation room. French and I were closeted there with the inspector and his sergeant, who had taken a chair in the corner and produced a notebook from his pocket to record my lies. In my defense (as if I need to provide one), French had lied first. He’d taken one look at Allen and decided that the inspector would have to find out by himself about Lotus House, the bill of lading and the reason for our appearance at the house on Milner Street. I didn’t blame French for determining that Allen would get no assistance from us. I’d pegged the inspector at first sight as a pompous, dim-witted, vainglorious toad. Perhaps it was the suit. Only music hall performers should go about in checked suits. Maybe the inspector aspired to the acting profession or sang in a quartet on the weekends. In any event, he had a nasty little mustache that he smoothed constantly, as if stroking a pet mouse, and a sly, knowing manner that would have played well on the stage as he delivered a double entendre and winked at the audience.

Nor was my impression of the inspector improved when he insisted on treating French and me as suspects. Allen had already put French through the mill, despite French’s military rank and his relationship to the prime minister, which he had trotted out immediately. Allen affected to be unimpressed. Then he’d turned on me.

“And you say you are Mr. French’s cousin.” He said it blandly enough, but there was a trace of smugness all the same. I resisted the urge to paste him in the mustache.

“Yes, I am, as Mr. French has already informed you.”

Allen’s lips twisted around the matchstick in a smirk of outstanding proportions. “Really?”

I remained mum. I wasn’t going to be provoked by the impudent fellow.

“On which side of the family?” asked Allen. What an infernal nuisance he was.

“Maternal,” said French. “And that will be the last question we answer regarding family matters.”

Allen shrugged. I doubt the fellow would know when he was defeated and those types of policemen are the worst. This one might prove to be a real thorn in my side.

“Had you met Colonel Mayhew?” The inspector directed the question at me, having already ascertained that French had run across Mayhew at some army doings and had promised to pay a call on him sometime.

“I had not. He was an acquaintance of my cousin.”

“I see.” The tone was both disbelieving and impertinent. Allen sauntered from his position behind my chair and leaned against the wall, chewing the matchstick with grinding patience. He shot his cuffs and crossed his arms, staring at French.

“Is there any particular reason you chose to visit the colonel on a Sunday? It’s an unusual day and an unusual hour for a social call.”

The inspector might not be as dim-witted as I had thought.

“I’ve already explained this to you, Inspector. I remembered that I had promised Francis I’d drop round the next time I was in London.”

“Was the colonel a religious man?”

“I don’t know. I suppose it didn’t occur to me that he might have gone to services. If he’d been out, I’d have left my card. I plan to return to the country this afternoon.”

Allen looked at him gravely. “And no doubt you forgot that most people are off to church on Sunday as a result of that blow to the head you suffered during the carriage accident. Tell me, sir, where did your accident occur?”

I hastily revised my opinion of the chap. This Allen was shaping up as a formidable foe.

“The accident occurred on the road,” said French, coldly. “Where carriage accidents usually do. And my driver will be well soon.” I could see that French was regretting his invention of an accident to explain our injuries, but we could hardly divulge the truth.

“At what time of day did the incident occur?” Allen asked politely, but there was an undercurrent of skepticism that sounded ominous.

“Saturday afternoon,” said French. “Will you be requiring an affidavit?”

Allen laughed heartily. “Me, sir? Doubt your word, sir? I’m just asking as a matter of course. Getting it all straight in my head, as it were. Who was where and at what time. You know,
investigating the crime
, sir. I didn’t mean to cast aspersions on your statement, sir. Not at all.” He simpered behind the matchstick.