India Black (16 page)

“Give my regards to Mr. Disraeli, and tell him that if I ever catch one of his flunkies in my embassy again, he’ll have to explain himself to the
Morning Chronicle.
”

I expected French to draw himself up in that lordly manner of his and demand that Yusopov retract his reference to “flunkies,” but he merely nodded coldly at the count and hustled me away through the waning darkness. We didn’t stop until we were a good quarter mile from the embassy, and then French came to an abrupt halt on the stoop of a pub, under the sickly yellow glow of a gas lamp. He was laughing as he looked down at me.

“That was cool work, India. How the devil did you get that case out of there? And where did you hide it?”

“Stop gloating, French. I don’t have the case.”

That shut his trap, as I knew it would. He stared at me, slack-jawed. “You don’t mean to tell me it’s still in the embassy.”

“It’s not at the embassy either.”

“Then where the deuce is it?”

“The last I saw of it, Reverend Charles Calthorp was carrying it off under his arm.”

For the first time since I’d met him, French looked discomfited. “Who the bloody hell is Reverend Charles Calthorp?”

“An ecclesiastic type,” I said, “who has a thing for trollops.”

French groaned and passed a weary hand over his eyes. I must admit to feeling a bit tired myself, having snatched only a few minutes sleep stark naked in a cold room, which is the same as having no sleep at all, so I spared French the Dickensian version and briefly explained Calthorp’s involvement. At the end of the story, French frowned and chewed his lip, staring off into the eastern sky where the sun had begun to peep over the horizon. In the grey light of dawn, his face looked haggard. Thoughtfully, he lit a cheroot and smoked meditatively.

At length, he asked, “What do you know about this Calthorp fellow?”

“Other than the fact that he’s an infernal bore,” I said, “absolutely nothing.”

“What about the girls at Lotus House? Has he spoken to any of them at length?”

“There’s Mary. She’s spent a considerable amount of time with the man.”

He crushed his cheroot beneath the heel of his boot. “I must speak to her now. There’s not a moment to lose.”

He strode off, and I trotted after, wincing as my bare feet located every pebble on the pavement. “How about a cab, French? I had to leave my shoes behind.”

 

 

 

It was a great relief to set foot in Lotus House. I woke Mrs. Drinkwater from a sound sleep, ordered tea to be sent to my office, then sent her to summon Mary. I sank gratefully into a chair and examined the soles of my feet, which, during the night’s activities, had acquired a layer of filth that rivaled anything I’d ever seen on Vincent. French paced the rug before the hearth, lost in thought.

“Am I correct in supposing that you do not think Calthorp’s appearance at the embassy was entirely coincidental?” I asked, probing a tender spot on my heel.

“You are. I don’t believe in serendipity.”

“But what could he want with those documents from the War Office?”

“I am hoping your girl may be able to tell us something that will clarify the situation.”

Mary and the tea arrived at the same time. Mrs. Drinkwater had thoughtfully provided a tray of biscuits, which were hard enough to have been minted by the exchequer.

Mary wasn’t best pleased, having been roused from a sound sleep twice in the last four days to deal with a Calthorp exigency, but she perked up considerably when she spied French’s handsome countenance and raven black hair. She sat down on the sofa, letting her dressing gown fall open casually to display a curvaceous leg and arranging her boobies to their best advantage, while she smiled winsomely and batted her eyelashes in French’s direction. I was tempted to tell her not to waste her time with the man, he being about as warm-blooded as the average viper, but to my surprise (and not a little consternation), French gave her a roguish smile and planted himself on the sofa beside her. Mary leaned over so as to allow French an unobstructed view of her cleavage (free of charge, mind you—Mary and I needed to have a conversation) and fixed him with the look she usually reserves for dim-witted drunks with bulging wallets.

“I’m terribly sorry to have awakened you, my dear,” French’s tone was silken.

“Oh, la.” Mary’s lashes fluttered wildly. I stifled the urge to ask if she had a smut in her eye. “Think nothing of it, sir. I’m very happy to be of service to you. Indeed I am.”

“I shan’t keep you long. I’m endeavoring to locate an old friend of the family. Miss Black informs me that you are acquainted with Reverend Charles Calthorp.”

The alleged association brought a flicker of disbelief to Mary’s eyes, but being a whore, she was much too experienced at listening to men’s lies to let it linger long.

“He’s the curate of St. Margaret?”

“So he says. I ain’t never darkened the door, so I couldn’t say for certain.”

“I believe you spoke with the reverend this past Sunday,” said French.

“I did, sir. He come by to chat up the girls. He’s dead keen on savin’ our souls, is Reverend Calthorp. Not that he gets much joy in that line. Most of us ain’t that interested in the hereafter, our concern bein’ more the here and now. Not to mention that if Heaven is occupied by the likes of Reverend Calthorp, I’d ruther spend eternity with the sinners, drinkin’ gin and eatin’ cake.”

Mary preened herself over her witticism and French smiled politely, but I could see he was anxious to get the information he needed and pick up Calthorp’s trail. “It has been many years since I’ve seen Charles, but I remember him as an earnest young man,” said French.

“Ever so sober,” Mary agreed, “except when he’s carryin’ on about the Trinity or convertin’ the heathen Chinee.”

French wasn’t interested in the salvation of Oriental souls. “Is that the extent of his conversation with you? Does he ever discuss his home or his family?”

“Oh, no. Reverend Calthorp don’t talk about himself at all. He goes on about the things clergymen usually talk about, you know, like purity and wickedness and lust, and the sins of the flesh, and so forth. He gets awful frothed up about the sins of the flesh. And sometimes he talks about politics. He don’t go in for entertainments of any sort, except politics. He’s an eloquent son of a bitch, when he’s ravin’ about the Tories and Disraeli. You ought to hear him rattle on about old Gladstone. You’d think that old gent hung the moon, from the way the reverend gushes about him.”

Had Dizzy been there, he’d have cursed Gladstone’s name, denounced Calthorp as a traitor and bemoaned the fact that hanging had replaced drawing and quartering as the punishment for treason. French didn’t rush to judgment as quickly, but the look he gave me was significant. “He’s fond of the parson?”

“Fair worships the old bugger,” Mary said brightly.

“Do you know the address of Reverend Calthorp’s residence?” asked French.

Mary waggled a finger at him. “Not me, dearie. He’s never said and I’ve never asked. No interest, you see. Penniless churchman ain’t exactly my style. Nor barmy ones, neither. A handsome gentleman like yourself is more to my taste.” To illustrate the point, she dropped a hand on French’s thigh and let it meander languidly in the direction of his crotch.

But French had no time for dalliance. He seized Mary’s wandering fingers, shook her hand briskly, then jumped to his feet, clapped his hat on his head and charged out the door, ignoring Mary’s pout.

“Wait,” I cried, springing after him. “Where are you going?” But there was no answer, only the slamming of the front door of Lotus House.

A
few hours later, after a bath and some breakfast, I was circling Claridge’s Hotel, watching a good percentage of the London ton swagger in and out, while the doorman bowed deferentially and surreptitiously counted his tips as the door closed behind the august clientele. Gladstone might be a Low Church booby and a friend of the common man, but he came from the gentry and hadn’t spared any expense in his lodging arrangements here in London.

I’d fairly flown to St. Margaret’s where I had accosted the addled crone dusting the altar rail and demanded to know the whereabouts of Calthorp. The clergyman hadn’t been seen yet that morning, and the old woman, who was employed as a charwoman and charged with cleaning both the church proper and Calthorp’s rooms in an adjoining house (and whose tongue I loosened with ten bob), said his bed had not been slept in the previous night. As I was leaving, the crone sunk a tooth into the coin and idly wondered at the coincidence of being asked the same question not ’alf an hour ago by a distinguished cove with a malacca walking stick.

With Calthorp having disappeared from view, the only lead worth following seemed to be his adoration of Gladstone, and since Dizzy had mentioned at our meeting that Gladstone was now residing at Claridge’s, whipping public attention to a fever pitch over the Mussulman atrocities, then I should have to visit the hotel as well. Remembering also Dizzy’s complaint that Gladstone (and quite likely, his devout followers) would like to see Dizzy’s government implode in disgrace, it seemed plausible that Calthorp might have looked at the documents we’d recovered from the Russian embassy, realized their importance to Gladstone and hied off to Claridge’s to deliver them to the old man on a platter. In fact, now that I had been exposed to the level of skullduggery that seemed to go on in the political arena, Calthorp’s visits to Lotus House might not have been as innocent as I had believed them to be. In actuality, the little God wallah might have been keeping an eye on old Archie Latham, just as the Russians had been. Calthorp’s expertise at penetrating the embassy and escaping with the case seemed less and less like a stroke of luck and more like the doings of an experienced operative.

French was nowhere in view when I arrived at Claridge’s. I’d arrived without a plan in mind, and so I sauntered back and forth for a few minutes, watching the doorman and a procession of elegantly attired ladies and gentlemen strut through the door and making mental notes about the alterations I’d need to make to my wardrobe to bring it up to snuff with the latest Parisian fashions. The doorman was ex-military; his ramrod bearing, shining buttons and stoic expression gave him away. He looked like the stern but kindly sergeant who raked young privates over the coals for coming in drunk, then tucked them into their bunks with tender affection. He’d have rallied the square at Inkerman, and volunteered to blacken his face and sneak out of camp through enemy lines to summon help. He’d know a great deal about carbines, native liquor and venereal disease, bayonet drills and whores, and I wouldn’t stand a chance of getting through the front door while he stood guard. His type takes his duty seriously. Thank God, there’s only a few like that in the military, or we tarts wouldn’t have any custom at all.

I briefly debated brazening it out and affecting an entrance, figuring that if the old soldier gave me any guff I’d inform him that I was an acquaintance of Dizzy’s, had dined last night at the Russian embassy, and what did he mean, denying entrance to a lady? After mature consideration, I concluded that my cozy evening with Count Yusopov would not impress the doorman. I’d likely be tossed into the street like yesterday’s newspapers.

Nevertheless, there was one role I could play to the hilt, which the old codger might find sympathetic and which might provide me with some valuable intelligence at the same time. So I bowed my head and bashfully approached the doorman, doing my best to appear timorous and deferential, which is damned near impossible for me to do. My dress and coat were smart and clean, my boots polished and my hat wouldn’t have disgraced any fashionable lady, but the keen eyes of the ex-military duffer spotted me before I’d made the second step.

“Here, you, miss,” he cried, darting forward with an astonishingly rapid step to separate the goat (me) from the sheep (the cream of London society, which I was dangerously close to infecting with my unworthiness). I knew the fellow could spot a wrong ’un.

The last thing he expected, I’m sure, was that some wanton hussy would throw her arms around him and cling to him like a limpet, but that’s what I did, crying tremulously, “Oh, sir, sir. Tell me it’s true, sir. Tell me it’s true.”

There’s not much a man of his experience can’t handle. After shooting Indian mutineers out of cannons, hustling a swooning whore out of the sight of the London elite was mere child’s play. The doorman tucked me under one arm and carried me away from the hotel steps. When he judged the distance far enough from innocent bystanders, he dropped me like a sack of flour and said roughly, “Now then, what are you up to?”

I looked beseechingly up at him. “Please, sir. I heard that Mr. Gladstone is staying at the hotel. Is it true?”

“What if it is? What business is it of yours?”

I staggered to my feet and clutched at his arm. “I’ve come to thank him. He ...” Here I choked back a little sob. “He saved my life.”

The doorman’s brows crinkled. “What kind of daft talk is that? Did he fish you out of the Thames after you’d thrown your wretched self in, trying to escape your sins?”

“Please, sir. Don’t be scornful of a poor wretch like me. Mr. Gladstone came to my house ... that is ... the house where I ... work.” I paused to emit another tiny sob. I must say, I’d have broken my own heart. Unfortunately, the doorman was a more severe critic. He seemed unmoved by my theatrics. I was going to have to put my back into it.

“He told us all about Jesus and God and salvation and how to save our souls, and I believed him.” I gazed at the doorman with tear-stained eyes. “Oh, sir. What a relief it’s been to know that I’m a saved woman. I shall never go back to my life of sin.”

His craggy face softened. “Well, now. I’m very glad to hear that you’ve found the Lord and turned your back on Satan. I’d heard Mr. Gladstone spread the word of God among you, er, your kind.” Must be chapel, I thought. How lucky can a girl get?