PRAISE FOR
INDIA BLACK AND THE WIDOW OF WINDSOR
“Following a strong debut . . . Carr’s Victorian series just gets better. Featuring historical authenticity, sharp vocabulary and plenty of parenthetical asides, this romantic suspense romp delivers both action and guffaws.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Fans of historical murder mysteries should rejoice at the appearance of a second India Black adventure and the prospect of more—the madam comes highly recommended.”
—Open Letters Monthly
“Carr’s second India Black novel is fast, entertaining and funny as well as an engaging mystery.”
—RT Book Reviews
INDIA BLACK
“A breathless ride through Victorian England . . . You’ll be hooked on this unique mystery from the very first line.”
—Victoria Thompson, author of Murder on Fifth Avenue
“I loved this cheeky romp—a kind of Fanny Hill meets Nancy Drew—through a world Dickens would have known. India Black, the witty and resourceful young madam of a London brothel, is a delightful protagonist. I shall follow her future career with particular interest.”
—Vicki Lane, author of Under the Skin
“[A] breezy, fast-paced debut.”
—Publishers Weekly
“This saucy debut is a satisfying amusement, with the happy promise of more to come.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Readers will enjoy this impressive debut novel, which provides a colorful portrait of Victorian society as seen through the eyes of a strong, intelligent woman.”
—Booklist
“[A] breakneck romp through Victorian England . . . Provides plenty of laughter and thrills to keep readers turning pages.”
—Gumshoe Review
“Bone up on your English and Russian history with this witty account of India Black’s escapades. She’s quite a character!”
—Fresh Fiction
“India is a charismatic character with depth, coyness and an unexpected ability to get exactly what she wants, no matter what. India Black is also full of romance for those who enjoy history, romance and mysteries rolled into one. This is one book that will satisfy all of your needs.”
—The Romance Readers Connection
“Expect to stay up late reading this fascinating and at times hilarious novel of espionage and intrigue; you won’t want to put it down.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Terrific . . . Entertaining . . . A fast-paced Victorian mystery . . . There are escapes, cross-country chases by coach and by sled, sharpshooting and danger on the high seas.”
—My Reader’s Block
“It’s the perfect mix of a great main character, interesting supporting characters, adventure, intrigue and historical setting—combined with a wonderfully descriptive writing style and fast pace.”
—Fluidity of Time
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Carol K. Carr
INDIA BLACK
INDIA BLACK AND THE WIDOW OF WINDSOR
INDIA BLACK AND THE SHADOWS OF ANARCHY
Carol K. Carr
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 707 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria 3008, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa), Rosebank Office Park, 181 Jan Smuts Avenue, Parktown North 2193, South Africa • Penguin China, B7 Jiaming Center, 27 East Third Ring Road North, Chaoyang District, Beijing 100020, China
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2013 by Carol K. Carr.
Cover illustration by Alan Ayers.
Cover design by Rita Frangie.
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PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime trade paperback edition / February 2013
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Carr, Carol K.
India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy / Carol K. Carr.—Berkley Prime Crime trade paperback edition.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-425-25595-7
1. Brothels—England—London—Fiction. 2. International relations—Fiction. 3. London (England)—History—1800-1950—Fiction. 4. Spy stories. 5. Historical fiction. I. Title.
PS3603.A7726I54 2013 2012040634
813'.6—dc23
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
PROLOGUE
“It’s a damned shame,” proclaimed Lord Wickard, Earl of Ebbechester, and a power in the land, “when a feller can’t feel safe in his own country.” He glared at his companions, who, having just finished an eight-course dinner by Francois, the Frog chef at the Albion Club, were now meditating upon the mellowness of the port and the age of the Stilton provided by the same establishment. The earl drew vigorously on a Romeo y Julieta and breathed smoke on his fellows.
“A damned shame,” he reiterated, more forcefully this time for the sake of old General Woodcliff, who was deaf as a post. “What the devil is the government doing letting in all these bloody foreigners? They’re a menace.”
The men round the fire stirred themselves to mutter pensively.
General Woodcliff stroked his magnificent moustache and said, “Venice? Venice? Lovely town and all that, what with those deuced odd boats and those grenadiers with the funny hats, poling them along.”
“You mean gondoliers,” corrected one of the diners.
“Impractical design, of course,” added the general. “Hate to attempt a landing under fire in those tubs.”
“Anarchists!” boomed the earl. “Every one of them anarchists. Tell me why Scotland Yard hasn’t packed up the lot of them and marched them down to the cliffs of Dover and kicked them over the edge?”
A diffident voice was heard to murmur that this activity would surely constitute murder, and not even a Tory government could countenance such behavior on the part of the police.
The earl plunged on, bitterly. “I wouldn’t scruple at murder. After all, that’s what these fellers are doing. They cut down poor Carrington the other day when he was out for a ride. Killed the horse, too. Damned shame, that. Had all the makings of a good stud.”
This aroused much indignation among the group. One fellow had to summon the waiter for more port.
“They’ve made threats, you know, to wipe out the entire aristocratic class of England,” the earl continued.
The general had by now deciphered the conversation. “Balls!” he said. “Thing to do is send in the Scarlet Lancers. Mow ’em down, like we did the Sikhs at Goojerat in ’49.”
“Not quite as simple as it sounds,” contributed one of the diners, a minor government official and cool fellow known as Carsty. “Apparently these chaps—”
“And women,” interjected the earl. “Some of these chaps are women.”
“And women,” added Carsty. “The point is that the government has allowed in so many Macaronis and Frogs and Russkis that you can’t tell friend from foe.”
“Send ’em all back,” said the earl. “Why should we allow a pack of Russians to settle down in the East End?”
Carsty cracked a walnut. “There is some concern that if they were returned to Russia, they’d be murdered. You know, because they’re Jews, or revolutionaries who want to assassinate the tsar. Sometimes”—Carsty pried the sweetmeat from the shell—“they’re both.”
“Proves my point,” said the earl. “If the Russians don’t want these troublemakers, I don’t see why we should be forced to put up with ’em.”
“Hear, hear,” said the general, waving his glass. “Ought to put ’em down like we did the blasted Indians who mutinied in ’57. Catch a few of the crafty bastards and tie ’em to the barrel of an artillery piece. Makes a hell of an example for the others, when the bugger’s fired.”
There was universal approbation among the group. The general might be edging toward senility, but he still had his wits about him when it came to crushing rebellions.
“I suppose,” said Carsty, “that we’ll all have to keep a sharp eye out for threats. These anarchists do seem fixed on the idea of destroying our finest families.”
“What have we ever done to them?” asked young Arbuthnot.
The others looked at him pityingly. A good chap, but not a first-class intellect. A deuced fine shot, though, and always useful at making up the numbers for a game of polo.
The earl deigned to enlighten him. “They’re lunatics, Arbuthnot. They seem to think that every man is fit to rule himself, and governments aren’t needed. They want to kill off the old guard and the monarchs and let the common man and the workers have a go at running things.” He paused. “Or not running things. For the life of me, I don’t know how they expect things to happen unless someone’s around to make sure they do. Do they really think a coal miner could manage British foreign policy? Confusing business.” He shook his head briskly. “Anyway, what they believe is of no importance because it’s all balderdash.”
“Balderdash for which they’re willing to commit murder,” said Carsty.
“Put ’em on the firing line,” the general urged. “We’ll see if they’re willing to die for that balderdash. Most of these rebel types are cowards at heart. Most of ’em not fit to polish your boots.”
The group concurred with this assessment, and then conversation turned to more important matters, such as whether Romeo y Julietas or Partagás gave the finer smoke, and would the impending war between the Russians and the Turks mean a disruption in the supply of caviar from the Caspian Sea?
Shortly after midnight, the earl rose and took his leave.
“Wash out for anarchists,” Arbuthnot called gaily after him. Arbuthnot was very, very drunk.
The earl looked fierce. “Just let them try me. They’ll soon find they’ve meddled with the wrong man.”
“That’s the spirit,” said the general.
A yawning cloakroom attendant bundled the earl into his coat and muffler and handed him his hat. The earl dropped a coin into the man’s hand. Word had already been delivered to the mews that the Earl of Ebbechester desired his carriage to be sent round.
The driver touched his whip to his brim as the earl came down the steps. A footman opened the door, and the earl stepped up into his carriage, subsiding gratefully into the rich leather seats. The footman draped a woolen blanket over the earl’s knees, shut the door and rapped on the carriage. The horses stepped out and the earl sighed contentedly. A fine dinner, amiable conversation, excellent port. The simple pleasures of life. And now home to bed, to crawl between freshly ironed sheets while his valet placed two hot water bottles at his feet.
The door of the carriage was jerked open and a rough voice said, “Here, guv.” Something round and heavy and metallic rolled across the carriage floor, crashing into the earl’s feet. The earl smelled a familiar smell, which took him back to delightful days on the moor, with the pheasants whirring into the air as the beaters drove them along. Gunpowder. The carriage rolled a few feet forward, and exploded.
ONE
Ah, springtime in England. Fleecy lambs frolic on the green hills, their white wool sparkling in the sunlight. Apple blossoms float like snowflakes across the fields. Crocuses and daffodils dot the landscape. Warm zephyrs caress the pastures, and the pale blue sky gleams with promise.
But not in bloody London. Not this year. This spring, the citizens of the Big Smoke were being treated to daily deluges from the heavens. Thick clouds roiled overhead, and the crack of thunder punctuated every conversation. You might think that London could do with a bath and sheets of rain are just the thing to accomplish that task, but you’d be forgetting the voluminous coils of smoke that issue from every hearth and home and the reeking fumes from the factories. When the rain comes down in this city, it comes down as brown sludge, ruining bonnets and cloaks and covering the houses with a layer of silt. The streets had become rushing torrents as the drainage system filled to overflowing. A stroll to the pub meant wading through clumps of straw, fruit peels, and bits and bobs of human waste. The stench was overpowering; the whole city smelled fetid and sour, like a vast sewer.
It had rained so much and so often that any day now I expected to hear a stentorian voice issue from the sky: “Here, Noah! Get moving, you lazy bugger! I want fleas, a pair of ’em. And make sure it’s male and female this time. That last lot you brought in was both ladies, and we won’t be getting any baby fleas from those two. What’s that? Rats? Of course I want rats. Two of every kind you’ve got. And don’t forget the lice. They’re thick on the ground over in the East End.” Lightning flashed and thunder rolled. “Eh? Couldn’t hear you, Noah. Sorry about that, only time’s wasting and if I’m going to get this flood under way, I’ve got to keep the weather on schedule. Tarts? You want to know if you should bring some tarts? I’m beginning to think I should have entrusted this job to someone else, Noah. Hell, no, we don’t want any tarts on board. They’ll contaminate the whole ark with their wanton ways. Besides, it’s their kind we’re trying to eliminate with this exercise. So get back to work and find me some parasites. Politicians? I said parasites, didn’t I? Of course politicians qualify.”
Well, I had to amuse myself somehow, even if I was in danger of provoking the Ancient Bearded Bloke in the process. The blasted squalls were keeping customers from the door, and my bints were growing sullen from lack of trade. I suppose I should take half a mo and introduce myself. I’m India Black, proprietress of Lotus House brothel and occasionally, when the mood suits me and the prime minister asks me politely, a se
cret agent in service to the British government. I don’t care if you don’t believe it; it doesn’t make it any less true. But just so you’ll understand, I’ll explain how I found myself chasing Russian spies and saving Vicky from a Scottish assassin.
Until a few months ago, I’d been minding my own business and running Lotus House. I have a head for business, if I do say so myself, and the bordello was raking in cash from the military officers, government clerks and secretaries, and the minor aristocracy who compose my clientele. I run a refined establishment, with clean whores, Cuban cigars and good liquor. The girls are well fed, and I’m mostly successful at keeping them away from the gin, and as a result they’re plump, rosy and inviting. It costs a bit more to take care of the sluts, especially when, if left to their own devices, they’d be lying in the gutter with their lips glued to a bottle, but I don’t stint when it comes to expenses. On the other hand, I don’t hesitate to charge a stiff price for the services on offer at Lotus House. Why shouldn’t I, if the gents are willing to pay?
So things were rolling along merrily, until one Sunday afternoon a pudgy cove named Latham slipped his cable at Lotus House and departed this life. I could have dealt easily enough with the fellow’s death, but for the fact that he turned out to be a clerk in the War Office carrying around a secret memo discussing the state of Britain’s military (dire, I suppose, would best describe it). I was unaware of this, of course, and thought I had only to worry about disposing of the body, when a poncy bastard named French entered the picture. He was a special agent for the prime minister, that dear old queen Disraeli, and wanted to get his mitts on Latham’s memo. I would have obliged him, but the confounded document had disappeared. It seems the Russians (treacherous Slavs) also wanted to lay hands on the memo, as they had a mind to invade the Ottoman Empire if they thought they could get away with it, and the strength of the British army was just the kind of information they needed to know. Latham’s document ended up at the Russian embassy, and I found myself roped into retrieving it. French affects to be a gentleman, but there was nothing nice about the way he blackmailed me into recovering the War Office memo. It was a wild ride, I tell you, with me ending up as a prisoner of the Russians not once, but twice, and a fair amount of swordplay and gunplay and bumps and bruises. We made a good fist of it, but in the end the memo disappeared into the sea off Calais, along with the wily and wolfish Russian agent, Major Ivanov.
India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A MADAM OF ESPIONAGE MYSTERY) Page 1