Read Online India Black and the Rajah's Ruby by Carol K. Carr - Free Book Online

“I’ll bet that cow Mrs. Kensinger has been at you. So you’re going to her, are you? Well, good luck to you.” She sniffed loudly. “Ungrateful wench. Don’t you even think about coming back here when things don’t work out.”
    I should have held my tongue, but I knew the word would be out on the street before long and I saw no harm in sharing the news first with Mother Moore.
    “I’m opening my own house.”
    “What? How? Where’d you get the money? Have you been stealing from me?”
    “I haven’t stolen from you.” I said truthfully, for I had been entitled to every shilling I’d taken from the old trout. “I’ve found a benefactor. A rich American.”
    Well, that flummoxed her, as I knew it would. “We don’t have any American customers. How’d you meet him?”
    I waved a hand airily. “The details aren’t important. I’ve packed my bags and I’ll be out of the house today.”
    I left her gawping after me, hands fluttering about her bosom as she tried to work out just when and where I’d met my patron. The last thing I heard as I went out the door was Mother Moore’s shrill voice, informing me that I’d be back soon and then we’d see who was a cheeky bitch.
    I smiled all the way to Bond Bros. Bank, where a deferential gentleman was pleased to lead me to a private room and open a safe deposit box in the name of Miss India Black. He bowed himself out and I extracted a leather drawstring pouch from the box, loosening the ties and spilling the contents onto the table. The Rajah’s Ruby winked up at me.
    ***
    Let this be a cautionary tale for young tarts: no matter how handsome the gift horse, always check its teeth. When you’re invited along for a trip to the country and asked to play charades for the benefit of your host, you’d best keep your wits about you and suss out the truth or you’ll wind up asking the local plod for a cup of tepid tea. My suspicions had been aroused by Mother Moore’s uncharacteristic generosity in letting her best earner out of the house for a few days. I’d rumbled Ashton for a wrong ’un as soon as I saw him, and it was clear that Philip was deeply disturbed by the man’s presence. By the time Harold White proudly trotted out the Rajah’s Ruby, even a first-class dunderhead would have known something was in the cards and it wasn’t a bloody contract for tobacco. Philip’s disappearance just before dinner had convinced me that he was there to steal the ruby. He’d revealed his lack of scruples when he invited me along to help deceive White about the alleged tobacco contract. When a fellow’s casual about a small fraud, it’s not a great step to a large theft. And if I’d had any doubt about that fact, it was wiped into dust the minute I plunged my hand into his case and found the pouch containing the gemstone.
    You’ve no doubt twigged how I took the jewel from Philip’s case. Before he joined me in my room, I clambered up on a chair and disabled the bellpull. When Philip came in, I put on the sick cat performance, though to tell the truth I really was feeling a tad queasy at trying to snitch the ruby from him. I knew he’d have to go down to the kitchen or up to the servants’ quarters before he found a warm body at that hour of the night. When he ventured out to find a servant to fetch my milk, I dashed next door and rifled through his belongings. I tried the obvious places first, and after drawing a blank from the pockets of his jackets and trousers and from the sock drawer and his combinations, I found the ruby in the leather drawstring pouch, tucked inside the lining of his case. I confess I was disappointed about that. I had expected more from a professional. Not an ounce of imagination in the choice of that hiding place. Under the circumstances, however, I’m glad Philip hadn’t hidden the jewel inside a secret compartment in his hairbrush, or slipped it down the front of his trousers among his own family jewels. As it was, I had barely