India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A MADAM OF ESPIONAGE MYSTERY)
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The toll could certainly have been much larger, as members of Her Majesty’s government were scheduled to meet with a legation from the Russian embassy at Moreland House today to discuss the settlement of certain outstanding issues related to the situation in the Ottoman Empire. However, several members of the Russian legation had succumbed to influenza in the last few days and it was deemed necessary to postpone the meeting until their recovery. Had the meeting taken place, several luminaries of the Foreign Office and the War Office would have been in attendance, as would have Count Peter Shuvalov, the tsar’s ambassador to the Court of St. James, and several prominent officers of the Russian military forces.
Superintendent Stoke of Scotland Yard was immediately on the scene and informed your correspondent that the Yard had received a message moments after the explosions from a heretofore unknown group of anarchists. Superintendent Stoke reported that the message was brief, consisting only of the words “Death to all tyrants,” and signed “The Dark Legion” in an unknown hand. Readers will recall that previous acts of violence against certain peers of the realm have been attributed to other radical groups, such as the Black Flag, but the destruction of Moreland House is the first evidence of the existence of the Dark Legion. Superintendent Stoke vowed to apprehend and punish the members of this group for their perpetration of this cowardly act. This paper encourages the police to act swiftly, as the failure to capture these dastardly anarchists can only increase public concern and trepidation. When innocent men and women must walk the streets of London in fear, the Home Office and Scotland Yard must spare no effort or expense to halt this series of alarming events. The failure to eradicate these craven creatures who callously attack our people and our institutions is an ominous sign. Perhaps it is time to consider a change of leadership at the highest levels of the institutions in which we have hitherto entrusted our lives and safety.
I had barely had time to digest the story when a messenger arrived with a rather peremptory note from Superintendent Stoke, summoning me to a meeting at Dizzy’s suite, posthaste. I trundled over in leisurely fashion and found the prime minister engrossed in the evening papers and the man from the Yard pacing the carpet.
Dizzy peered over the top of his paper at me. “Well, well, India. I must give you credit for drawing the Dark Legion out into the light of day.”
Superintendent Stoke did not join in this faint praise. He sucked the ends of his moustache and looked sour. To give the chap his due, some esteemed members of the press had suggested, in their usual subtle fashion, that the job of hunting down anarchists might be too much for the old boy and he should retire to a seaside bungalow. I suppose my feathers would have been ruffled too, had I been in his shoes.
He blew the tips of his moustache from his mouth. “Oh, yes, the Dark Legion has emerged from the shadows. Unclear to me, however, that the demolition of Moreland House was necessary to confirm what we already know: Martine connected to the organization, and the Dark Legion is bloody dangerous. Cost of the operation was exorbitant. Home secretary none too pleased with the whole affair.” He cleared his throat and glanced at the prime minister. “Questioned the wisdom of the plan and the efficacy of your agent.” He cut his eyes at me, just to be sure that I knew to whom he was referring.
As you might expect, I did not allow a little sarcasm to dent my confidence. I might have hatched the plan to plant information about a spurious meeting between the Russians and the British with Martine, but of course I’d had the assistance of Dizzy in providing “Mr. Brown from the Foreign Office,” and that of the superintendent himself in securing the perimeter of Moreland House. His function had been to ensure that no one (least of all an anarchist with not one, but three, bombs) penetrated the area around the building. It was difficult to envision how someone with enough dynamite to demolish half the structure had slipped past the contingent of plainclothes officers guarding the place. I pointed out this fact to Superintendent Stoke.
His moustache fluttered wetly. “Had the place surrounded. Don’t know how those bloody foreigners got through. Damned elusive fellows.”
Dizzy sought to pour oil on troubled waters. “Your men had successfully cleared the area and Moreland House was empty, Superintendent. Let us be glad that only property was damaged, and that there were no fatalities. And the fourteen people who were hurt? Have they recovered from their wounds?”
“Weren’t any wounds,” said the Superintendent. “Fabricated that for the benefit of those impudent fellows in the press. Let the Dark Legion think they accomplished something with their bombs.”
“Very clever of you to provide some sham injuries, Superintendent,” I said. “Perhaps that will distract the Dark Legion from noticing that the guardhouse was empty, the street closed to pedestrians and the meeting with the Russians cancelled. The whole project practically screams ‘We knew you were coming’ to any anarchist blessed with even a farthing’s worth of intelligence. I fear that in your zeal to ensure that Moreland House was deserted and the area safe, you may have compromised my position. Martine and her cohorts may suspect that with my connivance, Martine has delivered tainted intelligence to the group and that the members narrowly avoided being entrapped by the police. You may have placed me in some considerable danger.”
The only sounds in the room were the faint rustle of Dizzy’s collar as his head revolved in search of an escape route, and a moist, sucking sound from the superintendent as he nibbled his moustache. After a lengthy chew and a think, he spat out the ends of his soup strainer.
“Can’t very well kill a dozen Londoners just to make your story square.”
“I agree that would have been an extravagance. But perhaps you could have planted a few dead bodies around the area. Surely you had some spare corpses in the morgues you could have pressed into service. In fact, you needn’t have gone to even that much trouble. Why not just create a poor widowed policeman, a year from retirement, with seven children, whose bad luck it was to draw guard duty today?”
The superintendent sniffed audibly. “Can’t let these anarchists appear too successful. Cause a panic, it would. Then where would we be?”
Dizzy was growing restless, no doubt because he’d been excluded from the exchange between the superintendent and me. “It is a delicate balance we must strike,” he murmured, staring at us over steepled fingers. “Any intelligence the anarchists glean through Miss Black must be considered by them to be both accurate and credible. Concurrently, Superintendent Stoke and I must consider the public welfare and avoid endangering innocent people.”
“And how do we accomplish those two mutually exclusive goals?” I asked.
“If Mr. French were here,” mused Superintendent Stoke, “he’d undoubtedly formulate a plan that would achieve our objectives.”
I gave that notion the attention it deserved, which is to say, none at all.
“As he’s not here, you shall have to rely upon me,” I said, with a serene smile at the superintendent.
“May we count on you, Miss Black?” The old duffer must be taking fire from the press and his superiors at the Home Office; his tone was a trifle plaintive.
“Of course.” I stood briskly and put on my gloves. “No more messing about with fake documents or fake Foreign Office chaps. It is time for me to join the Dark Legion.”
Upon my return to Lotus House I wasted no time in summoning Martine to my study. She entered with her usual gravity and pose, but there was a flush on her olive cheeks, and her brown eyes blazed. I didn’t think it was gin that had given her such a celebratory air.
“You asked to see me?”
I picked up the newspaper I had purchased that afternoon. “Have you heard the news? About the destruction of Moreland House?”
“I have. Such a tragedy,” she said, but her words were belied by the twitch of her lips.
“The tragedy,” I said, “is that the whole affair was a shambles. Not a single politician or general killed.”
Martine stiffened.
She nodded briefly.
“And that you passed along this news to your friends?”
She bit her lip. “Yes.”
“And that this”—I waved the paper at her—“is their handiwork?”
“It is.” She was on the defensive now.
“What a waste of bloody intelligence,” I said.
“The Dark Legion struck,” Martine said coldly. “But for some unfortunate circumstances, many would have died.”
“But they didn’t, did they? A perfect opportunity, gone to waste. The Dark Legion, eh? Is that what you call yourselves?”
“It is the name we have chosen.”
I regarded her coolly. “Do you know why I hired you, Martine?”
“Mr. Birkett-Jones—”
“Birkett-Jones be damned,” I said. “I’ll accommodate a customer from time to time, but only if it’s in my interest to do so. I decided to take you on because I thought you might prove useful to me. You know my feelings about the buffoons who run this country. I brought you to Lotus House because I thought you might have some contacts among the radicals who could make good use of the morsels of information that fall into my lap from time to time.”
She squared her shoulders. Her eyes were luminous with passion. “And we have done so. We have acted upon the knowledge I gained from Mr. Brown.”
“Well, you’ve made a hash of the whole business.”
“It wasn’t our fault the meeting was postponed. It’s almost as if—”
“It was bloody bad luck,” I cut her off. I didn’t want Martine to devote much time to speculating about the reason Moreland House had been deserted when the bombs exploded.
“Tell me something, Martine. Do you trust your comrades in the, what is it, the Dark League?”
“The Dark Legion,” she corrected me. “Yes, I do. They are all committed to the cause. And despite our failure at Moreland House, we will continue our work until the rich and powerful are cut down.”
“Your enthusiasm is splendid, my dear. But zeal is not enough. You must be effective. If the Dark Legion cannot deliver the goods, I don’t see why I should continue to hand you the scraps of intelligence I gather here at Lotus House. You would agree, wouldn’t you, that your employment here has been of benefit to your anarchist friends?”
“Certainly,” said Martine.
“Well, perhaps I’m being too harsh,” I said, tilting my head and giving her a forgiving smile.
She let out a breath and smiled tentatively back at me.
“After all, your brothers in arms clearly know how to construct a bomb. Three of them in fact.”
“We have an excellent bomb maker,” she said as if she were recommending the family dressmaker.
“I should like to meet him,” I said.
Martine’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, no. I do not think that would be possible.”
“Why not? It seems to me that if you are to rely upon me to supply information to your friends, and I am relying upon them to use it wisely, then we all have to trust each other. To put it bluntly, I wish to meet your companions so that I may evaluate whether the Dark Legion is suited to carry out the kinds of activities I have in mind, utilizing the information I provide.”
She gnawed her lip and then one of her fingernails. “There might be difficulties,” she said eventually. “Our members are cautious.”
“As am I. It’s difficult enough to keep the police out of my business. I certainly don’t need to get involved with amateur anarchists who might lead the Yard directly to my door.”
We stared at one another for a time, with her mulling over my suggestion and me wishing she’d make up her mind so that I could attend my first meeting of the Dark Legion.
She gave a Gallic shrug. “Your concern is valid. I will arrange a meeting.”
“I shall look forward to it. You may return to your duties now.”
She paused at the door and looked back at me. “I would not take this risk for just anyone, you understand. You have been a good friend to me.”
Gad, I hoped she wasn’t becoming sentimental. That could make things deuced awkward when I handed her over to the police.
* * *
The anarchist brigade didn’t muck about. The next afternoon, I followed Martine through the door of the Bag O’ Nails, that same drinking establishment visited by Martine and Vincent a few days ago. I entered with some reluctance, not because I was afraid of radical foreigners but because the place could have used a good cleaning. I could see why Vincent had been comfortable here; the level of filth met even his exacting standards. My boots made sucking sounds as Martine and I crossed the floor. I judged that the tables had last been wiped about the time our present queen had ascended to the throne. The scent was invigorating: equal parts stale beer, stale vomit and stale sweat, with just a hint of herring. I walked gingerly, tucking in my skirts to avoid touching anything.
Martine made directly for a table in one of the far corners, where a couple of coves were arguing vociferously. One sported a head of wavy dark curls and a beard to match—obviously the bloke Vincent had observed with Martine. The other fellow was a short, fidgety chap with restless eyes and tangled black hair. He was yammering relentlessly in the bearded one’s ear. I didn’t imagine the expression of relief on the latter’s face when he caught sight of Martine. He put a restraining hand on his companion’s arm, who looked annoyed at the interruption of his sermon and looked round for the reason. Spying Martine, he jumped to his feet and rushed to meet us. He caught Martine’s hands in his and leaned forward for a kiss, but she executed a deft maneuver that left him staring after her with his lips still pursed.
“Julian,” she gushed at the bearded fellow, looking up at him with adoration. I can’t say that I blamed her for doing so.
Vincent had said the man with the beard was handsome, but he’d neglected to describe him as the veritable Adonis that he was. On closer inspection, his hair and beard were a deep, rich chestnut, which shone brightly even in the sulphurous gloom of the Bag O’ Nails. He had a manly jaw, a resolute chin and sapphire eyes. He would have looked at home on the parade ground in an officer’s uniform, save for the slightly undomesticated look about the eyes, which in my opinion merely added to his allure, having as I do a fondness for men who are not entirely civilized. He was indubitably the fairest fellow I’d seen in some time, and it took all my strength to stop staring at his features long enough to attend to Martine’s introduction.
“Miss India Black,” she said, and then, glowing with pride, she indicated the handsome fellow. “This is Monsieur Julian Bonnaire.”
I uttered something infantile while Bonnaire bent over my hand.
“Charmed,” he purred, and held my hand for a moment longer than necessary, gazing into my eyes.
He was remarkably clean for an anarchist, and his manners were impeccable. I reminded myself sternly that it was my cardinal rule never to mix business with pleasure, but I confess I contemplated briefly the consequences of disregarding said rule. Since I’d devised the rule in the first place, I considered it mine to amend as circumstances change. It wouldn’t do to share my thoughts with Martine, however, for it was clear she’d marked Bonnaire as her own.
“And this,” said Martine with a trace of disgust in her voice, “is Flerko.”
I looked down at him. The poor blighter wasn’t much taller than Vincent. Flerko’s beak was prominent, his lips thin and blue. He seethed with suppressed energy.
Flerko quivered to attention. “I am Russian,” he announced.
“Delightful for you,” I murmured.
“I sell fish.” That accounted, at least in part, for the aroma of herring I had detected in the Bag O’ Nails.
“I have been persecuted in my homeland.”
I seemed destined to hear the History of Flerko in staccato bursts, but Bonnaire intervened.<
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“Please sit down, Miss Black. Would you like a drink?”
I considered the options. The ale in Flerko’s glass was murky. I fancied the whisky had been brewed last night and the gin would be the infamous “blue ruin,” which was useful if you were stripping wallpaper but should be avoided otherwise.
“Nothing for me, thank you, Mr. Bonnaire.”
“I was driven from Russia,” Flerko hissed.
Bonnaire and Martine ignored this assertion. As this seemed to be the prevailing custom, I followed suit.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Mr. Bonnaire.”
“It is my pleasure. Martine speaks well of you, and I am assured by her that you share our views.”
“Indeed, I do. Otherwise, I should not have employed Martine and provided her with such scraps of information as I have been able to acquire.”
“You seem uniquely situated to continue to do so.”
“I am.”
Bonnaire drew a thin cheroot from his pocket. “We are always interested in the affairs of our esteemed leaders.”
Flerko produced a match and scraped it across the table with such vigor that it snapped. “Esteemed leaders! Pah! Tell us where to find the bastards and we’ll kill them like dogs in the street.”
Clearly, Flerko was an enthusiast. I don’t much care for enthusiasts, as they tend to drag you into the barrel just as it’s going over the falls. Steer clear of this one, India, I thought to myself.
Flerko, however, had other ideas. He lit a foul-smelling pipe and scooted his chair closer to mine. “In London, I sell fish. In Russia, I am an intellectual, a poet and a novelist of no small repute.”