India Black and the Gentleman Thief (5 page)

Nevertheless, I found it odd that a commercial enterprise like a tool company was using a mail drop. “My suspicions are aroused,” I announced.

French shrugged. “There might be an innocent explanation. Perhaps the owners’ main office is elsewhere, but they want to give clients the impression of a bustling enterprise with a London location.”

I was skeptical and said so. “Who cares where shovels and picks are manufactured, as long as the price is right?” That’s the trouble with these silver-spoon chaps; they’ve no experience in the world of commerce.

“I merely suggested a motive for the firm maintaining an accommodation address.”

“Another motive might be that there’s no such firm as the Bradley Tool Company at all.” I conned the street furtively. “Shall we break in and have a look round?”

“We might as well, as I won’t have a moment’s peace if I suggest that we return tomorrow and speak to the proprietor.”

I must be making progress with French, as he is improving at correctly gauging my moods.

So I played sentry while French busied himself with the lock. It seemed to take an inordinately long time for the prime minister’s trusted agent to pick a simple mortise lock but finally the door swung open and we piled inside, closing the door quietly behind us. We took a moment, letting our eyes adjust to the gloom until we could discern the layout of the shop. It was a tiny place, barely wide enough for two gentlemen to walk abreast, which cheered me no end as it meant that we wouldn’t have to spend much time searching the premises. A wooden counter occupied the wall to our left, with row upon row of glass jars containing loose tobacco neatly labeled in copperplate script and arranged on ledges. On our right were freestanding shelves displaying a variety of pipes and boxes of cigars, matches, pipe cleaners and cigar cutters. The rear wall was bare, save for a closed wooden door.

I stepped behind the counter while French exercised his skills on the door, which presumably led to an office. I hoped it led to an office and not to the owner’s living quarters.

I rummaged through the contents of the counter, composed of last week’s newspapers, a couple of filthy pipes, and a half-empty bottle of cheap brandy.

“There’s nothing here,” I called to French, and received a muffled reply. He’d succeeded with the second lock and I joined him in the cramped closet that did indeed serve as the owner’s office. There was room only for a chair and a small desk, where French had seated himself and was now rooting through the drawers.

“Ledgers,” he murmured, “business correspondence regarding the shop, orders from customers. Ah, here’s a packet of mail.” He drew out a stack of letters and shuffled through it quickly. He extracted an envelope and handed it to me. It was addressed to Peter Bradley of the Bradley Tool Company and bore a return address in Calcutta for the South Indian Railway Company.

I inserted a nail into the flap.

“Stop,” said French.

“Don’t you want to know what’s in here?” I asked.

“Naturally, but if it’s only another mysterious bill of lading we won’t have advanced our knowledge by much and we’ll have alerted the owner of the shop that someone’s been trifling with Peter Bradley’s mail. If there is something dodgy going on, then the men behind this affair will disappear and we’ll be none the wiser.”

“But there might be a clue in here.” I brandished the envelope.

“There may be. But wouldn’t you rather get a look at the fellow who comes to collect it?”

I hadn’t considered that, but then patience is not my strongest virtue. In fact, I’d be hard-pressed to characterize my adherence to any particular virtue as strong. I’m more of a vice woman, myself. But I digress.

And I did have to concede that his nibs had a point, though I wouldn’t admit as much to him. Undoubtedly it would be better to suss out the character who visited the shop to pick up the mail and perhaps learn something of greater value.

“Well, you may be content to loiter about all day, or have that scamp Vincent do it, but I’ve got a business to run and I can’t be wasting my time watching a shop door.”

“You’re not terribly busy during the day, India. But if you want Vincent and me to track down these fellows, we will.”

Confound it. Of course I didn’t want to be left out of anything, and he knew it.

“I don’t mind lending a hand when I’m needed,” I said, and turned away before the quirk of French’s lips developed into a smirk.

We tidied the office and shop so as to leave no trace of our visit, and hurried off to meet Vincent at our rendezvous point. Even on a Sunday the docks were bustling, for as the saying goes, “Time and tide wait for no man.” There were tens of thousands of heathens around the world who, though they were unaware of this fact, were desperately in need of England’s products, and thousands of British folk who wouldn’t be able to face Monday morning without drinking a cup of China tea, laden with West Indian sugar, while lounging in their dressing gowns. So the docks of London hum like a beehive at all hours of the day and night, and the workers here do not observe the Sabbath. The wharves and piers are a rough place, for the men who work there are a crude lot. On the other hand, they do appreciate beauty when they see it, for I received more than my fair share of appreciative comments as French and I proceeded to our meeting with Vincent.

This did not sit well with French. “Curse it, India, why must you attract attention like this? It’s damned awkward when we’re trying to slip around unnoticed.”

“You might as well ask why the stars shine at night. I’m a force of nature. And my appearance might be useful in extracting information from these fellows. They’re much more likely to talk to me than to a swell like you.”

Vincent had loped up, just in time to hear my comment.

“She’s right, guv. But I reckon more of these lads will talk to me than either of you.”

“It’s not a contest,” I said, irked that Vincent was probably correct. “And will you two stop nattering like a couple of old women? Where’s the
Comet
?
”

“If hit was a contest, I’d win,” said Vincent. “I already talked to the blokes who loaded ’er out. They finished a couple ’ours ago. She’ll sail with tonight’s tide, which ain’t that long from now so if we’re gonna take a gander at ’er, we better get after hit. She’s docked at the east pier, in St. Katharine Docks.”

The location of the
Comet
required a short stroll from where we had met. I used the time to question Vincent.

“Did you ask the navvies what cargo she carries?” I asked.

“A bit o’ everything. Pig iron, oak lumber, wool, and”
—
he glanced slyly at us
—
“about a dozen crates o’ shovels and rakes.”

“Well done, Vincent.”

“Save your praise, French,” I said. “All Vincent has accomplished is to verify that Mayhew’s bill of lading was correct.”

Vincent looked injured. I’d thought the ragamuffin impervious to slights, but I had wounded him with my comment.

“I mean, well done, Vincent, for confirming that information.”

“’Tweren’t nothin’.” Vincent sniffed.

French cut in. “Do you know if the captain’s aboard?”

“Aye, he’s there alright.”

“Then I believe I’ll have a conversation with him. You two wait here.”

“Not on your life, French. I’m coming with you. The captain may prove susceptible to my charms.”

French looked sour, but could not dispute the truth of my assertion. “Very well. Vincent, tag along and talk to your friends again. See what more you can learn. Have the navvies loaded any other crates from the Bradley Tool Company on other ships? Did Peter Bradley oversee the loading of the crates? You know what to ask.”

Vincent darted off, with one last sulky glare in my direction. He hadn’t forgiven me, but I was untroubled by this fact. Vincent being Vincent, I’d soon bring him round with a few glasses of my Rémy Martin.

French and I set off for the pier at a brisk pace. We had to dodge piles of rope and keep our eyes peeled for laden cargo nets swinging overhead. More than once the dockworkers shouted abuse at us for walking where we shouldn’t. There was a tang of salt in the air, which meant the tide had flowed from the Atlantic up the Thames and would soon be flowing out again, carrying upon it a score of ships, including our quarry.

The
Comet
proved to be an iron-hulled monstrosity sporting two funnels from which grey smoke eddied, to be snatched away by the river breezes. She was rigged for sail, as well, and sported paddle wheels.

Noting them, French said, “A regular visitor to Calcutta, I’d wager. Those paddle wheels allow her to sail up the Hooghly River. It’s too shallow for screws.”

“You surprise me. I wouldn’t have tagged you as the maritime sort.”

“The army has to travel, and along the way I’ve picked up a bit of knowledge about local conditions.”

“You’ve been to India, then?” I was going to have to get this fellow drunk and pry his secrets out of him, after I’d had my wanton way with him, of course.

“Yes,” he said briefly, and sidestepping a navvie carrying a sack of sugar slung over his shoulder, offered me his arm as we ascended the gangway.

A stout cove with a bristling red beard and narrow eyes was defending the ship against all boarders. We stepped onto the wooden deck to be confronted by this Viking, clutching the ship’s manifest.

“May I help you, sir?” He was courteous, but his manner made it clear that we were there under sufferance and we’d need a bloody good reason to stay on board.

“I am here to see the captain,” said French, nodding at the man with that supercilious air he occasionally adopts and which I find insufferable.

The ginger fellow was not impressed, either. “What’s your business with the captain?”

“I should prefer to discuss that with him personally.”

The bearded fellow cocked his head. “He’s a busy man, our captain. We’ll be sailing soon. I reckon if you want to see him you’ll have to tell me why, or he’ll have my head for wasting his time.”

“I am with the prime minister’s office.”

“And my old pa is the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

French gave a pained smile, reached into his pocket and extracted a small square of paper, which he handed to the man.

The fellow studied it for moment. “Wait here,” he said and disappeared down the nearest hatch.

“What the devil was that?”

“A note from the prime minister, requesting that I be afforded every courtesy.”

“Why don’t I have one of those? And when did you get it? Why didn’t you trot it out for Captain Welch when he questioned your authority?”

French waved his hand vaguely, ignoring the latter two questions and answering the first. “I haven’t seen the necessity of getting one for you.”

“
You
haven’t seen the necessity? I’ll have a word with Dizzy the next time I see him.”

The ginger-bearded chap reappeared in the hatch, followed by the very prototype of the English sea dog. The captain was a grizzled veteran of many voyages, with a seamed face the colour of walnut and straggly white hair peeking out from his cap. He had a pipe clamped between his teeth, which gave him the appearance of an angry canine with a tobacco habit.

“I’m Captain Tate. What the devil do you want?” He thundered at French in a voice that nearly sent me over the rails. I suppose he was accustomed to bellowing orders above a roaring gale. He spared me a glance, and then treated himself to a longer second look. With difficulty, he tore his gaze from my bounteous charms and addressed French again. “Well? Ralph here says you’re with the government.”

“The prime minister’s office,” muttered Ralph through his flame-coloured beard.

“Oh, aye, so it was. And what do you do for the prime minister, mister
—
”

“It’s
Major
French, and I’m here to verify some information regarding one your clients, the Bradley Tool Company. I understand you’re carrying cargo for them.”

The captain shrugged. “So I am. Tools, if I remember correctly.” He consulted Ralph. “Do I remember correctly?”

Ralph thumbed through the documents in his hand. “You do, Captain. Ten crates of various tools to be delivered to the South Indian Railway Company.”

“Have you carried freight for the Bradley Tool Company before?”

The captain scratched his chin. “Name of the company sounds familiar.”

“Have you met Mr. Peter Bradley?”

The captain’s forehead furrowed as he squinted into the sun. He cast a critical eye at the tide. “Might have done, once. Yes, I reckon I have. An old chap come aboard the first time we shipped for the company.”

“Can you describe him?”

“What’s this about, Major? This bloke hasn’t done anything illegal, has he? If so, you’ll need to speak to my employers. All I do is ship what they tell me to ship, and make sure it arrives on time. You should talk with Mr. Winston down at the office. He won’t be there today, it being Sunday, but he’ll be in tomorrow. Now then, I’ll bid you good afternoon, for I’m a busy man and we’ll be hauling anchor in a few hours’ time.”

“One moment, captain. Please describe the man from the tool company and I’ll leave you to get on with your work.”