India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A Madam of Espionage Mystery) (16 page)

“Stop thrashin’ about, India, or you’ll kill us bof,” said Vincent.

* * *

I have to hand it to that little toad. Within minutes of towing me to shore, he’d organized an army of odiferous imps to steal a handcart and haul me home, all the while assuring the urchins that I’d be “’appy to pay up” just as soon as I was feeling better.

I sat in my drawing room, wrapped in a blanket and shivering like a stray dog. Mrs. Drinkwater had provided a glass of hot whisky, with a teaspoon of honey and two cloves floating in it, which I sipped gratefully. Her scones might be inedible, but her toddy was brilliant. Vincent, also wrapped in a blanket (which I would have to burn later) had eschewed the toddy for a tumbler of brandy and a cigar. And French was perched across from me, turning a glass of whisky grimly in his hand and glaring at me as if I’d arranged my own kidnapping.

“Thank you very much for coming to my rescue, Vincent.” I smiled sweetly at him. I positively adored the scamp tonight. I allowed myself to indulge the feeling, as I knew it wouldn’t last long. “Wherever did you learn to swim like that?”

“Oh, I been playin’ in the river since I was a boy,” he grinned. That might account for the smell that accompanied the young rapparee.

“You, however, have some explaining to do.” This was directed at French. “Why was Vincent following me? He was supposed to be following Harkov.”

“Two reasons,” said French. “You’d already been attacked by this Edding creature once before, and if you weren’t going to take any precautions against another incident, I intended that Vincent would be on hand to assist you.”

So Vincent had told him about the disgruntled madam. I would have to settle that score with the whelp at a later time. Actually, I might have another score to settle with him.

“If you saw the whole thing, Vincent, why didn’t you intervene sooner? You might have saved me from a Thames baptism.”

Vincent looked sheepish. “I was ’angin’ back, you see, on account of you always gettin’ so fussed about bein’ followed and looked after. By the time I got up to Lotus House, those blokes had already wrapped you up and were carryin’ you off. I reckoned I’d just follow and take me chance when I got it. I didn’t know they was gonna throw you in the river. I figured they’d take you to Mother Edding so she could teach you a lesson, and I’d rescue you then.”

“I could have handled Mother Edding, if only the witch had played fair and challenged me directly.”

French sighed theatrically. “You’re right. It’s bloody inconsiderate of your enemy to ambush you.”

“And the second reason?”

“I wanted to be sure that no one in the Dark Legion suspected that you are a spy and decided to do something about it.”

“I don’t know why I would be singled out by that bunch of foreign hooligans. You’re just as likely to be thought a spy as I am.”

“I’m merely taking precautions.”

“Well, then, who’s following you? Or don’t you need someone to keep an eye on you as well? And don’t give me any tosh about my being a woman. I can look after myself.” I tugged my blanket tighter around my shoulders and gave French a hard look, daring him to point out that in fact I had been bushwhacked rather easily on my own doorstep. Twice. Best to get on the front foot now. “It’s much more important that Vincent stay on Harkov. We need to find Grigori, and following Harkov is the best option we have for locating that Russian devil.”

The door to the study opened.

“Mon dieu,”
Martine gasped when she saw my wan face and bedraggled hair. “I am sorry to disturb you, but Mrs. Drinkwater said you had been attacked by thieves and treated brutally. I was afraid—”

I waved a hand negligently. “It’s nothing, Martine. Mrs. Drinkwater was mistaken. It was an accident, nothing more.”

Martine’s eyes slid across the room to my companions. She gave French the lengthy gaze his dark looks deserved, but did not linger on Vincent.

“Thank you for your concern, Martine. Off to bed now. You need to look fresh for the gentlemen.”

The girl nodded and gently closed the door.

“She’s a bit of alright,” said Vincent.

“She’s the girl you hired from Mother Edding? The one who introduced you to Bonnaire?” asked French.

“Yes.”

“I wonder if Bonnaire has told her that I’m a member of the group. Do you think she’ll tell him that I was here?”

“What does it matter? You’ll just be another anarchist who’s fallen under my spell.”

French shot me a look. “What do you mean,
another
anarchist?”

When I ignored his question, he asked another.

“Do you trust the girl?”

I shrugged. “Who can you trust in this game? She’s given me no reason to doubt her, but I wouldn’t share any secrets with her. Nor anyone else, for that matter.”

“Very wise,” said French.

God, the man annoys me with that condescending attitude. “Of course it’s wise,” I snapped. “You don’t have to be the prime minister’s agent to appreciate confidentiality. Do you think I’d have Lotus House and a successful business enterprise if I couldn’t hold my tongue?”

As he always does at the mention of my profession, French looked embarrassed and quickly changed the subject.

“Why don’t you dress, and we’ll visit the prime minister and Superintendent Stoke?”

“Now? It’s three o’clock in the morning. I don’t think Dizzy would appreciate being woken at this hour just to hear about my dip in the Thames.”

“We need to discuss the memorial service with him. And I suppose we should summon Stoke. I’m afraid he may want to move against the anarchists immediately. I’d prefer to string them along until we have time to devise a plan to thwart the attack.”

“You needn’t worry about that,” I informed him airily. “I’ve already thought of a way to prevent the anarchists from detonating any bombs in the square.”

* * *

I must say that I had anticipated a shade more gratitude than Superintendent Stoke and Dizzy exhibited when I revealed my scheme to them two hours later. The superintendent’s black suit was rumpled, and his hair hadn’t seen a brush. Dizzy was immaculately turned out in a viridian silk dressing gown and a black velvet fez.

The superintendent sucked his moustache and twittered like an uneasy cockatoo. “Good Lord, that’s risky. Sure it will work?”

“I believe it will,” said French.

A vote of confidence from this quarter being so unexpected, I nearly choked on my brandy.

“Could send some officers to the next meeting of the cell,” mused Superintendent Stoke. “Could arrest ’em all, including you two. Hold you for a few hours. Let you go. No one the wiser. Ship the rest of the chaps back to where they came from.”

“And Grigori disappears, only to return to London with a new group of conspirators,” I said. “If we do as I suggest, the cell stays together and Grigori remains within our grasp.”

Dizzy sipped coffee and looked glum. There’s nothing like the prospect of a bomb attack at a public function to put the wind up a politician. If my plan didn’t work, the next question-and-answer session at Parliament would be beastly for the old boy. We all knew it was the prime minister’s decision to make and it would be his government that fell if things didn’t go as planned, so we waited silently while Dizzy turned things over in his mind. He stirred himself eventually and turned to Vincent. French had suggested the young imp come along, as “it was only fair.”

“What do you think of Miss Black’s idea?” Dizzy asked.

Vincent showed him a gum full of blackened teeth. “It’ll be a right doddle.”

Superintendent Stoke spit out the ends of his moustache. “Really, my lord, this is most extraordinary. You can’t mean to accept this preposterous notion that we should let the anarchists—” The chap had been spurred to utter two complete sentences.

“Plant several bombs in Trafalgar Square?” Dizzy toyed with the silken tassel of his dressing gown. “Put like that, it does sound rather preposterous. However, I am at present inclined to go along with Miss Black’s plan, provided that in the days to come we continue to feel comfortable that it will work.”

“Not sure
now
that it will work,” the superintendent muttered mutinously. “Bloody bad show if things go wrong.”

“Don’t fret yourself,” said Vincent. “I guarantee hit’ll work.”

The superintendent slurped the ends of his tea strainer into his mouth and sulked.

* * *

After the meeting, I pootled off home and had a nap, which was exactly what I needed. Despite having been hauled around the streets of London like a sack of potatoes and imbibing a few lungfuls of the filthiest river in England, I was feeling in fine fettle when I awoke. It was nearly dusk, and I went down to the kitchen to roust Mrs. Drinkwater and see that the whores had dined and were getting ready for the evening’s customers. The girls were in a festive mood, for Major Rawlins had sent a note earlier in the day advising that he and his men from the Royal Horse Guards had so enjoyed themselves at Lotus House on their prior visit that they were returning tonight. I felt a little swell of pride that my bints had acquitted themselves so well and that trade was flourishing, for truth to tell, I had been feeling slightly guilty at haring off to chase anarchists. I could rest easy now, knowing that I had done all that a good coach could do and it was up to the girls to play the game once they got on the pitch.

After a dinner that even the prisoners at Dartmoor would have rejected, I gathered my belongings and draped my traveling cloak around my shoulders. When Vincent and I had returned to Lotus House the previous evening, I’d found my purse just where it had fallen when I’d been snatched by Mother Edding’s rogues. To my relief not only was my money still in the purse, but so was my Bulldog. I had learned my lesson. From this point on, whenever I traveled alone, I would travel with the Bulldog in my hand, tucked away into the folds of my cloak or in the pocket of my skirt or coat. The next chap who tried to crack my head or deposit me in the river would get some hot lead for his trouble.

As arranged, I met Bonnaire and Flerko at the Bag O’ Nails. I would have preferred a more inviting rendezvous, but such establishments were difficult to find in Seven Dials. Flerko was jumping like a flea at the prospect of planning some bloodshed, but Bonnaire was his usual smooth and urbane self, tucking my hand into the crook of his elbow as we made our way through the streets. Flerko chattered aimlessly until Bonnaire sent him to retrace our route, to ensure we were not being followed.

We were the last to arrive. We exchanged pleasantries with the others, remarking on the weather and commenting upon the latest parliamentary debate, behaving much as I imagine Freemasons do before they don their robes and start spouting claptrap. Flerko was itching to get the meeting under way and kept tugging at Harkov’s sleeve while Harkov regaled French with tales of the committees he had chaired at the meeting in Geneva. Eventually Schmidt caught Harkov’s eye, and the Russian dragged himself reluctantly from his conversation with French and convened the meeting.

I waited until everyone was seated, and then I produced from my purse two sheets of paper delivered to me that day by Superintendent Stoke’s messenger. I unfolded them and spread them over the table.

“The list of dignitaries who will be on the grandstand at the memorial, and the schedule for the service.”

Six heads bent over the table.

Flerko gave a little squeal. “The lord mayor of London! And General Harmley!”

Schmidt polished his glasses and peered at the paper. “The Earl of Aylesford. Baron Gowe. The Duke of Connaught. But where is the prime minister’s name?”

“What?” exclaimed Flerko. “I thought Disraeli would be there.”

Well, he’d been planning on attending, until Superintendent Stoke had begged him to stay at home that day, which showed, I thought, a shocking lack of faith in French and me.

“Apparently, he’ll be in Paris that day,” I said. “Meeting a sheik from some dusty little country who’s been flirting with the Russians. The prime minister means to keep him sweet. Or so my sources tell me.”

“Blast!” Flerko pounded his fist into his palm.

Bonnaire ran a finger down the list. “Not a bad bag, though. If we assassinate this lot, we’ll decapitate the government.”

“The service starts at three o’clock on Saturday afternoon,” said Harkov, consulting the schedule.

“There’s something else,” I said, producing yet another sheet of paper. “Here’s the duty roster for the Yard. They’ll have men in place at the square from six o’clock in the morning on Saturday.”

Flerko looked anxious. “We could place the bombs before that, but what about arming them?”

“That won’t be a problem,” said Thick Ed. “The way those alarm clocks work, I can arm them up to twelve hours in advance. I’ll waltz into the square around four in the morning, put the bombs in place and set the clock to go off at a few minutes past three in the afternoon.”

Schmidt swept his hand over the papers on the desk. “Where did you get this information, India?”

“I have a friend at one of the dailies. The list of officials and the agenda for the program came from him. As for the duty roster, I obtained that from a young man of recent acquaintance. He’s an inspector with the Yard, and the poor lad is rather taken with me. He enjoys showing me his office, late at night.” I dropped my eyes modestly. “Occasionally, he falls asleep and I let myself out the door, but not before seeing if there are any morsels of information lying about. I visited him last night, thinking that I might pick up something useful.”