“No,” I said tersely. “You?”
“Nothing.”
“Me neiver,” said Vincent. “But the boys are on it, and we’ll see what they can turn up.”
• • •
It had been a hard day’s work, but in the hansom on the way back to Lotus House I found myself feeling oddly cheerful. Granted, I was bone-tired from walking the wharves and bored witless with the exertions of the afternoon, but at least we were a step closer to finding Mayhew’s killers and the three coves who had used French and me as punching bags. And though I’d just spent the last few weeks dodging death and mayhem at the hands of those anarchist devils, I felt ready for action. There’s nothing like the prospect of a mystery to stir the loins of a government agent. The existence of a few chaps who don’t scruple at beatings and killings of the most savage variety adds an element of danger and a pleasant frisson to the situation. I was highly motivated to settle scores with the rapscallions who had invaded Lotus House and killed the poor colonel.
I must learn to guard against my irrational exuberance, for it’s Sod’s Law that just when there’s a satisfactory prospect in the offing, something will turn up to remind you that man’s lot is a dismal one and all ends in dust and ashes. In this case, it was not something but someone who arrived to remind me of that immutable lesson.
The hansom turned the corner and Vincent leaned out the window. “Oi. Are you movin’ ’ouse, India?”
“What the deuce are you talking about?”
“There’s a gang o’ workers carryin’ boxes and parcels into Lotus ’Ouse and a wall-eyed cove directin’ traffic.” Vincent’s brow wrinkled. “And where’d them dogs come from?”
“Dogs?” I pushed him to one side and craned my neck out the window. There was indeed an unusual amount of activity surrounding my front door. A hired carriage was parked by the stoop and the driver, a portly gentleman with a red face, was standing dejectedly on the pavement while four collies pranced and shied about him, twisting their leads round his legs. Behind the carriage a cart was parked and three men laboured to remove a mountain of trunks and boxes and carry them into Lotus House. The wall-eyed cove Vincent had mentioned was barking orders at the workmen like a regimental sergeant. That seemed appropriate under the circumstances for it would require military efficiency to oversee the transfer of all this materiel, it being roughly equivalent to the amount Napoleon had needed for his invasion of Russia. The wall-eyed cove noticed our arrival and called a halt to the activity while he waited for us to disembark from the hansom, stalking over to greet us. At least I hoped he meant to greet us, as his visage was anything but welcoming. He was a villainous-looking fellow, with a pinched face and lips and one pale grey eye that stared straight at you while the other gazed off over your shoulder. It was deuced difficult to figure out whether the man was looking at you or admiring the scenery behind you, and I had to fight the urge to glance round to see if perhaps an attractive woman had hove into view.
He mumbled something inaudible. Well, I might have heard it but for the frenzied yapping of the collies.
“I beg your pardon?”
Then an eldritch screech slashed the air like a scimitar.
“You bloody bitches, pipe down! Fergus, stop dawdlin’ and get my luggage inside. Good God, man!
I
could have had these bags inside by now. It’s time for my tea and I’m bloody hungry and the bloody cook here seems to have lost her wits, if she had any to start with.” A demented cackle echoed down the street.
“Blimey,” said Vincent.
“Dear God,” said French.
As for me, I was speechless. The Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine had arrived at Lotus House.
• • •
The marchioness’s major domo suppressed a smile. “Aye, it’s her. Come down from Tullibardine to see Miss India Black. That’d be you, I suppose,” he said, one eye boring into me. “I be Fergus, Her Ladyship’s . . . ” He paused for a moment as he considered how best to describe the relationship. I hoped he would be discreet for I wasn’t up to contemplating the marchioness sharing a bed with this fellow. Not with his looks. Nor hers, for that matter. Fergus found the word for which he’d been searching. “Manservant,” he concluded. His gaze shifted to French.
“How-de-do, Major.”
“Hello, Fergus. Are you well?”
“Alright, considerin’, you know.” He cast a suggestive glance at the marchioness, who had wobbled out of the front door and was watching us intently. She’s a doughty old bird, not much bigger than a flea and nearly as maddening. She looked much as I remembered her: the wizened face with the powder pressed into the cracks and a streak of rouge across each cheek, which gave her the appearance of a Sioux chief on the warpath. She peered at us through eyes cloudy from cataracts and her mouth hung open, showing the stumps of a few discoloured teeth.
French removed his hat and bowed stiffly. “Auntie.”
Auntie
?
“And how’s my Sassenach nephew?” asked the marchioness.
Nephew?
“Ye two look like ye’ve been in the wars. Come in and have a drink. It’ll buck ye up.”
I recovered my composure. “I don’t believe I need an invitation to enter my own home,” I remarked, not without some asperity.
The marchioness hooted with laughter. “Still full o’ spunk, are ye?”
She disappeared into the house and the rest of us trailed in after her, with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Fergus issued a set of instructions to the workman unloading the cart and started after us.
“’Ere,” roared the carriage driver, over the yelping of the collies. “Wot am I supposed to do wif these ’ounds?”
Fergus stumped off and retrieved the pups, which proved to be a difficult task as the carriage driver had assumed the appearance of a maypole and it took a while to unwind the leads from the poor chap. Then, to my horror, Fergus led the dogs up the steps.
“Not in the house,” I said, barring the door with my arm. The marchioness had disappeared. French and Vincent had gone into the study, from which I’d soon be evicting Vincent as he had no right to be privy to the family secrets I felt sure would be revealed now that the marchioness was in town. Fergus was poised in the open door with the collies milling about his feet and panting at their leads. I caught sight of Mrs. Drinkwater, her mouth frozen open in horror. The bints had come spilling down the stairs in their dressing gowns, which reminded me that in an hour’s time I’d have a houseful of customers and the prospect of loosing four dogs and the marchioness on my clientele almost caused my heart to stop beating. I drew a deep breath.
“I will not allow those dogs in my house,” I repeated.
The marchioness elbowed me to one side. “O’ course they’re comin’ inside. Where do ye expect ’em to sleep? On the street?”
“I don’t care where they sleep, as long as it’s not in the house.”
“Now if ye had a proper kennel . . .” mused the marchioness.
“Why would I have a confounded kennel?” I snarled.
“Don’t snap at me. ’Tis your own fault ye dinna have the facilities to care for my pups.” The old trout patted me on the arm. “Dinna fret yerself, my girl. They’ll do alright on the bed with me. Now then, where’s that pea-brained cook of yers? I want my tea and I want it now.”
“I’ll thank you to show a bit of respect for my servant,” I said. The fact that I never accorded Mrs. Drinkwater the slightest courtesy was beside the point. She may be a pea-brained cook, but damn it all, she was
my
pea-brained cook and if she was going to be abused, I’d be the one doing it.
The marchioness headed for the kitchen and I foresaw bad things, very bad things, happening there if I did not head off the assault on Mrs. Drinkwater’s domain. I scurried after the marchioness and that bloody Fergus took advantage of my absence as gatekeeper to shoo the dogs inside and drag them into the study. I checked my advance to deal with this development, but I heard raised voices from the kitchen and decided that the dogs must wait. Mind you, all the while this domestic drama was being played out, a curious group of dollies, eyes like saucers and tittering like a group of schoolgirls, was ranged up the stairs. The fleeting thought that things were spiraling out of control crossed my mind. I sent the bints upstairs with some roaring curses and dashed off to the kitchen.
Sure enough the marchioness was inspecting the place, lifting pot lids, muttering under her breath and cursing a blue streak. Mrs. Drinkwater had elected to retreat to a corner (very sensible of her, I thought) and had adopted an air of dignified restraint, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. Or perhaps she’d merely propped herself up after an afternoon down at the local. In any event, she did not look happy.
The marchioness slammed down a lid. “Christ on his cross. You dinna expect me to eat that swill, do ye? Fergus!” The marchioness would have done well in the Royal Navy. You could have heard that voice in the crow’s nest on a foul night in the roaring forties.
It was time I assumed command, but damned if I could figure out how to do it.
Fergus arrived, sans dogs. Now what could he have done with those four canines?
“Fetch us some tea, Fergus. I’m parched from my travels and there ain’t a crumb worth eatin’ in this godforsaken hole.”
Mrs. Drinkwater came out of her corner like a prizefighter who’d taken a few punches but wasn’t to be counted out yet. “Listen here, you wicked biddy. This is my kitchen and I’m the cook here and if you want something to eat, you’ll ask for it polite-like and be grateful for what you get.”
I’ve never had occasion to be grateful for anything from Mrs. Drinkwater’s kitchen, but I had to admire the old lush’s spirit at defending her territory.
“Pipe down,” muttered the marchioness, combing through some pantry shelves. “There’s no jam here, Fergus. Not a drop. And not a biscuit to be seen.”
“What do you call these, if not biscuits?” Mrs. Drinkwater produced a plate of blackened wafers and waved it under the marchioness’s nose.
“Lord save us, I thought it was the coal for the stove. Here’s some money, Fergus. Fetch us some provisions. And get a haunch for dinner tonight. I’m in the mood for a hearty meal after that dreadful journey.”
“Are you going to allow this addled crone to come in here and take over my kitchen?” Mrs. Drinkwater demanded.
“Are you going to let this drunken sow fix my tea?” the marchioness demanded to know.
I’ve faced down Cossack guards and Russian spies and Scottish assassins, but confronted by these two withered beasts with fire in their breasts, I had to admit defeat. I turned on my heel and fled, back to the relative sanity of the study, where I found French trying to coax one of the collies off the delicate silk upholstery of a Queen Anne chair and Vincent attempting to pull one of the beasts out from under the sofa. The other two animals had made themselves at home
on
the sofa and were now having a nap. I sank into a chair and put my face in my hands.
“Where’d that bloody Fergus fellow get to?” Vincent asked. “These damned curs ought to be whipped.”
“Fergus has gone to buy something for the marchioness to eat. Mrs. Drinkwater and the marchioness have squared off in the kitchen. I predict bloodshed. I just haven’t decided who to murder yet.”
French laughed. “You wanted answers, India. You’ll get some now.”
“I wanted a letter,” I corrected him. “I did not expect that creaking, haggard, liver-spotted woman to appear on my doorstep. What am I to do with her? I can’t put her up here.”
“Why not?” asked the marchioness, who had tottered unnoticed into the study. “This is a whorehouse, ain’t it? If there’s one thing a whorehouse has plenty of, it’s beds. I’ve already found a room to my likin’ and had Fergus take up a few things.”
I raised my face from my hands and stared at her in horror. “Not the room at the top of the stairs.”
“You can’t expect me to hike up and down these halls every day? Yes, the one at the top of the stairs will do nicely. It’s charmin’, what with all that blue damask and the silk drapes. Even got some pretty drawin’s on the wall. In truth, I hadn’t expected a brothel to be so attractive, but then I confess, I ain’t ever set foot in one. Just goes to show ye, the world is full of surprises.”
I agreed with her assessment, for I had not expected to return home today to find that the marchioness had arrived from Scotland with the intention of exercising the right of eminent domain over my bedroom, nor that my mahogany four-poster would soon be hosting a pack of flea-bitten hounds. Yes, the world is a surprising place.
“Ow,” Vincent howled, sucking his thumb. “That bloody dog bit me.”
“Serves ye right, ye stupid boy, for pullin’ on her leg like that.” The marchioness squinted at him. “Do I know ye, young feller?”
“I was up at that castle last winter, ’elpin’ save the Queen from them hassassins.”
The marchioness displayed her few teeth and a great deal of mottled pink gum. “So ye were. Ye got your skull split open, if I remember rightly.”
“That I did,” said Vincent proudly. “’Urt like the devil, too.”
“Weel, weel. Glad to see ye again, ye young cub. Ye acquitted yerself weel in that affair. But don’t be pullin’ on my Maggie’s leg, do ye hear?”
Vincent nodded. “Sorry ’bout that, M’ Lady. ’Twon’t ’appen again.”
“I’m sure it won’t, my boy. Yer a smart lad and don’t need tellin’ twice.”
