India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A Madam of Espionage Mystery) (8 page)

“Certainly,” said Martine.

“Well, perhaps I’m being too harsh,” I said, tilting my head and giving her a forgiving smile.

She let out a breath and smiled tentatively back at me.

“After all, your brothers in arms clearly know how to construct a bomb. Three of them in fact.”

“We have an excellent bomb maker,” she said as if she were recommending the family dressmaker.

“I should like to meet him,” I said.

Martine’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, no. I do not think that would be possible.”

“Why not? It seems to me that if you are to rely upon me to supply information to your friends, and I am relying upon them to use it wisely, then we all have to trust each other. To put it bluntly, I wish to meet your companions so that I may evaluate whether the Dark Legion is suited to carry out the kinds of activities I have in mind, utilizing the information I provide.”

She gnawed her lip and then one of her fingernails. “There might be difficulties,” she said eventually. “Our members are cautious.”

“As am I. It’s difficult enough to keep the police out of my business. I certainly don’t need to get involved with amateur anarchists who might lead the Yard directly to my door.”

We stared at one another for a time, with her mulling over my suggestion and me wishing she’d make up her mind so that I could attend my first meeting of the Dark Legion.

She gave a Gallic shrug. “Your concern is valid. I will arrange a meeting.”

“I shall look forward to it. You may return to your duties now.”

She paused at the door and looked back at me. “I would not take this risk for just anyone, you understand. You have been a good friend to me.”

Gad, I hoped she wasn’t becoming sentimental. That could make things deuced awkward when I handed her over to the police.

* * *

The anarchist brigade didn’t muck about. The next afternoon, I followed Martine through the door of the Bag O’ Nails, that same drinking establishment visited by Martine and Vincent a few days ago. I entered with some reluctance, not because I was afraid of radical foreigners but because the place could have used a good cleaning. I could see why Vincent had been comfortable here; the level of filth met even his exacting standards. My boots made sucking sounds as Martine and I crossed the floor. I judged that the tables had last been wiped about the time our present queen had ascended to the throne. The scent was invigorating: equal parts stale beer, stale vomit and stale sweat, with just a hint of herring. I walked gingerly, tucking in my skirts to avoid touching anything.

Martine made directly for a table in one of the far corners, where a couple of coves were arguing vociferously. One sported a head of wavy dark curls and a beard to match—obviously the bloke Vincent had observed with Martine. The other fellow was a short, fidgety chap with restless eyes and tangled black hair. He was yammering relentlessly in the bearded one’s ear. I didn’t imagine the expression of relief on the latter’s face when he caught sight of Martine. He put a restraining hand on his companion’s arm, who looked annoyed at the interruption of his sermon and looked round for the reason. Spying Martine, he jumped to his feet and rushed to meet us. He caught Martine’s hands in his and leaned forward for a kiss, but she executed a deft maneuver that left him staring after her with his lips still pursed.

“Julian,” she gushed at the bearded fellow, looking up at him with adoration. I can’t say that I blamed her for doing so.

Vincent had said the man with the beard was handsome, but he’d neglected to describe him as the veritable Adonis that he was. On closer inspection, his hair and beard were a deep, rich chestnut, which shone brightly even in the sulphurous gloom of the Bag O’ Nails. He had a manly jaw, a resolute chin and sapphire eyes. He would have looked at home on the parade ground in an officer’s uniform, save for the slightly undomesticated look about the eyes, which in my opinion merely added to his allure, having as I do a fondness for men who are not entirely civilized. He was indubitably the fairest fellow I’d seen in some time, and it took all my strength to stop staring at his features long enough to attend to Martine’s introduction.

“Miss India Black,” she said, and then, glowing with pride, she indicated the handsome fellow. “This is Monsieur Julian Bonnaire.”

I uttered something infantile while Bonnaire bent over my hand.

“Charmed,” he purred, and held my hand for a moment longer than necessary, gazing into my eyes.

He was remarkably clean for an anarchist, and his manners were impeccable. I reminded myself sternly that it was my cardinal rule never to mix business with pleasure, but I confess I contemplated briefly the consequences of disregarding said rule. Since I’d devised the rule in the first place, I considered it mine to amend as circumstances change. It wouldn’t do to share my thoughts with Martine, however, for it was clear she’d marked Bonnaire as her own.

“And this,” said Martine with a trace of disgust in her voice, “is Flerko.”

I looked down at him. The poor blighter wasn’t much taller than Vincent. Flerko’s beak was prominent, his lips thin and blue. He seethed with suppressed energy.

Flerko quivered to attention. “I am Russian,” he announced.

“Delightful for you,” I murmured.

“I sell fish.” That accounted, at least in part, for the aroma of herring I had detected in the Bag O’ Nails.

“I have been persecuted in my homeland.”

I seemed destined to hear the History of Flerko in staccato bursts, but Bonnaire intervened.

“Please sit down, Miss Black. Would you like a drink?”

I considered the options. The ale in Flerko’s glass was murky. I fancied the whisky had been brewed last night and the gin would be the infamous “blue ruin,” which was useful if you were stripping wallpaper but should be avoided otherwise.

“Nothing for me, thank you, Mr. Bonnaire.”

“I was driven from Russia,” Flerko hissed.

Bonnaire and Martine ignored this assertion. As this seemed to be the prevailing custom, I followed suit.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Mr. Bonnaire.”

“It is my pleasure. Martine speaks well of you, and I am assured by her that you share our views.”

“Indeed, I do. Otherwise, I should not have employed Martine and provided her with such scraps of information as I have been able to acquire.”

“You seem uniquely situated to continue to do so.”

“I am.”

Bonnaire drew a thin cheroot from his pocket. “We are always interested in the affairs of our esteemed leaders.”

Flerko produced a match and scraped it across the table with such vigor that it snapped. “Esteemed leaders! Pah! Tell us where to find the bastards and we’ll kill them like dogs in the street.”

Clearly, Flerko was an enthusiast. I don’t much care for enthusiasts, as they tend to drag you into the barrel just as it’s going over the falls. Steer clear of this one, India, I thought to myself.

Flerko, however, had other ideas. He lit a foul-smelling pipe and scooted his chair closer to mine. “In London, I sell fish. In Russia, I am an intellectual, a poet and a novelist of no small repute.”

I edged away from him, which incidentally placed me closer to Bonnaire. Martine took note and her lips tightened. The Frenchman paid her no heed but inclined his head in my direction, with an indulgent glance at Flerko.

“You mustn’t mind our friend here,” said Bonnaire. “He’s been treated roughly by the Third Section.”

Stoke’s briefing had been thorough; I recognized the name of the tsar’s secret police.

“My ideas were too progressive for Russia,” Flerko said sadly. “I advocated democratic elections and confiscation of land from the aristocracy to be distributed to the peasants.”

“Those ideas are too progressive for England,” I said.

Flerko’s eyes blazed. “So I have learned. I came to London so that I might express myself freely, and I find the nobility here just as reactionary as in Russia. For many years I deceived myself, believing that the privileged classes could be persuaded to share their wealth with the workers who had created it for them.”

It’s a deuced good thing Flerko had passion, as he was clearly deficient in the common sense department.

“I have realized that we must take drastic measures to affect such a change.” A bubble of froth flecked the corner of Flerko’s mouth. “We must remove those who claim the right to rule their fellow men. We must slay the rich and destroy the government.”

Martine glanced nervously around the room. “Careful, Flerko. There are ears everywhere.”

Flerko wiped away the spit from his mouth with the back of his hand and glared ferociously at her. “Let the police try to take me. I will kill them all.”

Enthusiasts are not only dangerous, they’re tedious. I hadn’t come here to listen to a deranged poet advocate wholesale slaughter. I had to check the urge to ask the time and send Bonnaire to find a cab. The Frenchman must have sensed my total disinterest in Flerko’s fulminations, for he smiled gently and patted Flerko’s arm.

“You must understand the trials our comrade has endured. He suffered much at the hands of the tsar’s agents. He is a man of culture and taste, yet he is forced to degrade himself by flogging fish just to earn a place in a doss house each night. His anger fuels a great commitment to our cause.”

“I can see that,” I said. “He must have been very disappointed to learn that the meeting at Moreland House had been canceled.”

A frown creased Bonnaire’s face. “We had hoped to eliminate many important men. It is unfortunate that the meeting did not take place.”

I kept a close eye on the bugger to see if that “unfortunate” coincidence had aroused any suspicion, but he merely took a moody sip of gin and contemplated the pitted surface of the table.

It might be useful to remind Bonnaire that Martine’s intelligence had been valuable to the group. “It is regrettable that the Russian delegation was struck down by influenza,” I said, “but quite encouraging that the general information Mr. Brown shared with Martine was accurate. The newspaper reports confirm the meeting had been scheduled. Perhaps we should concentrate on cultivating the loquacious Mr. Brown. He should have other news to share, and he seemed quite satisfied with Martine.”

Martine shot me a warning glance. I could see she wasn’t best pleased that I’d reminded Bonnaire of just how Martine had come by the information about the meeting at Moreland House.

Bonnaire raked a hand through his chestnut curls. “Indeed. I would be most interested in anything Mr. Brown has to tell us. He seems a singularly garrulous young man.”

“There are quite a few of his type in the government. And as long as the primary qualification for obtaining a ministerial position is whether you attended the right school, there always will be. I fancy that I have become an expert at ingratiating myself with the Mr. Browns of this world.”

Bonnaire settled in his chair and lifted his glass, studying me over the rim. “So Martine has told us. She also advises that you are prepared, indeed, have been seeking a means by which to provide the fruits of your labours to people who are willing to act upon the information you obtain from these Mr. Browns.”

“I trust Martine has also told you that if I am to continue to supply reports to such people, I should like to meet them to assure myself that they are, shall we say, capable people.”

There was a glint of displeasure in Bonnaire’s eye, and I could see I’d annoyed him. That was the point, naturally. Most people are easily played. Infer that they’re not good enough for you for whatever purpose, and they’ll bend over backward to convince you that they are. I was pleased to see that anarchists are just like other people, really, except for that nihilistic death wish so many of them seem to have.

True to form, Bonnaire assumed the expression of a brush salesman and leaned forward with his elbows on the table.

“I can assure you, the members of my organization are more than capable, Miss Black. As you mentioned the newspapers, you will no doubt acknowledge that our bombs caused significant damage to the building. Had anyone been inside, they would surely have perished. We are professionals, Miss Black. Provided we have precise intelligence about our target, we can eliminate it.”

I favored him with one of my most winning smiles. “Forgive me if I appear to doubt you, Mr. Bonnaire. Before I purchase a wine for Lotus House, I taste it. If I buy a bolt of silk, I examine it. It’s a habit I’ve acquired over the years. In the cases I just described, I was concerned only with saving my money, but in providing information to you and your organization, I run the risk of becoming involved with the police. Surprisingly, they are more tolerant of trollops than of anarchists.”

Bonnaire chuckled. “That is true of most policemen, whether in Paris or Moscow or here in London.”

“You understand, then, why I wish to meet everyone.”

He cocked his head. “Oh, yes. However, I am not entirely certain why you want to help us at all.”

It was time for my best imitation of a closet radical. That meant manufacturing a fiery gleam in my eye and a quivering intensity in my voice. I launched into the story of my life upon the streets, with a lot of sob-inducing tales that would have reduced the average Christian to tears. I described the swells who preyed on young girls, and the degradations I’d endured just to earn the cost of a bun, and my growing realization that I was a victim of a tyrannical system dominated by the rich and powerful. My yarn was convincing for I was telling the truth, but at that point I had to diverge from the factual and fabricate a chapter or two about my growing sympathies for my fellow human beings and my desire to create a Utopia with these hapless creatures, where we’d all work together and share the proceeds of our labours (which made me sound a bit like that old crank, Sir Thomas More, and look what happened to him). This last bit was hard going, and I nearly choked as I said it, for of course my natural inclination is to shove my fellow man overboard in order to grab the last place in the lifeboat. Luckily, Bonnaire, Flerko and Martine seemed to think I had been overcome with the passion of my convictions rather than gagging at the thought of sharing my hard-earned cash with the ragged chaps here at the Bag O’ Nails.