India Black (19 page)

I flew down the corridor and wrenched open the stairwell, and my feet fairly skimmed up the risers as I made for the first floor. I reached the door to the corridor on the first floor and cracked it open, wheezing a little, and waited to see if the Gladstone party was resident. At the far end of the hall, I heard the low rumble of male voices and caught a brief glance of five sober black suits as they passed the entranceway to the first floor and continued upward. On to the second floor, then, and I launched myself with vigor at the stairs, straining to breathe in my tight dress. Sitting around Lotus House, counting sovereigns and drinking gin, hadn’t improved my general health any, and I was blowing like a nonagenarian whale when I made the second floor landing. I loosened the door latch and put an eye to the opening, just in time to see Gladstone’s party emerge into the hallway and amble slowly toward me, talking animatedly among themselves, with Calthorp and the old man engaged in a whispered discussion. Snatches of their conversation floated toward me: “Wonderful crowd this afternoon ... Christian brothers ... teach those Turkish heathens a lesson,” and more of the same ilk.

Halfway down the hall, one of the entourage halted the group’s progress, produced a key, and opened the door to one of the rooms. The gentlemen filed inside, and I watched with a sinking feeling. Now Calthorp would produce the case and provide Gladstone with the ammunition he’d need to attack Dizzy in the press, revealing not only the prime minister’s bluff about the British Army kicking the Russians back to the Volga if they dared step foot into Turkey, but more damning still, Dizzy’s desire to protect British investors at the expense of the Porte’s Christian subjects. You’d think that a man of Gladstone’s principles, being a member of the flock as he was prone to tell anyone who wandered into his path, would observe the Good Book’s injunction against theft. Even a former prime minister has no right to see government documents without permission. But I suspected that the Grand Old Man thought the safety of a few thousand Serbian brothers and sisters in Christ justified the act of stealing War Office documents and bringing down the government. It’s amazing the means these self-righteous bastards will employ to achieve their ends.

In this case, however, it appeared that the Serbian brothers and sisters could wait until after dinner, for Gladstone and his followers (including Calthorp,
sans
case) appeared in the hallway again and discussed dining at the hotel or wandering down to the club for a beefsteak, while the same gent who’d unlocked the door now secured it and dropped the room key in his pocket. For a moment, I considered catching them up before they got out of the vicinity, claiming the need to enter the room to do a bit of clearing up or to turn down beds, but Calthorp was too bloody close. If I drew attention to myself, he’d surely recognize me, despite the purloined uniform and the mobcap. India Black’s charms, if I do say so myself, are impossible to disguise. Just look at that narrow escape from Penbras.

So I watched them stroll out of sight while I turned over various schemes in my mind. I was tantalizingly close to the object of my exertions, but getting into the room would be no easy task. My chances of obtaining the passkey from the registration desk were nil; the clerk wouldn’t hand over a key to a blowsy housemaid he’d never laid eyes on before, and I didn’t have time to try to charm it out of him. Netherly? It had been over two hours since I had entered the hotel under false pretenses, and I doubted he’d sit still for another tale. No, he’d be asking for his money, and if I didn’t produce it, I’d be out on my ear. The closest I had to an ally in this game was French, and there’d been no sign of him since I’d seen him in the lobby. At this point in the day’s play, I’d have welcomed the sight of that imperious cove.

I was standing in the hallway, contemplating the alternatives, when one suddenly presented itself on a platter. The door next to Gladstone’s room opened and a willowy swell in an opera cloak, top hat and pince-nez emerged, stopping short at the sight of me loitering in the passageway. I could see right away there was no chance of bewitching this one; he was a right mandrake. I could see the faintest outline of kohl around his pale blue eyes, and his manicure was an improvement over mine. I chose the sniveling servant routine and in a trice was in the toff’s room, turning down the bed (inexpertly) and arranging his toiletries (and my, there were a lot of them) on the dressing table, while the occupant of the room swanned off happily to enjoy the delights of the theatre (and no doubt, later in the evening, those of the first available sailor).

When he was safely out of sight and the door fastened securely behind him, I hurried to the window and flung it open, only to be met by a blast of sleet, snow and cold arctic wind. While I’d been romping around Claridge’s, playing the role of servile maid, a bloody storm had blown in from the North Sea. That made my plan even less appealing. It was too much to hope for a balcony, but there was a narrow ledge of stone, no more than ten inches wide and rapidly accumulating a layer of ice, about three feet below the window and running the length of the building, which meant that it ran right under the window to Gladstone’s room as well. The drop was a good twenty feet, though, and that checked me for a moment while I weighed up the available options for retrieving the case, which didn’t take long as there didn’t appear to be any others. I cast a quick look round and was relieved to see that Gladstone and the Mary Anne had rated quiet rooms that overlooked an interior garden, and at least I would not be exposed to view from the busy streets surrounding the hotel, though on a night like this the pedestrians would be striding along with their heads ducked down anyway, taking no notice of anything happening two stories above the ground.

I sighed. There was nothing for it but to give it a go, so I gingerly lifted a leg over the windowsill and groped for the ledge with the toe of my boot. I wasn’t reassured when I found it; the footing was treacherous, and the sole of my boot skittered wildly along the ledge until I could steady myself using the window frame. I got the second foot over the sill and onto the ledge and cautiously canted my upper body out of the safety of the window until I was standing upright in the blowing sleet and snow, facing the building. I was damned reluctant to leave the safety of that open window, for with one step to my left, I’d have no secure handhold until I reached Gladstone’s window. The brick façade of the building was as cold as ice and nearly as slippery, speckled as it was with frozen precipitation.

If a rozzer had wandered by that night, he might have been tempted to pull me in for lewd and lascivious conduct in a public place, for I’ve never hugged a man the way I hugged that wall of stone. I plastered myself to the cold façade, hardly daring to breathe and sliding along at a snail’s pace. Blasts of wind shook me, and pellets of sleet stung my face. I put my head down and inched sideways, fast as I dared. Midway from one window to the other, it occurred to me that even as I was risking life and limb, French had probably observed Gladstone’s departure, sauntered down to the registration desk and suborned the clerk to hand over the key to Gladstone’s room. French might be in there now, collecting the case and congratulating himself on nicking it from under Calthorp’s nose. The thought galvanized me, and I redoubled my efforts.

By the time I reached the window of Gladstone’s room, I’d scraped my cheek badly, barked my knuckles a half dozen times, and the maid’s costume had become a stiff cloak of ice. My teeth were chattering loud enough to rouse the dead, and I could no longer feel my feet. This was, of course, the worst possible time to think about the possibility that Gladstone’s window would be locked. But that is what I did, cursing myself for a fool and wishing myself back in my warm study, with Mrs. Drinkwater lurching around the room, crashing into the furniture, bringing me whisky and building up the fire. Halfheartedly, I reached out and groped blindly for the handle. A gloved hand closed over my wrist.

T
he results were predictable: I shrieked and attempted to wrench free from the vise-like grip of the gentleman who was sharing my ledge. My boots shot out from under me, and my stomach lurched, and then the two of us went flying, arse over tea kettle, arms and legs flailing. The flight was brief, for the ground came up to meet us with shocking quickness. I felt an excruciating blow to my head, and then another to my ribs and the next thing I remember I was lying stunned on the icy grass, gasping for air and trying to curse at the same time, while the wind howled and the sleet and snow collected in my eyebrows.

“Bloody hell,” I finally managed to expostulate, rolling over on my side and trying to collect myself. A dark figure lay huddled next to me. I leaned over and prodded it with my finger.

“French?”

It had to be him; no one else was so fond of sneaking up on innocent people and scaring the wits out of them. The figure stirred and groaned piteously (though I must confess the effect was wasted on me), then managed to sit upright, wobbling dangerously and cursing heartily, which seemed to indicate a rapid rate of recovery. At any minute I expected the French windows to the garden to open and the rescue squad to come blundering out into the wintry night, but apparently the sounds of the wind and the blowing sleet and snow had muffled the noise of our fall. No one ventured out of the warmth and light of the hotel.

“‘Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania,’” French groaned between clenched teeth, clutching his side and straining to breathe.

“Indeed,” I said icily. “I was hoping to encounter Oberon. Instead I’ve hit Bottom.” Well, if the idiot wanted to quote Shakespeare just after taking a fall from a hotel ledge in the middle of a blizzard, I’d accommodate him.

“You infernal idiot,” French said.

I considered that an unfair criticism. “Oh, I’m an idiot, am I? Whatever possessed you to creep up on me while I was balancing on an icy ledge two stories above the ground and clamp a hand on my wrist? I’d have expected you to comprehend the consequences of such a precipitate action.” (Anger tends to make me verbose.)

French’s hair had collected a considerable amount of snow and stood up in icy peaks. I couldn’t see his face well, there being only a dim glow from the hotel windows illuminating the garden, but I could imagine him glowering at me from under those bristling black brows.

“I certainly didn’t anticipate that you, of all people, would be disconcerted by my actions and behave like the silliest of your sex,” he said, and began thrashing about in the snow, trying to find his footing. He must have suffered a grievous blow to the head when we’d tumbled off the ledge, for one might almost interpret his statement as a compliment, in a backhanded sort of way, of course. I had no time to consider the implications of the matter further, for French loomed over me, reached down and grasped my arm, and hauled me unceremoniously to my feet.

“We must gain access to that room, India. How did you get onto the ledge?”

I briefly explained (for the garden of Claridge’s on a night cold enough to freeze the balls off a statue was no place for lengthy confabs) that I’d come out the window of the room next to Gladstone’s.

French’s grip tightened. “Have you a passkey?”

I tried to shrug off his hand and told him about my services for the Uranian opera lover. He seemed to notice then for the first time that I was not attired in my usual stylish fashion, but was wearing a servant’s apron and a bedraggled mobcap.

I felt his critical gaze on my person. “Worth another try, I suppose, if you didn’t look like a refugee from a shipwreck,” he said. “But I fear that no guest will let you past the door of his room looking like that.”

I was tempted to point out that he was not up to his usual sartorial splendor either, but I bit back the words. There would be time to hurl abuse at each other later.

“And how did you find your way onto the ledge?” I asked.

“I climbed up the drainpipe. And I fear that’s our only hope now.” He renewed his grip on my arm and commenced dragging me toward a dark corner of the building.

“Why the bloody hell didn’t you just bribe the desk clerk for the room key?”

“This is probably a deuced difficult concept for you to fathom, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.”

Well, that was French’s way: first a backhanded compliment, followed immediately by an outright insult. I couldn’t resist another dig myself.

“And for that matter, why didn’t you just waltz up to Calthorp in the lobby and demand the return of Her Majesty’s documents? He couldn’t very well refuse a representative of the government.”

“I can see that discretion is another concept in which you require tutelage. The lobby was full of newspapermen, including that swine Penbras, all waiting for Gladstone and bored silly while they waited. If I’d confronted Calthorp and he’d made a scene, the news would have been all over the city by morning, with every opposition leader sniffing the wind and reaching conclusions I’d rather they didn’t.” By now we’d reached a secluded corner of the garden where two wings of the building met and a network of drains and pipes ran from the roof to the ground.

French let loose of my arm and glanced skyward. “Right. Up you go,” he said peremptorily.

“What?” I’d barely mustered the nerve to leave the mandrake’s window in the first place. I wasn’t about to go ice skating on that narrow ledge again, at least not for the dubious pleasure of saving Dizzy’s hide.

“It’s better if we both go. I’ll force the window, and you can collect the case. If anyone returns to the room, your presence will be easier to explain than mine.”

“I think
you
need some tutelage in elementary logic,” I sniffed. “You just said I looked like I’d had a dip in the ocean, remember?”

“Oh, you do. But you’re wearing a maid’s clothing, and you can always explain that you were caught out in the storm running an errand for one of the female guests. I, on the other hand, have no plausible reason for being in that room.”