India Black (32 page)

I suppose the inhabitants of that little village were accustomed to foreigners pitching up on their shore, for an exorbitant amount of coin soon produced a fine ham, a block of cheese, a rather mean portion of butter, several loaves of bread, and three bottles of brandy, one each for Vincent, French and me. There were no questions asked (which indeed I couldn’t have answered anyway, as my French was limited to pointing to my open mouth and looking piteous), and no one seemed the least bit curious about us. No doubt they expected us to unload our cargo and disappear when night came. To ask questions would only invite trouble. My kind of people.

We had a sumptuous repast on the deck. It was still bloody cold, with the wind blowing steadily, but the rain and sleet had abated for the moment, though menacing clouds on the horizon signaled that the storm had yet to blow itself out. I preferred to be on deck; the cabin below was wet, cold, and miserable, and the company left a great deal to be desired.

After we’d eaten, French summoned Vincent, and they huddled together in the bow, with French whispering instructions to Vincent and Vincent nodding frequently. French gave Vincent a pat on the back, handed him some money, and Vincent scurried onto the quay.

“See ya soon, India. Don’t shoot anybody ’til I get back,” he said.

Cheeky sod.

“Mind you be quick about this, or I’ll shoot you.”

“You do ’alf scare me,” he said, and was out of sight before I could reply.

Our repast (particularly the brandy) had taken some of the chill off, but the wind was playing up again, singing through the rigging and sending cold shivers down my spine. To the east, a line of dark clouds reared up from the French countryside. Our three English buccaneers shared the deck with us, lined up opposite us against the rail while French kept a wary eye and a cocked pistol on them.

Hawkins lit a pipe and squinted at the sky. “We’ll have another squall ’ere, just any minute now. There’s rain in them clouds,” he said.

French motioned to Moss Mouth. “Go below and bring up two blankets. Is there any foul weather gear aboard?”

Moss Mouth laughed. “If there were, mate, I’da been wearin’ it by now.”

“Fetch the blankets, then.”

Moss Mouth complied, returning with two damp squares of wool that smelled like they’d been used to wrap fish and chips.

“Drop them on deck, please,” said French, and Moss Mouth dumped the blankets unceremoniously at his feet. At French’s direction, he returned to join his friends along the rail.

French handed me a blanket with a wry smile. “Make yourself comfortable, India. Unless you’d rather go below.”

“I think not,” I said, envisioning Ivanov’s surly countenance and Oksana’s sour face. “I’d rather sit out the storm up here. After all, I can’t get much wetter or colder.”

“How ’bout us, guv? It’s bloody cold up ’ere,” said Moss Mouth. “My fingers are so frozen, they’re liable to break.”

“Just a little longer, lads, and soon you’ll be sitting in a warm, cozy cabin, on your way back to England.”

“Don’t forget the chink,” said Moss Mouth, ogling me lecherously. “Them English whores don’t give it away for free.”

“You’ll get your money,” said French.

“And the thanks of a grateful nation,” I added.

The sky had darkened abruptly, signaling the advent of the storm. Heavy clouds roiled the heavens, and thunder rumbled ominously overhead. The halyards were slapping the mast and our little craft began to rock. A few fat drops spattered on the deck, and I covered my head with the blanket, just as the deluge began. Rain lashed the deck, stinging any exposed skin. I gathered the blanket tightly around me and resigned myself to once more being wet, cold and unkempt. A comb and some rouge wouldn’t have gone amiss just then.

French had draped the blanket around his shoulders, but he sat with his head uncovered, his black hair whipping in the wind and water cascading down his face. His Boxer remained steady in his hand, pointed at the smugglers. I had my Bulldog at the ready, but the three looked so utterly miserable, shoulders hunched against the driving rain and their heads buried in their hands, that I didn’t think they could summon the strength or the will to attack us.

I must really learn to avoid these sorts of categorical statements, for just as I was reassuring myself that French and I had nothing to fear from these brigands, a shot rang out from the cabin below. Three heads popped up simultaneously.

French was on his feet in an instant, making for the hatch and shouting over his shoulder, “Watch those men, India!”

I whipped my revolver from the folds of my blanket and aimed it at Moss Mouth. “Don’t move an inch, you maggot,” I said to him. “I’ve already killed one man on this journey, and it won’t bother me to add to the total.”

French had the hatch cover off and was standing to one side of the opening, peering cautiously down into the gloom.

“Ivanov,” he shouted over the roar of the wind.

Oksana’s face appeared, tearstained and wild-eyed. “The major has shot himself.”

“Excellent,” I snapped. “That will save a bullet.”

“But what am I to do?” Oksana implored. “I cannot stay here with Vasily Kristoforovich’s body.”

We were back to where we started, with Oksana (f/n/a Arabella) pitching a fit over sharing a room with a corpse. She’d get no sympathy from me this time.

“Leave him where he lies,” I said to French.

I thought for a moment that French’s better instincts (you know, that public school rot about damsels in distress, respect for fallen adversaries, etcetera, etcetera) would prevail and he would trundle down into the cabin and lay Ivanov out like a fallen soldier who’d perished in battle, offering words of solace to Oksana. But for once I was wrong about the man.

“Hand up the case, Oksana,” he said in a hard voice. “And stay below.”

“On the contrary, I think we will come up. I very much need to breathe some fresh air,” said a voice that bore a remarkable resemblance to that of the deceased Vasily Kristoforovich Ivanov. And then a second gunshot rang out.

French pitched backward, his Boxer flying from his hand and skittering over the deck toward Moss Mouth. The smuggler’s dexterity among the rigging had been noticeable, and he was no less light on his feet now. He bounded up quick as a cat and leapt for the gun. There was no time to think, much less shout something ineffectual like “Stop or I’ll shoot,” so I took aim, prayed that the Bulldog was still serviceable and pulled the trigger. There was a satisfying explosion of sound and the delightful smell of cordite, and when the smoke had cleared, I was pleased (for once) to see Moss Mouth staring at me open-mouthed, clutching the bloody claw that had been his hand. Dammit, I’d missed. I’d meant to kill him. Moss Mouth began to bawl like a motherless calf, a most irritating sound under such stressful circumstances.

I swung round to see Hawkins and Bob shifting nervously, clearly undecided about what to do next. Take on the crazy woman who’d just amputated their compadre’s hand? Go to the assistance of the nob who had taken Ivanov’s bullet? Which side to choose?

“I’m paying three times what I offered you,” roared Ivanov, storming up through the hatch with Oksana in tow. That decided the matter for Bob and Hawkins. Bob launched himself at me in a flying tackle, which given his lame foot, he executed with all the speed and agility of a walrus climbing onto an ice floe. I had to hand it to him; the fellow had spirit, but he wasn’t the brightest candle in the chandelier. Here he was charging at me while I held a pistol in my hand, pointed in his direction. If he had any doubts about what I could do with it, he could glance to his left and see Moss Mouth still writhing on the deck, clutching his hand. I sighed. Bob was so stupid, it seemed a shame to kill him. Then I thought about him shouldering me like a sack of flour and carrying me aboard ship. I considered that he’d had no idea, and had probably cared not one iota, what fate Ivanov had chosen for me when he tossed me into the forward cabin. Perhaps it was better to remove Bob from stud service, after all. I pulled the trigger.

Not surprisingly, Bob’s forward advance was checked (severely) by the big .442 slug. The bullet caught him in the shoulder and sent him spinning backward at a dizzying rate, until his feet tangled in a coil of rope and he crashed to the deck.

In the few seconds it had taken me to knock two miscreants from the pitch, Ivanov had reached the deck, and I found myself looking down the barrel of the revolver in his hand. Tucked under his other arm was Bowser’s black leather case. By this time, I was heartily sick of that thing.

I expected to see Ivanov’s imperious smile, but his visage was as terrible as that of a Spartan commander who’d just gotten word of the latest Helot revolt. Oksana was a step behind him, looking exultant despite her wet fur coat and drooping hat. I had the urge to hand her a mirror.

Ivanov paused to look at the fallen French. I followed his gaze. What I saw shocked me into immobility.

French lay sprawled on deck, his coat flung open and a dark red stain spreading slowly across the front of his white shirt. His face was turned toward me, and his eyes locked on mine. He was struggling to breathe, his chest heaving with the effort. He opened his mouth to speak, but I heard only the rasp of his breath in his throat. His hands clawed spastically at the waistband of his trousers. Well, you never can tell what a fellow will do when he’s dying, but that seemed rather out of character for the straitlaced French. I had to avert my eyes.

“Such a shame, is it not? I find it personally repugnant to kill a worthy opponent. There are so few in this match that we play,” said Ivanov, nudging French’s boot with his own.

Things were looking deuced difficult for French. Any minute, Vincent might arrive with French’s men from Calais, but a minute from now might be too late. I needed to do something, and quickly.

“Why not put a bullet in his head and end his suffering, then?”

Ivanov looked up sharply, the corners of his mouth turning up in grim smile. “By God, you’re a cold one, India Black. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to join us in the service of the tsar? I think you’d go far.” Oksana made a retching noise.

Ivanov wasn’t the only one staring at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that French had stopped twitching and was looking daggers at me. So the poncy cove wasn’t about to go the way of all earth just yet. Clever fellow, but what did he expect me to do? Divert Ivanov’s attention long enough for French to stagger to his feet and slash the Russian’s throat with a fingernail? That would leave Oksana and Hawkins for me to deal with, but given the alacrity with which I had dispatched Moss Mouth and Bob, I thought the odds were in my favor. Well, if French wasn’t dying, then perhaps I could keep Ivanov distracted with a little conversation, though words have never been my strong suit. I’m a woman of action, myself. Where was Dizzy when you needed him? He’d have nattered away until Ivanov’s eyes glazed with boredom and he fell asleep. But as Dizzy wasn’t here at the moment, it was down to me.

I was searching for some suitable topic for discussion when Ivanov preempted my efforts.

“Seize this woman,” he said to Hawkins, waving his pistol in my direction. Hawkins was a dab hand at following directions. I heard three quick steps across the deck, and then his arms snaked around my body from behind and grasped me tightly.

I repeat my observations about the quality of your rustic rascals versus the finer rogues to be found in the Smoke. Any London thug knows never to snatch someone from behind. The first thing a child of the streets learns is how to escape the clutches of peelers, pederasts and preachers. I merely bent over abruptly at the waist, and Hawkins, still clinging to me, was pulled off his feet. I could hear the toes of his boots scraping the deck as I twisted abruptly and fell heavily to one side. We crashed to the deck, with Hawkins’s arm trapped beneath my body. I heard the sound of a stick being snapped in half, and then Hawkins was sitting up, holding his elbow and gnashing his teeth in pain.

Ivanov rolled his eyes and Oksana shook her head, lips pressed together like a maiden schoolteacher watching the antics of some unruly boys. I could sympathize; it was damned difficult to get good help these days.

French had managed to right himself, and he was digging industriously in his trousers. I thought he’d been shot in the chest, but maybe he’d struck his head when he had fallen; how else to explain this bizarre behavior?

Those were my thoughts at the time, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I was certain the man had lost his mind. Why else would he be arranging his package at a time like this? But to give French his due, he had one more trick up his sleeve, or down his pants, as it were.

His hand emerged from his clothing, holding one of the finest of American inventions: the Remington .41 rimfire derringer. A bullet fired from one of those little pocket pistols was so slow you could actually see it moving through the air. The firepower was so negligible, that if you fired at something more than twenty feet away, the bullet was likely to bounce off the target. But if your quarry was near to hand (for example, across the table from you), he had no chance of surviving a well-placed shot. That’s why the Remington was so popular with cardsharps in the western United States; it was deadly when fired from a few feet. It was, in short, the dog’s bollocks when it came to close-range killing, and Ivanov was a scant two feet from French.

“Ivanov,” French said hoarsely. I, of course, would have shot the bastard in the back, but French was too much the gentleman for that.

The Russian caught the warning in French’s voice and turned slowly. Ivanov’s intentions were clear; his hand was already extending in French’s direction, the revolver cocked and ready, when French fired. There was a good deal of black smoke and a detonation that rang like a thunderclap. The bullet clouted Ivanov high in the chest, sending him reeling toward the side of the ship. Oksana cried out and reached for him, but Ivanov had lurched into the railing and was already falling, pitching headfirst into the water, Bowser’s black case striking the railing as he went over and springing open. I heard the splash of Ivanov’s body and saw water cascade into view, as a sheaf of white papers bearing the crest of Her Majesty’s government took flight on the wind, swirling away into the dawn light like a flock of seagulls on the wing.