India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A Madam of Espionage Mystery) (12 page)

“So he is what he purports to be,” I mused.

Vincent shrugged. “Wotever that means.”

The lad was set to dash off in search of his hero, but I had another assignment for him. While he waited, pacing the room, I scribbled a quick note to Superintendent Stoke to inform him that I had successfully penetrated the Dark Legion. I said nothing of French, for I’d no idea whether Dizzy had informed the Scotland Yard man that another of the prime minister’s agents had also infiltrated the group. One lesson I’d learned from that ballyhoo at Balmoral was that the government was a great one for not letting the left hand know what the right was up to. I informed the superintendent that the elusive ringleader of the anarchists was a chap named Grigori, and I’d try to find out more about him at the next meeting. I signed my name with an assertive flourish and asked Vincent to deliver it before starting his search for French.

“And, Vincent? I’ll need you back here on the day of the anarchists’ meeting. I want you to follow me there and when the meeting is over, I’ll want you to dog Harkov. Find out where he goes after the meeting. Perhaps he’ll lead you to Grigori.”

The prospect of action pleased Vincent enormously, and he was over the moon at the news that French had returned. The little chap scurried out with a cheerful grin on his face. I lay back on the pillows and contemplated putting the Bulldog to my head. That should surely cure my headache.

NINE

I
dozed, and woke to the sound of Mrs. Drinkwater staggering into the room with a tray in her hands. She plonked it down on my lap, and I beheld a bowl of gelid brown slurry.

“Has the wind shifted? I can smell the abattoirs at Smithfield.”

“You eat that up,” said Mrs. Drinkwater. “You’ll be fighting fit in no time.”

I contemplated the bowl. She meant well, but even Vincent, who had a cast-iron stomach, would have baulked at the sight.

“And here’s a letter for you.”

The envelope was addressed to me in a spidery hand and flecked with dozens of miniscule brown spots. Snuff. No prizes for guessing my correspondent. I tore open the flap and smoothed out the letter.

Dear Miss Black,

It’s no use playing on my sympathy, and I’m damned surprised that you tried. I wouldn’t have expected that of you. And there’s no point in coming up here, as I have nothing to say to you.

Yours sincerely,

Lady Margaret Aberkill

Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine

I crumpled the letter in my hand and hurled it at the wall. “Bloody woman! If I didn’t have a brothel to run and an anarchist plot to foil, I’d catch the first train to Scotland and strangle the wretched old hag.”

“Don’t you upset yourself over a letter,” said Mrs. Drinkwater. “You have some of that nourishing broth I’ve brought you. That’ll settle your nerves.”

Possibly it would. My stomach, however, would be another matter.

“Fetch me my clothes, Mrs. Drinkwater. I’m going out.”

“What? In your condition? You’ve just had a thump on the head. You’d best lie down until you feel better.”

I flung back the bedclothes and tottered to my feet. I listed dangerously to port, and Mrs. Drinkwater steadied me, muttering under her breath about stubborn fools and the virtues of beef stock. She held me upright while I struggled into my clothes. I drained the last of the brandy, winced as the alcohol hit my gullet and staggered to the door. Mrs. Drinkwater clucked and flapped in my wake as I descended the stairs.

“Summon a cab for me, Mrs. Drinkwater.”

She uttered a protest, but one look at my face convinced her that I was not to be deterred.

Nothing but the marchioness’s letter could have induced me to leave the house. My head throbbed and my forehead was clammy. My stomach churned. I struggled weakly into the cab and as the horse sprang forward, I fell back against the seat. Paying a call was the last thing I should be doing at the moment, but the letter had spurred me to action. If the marchioness refused to discuss my mother with me, then I would talk to someone who would.

* * *

It was only a short distance from Lotus House to the area around Haymarket, and had I been feeling my usual self, I’d have walked despite the pelting rain. The streets were thronged with carriages, hansoms and omnibuses. Pedestrians dodged in and out of the traffic, and street vendors bawled the virtues of their wares. Newsboys thrust papers through the open window of the cab, shouting the headlines at me. It was utter bloody chaos and the cacophony made my ears ring, but the roar died to a muted hum as we turned into Oxenden Street. It never ceases to amaze me that all you have to do to escape the din of a London thoroughfare is to walk down a side street, where you’ll find a silence as profound as that of a country village. Not that I’ve spent much time in country villages. And not that I like country villages, but some people do. There’s just no accounting for taste.

The driver hauled on the reins and the wheels creaked to a stop in front of a pleasant house boasting a fresh coat of glossy blue paint on the shutters and a gleaming brass knocker on the door. My pulse fluttered in my throat, and there was a regimental drummer pounding a cadence in my head. For one moment I considered crawling back into the cab and nipping back to Lotus House, but I gave myself a stern talking to and told myself to buck up, and before I could change my mind, I sailed up to the door and lifted that gaudy brass latch.

A meek young miss in a grey uniform, white apron and a lawn cap opened the door.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I should like to see your mistress,” I said. “Tell her India Black is here.”

“I don’t think she’s at home to anyone at the moment,” said the maid.

“She’ll see me.” My expression brooked no argument, for the shy creature moved aside and I stepped into the house.

“I’ll just run upstairs and let her know you’re here.” Her feet pattered up the carpeted stairs at dizzying speed. I leaned against the newel and wished that the silly goose had directed me to a drawing room or a parlor or anyplace with a chair. I’d bet the accommodations were first-rate. The hall was immaculate, with a gilded mirror polished to icy perfection on one wall, a spotless floor of black-veined marble, and vivid carmine wallpaper patterned with roses. A vase of hothouse lilies stood on a polished rosewood table. All very nice and proper, even if the scarlet paper did imply that the house’s owner might have been, in a former life, a trifle louche.

I heard a low-voiced conversation in the hall above me, and then the maid flew breathlessly down the stairs past me, frightened eyes darting in my direction. That pleased me, for it meant that my presence hadn’t pleased her mistress. I might even enjoy this encounter.

“India Black.”

I’ve yet to hear Edina Watkins say my name with any inflection other than the faint condescension I heard now. That throaty voice brought back a flood of memories, none of them pleasant. I raised my eyes to the top of the stairs where the tall figure of my mother’s last employer had appeared. Edina had always loved an entrance, and too late I realized that I had played into her hands by mooching around the bottom of the stairs like some supplicant at the court of the empress. I should have waltzed into her best room and made myself at home. Ordered coffee, even, from the timid rabbit who’d answered the door. It was too late to correct the situation now, so I determined to make the best of it.

“Hello, Edina. It seems retirement agrees with you; you’ve put on a stone. Or is two?”

Edina had been a stunner in her day, a wasp-waisted beauty with flaxen hair and hazel eyes, and a low husky laugh that enchanted customers and froze the blood of anyone who crossed her, like yours truly. It was true she’d gained weight. Her tiny waist had ballooned, and her breasts would have done credit to a wet nurse. She wore a silk dressing gown of sea green silk and a pair of leather slippers in a muted dove grey. She was still a handsome woman, in a blowsy sort of way, but the bloom was definitely gone from the rose, which pleased me no end. Amazing what a bit of schadenfreude will do for one’s spirits. I felt almost cheerful.

Her gown rustled as she advanced down the stairs. Her mouth was tight with anger.

“Why are you here?”

Too late I remembered the reason I had come. Dash it all, one of these days I was going to have to make an effort to stop charging into battle before war was declared. I needed this woman’s help, for as most of you will have concluded by now, I was here to ask Edina a few questions about my mater.

No doubt you’re pondering why, if I knew where Edina Watkins lived, I had not dropped round for a chat before now. The truth is that I hated the viper. Just the sound of that low voice, dripping with disdain when she uttered my name, was enough to induce a murderous rage in me. Until now, I’d refused to see the woman for fear I’d run a blade through her or draw out my Bulldog and put a bullet into that cold heart of hers. I was only here now because the bloody Marchioness of Tullibardine had roused a curiosity in me that I had long suppressed. Despite the marchioness’s protestations, I was sure she knew something of my mother’s life before London. The only other person I knew who could tell me about my mother was standing before me now, her face flushed with fury.

I’d spilled the milk already, so there was no point in trying to play up to the venomous bitch.

“I’ve come to ask you some questions,” I said. “About my mother.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of Edina’s mouth. “And why would you want to know anything about that useless cow?”

You can see why I despise the woman. The only reason I kept my temper in check was because I refused to give Edina the satisfaction of knowing she’d pricked me.

“She may turn out not to have been so useless after all,” I said mildly, though I itched to plug the woman with my .442. “I’ve found out something about her. It may be worth some money.”

Edina can no more resist money than a horse can resist a lump of sugar. I’d been counting on her greed and I was glad to see that I hadn’t underestimated her. She kept that frozen, lofty look on her face, but there was a flicker of interest in her eyes.

“Money?”

I shrugged, leaving it to Edina’s imagination to supply the details.

“I’ll need to know more about her if I’m to benefit. Look here,” I said, very bluff and confidential, “we may not like each other, but there’s no reason we couldn’t do each other a good turn.”

She snorted. I had to admit that given the icy freeze that had existed between us all these years, it was more likely I’d slit my own throat than do Edina a favor.

“Not interested?” I said, very nonchalantly, and making as if to leave.

She was torn, I could see, between wanting to see the back of me and adding a few shillings to her pile.

Avarice won. People are so predictable. All you have to do is waggle a few bank notes under their nose and they start to pant.

“What do you want to know?”

“A few details.” I was dismissive.

“Such as?”

“Her life before she came to you.”

Edina nodded, lips pursed. “Nothing in life is free,” she mused.

“I learned that lesson at your feet, Edina.”

She looked at me sharpish, but I kept a neutral expression on my face.

“I’ll take half.”

“Half?”

“Of whatever you get.”

“Ten percent.”

“Ten!” she squawked. “I’ll not tell you anything for less than forty.”

“Twelve.”

A stranger might have given in at this point, concerned lest he have a case of nervous collapse on his hands, but I hadn’t spent all those years at Edina’s knee without learning how the game is played. We haggled for some time, with Edina getting more and more agitated until she finally realized that I wasn’t going to give in and so she grudgingly accepted twenty-five percent.

“But I’ll need twenty pounds now,” she said, when we’d concluded our negotiations.

“Three,” I said, and we started all over again.

By the time Edina had agreed to seven pounds and I’d coughed it up to the blond snake, my head was vibrating with pain. I had yet to get the information I’d come for, and I had my doubts whether I’d be able to palaver with Edina for much longer. Luckily, the prospect of mammon had thawed Edina’s manner somewhat, and she now produced a decanter of gin and two glasses. We shared a toast, though I had to pronounce my part through gritted teeth as the gin hit the top of my head like a sledgehammer.

“You’ve got a quarter of an hour,” said Edina, drawing her dressing gown around her and pouring another tot of gin for herself.

“An hour,” I said automatically.

We settled on thirty minutes, which was probably more time than I needed, but you can’t let your opponent get the better of you.

I had vague memories of the early days at Edina’s brothel, when my mother and I had first arrived at Edina’s door, and the experience of my mother’s last illness was seared into my heart, but I remembered little of what had gone before, and it was that sort of information I needed from Edina. Not, of course, that she would be inclined to tell me much, and what she would tell me might be half lies. The only hold I had over Edina was money, and I’d have to be prepared to part with a goodly sum.

“Do you know where my mother and I had been living before we came to your academy?”

Edina smiled at the word. “Such a nice name for a brothel,” she said, “if a bit pretentious.”

“Edina?”

“Right. Well, I seem to remember that she’d been living somewhere grand, with some flower of society. She always acted so superior, your mother. A lot of the toffs liked her. They said she had class.” Edina sniffed. “As if I didn’t,” she muttered, revealing the root of her dislike for my mother, and for me (though eventually I’d given her plenty of reason to hate me, too).

“Did she tell you anything about this man? His name? Where he lived?”

Edina nursed her gin and ruminated for a minute. “I believe the house was in Kensington.” She frowned. “Or was it Belgravia? Somewhere like that. I remember she talked about the garden, and the library. He was a great one for books, this gent, and your mother said she could read all she wanted. I expect that’s where you learned to read. Waste of time, that. No need for a tart to read books. Look what an education did for your mum.”