India Black and the Gentleman Thief

THIRTEEN


When the prime minister of Great Britain summons you it’s best to respond promptly, even if you’re in the middle of a discussion about the terms of your inheritance. I threw on some clothes, hailed a hansom and trotted off to the Langham Hotel, where Dizzy resided. He’d once had a fine London house but he’d sold it after the death of his beloved wife, Mary Anne. Hard to credit it, I know, but the crafty old Levantine had married a woman a decade his senior, and there hadn’t been much money in the match. That was quite enough to shock the ton, but deuced if the old boy hadn’t actually married out of love, a thing unheard of among the beau monde. To me, it was just another example of the old boy cocking a snook at “the quality” and I liked him all the more for it. But I digress.

The doorman recognized me and gave me a brief nod, opening the heavy door for me. French was lounging in a chair in the lobby. He got up languidly and sauntered over, managing to gaze politely at a point just over my shoulder.

“I’ve just seen a fellow in a top hat and an army chap making tracks for Dizzy’s room.” At least French was speaking to me. “Neither looked happy. I’ll wager we’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest.”

“Splendid. It’s so tranquil at Lotus House that I’m bored to tears.”

French stifled a laugh (another hopeful sign, I thought), and we hurried up the stairs. My heart had lifted at the prospect of action, and perhaps French’s had as well.

There were stalwart fellows loitering about the hall and at the door of Dizzy’s sitting room. French nodded to the guard at the door, who knocked lightly to secure our admittance. A beefy chap opened the door and bowed us in. He might be playing the role of butler tonight, but I wouldn’t want to argue with him about where he’d stashed my umbrella. Dizzy was getting edgy, what with anarchists swarming all over London, intent upon blowing up government officials and aristocrats. I can’t say I blame him for feeling that a few lads with thick necks and scarred knuckles might be just the ticket.

The prime minister rose at our entrance and advanced on us, beaming. I was glad to see the old fellow looking well again. He’d caught a nasty cough after spending the Christmas holidays at Balmoral. The Queen likes fresh air, you see, and insists that the windows remain open even when the draughty old pile is enveloped in a bloody blizzard. Poor old Dizzy had suffered greatly from the chill, but he seemed to have recovered his health and spirit.

“My dear Miss Black,” he said, catching my hands and squeezing them gently, those brilliant black eyes of his fixed on mine. The fellow is about as sincere as a three-shilling whore, but I am fond of him. I smiled back at him and told him how pleased I was to see him again.


He acknowledged French with a slight bow and then led us over to the other occupants of the room.

“Sir Hereward Digby of the India Office,” said Dizzy, indicating a disgruntled chap with a tuft of white hair like an ermine’s tail surrounding his bald pate, a round face and a fleshy nose marbled with blue veins.

“And this is Major General Buckley, of the quartermaster general’s staff.”

Buckley’s career had not been spent in the field. He was broad in the beam and the buttons of his uniform coat were strained to the point of danger. Over the years, his face had assumed a permanent expression of suspicion, and his mouth was crimped and posed to pronounce the fatal word “no” to any proposal. Both Digby and Buckley shot a curious glance at me when the prime minister introduced me to them.

We all took a pew and Dizzy was kind enough to have tea and cakes brought in. We munched and sipped politely and made small talk until Dizzy signaled that it was time to discuss business by clearing his throat and depositing his cup and saucer on the table.

“Just so that we are aware of how things stand, let me apprise you all of certain facts. Mr. French and Miss Black are agents in my employ.” At this revelation, the general jumped as if he’d been spurred and the chap from the India Office choked on his Earl Grey. Dizzy ignored the interruption and carried on. “Mr. French has advised me that they have learned that British rifles are being shipped to India under false bills of lading, and that a certain Colonel Mayhew, assigned to the quartermaster general’s department, has been murdered, most likely as a result of his association with this matter.”

Dizzy cast a sidelong glance at French and me and we nodded to confirm his statement.

“Consequently, I made enquiries of the army and General Buckley has confirmed that large numbers of rifles and a great amount of ammunition have gone missing from military armouries over the last few months.” Dizzy turned a grave visage toward Buckley and the military wallah nodded unhappily.

Dizzy continued on, relentlessly. “It appears that the armaments were transferred by written order to the Bradley Tool Company, which was in turn responsible for shipping the arms on to our military depots in India.”

“That is highly irregular,” said French, in a mild voice, but all the same Buckley shot him a vicious glance.

“Indeed,” Dizzy concurred gravely. “The army may consign certain items to private companies for transportation to foreign ports, but never weapons. Those are carried by Her Majesty’s Royal Navy.”

“Who signed the orders?” I asked.

“Colonel Mayhew.” It was General Buckley who spoke. He leaned forward in his chair, his hands on his knees. “In each case, the colonel issued instructions to deliver the weapons to this fictitious company. In fact, this arrangement began to occur only after the colonel joined the quartermaster general’s staff.”

“Was he responsible for these sorts of arrangements? The transport of weapons, I mean.” I was careful to keep my voice neutral.

“It was within his purview, yes. Otherwise, the orders would have attracted attention. But since Colonel Mayhew was the officer responsible for such matters, no one thought to question him.”

French withdrew a cheroot from his pocket. “May I?” he asked the prime minister.

“Certainly. Tobacco is a powerful stimulant to the mind. We shall need the use of all our faculties to resolve this matter.”

French smiled tightly. “Am I right in assuming that this matter goes beyond mere theft? I doubt Sir Hereward is here to discuss the army’s deficiencies.”

The general bristled at this and Dizzy cut in smoothly to prevent an outburst. “You are correct, Mr. French. Just after you brought the matter of the stolen rifles to my attention, a memo from Sir Hereward crossed my desk. By the way, my esteemed colleague here keeps an eye on the princely states of India. It is a tiresome job, as there is always some rajah or rani arguing over the amount of the British subsidiary allowance they are receiving, and the Mussulmen are always disputing with the Hindu, and there’s usually a revolt brewing somewhere, which brings us to the matter at hand.” Dizzy waved a hand at the India Office bloke. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to explain.”

Sir Hereward would. “As Lord Beaconsfield has said, I am responsible for all matters relating to the princely states. I, ahem, assume that you are all familiar with this term.” Naturally, the chap was looking at me.

I looked vacant and put a finger to my mouth. “I say, aren’t those the little kingdoms and such that some Indian prince pretends to run, only really we’re in charge of the whole circus? And they’ve got such exotic names, those little chaps. Maharajah and nizam and nawab. I’m sure I don’t know how you keep them all straight. Where was I? Oh, yes. We keep the ruler sweet by paying him off and in exchange we get to collect all the tax revenue and pocket the profit from the state’s exports. And then when the chap bites the dust we refuse to acknowledge his heir and claim that the kingdom has reverted to us. Have I got that right?” I looked around innocently.

Sir Hereward was not amused. “We provide valuable services to the rulers of these states, ma’am, and their subjects benefit. You must remember that these people are little more than savages. Without us, they would have no wells or irrigation, or any roads to transport their crops to market. And as for the reversion of the kingdoms to the British government—”

“I believe we are straying from the point, Sir Hereward,” Dizzy said soothingly. “The rifles?”

If it had been anyone other than the prime minister, I do believe the India Office chap would have stayed on his soapbox. As it was, he looked hurt for a moment and rubbed his hand over his bald pate.

“Yes, of course. For the past few months, we’ve been dealing with a troubling situation in the state of Ganipur. The rajah there had assumed the throne on his father’s death and had seemed an excellent fellow. The British resident at the court thought the young man was shaping up nicely, listening to the resident’s advice and treating his people well. But two years ago, the rajah began to act strangely. He began to ignore the resident’s counsel, then the rajah became rather rude and offensive and finally, and after a few months, he told the resident to pack up and leave. When our chap refused, the rajah had his cavalry escort the poor devil to the border and left him there with his luggage in a heap by the side of the road. Well, we couldn’t have that.”

“No, indeed,” I murmured. French’s elbow dug into my side.

“What caused the disruption in the relationship?” he asked, to distract Sir Hereward.

Sir Hereward’s fleshy face darkened. “Someone has been pouring poison into the rajah’s ear.”

“Russians,” Dizzy hissed. Lord, that man hates the Russians, which I suppose is natural as Dizzy’s every waking moment is spent trying to keep the greedy bastards from weaseling their way into the British Empire. The Ivan is always poking about in Afghanistan or India, probing for a soft spot in the British armour so the Russians can stir up some discontent and make a few friends among the locals. I’m not overly fond of those Russian buggers myself but my hatred is rather more personal, having spent some time as a prisoner of those treacherous thugs.

I braced myself for a lengthy diatribe from Dizzy against our Slavic foes, but Sir Hereward wasn’t ready to yield the floor.


“Yes, the tsar has sent an agent to stir up things in Ganipur, and he has succeeded admirably. In fact, the rajah has taken up arms against us and the army has been battling his troops for several months.”

General Buckley, armchair strategist, gave the India Office chap a sour look. “Why the devil have we been fighting some jumped-up little heathen for months? We should have wiped out his forces and hanged the wretch by now.”

Sir Hereward remained cool. “You’ll have to take that up with your associates at the War Office. I gather the rajah has rather a lot of troops, General, and our forces are stretched thin at the best of times. And he doesn’t stand and fight, you know. He attacks our supply chain and raids our camps, but he doesn’t collect his army in one spot. Ganipur is a hilly region, sir, and the rajah and his boys can disappear into those hills for weeks at a time.” Sir Hereward shifted in his chair and I could see that he was sharpening a lance point for General Buckley. “And then there’s the matter of the rajah’s arms. His army is not equipped with the usual motley assortment of ancient muskets and old swords. He’s contrived to get his hands on several hundred Martini-Henrys, straight out of England’s armouries.”

Ooh, I would hate to have been on the receiving end of that stab.

General Buckley subsided in his chair. “The stolen rifles have been delivered to the rajah of Ganipur?”

As Sir Hereward had just said so, in plain English, I thought the general rather slow on the uptake.

“Good God!” he exclaimed. “It can’t be.”

“I’m afraid so, General. Two weeks ago we fought an engagement with the rajah’s forces and took a dozen prisoners. They were all equipped with Martini-Henrys.”

“I don’t suppose they could have ambushed our brave lads and taken the rifles from the boys they cut down?”

Sir Hereward shook his head. “We questioned the prisoners. To a man, they claim the rifles arrived at their encampment in crates, and they were each issued a new weapon and ammunition.”

A bead of sweat appeared on the general’s upper lip. “I say,” he sputtered feebly, “that’s a damned bad show. Just wait until I get my hands on the blackguards who’ve done this—”

“You’re quite right, General. The situation is intolerable,” said Dizzy. “The question then becomes, how do we remedy it?”

“We’ve got a man in India who’s looking into the thefts,” said Sir Hereward. “He’s chasing a lead or two, but I’m afraid I’ve nothing more to report than that.”

“The India Office is investigating the matter? Why hasn’t the quartermaster general’s office been notified?” General Buckley looked sourly at Sir Hereward. “You should have turned the matter over to the army. It’s a military affair, and I don’t see why the India Office believes itself competent to handle the enquiry.”

An Arctic chill wafted through the room. Sir Hereward drew himself up. “It occurred to us to contact the army, but then we remembered that it was the army who’d lost track of the rifles, and perhaps its officers were not best suited to scrutinize themselves.”

The chap from the army took affront at this and began to swell like a toad that had been prodded with a stick. I hoped this wouldn’t dissolve into one of those interminable finger-pointing episodes of which the civil service and the military are so fond. I checked the clock on the wall. I’d give it three minutes, and then I was leaving. Unless it came to blows, of course, and then I’d hang around to watch the outcome.

Dizzy, however, was not of a mind to let the argument proceed. That would mean that Sir Hereward and the general did all the talking and if there’s one thing Dizzy can’t abide, it’s giving up the floor and remaining mute. All politicians love the sound of their own voices, but none loves it more than the prime minister. Mind you, he’d have given those Roman orators a run for their money and it could be a pleasure to hear the man in full flow, but only if the subject interested you. I’d pay money to hear Dizzy maul the Russians anytime, but if the topic turns to the disestablishment of the Church of England then, thank you, no, I’ll hie myself off to the nearest pub. With the exception of a few members of the cloth, the rest of the populace, I expect, would join me.

Dizzy cut in smoothly now. “Both the India Office and the army have a vested interest in seeing this matter resolved as quickly and efficiently as possible. That is why I have requested that Mr. French and Miss Black delve into the issue.” He held up a hand in response to a squawk of protest from the general. “It would be wise to allow an objective third party to look into the matter. General Buckley, I’d like you to collect all the documents relating to the shipment of rifles and ammunition which bear Colonel Mayhew’s signature, and send them to me by runner. I shall see that they are delivered to Mr. French and Miss Black. When they have discovered the culprit or culprits behind these thefts, we shall discuss their punishment with the appropriate military officers. We shall also discuss any changes to the quartermaster general’s procedures that we find to be necessary as a result of this situation.”

Dizzy turned to Sir Hereward. “Are you in communication with your agent in India?”

“I am, sir.”

“Then you will advise him to continue his investigation in India, and you will keep me informed of his findings.”

Sir Hereward hooked a finger in his collar and stretched it gently. “I should like to do that, sir, but I fear that it is impossible to carry out your instructions.”

“Oh?” Dizzy looked down his nose at the civil servant. As the prime minister has a nose the size of your average bowsprit, it took rather a long time for that searching gaze to find its mark.

“The last telegram I received from my agent advised me that he was boarding a ship bound for London. He had a lead to follow here, he said, but he did not have time to explain the matter in full and did not want to commit anything to writing which others might read. I assume I will hear from him in due course.”

“And you must advise me at once if you do. We can’t have your agent and my agents tripping over each other.”

“Indeed not.”

Our meeting broke up then, with instructions from Dizzy to the general and Sir Hereward to advise no one, other than their immediate superiors, about the subject of our conversation. General Buckley huffily announced that he knew how to be as discreet as the next man, jammed his hat on his head and strode off. Sir Hereward took a rather more graceful leave of us, assuring us he’d contact Dizzy just as soon as he heard from his man, and Dizzy thanked him prettily.

Then it was our turn to leave, and Dizzy shook hands with us both.

“There’s liable to be bad blood between the two offices. I don’t doubt that I’ll have to arbitrate matters before long. Let me know how you get along, and whether there is anything I can provide you. Now off with you both, and catch me a thief.”

It was a pleasant afternoon, so we decided to forgo a cab ride and strolled in the direction of Lotus House. French walked along with his hands in his pockets. I could tell he was cogitating about something.

“I’m glad Dizzy told the general to supply us with his records. I doubt he’d have cooperated with us otherwise,” I said.


French grunted.

“I wonder what Sir Hereward’s agent has found that’s bringing him to England. We’ll have to link up with the chap when he gets here.”

“Mmm.”

“You’re a bit broody,” I said.

“Am I?”

“Yes, you are.” This elicited a faint growl. We trudged on in silence.

“And why the devil did the gang kill Mayhew?” I wasn’t about to let French repress my natural investigative instincts. “Haven’t they heard of the goose that laid the golden egg? How will they get their hands on the rifles now?”

That finally got his attention. He took his hands out of his pockets and smoothed the wrinkles from his coat. “That’s a damned good observation.”

“Yes, I know.”

His lips quirked and I could see that he was biting back a smile. He glanced at me and the smile disappeared, to be replaced by a look of irritation. Now the poncy bastard was scowling at me.

“What is it?” I asked. “Piles giving you trouble? Your valet forgot to iron your cravat this morning?” I grabbed his coat sleeve and swung him round to face me. “Out with it, French. I won’t stand for you sulking like a child. If you’ve something to say to me, then say it.”

“You’ll have to choose, you know.”

“Choose?”

“Between that bloody Philip, and your duty.”

Normally, any discussion of my “duty” would cause me to howl with derisive laughter. The only duty I recognized was the obligation I felt to pile the sovereigns as high as I could, but one look at French’s face and I could tell he was deadly serious. It wouldn’t do to mock. On the other hand, I do not take kindly to getting a Bible lesson from a sinner.

“And what of your duty to Lady Daphne?”

Rage kindled in his eyes. “That is a low blow, India. The circumstances are entirely different.”

“Are they?”

“Certainly. I know that you’re fond of that bastard, though God knows why. I know you think you owe him a favour for cutting us loose on that ship—”

“I do owe him, and so do you. We owe him our lives.”

“But he’s in league with a gang of murderers. He may not have known those thugs would kill poor Mayhew in such a devilish fashion, but he knows now what they’ve done, and what they planned to do to us. You can’t make excuses for the man.”

“I don’t have to, not to you or anyone else. Hang it, French, he is on a boat to India. If there’s one thing I know about Philip, it’s that he’s a coward. Now that he’s got the wind up, I expect he’ll find plenty of excuses to linger in Calcutta. We won’t see him again.”

“Why do you persist in protecting that wretched man?” French’s face was twisted in anger.

Sometimes I can be as thick as two bricks, but usually not when it comes to men. I’ve a remarkable insight when it comes to the sons of Adam, if I do say so myself. However, upon reflection, it occurred to me that my transactions with the male sex have been of a commercial nature for the past several years, and that I was severely out of practice when it came to matters of the heart. Not that I put much stock in such things, but I’m aware that some people can be overwrought when it comes to love and affection.

“Aha! This has nothing at all to do with my duty as a government agent, does it? You’re jealous, French.” In retrospect, I should have sounded a tad less triumphant.

I expected him to vehemently deny such a charge, but instead he looked bleakly at me and said, “I am.”

That flummoxed me. I do wish French would play this game by the same rules other men do. He was supposed to hotly dispute my evaluation, and assert that I had misinterpreted his interest and all the normal sorts of bluff and bluster that accompany such a conversation. I opened my mouth to tell him so.

“And I am jealous of Lady Daphne,” I said, and then I blushed. God help me, the words had just spilled out. I clapped a hand over my lips, horrified that something else equally revealing might issue forth.

French smiled wanly. “I’m glad to hear you say that. I wondered whether you cared for me at all. I was afraid I might be just another chap to you.”

“You are sui generis, French.” I took his arm and steered him toward Lotus House. “I will make this promise to you. If resolving the case means that we must apprehend Philip, then I will not stand in the way.”

“Fair enough.”

We walked along in silence for a few minutes. Then French spoke. “As for Lady Daphne . . .”

I put a finger on his lips, a daring move on the pavement of a busy London street and one that would normally have caused French to bolt for a hiding place. Today, he remained motionless, his eyes boring into mine. “If you cannot come to me with an easy conscience, I will understand,” I said, poking him in the ribs. “I’ll be annoyed, naturally, and probably not very nice to you for a long time, but I will understand.”

I thought my little speech, which had cost me a great deal of something I value rather highly, namely my pride, would ease the poncy bastard’s mind, but I’ll be damned if he didn’t look even more troubled than before I’d absolved him of any obligation to me. These gentlemen are a breed I know nothing about, and if they’re all as irresolute as French I’m not sure I want to learn more. How is it that a chap can whoop and smile and charge into battle, but mope around like a bloody spaniel when it comes to women? Well, I’d done all I could to relieve French’s mind about that blond wench of his, at great cost to myself, for I’ll admit I’ve grown very fond of the bloke and had been looking forward to finding out if his manservant starched his unmentionables. It was down to French now, and he would have to decide what his blasted honour could bear. There was nothing more for me to say.

And I particularly did not want to say that the decision as to whether the case required Philip’s capture would be mine and mine alone.

? ? ?

It was teatime when we returned to Lotus House, and Fergus had supplied an excellent repast that was being enjoyed en famille in the study by the marchioness, the whores, Vincent (in a pink silk peignoir that I recognized immediately as it came from my wardrobe), Fergus, Maggie and her pups, the other three dogs, and to my astonishment, Mrs. Drinkwater.

The marchioness, who was making herself comfortable in the chair behind my desk, spied us and waved a scone in our direction. “Come in and put on the feedbag.”

“Why are you wearing my dressing gown, Vincent?” I asked.

“Och, one of the puppies had an accident on Fergus’s gown and it’s being washed now,” said the marchioness.

“That pink gown is a favourite of mine. If one of the puppies has an accident on it, he or she will be tossed into the street.”

“Settle yerself, India. I’ll pay for any damage.”

A couple of the tarts stopped stuffing their faces and vacated their chairs, deuced considerate of them, I thought, seeing as how I was their employer and until today they had never been invited to sit in my study. I needed to have a word with the marchioness, and soon, before I lost control of my employees.

At least Mrs. Drinkwater remembered that I paid her wages. She lumbered out of her chair and cut two slices of fruitcake, handing them to French and me. “Have a piece of this excellent cake. Fergus made it.”


Now I knew how the little Corsican felt at Waterloo when the mighty Imperial Guard broke and ran. If my cook had gone over to the enemy, then the battle was lost. I should start planning my exile now.

“You look very fetching, Vincent.” I tasted the cake and found it delicious, which no doubt accounted for Vincent’s presence in such a getup.

He smiled serenely. I noticed that one of Maggie’s pups was asleep in his lap.

The tarts chattered and the marchioness held a spirited debate with Vincent over the virtues of collies versus deerhounds. Vincent had a decided opinion about the matter, though he wouldn’t have known a Scottish deerhound from a pony. Fergus declaimed the virtues of candied ginger to Mrs. Drinkwater, who hung on every word. French stretched out his legs and drank tea while he looked benignly around the room. I found myself studying the domestic scene with a sense of foreboding. If this kind of thing continued at Lotus House, I’d soon be darning socks for Vincent and cleaning up after puppies while the marchioness plotted new ways to squeeze the clients.

In my current state, was it any wonder that I was almost pleased to see Inspector Allen? I was in a devil of a mood and ready to lock horns with the world and the supercilious twit had the nerve to waltz unannounced into my study. Conversation ceased. The collies bounded to their feet and began to bark hysterically. Maggie lunged at the inspector, teeth snapping. The tarts looked up alertly.

“No need for alarm, ladies. He’s not a customer,” I said.

“Who the devil are you?” shouted the marchioness over the uproar.

The policeman bristled. “I’m Inspector Allen of Scotland Yard. Who the devil are you?”

The marchioness flung back her head. “I am the Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine.”

Allen had been looking a trifle flustered at the turmoil as any reasonable man would, but the presence of aristocracy positively bewildered him, particularly as said member of the aristocracy was an ancient biddy made up to look like a witch doctor.

“Fergus,” I said. “Take the dogs to the kitchen. Vincent, you help him. Girls, upstairs to your rooms. Mrs. Drinkwater—”

“I’m leaving,” she said. I’d wager ten pounds she was headed straight for the gin.

It took some time, but eventually the room was cleared of dogs, tarts, servants and Vincent. I debated whether to insist that the marchioness retire to her room, but I knew the old p-ssy would ignore me and I didn’t care to display any weakness to the chap from the Yard.

I have to hand it to the inspector: He was game. He tackled the marchioness right at the kickoff. “May I enquire as to your presence here?” he asked her.

“You may not,” she snapped.

If there’s one thing I enjoy, it’s seeing a policeman slapped in the face. It’s a fault of mine, I know, but if you’d had as many run-ins with the peelers as I’ve had over the years, you’d be forgiven for feeling a bit of pleasure when one of them gets it in the eye.

Allen, deciding the marchioness was not to be trifled with, turned away from her loftily and swiveled his guns in my direction. “I am still waiting for you to produce an alibi for the night of Colonel Mayhew’s death, Miss Black.”

“Now see here,” said French. “Are you accusing Miss Black of being involved in the colonel’s murder?”

“Stands to reason, doesn’t it? The colonel was blackmailing her. She decided to put a stop to it.”

“Blackmailing her?” French jumped to his feet, his expression thunderous. I put a restraining hand on his arm.

“Calm down, French. I have a perfectly good alibi for the night of the murder, as you well know. Inspector, I shall insist that we visit the prime minister so that he can confirm that I was in his presence for most of Saturday night and a good part of Sunday morning.”

“Right. Lord Beaconsfield is going to give you an alibi.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Blackmail?” French repeated. “Why would Mayhew blackmail India?”

I had been hoping that the inspector wouldn’t trot out his theories regarding Mayhew’s disclosure of my relationship with French to the poncy bastard’s friends and families.

“Your conjectures are irrelevant, Inspector. I insist that you speak to the prime minister, or I shall do so myself.”

“You insist,” said Allen, sneering at me. “A woman of your class is in no position to insist that an inspector from Scotland Yard do anything at all.”

“Your class,” the marchioness echoed, rising from her seat.

Allen looked contemptuously at me. “You’re a whore.”

The marchioness emitted a strangled oath. French stood stock-still, the colour draining from his face, then let out an inarticulate roar and launched himself at the inspector. It wasn’t wise, but it was damned chivalrous of the fellow. I just hoped that Dizzy would view French’s action in the same light. I’d have intervened but French was too quick for me. He flew at Allen, catching him in a waist-high tackle that sent the two of them crashing to the floor. The windows rattled. In the kitchen, the dogs began to yelp. The study door flew open and Fergus charged through it with Mrs. Drinkwater in hot pursuit. Fergus took one look at the two figures struggling on the floor and seized the poker from the fireplace. Vincent hobbled in, still wearing the pink silk dressing gown, and threw himself into the melee. Fergus bobbed and weaved like an aging boxer, looking for a clear shot at Allen’s head. The marchioness danced around behind Fergus.

“Lachlan!” she screamed. “Stop that this instant!”

It took a moment for this to register, but then I remembered that French actually had a Christian name, and this was it.

I added my voice to the chorus. “Don’t hurt the man, French.”

French was not inclined to listen to anyone. He’d gained the upper hand and now sat astraddle the inspector with his hands locked around Allen’s throat. Vincent was assisting his hero by hanging determinedly onto Allen’s feet.

“You bloody swine,” said French, and cocked his fist. I seized it from behind and hung on to it with the grip of a drowning woman.

“Don’t do it,” I said, panting.

“Get up off the floor this minute, Lachlan.” The marchioness grabbed French’s collar and shook him. “Fergus, put down that poker. Vincent, let go of the inspector’s legs.”

The participants obeyed, reluctantly. Allen struggled to his feet, massaging an elbow and huffing like a Welsh pit pony. A thread of blood trickled from his nose.

“You’ll wish you hadn’t done that,” he said to French.

“If you impugn Miss Black’s honour again, I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life,” said French. His black curls were tousled and the fight had brought a flush to his cheeks. His grey eyes looked as cold as granite. He presented a magnificent sight. My pulse quickened.

“And I’ll ’elp ’im,” said Vincent. His show of defiance was diminished somewhat by the torn silk negligee he wore, but deuced if he didn’t sound grand.

The inspector clapped his bowler on his head and gave us all a poisonous look. “You haven’t seen the last of me.”

“I rather think we have, Inspector,” I said. “If you come back again, I’ll set the dogs on you.”

“Hear, hear,” said the marchioness.

Allen shook his finger at me. “You’re treading on thin ice.”


The marchioness drew herself up. “I know you’re a crude man, Inspector, but do keep in mind that you’re addressing the Countess of Strathkinness. Fergus, see this man out, and then fetch my snuff box.”

? ? ?

It was difficult to settle after that contretemps. I thanked French for his gallant defense of my good name and he said it was his pleasure, and then I had to thank Vincent and Fergus and the marchioness, who had, truth to tell, enjoyed the incident to an unseemly degree. The dogs finally stopped barking and were allowed back into the study, the tarts dressed for the evening’s work, and Fergus contrived to teach Mrs. Drinkwater how to roast a chicken. A messenger arrived with the documents Dizzy had requested from General Buckley, and French and I made ourselves comfortable with a glass of whisky while we perused the pile of paper. Vincent’s leg was sore from diving into the melee so the marchioness insisted that he recline on the sofa, swaddled in blankets while she fetched him a glass of whisky and one of Maggie’s pups for company.

“Do you reckon you’re in any trouble, guv?” Vincent asked, stroking the black-and-white bundle in his lap.

“Of course he isn’t,” said the marchioness. “That bloody fool of an inspector don’t know who he’s tangled with. I’m the Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine and a cousin of the Queen’s to boot. Just let that jackanapes come round here again and I’ll plant my Scottish boot in his backside.”

French grinned. “I expect you would. But Allen won’t be back. I’ll have a word with Dizzy tomorrow and have the inspector brought to heel.”

“What a relief. He’s a tiresome man.”

I’d been meditating in the corner, only half listening to the conversation. “We need to visit Mayhew’s office again and see what more we can learn about him. If he signed all the orders transferring the weapons to the Bradley Tool Company, then I assume he was in league with the ruffians who caught us on board the Sea Lark.”

“It would appear so,” said French. “Yet if he were, why did he send the bill of lading to Lotus House? And why was he killed? Maybe he’d gotten cold feet and decided to leave the gang.”

“My thoughts exactly,” I said, a little irked that French had articulated them before I’d gotten the chance. “Was the bill of lading some sort of insurance? A way to blackmail the others? And to what purpose? Mayhew could hardly implicate Philip and the rest without indicting himself. And please don’t frown every time I mention Philip’s name. How else am I to refer to him?”

French growled a few suggestions.

“You’ll blister Vincent’s tender ears.”

Vincent laughed scornfully, as I had intended, and the mood lightened.

“We need to know more about Mayhew,” I said. “I suggest we visit his office again, and see what we can learn about his background.”

“You see what information you can charm out of the clerks,” said French. “Vincent can talk to the soldiers on duty.”

“I don’t think Vincent should be up and about yet. The doctor—”

“’Ang the doc,” said Vincent. “I’m goin’ wif you.”

French smiled. “That’s the spirit. I want a look at Mayhew’s service record, and to have a chat with his second in command. What was his name?”

“Captain Welch. The little chap with the pink face.”

We made plans to visit the War Office the next morning, and French rose to take his leave. I escorted him to the door, leaving the marchioness and Vincent straining to hear our conversation.

“I’ll say good night,” French said. He hesitated, then leaned forward and brushed my cheek with his lips. It felt heavenly, and it was all I could do to restrain myself from forcing him into a headlock and upstairs into my bed. Then I remembered that I had no bed. I’d be sleeping in the study tonight. It was just as well, for I could see that the temptation in French’s eyes was tempered by anxiety.

“I’m terribly sorry about my behaviour, India. I’ve been intolerable.”

“You redeemed yourself when you collared Inspector Allen. I felt quite fluttery about the whole thing, seeing you spring into action to defend my honour. Mind you, I haven’t much honour to defend.”

“You’ve enough for me.”

“I fear that prolonged exposure to me has resulted in a depreciation of your standards.” I gave him a chaste kiss and saw him out the door.