India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A Madam of Espionage Mystery) (17 page)

I’d rehearsed this speech many times in the last few hours, but damned if the story didn’t sound a little thin when I reeled it off. I sneaked a glance round the table, to see how well the tale had gone down. Flerko looked slightly embarrassed at the degradation I’d endured to get my hands on the duty roster. As we were not discussing bombs, Thick Ed looked disinterested. Schmidt was studying the paper, while Bonnaire appeared bored, as did French. Harkov gave me a speculative look, his black eyes glittering in the lamplight. I sucked in a breath and waited for the challenge, but none came.

“Well done,” said Schmidt, and replaced the sheet of paper on the table. “So, how do we proceed?”

“I’ve drawn a map of the square, showing the location of the grandstand,” said French, conjuring a page from his pocket. “Yesterday I took a stroll there to verify the location of dustbins and the like, and found that the stand is already under construction. I bought a cup of tea for one of the workmen at a nearby stall, and he was happy to share the details about what he and his fellow workers were building.”

Thick Ed studied French’s drawing, chewing a meaty thumb. “I’d like to get a bomb right under the grandstand. Maybe two of them. The others I’d place among the crowd. In this area, I think,” he said as he tapped the sketch.

“Not there,” I objected, leaning over the table. “Why not put the others at the edges of the square? I’d time those to explode slighter later than the bombs under the stand. The crowd will already be panicked and trying to escape. A few explosions along the main streets leading from the square, and we’ll create chaos.”

I’d scored a goal with that proposal. A thin smile crossed Harkov’s lips. Schmidt nodded slowly. Flerko issued a guttural bark, which I assumed was Russian for “jolly good.” A fleeting look of horror crossed French’s face. I must have a talk with him soon. I feared that he wasn’t entering into the spirit of things. In for a penny, in for a pound, I figured. If you’re going to infiltrate an anarchist cell, then do so with gusto. I’d only suggested murdering innocent bystanders for effect, you understand. I aimed to boost my standing among my fellow conspirators. I did not think for a minute that our bombs would actually explode on Saturday. As French had backed my plan with Dizzy and Superintendent Stoke, he shouldn’t get distracted by my callous proposition that some of Vicky’s subjects should be included in our scheme of mass murder.

“I’m going to have a look at the square tomorrow,” Thick Ed announced.

“I’m going with you,” I said. “If I’m going to be involved in a plot against Her Majesty’s government, I want to know all the details. I’m not one to take chances.”

Harkov nodded gravely.

Thick Ed, however, did not seem pleased at the prospect of my company. “We can’t all go poking around there. We’ll draw attention to ourselves.”

I concede that fact. A woman with my face and figure rarely goes unnoticed. Nevertheless, I was going to know every last component of the operation or I’d stay home with a cup of cocoa while the rest of this lot skulked about in the early morning hours before the memorial service. I informed Thick Ed, and the rest of them, of my feelings. Anarchists, like most men, collapse as easily as one of Mrs. Drinkwater’s imperfectly set blancmanges once an independent-minded female informs them of the way things will be. I could see that French wasn’t pleased about my horning my way into Thick Ed’s reconnaissance mission. I’m sure French had intended to invite himself along, and was now precluded from joining the party as Thick Ed clearly believed in the old adage of too many cooks, et cetera.

I left the meeting feeling rather pleased with myself. French did not accompany me to the cabstand, disappearing in the opposite direction and leaving Bonnaire and Flerko to supervise my journey. I’d made arrangements with Thick Ed to meet him at Nelson’s Column the next morning, and we’d all agreed that as Saturday was just around the corner we would meet again tomorrow night to hear the result of the scouting mission and to refine our plan. One of these nights I needed to stay at Lotus House and keep an eye on the sluts, but there’s a lot of work involved in slaying gentry and bringing down the government, exactly how much I hadn’t realized. Clara Swansdown was a reliable girl, as far as whores go, and if I passed along a few extra shillings to her, I felt sure she’d do an adequate job of riding herd on the girls. This might be a temporary solution to my present predicament, but I’d have to make other arrangements for the future if I intended to trot off whenever Her Majesty called.

THIRTEEN

T
he next morning found me sloping around Trafalgar Square with the less than loquacious Thick Ed. I’ll tell you something you may not know about the square: it’s owned by the Queen, and knowing her propensity for frugality (except when it comes to her own dinner plate), I expect the British taxpayer was forking over a fair sum for the rental of the square for this memorial shindig. The authorities had closed the road on the north side of the square, and the grandstand, a small forest of timber beams and joists, was rising there in front of the National Gallery. All the swells and politicos would have a grand view to the south, looking down on the masses who were expected to flock there on Saturday to commemorate those luckless British folk who’d had the misfortune to be living in India when the sepoys rebelled. The masses would have to pack in if they wanted a decent view of Saturday’s proceedings. The fountains to the south had been added to reduce the size of the square and, consequently, the number of people who could congregate therein, British politicians having a morbid fear that any crowd had the potential to become a riotous gang. And quite rightly, I might add. A London mob can turn dangerous at the drop of a hat.

Thick Ed and I wandered around, closely scrutinizing the dustbins situated around the square and peering up at the statues to see if we could wedge a box containing explosives in between the legs of some admiral or other. We surreptitiously examined the branches of the trees that lined the perimeter of the square and sauntered up the steps to the National Gallery, gazing at the columns and searching for hidden niches. Thick Ed might not be the most engaging of companions, but the fellow was thorough. Long after I’d tired of squinting into nooks and crannies, he was still at it, murmuring to himself as he estimated distance and calculated density and concussive effect. While he was at it, I wandered over to gaze at the grandstand and the gang of workmen engaged in building it. They were an efficient bunch, scuttling about with their sleeves rolled to their elbows. I’d have been knocked flat in ten seconds, as strapping coves darted here and there with boards balanced on their shoulders, but this crew must have done this before, as nobody lost his nut while I watched. The workmen were supervised by a wrinkled, grey-haired gent who looked as though he’d just gotten word that his horse had finished last at Epsom Downs. He stared glumly at the plans in his hand and frowned. The young fellow with him might have been his son, but if so he’d inherited his sunny disposition from the distaff side of the family, for his face was animated and he looked a cheery bloke. I didn’t fancy my chances with Papa, but the youngster looked approachable.

“I assume you’d like to get under the grandstand today, to have a look at how it’s constructed,” I said to Thick Ed. “How were you planning to do that?”

He shrugged. “I thought I’d have a word with one of the builder boys and see how much he can tell me. If I can’t find out anything that way, I’ll come back tonight, when everyone has gone home.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” I said. “Let’s see it in the daylight and save ourselves a trip.”

We loitered for the best part of half an hour, waiting to see if the dour fellow and the young chap would part company. I was betting the old fellow would tire of the dust and noise and toddle off to his club for a preprandial snort. I’d gauged the chap correctly, for eventually he handed the building plans to his junior and, judging from the expression on the younger man’s face, gave him some unnecessary, or at least unwanted, advice. Then the old fellow climbed into a waiting carriage and left my new friend alone to carry on the work. Thick Ed and I ambled over, as innocent as two pet rabbits.

We must have made an unlikely pair. He appeared to have just finished ploughing the south field, and I was dressed with my usual customary elegance. The young man looked up from his plans as we approached. One eyebrow darted upward, but he recovered himself quickly when he got a closer look at me.

“What a marvelous sight!” I exclaimed. I swept a hand in the direction of the stand. “Are you the man responsible for this amazing creation?”

He preened himself a bit at my words. “Yes, I am. I designed the grandstand. I’m an engineer.”

“How very exciting. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Lady Beckinham, and this is my foreman, Edward.”

Thick Ed played his part by grunting incomprehensibly and tugging his forelock.

The young man lifted his hat. “David Dawkins. Very pleased to meet you.”

“Edward and I are up from Dorset,” I chattered on. One of the keys to running a successful bluff is never giving the object of it the opportunity to think about the improbability of what you’re saying. It also helps if you’re a stunner, like me, which is a further distraction for the average man. “My poor father had undertaken a building project at the Grange, where we live, you know, and then he had the misfortune to suffer a fall from his horse and now he’s laid up in bed and I am trying my best to finish out the work for him so that he doesn’t fret himself to death and of course Edward here has been a great help. We’ve come up to London today to look at some materials and we’d read about the memorial service and we thought we’d come down to see the work that’s being done and I must say it is impressive and now I find that a young man, just my own age, is actually in charge of this undertaking. It quite takes my breath away!”

It had, actually.

Dawkins blushed. “I’m not quite as young as I appear, you know. And naturally I’ve the proper degree and training. And I’m not really in charge. My father is.”

“Oh, how wonderful! It’s lovely, isn’t it, to work with your father on such an important project.”

Dawkins appeared to doubt the truth of this statement, but he nodded politely.

“I say, do you think Edward and I could have a look at this structure? A close look, I mean. Some of the truss work looks to be just the sort of thing we’re thinking of doing at the Grange. Perhaps when the workmen take a break? Would we be imposing on your good nature if we requested a brief tour?”

“You’re building something similar to the grandstand?” Dawkins asked dubiously.

“Oh, yes.” I said. “And we’d very much like to look at your joinery, if you don’t mind.”

“What precisely are you constructing?”

“A dovecote,” Thick Ed said solemnly. I choked back a laugh. I’d have pegged Thick Ed to have a sense of humour akin to that of the average ox.

“Dovecote?” Dawkins echoed faintly. “How extraordinary. I’d no idea—”

“A very large dovecote,” said Thick Ed.

A whistle shrilled and the workmen downed tools.

I batted my eyelids and favored Dawkins with an inviting smile, while my fluttering hand drew attention to my bosom. “What perfect timing,” I said. “May we?”

The eyelids, the smile and the breasts had the desired effect, as I knew they would. The poor boy didn’t stand a chance. Any objections young Dawkins might have had, had been overruled instantly.

And so I found myself on a work site, dodging pails of screws and stepping over scraps of lumber, all the while prattling on like a debutante after her first glass of champagne so that Dawkins wouldn’t notice the intensity with which Thick Ed was scrutinizing the underside of the grandstand. Luckily, Dawkins soon warmed to the task of explaining the technicalities of building the grandstand to such a charming audience. I heard a great deal about proportion and scale, load bearing and massing, and a number of other construction techniques, all of which I immediately consigned to my mental rubbish bin, knowing full well that I should never require any such knowledge in the future. I listened to the building wallah with wide eyes and coos of admiration at some particularly clever bit of structural engineering, while Thick Ed wandered round with one ear cocked in our direction, grunting now and then and asking an occasional question about weight distribution, which young Dawkins was only too happy to answer. I reckon the average construction superintendent doesn’t often get a stunning young woman hanging on his every word, for Dawkins rambled on with an enthusiasm I generally reserve for fine whisky and comely fellows. Finally, Thick Ed gave me the briefest of nods, and I interrupted Dawkins’s monologue about the proper wood for flooring planks with, “Oh my goodness, is that the time? We must dash, Edward, or we’ll miss our train.” We left Dawkins gawping after us with his hat raised and the “Pleased to have met you” dying on his lips. I only hoped the fellow hadn’t noticed that neither Thick Ed nor I had a watch and that we’d scuttled off in the opposite direction from Victoria Station.

* * *

Our cabal convened that night in the damp cellar. Thick Ed had appropriated French’s drawing of Trafalgar Square and augmented it with details about the grandstand and the few hidey-holes he’d sussed out on our visit that morning. We gathered round the table and stared down at the paper.

Thick Ed tapped the sketch with a massive finger. “Two bombs under the grandstand, to ensure we get all the dignitaries at one go. You lot don’t care about the details, but I’ll place the machines at the weakest structural points. I’ll set the timers so that the explosions are simultaneous and the whole structure will collapse at once.” His finger moved to a rubbish bin whose location near the grandstand he’d marked with a penciled circle. “I’ll place another bomb here. The other two bombs will go here and here,” he said, pointing out the locations on the drawing. “Those three bombs will go off a couple of minutes after the first two devices, just as the crowd is trying to run away.”

He’d chosen good hiding places for the last two infernal machines. One would be tucked away beneath the shrubbery growing in a stone planter at one edge of the square, and the second would be hidden inside another rubbish bin at the intersection of Northumberland Street and the Strand, near the southeast corner of the square.

While Thick Ed found it hard to master normal conversational gambits, he clearly knew his stuff when it came to wreaking havoc and was delighted to share his knowledge with the rest of us. The whole scheme sounded bloody efficient, not to mention deadly, and I spared a thought for the poor folk who would otherwise have been turned into mince had Her Majesty’s agents not been on the case. Still, there was much to do to avoid an unhappy outcome, including convincing Thick Ed that I had an unrequited love for all things explosive and would be the happiest whore in the world if I could have a tutorial in building bombs.

My request produced a silence so profound that I thought I had erred. Schmidt and Harkov stared at me incredulously. Well, they were the brains of the outfit and despite all that tripe they spouted about equality and such, it was clear they both preferred the intellectual cut and thrust of anarchist theory and not the grubby details. Flerko, predictably, approved of my revolutionary ardor, and I thought Bonnaire might plant a kiss on me then and there.

“Building the devices is a task best left to the experts,” said Harkov.

“One cannot become an expert without an education and the opportunity to practice one’s skills,” I said. “I suppose Thick Ed was born knowing how to make a bomb?”

“Why do you want to learn?” asked Harkov.

“I’ve already explained to you that if I’m going to trust my fate to you chaps, I plan to know everything there is to know about our operation. And just think of the possibilities! Who would suspect a woman like me of planting bombs? The rest of you might just as well have a placard round your neck that says ‘Anarchist Devil’ on it.”

Harkov sputtered, but Schmidt smiled benignly. “You have a point, Miss Black.”

“And I am equally free of suspicion,” said French. “I have access to places even Miss Black cannot go. I’d like to learn the art of bomb making myself. Would you have any objection, Thick Ed, if Miss Black and I watched you put together the devices?”

Thick Ed’s face was impassive. He glanced at Harkov, who shrugged.

“Alright,” said the bomb maker. “But you two aren’t to touch a thing, mind. Just watch me. I’ll put ’em together on Thursday night before the memorial. Be here at midnight.”

I nodded casually, but there was a hard knot in my throat at the prospect of fiddling about with dynamite that no amount of swallowing would remove.

* * *

I had a couple of days until Thursday, so I put aside my duties to queen and country and concentrated on the affairs of Lotus House. Major Rawlins and his fellow guardsmen had proved to be loyal customers, returning on a frequent basis and boosting my income enormously. There were the usual bills to pay, including a suspiciously large one to the nearest public house for several bottles of gin I did not remember ordering. I had a think about that and one afternoon while Mrs. Drinkwater was out doing the shopping, I conducted a quick search of her room and found a stash of empty bottles under the bed. Naturally, I had a word with her when she returned, and endured a burned joint for my dinner that evening in retaliation.

Other than the unpleasantness with Mrs. Drinkwater over the gin (an incident the likes of which occurred with such frequency that, frankly, I would have been surprised if it hadn’t), things at Lotus House were proceeding on an even keel. Besides the major and his men, our regular customers were returning in droves. Having been kept indoors by inclement weather and forced to endure the company of their charming wives for several weeks, they were a randy bunch and the girls were kept busy. Nothing suits me more than the bustle and hum of a busy brothel. The sluts don’t have time for spats, and they’re happy counting their shillings. I’m happy toting up the takings and contemplating the seaside bungalow I plan to purchase.