India Black and the Gentleman Thief (8 page)

As expected, the reporter Johnnies were having a field day with Colonel Mayhew’s death. The headlines were breathless and the prose ghoulish. Inspector Allen was quoted copiously, with frequent allusions to “solid leads” and “quick resolution to the case.”

Around eleven o’clock French breezed into the room, slapping his gloves against his thigh, and plunked down in the bedroom’s only chair.

“You’re getting rather familiar considering that we haven’t been familiar yet,” I said, snapping the paper closed in irritation.

“Plenty of time for that later,” he said. “Get dressed. We’re going out.”

I looked at him with some pity. “Really, French. Surely by now you know that the only effect of that peremptory tone of yours is to ensure that I will do exactly the opposite of what you command.”

“Inspector Allen’s been round to see me. He thinks that you and Mayhew were conducting a torrid affair and in a fit of jealousy I carved up the colonel.”

I burst out laughing. Callous, I know, but the image of French getting worked up enough to slash a chap to death was ludicrous.

“You find the fact that I’m a suspect amusing?”

“Yes, I do. But then I know you rather better than the inspector. And when he dropped by here yesterday, he accused
me
of being the killer. He hypothesized that Mayhew was blackmailing me over some indiscretion and I had killed him when the colonel threatened to tell you.”

“Clearly the inspector has his lines out and is fishing for all he’s worth. You didn’t mention the bill of lading, did you?”

“There are times when you annoy me more than others, French, and never more so than when you imply that I am an idiot.”

He smiled fondly at me. “Your eyes blaze like blue stars when you’re angry, India. It’s a most stimulating sight.”

That was more like it. I leaned back invitingly against the pillows. It was about time the poncy bastard fixed bayonets and charged the line.

He leaned forward until we were tantalizingly close and I could smell the bay rum from his morning’s ablutions. His eyes were dancing as he looked into mine. I felt an uncharacteristic fluttering in my stomach.

Then he seized my tea cup and drained the liquid from it.

“Five minutes,” he said, standing. “Vincent is waiting downstairs.”

I swatted him with a pillow and he retreated, laughing. Well, a playful French was an improvement over the stuffy, dour type who’d first presented himself at Lotus House last fall.

Couple that with French’s declaration of interest or love or whatever it had been, and I felt there was a good chance we’d tumble onto a mattress sometime in this century.

I took my own sweet time dressing, as any self-respecting female would, and sauntered down the stairs thirty minutes later. I found Vincent, French and Mrs. Drinkwater in the kitchen. My cook was pottering about happily among her pots and pans and piling inedible buns and biscuits in front of French, who was making a valiant effort not to wince at the sight. When Mrs. Drinkwater’s back was turned, Vincent spirited away the offerings and stuffed them into his pockets. He mumbled a greeting to me through a mouthful of crumbs.

“I assume you have a task for the three of us,” I said to French.

“We’re off to the docks again.”

“The
Comet
sailed last night.”

“Other shipping companies might have carried cargo for the Bradley Tool Company. It seems our only chance of catching up to the fellow, since your clumsiness prevented me from getting my hands on him yesterday.”

I ignored that jab. “Do you have any idea how many shipping companies operate in London? It will be like finding a needle in a haystack.”

“So you’d rather do nothing about those fellows who burst in here and delivered a good kicking to us? I’m not ready to forgive and forget just yet. I’d like another crack at them. But if you want to stay here where it’s safe, I understand.”

“I know exactly what you’re doing, French. You’re manipulating me, or attempting to, and doing a damned poor job of it. India Black is not easily provoked by shallow taunts.”

At this remark, French lifted an eyebrow and he and Vincent exchanged a smirk.

I pressed on. “And I am especially not swayed by such a feeble attempt at machination as you just produced. I’m embarrassed for you, French.” He attempted to look chastened and failed. I suppressed a smile. The fellow’s finally learning how the game is played.

I turned to exit the kitchen. “When you two have finished stuffing yourselves, kindly let me know. The sooner we get to the docks, the sooner we’ll solve this mystery and repay those chaps who split my lip.”

It was a bright morning, with a breeze from the sea blowing the smoke from the tanneries and mills upriver away from the city, and making a visit to the wharves an almost pleasant prospect. Gulls plummeted from the sky to snatch bits and bobs from the brown waves. God knows what they were eating as I don’t believe there’s a fish alive that could survive the filthy water of the Thames. Small craft were bobbing about on the swells and the air was redolent with the smell of hemp, tar and fish, overladen with a briny tang. The docks had been busy on Sunday afternoon, but Monday morning had brought a new level of activity to the wharves.

In fact, I’d never seen such activity. Despite living within a few miles of London’s docks all my life, I’d never troubled myself to set foot on them. Why would I? Consequently, the sight that now greeted my eyes was brand new. A forest of masts stretched away on the horizon. Workers in jaunty peaked caps and canvas smocks dodged nimbly about, wheeling barrows and humping bales of cotton and wool. Watermen plied the river in small craft, ferrying passengers and cargo upstream and down. Dozens of filthy creatures of indeterminate age and sex, London’s “mud larks,” prowled the tidal flats, looking for anything that might fetch a few pence.

The odor was overwhelming. On the morning breezes wafted the smell of coffee and sulphur, tea and molasses. We wandered past warehouses stuffed to the gills with cured hides and crates of horn, which emitted a stench that made me clamp my handkerchief to my nose. I took a shallow breath and inhaled a lungful of air laden with the scent of cloves and nutmeg, coal smoke, human waste, tar, lumber and rum.

If the smells were bewildering, the variety of men was stupefying. We passed labourers in rough clothes, their faces dyed blue from the indigo they’d been handling. Lascars roamed the wharves, dark faces shining in the pale river light, the Mussulmen among them sporting white turbans. Massive African sailors, with hard, ropy muscles and chiseled faces stalked among the bales and barrels, wicked-looking knives thrust into their waistbands. By comparison, the British seamen seemed small and gaunt, with faces tanned the colour of a fine saddle. Here and there, among the seafarers and the stevedores, strolled men of commerce, with tall hats and cigars in their hands, and trailed by frazzled clerks clutching sheaves of paper.

Did I mention the noise? Empty barrels clattered over the planks of the wharves as they were rolled back to warehouses to be refilled. The Africans chanted harsh melodies as they worked and our jolly Jack tars sang ribald songs to pass the time. The streets rang with the sound of hundreds of wagons jouncing along over the stones and the shouts of their drivers as they jockeyed for position. The chains from the cranes rattled ominously overhead. The sound of hammering was incessant, as ships were refitted and made ready for sail. Oars splashed in the water, captains shouted orders and here and there a goat bleated or a horse neighed. Men cursed, coughed, laughed and spit.

“Excellent idea you had, French,” I observed gloomily. “We’ll make short work of this. Why, there are only acres of docks to examine and hundreds of warehouses and ships. We should be finished by teatime.”

French pivoted out of the way of a workman bearing a keg of nails, then had to swerve back to avoid being run down by a handcart. He took my arm and drew me to the relative safety of a nearby wall. Vincent followed and we huddled there, looking with dismay at the chaos that surrounded us.

“I may have underestimated the difficulty of this task,” said French. “I’d planned to visit the warehouses to see if any cargo was being shipped by Bradley, but that would be a labour fit for Hercules.”

“Who?”

“Never mind, Vincent.” I was feeling rather irritated at having been dragged down to the docks on this fool’s errand, and I was snappish. “We can’t stand about here all day, French. What do you propose to do?”

“We find out wot ships are sailin’ for India and then we find out if they got any cargo on board from that tool company.”

“There are hundreds of ships on the river, Vincent.”

“I can bloody well see that, India. But wot can you tell just by lookin’ at ’em?”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Well,” he said, with an exaggerated patience that put my teeth on edge. “If their masts and yards are shipped and their riggin’ slack, they ain’t goin’ anywhere. We walk right past ’em wifout even stoppin’.”

“Wonderful. You’ve just eliminated half our work. It will still take us days to investigate the rest.”

Vincent blew out a long breath. “Wot’s the matter wif you, India? This spy business ain’t all fun and games. You can’t shoot a Cossack every time you set foot out your door.”

Being lectured by French is annoying; enduring the same treatment from Vincent is cause for rebellion.

“I’m going back to Lotus House.”

“No, you ain’t,” Vincent said firmly. “Did you ever stop and fink that those ’ooligans know you opened that envelope and seen that bill o’ ladin’? They know you’re on to ’em and they may fink it’s safer if you and French get the same treatment they give Mayhew. If that piece o’ paper was worf killin’ the colonel over, you and French might get your gullets slit.”

“That is a far-fetched notion, Vincent.” I gathered my skirts in my hand, in preparation for my dash through the chaos of the docks in search of a cab.

“He’s right, India. We’re in this up to our necks already,” said French. “The best way to remove any threat is to uncover whatever fiendish plot is afoot.”

“Good God. You’re talking like Wilkie Collins now.”

“Alright, then. Wait at Lotus House if you wish. Vincent and I’ll do the hard work. Don’t spare us a thought while you’re relaxing with a cup of tea in your hand. We’ll just be down here at the docks, combing through
—
”

“Oh, stop your gob, French. I’ll stay and flail about with you.”

“Stop bickerin’ and listen up.” Vincent tugged down his cap and assumed an air of authority. “’Ere’s the plan. I’ll round up some of me mates and we’ll find out which ships are bound for India in the next fortnight. You two can visit the shippin’ agents.” He gave us a gap-toothed grin. “I doubt they’d let me in the door, anyway.”

“There must be dozens of agents,” I interjected.

Vincent sighed. “You could’ve visited six of ’em while you’ve been standin’ ’ere complainin’.”

Sometimes it’s best to let the male creatures have their way. I don’t recommend this course of action often, but it can be useful on occasion. You are then free to trot out your cooperation at a later date and extract something useful in return. With this stratagem in mind, I graciously assented to the division of labour that Vincent had proposed. French wanted to accompany me on the rounds of shipping agents, but I pointed out that we could cover twice as much ground if we split up. Besides, I had no doubt I’d have better luck at prizing information out of the clerks than French would, hampered as he was by the absence of breasts and a dazzling smile.

We arranged to meet back at our present location in a few hours’ time, and then Vincent hightailed it in search of his mates while French and I divvied up the docks. We wouldn’t come close to visiting them all today, but we had to start somewhere.

I shall not bore you with a description of the mind-numbing hours that followed. Should I ever become a full-time member of the prime minister’s staff, I shall insist on being assigned a fresh young lad, eager to prove his abilities and therefore apt to pant like an eager hound at the prospect of spending the day roaming in and out of warehouses and offices, repeating the same yarn ad nauseam and leaving no stone unturned until he’d accomplished his task. My fictitious young fellow would have to be made of sterner stuff than I. After two hours I had wearied of introducing myself as Ethel Perry, who desired to ship a large crate of furniture to her dear brother Frederick, stationed near Calcutta. This person had briefly met a Mr. Peter Bradley, who had confided that he frequently shipped cargo to Calcutta and that she could rely upon him to help her find a shipping agent to handle the transaction. Unfortunately, Mr. Bradley was out of the country at the moment. Did this agent, perhaps, handle shipments for Mr. Bradley’s firm, the Bradley Tool Company? At this point I had to endure not only a negative reply to my question, but also a sales pitch of astonishing duration and force, advising me of the merits of the agent I had approached and the advantages of using the same to send my crate to India. Extracting myself from these conversations was a lengthy process. As I said, I had wearied of the matter only two hours into it, but I stuck it out for several hours more until I dragged myself back to my rendezvous with French and Vincent.

“Any joy?” asked French as I arrived. In addition to being stubborn, men are so frequently unobservant. I was limp, sticky and footsore, and certainly did not look like a woman who’d had any success.