India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A Madam of Espionage Mystery) (20 page)

“’Ere, wot’s that?” exclaimed the fellow next to me. He turned to his friend. “Boost me up, Dick, so I can see wot’s goin’ on.”

Dick steadied himself with one hand on the base of the column and crooked a leg for his friend to stand upon. His friend clambered up, clinging precariously to the base of the column.

“See anything, Ned?” the lifter called.

“Oi, there’s a mob o’ street arabs up by the church, runnin’ through the crowd like a pack o’ ruddy wolves.”

I knew he referred to the venerable St. Martin-in-the-Fields, which stands at the northeast corner of the square.

“Oh, what’s happening?” I cried, doing my damnedest to imitate the type of hysterical female I despise. I had no idea where the other anarchists might be in this crowd, but if any of them happened to catch sight of me, I’d be looking just as shocked as everyone else.

The people around me had grown uneasy, and at Ned’s words there was an apprehensive ripple through the audience.

“What are they doing?” a voice shouted.

Ned stared keenly in the direction of the tumult. “They’re liftin’ up the ladies’ skirts, the miserable little sods. And they’re pushin’ and shovin’ the men. Crikey! They’re ’eaded this way!”

Indeed they were. The crowd around the church had fallen back among much confusion. It was as though the infantry had been routed by a cavalry charge. Men, women and children were surging toward me, intent on fleeing the pesky lads who had appeared from nowhere and seemed intent on creating havoc. A woman charged past me, dragging a small boy by the arm. His feet hardly touched the ground as they flew by. Pretty young girls, their bonnets askew and curls bobbing, pelted past, shrieking deliriously. Two portly gentlemen careened through the crowd, clutching their hats and walking sticks and using the latter to good effect to clear a path. The panic of their flight infected the multitude around the column. Ned clambered down, and he and Dick departed posthaste, shoving an elderly woman to the ground to expedite their escape. I hung on grimly, trying to avoid being swept away in the flood.

I saw my first urchin then, darting through the law-abiding citizens with a maniacal grin plastered on his face and a kidskin wallet in his hand. More members of the dirty, ragged gang whisked by, yelling like banshees and pursued by a determined group of constables, to little effect. I watched one policeman swing his baton at a boy’s head, but the object of the attack danced away and disappeared into the crowd. The lads were everywhere, taunting the constables and terrorizing the crowd, overturning rubbish bins and pelting the constables with rotten oranges and apples. The noise was deafening, what with the war cries of the youngsters, the squeals of frightened women and children, the angry shouts of the men in the crowd and the roaring curses of the police. I clung to my post and pasted an anxious frown on my face.

A group of nippers peeled off from the general melee and pushed through the crowd toward the rubbish bin containing one of our bombs. I thought I spotted Vincent but couldn’t be sure, really, as those bloody tykes all looked the same to me. But it
was
Vincent, for as the boys approached the bin they formed a phalanx round it, creating a barrier, and I saw my young friend deftly remove the lid and plunge his head into the interior. Crumpled newspapers, orange peels and other trash spurted from the bin as Vincent burrowed deeper. Then the deluge of garbage halted for a time, and finally he emerged with a wooden box in his hand, which he handed off to a pinched-face, grimy lad who sported a fine grey bowler (recently acquired, I venture to say). The lad sprinted off, headed southwest for Cockspur Street. Then Vincent rallied his ragged warriors, and the pack loped off in the direction of the shrubbery where another infernal machine waited. They made short work of the decorative plantings, ripping up the shrubs by the roots while Vincent huddled behind them, deftly handling the container housing the bomb. He was as cool and efficient as an army sapper, and I felt rather proud of the little scab, though I’d no intention of telling him that. He’s insufferable enough as it is.

The chimes of St. Martin-in-the-Fields struck the quarter hour, and I held my breath as the last remnants of the crowd scattered to the four winds and the wild boys pursued them, hooting and jeering, while the constables raced after the lads in a futile attempt to lay hands on them. The square was growing quieter as the mob disappeared into the streets around it. Figures milled about on the grandstand. There was a great deal of gesticulating and shouting, and I knew Stoke was bound to catch hell. The press would have a field day as well. Confoundedly unlucky for the superintendent, but he’d have to bear it until French and I could capture Grigori, and then Stoke could take all the credit and wallow in the public’s adulation while French and I disappeared into the shadows, eschewing the thanks of a grateful nation in favor of anonymity.

I climbed down from my perch then and picked my way through the litter left behind by the fleeing throng. There were some jolly nice purses lying about and one silk bonnet that was rather fetching, but I regretfully passed up the chance to rifle through the handbags. Lucre is always welcome, as is a free addition to the wardrobe, but I didn’t want to attract attention to myself. I hurried west along Cockspur Street, turning into a mews a few blocks from the square. I opened the second door on the right and found Vincent and French counting packets of dynamite.

“Well done, Vincent. Your boys were brilliant.”

“Aye,” said Vincent, distractedly chewing a nail. “But we got a problem. We only got four of the bombs.”

“Four!” Indeed, there were four boxes sitting on the floor of the mews. The three of us stared at them with apprehension.

“I got the two unner the grandstand and the one in them bushes and one in that rubbish bin. But there weren’t no bomb in that bin at the southeast corner.”

“There were five,” I insisted.

“You sure about that?”

“Absolutely. Thick Ed made five bombs. The fifth was supposed to be in the bin near the southeast corner of the square.”

“And I just tole you, I looked there and there weren’t no bomb in that bin.”

“Could one of your friends have taken it? After all, you could sell the dynamite for a goodly sum,” I said. “Those boys—”

“They’re me mates,” said Vincent flatly.

It is sometimes better to retreat than advance. “And that’s good enough for me,” I said. “So what happened?”

Vincent went to work on the fingernail again. “Could that Thick Ed chap ’ave changed ’is mind? Maybe put one of them bombs someplace else?”

French and I stared at each other. If Thick Ed had moved one of the bombs . . . We turned and raced for the square.

SIXTEEN

T
rafalgar was crawling with bobbies and a passel of grim-looking coves in street clothes surveying the scattered programs, hats, purses and other detritus left by the departing crowd. Superintendent Stoke was huddled with a group of dignitaries at the bottom of the grandstand, nursing his moustache.

“We can’t be seen with him,” I said. “Any member of the cell could be hanging about, watching. In fact, we shouldn’t be seen with Vincent, either.”

French pulled a notebook and pencil from his pocket and scribbled a message. “Vincent, you’ll have to get this to Stoke. Mind those bobbies. They’re liable to collar you and cart you off to gaol.”

French watched Vincent slip away. “Let’s go back to the mews. I asked Stoke to meet us there.”

We hurried back up Cockspur Street to relative safety. French pulled the door to, but left a half-inch crack through which he scrutinized the cobblestoned yard. “No sign of any of the anarchists, but that doesn’t mean one of them didn’t see us in the square with Vincent and follow us here.”

“What do you think happened? To the fifth bomb, I mean?”

“Damned if I know. It should have been there. The only explanation that I can think of is that Thick Ed came back after he planted the bombs and moved that one. But why move that one and not the rest? It doesn’t make sense. And if Thick Ed did move the bomb, why hasn’t it exploded? Could he have removed it entirely? Why would he do that?” French peered through the crack in the door. “Here come Vincent and Stoke.”

The superintendent shoved open the door and stumped inside, followed by his ragged guide. A drop of spittle hung from one end of Stoke’s moustache, and he was breathing hard from the rapid walk. He had the irritable, distracted and slightly panicked air of a colonel who’s just been told his battalion has been demolished by an inferior race.

“I’m needed at the square,” he barked. “What’s this about?”

It would be an understatement to say that Stoke was not best pleased to hear that we couldn’t account for the fifth bomb. Stoke’s face flushed the colour of old bricks, and his jowls quivered like a turkey’s wattle. His moustache lay in two lank strands around his mouth, which hadn’t closed since French and I had delivered the news. The old copper stood gaping at us so long that I was mentally composing the anonymous letter to the home secretary that would advise him of Stoke’s demise from apoplexy when, at long last, the superintendent rallied. His mouth snapped shut, and he shot me a malevolent stare, as hard and sharp as forged steel.

“This is what happens when an amateur is permitted to play at spying. I was against using you from the beginning, Miss Black. I see that my worst fears have been confirmed. This was your plan, and it’s gone disastrously wrong. I hope the prime minister is satisfied. For my part, I shall have nothing further to do with you. And now I must find that device. If one of my fellows is killed when he stumbles upon the blasted thing, I shall have your head.” Vincent opened the door for him, but Stoke gave him a halfhearted cuff on the ear and stalked out.

Vincent uttered an oath and took a step after the superintendent, but French grabbed his collar and held him back.

“Don’t bother,” he said. “I have something for you to do now.”

“But the bastard hit me,” said Vincent, rubbing his already reddening earlobe. “I won’t stand for that, guv.”

“Neither will I, Vincent. But we’ll deal with Stoke later. I need you to get back to the square and see if Stoke’s men turn up the fifth bomb. Someone in that cell has a plan of his own. If he’s moved the device, he may be watching the square, waiting for it to explode.” He patted Vincent on the back. “Bring us a report at Lotus House. I’ll be waiting there with India.”

The happy news that French would be spending a few hours at my establishment might have been expected to cheer me, but it was confoundedly difficult to muster any romantic feelings under the circumstances. Stoke’s indictment of me was understandable; after all, he’d be the poor bugger raked over the coals in the papers for the chaos that had overwhelmed the memorial. It would be bloody unfair, of course, as the newspaper johnnies wouldn’t know the bit about the four bombs that had been disarmed by the unruly gang of urchins, and the brilliant mind behind the plan (that is to say, mine), instead focusing only on the public relations disaster that had occurred. The lord mayor would be blaming the Home Office, the Home Office would point an accusing finger at Scotland Yard, the editorials would call for a thorough investigation of the matter, and Stoke would be blamed by everybody. Things would drag on until the next anarchist attack, and then the whole cycle would start again.

I didn’t permit the superintendent’s words to trouble me unduly. I was more concerned with unraveling the mystery of the fifth bomb. So was French. We retreated to Lotus House, closeted ourselves in the study with a good fire and a bottle to hand and applied ourselves to working out what had happened. French thought Thick Ed the most likely candidate for removing the device, but I pointed out that we’d openly discussed the location of the bombs and the timetable for planting and arming them and therefore any one of our small cell could have been the culprit.

“Could someone else in the group be working as an informant?” I asked.

“That’s a possibility, although Schmidt and Flerko seem dedicated to anarchist ideals. Thick Ed doesn’t strike me as the ideological type, but he seems happy enough to be building bombs. He probably sells his expertise to the highest bidder. I’m not as sure of Bonnaire’s views. He says and does all the right things but doesn’t appear particularly enraged by the system, the way Flerko is.” French’s eyes met mine briefly. “Perhaps you know him better.”

“Mmm,” I murmured. “I’d agree with your assessment of his commitment to the cause,” I said neutrally.

“And then there’s Harkov.”

“It couldn’t be him. He’s eating snails and decrying the working conditions of the poor at the moment.”

“I wonder if that’s true,” mused French. “I’ll have Stoke verify that he left England and arrived in Lyon.”

“I’m sure the superintendent will be happy to do that for you, seeing as how he thinks this whole affair has been a cock-up of the first order. I wonder what he’ll tell Dizzy?”

“Perhaps I should wander round and have a chat with the prime minister before Stoke pays a call. The superintendent will be tied up for a few hours looking for that bomb.”

“I’ll come with you,” I said, rising.

“I think it would be best if you waited here for Vincent,” French said smoothly. “I shouldn’t be long.”

“It wasn’t the plan that went awry,” I said stubbornly. “How could I have known that someone was going to play silly buggers with that fifth bomb?”

“There was nothing wrong with the plan, and I shall tell that to the prime minister. Someone in the group has a different agenda than the others, and that makes it more important than ever that we remain with the anarchists and get to the bottom of this. Superintendent Stoke won’t like it, but he can go hang for all I care.” French clapped his hat on his head and stalked out. Ah, there’s nothing more arousing than a resolute chap defending his damsel’s honour.

I sat for an hour or more, nursing my drink and feeling chuffed at the idea of French stating my case to the prime minister. Then, as I was topping off my glass, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the mantel, grinning foolishly. The sight brought me up short. Bloody hell. What was I thinking? A week ago French’s chivalry would have sent me into a rage, as India Black did not need a bloke riding to her rescue. I’d have pushed my way into that meeting with Dizzy and informed him that Stoke was a whinging old woman who couldn’t stand the heat and if he wanted to the leave the kitchen, he should do so with speed. I’d have thumped French on the head for presuming that I needed his protection. And I’d have chewed up Stoke and spit him in the gutter. Damnation, I was going soft. Well, it was time to pull up my boots and fight my own battles. I was collecting a cloak and tying on a bonnet when Vincent walked into the foyer, gobbling a piece of cold ham. He shoved the last of the meat in his mouth.

“Where did French go?”

And that’s another thing that needed putting to rights: French wasn’t my superior anymore. I’d been called in by Dizzy, and by God, I had as much right as French to direct operations and Vincent could bloody well answer to me once in a while. Whether I had the experience to handle matters was a completely different matter, but I’m not one to concern myself with trifles.

“He’s with the prime minister,” I said curtly. “What have you learned?”

“Where were you goin’?”

“To see Dizzy.”

Vincent strolled into the study, wiping his greasy fingers on the seat of his pants and selecting one of my upholstered chairs. He plopped down in it and stretched his feet toward the fire.

“Well, unless you got somethin’ to say to him that French didn’t, I’d save myself a trip.”

“Why?”

“’Cause I seen French comin’ up the street. ’E’ll be ’ere any minute.”

The front door opened and French came in, removing his hat and shrugging out of his overcoat.

“Ah, Vincent. What’s happening at the square?”

“Nuffink, guv. The plods are all over the place, pokin’ at anything bigger than a muffin and everyone of ’em as nervous as a cat around a rocker. Ole Stoke was stormin’ round the place, frothin’ at the mouth and shoutin’ orders, but they didn’t find a fing. They finished a while ago and gone ’ome. Wot did ole Dizzy have to say?”

French poured himself a whisky and sank into a chair. “He congratulated us and observed that the plan would have been wholly successful but for this unforeseen intervention. We are to stay on the case until we identify Grigori and the whole lot can be arrested. The prime minister will have a word with Stoke, and we are not to take the superintendent’s words to heart, as the poor fellow is under a great deal of stress and may have overreacted.” French looked quizzically at me. “Why are you wearing that bonnet and cloak? Were you going out?”

“I had thought to join your meeting.”

“Didn’t trust me to fight our corner?”

“Something like that.”

He grinned, fondly I believe, and I granted him a meager smile. Vincent was watching with interest. Too much interest. He’s a shrewd little bugger, but he noticed me staring at him and his expression faded to one of studied indifference.

“Wot do we do now?” he asked.

“We find Grigori,” I said briskly, “and put an end to this.”

* * *

The morning brought a message from Bonnaire, requesting my presence at a meeting of the cell that night. I’d been expecting our little band would be all aflutter, and everyone would be anxious to discuss the failure of our plan. It was a glum group of anarchists who gathered in the cellar later that evening. To my surprise Harkov was there, presiding over the table with an expression of extreme displeasure on his saturnine features. He must have made a hasty trip from Lyon when he heard the news. Schmidt idly polished his glasses, puffing a pipe and staring sightlessly across the room. Bonnaire and Thick Ed appeared calm, the Frenchman lounging in his chair with his hands laced over his stomach and our bomb maker busying himself at his worktable. Flerko was a bundle of nerves, twitching like a rat in a trap when I walked in. I suppose he had expected a representative of the Third Section. French had arrived before me and sat leaning with his elbows on the table, looking severe.

Harkov screwed his monocle into his eye and let his gaze sweep the table. “I return from Lyon, expecting to read in the papers of our great achievement and the fall of the British government. Instead, I am greeted with the news that a gang of boys disrupted the memorial service. What’s more, not a single bomb exploded. Grigori—” He stopped to correct himself. “
I
demand an explanation. Thick Ed?”

Thick Ed looked up from his examination of a detonator. “Don’t know, comrade. I planted the devices just like we talked about. I armed each one. I don’t know what happened, but I can guess.” He looked meaningfully around the room, without really making eye contact with anyone, before returning to his study of the items on the table.

Flerko jumped. Harkov’s eyes were moist and dangerous. Most of the air went out of the room, leaving it dank and still.

“If you are accusing one of us of sabotaging the operation, then it would serve you well to remember that most of us do not have the expertise to build a bomb, much less dismantle one,” said Bonnaire calmly. “Your words accuse only yourself, comrade.” The last word dripped sarcasm. Bonnaire glanced obliquely at French, then at me. “And, I might add, those who helped you assemble the devices.”

Flerko had just caught up with the rest of us. “Wait one minute,” he said. “Are you accusing Thick Ed and French and Miss Black of being spies?”

Schmidt stirred. “We cannot ignore the facts, Flerko. It would appear that we have indeed been infiltrated by one or more agents,” he said around the pipe stem in his mouth. “However, I would venture to say that our spy works for someone other than the British.”

The colour drained from Flerko’s face. “The Third Section,” he whispered.

“Why do you say that it is not the British?” asked Harkov.

“Look at the disruption of the service. A group of what, a hundred boys, put a crowd to flight, and in the chaos our bombs are conveniently disarmed and vanish. Had the informant been working for Scotland Yard, they would simply have rendered the bombs ineffective and removed them before the service. Certainly they would not hire a mob of guttersnipes to create a distraction while they collected the bombs. What would be the point? No, I think our friend must be working for another government, and our spy was forced to devise an informal means of thwarting our scheme.” He sucked on his pipe, discovered it had gone out, and frowned at it. “We know how frequently the Sûreté, the Third Section and the
Landespolizei
forces of the German states attempt to infiltrate our combat units. I fear they may have been successful in our case.”