India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A MADAM OF ESPIONAGE MYSTERY)

by Carol K. Carr

  Stoke nodded grimly. “After the Commune disintegrated, wasn’t safe for the radicals to stay in France. Moved here in droves and congregated in Seven Dials. Joined now by their compatriots from Italy, Germany, Poland, Russia. Every bloody anarchist who’s had to hare it out of his own country has found a home in London.”

  “Any reason we shouldn’t send them back?”

  “Requires careful handling,” said Stoke, savoring the taste of his moustache. He glanced at Dizzy. “Political issues and what have you. Mr. Gladstone—”

  Dizzy growled. You had only to mention the name of William Gladstone, former prime minister, leading light of the Liberal Party and Dizzy’s greatest and most detested political enemy, for Dizzy to lay back his ears and show his teeth.

  “That self-righteous prig. He’s marching about the country, pontificating on our duty to protect the rights of men to speak freely and engage in political discourse without being shot for their efforts. He says we can’t possibly force these people back to their own countries where the authorities will imprison them or torture them or kill them.”

  “Would happen, of course,” said Stoke.

  “Of course,” echoed Dizzy. “But the pious old fool seems to forget that in offering a safe harbor for these radicals, he’s created a nest of vipers. These zealots did not give up their ideals when they came to London. They still want to destroy aristocrats and monarchs and bring down governments, and they’re not particular about which country they destabilize. While they enjoy our English hospitality, they’re planning to demolish our nation. The newspapers are clamoring for the arrest and prosecution of the killers of Carrington and Ebbechester and the rest. Every editor in this city has challenged the government to do something. Our citizens are afraid to walk the streets for fear they’ll be caught up in an assassination attempt. The situation has become untenable, and we must do something about it.”

  Dizzy quirked an eyebrow in my direction, and I took a hasty draught of my whisky to fortify myself for what was to come.

  “That is the reason I have called you here tonight, Miss Black. Superintendent Stoke and I would be most grateful for your assistance.”

  “What is it that you wish me to do?” I already had an inkling, knowing as I did how the pretty young French girls supported themselves and their families in the Communard community. The authorities have so little imagination. If there’s a prostitute in the mix, well, let’s call in our own resident slut to deal with the matter. It was likely that Dizzy and Stoke wanted me to strike up an acquaintance with some of these girls to learn what they knew of anarchist plans brewing in the Seven Dials. I’d hear what the two men had to say, but I wasn’t about to go slumming in the vague hope of picking up gossip.

  “Need counterintelligence operatives,” Stoke said wetly through his moustache. “Not enough fellows on the force to spare the men myself. Prime minister’s fellows all engaged on other matters.”

  So presumably French had gone away on a mission for Dizzy.

  The prime minister spoke. “We were most favorably impressed by your performances during the affair of the War Office memo and the resolution of the matter at Balmoral.” His voice was smooth as treacle and his smile saintly. I girded my loins and waited to see what he proposed.

  “We’d like you to infiltrate one of these anarchist groups and report to us on their activities.” The saintly smile grew grim. “It will be dangerous.”

  “Will I be the only agent on this mission?” I asked with what I thought was a remarkable display of coolness, considering that the idea of penetrating a group of nihilists who played with gunpowder and dynamite without French by my side was, shall we say, daunting.

  Dizzy nodded. “You have always worked with Mr. French in the past. Unfortunately I have assigned him to another matter and he is unavailable at the moment. You would act alone, but of course Superintendent Stoke and I will be available for advice and counsel.”

  A fat lot of good that would do when the bullets were flying or the dynamite was exploding, but I refrained from giving expression to the thought. The prime minister and Stoke were eyeing me steadily, their faces deliberately blank. If I said no, would I ever get another opportunity to strike out on my own? Or would I be consigned to the part of French’s lieutenant, forever destined to play a subordinate role in these affairs of state? If I failed, I could wave good-bye to any future other than madam of Lotus House, but if I succeeded, well, who knows what vistas might open up to India Black? I entertained a brief image of an audience with the Queen and French looking on admiringly as I collected a gaudy medal from the old trout. I do believe it was that vision of French humbly applauding my achievement that decided me.

  “I’ll do it,” I said.

  Stoke expelled a breath, and Dizzy nodded gravely. “I felt sure that you would. Now, the superintendent will inform you of what you need to know.”

  There was a pause while Stoke extracted the ends of his moustache from his mouth. “Rumors all over the city,” he said. “New group formed. Call themselves the Dark Legion. Silly name, of course, but these anarchist groups go in for such drivel. Black Banner, Black Flag and similar rot. Dark Legion is new, formed by chaps who were active in the Paris Commune. Implicated in bombings and assassinations in Europe. Got a bit hot for them there, and they’ve moved operations to England. Been operating north in Manchester and out in Liverpool. Now they’ve come to London. Word on the street is that the leader is one of the most influential men in the anarchist community. Chap named “Grigori.” Find him and we cut the head off the snake.”

  He paused to slurp his moustache. “Need the leader,” he repeated. “Here’s what we want you to do. Join the Dark Legion. Find out who’s behind them. Description, address, anything. My men take it from there.” He looked lugubriously at me. “Got to be careful. Anarchists infiltrated routinely by intelligence agencies and police. Paranoid lot. Kill you quick if they think you’re a government agent.”

  Bugger. This would be tricky. I’d be spying on a group of people who suspected everyone of being a spy. I was beginning to wish my first individual assignment had been trailing some Turkish diplomat to the opera and seducing him afterward. I find Turkish men remarkably attractive. There was a fellow once, reminded me a bit of French, actually—

  Superintendent Stoke interrupted my reverie. “Informant tells me there’s a French prostitute named Martine. Supposed to be affiliated with the Dark Legion. Maybe a member, maybe not.”

  “Here is where your special skills will be useful, my dear,” said Dizzy, as if I hadn’t already figured that out on my own.

  “Martine works for old Mother Edding. Know her?”

  “I’ve heard of her,” I said. “Runs a brothel in the rookery at St. Giles, near Seven Dials. Squalid place.” Curse it, I thought. I’ve only been around Stoke for half an hour, and already I’d forgotten how to speak in complete sentences.

  “Want you to hire Martine, take her to your place,” said Stoke.

  That brought me up short. “I’m not sure about that. Mother Edding runs a very different establishment from mine. My customers are used to an immaculate house and first-rate toffers, not dirty baggage. I’ll have to see this Martine first, to see if she can pass muster. I can’t ruin my business by bringing in some unwashed bint who’s used to servicing common sailors and such.”

  “Bathe her,” said Stoke. It did not appear to be a suggestion. “Pretty girl. Jump at the chance to get out of Mother Edding’s. Suit your customers just fine.”

  I dismissed the disturbing thought that Stoke might know what my customers liked. There were more important issues at hand.

  “I’ll look at her,” I said. “If I don’t think she’ll work, I shall have to find another way into the Dark Legion. I have to earn a living, you know. I can’t put my business at risk.”

  Stoke’s face darkened. “Thought you said she was your agent, Prime Minister.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Dizzy smoothly. “I’m sure M
iss Black will find a way to accommodate your suggestions, Superintendent, while retaining her own, er, professional integrity.” A meaningless piece of twaddle, that, but Stoke seemed soothed, and I’d worked with Dizzy before, so I knew not to put much stock into what he said. I felt confident I’d find a way to wriggle into the Dark Legion if this Martine girl couldn’t cut the mustard. They were men, after all, and if I do say so myself, there are very few of Adam’s sons who can resist India Black.

  Stoke had brought a case with him, and now he unloaded a stack of papers and handed them to me. “Background material. Read it tonight. See Martine tomorrow.”

  I tried to disguise the irritation I felt at his peremptory tone. No doubt I failed; I’m not much good at standing to attention just because some bloke has barked an order.

  “How am I to reach you, Superintendent?”

  “Address is on the papers. Send a messenger. Someone you trust.”

  “Then it will be a young fellow named Vincent.”

  Dizzy nodded approvingly. “A good lad. Not, er, the most dapper in appearance, but very useful.”

  “You’ll have to instruct your men to watch for him. He’s a street arab, so they’ll probably toss him out on his ear if he tries to approach you.”

  “Tell him to say that he comes from India Black. Be sure to reach me, then.” Stoke extracted his hunter from his pocket. “Must run. Any questions?”

  “No. I’ll be in touch,” I said. I stood, prepared to also take my leave of Dizzy.

  He put out a hand. “If you can remain with me a minute longer, Miss Black, I’ve something to say to you.”

  My heart contracted. Had I been wrong? Had Dizzy been saving the news that French had been abducted by Russian agents and found in the Thames?

  Stoke bowed himself out, and Dizzy waited until the door had closed behind him. The old man looked at me searchingly. “Are you ready, my dear?”

  “Ready?”

  “To venture out on your own? I certainly think you are, as does Mr. French. But it is entirely up to you.”

  “You consulted French?”

  “Briefly. Communications are difficult, but I did manage to get word to him. He seemed to think you capable.”

  Damned faint praise, that, but I admit to feeling a ridiculously warm glow at the confirmation of my skills from his nibs.

  “You needn’t worry, sir. I’m ready.” God help me, I sounded positively eager.

  * * *

  I returned to Lotus House to find Mrs. Drinkwater retired to her room (for the remainder of the night, if the volume of snores and the empty bottle in the hall outside her door were any indication). She had in fact prepared a plate of sandwiches and left them on the deal table in the kitchen. I carried them into the study and, once I had pared off the hardened crusts and the curling edges of the roast beef, settled down to this unsatisfactory repast while I scanned the documents Superintendent Stoke had sent home with me. For the most part, these consisted of reports written in the impenetrable lingo that civil servants love, be they government ministers or police constables. I resigned myself to wading through it and spent two hours perusing the papers. At the end of this session, I was not much wiser than I had been after Stoke’s seminar in the prime minister’s room. The Dark Legion was a shadowy organization, rumored to include among its members an expert in the construction of explosive devices (referred to as “infernal machines” in the reports) and various brands of foreigners, all of whom had been deported from or fled their native countries due to their avowed pledge to overthrow the governments of said countries. The French girl, Martine, was thought by police informants to be the daughter of a prominent Communard who had died when the French government had attacked the forces of the Paris Commune, ending that particular utopian idyll. Like many other young girls in the expatriate community, she had found herself required to earn a crust as a whore, but this had apparently only fired her enthusiasm for anarchist causes.

  The connection between her and the Dark Legion was vague. Stoke’s men had heard talk on the street that Martine had a relationship of some sort with one of the men who had formed the cabal. The man might be a friend of her dead father, or her lover. Some of the memos made for interesting reading, as some lucky detective had been given the task of appearing at Mother Edding’s establishment and requesting a quarter of an hour with Martine on numerous occasions. Unsurprisingly, the detective had been unable to pry any information out of the girl. I snorted when I read that, for I reckon Martine had sussed out immediately that the bloke was a copper. That skill is one of the first you learn in this business, or you don’t last long. I expect Martine had gleefully passed along the information that the Dark Legion was under investigation to her friends in that organization, which made my assignment all the more difficult, as the members would really be on guard now.

  I put away the papers and spent a bit of time ruminating about how to approach Martine. I fancied I’d do a better job than the plod who had enjoyed Martine’s charms, but I’d have to provide the girl with a plausible story to avoid arousing suspicion myself. After all, it wasn’t every day that a madam of one of the best (well, nearly one of the best) brothels in London condescended to visit the rookery of St. Giles to hire a prostitute. Then there was the issue of Mother Edding. I had never met the woman and didn’t consider her a rival, but I knew how I’d feel if some other abbess came prowling around, enticing my girls to up stakes and move. Running a brothel is just like any other business: you’ve got to protect your assets. Mother Edding might prove troublesome.

  I spared a moment to savor the situation. This very morning I had been lounging about, bored as a regiment between battles, and here I was now, ready to take on a rival madam and a collection of dangerous radicals. It should prove interesting, I thought. In retrospect, that is not the word I would have chosen.

  THREE

  The next morning I sent for Vincent. While I waited for the young cub to appear, I attended to some household matters, paying the outstanding accounts, prying Mrs. Drinkwater out of bed, and dragging her to the kitchen to feed the girls. Then I unlocked the top right-hand drawer of my desk and took out my Bulldog revolver. I swabbed the barrel, rotated and cleaned the cylinder, and loaded the weapon. I wrapped a handful of extra cartridges in a handkerchief to add to my purse. In my line of work, it pays to have a bit of protection. Dreadful times we live in, when a lady has to carry a weapon when she ventures into certain parishes of the city. I intended to have the Bulldog on my person when I made my foray in search of Martine. Seven Dials was no place for a woman of quality traveling alone, but I didn’t hesitate to venture there with the revolver in hand. Anyone who trifled with me would end up with powder burns on his bollocks.

  I went into the kitchen to wash my hands and found Mrs. Drinkwater slumbering at the table with her chin propped in her hand. I prodded her chair with my foot as I went past and enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing her head flop forward and her eyes spring open. She looked wildly about the room.

  “It’s only me, Mrs. Drinkwater. Please have lunch ready at one o’clock. I’ll eat in my study.”

  I took her surly growl as acquiescence and retired to my study. There I sat down at the desk and drew forth a sheet of plain cream stock, with my name embossed upon it in ebony ink. I unscrewed the cap of my sterling silver pen (a present from an admirer; I do so love admirers) and flipped open the lid of the inkwell. Preparations complete, I sat and stared at the paper. In truth, I’m not a great one for writing letters. Oh, I write the odd note to the greengrocer or the wine merchant, but one can hardly call that correspondence. There are no maiden aunts in my life, nor kindly vicars who’ve taken an interest in my education (at least, not in the generally accepted sense of that phrase). I admit that my skill in the art of drafting missives is nonexistent. I don’t mind making such an admission, as there are dozens of other skills at which I excel. I disclose the foregoing, of course, to explain why it took such a long time for me to set pen to pap
er.

  I’d another consideration weighing on my mind, and that was the recipient of the letter. I have mentioned the Balmoral affair previously, and if you’ve read my account of the threat against the Queen’s life, then you’ll remember a withered narcoleptic with a taste for snuff and tales of deceit and treachery by the female of the species. I refer, of course, to the Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine, in whose employ I masqueraded as a lady’s maid at Balmoral. I can’t say I enjoyed the experience, having to launder the old lady each time she snorted a quantity of snuff and then expectorated it by way of an explosive sneeze. Nor did I appreciate her preference for sleeping during the day and remaining as alert as a fox vixen during the hours of the night. As I had never met the woman before our visit to Balmoral, and had no expectations whatsoever that I would ever set eyes on the dilapidated wreck again, it came as quite a shock to me when she acknowledged knowing my mother. Worse, the old bag had shouted out this revelation as her train pulled out of the station at Perth, leaving me agog on the platform. I was disconcerted, as you can imagine. I vowed then and there to track down the marchioness and pry from her whatever information she might possess. But it was a long way to Scotland, and I wasn’t keen about making the trip before ascertaining that Her Ladyship had something of value to tell me, which explains why I was chewing on the top of my pen at my desk and staring out the window at the rain this spring morning.

  After a quarter hour or so, I issued a stern injunction to myself to stop dithering and get on with it, for Christ’s sake, and so I applied myself laboriously to my task.

  “Forever in your debt—”

  No, strike that. God knows how the marchioness would interpret such a phrase. She’d probably expect me to move to Tullibardine and live out my days reading her to sleep at night.

  “Urgent that I know—”