India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A Madam of Espionage Mystery) (18 page)

The only event that marred these idyllic days occurred one afternoon while I was having my tea and contentedly reading through my ledgers. I heard a tentative knock at my study door.

“Come,” I said, and shoved the books into my desk drawer.

Martine sidled in, lovely as ever but with a subdued and shadowed countenance.

“What is it, Martine? Are you unwell? You are very pale.”

“No, mademoiselle. I am not ill.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth and looked at me shyly. How I wish I could teach that look to my other sluts; men would go down before it like so many skittles.

“Is something troubling you?”

She hesitated.

“Well?”

She sighed. “Please don’t be angry.”

In my experience, there’s usually a good reason to be when your conversational partner leads with this remark. “Yes, Martine?”

She clasped her hands together and raised them imploringly. “He shouldn’t have told me, but he did.”

“Who told you what?”

“Julian. Monsieur Bonnaire. He has told me what you plan to do at the memorial service.”

I got up from my desk and crossed the room to close the door. “What has Bonnaire told you?”

“That you intend to assassinate many people at the service, and that he will have to flee the country.” A sob caught in her throat. I didn’t think she was weeping at the thought of the people who might be slaughtered by her boyfriend.

Bugger. I could have kept our plans secret until the last horn sounded, but trust a man to try to impress a girl by baring his bloody soul.

“Nonsense,” I said briskly. “There isn’t any risk to Bonnaire.”

“But he said he would be in danger—”

“Only if we get caught, and if we all keep our mouths shut”—and here I gave her a black look, to let her know I included her in my directive—“no one will know of our involvement.”

“You are certain? Julian said—”

I cut her off. “Of course I’m certain. Monsieur Bonnaire exaggerates the peril.”

Relief swept her face. “Then he will not die.”

“Not unless you tell anyone else that he has told you of our plans.”

Puzzlement replaced relief. “I don’t understand.”

“You know that there are many police informants among the anarchist cells. If any of the others found out that Bonnaire had revealed our objective, they might accuse him of being a spy. They might even kill him.”

Martine’s pale face grew paler still. “Kill him!”

I seized her arm. “Do not tell anyone else what Bonnaire has told you. His life may depend upon it.”

“I will not,” she muttered. “Of course I won’t.”

“Good.” I released her and gently patted her shoulder. “Now, wipe away those tears and leave here with a smile on your face. I don’t want the other girls asking questions. Can you do that?”

She nodded, and swiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. She gave me a tremulous smile. “I will say nothing, but I still fear for Julian. And for you,” she added. “You have been so good to me. I would hate—” She turned abruptly on her heel and scurried out.

“Touching,” I muttered to myself. “But unnecessary.” Of course there was no danger; not to Bonnaire, nor to me, nor to anyone else who might plan on attending the memorial service. At least, I hoped there wouldn’t be.

FOURTEEN

B
onnaire had offered to accompany me from the Bag O’ Nails to the cell’s meeting place, but I dispensed with his services on Thursday night. I had applied myself to learning the route to the cellar beneath the shop with all the assiduity of a starving Bushman tracking an antelope, and I felt confident I could find my way. I left Lotus House with plenty of time to spare, for I wanted to be sure that I was not followed to my destination. I had my Bulldog for company, and I stalked through the streets of Seven Dials with my hand curled around the revolver’s grip, daring anyone to cross my path. I must have looked a right Amazon, for most of the men I encountered, even the drunks, took one look at my face and stepped aside. I wasn’t to be trifled with, not tonight, not by that harridan Mother Edding and certainly not by the greasy wraiths who passed for men in this part of London.

French was waiting for me in the doorway of the shop. He lifted his hat politely and bowed his head.

“Good evening,” he said.

“Good evening. And before you ask, I was not followed. Were you?”

“I have arrived unaccompanied,” he said, a hint of a smile in his voice.

Heavy footsteps echoed down the street, and French ducked his head out of the doorway. “Thick Ed,” he said, removing his hand from the pocket of his overcoat. I was not the only one who had come armed.

Thick Ed returned our greetings with a grunt while he fitted the key in the lock. Downstairs we shed our coats and lit the lamps, which did little to penetrate the musky gloom of the place. The bomb maker sat down at his worktable and began to arrange his tools while French and I brought chairs and arranged ourselves on either side.

“Two rules for tonight,” said Thick Ed. “The first rule is that neither of you touches a thing on this table unless I tell you to. And the second rule is that neither of you touches a thing on this table unless I tell you to. Understood?”

“Perfectly,” said French.

I nodded.

“Right. Let’s get started. First we need something to put the bomb in, you understand?”

I did not find this a difficult concept to grasp and averred as much to Thick Ed.

French shot me the “Don’t be cheeky” look and said, “What are you using as containers, Ed?”

Thick Ed shoved back his chair and disappeared under the table, emerging like a large disheveled rabbit and dragging a number of wooden boxes with him. He left all but one on the floor and deposited the box he’d selected onto the table with a triumphant thump.

“There,” he said. “Ain’t that prime?”

I leaned forward. “Consolidated Ironworks,” I read aloud. “Screws. One inch. One thousand. Birmingham.”

Thick Ed grinned proudly. I did not see what all the fuss was about, and said so.

“It’s from the job site, ain’t it? I went back there last night and helped myself to a few boxes and such.”

“Splendid work, Ed,” said French. “If anyone sees these lying about, they’ll think they were left behind by the builders and won’t be alarmed.”

“That’s it. We’ll tuck ’em away to one side, of course, but they’ll be less likely to attract attention than a biscuit tin or a portmanteau.”

I figured our lads in blue might be wary of anything left beneath the grandstand where the lord mayor of the city would be sitting, but if the bombs were found and disarmed by the local plod, then so much the better. The plan would fail, and French and I wouldn’t run the slightest chance of being detected. Consequently, I declined to argue with Thick Ed about the logic of his position and made myself comfortable for the lecture. He began to assemble the makings of the infernal device, selecting objects from various containers on the table: a pocket pistol, an alarm clock, a coil of copper wire, a .22-caliber cartridge, some small disc-shaped objects and a knife with a blunt edge.

I picked up one of the discs. “What’s this?”

Thick Ed plucked it from my fingers. “A detonator. Didn’t I tell you not to touch anything?”

“My apologies, Thick Ed. Now, where’s the dynamite?”

“Under the table,” he said. “Be careful you don’t kick it.”

“No worries there,” I said, and indeed there were not, as my legs had recoiled under my chair and frozen into position at Thick Ed’s words.

He disappeared from view again and came up bearing a handful of the paraffinned paper packets I’d seen on my first visit to the cellar. Each of the packages was a little over six inches in length and three wide, and a mere half inch thick. I had to squelch the urge to vacate the premises, but Thick Ed was a prudent fellow and handled the packages with all the reverence of an Orthodox priest carrying an icon. He gently deposited the dynamite on the table and exhaled slowly. Despite my misgivings about the deadly stuff, I was curious.

“I’ve never seen dynamite. What’s it look like?”

“Depends,” said Thick Ed, “on what’s used as the binding agent. Dynamite is nothing more than nitroglycerine and some other material, like dirt or sawdust or charcoal. Some chaps use plaster of paris. Any of those things will keep the nitroglycerine stable. Otherwise, the stuff is too bloody dangerous to handle.”

French had been studying the array of items on the table.

“You figured out what I’m going to do with all this, squire?” asked Thick Ed.

“I’ve no experience making bombs, but I’m acquainted with firearms. I’m guessing the pistol will fire the cartridge and detonate the dynamite, but I’ve no idea how the clock comes into it.”

“Not bad for an amateur. The trigger of the pistol will be wired to the clock. You notice there’s no trigger guard on this gun? That’s why I use a pocket pistol. When the alarm runs off, the winding handle of the clock will depress the trigger, firing the cartridge. That will ignite the detonators, and their explosion will set off the dynamite.”

“Deuced ingenious,” said French. “But you surely can’t arm these devices and then carry them about London? If you have the misfortune to trip over a cobblestone, you’ll blow yourself to kingdom come.”

“Occupational hazard.” Thick Ed seemed pleased with this situation. I suppose a bomb maker has a higher tolerance for risk than the average clerk in an insurance office. He picked up the clock and used the knife blade to loosen the screws holding the metal back plate. “But I won’t arm the bombs until I’ve got them in place. Once I’ve hidden them, I’ll cock the triggers of the revolvers and set the time for the alarm to run off, which will be at three fifteen p.m. for the bombs under the grandstands and two minutes later for those around the square.”

That was the end of the lesson for the moment as Thick Ed concentrated on the task at hand and French and I leaned over his shoulder and watched him work. I had a particular purpose in learning how to build an infernal machine, but as I observed Thick Ed’s beefy fingers moving delicately among the workings of the clock, I permitted myself a little fantasy. It would serve Mother Edding right if her brothel disappeared in a mysterious blast. Now if I could just find a way to ensure that only the old harridan was in the house and all the girls and customers were safely away. And then there was the problem of the house itself. The buildings in Seven Dials were so rickety that even a small explosion would level a city block. I enjoy revenge as much as the next person, but I draw the line at wanton killing. No, I should have to find a more direct means of removing Mother Edding from the scene. But Mother Edding would have to wait until this sceptred isle was safe from the likes of Harkov and Flerko, and so I settled in to learn how to make a bomb.

Thick Ed’s huge hands proved surprisingly dexterous, moving with astonishing ease and grace. He removed the back plate of the clock. Moving cautiously, he packed one side of the wooden box with packets of dynamite, stacking them two deep to the top of the box. Between the packets he gently inserted one of the detonators. Next he loaded the cartridge into the revolver and wired the weapon to the clock so that the minute hand would make a final turn when the alarm ran off, depressing the trigger and firing the gun directly into the detonator. The hammer would have to be cocked, but once it had been, the slightest pressure against the trigger would be all that was necessary to explode the device.

It was damned fiddly work, and I wouldn’t have had the patience to make one bomb, let alone five, but Thick Ed was a man devoted to his work. French and I sat patiently while the fellow fussed with his creations, adjusting a wire here and a string there, and using blocks of wood to hold each clock and pistol steady.

“You’ll put these in place early Saturday morning?” asked French as Thick Ed put the finishing touches on the last device.

“I’ll be done and gone by the time the police show up at six. Won’t take any time to plant ’em, but it will take a few minutes to arm ’em.”

“You’ll need a lookout,” I said. “Why don’t we meet you there and keep watch? French could even hide a couple of the bombs for you.”

“Of course,” French said smoothly, though I could feel the rapier point of his gaze.

Thick Ed peered at us, eyes squinted nearly closed. “Damned if you two aren’t more helpful than the rest of this lot put together.”

My heart caught in my throat, but I forced a gay laugh. “You mean comrade Harkov hasn’t volunteered to carry any dynamite about?”

Thick Ed grinned. “Not him. He’s partial to committees and such.” We all smiled then, enjoying the bomb maker’s little joke, and the moment passed, but it was a useful reminder that French and I were constantly under suspicion, and even our proposals to engage more fully in the anarchists’ work was cause for paranoia among our erstwhile allies.

French and I bade good night to Thick Ed, arranging a rendezvous in the early hours of Saturday morning in Trafalgar Square, and then set a sharpish pace toward Lotus House. Gentleman that he is, French wouldn’t allow me to travel without an escort for fear that Mother Edding’s hired thugs might take another crack at me. Normally, this lack of confidence in my ability to take care of myself would infuriate me, but I had my own reasons for accepting French’s overweening solicitude tonight. But before I could raise the subject I wanted to discuss, French spoke.

“Are you confident those devices can be disarmed by an amateur?” he asked in a low voice.

“It seems simple enough.”

“Damned dangerous, though. I hope we haven’t misjudged the matter. We’re endangering a lot of innocent people.”

“It’s too late to worry about that. We’re committed to the plan. Stop fretting. It will all come right, you’ll see.” I sounded more confident than I was, but I jolly well wasn’t going to let French know I had any doubts. Our strategy for foiling the anarchist plot had been, after all, my idea. Best not to exhibit any doubt, for nothing undermines confidence like a general wondering aloud if an escalade was the right tactic just as the ladders go up against the wall.

I, however, would have made an excellent general, for I had considered my strategy for approaching French about his family, and if I do say so myself, it was bally brilliant.

“I say, French. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you,” I said, making sure to sound rather muted and diffident. Nothing arouses French’s gentlemanly instincts like a female in need of assistance. “I have every confidence that we’ll succeed in disrupting the anarchists’ plan, but this is a dangerous game we’re playing, and I’ve given a bit of thought to the future. If something should happen to me—”

French swung me round and gripped my shoulders. “Nothing will happen to you, India. I swear it.” I could feel his fevered breath on my cheek.

Well, this was deuced gratifying. Since his unexpected appearance at the anarchist meeting, the bloke had been treating me with studied indifference. From the intensity of his voice, he’d obviously been shamming.

“Well, I . . . I certainly don’t think things will go wrong, but . . . well, one never knows . . .” I felt curiously light-headed and at a loss for words, a condition with which I was confoundedly unfamiliar.

“I shan’t allow . . . I mean to say, I couldn’t bear . . . Oh, curse it.” His arms slid around my waist, and I was crushed to his chest. The Bulldog in my pocket clanked loudly as it encountered his Boxer revolver. Things had taken an unforeseen turn. I’d merely meant to ferret out the truth about his family. My tactical skills and customary composure had deserted me. What to do now?

I kissed him.

I wasn’t sure what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t that French would recoil from me like a dog whose nose has been bitten by a snake. I’ve kissed a fair number of gentlemen in my time, and I’m not boasting when I say that most have been more than eager to return the favor.

“Oh, India,” said French. “Damnation.”

I wrenched myself from his grasp. “I apologize. I obviously misinterpreted the situation,” I said coldly. In truth, I was humiliated. Well, who wouldn’t be? My first instinct was to pull the Bulldog from my skirt and shoot myself in the head for being such a bloody fool. On second thought, perhaps I’d shoot the poncy bastard. Serve him right for leading me on.

“No, no. You haven’t. Misinterpreted the situation, I mean. Oh, hell.” French was walking up and down the pavement in front of me, flapping his hands. I’d never seen him this agitated, and I stared, fascinated. He stopped pacing abruptly and stalked toward me. I held up a hand to fend him off.