India Black (14 page)

“What makes you think Yusopov hasn’t already read the documents? You’re probably wasting your time worrying about getting it back.”

“He arrived from Paris just before the ball started, and he was within sight of French all evening. Then we were with him from the end of the party until just a few minutes ago. He wouldn’t have had time to look over the papers yet, unless he’s doing it as we speak.” A thought I didn’t want to contemplate.

“How well do you know this French fellow?” Rowena asked.

“Not very,” I admitted. “About the only thing I know is he’s got a heart of steel and he’s a blackmailer to boot.”

“I suppose that means he won’t be shinnying up the drainpipe to rescue us.”

“Doubtful. He was emphatic that the government not be implicated in this.”

Rowena squirmed, huddling closer for body warmth. “What do you reckon they plan to do with us?”

“I think they’re figuring that out at this moment.”

Our captors had deposited us in the empty room, locked the door behind them and disappeared down the stairs, hissing at each other like a pair of cats.

“Maybe Yusopov developed a fondness for us, in our brief time together,” said Rowena. “I don’t think we can bank on any sympathy from that woman; she looks a merciless bitch.”

“I can’t believe I was taken in by her,” I moaned. “I knew that accent was too good for a girl from Weymouth. And to think how much money she took from me. Ungrateful strumpet.”

A further thought struck me: Arabella’s perfidy might extend further than occupying my premises under false pretenses. I’d assumed Bowser had died of a heart attack. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time a corpulent gentleman had become too stimulated in the company of a tart and keeled over. But Arabella might have pried Bowser’s secret out of him and, seizing her chance to make off with the case, helped transport Bowser from this veil of tears. If so, she was directly responsible for my current situation. I wouldn’t soon forget that.

“Bit of a dish, though,” said Rowena in a wistful tone. “You don’t reckon there’s any chance she’s ...”

“No,” I said curtly. Though I had to agree that here on her home ground, Oksana had looked every inch a real Russian countess, dressed to kill in a gorgeous crimson silk gown, her luxuriant brown hair, high cheekbones and haughty attitude adding verisimilitude to the picture.

“I thought being a spy was glamorous work,” Rowena said. “There ain’t much glory in it, if you have to work in a brothel.”

“There’s not much glory in sitting half-naked in a cold room, either,” I said. “Is there any play at all in that rope?”

Rowena wriggled experimentally. “Not a bit. Tight as a Tory’s wallet.”

I craned my neck to look out the dormer window. The sky was black, the stars hard points of light against the velvet background. Dawn was still several hours away, not that that signified anything, though it would be much more difficult for Yusopov and Oksana to do anything with us in the light of day, whether their plan was to spirit us away to another location for God knew what purpose or to dispose of our bodies.

“They’ll have to do something before daybreak,” I mused, giving voice to my thoughts.

“What happens at daybreak?” Rowena yawned.

“It becomes much more difficult to explain the presence of two Englishwomen being carted around by the embassy guards.”

“And you think the average peeler will give a toss about the fate of two bints? He won’t risk his job for the likes of us. These Russian bastards could cart us out of the country and no one will lift a hand to help us.”

I didn’t say anything, but I feared she was right.

 

 

 

I must have dozed off, for the next thing I knew I was coming to groggily and trying to place the sound that had disturbed my slumbers. Rowena was snoring gently, her chin tucked on her chest, but over her snuffling, I thought I detected a faint scratching at the door. Rats, I thought, and had composed myself for sleep once more when the sound came again, followed by the faintest of whispers.

“Miss Black?” The voice was familiar but seemed oddly out of place.

“Miss Black, are you in there?”

“I’m here,” I whispered. “Who’s there?”

“It’s Charles Calthorp, Miss Black.”

You could have knocked me over with the proverbial feather. “What the devil are you doing here?” I asked, forgetting my manners in my amazement.

“If you’ll open the door, I’ll tell you.”

“I can’t open the door. Rowena and I have been bound.” At the mention of her name, Rowena awoke with a snort.

“What’s going on?”

“Rescue has arrived,” I said, though Charles Calthorp and his air of bumbling ineptitude did not inspire confidence. I thought it more likely that he might soon join Rowena and me in our dungeon, particularly if he continued to persist in holding a sotto voce conversation through a locked door.

“I say,” whispered Calthorp. “Are you injured? They haven’t hurt you, have they?”

“We’re not injured,” I whispered back. “Can you find a way to unlock the door?”

There ensued such a long pause, I was sure that Calthorp was having a prose with the Almighty about the morality of breaking and entering, or perhaps he had been stricken with fear and bolted, leaving Rowena and me to lament our best (and perhaps only) chance of escape, but eventually the diffident whisper sounded again through the keyhole: “I’ll have a look round.” Another longish pause. “I’ll be just a tic.”

“Just bloody well get on with it, would you?” Rowena had not awakened in a good mood.

“Right,” said Calthorp. He sounded offended, but his footsteps crept stealthily away, and Rowena and I settled down to wait, which didn’t entail much effort as with the cold, our shackles and our cramped positions over the last few hours, we’d didn’t have the ability to move anyway.

“Who’s this character?” asked Rowena.

“He’s a clergyman from St. Margaret’s. One of those celibate padres whose mission in life is to convert the heathen: in this case, the girls at Lotus House. He comes round so often, I’m thinking of charging him rent. You mean to say he’s never called at the Silver Thistle?”

“I’ve yet to see the man,” said Rowena, “so I couldn’t say for sure, but I’ve had no visitors of the theological persuasion who wanted to save me from my wanton ways. Had more than a few who paid to watch me practice ’em, though.”

A key grated in the lock, and our prison door swung open. Charles Calthorp peeked uncertainly into the room, a candle in one hand and a set of keys in the other.

“Oh, good work, Reverend,” I said. “How the devil did you get your hand on those keys?”

“Never mind that, untie us,” Rowena snapped. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Calthorp blinked, either at the barked command or our nearly natural state.

“Our clothes are in the corner,” I said. “If you’ll loosen these ropes, we can be dressed in an instant.”

His stupor evaporated. He fumbled in his pocket and drew out a clasp knife, which he opened and applied to our bonds, sawing energetically. As the knife had probably seen no more strenuous duty than cutting his after-dinner cheese, it was dull as a retired schoolmaster, and it took a considerable amount of time for Calthorp to sever the ropes that bound our wrists and ankles. Rowena and I lurched to our feet and stumbled around the room cautiously, chafing our wrists and trying to restore circulation to our limbs. When we’d regained our strength, we found our discarded clothing and dressed rapidly, while Calthorp stood with his back turned, no doubt diverting himself by reciting the Nicene Creed or ticking off the Holy Days in the correct order.

“What
are
you doing here, Reverend?” I asked, when I’d stuffed myself back into Monsieur Gaspard’s creation, which was a bit worse for the wear from my gymnastic routine with Rowena. “And where did you find those keys?”

“Why, I found them hanging in the kitchen, behind the door,” he said, looking almost scandalized at the paucity of my knowledge of proper housekeeping procedures. He cocked his head, listening anxiously for footsteps. “It’s most fortunate for you that I am here, Miss Black. My mind quakes at the heinous acts you might have been forced to perform for that beast Yusopov.”

One person’s heinous acts are another’s bread and butter, but I thought the lesson would be wasted on Calthorp, who still hadn’t satisfied my curiosity. “But why are you here? Surely you couldn’t have known Rowena and I were at the embassy.”

“Oh, no. That was a stroke of luck. You see, Yusopov has a reputation among the young ladies who work the street in Haymarket. He often selects the most unfortunate among them, the most needy, the most destitute, and entices them here to the embassy with promises of food and money. Once they are here, they suffer the most degrading forms of perversion and filth at the hands of that lecher.” Calthorp’s mustache bristled indignantly.

“’Twasn’t so bad,” Rowena opined, slipping on her stockings.

“Go on, Reverend,” I said.

“Tonight I learned from one of the girls that Yusopov had chosen a very young girl, a mere child, with whom he planned to indulge his carnal desires.” Well, well, I thought. Yusopov, you sly dog. How many women could the portly count handle in one night?

“I came here tonight and waited outside until the ball was over and the servants were distracted, eating and drinking the leftover items from the buffet. Then I slipped upstairs to see if I could find young Helen and take her home. I was going through the bedrooms on the third floor when I heard a terrible row coming from Yusopov’s quarters, and a moment later, the two of you were marched up here and locked away. I’ve been waiting for everyone to retire before I attempted to free you.”

“Very astute of you, Reverend.” Rowena had finished her toilette and was peering out the window. “Now, how do we get out of here?”

“The same way I came in. We must creep down the stairs and out through the kitchen. All the servants are asleep.”

“What about the guards?” I asked.

“There are two sentries posted at the front door and one patrolling the rear of the house, but if we are careful, we can slip past him when he’s at the far end of the garden. Failing that, we can always distract him somehow.”

It was a remarkably simple plan, briskly recited, and it sounded nothing at all like the sort of blundering enterprise I would have thought Calthorp would propose. Coupled with the fact that he’d penetrated the Russian embassy in the dead of night without alarming the guards and had rescued Rowena and me from an undetermined fate, I determined that I might, just might, reconsider my opinion of the little man.

“Very well,” I said. “I shall meet you and Rowena in the kitchen in a few minutes. There’s something I have to do before I leave here.”

“Not that bloody case,” Rowena groaned. “That’s what got us into this predicament in the first place.”

“What case?” Calthorp was reconnoitering the hallway. He glanced at me, puzzled.

I sighed. There was nothing for it but to deliver the monologue about my mother’s poor friend and the debt to Yusopov and the count’s refusal to return the deed to Lotus House. It was a difficult performance under the circumstances, with us freezing in that garret, with the sleeping embassy liable to awaken at any moment and with Rowena in the background rolling her eyes and emitting little gusts of suppressed laughter. But Calthorp (bless his naïve little heart) ate it up, frowning when I told him of the poor dear friend and her dreadful medical condition, and going pale and breathing fire at the count’s treachery.

“The swine,” he said, when I’d finished. “Please allow me to assist you in locating this case.”

“Thank you ever so kindly,” I said. “But I mustn’t drag you into this affair. I know where the case is kept. If you’ll hand over those keys, Reverend, I’ll just run and collect it and meet you both downstairs.”

But there was no staunching Calthorp’s zeal to help me recover my stolen deed, and so in the end, the three of us crept cautiously downstairs to the second floor, with the clergyman in the lead holding the candle, me carrying the keys and Rowena in the rear (cursing me soundly under her breath). We paused now and again to listen as the building creaked and the sleeping embassy staff rattled and snored in their beds. At last we reached the door to Yusopov’s study, and Calthorp held the candle flame close to the keyhole while I inserted various keys into the lock and prayed that one would fit. I had almost exhausted the keys and my patience when I felt the bolt turn beneath my fingers, and we were in.

Hastily, I pulled the door closed behind us. Yusopov’s study was as garish and tawdry as the rest of the embassy, with a heavy carved desk of teak and a painting of the tsar mounted on a rearing stallion (quite accurately represented, I might add) of dappled grey. A few coals glowed in the fireplace, but the room had the desolate feel of any other office when the occupant has gone home for the night.

I went first to the safe, hidden behind a painting of some ancient bloke with a drooping mustache and a worried expression. French had shared its location and its combination, which I now entered as rapidly as I could with Calthorp breathing down my neck and wondering aloud (rather too loudly) how I’d come by the combination. It was the work of a moment, and I opened the safe with a flourish, only to find a set of tarnished fish knives and a stash of caviar where I’d hope to find Latham’s case.

“It isn’t here,” I said. “Look for it.”

“But how did you know the combination to the safe?” Calthorp asked. “Where ... ?”

I grabbed his lapels and jerked him to me. “Later, Reverend. Now please shut up and help me look for the bloody thing.”

Calthorp (dazed) and I (frantic) conducted a swift search, while Rowena kept watch at the door. It was Calthorp who won the prize, prying open a locked cabinet and giving a soft whoop of triumph as he triumphantly held up the late Archie Latham’s black leather case. I took it from him and knelt to open it, careful to keep my back to him. I glanced at the contents only briefly, content to see the letterhead of the War Office repeated throughout the stack of documents.