What was I thinking? That sounded desperate, and India Black was never desperate. I chewed the pen and muttered and tried half a dozen sentences, wasting a ream of paper (and the cursed stuff was expensive) and splattering ink all over the desk, until I finally settled on the following:
The Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine
Aberkill House
Tullibardine, Scotland
Dear Lady Aberkill,
I trust this letter finds you well and in good health. I understood from your last comments to me on the station platform at Perth that you knew something of my mother. I would be much obliged to you if you could provide further specifics, as I have little information about her.
Yours sincerely,
India Black
It was short and to the point, which, I recalled, the marchioness was herself in her communications, though this one was undoubtedly more polite than anything I’d ever heard the marchioness utter. I sealed it up, relieved that the chore was done, and consigned it to the hall table, to be delivered to the post office by Mrs. Drinkwater. I returned to my study to find Vincent seated by the fire. The brat had deliberately chosen one of my prized Queen Anne chairs, upholstered in a watered silk of china blue.
“How the devil did you get in here? And move out of that chair immediately. You know you’re not allowed on the cushions.”
“I came in the back door. Mrs. Drinkwater’s asleep in the kitchen. Put your ’air back on, India. I’m movin’.” He gave me a little smirk, to let me know he could stay in the Queen Anne if he chose to but for reasons of his own, he was relocating. Vincent is like that, you see. He’s a veteran of the London streets, more used to taunting authority than complying with it. I judged Vincent’s chronological age at between ten and fourteen, but he could be thirty for all I knew. He had a cracked voice that could shatter glass, the cunning mind of a Russian arms dealer, the morals of a Bedouin raider and the personal hygiene of a cave dweller. Save for the cleanliness issue, he was the perfect ally in the London underworld. I trusted him implicitly, except with my bolsters, and as long as he stayed upwind.
“’Eard from French?” he enquired.
“Not directly,” I said, wincing as I caught a whiff of eau de filth, “but the prime minister passed on a message to me.”
“Ole Dizzy? When did ya see ’im?”
“Last night.”
Vincent sat up eagerly, eyes sparkling like those of a mongoose who’d sighted a cobra. “We got spies to catch? Or is the Queen up to her knickers in hassassins again?”
I hesitated. I needed Vincent’s help, but I knew the bugger would want to be in the very heart of things. All I needed was a messenger at the moment, but knowing Vincent, I feared he’d figure out a way to apprentice himself to a bomb maker in some anarchist cell and blow up half of London.
“I’ve been asked to hire a bint who is associated with an anarchist group. I’m to try to get information from her and pass it along to Superintendent Stoke at Scotland Yard.” Well, that was half my assignment. I’d let Vincent know about the spying half when I deemed it necessary.
“Is that all?” Vincent was disappointed. “We could do a lot more than that. We could join one of them groups and find out who they’re gonna bomb next. That would be better than sneakin’ around after some tart.”
“At the moment, all I need is a messenger. Are you willing to help me?”
“’Course I am,” said Vincent. “I just wish we could ’ave some fun while we’re at hit.”
“You never know what will develop. Just look at what happened in Scotland.”
The thought that we might encounter fanatics who would wish to kill us cheered Vincent enormously. I cracked a window, and we spent a pleasant half hour discussing my meeting with Dizzy and the superintendent and whether I’d encounter any difficulties in prizing away Martine from Mother Edding. Vincent had a few suggestions for getting the girl out of the Seven Dials brothel, but as all of them involved violence in some form or another, I dismissed them.
“Really, Vincent, the girl would be stupid not to recognize that Lotus House is a superior situation. I’ll make it worth her while to come here. She won’t turn me down. Certainly Mother Edding won’t have any difficulty in replacing her. There are dozens of girls in the Communard community who would jump at the chance to earn a few pence.”
“Wot makes you think this Martine is one of them anarchists?”
I shrugged. “I’ve only Superintendent Stoke’s opinion that she is. He has informants in the Communard community. I hope the information is accurate. Otherwise, I’ll find myself with a French tart I know nothing about.”
“Does she speak English?”
That brought me up short. I hadn’t even thought of that. It wouldn’t matter to the customers if the girl couldn’t parlez-vous anglais as long as she was pretty, but it would be difficult to explain the financial arrangements of the house to her. Damn. How did I get myself into these situations? Well, I’d cross that bridge when I came to it. I made arrangements with Vincent to stop by Lotus House at several appointed hours during the day to see if there was a message for delivery to Superintendent Stoke, assured Vincent that if we had the opportunity to kill any spies I would not do so without him, and agreed on a sum for his services (greedy little bastard—I’d have to get some money from Dizzy or I’d be out of pocket myself).
* * *
The next morning after breakfast, I selected an ensemble for my visit to the Seven Dials area. Considering my destination, a pair of sturdy boots that would withstand a river of sewage and an old dress that could be discarded and burned after use might seem the safest bet, but I had a whore to catch and I wanted to dazzle the girl with the opportunities awaiting her at Lotus House. Consequently, I selected one of my most fetching outfits, a tie-back underskirt in scarlet silk and a long draped overskirt of pinstriped navy wool with a matching jacket bodice that fitted so tightly my natural assets were displayed to their fullest. Thank goodness the fashion of bustles was disappearing; it would have been a job of work to navigate the foul, stinking streets of Seven Dials with yards of cloth hanging off the rear of one’s skirt. I chose a pair of black boots of sensible, not fine, leather (a girl has to make some concession to the weather) but with an arched instep and thin high heel that made me sway voluptuously before the mirror. How I’d look when I had to stagger down the uneven bricks of the streets of Seven Dials was another matter entirely, but I didn’t dwell on that thought. A high-crowned hat with a rolled brim in navy blue completed my attire. As the rain was bucketing down I added an umbrella to my kit. I looked rather fetching, I thought. Most men wouldn’t have turned me down, and I doubted whether an impoverished French girl could resist the prospect of one day emulating the madam of Lotus House. I went to the study and took the Webley and the handkerchief of extra cartridges from the drawer. Their weight was reassuring.
Mrs. Drinkwater had braved the elements to summon a cab for me, and I climbed in carefully, smoothing my skirts and calling out my destination to the driver. The carriage shifted as he climbed down. A pale face, slick with rain, appeared in the window.
“Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but that area is . . . is—”
“Unsafe?” I suggested. “Dangerous? Disgusting? Yes, it is. Nevertheless, I intend to go there. Should you like the fare, or must I find another cab?”
The driver scratched his head, causing his hat to tip precariously to one side. A sheet of water cascaded from the brim.
“But—”
“I absolve you of all responsibility.”
“But—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. I’ll pay you double the fare. Now, may we go?”
“Paid up front?” the driver asked.
I fished some money from my purse with ill grace and dangled it in front of him. “Here is half now, and I’ll pay you the other half upon our return.”
The sight of the coins was persuasive. I do believe a shilling is better than whisky at generating courage.
<
br /> We drove north with the rain thrumming on the roof of the cab, dodging drays and carriages and splashing pedestrians as we rolled through the water running in the gutters. What a delightful day for an excursion, I thought gloomily. Our destination did not warrant any enthusiasm either. I brooded as we drove northeast, passing Leicester Square and turning onto St. Martin’s Lane. In a matter of minutes we had reached the confluence of roads known as Seven Dials. It’s a bit of a mystery as to how the place got its name. Only six roads converged there originally, and a pillar with six sundials on it was erected there, so you’d think it would be Six Dials. But another road was built and the pillar was torn down and now it’s known as Seven Dials. Typical of London, as it defies logic. However, it doesn’t matter what they call the place, as a more apt name for it would be Hell.
We hadn’t come far from Lotus House, but by God, this was another world entirely. I’d grown up in London and seen a fair bit of dirt, poverty and disease, but even I was overwhelmed in this part of the city. A crowd of filthy creatures surged around the cab: diseased whores, gin-addled beggars and half-naked children with matted hair and wild eyes. There were lunatics and cripples, the starved and the sick, the maimed and the hopeless. A crowd formed at the sight of the cab and converged on us, hands outstretched. The driver cursed and lashed at them with his whip, and the horse pawed the ground and whinnied in fear.
I thumped on the roof with my umbrella. “Drive on. We don’t want a riot.”
The driver left off using the whip on the swarming throng and laid into the horse. The poor nag surged forward, scattering barefoot children and gaunt men and women in rags, and we were clear, for the moment.
In his stack of memos, Superintendent Stoke had provided me a description of Martine, which sounded promising, and the address of Mother Edding’s brothel. It was located on Endell Street, a gloomy byway of scum and squalor. Sagging doors and rotting window frames adorned the houses, and the ground-floor shops did a listless business in bruised fruit, old clothes and broken furniture. The brothel itself was no better than the rest of the neighborhood, housed in a decrepit building of smoke-fouled brick. Two men were sheltering in the doorway from the rain. One, who still possessed a collar, had it turned up against the cold and wet. The other poor chap wore only a thin shirt against the chill. I ordered the driver to stop before the house and beckoned to the fellow in the shirt. I suppose the finely gloved hand waving from a cab was enough to entice him, for he sprinted into the rain and skidded to a halt at the window. His eyes widened when he saw me.
“Is this the address of Mother Edding?” I asked.
The poor brute shivered and nodded.
“Will you deliver a message for me? I’ll give you a bob.”
“Aye, I will.”
“Listen carefully, now. Tell Mother Edding that a young lady wants to speak to her at the corner of Bloomsbury and New Oxford Street. If she comes in a quarter of an hour, she’ll hear something to her advantage and earn a crown for herself.”
I made him repeat the message, then handed him a shilling and sent him on his way. He tucked the coin in his pocket and bounded up the stairs. I waited just long enough to see the door of Mother Edding’s establishment open to his knock, and then instructed the driver to move along. We drove a short distance and then circled back to Endell Street, stopping within view of the brothel.
We had been there less than five minutes when the front door of the house opened and a bulky figure, bundled in a thick woolen shawl, trundled down the steps and set off. I couldn’t have been sure that Mother Edding would rise to the bait, but in this neighborhood it would take an abbess of indescribable stupidity to ignore a message that promised some advantage to her. The two fellows who had been skulking in her doorway set off at a rapid pace behind her. It appears everyone in the Seven Dials has his eye on the main chance. I suppose the two thought they might pick up some crumbs of information or provide some of their own to the obliging young lady in the hansom cab.
The driver deposited me in front of the steps, and I dashed through the downpour to the door. I hadn’t much time; I’d had to choose a meeting place close enough to entice Mother Edding to venture out in this weather. I knocked and then tried the handle. It opened easily, which is not surprising. What shopkeeper would lock his shop to keep out the customers? As I suspected, the place was disgusting. To my right was a fusty parlor, reeking of stale smoke and gin, the furniture scuffed and the cushions limp. A steep staircase climbed the wall before me. The wallpaper had bubbled and cracked and now dangled limply in thin strips. From the rear of the house I heard the clank of pots. The smell of boiling cabbage permeated the air. The place seemed deserted. The gloom was Stygian.
Verifying that the parlor was empty, I gathered my skirts in one hand and dashed lightly up the bare boards of the stairs, making as much noise as a herd of camels let loose in the halls of the British Museum. I expected to see a few heads popping out of rooms, but no one stirred. Damnation. I’d wasted a perfectly good dodge on Mother Edding, only to learn that all the whores were out drinking last night’s takings. Well, now that I was here, I’d do a thorough search. If I couldn’t find Martine, perhaps I’d stumble across a bint who could tell me where to find her.
I cracked open the first door to reveal a naked woman sprawled on the bed, snoring prodigiously. Superintendent Stoke’s informant had described Martine as dark, slim and boyish, with brown hair and eyes. The bint on the bed had a mop of dirty blond curls, thick ankles and the complexion of pastry dough. I closed the door and moved on.
I struck lucky at the very next door. I pushed it open, expecting to find another tart having a snooze, but found instead a young lady sitting in a chair by the window, staring wistfully out the window at the falling rain. This had to be Martine, for she was lithe and slender, with olive skin and a thick mass of mahogany hair that tumbled down her back. Beyond presentable, and thank the Lord, she was reasonably clean.
She looked up calmly, but I could see the curiosity in her eyes.
“If you’re looking for Mother Edding, she went out a few minutes ago. I don’t know when she’ll return.”
She spoke English, albeit with a charming lisp and a pronounced French accent. The customers would go wild for that voice, that figure and that air of virginal naïveté.
“Are you Martine?”
“I am Martine. Who are you?”
I extended a hand. Martine hesitated briefly, then put out her own.
“India Black,” I said. “You may have heard of me?”
The girl shook her head.
“No matter,” I said. “I have heard of you.”
“Oh? From whom?” Innocent as a kitten, this one.
“One of my customers.”
“What is his name?”
“It makes no difference. Someone who has seen you and believes your talents would find better use at my brothel. I’ve come to make my own assessment of you.”
She lifted her chin, and there was a hint of a challenge in her eyes. I had pricked her with my words. I admire a bit of fight in a girl, so long as she doesn’t work for me. This Martine might not prove to be such a submissive miss after all.
“I should think you would find me an excellent addition to your establishment. However, I know nothing of you. What kind of services do you provide?”
I smiled reassuringly. “The usual services. My girls are top-drawer, as are my customers. Only military officers are permitted at Lotus House; the ranks are strictly forbidden. Lots of aristocrats visit, as do several members of Parliament. And I’ve a number of clients who like the theatre. I don’t suppose you’d object to donning a costume now and then?”
She glanced unconsciously at the threadbare shift she was wearing.
“I provide your dresses, food and lodging. You won’t walk out with anyone without my permission. You will submit yourself monthly to a medical exam, at my expense. You will not chew, take snuff or smoke on the premises. You may partake of alco
holic beverages, but if you do so to excess, you will have to find work elsewhere. You will bathe regularly. I run a clean establishment, and my customers are gentlemen.” I smiled. “I mean that only in the sense that they can afford to pay more for the services, of course, for when it comes to sex, I have yet to find a true gentleman. Now then, are you prepared to consider a change from your present circumstances?”
I had meant to overwhelm the girl with the description of the luxuries she could expect at Lotus House. Mother Edding could clearly not compete in the same arena with India Black, and it was best to get it all out on the table, especially as any minute now the aforementioned abbess might storm back to the house, livid at being made a fool of by a strange woman in a hansom cab. I needed to work quickly if I was going to carry this poule out of the henhouse.
“Come, my girl,” I said briskly. “This may seem like a dream to you, but you must decide quickly whether you will come with me or stay here.” I gestured at the room. “I can promise you a proper coverlet, instead of a thin blanket. You’ll have a choice of dresses and a place to bathe. There will be three square meals on the table. And I’ll pay you far more than Mother Edding can.”
“How much?”
I knew I’d got her then. “How much does Mother Edding pay you?”
She named a sum and I appeared shocked. “Is that all? My word, that’s cheap.”
“What will you pay?”
I was sorely tempted to double the amount and be done with it, but as the figure would still be substantially less than what I paid my tarts, I’d have a mutiny on my hands if Martine or any of my other employees found out. Whores are great ones for ganging together when they feel one of their sisters has been mistreated.
I named my price.
Martine gasped. “I don’t understand why you—”
I broke in. “I’ve told you. I’ve a client who likes your looks. As he’s an excellent customer, I hate to disappoint him. Now I need your answer, for I fancy that old Mother Edding will be back soon.”
India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A MADAM OF ESPIONAGE MYSTERY) Page 4