Whenever French is around, I complain loudly about the experience, but the truth is that I found the whole scenario a good bit more thrilling than umpiring spats between whores and paying the butcher. I’ve always had a taste for adventure (who’d run a brothel if they didn’t?), and careering around England, trailing Russian spies and shooting Cossack guards turns out to be my cup of tea. And there’s the added bonus of consorting with the most powerful men of the land, who are prepared to grovel charmingly when they ask for my help. What more could a woman want?
Consequently, when French came calling again, asking for my help in protecting the Queen from a group of Scottish nationalists, I was only too pleased to assist. We caught the leader of that crowd of assassins, but not before blood was spilled (oh, not Vicky’s of course, or we’d still be hearing about it) and yours truly stared death in the face. I still shiver when I think of looking down the barrel of that revolver and seeing the bloody murder in the eyes behind it. I admit that after that adventure I’d been content to put up my feet for a bit and drink tea while my tarts did the heavy lifting. But inactivity palls, and between the lack of espionage missions, the blasted weather and the venomous atmosphere of a cathouse with too many pussies and not enough mice to play with, I was getting bored.
French, you see, had disappeared. I hadn’t seen him for weeks. The last I’d heard of him was a note I received the day after our return from Scotland. Two words, scribbled in pencil on a piece of grubby notepaper: “Called away.” There was no mention of where he’d gone or why, or how long he’d be away. I can tell you, I was chapped.
Aside from the fact that he is often brutally oblivious to his need for my help, there could be only two reasons why French would bolt and not take me along. First and foremost, he has an exaggerated notion of my feminine vulnerability. If his current mission was a dangerous one, he might have felt compelled to go it alone. I found that a bit hard. I mean, the bloke’s exposed me to the clutches of the Russians, for God’s sake, who don’t hesitate to apply the whip to their own poor serfs in the name of national security and surely wouldn’t baulk at doing the same to the odd British agent who’d landed in their midst. Not to mention the fact that it was me who had saved French from being cut down by a Cossack guard wielding a bloody great sword. I’d felled the man with one shot from my .442 Webley British Bulldog. In short, I could take care of myself and French, and had proved it. If French thought he was protecting me by heading off to do a bit of spying without me, there’d be an unpleasant surprise waiting for him when he returned.
But there was a second reason I thought French had vanished without seeing me. He knew I was waiting for the first opportunity to tackle him about his family. I’m only surmising that he has one, of course, as he’s never said a word about them. I have only the prime minister’s casual slip when he sent us off to Balmoral, enquiring about French’s “fa—,” causing French to change the subject faster than an Irishman can down a pint of Guinness. To be fair (and this is likely the last time I will be, so take note), I hadn’t disclosed much of my own past to French, but that’s because I don’t know much about the old pedigree. Given French’s guilty outburst when Dizzy spilled the beans (you may recall from that previous adventure that French interjected the word “father” to put me off the scent), I’d wager that somewhere in a London suburb is a rosy-cheeked blonde with a litter of rosy-cheeked moppets, all waiting for dear Papa to return to his family’s bosom. Of course, it’s French’s prerogative to have as many little sprats as he wants, and if he wants an insipid little wife, jolly good for him. He should, however, let his fellow agents know in the event, for example, that the fellow agent fails to save him from a Cossack guard with a bloody great sword and has to deliver the distressing news to his poor spouse.
Between French’s disappearance and his avoiding any explanation of his clan and the blasted weather and the annoying tarts mooching around Lotus House, cleaning out the pantry and not earning a shilling, I was in a sullen frame of mind. I’d been brooding for weeks, and I fear my looks were beginning to suffer. A little of the gloss had gone from my raven black locks, and my blue eyes were now a little dull, having nothing to spark a flame of excitement in them. Worst of all, I’d grown a little pinched about the eyes and mouth, from frowning at the thought of the high old time French must be having, dodging bullets and matching wits with sinister foreign types with thick moustaches and heavy accents while I rotted away in St. James, riding herd on a bevy of unruly sluts.
So it was that I was moping by the fire one April afternoon in 1877, while the wind blew the shingles loose on the roof, the rain bucketed down and the whores lounged about stuffing their faces with Mrs. Drinkwater’s comestibles, though how they managed to bolt down a hunk of gingerbread that weighed as much as a cannonball, I do not know. It’s no excuse to say that Mrs. Drinkwater was drunk when she baked it, for she’s always drunk. I’ve no idea if her cooking would improve if she were sober. I have wondered whether, if she weren’t drunk most of the time, she’d have the initiative to find a position that did not require her to consort with half-naked bints and elegant wastrels. I stabbed my piece of gingerbread with the tines of my fork and was not surprised to see that they left no impression. I sipped the watery tea Mrs. Drinkwater had provided and grimaced. Thinking of my cook inspired me to rise and rummage through my drinks cabinet. I located a bottle of brandy and poured a generous dose into my cup, returning to the fire and the French novel I’d been paging through idly. I could hear Mrs. Drinkwater humming tunelessly as she rootled around the hall, bringing fresh tea and muffins to the tarts while they giggled and gossiped in the parlor. Rain fell in sheets against the window, and the coal fire hissed at my feet.
Someone hammered at the front door so violently that it shook. In the hallway, Mrs. Drinkwater staggered against the wall and dropped her tray, which clanged like a fire bell as it skittered over the marble tiles. The whores shrieked and spilled their tea, and I stormed into the foyer to bring some order to the house. Mrs. Drinkwater was collecting muffins and bemoaning the fact that “they won’t be eatable now, having fallen on the floor.” As they hadn’t been edible to begin with, I felt certain the loss would be minimal. Indeed, the customer at the door had probably saved the girls massive indigestion, it being difficult for the human body to process lumps of iron. The girls had abandoned their tea and raced upstairs, elbowing each other and claiming first dibs on the fellow at the door. Bless their wee hearts; it had been so long since a chap had braved the elements that the bints had all forgotten who was next up to the wicket. No worries, though, as I remembered (being a madam requires that you excel at that sort of thing) that it was the turn of Clara Swansdown (or Bridget Brodie, as she was known when she was at home in Ballykelly), although it might be a regular out there in the rain who already had a favorite in mind.
Mrs. Drinkwater was on her hands and knees on the floor chasing down an errant muffin, so I went to the door myself. I flung it open, smiling broadly and ignoring the rain in my face, for I truly was glad for a bit of custom. Only there’d be no shilling earned at Lotus House from this fellow. I took in his stiff posture, sober black suit and immobile countenance and knew at a glance he was not here to be jollied into smiling by a winsome tart with gooseberries for brains.
“Miss Black?” He didn’t wait for my confirmation of this fact. “I’ve a message for you from Lord Beaconsfield.”
“From Dizzy?”
The officious bloke frowned faintly. “The prime minister, yes. He wishes you to accompany me at once to his rooms at the Langham.”
“Now?”
“It is a matter of some urgency. I have a carriage waiting.”
Well, when the prime minister of this sceptred isle deigned to summon one, what could one do but go? Besides, something interesting might be afoot.
“One moment, please, while I fetch my cloak.”
I left the dour bloke in the foyer with the water puddling around his feet and found Mrs.
Drinkwater in the kitchen, where she was consoling herself over the ruined muffins with a generous tumbler of sherry. I informed her that I would be out for dinner, but to make up some sandwiches for me before she had anything more to drink. She sniffed a bit, no doubt thinking me brusque, but I knew that if she waited much later she’d be pickled to the gills and asleep under the table when I got home. I collected a hooded cloak and an umbrella from the stand in the hall and was ushered into the waiting carriage by the somber messenger.
He didn’t look the type for idle conversation, nor, indeed, for divulging even so much as his name, so I sat back and contented myself with pondering why the British prime minister had sent directly for his sporadically willing servant, India Black. My previous meetings with Dizzy had always been arranged by French. Well, that was not quite an accurate statement. Usually French scheduled the meeting and dragged me along to it, just to be sure that I’d fall at the feet of the old charmer and agree to steal into the Russian embassy or masquerade as a maid at Balmoral.
My first thought, of course, was that French had cocked up his latest mission and needed my help to straighten out the affair. I felt the urge to fluff my feathers and preen a bit, to be followed by some well-deserved indulgence in the pride of sin (one can always ask forgiveness later), when a dreadful thought struck me like a blow. What if French had been injured, or worse, had gotten himself scragged? I could see it, I really could, given the poncy bastard’s ridiculous commitment to the standards of conduct he’d learned at Eton or Winchester or wherever he’d spent his youth. It would be just like the man to offer his opponent the chance to get off the floor and recover his knife before the fight continued. My stomach clenched and I felt a faint palpitation near what I assumed to be the location of my heart. Damn Mrs. Drinkwater’s wretched food; I must find a proper cook someday.
I cast a glance at my traveling companion, to see if the news of French’s fate might be discerned from his expression, but deuced if it wasn’t like staring at the Sphinx’s profile. There was nothing to do but watch the rain drench the few pedestrians on the sidewalks, and drum my fingers on my knee until the Egyptian statue cast me a sidelong glance and I dispensed with that diversion. It wasn’t far to the Langham, but it felt like we had journeyed to Edinburgh by the time we arrived. I piled out of the carriage, ignoring Dizzy’s messenger, and made for the door.
I set a sharpish pace to the prime minister’s suite, and my chum just managed to maneuver around me to knock on the door and announce our presence before I burst into the room like a schoolmaster smelling smoke in the dormitory.
TWO
Benjamin Disraeli, prime minister of Great Britain and her colonies, was lounging before the fire, wrapped in a paisley shawl and paging slowly through a thick sheaf of papers. He looked the very picture of an aging libertine from the Levant, with his hooked nose and olive skin, reclining on the sofa in a canary yellow dressing gown of velvet with a sable collar and a bottle green silk fez covering his thinning black curls. All that was missing was a hookah and the ladies from the seraglio.
“Miss Black is here,” said his minion, quite unnecessarily as Dizzy had looked up from his papers and bestowed a charming smile on me.
“Thank you, Barnard. Please wait until we are finished, and then you may escort Miss Black home.” The fellow bowed himself out, and I was alone with the prime minister.
He started to rise, but I hurried forward and gave him my hand. He bent over it with a kindly expression. “I’m so pleased to see you, my dear. Sit next to me if you will. We have much to discuss, but I would be remiss if I didn’t offer you some refreshment before we begin. I believe you are fond of whisky?”
While I waited for a glass, Dizzy made small talk about the weather and the Russians (he’s a great one for discussing the Russians, and at the moment they were kicking up a fuss in the Ottoman Empire again and Dizzy was having a spot of trouble with the rascals). I nodded sympathetically while he railed about Ivan, but I was studying him carefully. He hadn’t been at all well while we were up at Balmoral, and the place is not exactly a health spa, what with the winds whistling down into the valley off the snow-covered Cairngorms and the Queen refusing to allow fires in any of the rooms. The prime minister was pale (a difficult feat to achieve with that swarthy complexion), and now and then a dry cough interrupted the flow of his conversation, but it would take more than a cold to stop Dizzy once he’s got the bit between his teeth, and so I listened to a lengthy diatribe about the perfidious Russkis. I had to force myself to sit quietly and hear him out, though I was champing at my own bit to find out what had happened to French. I was as nervous as a curate accused of sodomy, but I nodded and smiled and made appropriate noises while Dizzy blathered away. I derived some small consolation from the thought that if things had indeed gone wrong for French, Dizzy would have gone straight to the point. Then I remembered that Dizzy was a politician and constitutionally incapable of direct speech.
The old boy finally ran out of steam. He pushed back a ringlet of hair from his forehead and grinned wryly. “Forgive me, my dear, for rattling on about my present concerns. You must be wondering why I’ve asked you here.”
“Yes,” I replied. Sometimes I marvel at my sangfroid.
There was a light rap at the door and Barnard pushed it open. “Superintendent Stoke has arrived.”
“Ah,” said Dizzy. “Be so kind, Barnard, as to show him in.” He turned to me. “Superintendent Stoke is with Scotland Yard. He has some information about the matter we’ll be discussing.”
I really don’t enjoy meeting Yard men. Sooner or later one of them is bound to remember me from a previous encounter, and I can assure you that any such meeting would not redound to the benefit of India Black.
Stoke shuffled in, removing his hat and bowing to the prime minister, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I’d never met the man. He was of the elderly statesman type, with a high, bald forehead, a gaunt face and a moist yellow moustache badly in need of a trim. He nodded at me and at Dizzy’s invitation, seated himself near the fire. I sipped my whisky and waited, for Dizzy’s lengthy peroration on the subject of the Eastern Question had obviously been a means of passing the time until Stoke appeared.
A manservant provided the superintendent with a brandy and refilled my glass with some fine Scotch whisky. I do so enjoy good spirits, especially when they are free. And how many people can say they’ve imbibed with the prime minister in his dressing gown? However, it occurred to me that I’d likely find myself paying for the whisky in some fashion before the night was over, and it would be best to keep my wits about me. I took a demure sip.
“And now, Miss Black, we’ll get down to brass tacks.” The prime minister rearranged his fez. “Have you been reading about these dreadful anarchists in the newspapers?”
“I have. They seem to be popping up everywhere.”
“Like bloody weeds,” growled Stoke. “Shut down one cell and another appears overnight.”
“That is the issue we’d like to discuss with you, Miss Black. The government is concerned at the number of terrorist incidents perpetrated by these cowardly devils.”
“The assassinations?” I asked, for unless you were blind and deaf, you couldn’t have missed the uproar caused by the murder of several of Britain’s leading luminaries. (Or so the newspaper johnnies called them, but I was willing to bet that more than half of them were just the sort of inbred aristocratic bloodsuckers the country could do without. Naturally I did not share this view with Lord Beaconsfield and Superintendent Stoke.)
“Indeed,” said Dizzy. “Lord Carrington was murdered on his daily ride by a bomb planted in a rhododendron bush. Sir William Tetford’s greenhouse was blown up and Sir William and his wife were killed. Last night, the Earl of Ebbechester was cut down when someone threw a bomb into his carriage. These are just the atrocities perpetrated in Superintendent Stoke’s area of authority. There have been others, all over England.”
“And you have no idea who i
s behind these acts?” I asked.
Stoke sucked his moustache and squinted at me. “Foreigners for the most part. Ashamed to say a few misguided English men and women seem to have joined these bands of ruffians. Heard of the Paris Commune?”
I had not, but resigned myself to doing so. Fortunately, Stoke proved to be excellent at brief summaries.
“Name they use for the radical government formed in Paris in 1871, just after the Frenchies got pummeled by the Prussians. Supposed to be a movement of the people, the working man in particular. Real French government feeling a bit battered and let the people try their hand at running the place for a bit. Proceeded to make a hash of things, passing daft laws that abolished interest on debts and night shifts for the bakery workers. Took over all the property of the Catholic Church. Ended badly, of course. These things often do. French officials finally pulled themselves together and threw out the extremists. Bloody business, that. Lots of the ne’er-do-wells chucked out of Paris ended up here, still burning to put down the ancien régime, only now they’ve got their eyes on our aristocrats and our government.”
“You mean that gaggle of foreigners they call the Communards?” I said. “Those poor folk in Seven Dials?”
If you’re not familiar with the Seven Dials area of London, let me acquaint you with its principal features: filth, sewage, cramped rooms, diseased beggars, loathsome shops, ragged urchins and fallen women of the lowest type. I don’t detest my sisters who live and ply their trade in that slum, but I’m jolly well glad I don’t.
India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A MADAM OF ESPIONAGE MYSTERY) Page 2