India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A Madam of Espionage Mystery) (4 page)

“Here is where your special skills will be useful, my dear,” said Dizzy, as if I hadn’t already figured that out on my own.

“Martine works for old Mother Edding. Know her?”

“I’ve heard of her,” I said. “Runs a brothel in the rookery at St. Giles, near Seven Dials. Squalid place.” Curse it, I thought. I’ve only been around Stoke for half an hour, and already I’d forgotten how to speak in complete sentences.

“Want you to hire Martine, take her to your place,” said Stoke.

That brought me up short. “I’m not sure about that. Mother Edding runs a very different establishment from mine. My customers are used to an immaculate house and first-rate toffers, not dirty baggage. I’ll have to see this Martine first, to see if she can pass muster. I can’t ruin my business by bringing in some unwashed bint who’s used to servicing common sailors and such.”

“Bathe her,” said Stoke. It did not appear to be a suggestion. “Pretty girl. Jump at the chance to get out of Mother Edding’s. Suit your customers just fine.”

I dismissed the disturbing thought that Stoke might know what my customers liked. There were more important issues at hand.

“I’ll look at her,” I said. “If I don’t think she’ll work, I shall have to find another way into the Dark Legion. I have to earn a living, you know. I can’t put my business at risk.”

Stoke’s face darkened. “Thought you said she was your agent, Prime Minister.”

“Yes, yes,” said Dizzy smoothly. “I’m sure Miss Black will find a way to accommodate your suggestions, Superintendent, while retaining her own, er, professional integrity.” A meaningless piece of twaddle, that, but Stoke seemed soothed, and I’d worked with Dizzy before, so I knew not to put much stock into what he said. I felt confident I’d find a way to wriggle into the Dark Legion if this Martine girl couldn’t cut the mustard. They were men, after all, and if I do say so myself, there are very few of Adam’s sons who can resist India Black.

Stoke had brought a case with him, and now he unloaded a stack of papers and handed them to me. “Background material. Read it tonight. See Martine tomorrow.”

I tried to disguise the irritation I felt at his peremptory tone. No doubt I failed; I’m not much good at standing to attention just because some bloke has barked an order.

“How am I to reach you, Superintendent?”

“Address is on the papers. Send a messenger. Someone you trust.”

“Then it will be a young fellow named Vincent.”

Dizzy nodded approvingly. “A good lad. Not, er, the most dapper in appearance, but very useful.”

“You’ll have to instruct your men to watch for him. He’s a street arab, so they’ll probably toss him out on his ear if he tries to approach you.”

“Tell him to say that he comes from India Black. Be sure to reach me, then.” Stoke extracted his hunter from his pocket. “Must run. Any questions?”

“No. I’ll be in touch,” I said. I stood, prepared to also take my leave of Dizzy.

He put out a hand. “If you can remain with me a minute longer, Miss Black, I’ve something to say to you.”

My heart contracted. Had I been wrong? Had Dizzy been saving the news that French had been abducted by Russian agents and found in the Thames?

Stoke bowed himself out, and Dizzy waited until the door had closed behind him. The old man looked at me searchingly. “Are you ready, my dear?”

“Ready?”

“To venture out on your own? I certainly think you are, as does Mr. French. But it is entirely up to you.”

“You consulted French?”

“Briefly. Communications are difficult, but I did manage to get word to him. He seemed to think you capable.”

Damned faint praise, that, but I admit to feeling a ridiculously warm glow at the confirmation of my skills from his nibs.

“You needn’t worry, sir. I’m ready.” God help me, I sounded positively eager.

* * *

I returned to Lotus House to find Mrs. Drinkwater retired to her room (for the remainder of the night, if the volume of snores and the empty bottle in the hall outside her door were any indication). She had in fact prepared a plate of sandwiches and left them on the deal table in the kitchen. I carried them into the study and, once I had pared off the hardened crusts and the curling edges of the roast beef, settled down to this unsatisfactory repast while I scanned the documents Superintendent Stoke had sent home with me. For the most part, these consisted of reports written in the impenetrable lingo that civil servants love, be they government ministers or police constables. I resigned myself to wading through it and spent two hours perusing the papers. At the end of this session, I was not much wiser than I had been after Stoke’s seminar in the prime minister’s room. The Dark Legion was a shadowy organization, rumored to include among its members an expert in the construction of explosive devices (referred to as “infernal machines” in the reports) and various brands of foreigners, all of whom had been deported from or fled their native countries due to their avowed pledge to overthrow the governments of said countries. The French girl, Martine, was thought by police informants to be the daughter of a prominent Communard who had died when the French government had attacked the forces of the Paris Commune, ending that particular utopian idyll. Like many other young girls in the expatriate community, she had found herself required to earn a crust as a whore, but this had apparently only fired her enthusiasm for anarchist causes.

The connection between her and the Dark Legion was vague. Stoke’s men had heard talk on the street that Martine had a relationship of some sort with one of the men who had formed the cabal. The man might be a friend of her dead father, or her lover. Some of the memos made for interesting reading, as some lucky detective had been given the task of appearing at Mother Edding’s establishment and requesting a quarter of an hour with Martine on numerous occasions. Unsurprisingly, the detective had been unable to pry any information out of the girl. I snorted when I read that, for I reckon Martine had sussed out immediately that the bloke was a copper. That skill is one of the first you learn in this business, or you don’t last long. I expect Martine had gleefully passed along the information that the Dark Legion was under investigation to her friends in that organization, which made my assignment all the more difficult, as the members would really be on guard now.

I put away the papers and spent a bit of time ruminating about how to approach Martine. I fancied I’d do a better job than the plod who had enjoyed Martine’s charms, but I’d have to provide the girl with a plausible story to avoid arousing suspicion myself. After all, it wasn’t every day that a madam of one of the best (well, nearly one of the best) brothels in London condescended to visit the rookery of St. Giles to hire a prostitute. Then there was the issue of Mother Edding. I had never met the woman and didn’t consider her a rival, but I knew how I’d feel if some other abbess came prowling around, enticing my girls to up stakes and move. Running a brothel is just like any other business: you’ve got to protect your assets. Mother Edding might prove troublesome.

I spared a moment to savor the situation. This very morning I had been lounging about, bored as a regiment between battles, and here I was now, ready to take on a rival madam and a collection of dangerous radicals. It should prove interesting, I thought. In retrospect, that is not the word I would have chosen.

THREE

T
he next morning I sent for Vincent. While I waited for the young cub to appear, I attended to some household matters, paying the outstanding accounts, prying Mrs. Drinkwater out of bed, and dragging her to the kitchen to feed the girls. Then I unlocked the top right-hand drawer of my desk and took out my Bulldog revolver. I swabbed the barrel, rotated and cleaned the cylinder, and loaded the weapon. I wrapped a handful of extra cartridges in a handkerchief to add to my purse. In my line of work, it pays to have a bit of protection. Dreadful times we live in, when a lady has to carry a weapon when she ventures into certain parishes of the city. I intended to have the Bulldog on my person when I made my foray in search of Martine. Seven Dials was no place for a woman of quality traveling alone, but I didn’t hesitate to venture there with the revolver in hand. Anyone who trifled with me would end up with powder burns on his bollocks.

I went into the kitchen to wash my hands and found Mrs. Drinkwater slumbering at the table with her chin propped in her hand. I prodded her chair with my foot as I went past and enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing her head flop forward and her eyes spring open. She looked wildly about the room.

“It’s only me, Mrs. Drinkwater. Please have lunch ready at one o’clock. I’ll eat in my study.”

I took her surly growl as acquiescence and retired to my study. There I sat down at the desk and drew forth a sheet of plain cream stock, with my name embossed upon it in ebony ink. I unscrewed the cap of my sterling silver pen (a present from an admirer; I do so love admirers) and flipped open the lid of the inkwell. Preparations complete, I sat and stared at the paper. In truth, I’m not a great one for writing letters. Oh, I write the odd note to the greengrocer or the wine merchant, but one can hardly call that correspondence. There are no maiden aunts in my life, nor kindly vicars who’ve taken an interest in my education (at least, not in the generally accepted sense of that phrase). I admit that my skill in the art of drafting missives is nonexistent. I don’t mind making such an admission, as there are dozens of other skills at which I excel. I disclose the foregoing, of course, to explain why it took such a long time for me to set pen to paper.

I’d another consideration weighing on my mind, and that was the recipient of the letter. I have mentioned the Balmoral affair previously, and if you’ve read my account of the threat against the Queen’s life, then you’ll remember a withered narcoleptic with a taste for snuff and tales of deceit and treachery by the female of the species. I refer, of course, to the Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine, in whose employ I masqueraded as a lady’s maid at Balmoral. I can’t say I enjoyed the experience, having to launder the old lady each time she snorted a quantity of snuff and then expectorated it by way of an explosive sneeze. Nor did I appreciate her preference for sleeping during the day and remaining as alert as a fox vixen during the hours of the night. As I had never met the woman before our visit to Balmoral, and had no expectations whatsoever that I would ever set eyes on the dilapidated wreck again, it came as quite a shock to me when she acknowledged knowing my mother. Worse, the old bag had shouted out this revelation as her train pulled out of the station at Perth, leaving me agog on the platform. I was disconcerted, as you can imagine. I vowed then and there to track down the marchioness and pry from her whatever information she might possess. But it was a long way to Scotland, and I wasn’t keen about making the trip before ascertaining that Her Ladyship had something of value to tell me, which explains why I was chewing on the top of my pen at my desk and staring out the window at the rain this spring morning.

After a quarter hour or so, I issued a stern injunction to myself to stop dithering and get on with it, for Christ’s sake, and so I applied myself laboriously to my task.

“Forever in your debt—”

No, strike that. God knows how the marchioness would interpret such a phrase. She’d probably expect me to move to Tullibardine and live out my days reading her to sleep at night.

“Urgent that I know—”

What was I thinking? That sounded desperate, and India Black was never desperate. I chewed the pen and muttered and tried half a dozen sentences, wasting a ream of paper (and the cursed stuff was expensive) and splattering ink all over the desk, until I finally settled on the following:

The Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine
Aberkill House
Tullibardine, Scotland

Dear Lady Aberkill,

I trust this letter finds you well and in good health. I understood from your last comments to me on the station platform at Perth that you knew something of my mother. I would be much obliged to you if you could provide further specifics, as I have little information about her.

Yours sincerely,

India Black

It was short and to the point, which, I recalled, the marchioness was herself in her communications, though this one was undoubtedly more polite than anything I’d ever heard the marchioness utter. I sealed it up, relieved that the chore was done, and consigned it to the hall table, to be delivered to the post office by Mrs. Drinkwater. I returned to my study to find Vincent seated by the fire. The brat had deliberately chosen one of my prized Queen Anne chairs, upholstered in a watered silk of china blue.

“How the devil did you get in here? And move out of that chair immediately. You know you’re not allowed on the cushions.”

“I came in the back door. Mrs. Drinkwater’s asleep in the kitchen. Put your ’air back on, India. I’m movin’.” He gave me a little smirk, to let me know he could stay in the Queen Anne if he chose to but for reasons of his own, he was relocating. Vincent is like that, you see. He’s a veteran of the London streets, more used to taunting authority than complying with it. I judged Vincent’s chronological age at between ten and fourteen, but he could be thirty for all I knew. He had a cracked voice that could shatter glass, the cunning mind of a Russian arms dealer, the morals of a Bedouin raider and the personal hygiene of a cave dweller. Save for the cleanliness issue, he was the perfect ally in the London underworld. I trusted him implicitly, except with my bolsters, and as long as he stayed upwind.

“’Eard from French?” he enquired.

“Not directly,” I said, wincing as I caught a whiff of
eau de filth
, “but the prime minister passed on a message to me.”

“Ole Dizzy? When did ya see ’im?”

“Last night.”

Vincent sat up eagerly, eyes sparkling like those of a mongoose who’d sighted a cobra. “We got spies to catch? Or is the Queen up to her knickers in hassassins again?”

I hesitated. I needed Vincent’s help, but I knew the bugger would want to be in the very heart of things. All I needed was a messenger at the moment, but knowing Vincent, I feared he’d figure out a way to apprentice himself to a bomb maker in some anarchist cell and blow up half of London.

“I’ve been asked to hire a bint who is associated with an anarchist group. I’m to try to get information from her and pass it along to Superintendent Stoke at Scotland Yard.” Well, that was half my assignment. I’d let Vincent know about the spying half when I deemed it necessary.

“Is that all?” Vincent was disappointed. “We could do a lot more than that. We could join one of them groups and find out who they’re gonna bomb next. That would be better than sneakin’ around after some tart.”

“At the moment, all I need is a messenger. Are you willing to help me?”

“’Course I am,” said Vincent. “I just wish we could ’ave some fun while we’re at hit.”

“You never know what will develop. Just look at what happened in Scotland.”

The thought that we might encounter fanatics who would wish to kill us cheered Vincent enormously. I cracked a window, and we spent a pleasant half hour discussing my meeting with Dizzy and the superintendent and whether I’d encounter any difficulties in prizing away Martine from Mother Edding. Vincent had a few suggestions for getting the girl out of the Seven Dials brothel, but as all of them involved violence in some form or another, I dismissed them.

“Really, Vincent, the girl would be stupid not to recognize that Lotus House is a superior situation. I’ll make it worth her while to come here. She won’t turn me down. Certainly Mother Edding won’t have any difficulty in replacing her. There are dozens of girls in the Communard community who would jump at the chance to earn a few pence.”

“Wot makes you think this Martine is one of them anarchists?”

I shrugged. “I’ve only Superintendent Stoke’s opinion that she is. He has informants in the Communard community. I hope the information is accurate. Otherwise, I’ll find myself with a French tart I know nothing about.”

“Does she speak English?”

That brought me up short. I hadn’t even thought of that. It wouldn’t matter to the customers if the girl couldn’t
parlez-vous anglais
as long as she was pretty, but it would be difficult to explain the financial arrangements of the house to her. Damn. How did I get myself into these situations? Well, I’d cross that bridge when I came to it. I made arrangements with Vincent to stop by Lotus House at several appointed hours during the day to see if there was a message for delivery to Superintendent Stoke, assured Vincent that if we had the opportunity to kill any spies I would not do so without him, and agreed on a sum for his services (greedy little bastard—I’d have to get some money from Dizzy or I’d be out of pocket myself).

* * *

The next morning after breakfast, I selected an ensemble for my visit to the Seven Dials area. Considering my destination, a pair of sturdy boots that would withstand a river of sewage and an old dress that could be discarded and burned after use might seem the safest bet, but I had a whore to catch and I wanted to dazzle the girl with the opportunities awaiting her at Lotus House. Consequently, I selected one of my most fetching outfits, a tie-back underskirt in scarlet silk and a long draped overskirt of pinstriped navy wool with a matching jacket bodice that fitted so tightly my natural assets were displayed to their fullest. Thank goodness the fashion of bustles was disappearing; it would have been a job of work to navigate the foul, stinking streets of Seven Dials with yards of cloth hanging off the rear of one’s skirt. I chose a pair of black boots of sensible, not fine, leather (a girl has to make some concession to the weather) but with an arched instep and thin high heel that made me sway voluptuously before the mirror. How I’d look when I had to stagger down the uneven bricks of the streets of Seven Dials was another matter entirely, but I didn’t dwell on that thought. A high-crowned hat with a rolled brim in navy blue completed my attire. As the rain was bucketing down I added an umbrella to my kit. I looked rather fetching, I thought. Most men wouldn’t have turned me down, and I doubted whether an impoverished French girl could resist the prospect of one day emulating the madam of Lotus House. I went to the study and took the Webley and the handkerchief of extra cartridges from the drawer. Their weight was reassuring.

Mrs. Drinkwater had braved the elements to summon a cab for me, and I climbed in carefully, smoothing my skirts and calling out my destination to the driver. The carriage shifted as he climbed down. A pale face, slick with rain, appeared in the window.

“Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but that area is . . . is—”

“Unsafe?” I suggested. “Dangerous? Disgusting? Yes, it is. Nevertheless, I intend to go there. Should you like the fare, or must I find another cab?”

The driver scratched his head, causing his hat to tip precariously to one side. A sheet of water cascaded from the brim.

“But—”

“I absolve you of all responsibility.”

“But—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. I’ll pay you double the fare. Now, may we go?”

“Paid up front?” the driver asked.

I fished some money from my purse with ill grace and dangled it in front of him. “Here is half now, and I’ll pay you the other half upon our return.”

The sight of the coins was persuasive. I do believe a shilling is better than whisky at generating courage.

We drove north with the rain thrumming on the roof of the cab, dodging drays and carriages and splashing pedestrians as we rolled through the water running in the gutters. What a delightful day for an excursion, I thought gloomily. Our destination did not warrant any enthusiasm either. I brooded as we drove northeast, passing Leicester Square and turning onto St. Martin’s Lane. In a matter of minutes we had reached the confluence of roads known as Seven Dials. It’s a bit of a mystery as to how the place got its name. Only six roads converged there originally, and a pillar with six sundials on it was erected there, so you’d think it would be Six Dials. But another road was built and the pillar was torn down and now it’s known as Seven Dials. Typical of London, as it defies logic. However, it doesn’t matter what they call the place, as a more apt name for it would be Hell.

We hadn’t come far from Lotus House, but by God, this was another world entirely. I’d grown up in London and seen a fair bit of dirt, poverty and disease, but even I was overwhelmed in this part of the city. A crowd of filthy creatures surged around the cab: diseased whores, gin-addled beggars and half-naked children with matted hair and wild eyes. There were lunatics and cripples, the starved and the sick, the maimed and the hopeless. A crowd formed at the sight of the cab and converged on us, hands outstretched. The driver cursed and lashed at them with his whip, and the horse pawed the ground and whinnied in fear.