Free India Black and the Gentleman Thief by Carol K. Carr Page B

pointed to the sign. “The Jolly Tar,” he said under his breath, and drew me into the entrance to a nearby shop. The skipper jerked open the door to the tavern and marched inside.
    French frowned. “That’s strange,” he said. “Do you think the captain had time to send a message to Bradley to meet him here? Or did they have a prearranged meeting?”
    “Or is Captain Tate just downing one last pint of British ale before he sails for India?”
    Our exchange of rhetorical questions was disrupted by the emergence of a tall, gawky youth from the pub. He broke into a gallop and shot away down the street.
    “Athletics training, or did the captain send him on an errand?” I asked.
    “As he’s already disappeared into thin air, we’ll never find out.” French swore loudly. “We’ve missed our chance to follow him.”
    “No surprise, that. He ran like a scalded cat. We’d never catch him, and we’d make ourselves conspicuous if we tried. We might as well wait a little longer. If he returns to the tavern, he might have a message for the captain. We could tackle the lad after Tate goes back to the ship and find out where he went.”
    “It’s as good a plan as any.”
    I despise wasting time, unless I’m choosing how to do it. That is to say, lolling in front of a fire on a misty autumn day with a decanter of brandy at hand is a perfectly acceptable way to pass the hours, as is imbibing a flute of champagne on a warm summer’s evening. But standing hunched in a shop entrance endeavouring to blend into the woodwork is hard going. I’ll thank you not to point out that if the exercise was so deuced dull, why had I been the one to suggest it? You will recall that we had damned few clues to follow in this business. If I am honest (though I don’t as a general rule strive to be), we had none except the gangling fellow who might be delivering a note to Peter Bradley at the moment. And then there was the fact that Inspector Allen seemed to think French and I might have spent the night torturing poor Colonel Mayhew. Under the circumstances, it seemed reasonable to suggest we hang around the Jolly Tar for a bit. That did not mean I had to enjoy the experience.
    I confess to daydreaming a bit, planning a quiet evening with French, and wavering between the idea of dragging the fellow off to my boudoir or beating him over the head until he confessed all he knew about the marchioness’s search for me, when I felt the object of my thoughts stiffen beside me. I do not mean that in the biblical sense. French snapped to attention and I heard his quick intake of breath. I peered around him to see what had aroused his sudden interest.
    The cloddish youth had returned and hot on his heels was a tall, well-built dandy. As they entered the tavern the chap swept off his hat, revealing a shock of wheat-coloured hair.
    “Bradley,” said French, sounding pleased. I was not pleased. This was going to be bloody awkward. You see, I knew the blond dandy. And I do mean that in the biblical sense.

SIX
    P eter Bradley, handsome devil, gentleman thief and former lover of yours truly, when I was a mere slip of a girl. Back then, he’d been using the name “Philip Barrett.” I’ve no idea which, if either, was his real name. But knowing Philip as I do, and that would be intimately and in every sense of the word, I had no trouble believing he might be involved in something shady. In fact, his presence here confirmed that something illicit
was
in the cards. This was hardly the time, however, to enlighten French as to my history with Philip.
Bugger. What to do now? French was staring fixedly at the door to the Jolly Tar. I reckoned I didn’t have much time, as it wouldn’t take long for the captain to relate the story of our visit and then return to the ship and Philip would bolt for cover, only I could see from French’s posture that he had no intention of letting the chap go anywhere without a chat about Colonel Mayhew and the bill of