India Black and the Gentleman Thief (22 page)

The one bright spot in the whole affair was the day French stepped out for a couple of hours and returned with a wrapped parcel, which he deposited in my hands with a flourish.

“Courtesy of Her Majesty’s government,” he said, “but I took the liberty of selecting it.”

I stripped off the paper and found a wooden chest with the name “P. Webley & Son” engraved on a brass plaque on the lid. My heart beat faster. “I do hope this isn’t a piece of jewelry in here.”

French snorted, which he does from time to time, although there is nothing gentlemanly about it. “Would I dare bring you a rope of pearls? Go on, open it.”

I lifted the lid and beheld my new weapon. French had had the kindness to select another .442 Bulldog revolver, but this one put my previous weapon to shame. It was nickel-plated, elaborately engraved and sported thick ivory grips. The whole thing shone like a diamond necklace against the royal blue velvet interior of the box.

“Well done, French,” I said as a I checked the grip and spun the cylinder. I took aim at the Georgian candlestick on the mantel. “It’s a beauty.”

“Please limit your use of the weapon to villains, India.” He smiled mockingly, and I knew this was a peace offering.

Despite the distraction of my new revolver, which I carried around and practiced drawing and aiming at various mutts, I noticed that Vincent was looking pale and drawn, and that his leg was giving him trouble. He had a pronounced limp now and he winced when he sat down to bread and cheese in the kitchen. French badgered him to take a respite and leave most of the work to the gang of street Arabs Vincent called his friends. The runt, being a plucky chap, refused. But one night when the rain bucketed down and there was a chill in the air, he arrived at the kitchen door soaked to the skin and shaking uncontrollably. French ordered him to bed. I expected fireworks but Vincent must have been feeling bloody awful for he acquiesced readily enough, provided he was permitted to venture out once more to arrange matters with his cohorts.

“I’ll go with you,” said French. “The boys will have to come to me with their reports.”

Vincent coughed and nodded, and the two wrapped themselves up and vanished into the storm. I sat at the table and nursed a whisky while I waited for their return. Oh, I could have made myself useful, but the marchioness had assumed command and was barking orders at Fergus and Mrs. Drinkwater to lay a fire in Vincent’s room and to prepare a nourishing broth for the boy.

“I hope the lad will be alright. Shame on ye and French for makin’ him walk the streets for days on end.”

“Vincent never does anything he doesn’t want to do. Besides, we had little choice. Welch knows French and me and could easily have identified us.”

“Ye’d have thought the prime minister of Great Britain might have more than two agents workin’ for him. Why didn’t ye ask for help?”

I didn’t have a good answer to the question. In fact, the thought of requesting assistance from Dizzy had never occurred to me. No doubt he would have provided additional men to help shadow Welch, but French, Vincent and I were used to acting alone. I suppose we thought we could handle just about anything, having had some success at capturing Russian spies and saving the Queen and dismantling an anarchist operation.

I elected to change the topic rather than respond to the marchioness’s question. It’s a tactic I’ve learned from politicians.

“Shouldn’t Vincent have a hot water bottle for his feet?”

“Aye. I’ll see to it, as ye seem to have nothin’ better to do than drink whisky and twiddle yer thumbs.”

An hour later French and Vincent returned with Vincent wobbling into the kitchen on unsteady legs, supported by French. He summoned Fergus and together they carried Vincent up the stairs. The marchioness slammed drawers and opened cupboards until she found a ladle and filled a bowl with the broth Fergus had prepared. She took it upstairs herself.

French came down and slumped into a chair. He’d removed his outer garments, but his boots and trousers were sodden. I poured him a large glass of whisky.

“How’s Vincent?”

“He has a fever. If it’s no better in the morning, we’ll summon the doctor. Fergus and Aunt Margaret are looking after him.”

“Fergus is an efficient bloke. He’ll get Vincent up on his pins in no time. And if he doesn’t, the marchioness will drive Vincent mad and he’ll recover just to escape her clutches.”

French laughed. “She’s an indomitable soul, isn’t she?”

“That’s one way to describe her. Did you meet Vincent’s friends?”

“He introduced me to his lieutenant, a lad named Tommy. My word, he was a wretched little thing. No shoes and a shirt that was nothing more than holes held together by a few rags. He seems bright, though.”

“He’ll have spent his life dodging villains and do-gooders. Trailing an oblivious army captain won’t be a challenge.”

As I predicted, and I am rarely wrong, it was not. French set up headquarters in the kitchen, where he received a steady stream of odiferous urchins with reports of Welch’s location and activities. The youngsters left clutching a few coins and French spent his time writing down copious notes, trying to discern a pattern in Welch’s movements and jotting down descriptions of Welch’s associates. Occasionally, French would dart off to some mysterious destination where, he informed me, he checked the descriptions of Welch’s contacts against the sketches of the tsar’s agents known to be working in Britain. It was just possible that if a Russian spy was operating in Ganipur, then one of the tsar’s men might be keeping an eye on the weapons’ transfers here in England. If the captain had any direct communication with an agent of the tsar, then we could take Welch into custody and exert some leverage, in the proper British manner, of course. These forays proved futile, however, and we were all feeling a bit down at the mouth about the state of affairs when our fortunes changed.

It was a quiet afternoon at Lotus House. The marchioness was upstairs reading the Bible to Vincent, poor little blighter, and Fergus and Mrs. Drinkwater were mucking about in the kitchen while French sat at the deal table there and drank cup after cup of strong tea. I was beginning to wonder about the marchioness’s manservant and my cook. They’d been at loggerheads for weeks and now they were as cozy as two old cats. Fergus was dishing out advice on how to make a proper tart and Mrs. Drinkwater was actually listening, staring intently with a queer expression on her face as the wall-eyed cove sifted flour. I’d only ever seen her look that way at a bottle of gin. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the old lush had been struck by Cupid’s arrow.

I had retired to the study for some blissful, solitary amusement of my own: relishing a glass of brandy and reviewing my account books without the marchioness leaning over my shoulder. I was pondering the question of whether it was lawful to turf out your aunt and her retinue, or merely immoral—neither situation giving me much pause, if I am truthful—when French rushed into the study, his hair standing on end and his eyes bright with excitement.

“Get your revolver, India. We’re off.”

The prospect of gunplay is a wonderful tonic. I snapped out of my lethargy and retrieved my new Webley Bulldog from my desk. I popped open the cylinder and rotated it. It was fully loaded as I had left it but it never hurts to inspect one’s equipment. I wouldn’t have put it past the marchioness to remove all the bullets from the gun after my various threats against her collies. My precautions were unnecessary, however, and I looked forward to the opportunity to test out the revolver, preferably on the chap who had carved up Colonel Mayhew.

“Where are we going?” I asked, as I filled a pouch with extra cartridges.

“I’ve had word from Tommy. He followed Welch to Waterloo Station and Welch boarded a train to Redhill, in Surrey, not half an hour ago.”

“Let’s hope he’s going to meet the man who’s pulling the strings. I shall be cross if the captain is off to some local hunt.”

“Whatever the purpose of his journey, we’re going to follow him. It’s the only aberration we’ve seen in his schedule.”

We rushed upstairs so that French could inform Vincent of our plans. He wanted to come with us, naturally, but French dissuaded him by asking him to stay at Lotus House in the event we needed him to deliver a message to Dizzy. The marchioness demanded that we keep her informed and I lied and said that we would. I fetched a hat and a purse and deposited the Webley and my spare ammunition in it. Then we were off to Waterloo Station.

The station was a nightmare to navigate, as it always is. Fine ladies who’d come to the city for a day’s shopping traipsed along the platforms, trailed by porters juggling armfuls of parcels. Shop assistants and office clerks jostled for position on the outward-bound trains, headed back to their homes in the suburbs. Middle-class families negotiated the crowd and aristocratic types lounged about with their luggage piled high, guarded by an army of servants. The clamour was deafening, as the conductors shouted and the trains came huffing into the station with their brakes squealing.

French was in a fever, worried that there would be no more trains to Surrey until tomorrow, but as luck would have it there was one leaving within the hour. French bought tickets for us in the first-class carriage, an action of which I heartily approved. If one must chase villains, one should do so in style.

It was an hour’s journey to Redhill and we spent it in the company of a vicar and his wife, which meant that French and I were unable to discuss Welch, the arms thefts, Lady Daphne or any other topics of interest. We were limited to tame subjects such as the weather, the novels of Mrs. Gaskell, spaniels, the Old Testament, fossils and gardening. The vicar and his wife were enthusiastic about all of the foregoing. I need hardly say that I was not, but I summoned the fortitude to smile and look interested and to interject a few comments where appropriate. French professed a fondness for
Euhoplites
ammonites, lying bastard. Well, I assume he’s lying but perhaps there really is a rose of that name, or an ancient tribe of the Hebrew race.

We exited the train at the small station at Redhill. I was greatly relieved that the vicar and his wife were traveling on to Newhaven for I fear that if they’d lived in the Redhill area a dinner invitation would have been issued and I’d have been forced to draw the Webley.

We waited until the rest of the passengers had cleared the station and then wandered around the platform, looking bewildered. After we’d performed that pantomime for a few minutes, French marched up to the ticket kiosk.

“Pardon me. My wife and I were supposed to be met here by a friend. He hasn’t arrived and I wondered if you might have seen him earlier.” He described Captain Welch.

The ticket chappie didn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir. I’ve seen your friend. He arrived on the four o’clock from London and hired a carriage.”

“Hired a carriage, you say?” French looked befuddled. “Now where would he be going?”

The ticket chappie shrugged. “Don’t know. But you can ask Isaac over there. ’Twas his rig your friend hired.”

A venerable fellow with a seamed face lounged on the ground with his back propped against the wheel of a dilapidated carriage. The bony nag between the traces cropped grass and twitched his ears at our approach. The driver knocked the dead ashes from his pipe and fumbled in his pocket for his tobacco pouch.

“Would you folks be needing a carriage?” he asked.

“Perhaps,” said French. “We were to meet a friend here. I understand that he hired you.” He hadn’t finished his description of Welch before Isaac was nodding.

“He did.”

French turned to me. “That’s deuced odd. Welch said he’d wait at the station for us.”

“He must have changed his mind,” I said, playing my part.

“He could have sent a telegram,” French fretted. “I suppose he’s gone on ahead and wants us to follow.” He addressed Isaac. “Could you drive us to the captain’s destination? It seems we are to meet him there, rather than here.”

“Aye, I can take you to Hilltop Farm. It’s out by Salfords, but I reckon you know that.”

“Mmm,” French murmured noncommittally.

“Quite a distance,” said Isaac around his pipe. “Reckon it’s three miles or more. That’ll cost.”

“Of course,” said French.

Isaac looked us up and down, taking in French’s tailored clothes and my own elegant self and then named a sum that would have made the most hardened blackmailer blush. French agreed to it without blinking, though I daresay he’d have a hard time prying the reimbursement out of those niggling clerks in Whitehall. As the sun was sinking from sight, our driver/extortionist lit the lamps on either side of the carriage before clucking at the horse and slapping his rump with the reins.

Our route took us through the countryside for a short while. As it was rapidly growing dark, I can’t describe the scenery well but I suspect it had all the virtues of the countryside: the smell of manure, muddy farmyards and vicious geese. We trundled across a wooden bridge and into the small village of Salfords and approached a public house called the Duke of Wellington, from which light and laughter spilled into the night. It was a substantial establishment and I thought longingly of a stiff drink and a bite to eat, but Isaac snapped his whip and we surged past. We drove on for a quarter of an hour. The lights from distant farmhouses dotted the landscape. We were at the back of beyond by now, and I was feeling some trepidation about following Welch into this dark and remote region. London is dangerous, but nothing makes my skin prickle like quiet roads and isolated farms. At least in the city I know where danger lurks. I’m out of my element among the cabbages and cows.