India Black (10 page)

“The British public be damned,” Dizzy spat. “I’ve known sheep with more intelligence.”

“Sheep they may be, but some of those sheep will be voting in the next election, and if it were held tomorrow, I’ve no doubt they’d be voting for Gladstone’s party,” said Endicott. He glanced obliquely at Dizzy and smiled spitefully. “People have taken to calling him the ‘Grand Old Man.’”

“Pah,” Dizzy spat contemptuously, venomous as a cobra. “God’s Only Mistake, more like.”

“Ten thousand people came to Blackheath to hear him speak on the Bulgarian massacre.” Endicott twisted the screw a little tighter. He was enjoying this, the devil.

“The ‘alleged’ massacre,” Dizzy growled.

“I’m merely trying to illustrate that the people seem to back Gladstone on this issue,” Endicott said.

“A point that Lord Derby no doubt finds persuasive in suggesting that we step aside and hand India to the Russians,” said Dizzy.

“The secretary has suggested no such thing, Prime Minister, as you are well aware.” Endicott and Dizzy glared at each other across the map.

I yawned; there’s nothing so dull as watching men (even men the likes of the British prime minister and some muckety-muck from the Foreign Office) argue over politics, except watching men argue over religion or sport. “Pardon me for interrupting,” I said, “but I’m still waiting for an explanation of why I was abducted off the street.”

“Allow me to explain, my dear.” Dizzy frowned. “That old fool Gladstone has been frothing at the mouth, whipping the press into a frenzy of Christian outrage. He’s here in London now, at Claridge’s, making the rounds of the papers, submitting hysterical letters to the editors and addressing every Women’s Institute meeting in the city. And he’s making no secret of his support for Russian intervention. He made a public display of himself at a performance of Tchaikovsky’s “Marche Slav” at Covent Garden last month, weeping copiously into his handkerchief. He even went so far as to attend an anti-Turk rally at the Athenaeum a month ago in the company of Count Shuvalov.”

“Shocking,” I muttered, under my breath.

“Wonder if that Lord Derby was there with ’em,” Vincent whispered. “Sounds like ’e ain’t too particular ’bout the company he keeps.”

“And while Gladstone dallies with the Russian ambassador, the tsar’s army is preparing to descend on Constantinople,” said French.

“The key to India,” I added helpfully.

“Quite so,” said Dizzy. “A few weeks ago, I dispatched Lord Salisbury to Paris and Berlin, attempting to enlist the aid of the French and German governments in issuing an ultimatum to the Russians to stay out of the Ottoman Empire. But delivering an ultimatum without threatening consequences is futile. And if the tsar and his ministers believe that Britain will act only in concert with France and Germany, and that those countries may not support us, then the Russians may still proceed with impunity to Constantinople. Consequently, a week ago I took the opportunity of speaking at the lord mayor’s banquet, warning Russia that in the event we are forced to war, Britain will fight, alone if necessary, and that her resources are inexhaustible.”

“You stated the matter quite emphatically.” Endicott stroked his mustache. “You said that Britain was not a country that had to ask itself if it should enter into this campaign, but that it would enter the campaign and not terminate it until right was done. Stirring stuff,” he added dryly. “If only you’d had the foresight to inquire whether the British army was capable of fulfilling that commitment before you made it.”

I expected Dizzy to slap Endicott’s mug with a glove and demand satisfaction at dawn, but the prime minister only sniffed and turned his back, ostentatiously positioning himself so he wouldn’t have to look at the upstart minister from the Foreign Office. Endicott permitted himself a smirk and retired to his corner.

By this time, I was getting impatient. The whisky was first-rate, and the malicious bickering between Dizzy and Endicott entertaining, but I was tired of geopolitics and listening to Dizzy whinge about Gladstone. I had a business to run, and without me on the premises, I was liable to return to Lotus House to find it ransacked and the tarts drunk as lords and wearing my gowns. And they’d probably grant any number of discounts to their favorites, if I weren’t there to enforce the retail rates.

French noticed my impatience. “We’ve nearly reached the end of the story, Miss Black.”

“How nice. I was beginning to think I’d been transported into a novel by Mr. Trollope and might never see the light of day.”

Dizzy smoothed his lapels. “Immediately after my speech at the lord mayor’s banquet, I summoned a representative of the War Office and requested that he provide me with an estimate of the number of troops needed to hold Constantinople and Gallipoli. The estimate”—and here Dizzy passed a hand over his eyes and looked like the oysters he’d eaten for lunch had rebelled—“was shocking.”

“The Intelligence Department at the War Office had previously advised that forty-six thousand troops were all that was necessary,” said French. “The estimate they offered the prime minister after the speech had risen to seventy-five thousand men.”

“I take it we do not have seventy-five thousand men,” I ventured.

“We don’t have
forty-five
thousand,” said Endicott.

Dizzy shook his head. “I’ve suggested the department be renamed the Department of Ignorance. Those fools have placed me in an untenable position. I have declared that Britain is prepared to stand alone against Russia, when the truth is that we are simply not capable of doing so.”

“We could bluff our way through,” said Endicott. “Save for a rather unfortunate circumstance.”

French relit his cheroot with a taper. “The prime minister prepared a memorandum to the secretary of war. The memorandum expressed the prime minister’s concern and displeasure at the change in numbers. It also contained a detailed description of the potential loss of funds to the government and certain British investors if Britain were to attack the Porte and the Turks default on their debts. The memorandum was dispatched, along with the original documents containing the troop estimates, to the War Office by messenger on Sunday afternoon. The messenger took a detour. The documents never reached the War Office.”

“Bowser,” I said.

“Sir Archibald Latham,” French confirmed.

“And the documents are now at the Russian embassy, waiting to be opened by Count Yusopov,” I said.

French nodded. “So our sources tell us. Count Yusopov is returning tomorrow from Paris. We must recover the case before it reaches him and the weakness of the British forces is revealed. Once the Russians have that information, they’ll be on the Bosporus before you know it.”

“So you see, Miss Black,” Dizzy went on, “the very future of England depends upon the retrieval of that missing case. Find the case, and we may prevent Russia from marching into Constantinople.”

“I still don’t see how I can be of help.”

The three men exchanged a look, and I felt my heart sink. I might not have had any idea what I could do, but those gents clearly had a scheme in mind, and since I hadn’t had a hand in making it, it was a sure bet I wouldn’t like it.

Dizzy bestowed another dazzling smile on me, the kind he no doubt gave his publisher when he persuaded him to publish that dreadful novel
Tancred.
“We want you to get the case back for us.”

“Me?”

“You,” said Endicott.

Vincent leaned toward me and muttered, “I got a bad feelin’ ’bout this, India.”

“How would you suggest I go about doing that?” I demanded. “Waltz up to the door of the Russian embassy and ask Yusopov to hand it over?”

“I don’t think he’ll give up the case quite that easily,” said Endicott. “But we’ve no doubt you’ll be able to find an opportunity to collect it for us.” The same smirk he’d displayed earlier was now pasted across his face. “Count Yusopov is rather susceptible to feminine charms.”

“Something you have in abundance, my dear,” said Dizzy, in a blatant attempt to worm his way into my good graces.

“And where will I meet the man? Strolling through Hyde Park? Buying a beefsteak at the local butcher’s shop?”

French looked impatient at this frivolity. “We’ve made arrangements, of course. Tomorrow evening you’ll attend a gala ball at the embassy. Yusopov returns from Paris just in time to attend the function. His first opportunity to review the documents will be immediately after the ball, but we propose to delay his doing so by creating a diversion and stealing away with the case.”

“What kind of diversion?” I asked.

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” said French, “you.”

“And who’s going to steal the case?” I asked, with a sinking heart.

“You.”

From his pocket, French produced a small envelope. “Here is your invitation. If you’ve nothing suitable to wear, please avail yourself of the services of Monsieur Gaspard. He’s expecting you.”

Reluctantly, I took the envelope from his outstretched hand. “Precisely what sort of diversion did you have in mind?” I was certain I wouldn’t like the answer.

Dizzy had the grace to look abashed, something I thought him incapable of doing. “You see, that’s how we can be assured that you will gain access to Yusopov. He has certain, er, proclivities.”

In my line of work, that could mean anything from primates to pineapples.

Dizzy extended his hand and gave me another dazzling smile. “Mr. French will tell you more,” he said, and thus ended my audience with the prime minister.

 

 

 

Mr. French did, as he escorted me back to Lotus House in a stylish barouche drawn by a pair of matching blacks, their breath smoking in the cold night air. French handed me in, then settled into the seat beside me. Vincent sat across from us. I’d have made him ride on top with the coachman, but French showed a surprising degree of compassion, unless of course he wanted you to steal government documents from the Russian embassy, and then he was prepared to blackmail you with impunity. French and I were uncomfortably close; I could feel the weight of his arm against mine. I shifted away from the contact, to the far side of the cab. I might be a whore, but I wasn’t going to let the man take any liberties with me. Not unless he paid for the privilege.

“Mr. Endicott and I will be with you at the embassy tomorrow night, but we cannot do anything to assist you in finding the case. It’s critical that the government isn’t implicated in the matter.”

“So if I’m discovered in the act of lifting the case, I needn’t suggest the authorities contact you to clear up things.”

“Precisely.”

“Remind me again why I’m doing this.”

“Lotus House.”

“Ah, yes. For the privilege of keeping what I already own, I’m to lie back and think of England?”

“You could characterize it in that fashion.”

“So what’s Count Yusopov’s pleasure?” I asked. “Whips and chains? Livestock? Jellied eels?”

“He’s an admirer of Sappho.” French turned to look at me, and I felt his breath on my cheek. “You’ll have to bring someone along. I trust that won’t be a problem.”

“You could have asked first. Every whore has something she won’t do.”

“And what is it that you won’t do, India?”

“I never share confidences, French. It’s a sign of weakness.”

Vincent cut in. “Yer payin’ ain’t ye, Mr. French? I can fix ye up with a woman quicker’n ye can say ‘snap.’ And she’ll be cheaper than ye can find anywhere else.”

“Hold on, Vincent,” I said. “If I’m going to play slap and tickle with another woman, I’ll choose the lucky lady.” I shuddered at the thought of the disease-ridden hag Vincent would likely produce.

“I admire your entrepreneurial spirit,” said French. “But under the circumstances, I think we must honour the lady’s wishes. There is, however, one thing you can do for me, Vincent.”

“Wot’s that?”

French rummaged in his pocket and produced a handful of coins. “You can hand over the items you cadged from the prime minister’s office. This should compensate you for the money you would have received if you had pawned them.”

“Wot are ye on about, guv?” Vincent contrived to look innocent, without, I might add, any noticeable success.

French sighed. “Pray do not insult my intelligence, Vincent. Empty your pockets and take the money. I happen to know that Lord Beaconsfield is inordinately fond of that ivory-handled letter opener you have secreted on your person. It was a present from his wife.”

Reluctantly, Vincent withdrew the aforementioned letter opener from his sleeve and placed it in French’s hand, then held out his own for the coins.

French waggled his fingers impatiently.

Vincent wheezed mournfully and extracted a star-shaped crystal paperweight, a small silver inkwell and a gold-nibbed pen. French critically examined each item slowly, then pocketed them.

“Is that all, Vincent?”

Vincent nodded resentfully.

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

Vincent shook his head vigorously. I was about to inform French that Vincent was constitutionally incapable of telling the truth, but why should I interfere? I hoped Vincent had kept some choice bauble for himself; it would serve French right.

After French had collected Vincent’s loot, paying him what I considered an unseemly sum for returning stolen property, we spent the remainder of the drive to Lotus House hashing through the details of our plans for the next evening. It wasn’t much of a plan. I (and my confederate) were to woo Yusopov upstairs with our maidenly charms, lull him to sleep with some vigorous sexual activity, and then I was to pop downstairs to Yusopov’s office, open the safe (the combination of which French provided me, courtesy of some mole in the Russian embassy), secure Latham’s case, and hotfoot it out the door and down the street, where I would find French waiting. The first part of the plan didn’t present any problems: I was confident in my abilities to first charm, and then exhaust Yusopov. The latter section of the plan (hot-footing it out of the embassy) seemed rather vague, omitting as it did certain details such as the existence and location of armed guards.