India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A Madam of Espionage Mystery) (9 page)

I finished off this load of codswallop with some well-aimed darts at the bloody toffs who ran our society like their private fiefdoms and expressed the view that as Darwin’s theory of natural selection had failed to make much headway among the aristocracy, it was time someone stepped in and helped out Mother Nature. At this point Flerko seized my hand and began spouting some Russian nonsense and covering my poor paw in kisses. I managed to extricate it from the Russian’s grasp (not without difficultly, for though Flerko was a weedy chap, he was strong). The odour of herrings wafted up to my nostrils, and I reckoned the neighborhood cats would be trailing me back to Lotus House.

Bonnaire looked amused at Flerko’s antics, but then his smiled faded and his expression became grave. “Your history is a sad one, Miss Black, but I am pleased that you have overcome the misfortune of your youth and are now willing to join in our struggle.”

Gad, I hoped he wasn’t going to ask for money. I hadn’t considered that in anarchist eyes, a successful madam might be good for a few crowns.

“I will do my best to obtain confidential information for you from my clients,” I hastened to say. “That should enable your group to eliminate some of the oppressors of the people.” I was seized with a fit of coughing. I was going to have to practice spewing such rubbish until it sounded natural.

Flerko lunged for my hand again with a fervid exclamation, but I’d seen him coming out of the corner of my eye and managed to get my mitts in my lap before the fellow could lay hands on me.

“Comrade Flerko seems convinced of your commitment,” said Bonnaire, stroking his beard. I held my breath, waiting for his verdict. Martine stared at him anxiously. After a long moment, those bright blue orbs of his settled on my face and he smiled. It was a smile of acceptance. I exhaled slowly.

“Tonight at midnight,” Bonnaire said, rising. “Meet me here and I will you show you the way.”

SEVEN

I
f there was one thing worse than entering Seven Dials during the daylight hours, it was venturing into that vile den as the city’s clocks were striking midnight. The driver of the cab I’d hired was as nervous as a bitch whelping her first litter. I didn’t blame the man; I sat with my hand in my purse, clutching the Bulldog and wondering if I’d make it to the Bag O’ Nails in the pristine condition in which I’d left Lotus House. The rain that had blanketed the city for days had ceased, but one of the city’s mucilaginous fogs had descended on the streets, covering every surface with oily drops of water and obliterating the already inadequate light from the gas lamps. It was as dark as the inside of a coffin tonight, but the streets throbbed with noise. Most of the inhabitants of the area appeared to have foregone the domestic comforts of hearth and home (likely because such things were nonexistent here) and were roaming the streets in various stages of drunkenness. A low roar issued from every public house we passed, and the street rang with the raucous cries of street vendors, ladies of the evening and their customers. Ragged children roamed in gangs, eyes glazed from the gin they’d been tippling, swarming around the hapless drunks who crossed their paths and plundering the pitiful sods’ pockets with abandon. Even the poor nag pulling our cab was apprehensive, his ears pricked and his head swiveling at every shriek and wail. All the noise was playing hell with my nerves as well, and I nearly screamed when a dirty face appeared in the window of the cab bawling incomprehensible gibberish at me. I yanked the Bulldog from my purse and thrust the barrel into the man’s nostril. He disappeared from view.

The cab drew up with a jerk, and I peered out the window.

“Where are we?” I asked the driver.

“Bag O’Nails,” he replied, and pointed into the viscid fog with his whip.

Dimly I perceived a faint amber light through the swirling brume and detected the drone of well-lubricated voices.

“Are you sure this is the place?” asked the driver.

The door crashed open and a cone of light split the fog briefly; the drone increased to a low rumble.

“As much as it pains me to admit it, I believe we have arrived,” I said. I handed the driver some coins and made a reluctant exit from the relative safety of the cab. He didn’t bother counting the money but shoved it into the pocket of his coat, slapped the reins against the horse’s rump and cried, “Hi, get up there, Bill.” Bill stepped out with alacrity, and in a moment I was alone.

Then the wolf pack moved in. I saw a half dozen lean faces, eyes glistening with a predatory gleam as shadowy figures closed around me in a circle. A dirty claw reached out and plucked at my cloak.

“Oi, look at that. That’ll fetch a good price.”

“Forget the cloak, you stupid clot. Look at ’er!”

I’m not usually one to forego compliments, but I thought it likely there might be complications if I accepted this one without demurring. I extracted the Bulldog from my purse and cocked the hammer. The noise was uncommonly loud in that thick atmosphere, and the feral lads who had been advancing checked their movements.

“Now, chaps, who’d like to be the first to get a bullet in the chest? Come on, don’t be shy.”

“She’s got a barker,” said the chap nearest me.

“Well, take hit away from ’er,” one helpful fellow suggested. “Wot are you worried about? She’ll prob’bly cry if she pulls the trigger.”

“Wot if she shoots me?”

“Ah, go on. She ain’t gonna shoot you.” There’s one in every crowd, always standing at the back, mind you.

I’ve mentioned before that I lack patience. I had a meeting to attend and an anarchist plot to uncover and I couldn’t stand around here all night palavering with the Seven Dials Debating Society. I pointed the Bulldog skyward and pulled the trigger. The revolver roared.

I surveyed the results and was gratified.

The coves who had encircled me had disappeared into the gloom. The Bag O’ Nails had gone as quiet as a Carthusian charterhouse. I replaced the Bulldog in my purse, lifted my skirts to avoid the worst of the mud and walked inside.

My entrance attracted roughly the same amount of attention that a bucket of chum would have provoked from a school of piranhas. I suppose there are women who would have been gratified at the shouts, whistles and graphic gestures that met my arrival, but I just fixed the pub’s patrons with that gimlet glare of mine and stalked across the room to the table in the corner, where Flerko and Bonnaire were enjoying a convivial glass together. I wasn’t sure my welcome would be at all warm, for I could hardly have done more to draw attention to myself short of spontaneously combusting, but Flerko bounded up like an untrained gun dog to greet me, and Bonnaire bestowed an utterly ravishing smile upon me. I petted Flerko briskly (actually, I shook his hand) and let Bonnaire plant a moist and lingering kiss on my knuckles. ’Twas a pity the bloke’s political views were so dicey; I would have enjoyed a dalliance with this handsome Frog dandy.

“I heard a shot,” said Flerko anxiously.

“Yes,” I murmured. “I heard it, too.”

“It sounded very close. Did you see anything?”

“I could hardly find my way from the cab to the door,” I said. “The fog is terrible tonight.” I saw no need to inform my companions that I had fired the shot, nor indeed even that I was armed. Bringing a revolver to one’s first meeting with a group of paranoid radicals would hardly make a good first impression.

“A London particular,” said Bonnaire. “What a quaint name for fog. I do not think of the English as being a quaint people.”

“We English are pragmatic, but underneath, I am sorry to say, there is a streak of whimsy.”

“There is no whimsy in Russia,” said Flerko. “Only sorrow. So long as the tsar rules, there will be only suffering and pain for my people.”

He looked so downcast that I tried to cheer up the little fellow. “Well, we shall just have to strike a blow for liberty in London.”

Flerko nodded and knuckled away a tear.

Bonnaire looked at me and shrugged. “He is often like this. He is homesick for Russia.”

Flerko pulled out a thin gray wisp of linen and blew his nose vigorously. “Do not mind me. I am better now.”

Bonnaire reached into his vest and extracted a cheaply made watch. “We should be going.”

Flerko brightened, presumably at the thought of planning the death of some aristocrats. Bonnaire took my arm and guided me through the crowd, with the Russian bringing up the rear. I endured another round of suggestions and comments that would have sent our dear Queen Vicky into an apoplectic fit but which fazed me not one whit, having heard them all (or worse) before. We escaped from the fug of the bar into the street (which, to tell the truth, didn’t smell any better), and Bonnaire steered me along with his hand under my elbow. I was grateful for the guidance, for I’d have been lost immediately. Bonnaire seemed quite at home in these squalid streets and completely unfazed by the thick fog, traveling at a rapid pace that left me clutching his arm and struggling to stay abreast. Flerko trailed along behind us, stepping on my skirt and muttering in Russian, while he kept an anxious eye to the rear to be sure we were not being followed.

Until that moment I confess that my assignment had seemed a bit of a lark, really. I’d matched wits with Martine and persuaded Bonnaire and Flerko of my bona fides without a great deal of effort. True, there had been that sordid brawl with Mother Edding, the nagging notes from Superintendent Stoke and the visits to the insalubrious environs of Seven Dials, but on the whole the entire affair had not been unpleasant. Martine seemed a nice girl, save for a streak of the revolutionary in her. Bonnaire was a charming fellow. Flerko was a comic character; it was hard work imagining the fizzy little chap handling a bomb without it exploding in his hand. But that trip through the dismal streets and disgusting alleyways of this wretched part of London marked the moment I began to realize that this was not a pleasant diversion from the drudgery of running Lotus House.

It was Flerko who first set me on edge. His nervous energy had increased tenfold since we had left the Bag O’ Nails. He was right on my heels, breathing raggedly and darting glances into every alley and doorway we passed. The heels of his boots beat an anxious tattoo on the cobblestones. His trepidation communicated itself to Bonnaire, for as we walked he tightened his grip on my arm and increased his pace until my toes were barely touching the ground.

“Not far now,” the Frenchman said in a low voice. “Flerko?”

Flerko melted into the churning mist. Bonnaire pushed me gently to the right, and we made an abrupt turn into a narrow passage, flanked on both sides by tall tenements of bricks blackened by decades of soot and smoke. Feeble light filtered through smudged windows, making the fine mist glow wanly. Bonnaire halted, loosening the grip on my arm.

“We’ll wait here for Flerko,” he said. I noticed that his other hand was secreted in his pocket, where, I had no doubt, there was a weapon of some kind.

“Let’s move out of the light.” Bonnaire drew me into a foul-smelling doorway. The affable appearance he’d displayed previously had disappeared. He was wary now, his body taut with tension. He conned the passage slowly, first in one direction, then in the other. My skin prickled, and I found it difficult to catch my breath, a condition due, no doubt, to Bonnaire dragging me along at such a swift pace.

“Is there really a chance we’ve been followed?” I whispered.

“One can never be too careful,” Bonnaire said, pleasantly close to my ear. “The security services of many countries are active in London. And the English police have become very busy lately, trying to find and disrupt our meetings.”

Did I imagine that his fingers momentarily tightened around my arm? I took a deep breath and admonished myself to remain calm. All this bobbing and weaving might be nothing more than a shot across the bow, to see how I’d take to a life of clandestine meetings and dangerous associations. It would take more than furtive theatrics to frighten India Black.

I discharged my own cannonball in Bonnaire’s direction. “I hope your friends can be trusted. I’d hate to think I’m fraternizing with informants.”

Bonnaire leaned closer, his lips nearly grazing my ear. “So would I.”

Flerko materialized from out of the fog.

To Bonnaire’s raised eyebrow, the little Russian shook his head. “There is no one. It is safe.”

Without a word, Bonnaire seized my arm once more and we traversed a narrow passage, emerging into a dingy street and hence into a dank, rat-infested alley. I could hear their squeaks of alarm, and once my boot made contact with a cat-sized body. I shuddered. I can cope with anarchists, but vermin are another matter entirely. Bonnaire ignored the scrabbling feet, and Flerko flapped his hands in a futile attempt to scatter the disgusting creatures.

We arrived at our destination then, and not a moment too soon in my opinion. An evening spent trundling through foul streets, dodging rodents and police spies, can provide only so much entertainment. Bonnaire had pulled up short at a warped door leading into what had once been a tobacco shop but was now a vacant storefront. While Flerko acted as sentry, Bonnaire inserted a key into the door and pushed it open. It had been recently oiled, for it swung open without a sound. The Frenchman led the way inside and gestured for me to follow him. Flerko made a final check of the street and then scuttled nervously through the door, closing it behind him.

“We are going downstairs, Miss Black. Kindly place your hand on my shoulder and follow me down the steps.”

I fumbled in the dark, succeeding in entangling my fingers in Bonnaire’s beard and poking him in the eye before finally managing to find his shoulder and grasp it firmly. He lurched into movement, his shoulder dropping precipitously.

“The first step,” he said, unnecessarily.

We floundered down the staircase, which is to say that I did, Bonnaire moving as gracefully as a man could with a woman tethered to him. It was as black as pitch, and the air smelled of mold and rot. Flerko was right on my heels, pressing against me in what I hope was merely nervous tension at the upcoming meeting and not the precursor to an unpleasant experience for India Black. For a moment, as often occurs to even the most highly trained operative, I wondered how I had gotten myself into this situation.

We reached the bottom of the stairs. Bonnaire removed my hand from his shoulder and tucked it through the crook of his arm. “It is only a few steps now,” he said.

He was as good as his word, for we walked only a few paces before he halted and addressed the Russian. “Flerko?”

A match scraped shoe leather and burst into flame, revealing a foul corridor with paint peeling from the walls and water stains on the ceiling, and a battered door that had once boasted a coat of varnish. Bonnaire turned the handle and the door, like the one into the shop, opened soundlessly. Flerko, shielding the match with a cupped hand, strode into the inky blackness. In a moment two candles were burning and Bonnaire had shut the door behind us.

I looked around with interest, as I had never been in an anarchists’ den and was curious as to what I’d find there. It was a shabby place, the walls streaked with damp and a distinct odour of mildew, which, I thought with some irritation, would likely penetrate my clothing before the night was out. Anarchists did not appear concerned with creating a cozy environment in which to plan assassinations. A warped and battered deal table of inferior wood and a half dozen mismatched chairs occupied the center of room. The table bore a lantern, which Flerko now lit. I was idly glancing about, wondering why radicals couldn’t spring for something a bit more congenial, when I spotted something I hadn’t noticed until the lantern had produced its feeble light: a second table, covered with alarm clocks, a stack of packets wrapped in paraffinned paper, coils of copper wire, an assortment of cheap vest-pocket pistols, detonators and springs, and screws and nails of various sizes. In short, all the makings of what the press had taken to calling “infernal machines” and the rest of us called “bombs.” I had Superintendent Stoke to thank for my ability to recognize these nefarious tools, as he had provided me a detailed description in my briefing papers. I hadn’t realized until that moment that I might actually encounter these items. I was regarding them with a mixture of horror and fascination when Bonnaire wandered over.