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

by Carol K. Carr

  I’ll say this about Martine, for a whore she was jolly dependable. She returned to Lotus House just at teatime and put her head around the door of my study.

  “My friends were pleased to receive the document you sent,” she said.

  I looked up nonchalantly from my French novel, which I’d picked up as soon as I’d heard the front door open. “Were they? I’m so glad. I hope they find it useful.”

  “I’m sure they will.” And damned if Martine didn’t give me a genuine smile, the first I’d seen from her since she’d taken up residence in my brothel.

  “Perhaps we may provide your friends additional information from time to time,” I said. “The gentlemen who frequent Lotus House are often careless and indiscreet. Now then, you’d best prepare for tonight’s customers.”

  Martine nodded and closed the study door, and I heard her brisk footsteps on the stairs. A moment later the door opened and Vincent strolled in looking enormously pleased with himself.

  “’Allo, India.”

  “Crack the window and take a pew,” I said. “I’ll have Mrs. Drinkwater bring us some tea.”

  “Hexcellent news. I’m near dead from ’unger.”

  Well, you’d have to be, wouldn’t you, to eat Mrs. Drinkwater’s cooking?

  I rang the bell and waited until the aforementioned lady tottered into the room with a plate of cakes and the tea things rattling ominously on a tray, then bade Vincent tuck in. In between prodigious amounts of stewed tea and Mrs. Drinkwater’s rock cakes (need I say that in her case they are aptly named?) he described Martine’s visit to Seven Dials. Vincent does like to embellish a bit, so I had to put up with a fair amount of twaddle about Martine being suspicious and looking over her shoulder a lot and Vincent having to dart in and out of doorways, worried all the time that some foreign cutthroat might slit his gullet, but I finally wrestled the bare facts from the lad. Martine had marched straight to the Bag O’ Nails, a filthy den of iniquity on New Compton Street that served copious amounts of gin to a clientele consisting of costermongers, criminals and fallen women. Naturally, Vincent felt right at home.

  “She went right up to the landlord and hasked ’im a question, and ’e nodded ’is ’ead at some coves in the corner, like, and she went up to ’em and one of ’em seen ’er comin’ and got up and met ’er and ’e put ’is arm around ’er and kissed ’er and they went outside together and I followed ’em down the street ’til they spied an alley and they went into hit and I tiptoed after ’em and found a snug hole to crawl into be’ind some crates and I couldn’t ’ear wot all they said, but I seen ’er ’and the bloke the papers and ’e looked ’em over and put ’em in ’is pocket. Then ’e went back to the pub and she come back ’ere.”

  Mind you, Vincent provided this succinct description of events through a mouth full of cake and it required a strong stomach to keep my eyes on the lad.

  “What did the fellow look like?” I asked.

  “Ooh, ’e’s a ’andsome bugger alright. Got a ’eadful of shiny brown curls and a curly brown beard to match. Martine was moonin’ over ’im like a lovesick cow.”

  “Have you ever seen him before?”

  Vincent shook his head. “Not on my patch, I ’aven’t. ’E looks like a Frog to me, which I reckon would explain ’ow Martine knows ’im. You want me to find out who ’e is?”

  “Yes, I think you’d better visit the Bag O’ Nails again and see what you can turn up. But don’t be obvious about it.”

  Vincent gave me the scornful look this comment deserved.

  “It’s not that I doubt your skill, Vincent. But Superintendent Stoke did say these anarchists are a suspicious bunch. I don’t want you to get your skull bashed in nosing around the Bag O’ Nails.”

  “Ain’t you sweet,” said Vincent.

  “I am not sweet. I just don’t want your death on my conscience.” Well, I wasn’t about to allow Vincent to go all soft and sticky on me. Next thing you know, he’d be labouring under the misapprehension that I cared about him.

  The pup gave me a cheeky grin. “Don’t you worry about me. I ain’t about to let a bunch of garlic eaters get the best o’ me.”

  “Just remember that neither the bluebottles nor the do-gooders think dynamite is a solution to the world’s problems. These radicals do. They won’t be throwing you into the clink or a home for wayward youths if they catch you. Be careful, Vincent.”

  “Aye, aye, admiral.” He sketched a mock salute and finished his tea. He stuffed the remaining rock cakes in his pockets. “I’m off to the pub. Wot’re you goin’ to be doin’ while I’m ’avin’ a glass of ale and spyin’ on this French feller?”

  “I’m glad you asked. Before you start drinking gin with the garlic eaters, could you make a detour by Dizzy’s office? I need a favor from the old boy.”

  * * *

  After dispatching Vincent, I attended to the afternoon post. There wasn’t much of it; as I’ve explained earlier, my list of correspondents is not extensive. It is, in fact, nonexistent. So it was that the marchioness’s letter stood out a country mile, being the only one that had arrived. I stared at it for a moment, like a novice snake charmer about to open the cobra basket for the first time. I wandered around the room, tapping the letter on my open palm, staring at the elegant copperplate script on the envelope (surely not the marchioness’s handwriting, who was ninety if she was a day and couldn’t write a legible hand if her life depended on it) and the snuff stains around the edges (which clearly belonged to the old bag). I poured a glass of whisky, sat down at my desk and drew a deep breath.

  “Oh, curse it,” I muttered, and stabbed the bloody thing with my letter opener. A small square of paper floated out of the envelope and onto my blotter. I fortified myself with a drink and unfolded it gingerly.

  Dear Miss Black,

  I have read your letter with, frankly, a degree of astonishment. I do not recall mentioning your mother’s name in the course of our many conversations. Perhaps you are mistaken? In any event, I regret that I can be of no assistance to you.

  P.S. I trust you are keeping well, reading the Good Book, and have finally learned how to do hair.

  Yours sincerely,

  Lady Margaret Aberkill

  Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine

  I read the letter again, just to be sure that the wicked biddy had signed her name to such a blatant lie. “God rot her,” I said when I had finished. I’ll admit that at the time my nerves were a bit frayed from catering to the marchioness’s capricious demands and narrowly escaping death at the hands of a mad Scottish assassin, but I could clearly recall the marchioness’s words to me on the railway platform at Perth: “Ye are yer mother’s daughter,” she had screeched out the window of the carriage as the train pulled away. “Ye remind me of her. She was a brave girl, too.” Fair enough, the wicked woman had not actually mentioned my mother’s name. But hang it all, it was evident she knew my mother. No amount of mental exhaustion or brushes with death could have caused me to misinterpret those words. The marchioness was lying. She was a cagy old harridan, but having once admitted an acquaintance with my mother, why should she now disclaim any knowledge of her? I whipped out the writing paper and pen and ink and jotted down my reply.

  Dear Lady Aberkill,

  Don’t play the addled crone with me. You explicitly said that I reminded you of my mother, which is a difficult comparison to make unless you had known her at some time. After reading to you each night until the break of dawn, washing you down every time you sneezed and seeing that you didn’t embarrass yourself in front of the Queen (at a significant cost to my own health), the least I deserve from you is an explanation of what you said at the station. Kindly reply forthwith, or I shall be on your doorstep.

  Yours sincerely,

  India Black

  You may think that I lack tact. You would be correct. I’ve about as much use for tact as I have for patience, which is to say, none at all. Besides, the marchioness herself was about as tactful as a
wasp. She wouldn’t be lulled by sweet words into telling me what she knew. Nor, if I’m completely honest, would she be coerced by my threat to visit her in Scotland. As it was, I reckoned the only effect of the letter would be to send her into gales of derisive laughter. I had thought that we’d parted on pleasant terms and thus found her reluctance to share any information puzzling. I was not disposed, therefore, to be polite.

  I was stamping around my study and muttering curses on the old pussy’s head when the first customer of the evening arrived. Mrs. Drinkwater was still sober enough to open the door and escort the chap into the study.

  “Mr. Brown,” she announced, and lurched back down the hallway to the kitchen.

  I had never seen Mr. Brown before. He was a comely young fellow with pale blue eyes, a cloud of blond curls and an amiable, if somewhat vacant, expression. He removed his hat and bowed his head. “Miss Black?”

  “Mr. Brown.”

  “The prime minister sent me.”

  He looked a tad young to be Dizzy’s man and did not appear to be the sharpest blade in the scabbard. However, presumably the prime minister knew what he was about, and it wasn’t for me to question his choice of this young colt to perform the task I’d suggested in my message to Dizzy.

  “Indeed,” I said with a trace of the skepticism I felt. “Then you know what to do. I’ll introduce you to the girls, and you can choose any one of them you want, so long as it’s Martine. You’ll recognize her immediately; she’s the dark one with the French accent.” I gave him a sharp glance. “Have you ever done anything like this before?”

  He smiled, and I noticed a glint of mischief behind the mask of affability. “What are you asking, Miss Black? Have I been with a prostitute before? Or am I skilled at the art of disinformation?”

  “Both would be useful talents in this instance.”

  “Then put your mind at ease. My performance shall be flawless.”

  “What have you and Dizzy planned?” I remembered that I did possess some manners. “Please sit down. May I get you a drink? Whisky? Brandy?”

  He chose whisky and soda and sipped it appreciatively.

  I poured myself a glass and joined him on the sofa. “Now, then. Tell me the yarn you’ll be spinning for Martine.”

  He swirled the liquid in his glass. “I shall be an agreeable young fop named Brown, who, by virtue of his uncle’s patronage, has found a place in the Foreign Office. I don’t really give a damn about politics, and I jolly well hate meeting all those strange exotic types. Dreadful manners, most of them, and smelly to boot. Why, just this week, on Wednesday, I must spend hours with the Russian legation at Moreland House, trying to hammer out some sort of arrangement about what bits of the Ottoman Empire they want when that bloody thing falls apart. I hope those anarchist chappies don’t find out about the meeting. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel. They could wipe out lots of Ivan’s top politicos and generals in one go, not to mention embarrassing the hell out of Her Majesty’s government and putting a nasty spike in Russo-British relations.”

  “Very neat,” I said. “But bear in mind that Martine is a bright girl and if she is involved with the radicals, she’ll be on the qui vive when it comes to a fellow dropping a story like this in her lap. Just because you made an excellent Hamlet for the dramatic society doesn’t mean you’ll persuade her.”

  He gave me a reproachful look. “Come, now. The standards of my service are slightly higher than that, as I’m sure you know. Rest assured, Martine will have a great deal to report to her comrades tomorrow, and she’ll be utterly convinced that she has winkled it out of a brainless young nincompoop who couldn’t hold his liquor.” He drained his whisky and stood up. “I suppose you’d better introduce me to the girls and start plying me with alcohol.”

  I escorted him to the drawing room, where I introduced Brown to the tarts. He proved an immediate hit with his blond curls and congenial manner. I let him chunter on a bit, then while he was engaged in an exchange of ribald pleasantries with Clara Swansdown, I snagged Martine and took her to the window.

  “What do you think of our guest?” I asked her.

  She gave me a slantindicular look. “He seems a pleasant fellow.”

  “Yes, he appears to be a nice young man. Not a lot of brains rattling around in that head of his, I should say, but he does have other attributes that recommend him.”

  “Oh?”

  I had Martine’s full attention now. “What sort of attributes?” she asked.

  “During my chat with him, he mentioned that he is employed at the Foreign Office. He seems a very foolish chap who likes the sound of his own voice. He might prove to be imprudent. You might learn something of interest from him. It’s Agatha’s turn next, but if you think you’d like to spend time with Mr. Brown, I’ll work something out with her.”

  Martine flashed dark eyes in Brown’s direction. “If you don’t think Agatha will mind?”

  “I’m the abbess here. If I tell Agatha not to mind, she won’t.” In truth, I’d have to pay Agatha what she would have earned. I totted up the expenses I was incurring and moodily followed Martine back to the circle of tarts and Dizzy’s man Brown.

  From a bint’s perspective, he seemed a good-natured fellow whose experience encompassed the missionary position and nothing else. He was putting away the liquor at pace, growing ever more tipsy and giggling like a schoolgirl at the witty repartee of my employees. Either Brown had a hollow leg, or there was one aspidistra that would be dead from alcohol poisoning by the end of the evening. He was proving himself quite a favourite with the girls, as most of them had probably come to the conclusion that the evening’s work would consist of helping the fellow stagger to a room, where he’d pass out and sleep for several hours while the bint hurried downstairs and found another gentleman in the queue. Eventually I thought that Brown had established himself, and encouraged him to choose one of the young ladies. After much dithering and flattery of all the females in the room, he finally selected Martine, with enough pretty reluctance that she left the room with a little smile of triumph on her face at landing the easiest catch of the night. I had to hand it to him, Brown was a dab hand at his job.

  SIX

  On Wednesday evening I was polishing my rapier with a glass of whisky at hand, listening to the patter of raindrops against the windows, when a newsboy went by in full cry. I leapt to my feet, flung open the door and chased him down the block. A crowd had gathered around him at the end of the street, and papers and coins were changing hands at astonishing speed.

  I skidded to a halt next to the local butcher. “What’s happened, Mr. Bradley? What’s the newsboy going on about?” I tried unsuccessfully to wrestle the paper from the butcher’s grip. He held firm, though. Confound it, I’d have to fight my way through the crowd to get my own copy.

  “It’s those damned anarchists again,” Mr. Bradley said, breathing heavily through his whiskers. “Some bally jokers calling themselves the Dark Legion have blown up Moreland House.”

  “Bloody hell!” I was genuinely astonished. I had hoped Mr. Brown’s story would inspire some act by Martine’s group of friends, but I hadn’t expected them to take on the project of demolishing one of England’s most notable government buildings.

  I shouldered my way through the crowd, stepping on toes and shoving aside blokes who turned to snarl at me until they saw my face and figure and then they couldn’t make way fast enough. Being a looker is a tremendous advantage in life, and it would be foolish not to use one’s natural endowments at every opportunity.

  I took the paper the boy thrust out at me, looked appealingly around for a gentleman willing to lend me a bit of the ready (in my excitement, I had of course exited Lotus House without a farthing to my name) and smiled graciously at the three blokes who shoved coins into my hands. I thanked the lucky winner who’d paid for my paper and scurried back to Lotus House. I didn’t even stop to dry my hair but plonked down in my chair and avidly scanned the headline.

&n
bsp; “Blow me down,” I whispered and swallowed the whisky in my glass.

  ANARCHIST OUTRAGE IN LONDON—EXPLOSION AT MORELAND HOUSE

  Several explosions rocked Moreland House this afternoon at approximately three o’clock this afternoon, throwing Pall Mall into a state of excitement such as your correspondent has never before witnessed. There were three separate detonations, each of which sounded, according to bystanders, like a thunderous blast from a cannon. The explosions destroyed the frontage of the building facing the Mall and leveled the guardhouse at the entrance. It is fortunate that the police constable who might otherwise have occupied the guardhouse was in fact not on duty at the time. However, two carriages that were standing at the curb in front of the building were destroyed, with shards of wood and fragments of iron from them being found several blocks from the scene of the blast. A number of pedestrians in the area and occupants of adjacent properties received minor injuries from flying glass and debris. In all, fourteen persons were affected and received treatment for their injuries. Fortunately for the bystanders, the area directly in front of Moreland House had been closed to pedestrian traffic for the reasons hereinafter described.