India Black in the City of Light (Novella) (A Madam of Espionage Novella)

by Carr, Carol K.

  Peace crept across the battleground. The smoke drifted away, leaving only its thick stench behind. The brougham’s nags stopped plunging and stood stamping nervously, whickering softly. The door to the coach opened slowly and French stepped cautiously to the ground, Boxer in his hand. I saw the wicked gleam of the barrel in the moonlight.

  “Hello, French.”

  His shoulders sagged. In relief, I hoped, and not in disappointment. He shoved his pistol into his waistband. “I knew you were back there somewhere. Where the devil have you been? I thought I’d have to fight off these fellows by myself.”

  I admit to being a bit stung at this reaction. I do hate being predictable. However, French being a man, I thought it highly unlikely that he had actually known I was following him; he was just too damned stubborn to admit he was glad I’d turned up. I had saved the man’s life, after all, and his cuff links as well, and some gratitude would have been in order. I advised French of this in an acid tone. The fellow had the impertinence to laugh.

  “You’re quite right, India. My thanks to you. Now then, let’s find Dunstan and get back on the road. Where’s your driver, by the way?”

  “My driver is headed to the nearest public house, where he’ll no doubt rifle through my luggage and steal anything of value,” I said. “Who’s Dunstan?”

  “Dunstan is my driver.”

  “Dunstan. Doesn’t sound very French to me.”

  French had shut the door of the carriage and was reloading his revolver. “That’s because he’s English.”

  “So you did have another man along with you. After telling me I couldn’t come.”

  “Dunstan possessed some qualities which you do not.”

  “Such as?”

  “He’s a dab hand at taking orders.”

  “Oh,” I said huffily. “If that’s all—”

  “Dunstan,” French shouted, which startled me so I nearly dropped my Bulldog. “Are you there, man?”

  “Perhaps he made a run for it when the shooting started,” I suggested, rather smugly.

  “I’m afraid he’s taken a bullet. I distinctly felt the carriage lurch after the shooting started, as though he’d fallen, and the horses were running unchecked until those ruffians snagged a halter.”

  “Oh. Well I hope he’s only wounded.”

  “I say, would someone mind telling me what is happening out there?” The voice was thin and high, with an undercurrent of fear.

  “It’s alright, Cutliffe,” said French. “We’ve driven off the robbers.”

  “I hear a woman’s voice.”

  “You do indeed. She was traveling in a coach behind us and has come to our assistance. She is also an agent of the British government, so do not think you can prey on her sympathy.”

  “I shouldn’t dream of it,” the disembodied voice said drily.

  “Stay where you are,” French ordered. “If you try to leave the coach, my associate will shoot you.”

  “That would disappoint my Russian employers,” said Cutliffe.

  “But not me,” French replied.

  “I’ve only one bullet left,” I whispered to him.

  “Then make it count,” French hissed. In a louder voice, he said, “I’m going to fetch a light. I want you to hold the horses and keep an eye on this door. The other door is locked tight. If our friend in there tries to leave, don’t hesitate to pull the trigger.”

  French patted the horses and cooed at them until they’d settled, then motioned me forward. “Put your hand here, on the cheek piece, and hold on.” He guided my hand to a leather strap along the horse’s head and slid my fingers inside it. The horses had worked themselves into a lather during the attack and the leather was damp beneath my fingers. There was also a pungent odor of sweat and fear hanging like a cloud over the nags.

  I gripped the bridle tentatively. I don’t know much about horses, and what I do know, I don’t like. They’re untrustworthy brutes, apt to jump like a demented kangaroo if you touch an ear or wave a handkerchief in their face.

  “What do I do if they start to move?”

  “They won’t,” said French with an assurance I was very far from feeling. “Just pretend they’re your customers and talk to them in a soothing tone.”

  “Very amusing,” I said sourly.

  French removed the coach lamps from the brougham and lit them. “I’ll leave one by the door, so you’ll have a good shot at Cutliffe if he tries to run.” French lowered his voice. “I just said that for his benefit. He’s a timid fellow.”

  “And he calls himself a spy?”

  “He did it for the money, not the excitement.”

  French hoisted the other lantern and wandered off, calling Dunstan’s name. I stood in the road, grasping the bridle and praying the horses wouldn’t feel the urge for a warm stable and a bucket of grain. I hoped French was right about this Cutliffe fellow and that he wouldn’t try to scarper, for the single bullet in my revolver might hit its target and leave us without a spy to exchange. The Russians might balk at accepting a corpse if I accidentally killed the chap. I was pondering this potential dilemma and cursing French for leaving me alone in the middle of the night on a deserted French road with only a couple of jittery steeds and a Russian spy for company when I heard his footsteps on the gravel.

  French came into view, walking ponderously, with a thunderous scowl on his face.

  “Dunstan?” I asked.

  “Poor fellow,” said French. “He took a bullet to the head. Knocked him clean off the seat.”

  “I’m sorry, French. Did you know him well?”

  “I just met him in Calais, but he seemed a capital fellow.” He extinguished the lantern in his hand. “I’ll collect his body. We’ll leave him at the next village and I’ll send a telegraph to have him taken back to England.” He scuffed his boot against the ground and breathed a sigh of exasperation. “Bloody hell. This was supposed to be a simple operation. Now I’ve lost a man.”

  “May I point out the obvious? That you had nothing to do with Dunstan’s death? That’s down to a pack of thieves.”

  “If thieves they were,” French muttered in a low voice.

  “You don’t think—”

  “That they came for Cutliffe? It’s possible. This road is the most direct route from Calais to Paris, and the odds are that we’d be on it. And information is just like any other commodity. There’s a market for it. Someone could have sold the details of our journey to the Russians.”

  “I hate those Slav bastards,” I said. I felt an intense yearning for my missing ammunition. I didn’t want to meet a passel of Russian cutthroats with just one bullet. I expressed my concern to French in a hushed voice.

  “We’ll replace the ammunition,” he said. “In the meantime, you can use Dunstan’s weapon. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you used it to gun down one of those devils from tonight.”

  I allowed that he would not and French fetched the gun for me. He examined it in the light of the lantern. “A Tranter revolver. Good quality, very little use. Takes a .442 cartridge just like your Bulldog.” He opened the cylinder and spun it gently. “Fully loaded. He didn’t have time to get off a shot.”

  “I shall do my best to get one in for him, if the opportunity presents itself.” I took the gun from French. “What’s that?” I asked, looking at the ungainly item in his hand.

  He displayed his find. “It’s a pepperbox pistol. Dunstan carried it in his coat pocket. Have you seen one before?”

  “No, I haven’t. I’d remember something that ugly.”

  It was indeed a homely object, looking more like a cosh than a handgun. It had a grip like a revolver, and what appeared to be a cylinder like a revolver, but there was no barrel. I mentioned this curiosity to French.

  “It doesn’t discharge the bullets from a revolving cylinder through a single barrel,”
he said. “There are actually multiple barrels.”

  “Good God,” I exclaimed. “Do they all go off at once?”

  French chuckled. “They’re not supposed to, but it does happen. When one charge ignites, it can touch off all the others.”

  “Sounds dangerous,” I said.

  “But useful,” said French, tucking the pepperbox into his pocket. “Now then, I’ll drive and you ride inside to keep an eye on Cutliffe. We’ll find an inn and change the horses. These poor chaps are done in.”

  “You don’t think we’ll attract attention? The brougham has taken a few shots, Cutliffe is in irons and I’ve no luggage.”

  “Never mind about that. I’ve yet to meet an innkeeper who wouldn’t turn a blind eye if the price is right. We’ll rent a new vehicle and leave this one behind. No doubt there’s a dress shop between here and Paris, as well.”

  I did not relish the idea of purchasing some dowdy item in a dirty French village. I would wait until we arrived in Paris to purchase my wardrobe. I informed French of my decision. “I hope you’ve plenty of money. All of mine is in my purse, or was. I expect it’s in my driver’s pocket by now.”

  “I can spare a sous or two. You may have to rein in your extravagant taste, however.”

  “There’s no chance of that, I’m afraid. I do not plan to return from Paris with a single cheap dress. I’m sure you’ve a connection at a French bank, in the event I need more funds.”

  “We’ll talk about that later,” said French, in the time-honored tradition of all men, who can’t abide a frank discussion of finances with a member of the fairer sex. “Let’s move along. I’ve a rendezvous with the Russians and time is wasting.”

  He opened the door of the carriage for me and gave me a hand up. I was aware of a presence in the seat opposite me, but it was impossible to make out any details of face or figure in the darkness. Then French reappeared, breathing heavily and bearing Dunstan’s body. I helped drag the poor driver’s corpse into the brougham, where it lay sprawled across my feet and those of Cutliffe.

  “I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” said French, “but we’ll find a village soon and make the proper arrangements.”

  I settled myself, propping my feet on Dunstan’s body (well, he was past caring, wasn’t he?), setting the Bulldog onto the seat beside me under my outspread skirt and placing the Tranter in my lap with my hand cupped loosely around the grip. It would be the work of only a second to grasp it firmly, cock the hammer and level it at my companion in the brougham.

  I felt the coach sway as French climbed into the driver’s seat and set the horses in motion. They were nervous buggers, surging forward as the reins flicked across their rump. We jolted off at a fast trot.

  Cutliffe proved to be a fine companion on our journey, as he remained resolutely silent. That suited me, as I had little to say to the traitorous bastard and I was still seething at the thought of my lost luggage. I was curious to see what the fellow looked like, however, and I was glad when the first wan rays of sunlight penetrated the gloom of the brougham’s interior and I could make out my surroundings. First, I had a good look at Dunstan and wished I hadn’t, for he was lying with his face turned toward me and I could see the blackened hole in his forehead. The driver had been unlucky, for the shot had been a matter of chance; no one could have seen clearly enough in the darkness to place such a well-aimed blast. Dunstan had been a bulky fellow with a full beard and thick, stumpy fingers. He looked like a capable fellow and would no doubt have done his best to drive away the attackers, but for the misfortune of being gunned down at the beginning of the fight. My examination of Disraeli’s man complete, I stole a glance at the Russian agent.

  Albert Cutliffe did not look like a spy. But then, neither did I. The Great Hairy Character upstairs dispenses his favors in a most un-Christian manner, for I had been blessed with skin like alabaster, a mass of tumbling dark curls and blue eyes that made you look at me twice, if you weren’t already looking at the splendid figure the Almighty also had seen fit to bestow upon me. Cutliffe, on the other hand, was a bespectacled fellow with thinning ginger hair, a mustache that needed trimming and the calculating expression of a stoat surveying the chicken coop. He was a nasty little specimen. If the fellow had been a merchant I’d have counted my change twice, but the mandarins at the India Office had seen fit to hire the chap and entrust him with some pretty important stuff.

  He had been dozing, but he must have felt my eyes upon him, for his popped open and I saw an expression of surprise there which he quickly masked with indifference. We stared at each other for a moment, and then he broke the silence.

  “What a pleasant surprise, waking to such a vision.” The voice was as I remembered from last night, an unpleasant, grating whine that instantly set my teeth on edge. I hadn’t been predisposed to like the fellow anyway, but his appearance and that dreadful voice had removed any last vestige of civility.

  “I assume you haven’t any experience with women, Cutliffe, or you wouldn’t trot out such a feeble line.”

  That earned me a baleful look. He shifted on his seat and nudged Dunstan’s body with the toe of his boot.

  “Too bad about this one. I trust the prime minister will see that the widow and children get a nice pension.” He pursed his lips. “Oh, dear. I’d forgotten that we’re talking about a servant of the British government. The poor woman and the kiddies will be lucky to get a letter of condolence.”

  I hadn’t intended to converse with the rogue, but I found him deuced annoying. “I suppose you think your Russian masters give a toss about you?”

  His raised a ginger eyebrow. “But of course they do. So much so that they’re exchanging one of Disraeli’s best agents for me.”

  “If he’d been one of the prime minister’s best agents, I doubt he would have been caught,” I said lightly. “And the same goes for you, of course. I can hardly think that you’re very accomplished at this spying game if you’ve been apprehended.” I didn’t believe my own guff, but it gave me some pleasure to wind up Cutliffe.

  Unfortunately, he wasn’t taking the bait. He gave me a placid smile and looked down at the revolver in my lap.

  “I confess I am rather shocked to see a woman ride to the rescue. Has the British Empire fallen to such a state of decrepitude that it now recruits members of the fairer sex as agents?”

  “Oh, women are naturals at this espionage game. After all, we spend our lives telling lies to men like you. Do you know your Dante?” I asked. “Do you remember where the traitors spend eternity? The ninth circle of hell. You know, the circle right next to Beelzebub himself, reserved for those who betray their countries.”

  Cutliffe snorted disdainfully. “How very English you sound. All this talk of treachery and betrayal. Had I been paid a decent wage, I wouldn’t have felt the need to augment my salary with a stipend from the Russians.”

  “I see. It wasn’t treason, merely a commercial transaction.”

  “I expect you know all about that sort of thing. I don’t suppose you work for the government just because you enjoy it.”

  Damnation, this fellow was a cool one. Inadvertently, he’d touched a nerve with that comment. As I have mentioned, I had been blackmailed into my first mission for the British government by French himself, the poncy bastard. Thereafter, I’d done my bit for the Sceptered Isle because running a going concern like Lotus House is a bit less exciting than chasing Russian spies and protecting Queen Vicky from assassination. On the other hand, I’d begun to fret at the rather cavalier way French and the prime minister just assumed I’d be happy to go undercover with anarchists and track down murderers without a farthing of compensation. I’d been meaning to speak to French about that very issue, and soon.

  I checked my temper and gave Cutliffe a superior smile. “Has it escaped your notice that I’m the one with the gun and you’re the bloke in the handcuffs?”

 
Thereafter, we called it a draw and rode in sullen silence. The sun had cleared the horizon by the time we arrived at the next hamlet. I looked out the window as French eased the brougham off the road and saw a few houses of plaster and wood, with the obligatory geese foraging in the gardens and lines of washing swaying gently in the breeze. Wisps of smoke from a dozen chimneys trailed lazily into the sky. A cock crowed loudly. I was a bit disappointed, for rural France appeared similar to rural England, which is to say it looked deadly dull. I hoped we had found an inn at which to procure a decent meal and a belt of brandy, for I was feeling peckish. All my victuals and drink were destined to line my former coachman’s stomach.

  I thought longingly of a feather bed and soft sheets. My eyes were gritty from lack of sleep and I’d begun to yawn, but I knew French would veto any attempt to stop until we reached Paris, which would be, by my reckoning, a good many hours from now. I should just have to make do with that brandy.

  I peered out the window as French drove the team past the front door of a rambling two-story inn of pale limestone that gleamed in the soft morning light. Large white shutters were still closed over the windows, indicating the guests were not yet stirring, but as we trundled by the huge wooden door, the landlord dragged it open and watched us pass. He was a slender fellow sporting a noble Roman nose, close-set eyes and a clay pipe that emitted clouds of smoke. He caught sight of me and smiled hospitably. Then he stared curiously at the bullet holes in the coach. French continued on, driving around the side of the building into a cobblestoned yard surrounded by outbuildings. French pulled the team to a halt as a skinny youth with spots emerged from a shed, scratching an armpit. French greeted the boy cheerily and asked a question. French was speaking French, of course, no doubt learned from a private tutor. While I speak no Frog, I recognized the inflection in French’s voice. The youth raked a bit of straw from his hair and mumbled an answer. French tossed the reins to him and jumped down from the driver’s seat.

  He stuck his head through the window. “I’m going to speak to the owner. I’ve asked the boy to hold the horses until I return.”