India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A Madam of Espionage Mystery) (15 page)

Flerko looked downcast at missing the opportunity to plant a device that would eviscerate several dozen innocent bystanders.

“I plan to be in the crowd to observe the effects of our plan,” said Bonnaire. “At a safe distance from the bombs, of course. You can join me, Flerko. In fact, we should all attend.”

Harkov avoided our eyes. “I shall be in Lyon on the twelfth.”

“Another conference?” There was a soupçon of venom in Schmidt’s voice.

“A meeting on syndicalism and socialism. Grigori has asked me to attend,” said Harkov defensively.

“No matter. We shall manage by ourselves,” said Schmidt. He looked around placidly. “Shall I assume responsibility for coordinating our plans?”

I had no difficulty in letting Schmidt take the lead. When the memorial went off without a hitch, it would be easy to point the finger at the man who’d been in charge.

We talked strategy first, agreeing that our objective would be to destroy whatever grandstand or speaker’s platform might be erected for the notables in attendance, with secondary explosions to be situated so as to kill and maim the most spectators. Nobody blinked an eye at this proposal; apparently anarchists don’t flinch at the prospect of slaughtering innocent bystanders if the end result will be freedom for the survivors. The slaughtered innocents would no doubt disagree.

After that, we got down to tactics. I volunteered to use my sources to obtain a list of attendees and a schedule (which French acidly pointed out could be found in any newspaper—not the least bit helpful, that). For his part, French agreed to suss out the exact location of stands and bunting and so forth. Thick Ed would have a look at the square and plan the location of the infernal machines. And Flerko and Bonnaire would check train tables and sailing schedules, for those inclined to take to their heels after the big show.

“An event of this magnitude will bring the Yard down on us,” said Harkov. “I think Flerko’s idea of planning an escape is a wise one. Perhaps we should agree to disperse after the service and fix a time and place to meet again, say in six months’ time.”

“You’ll find me at Lotus House,” I said. “I don’t care to go abroad. And if everyone keeps quiet about our plans, there’ll be no need for anyone to go anywhere.”

“You’re an inspiration,” said Schmidt drily, but he smiled when he said it. “However, I shall pack my bag and be ready to leave London, if necessary.”

“As will I,” Flerko said.

“And I,” said Bonnaire. “You don’t understand, India. Most of us have been guests of the authorities before. We do not have faith in your English law. We are not used to having any rights. I’ll have a ticket in my pocket, just for peace of mind.”

Their pessimism didn’t bother me in the slightest. I really didn’t care whether all the rats fled the ship, except one, the biggest rat of all. Grigori. But how French and I were to get our hands on him was unclear.

We scheduled the date for our next meeting and then dispersed. Outside the shop, I watched Harkov slink away, head tucked between his shoulders. I trusted Vincent would soon be on his tail. Schmidt’s soft footsteps had already faded into the night. Bonnaire insisted that he and Flerko accompany me to the cabstand.

“I am grateful, but that won’t be necessary,” I said. “Since Mr. French will be going there also, I think I shall be safe enough in his company.”

French started. “But I—”

“Thank you, Mr. French. It’s most generous of you to offer.”

He wasn’t best pleased, grudgingly presenting his arm for me to take and stalking off at a rapid pace.

“I was not planning to hire a hansom tonight,” said French. “What the devil do you want?”

“Don’t be such an irritable bastard,” I said. “When you want to talk, we meet. When I need to see you, you act like a feral cat.”

“Shh. Someone may be watching us. Keep your voice down. Is there something you want to discuss?”

“Of course there is. Why else would I inflict my company upon you?”

“What is it?”

Now you might think this was the perfect time to bounce French about the pretty blonde in Mayfair, but I had matters of more importance to chat over.

“You do realize we’ve just spent a few hours planning to kill a lot of innocent people, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t sound all that worried by the conversation.”

“I’m not. One gets used to these sorts of things. As an agent, you’re liable to end up in some strange situations.”

Pompous bugger. “I suppose we should alert Superintendent Stoke.”

French frowned. “Yes, we must. But I’m afraid he’ll jump the mark and arrest our comrades before we have a chance to get our hands on Grigori. We must have more time.”

“We surely can’t let those bloody idiots explode five bombs in Trafalgar Square,” I said.

“Oh, no. That would never do. The plot will fail. But our friends must never suspect that you and I had a hand in that failure.”

“Have you any ideas as to how to arrange that?”

“I’m mulling over a few options.”

I waited, but French seemed to think that was enough information for the enlisted ranks. Damn him.

“I’ve a few ideas of my own,” I informed him.

“Have you?” He sounded amused.

“I’ll let you know when I’m finished mulling them over. Now I have another question for you. Do you know a Charles Goodwood?”

“The Earl of Clantham? Good God. Where did you run across him?”

“I haven’t met the man. I’ve only heard his name mentioned at Lotus House.”

“You would have heard it there,” French said. “He’s a wastrel of the vilest sort. Cheats at cards but has still managed to run through his family’s fortune. He’s hardly ever sober, and he consorts with a wicked crowd. He keeps a stable of slatternly strumpets and has even lived openly with one or two of them.”

French caught himself then. I heard the quick intake of his breath. “I say, India. I didn’t mean to—”

“Tell the truth?” I laughed. “I’m not a fragile bloom that has to be sheltered from the harsh wind of reality. I do find it interesting, though, that the first of Goodwood’s sins is fleecing his fellow gamblers. The sluts come third.”

French cleared his throat. Before he could apologize for his lack of sensitivity, I cut in with a question. “Does Goodwood live in London?”

“He has a home on Eaton Square. Why are you so interested in the man?”

I had an answer prepared. “I thought that if we had to sacrifice some toff to the bloodthirsty anarchists, Goodwood wouldn’t be a great loss to society.”

French halted in his tracks and turned to face me. He gripped my arm tightly. “Don’t get carried away with your role. You’re getting deuced enthusiastic about suggesting candidates for assassination.”

I shook off his hand. “Why shouldn’t I? If we know the target, we can easily protect him. Subverting this memorial plot isn’t going to be easy.”

“And if our suggestions are followed by failure, our friends in the Dark Legion may put together the pieces of the puzzle and conclude that you and I are in league with the authorities. It’s quite common for the police to plant agents provocateurs in anarchist cells for the purpose of suggesting particular attacks, only to have the cell members arrested or killed when they attempt them. It’s far better for us to work behind the scenes. Let Flerko suggest the targets. We’ll find a way to protect them.”

I do so hate being lectured by French on the role of a prime minister’s agent. I’ve never been good at taking instruction, even if it’s in my best interest to do so. There’s just something about receiving a lecture that grates on my nerves. It’s doubly annoying if it’s the poncy bastard delivering the sermon.

I felt a childish desire to irritate the man. “I hope you’re right, Peregrine.”

“Oh, not that blasted idiocy again. Listen, my name is—”

“Don’t tell me. I prefer guessing. Is it Aethelstan?”

“No.”

“Baldaric?”

“I’m afraid not.”

We had reached the cabstand by then, which was just as well, as I know that I was feeling disposed to clout French on the head, and from the tone of his voice, he’d have returned the favor. He handed me up into the cab and closed the door behind me.

“Good night, India. I shall contact you soon.”

“Good night, French. Give my regards to the ball and chain.” I thumped the roof of the cab, and we sprang away from the curb. It was too dark to see French’s face, but I was sure I’d hit the target with my parting shot.

I had much to ponder on the drive back to Lotus House. I had an address for Charles Goodwood, and I planned to pay a call upon the scoundrel. It sounded as if the old boy were susceptible to feminine charms, and I had no doubt I’d wangle some information from him about my mother. His reputation didn’t concern me, though French the gentleman clearly had strong opinions about his character. How typical, and quaint, of French. That attitude would never do, not in my line of work. It’s the bounders and cads who pay the bills, you see, and I’ve yet to see a bloke of that type I can’t handle.

Of more immediate concern was our jolly band’s plan to bomb the Indian Mutiny memorial service. I hoped French had a background in bomb making, and more important, in disarming the bloody things, though I don’t know how he would manage to neutralize five of the infernal machines, all timed to explode at the same minute. Unless he was thinking that I might assist him in that endeavour. Dear me, I should have to put some thought into avoiding that situation, as I was averse to leaving bits of myself all over Trafalgar Square.

An inkling of a scheme was bubbling in my brain by the time we reached Lotus House. Lost in thought, I paid the driver and stood for a moment staring sightlessly into the murky gloom. I should arrange a meeting with French, Dizzy and Superintendent Stoke soon, to get my stratagem on the table before the same ploy occurred to French. To those who would say that it matters not who receives the credit for an idea, I say, “You’re a bloody idiot.” Icicles will be forming in hell before I let French get a leg up. I permitted myself a smile as I dashed up the steps to the door and inserted my key. I was imagining French’s face when someone threw a sack over my head.

TWELVE

I
t was made of hessian cloth and, by the smell of the thing, had once contained turnips. It was not a pleasant sensation, but hessian cloth is loosely woven and I was in no danger of being suffocated. The more frightening aspect of the affair was the fact that a pair of burly arms was wrapped around my torso, squeezing my arms against my body so that I couldn’t reach the revolver in my purse. The fellow’s grip was so tight, in fact, that my nerveless fingers slipped open and the purse tumbled out of my hand. I confess I was disappointed in myself. I’d been so preoccupied with sharing my ingenious plan with Dizzy and French that I’d neglected to keep a sharp eye out for villains.

I lowered my head and then snapped it back as hard as I could, straight into my attacker’s face. He grunted loudly when my skull struck his nose and staggered a step or two, which gave me the time I needed to execute the second part of my plan to escape. I prayed I was still facing the front door of Lotus House, but even if I wasn’t, I had a fair chance of catching the rogue off guard. I sagged against the bloke who’d seized me, lifted my feet and extended them. To my utter joy, I planted them against the hard surface of the house. Then I pushed off with all my might. My captor and I reeled backward, teetered precariously at the top of the steps and then tumbled down them to the pavement.

When it comes time for me to write my manual for female agents of the Crown, I shall be sure to include the instructions for this form of escape, along with a proviso that it hurts like billy-o when you hit the ground. The ruffian’s arms loosened, and I rolled to one side, eluding his searching hands. A dandy move, that, and it would have succeeded except the fellow who’d bagged me had brought along a second chap, who now fetched me a clip on the ear that prevented me from hopping to my feet. Then the first fellow scrambled to his feet and yanked me upright, enveloping me again in his fierce embrace. Rough hands seized my legs and lifted my feet into the air. I was being hauled away from Lotus House like, well, a sack of turnips. I tried to scream (little good that would have done, anyway, as the local plod was more inclined to arrest me than come to my assistance), but the chap who had clamped his arms around me was as strong as an orangutan and I struggled just to draw breath.

The two brutes who had nicked me were moving at a shocking pace, and I knew if I didn’t do something quickly I’d soon feel the sharp end of Mother Edding’s pigsticker. I began to wriggle like an eel in a basket, twisting my upper body and trying to bend at the waist to loosen my captors’ grip. It worked a treat, and I heard two sharp expletives as I slithered from their grasp.

I had indeed liberated myself, but there was a rather steep price to pay. Being dropped from a height of three feet or so knocked the wind out of me and half-stunned me to boot. I lay in a heap in a puddle of rainwater, wheezing like a retired coal miner, while the blokes stood over me blowing hard and muttering curses.

“Bit o’ trouble, ain’t she?” said one, in a voice like a barrow load of gravel being emptied onto the ground.

“She tole us she would be, didn’t she?” replied his compatriot. Neither sounded as though they were old Wykehamists. “Pick ’er up and let’s get on wif it.”

“I’d like to finish this one off right ’ere, but she don’t want it to be quick. She said to draw it out and make ’er suffer.”

My breath rattled in my throat. This did not sound like your average robbery with violence. I had only one card to play and I put it face up on the table. “I’ve got money,” I informed them in a shaky voice. “It’s in my purse. I dropped it when you nabbed me. Take me back to Lotus House and you can have it all.” What I intended to do, naturally, was recover my Bulldog from my purse and acquaint these two thugs with the business end of Mr. Webley’s creation.

I waited while the two geniuses thought this over. After a lengthy pause, Gravel Voice cleared his throat. “Wouldn’t ’urt to take the money, ’Enry.
She
don’t ’ave to know a fing about it.”

I was occupied trying to surreptitiously worm my way out of the hessian bag. The sack had been pulled down to my forearms, but if I squirmed gently along the surface of the road, the bag would ride up and soon my arms would be free to the elbows, at which point I’d be able to reach up and pull the blasted thing off my head.

“’Ere’s a plan for you, Tom. Why don’t you run back and snaffle the purse and I’ll stay ’ere with ’Er ’Ighness. Then we do the rest just like she told us to.”

This attracted my attention. I’d be hanged if I let these two louts roll dice for my Bulldog. If they weren’t going to cooperate, neither was I. I commenced thrashing like a demented salmon, trying to wriggle out of my hessian shackles and screaming at a volume calculated to raise the ghosts from the nearest cemetery.

“Bloody ’ell!” said Gravel Voice.

“Shut ’er up,” urged his friend.

Gravel Voice was trying. He had me in a headlock, with the bag pressed tightly against my face. I informed him that I did not care for this treatment by hammering his body with my fists. I’m embarrassed to admit that this did little more than annoy him, for I distinctly heard him say, “Blasted woman,” right before he rapped me sharply on the point of my chin with his clenched fist.

A sour, metallic taste filled my mouth, and a sharp pain, as sharp as the point of Mother Edding’s pigsticker, skewered me right between the eyes. My arms and legs flopped limply. Gravel Voice had a hand on my head, pressing me into the ground, but he needn’t have bothered. All the fight had gone out of me. I was still conscious, but only just. Sounds came from a long distance away. I heard a window rumble open and a querulous old lady railing against the three of us for disrupting her sleep.

Gravel Voice was still huffing from the exertion of thumping me, but his companion answered. “Nuffink for you to worry about, ma’am. ’Igh spirits among friends, is all.”

We were sharply advised to take our high spirits elsewhere or she would set the dogs on us. One of my abductors propped me into a sitting position and pulled up the bag just long enough to stuff a dirty handkerchief into my mouth. Then he yanked the sack down over my head again. I was in no condition to spar with these blokes, but they weren’t taking any chances now. I felt a rough cord drawn around my body, entrapping my arms, and a second piece of rope was pulled tight around my ankles. They could have saved themselves some trouble if they’d trussed me up at the start, but I suppose they thought that notwithstanding Mother Edding’s warning, they could handle India Black. Which, if I am truthful, they appeared to have done. I had just enough wit about me to feel a certain amount of satisfaction that the old woman in the window had sent them on their way with such alacrity that they seemed to have forgotten my purse. I wasn’t keen on parting with my hard-earned cash, but I’d rather lose a few sous than have my weapon filched.

After binding my arms and legs, the two of them gathered me up and off we went. We hadn’t traveled far when Gravel Voice grunted, “’Ere we are,” and I was lifted into the air and deposited unceremoniously onto a bed of rough wood. One of the men threw a coarse wool blanket over me. A horse stamped fitfully and nickered, and the cart (for so I presumed it to be) creaked loudly. My resting place tilted precariously, first to one side and then the other, as the two men climbed aboard. Gravel Voice made a clicking noise, and the cart started with a jerk.

Stretched out in the back of the cart, snug and warm and protected from the night chill by a blanket, may sound like a deuced fine way to travel, but it is not. I felt every cobble and brick in the city of London as the contraption jolted along toward its destination. The wheels rattled and the nag clopped along and my head bounced against the crude boards of the cart with every step.

I was floating in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware that we were moving into less sanitary surroundings than my neighborhood. An odour of rot and decay soon penetrated the cloth bag, and the air grew thick and moist. Soon I smelled tar and tallow, spices and coffee, rotting fish, and the stench of human waste being hauled to the dumping grounds east of the city. Even in my half-fuddled state, I felt a prickle of unease. I’d been expecting to be presented to Mother Edding, and at the sight of the ancient trollop I’d regain my strength and give her the walloping she deserved. But we were near the Thames, not Seven Dials. I felt a frisson of fear.

An astonishing variety of items is dumped into the river: kitchen refuse, ashes, broken nails, old boots, oyster shells, Mrs. Drinkwater’s muffins and the occasional dead body. This is not a fact that ever gave me pause, until now. There’s something about becoming the evening meal for the local fishes that brings one up short. Not that there was anything I could do about it, not strapped down like a lunatic on the way to Bedlam, nor feeling as limp and woozy as I did. Perhaps Gravel Voice and his friend were stopping by the docks for some other reason, to purchase a bale of wool, say, or a bit of ambergris. I felt a jolt of anger at the evil Mother Edding, and then at myself, for underestimating the old horror, and at the fact that I was going to have to engage in some first-rate groveling if I was going to save myself.

The cart rumbled to a halt. It was dead quiet here, save for the lap of waves against the wharf and the sad drone of a ship’s horn out in the fogbound reaches of the river. The smell of the foul water was overpowering. I’m a cynical optimist, mostly, or an optimistic cynic, if you like, which means I always expect the worst and I am pleasantly surprised when it doesn’t happen. At this moment, though, I wasn’t feeling sunny.

Gravel Voice and Company hopped off the seat and walked to the back of the cart, where they seized my ankles and dragged me backward like a rat from a hole. I moaned piteously and mewed like a kitten, trying to extract an ounce of pity, but they were having none of it. I willed myself to struggle, but my limbs were paying me no mind and my head hurt like blazes. The clatter of their boots on the cobbles changed to a hollow thumping noise, which matched the tempo of my heart. Surely those echoing footsteps indicated that my two kidnappers had left dry land and were now carrying me out onto one of the many wharves along the Thames. We straggled onward, and then, to my utter horror, I heard Gravel Voice say “’Eave ’o,” and I was falling helplessly through the air. I had the presence of mind to take one last gasping breath before I hit the water.

Shocking cold it was, not to mention greasy and foul. The force of my fall knocked the wind from me and startled me back to full consciousness. Unfortunately, I also expelled the last drops of precious air I’d inhaled in preparation for my dunking. My nose filled with a disgusting liquid. I expelled it with a snort and pondered my situation. At least the hessian bag and the gag would keep the larger detritus from my mouth, but as I needed to breathe, and soon, it hardly mattered that I wouldn’t have to contend with spitting out the odd fish head. I lacked oxygen, my hands and feet were tied and I had a gag in my mouth and a sack over my head. Things could hardly get worse, except they could. Even if I were able to loosen my bonds, rip off the bag and float to the surface, I had yet another obstacle to overcome: I cannot swim. Well, I don’t know many whores who can.

I need hardly point out that things were looking very bleak. But India Black doesn’t give up without a fight. I didn’t know if I was upside down, right side up or facing sideways, but damned if I was just going to float there in the current until I died. I pulled up my knees and kicked, fluttering my feet like a fish tail. I sent an abbreviated message to the Venerable Old Chap in the Sky. My lungs were burning, and pinpricks of light appeared behind my eyelids. I heard a roaring in my ears that grew louder and louder. I was starving for air, and the urge to breathe was overwhelming.

Two things happened simultaneously: I burst through the surface of the river blowing like a porpoise, and some object, roughly the size and weight of an elephant, fell out of the sky and landed on me, driving me back under the water. Stunned, I inhaled more of the wretched stuff, shuddered wildly and kicked hard for the surface. I might come face-to-face with my assailant, but that prospect frightened me less than drowning. My thoughts were not as crisp as usual, but it did occur to me to wonder why one of my abductors had bothered to jump in after me. I didn’t concern myself much with the thought, as I still felt the pressing need to breathe.

I broke the waves again and finally got a nose full of pure, blessed air. My God, it was bloody heaven, although I found it hard going, paddling my feet and trying to stay above water while I made up for all those minutes with only river water in my lungs. I choked and spit and gagged, all of which produces a fair amount of noise, but suddenly a sound penetrated the racket. Splashing, and not the gentle paddling of a baby in a tub, but the energetic sloshing of someone headed in my direction.

The bag over my head was becoming quite an inconvenience. I’d have liked to look my attacker in the eye before he held me underwater and ended this affair, but I could only wait, my legs flailing more slowly with each passing moment, while he closed in on me.

A hand touched my shoulder, and I summoned the energy to thrust my feet once more against the weight of the water, shoving the fellow with all the strength I could muster. It must have felt like a gentle head butt from a month-old lamb. I had, however, taken him by surprise, and I heard him grunt when I hit him. I kicked again and succeeding in driving my shoulder into his. He lurched backward and sputtered loudly, cursing faintly. But that was all I had. My hands and arms were numb, my breath came in ragged gasps and the weight of my clothes was dragging me inexorably to the bottom of the Thames. It was small comfort, but I’d be waiting in hell when Mother Edding joined the party, and then we’d see who had the upper hand.