India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A Madam of Espionage Mystery) (7 page)

“Ain’t you sweet,” said Vincent.

“I am not sweet. I just don’t want your death on my conscience.” Well, I wasn’t about to allow Vincent to go all soft and sticky on me. Next thing you know, he’d be labouring under the misapprehension that I cared about him.

The pup gave me a cheeky grin. “Don’t you worry about me. I ain’t about to let a bunch of garlic eaters get the best o’ me.”

“Just remember that neither the bluebottles nor the do-gooders think dynamite is a solution to the world’s problems. These radicals do. They won’t be throwing you into the clink or a home for wayward youths if they catch you. Be careful, Vincent.”

“Aye, aye, admiral.” He sketched a mock salute and finished his tea. He stuffed the remaining rock cakes in his pockets. “I’m off to the pub. Wot’re you goin’ to be doin’ while I’m ’avin’ a glass of ale and spyin’ on this French feller?”

“I’m glad you asked. Before you start drinking gin with the garlic eaters, could you make a detour by Dizzy’s office? I need a favor from the old boy.”

* * *

After dispatching Vincent, I attended to the afternoon post. There wasn’t much of it; as I’ve explained earlier, my list of correspondents is not extensive. It is, in fact, nonexistent. So it was that the marchioness’s letter stood out a country mile, being the only one that had arrived. I stared at it for a moment, like a novice snake charmer about to open the cobra basket for the first time. I wandered around the room, tapping the letter on my open palm, staring at the elegant copperplate script on the envelope (surely not the marchioness’s handwriting, who was ninety if she was a day and couldn’t write a legible hand if her life depended on it) and the snuff stains around the edges (which clearly belonged to the old bag). I poured a glass of whisky, sat down at my desk and drew a deep breath.

“Oh, curse it,” I muttered, and stabbed the bloody thing with my letter opener. A small square of paper floated out of the envelope and onto my blotter. I fortified myself with a drink and unfolded it gingerly.

Dear Miss Black
,

I have read your letter with, frankly, a degree of astonishment. I do not recall mentioning your mother’s name in the course of our many conversations. Perhaps you are mistaken? In any event, I regret that I can be of no assistance to you.

P.S. I trust you are keeping well, reading the Good Book, and have finally learned how to do hair.

Yours sincerely,

Lady Margaret Aberkill

Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine

I read the letter again, just to be sure that the wicked biddy had signed her name to such a blatant lie. “God rot her,” I said when I had finished. I’ll admit that at the time my nerves were a bit frayed from catering to the marchioness’s capricious demands and narrowly escaping death at the hands of a mad Scottish assassin, but I could clearly recall the marchioness’s words to me on the railway platform at Perth: “Ye are yer mother’s daughter,” she had screeched out the window of the carriage as the train pulled away. “Ye remind me of her. She was a brave girl, too.” Fair enough, the wicked woman had not actually mentioned my mother’s name. But hang it all, it was evident she knew my mother. No amount of mental exhaustion or brushes with death could have caused me to misinterpret those words. The marchioness was lying. She was a cagy old harridan, but having once admitted an acquaintance with my mother, why should she now disclaim any knowledge of her? I whipped out the writing paper and pen and ink and jotted down my reply.

Dear Lady Aberkill,

Don’t play the addled crone with me. You explicitly said that I reminded you of my mother, which is a difficult comparison to make unless you had known her at some time. After reading to you each night until the break of dawn, washing you down every time you sneezed and seeing that you didn’t embarrass yourself in front of the Queen (at a significant cost to my own health), the least I deserve from you is an explanation of what you said at the station. Kindly reply forthwith, or I shall be on your doorstep.

Yours sincerely,

India Black

You may think that I lack tact. You would be correct. I’ve about as much use for tact as I have for patience, which is to say, none at all. Besides, the marchioness herself was about as tactful as a wasp. She wouldn’t be lulled by sweet words into telling me what she knew. Nor, if I’m completely honest, would she be coerced by my threat to visit her in Scotland. As it was, I reckoned the only effect of the letter would be to send her into gales of derisive laughter. I had thought that we’d parted on pleasant terms and thus found her reluctance to share any information puzzling. I was not disposed, therefore, to be polite.

I was stamping around my study and muttering curses on the old pussy’s head when the first customer of the evening arrived. Mrs. Drinkwater was still sober enough to open the door and escort the chap into the study.

“Mr. Brown,” she announced, and lurched back down the hallway to the kitchen.

I had never seen Mr. Brown before. He was a comely young fellow with pale blue eyes, a cloud of blond curls and an amiable, if somewhat vacant, expression. He removed his hat and bowed his head. “Miss Black?”

“Mr. Brown.”

“The prime minister sent me.”

He looked a tad young to be Dizzy’s man and did not appear to be the sharpest blade in the scabbard. However, presumably the prime minister knew what he was about, and it wasn’t for me to question his choice of this young colt to perform the task I’d suggested in my message to Dizzy.

“Indeed,” I said with a trace of the skepticism I felt. “Then you know what to do. I’ll introduce you to the girls, and you can choose any one of them you want, so long as it’s Martine. You’ll recognize her immediately; she’s the dark one with the French accent.” I gave him a sharp glance. “Have you ever done anything like this before?”

He smiled, and I noticed a glint of mischief behind the mask of affability. “What are you asking, Miss Black? Have I been with a prostitute before? Or am I skilled at the art of disinformation?”

“Both would be useful talents in this instance.”

“Then put your mind at ease. My performance shall be flawless.”

“What have you and Dizzy planned?” I remembered that I did possess some manners. “Please sit down. May I get you a drink? Whisky? Brandy?”

He chose whisky and soda and sipped it appreciatively.

I poured myself a glass and joined him on the sofa. “Now, then. Tell me the yarn you’ll be spinning for Martine.”

He swirled the liquid in his glass. “I shall be an agreeable young fop named Brown, who, by virtue of his uncle’s patronage, has found a place in the Foreign Office. I don’t really give a damn about politics, and I jolly well hate meeting all those strange exotic types. Dreadful manners, most of them, and smelly to boot. Why, just this week, on Wednesday, I must spend hours with the Russian legation at Moreland House, trying to hammer out some sort of arrangement about what bits of the Ottoman Empire they want when that bloody thing falls apart. I hope those anarchist chappies don’t find out about the meeting. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel. They could wipe out lots of Ivan’s top politicos and generals in one go, not to mention embarrassing the hell out of Her Majesty’s government and putting a nasty spike in Russo-British relations.”

“Very neat,” I said. “But bear in mind that Martine is a bright girl and if she is involved with the radicals, she’ll be on the qui vive when it comes to a fellow dropping a story like this in her lap. Just because you made an excellent Hamlet for the dramatic society doesn’t mean you’ll persuade her.”

He gave me a reproachful look. “Come, now. The standards of my service are slightly higher than that, as I’m sure you know. Rest assured, Martine will have a great deal to report to her comrades tomorrow, and she’ll be utterly convinced that she has winkled it out of a brainless young nincompoop who couldn’t hold his liquor.” He drained his whisky and stood up. “I suppose you’d better introduce me to the girls and start plying me with alcohol.”

I escorted him to the drawing room, where I introduced Brown to the tarts. He proved an immediate hit with his blond curls and congenial manner. I let him chunter on a bit, then while he was engaged in an exchange of ribald pleasantries with Clara Swansdown, I snagged Martine and took her to the window.

“What do you think of our guest?” I asked her.

She gave me a slantindicular look. “He seems a pleasant fellow.”

“Yes, he appears to be a nice young man. Not a lot of brains rattling around in that head of his, I should say, but he does have other attributes that recommend him.”

“Oh?”

I had Martine’s full attention now. “What sort of attributes?” she asked.

“During my chat with him, he mentioned that he is employed at the Foreign Office. He seems a very foolish chap who likes the sound of his own voice. He might prove to be imprudent. You might learn something of interest from him. It’s Agatha’s turn next, but if you think you’d like to spend time with Mr. Brown, I’ll work something out with her.”

Martine flashed dark eyes in Brown’s direction. “If you don’t think Agatha will mind?”

“I’m the abbess here. If I tell Agatha not to mind, she won’t.” In truth, I’d have to pay Agatha what she would have earned. I totted up the expenses I was incurring and moodily followed Martine back to the circle of tarts and Dizzy’s man Brown.

From a bint’s perspective, he seemed a good-natured fellow whose experience encompassed the missionary position and nothing else. He was putting away the liquor at pace, growing ever more tipsy and giggling like a schoolgirl at the witty repartee of my employees. Either Brown had a hollow leg, or there was one aspidistra that would be dead from alcohol poisoning by the end of the evening. He was proving himself quite a favourite with the girls, as most of them had probably come to the conclusion that the evening’s work would consist of helping the fellow stagger to a room, where he’d pass out and sleep for several hours while the bint hurried downstairs and found another gentleman in the queue. Eventually I thought that Brown had established himself, and encouraged him to choose one of the young ladies. After much dithering and flattery of all the females in the room, he finally selected Martine, with enough pretty reluctance that she left the room with a little smile of triumph on her face at landing the easiest catch of the night. I had to hand it to him, Brown was a dab hand at his job.

SIX

O
n Wednesday evening I was polishing my rapier with a glass of whisky at hand, listening to the patter of raindrops against the windows, when a newsboy went by in full cry. I leapt to my feet, flung open the door and chased him down the block. A crowd had gathered around him at the end of the street, and papers and coins were changing hands at astonishing speed.

I skidded to a halt next to the local butcher. “What’s happened, Mr. Bradley? What’s the newsboy going on about?” I tried unsuccessfully to wrestle the paper from the butcher’s grip. He held firm, though. Confound it, I’d have to fight my way through the crowd to get my own copy.

“It’s those damned anarchists again,” Mr. Bradley said, breathing heavily through his whiskers. “Some bally jokers calling themselves the Dark Legion have blown up Moreland House.”

“Bloody hell!” I was genuinely astonished. I had hoped Mr. Brown’s story would inspire some act by Martine’s group of friends, but I hadn’t expected them to take on the project of demolishing one of England’s most notable government buildings.

I shouldered my way through the crowd, stepping on toes and shoving aside blokes who turned to snarl at me until they saw my face and figure and then they couldn’t make way fast enough. Being a looker is a tremendous advantage in life, and it would be foolish not to use one’s natural endowments at every opportunity.

I took the paper the boy thrust out at me, looked appealingly around for a gentleman willing to lend me a bit of the ready (in my excitement, I had of course exited Lotus House without a farthing to my name) and smiled graciously at the three blokes who shoved coins into my hands. I thanked the lucky winner who’d paid for my paper and scurried back to Lotus House. I didn’t even stop to dry my hair but plonked down in my chair and avidly scanned the headline.

“Blow me down,” I whispered and swallowed the whisky in my glass.

ANARCHIST OUTRAGE IN LONDON—EXPLOSION AT MORELAND HOUSE

Several explosions rocked Moreland House this afternoon at approximately three o’clock this afternoon, throwing Pall Mall into a state of excitement such as your correspondent has never before witnessed. There were three separate detonations, each of which sounded, according to bystanders, like a thunderous blast from a cannon. The explosions destroyed the frontage of the building facing the Mall and leveled the guardhouse at the entrance. It is fortunate that the police constable who might otherwise have occupied the guardhouse was in fact not on duty at the time. However, two carriages that were standing at the curb in front of the building were destroyed, with shards of wood and fragments of iron from them being found several blocks from the scene of the blast. A number of pedestrians in the area and occupants of adjacent properties received minor injuries from flying glass and debris. In all, fourteen persons were affected and received treatment for their injuries. Fortunately for the bystanders, the area directly in front of Moreland House had been closed to pedestrian traffic for the reasons hereinafter described.

The toll could certainly have been much larger, as members of Her Majesty’s government were scheduled to meet with a legation from the Russian embassy at Moreland House today to discuss the settlement of certain outstanding issues related to the situation in the Ottoman Empire. However, several members of the Russian legation had succumbed to influenza in the last few days and it was deemed necessary to postpone the meeting until their recovery. Had the meeting taken place, several luminaries of the Foreign Office and the War Office would have been in attendance, as would have Count Peter Shuvalov, the tsar’s ambassador to the Court of St. James, and several prominent officers of the Russian military forces.

Superintendent Stoke of Scotland Yard was immediately on the scene and informed your correspondent that the Yard had received a message moments after the explosions from a heretofore unknown group of anarchists. Superintendent Stoke reported that the message was brief, consisting only of the words “Death to all tyrants,” and signed “The Dark Legion” in an unknown hand. Readers will recall that previous acts of violence against certain peers of the realm have been attributed to other radical groups, such as the Black Flag, but the destruction of Moreland House is the first evidence of the existence of the Dark Legion. Superintendent Stoke vowed to apprehend and punish the members of this group for their perpetration of this cowardly act. This paper encourages the police to act swiftly, as the failure to capture these dastardly anarchists can only increase public concern and trepidation. When innocent men and women must walk the streets of London in fear, the Home Office and Scotland Yard must spare no effort or expense to halt this series of alarming events. The failure to eradicate these craven creatures who callously attack our people and our institutions is an ominous sign. Perhaps it is time to consider a change of leadership at the highest levels of the institutions in which we have hitherto entrusted our lives and safety.

I had barely had time to digest the story when a messenger arrived with a rather peremptory note from Superintendent Stoke, summoning me to a meeting at Dizzy’s suite, posthaste. I trundled over in leisurely fashion and found the prime minister engrossed in the evening papers and the man from the Yard pacing the carpet.

Dizzy peered over the top of his paper at me. “Well, well, India. I must give you credit for drawing the Dark Legion out into the light of day.”

Superintendent Stoke did not join in this faint praise. He sucked the ends of his moustache and looked sour. To give the chap his due, some esteemed members of the press had suggested, in their usual subtle fashion, that the job of hunting down anarchists might be too much for the old boy and he should retire to a seaside bungalow. I suppose my feathers would have been ruffled too, had I been in his shoes.

He blew the tips of his moustache from his mouth. “Oh, yes, the Dark Legion has emerged from the shadows. Unclear to me, however, that the demolition of Moreland House was necessary to confirm what we already know: Martine connected to the organization, and the Dark Legion is bloody dangerous. Cost of the operation was exorbitant. Home secretary none too pleased with the whole affair.” He cleared his throat and glanced at the prime minister. “Questioned the wisdom of the plan and the efficacy of your agent.” He cut his eyes at me, just to be sure that I knew to whom he was referring.

As you might expect, I did not allow a little sarcasm to dent my confidence. I might have hatched the plan to plant information about a spurious meeting between the Russians and the British with Martine, but of course I’d had the assistance of Dizzy in providing “Mr. Brown from the Foreign Office,” and that of the superintendent himself in securing the perimeter of Moreland House. His function had been to ensure that no one (least of all an anarchist with not one, but three, bombs) penetrated the area around the building. It was difficult to envision how someone with enough dynamite to demolish half the structure had slipped past the contingent of plainclothes officers guarding the place. I pointed out this fact to Superintendent Stoke.

His moustache fluttered wetly. “Had the place surrounded. Don’t know how those bloody foreigners got through. Damned elusive fellows.”

Dizzy sought to pour oil on troubled waters. “Your men had successfully cleared the area and Moreland House was empty, Superintendent. Let us be glad that only property was damaged, and that there were no fatalities. And the fourteen people who were hurt? Have they recovered from their wounds?”

“Weren’t any wounds,” said the Superintendent. “Fabricated that for the benefit of those impudent fellows in the press. Let the Dark Legion think they accomplished something with their bombs.”

“Very clever of you to provide some sham injuries, Superintendent,” I said. “Perhaps that will distract the Dark Legion from noticing that the guardhouse was empty, the street closed to pedestrians and the meeting with the Russians cancelled. The whole project practically screams ‘We knew you were coming’ to any anarchist blessed with even a farthing’s worth of intelligence. I fear that in your zeal to ensure that Moreland House was deserted and the area safe, you may have compromised my position. Martine and her cohorts may suspect that with my connivance, Martine has delivered tainted intelligence to the group and that the members narrowly avoided being entrapped by the police. You may have placed me in some considerable danger.”

The only sounds in the room were the faint rustle of Dizzy’s collar as his head revolved in search of an escape route, and a moist, sucking sound from the superintendent as he nibbled his moustache. After a lengthy chew and a think, he spat out the ends of his soup strainer.

“Can’t very well kill a dozen Londoners just to make your story square.”

“I agree that would have been an extravagance. But perhaps you could have planted a few dead bodies around the area. Surely you had some spare corpses in the morgues you could have pressed into service. In fact, you needn’t have gone to even that much trouble. Why not just create a poor widowed policeman, a year from retirement, with seven children, whose bad luck it was to draw guard duty today?”

The superintendent sniffed audibly. “Can’t let these anarchists appear too successful. Cause a panic, it would. Then where would we be?”

Dizzy was growing restless, no doubt because he’d been excluded from the exchange between the superintendent and me. “It is a delicate balance we must strike,” he murmured, staring at us over steepled fingers. “Any intelligence the anarchists glean through Miss Black must be considered by them to be both accurate and credible. Concurrently, Superintendent Stoke and I must consider the public welfare and avoid endangering innocent people.”

“And how do we accomplish those two mutually exclusive goals?” I asked.

“If Mr. French were here,” mused Superintendent Stoke, “he’d undoubtedly formulate a plan that would achieve our objectives.”

I gave that notion the attention it deserved, which is to say, none at all.

“As he’s not here, you shall have to rely upon me,” I said, with a serene smile at the superintendent.

“May we count on you, Miss Black?” The old duffer must be taking fire from the press and his superiors at the Home Office; his tone was a trifle plaintive.

“Of course.” I stood briskly and put on my gloves. “No more messing about with fake documents or fake Foreign Office chaps. It is time for me to join the Dark Legion.”

Upon my return to Lotus House I wasted no time in summoning Martine to my study. She entered with her usual gravity and pose, but there was a flush on her olive cheeks, and her brown eyes blazed. I didn’t think it was gin that had given her such a celebratory air.

“You asked to see me?”

I picked up the newspaper I had purchased that afternoon. “Have you heard the news? About the destruction of Moreland House?”

“I have. Such a tragedy,” she said, but her words were belied by the twitch of her lips.

“The tragedy,” I said, “is that the whole affair was a shambles. Not a single politician or general killed.”

Martine stiffened.

“I assume that the information about the meeting between the government and the Russians came from Mr. Brown?”

She nodded briefly.

“And that you passed along this news to your friends?”

She bit her lip. “Yes.”

“And that this”—I waved the paper at her—“is their handiwork?”

“It is.” She was on the defensive now.

“What a waste of bloody intelligence,” I said.

“The Dark Legion struck,” Martine said coldly. “But for some unfortunate circumstances, many would have died.”

“But they didn’t, did they? A perfect opportunity, gone to waste. The Dark Legion, eh? Is that what you call yourselves?”

“It is the name we have chosen.”

I regarded her coolly. “Do you know why I hired you, Martine?”

“Mr. Birkett-Jones—”

“Birkett-Jones be damned,” I said. “I’ll accommodate a customer from time to time, but only if it’s in my interest to do so.
I
decided to take you on because I thought you might prove useful to me. You know my feelings about the buffoons who run this country. I brought you to Lotus House because I thought you might have some contacts among the radicals who could make good use of the morsels of information that fall into my lap from time to time.”

She squared her shoulders. Her eyes were luminous with passion. “And we have done so. We have acted upon the knowledge I gained from Mr. Brown.”

“Well, you’ve made a hash of the whole business.”

“It wasn’t our fault the meeting was postponed. It’s almost as if—”

“It was bloody bad luck,” I cut her off. I didn’t want Martine to devote much time to speculating about the reason Moreland House had been deserted when the bombs exploded.

“Tell me something, Martine. Do you trust your comrades in the, what is it, the Dark League?”

“The Dark Legion,” she corrected me. “Yes, I do. They are all committed to the cause. And despite our failure at Moreland House, we will continue our work until the rich and powerful are cut down.”

“Your enthusiasm is splendid, my dear. But zeal is not enough. You must be effective. If the Dark Legion cannot deliver the goods, I don’t see why I should continue to hand you the scraps of intelligence I gather here at Lotus House. You would agree, wouldn’t you, that your employment here has been of benefit to your anarchist friends?”