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

by Carol K. Carr

  “There is much to be done,” I said. “I’ll continue to provide information, but I’d like to do more for the cause.” I sounded like a right pillock, but Flerko was beaming at me and Bonnaire smiled and fingered his beard. Harkov stared at me, his dark eyes thoughtful. I didn’t dare look at French.

  “Why?” asked Schmidt.

  So I went through the whole song and dance one more time, though I did abbreviate the saga as by then I was heartily sick of the story and I reckoned Bonnaire, Flerko and Harkov were as well. I allowed myself to get a little hot at the notion of all those toffs paying for the privilege of rogering the fallen women of Lotus House, but I didn’t overdo things. Harkov’s unwavering gaze and sardonic expression were unnerving, and for some unaccountable reason, French’s presence had made me as edgy as a vicar giving his first sermon.

  I finished reeling off my tale and waited for Schmidt’s interrogation to begin, but Harkov surprised me by abruptly addressing French.

  “And what about you, sir?’ he enquired. “Schmidt has of course told us of your experiences together in Manchester and Liverpool. You’ve provided a great deal of financial support to our cause, and now I understand that you wish to be more actively involved in our affairs as well. Is that correct?”

  “Indeed it is, sir,” said French.

  “Yet Schmidt tells me that you are a member of the very class we intend to destroy. Your family owns mines, I believe he said. What was it?” Harkov turned to Schmidt. “Coal? Tin?”

  “Both,” said French. “Coal mines in County Durham. Tin mines in Cornwall. My family has also expanded into manufacturing in the north of England, principally ironworks.”

  “Then why should you seek to demolish the fruits of your family’s labours?”

  “Our wealth is not the fruit of our labours. It was built on the backs of poor men and women,” French said bitterly, his face flushed. That was a nice touch, I thought, and vowed to make French tell me how he’d done that.

  “You ask why I have turned against my family. If you could see the conditions in which our workers slave so that we might dine off silver and drink champagne, you would understand. We have exploited our workers so that we might live a life of decadence. We are parasites, living off the sweat and tears of others, without a thought for their health or happiness. In short, sir, I am ashamed of my family and what we have done. I intend to do the honourable thing and fight for the rights of the weak and the poor.” French had caught just the right look, equal parts humility and righteous anger.

  Schmidt had been fiddling about with a large pipe, cleaning and filling it with tobacco. Now he lit the bloody thing and a noxious cloud enveloped the table. “Mr. French has been financing a series of newsletters and pamphlets for the workers, explaining their rights and urging them to down tools until their managers see fit to pay them a decent wage. Now he has decided that words alone will not accomplish the great task before us.”

  Schmidt’s pipe belched black smoke. “You are not the first of your class to turn your back upon your relations in search of a better world. Our own leader, Grigori, comes from one of Russia’s greatest noble families. He too has rejected their ideals and has vowed to annihilate all those who stand in the way of progress.”

  I’d been half-listening to French’s performance and pondering a change of the wallpaper in the drawing room at Lotus House, but the mention of Grigori snapped me to attention. Harkov was not the man we were after (though it would be no great loss to society if he ended up sent back to the Russians with instructions to deliver him to Siberia). At the mention of Grigori, Harkov’s eyes flashed and his hand moved involuntarily as though to silence Schmidt.

  Schmidt forged on. “When Tsar Alexander II freed the serfs in 1861, Grigori was sure that Russia was finally on the path to freedom and dignity for all its people. But liberating the serfs has done little to improve their lot. They are still uneducated, still clinging to myth and superstition. The nobles were forced to turn over land to the serfs, but they chose the most barren fields to give to the peasants, and the poor creatures are required to pay for this land. Some of them must pay for fifty years or more. Grigori has tried to persuade his fellow noblemen to treat the serfs fairly, but they refuse to change. Like you, Mr. French, Grigori has decided that change can only be effected by drastic means.”

  I wondered why, if Grigori felt so strongly about the wretched former serfs, he wasn’t back in Russia trying to assassinate the tsar, but running a brothel has taught me some useful diplomatic skills. “I take it Grigori has been exiled?”

  Flerko snorted. “He fled Russia, just before his arrest. I was not so lucky. The Third Section—”

  “Yes, Flerko, we know what you have endured,” Bonnaire said soothingly.

  I had been puzzling over the conversation and now I spoke up. No doubt the manual for government agents recommends keeping your mouth shut and your ears open when you’re infiltrating a group of international criminals, but I’ve yet to read the manual and probably never will.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Harkov, but there’s something I’d like to ask you. My review of anarchist literature”—I was stretching the truth a bit, as I hadn’t read any of that nonsense either, save for the information provided by Superintendent Stoke—“indicates that every man, and woman, of course, is considered capable of governing himself or herself, and thus no man has the right to govern another.”

  French was giving me the eye, willing me to be silent, which is the surest way I know of encouraging me to talk.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, if that is the case, then why do you refer to Grigori as your leader?”

  Harkov’s smile was laced with condescension. “You must explore the theory in more depth, Miss Black.”

  I looked suitably chastened.

  “But to answer your question, a group of men and women may freely choose to appoint one of their own as a leader. The critical point is that the decision is made by them and not for them. We have recognized that Grigori has certain attributes that will permit our group to function more effectively.”

  Bonnaire laughed. “Money.”

  “And education and contacts and many other things that make our task easier,” said Harkov primly.

  “I see,” I said. “Thank you for explaining.”

  Schmidt knocked his pipe against the chair leg. “We should administer the oath, Harkov.”

  The oath? Anarchists took an oath? That seemed a bit structured for a group whose aim was to bring about the end of society as we knew it.

  “Do you choose to join us?” asked Harkov. “You are free to refuse. Only an oath freely given binds a man to his brothers.”

  Naturally we said yes, having been sent to do that very thing by the prime minister and Superintendent Stoke. I had visions of knives and the mingling of blood while we chanted something ancient and mystical, but the oath taking turned out to be a tame affair. Harkov asked French and me to stand, and we both did so, rather self-consciously. At Harkov’s direction, we placed our hands over our hearts. I screwed my face into a solemn mask and prayed I wouldn’t guffaw at an inappropriate moment.

  “Repeat after me,” said Harkov. “I believe in the innate equality of all men, and I vow to respect my brother’s liberty.”

  French and I spoke out loudly, parroting Harkov, though I felt the urge to ask why our sisters didn’t get some consideration as well.

  “I vow never to use violence or usury to take my brothers’ property.”

  French was word perfect, but I put “usury” before “violence” and thus spoiled the effect.

  Harkov glared at me. “I vow,” he continued, “to speak honestly to my brothers and never to deceive them in any way.”

  I concentrated and made it through without error, and I can assure you that I didn’t hesitate at all when I lied about not lying.

  Then everyone gathered round and clasped hands. Flerko’s sweaty palm enclosed mine, and Bonnaire grasped my other hand.


  Harkov looked solemn, like a priest about to deliver the wafer. “You have become a member of the society of free men, and, er, women,” he added, catching my eye. “We are bound together now in the noble enterprise of liberating all men, and, er, women, from the authority of the state and the oppression of the aristocracy.” He lifted his hands, raising French’s and Schmidt’s, and the rest of us hoisted ours.

  “Brothers!” said Harkov.

  “Brothers!” we all exclaimed.

  “And sisters!”

  “Sisters!” we echoed.

  Harkov startled me by enveloping me in a bear hug, and then all the chaps lined up to embrace me and to clutch French in their arms. I was a trifle fretted by this, as Superintendent Stoke’s briefing materials had mentioned that some anarchists believed in the concept of free love, a notion obviously dreamed up by some bloke because even a radical female of average intelligence ought to know that free love was nothing but another name for prostitution, without the exchange of money. Some women might fall for the charm of unkempt beards and fervid talk about equality, but India Black wasn’t about to dispense her favors to any of the men of the Dark Legion (though under other circumstances, I might have fancied the handsome Bonnaire). But as a madam I’ve had quite a lot of experience in separating business from pleasure, and I wasn’t going to combine the two pursuits while I was weaseling my way into a cell of flaming zealots.

  After all the cuddling and clinching, Harkov poured whisky and everyone gathered around the table, including Thick Ed, who reluctantly left off testing a spring and joined us. I reckoned we’d finally get down to business now, planning our next attack, but damned if the meeting didn’t degenerate into a philosophical discussion about the usual anarchist shibboleths: greedy parasites who exploited the working class, reactionary policies of the present European governments, and the torture techniques employed by the various security agencies (this last, predictably, resulted in an outburst from Flerko about Russia’s Third Section that took some time to quell). Vincent would have lapped this up, but I found it tedious, as indeed it was. Nevertheless, I had to make a show of appearing interested, and so I stuck a few verbal daggers into the aristocracy and the politicos and made enthusiastic noises about striking them down and otherwise burnished my laurels as a champion of the people.

  Then Schmidt briefed us on the contents of a pamphlet he and French intended to publish, addressed to the costermongers of the East End, informing them of their rights as free men and merchants of the city, which inspired Flerko to yet another eruption, this one over the brutal treatment meted out to the costers by the police, who were known to upset their barrows and empty their wares into the street out of sheer malice. Bonnaire reported on the state of the group’s finances. French spoke sparingly, adding a comment here and there and appearing the earnest inductee. Harkov nattered on at length about the meeting he’d just attended in Lyme Regis, in which he and a few other ardent compatriots had talked about a concerted plan to set England ablaze with synchronized bombings, at which point Thick Ed actually uttered a few words about the practical difficulties involved in such a scheme until Harkov irritably cut him off.

  Everyone was getting snappish by then for it was quite late. Indeed, it must have been the wee hours of the morning before everyone got tired of debating abstract principles of anarchism and Harkov announced that we would meet in three days’ time, at the same hour and place. We should be prepared, he said, to discuss our next operation at that meeting. I felt a surge of excitement, for I’d finally have something to report to Superintendent Stoke.

  Bonnaire cupped a hand under my elbow. “I’ll escort you to New Oxford Street. You should be able to find a cab there, even at this hour.”

  It was kind of him, but what I really wanted to do was cut French from the herd and pump his nibs about his recent activities. At the moment, he and Schmidt had their heads together and French had his back to me.

  “Shall we go?” asked Bonnaire. Flerko had materialized at his side, like a nervous shadow.

  Bugger. I resigned myself to seeing French in three days. By then I would have concocted a plan to get him to myself. It occurred to me that I hadn’t the slightest idea where he lived, although it was unlikely he was residing in his own home while playing at being a radical sympathizer. He certainly wouldn’t be staying anywhere in the filth of Seven Dials, being as fastidious as a cat when it came to his appearance.

  Our trio was almost out the door when Schmidt halted us with a word. “If you are walking to New Oxford Street, Bonnaire, then perhaps Mr. French should accompany you.” He cuffed French gently on the shoulder. “We know our way around these streets, but it is not wise for strangers to travel alone. You will be safer with Bonnaire and Flerko.”

  My Bulldog would be far more useful in warning off footpads and fingersmiths than Flerko’s twitching, but as I did not want to draw attention to the fact that I was armed, I said nothing.

  We trekked out into the fog. Schmidt lifted his hat and disappeared into the murk, followed by Harkov and Thick Ed moving off in different directions.

  “This way,” said Bonnaire, grasping my elbow. The others fell in behind us, and Flerko began to chatter away to French about the inhumane conditions at Third Section headquarters.

  Damn and blast. My heart had lifted when French joined us for the walk, but with Bonnaire attached to my side like a bloody leech and Flerko monopolizing French, I wouldn’t be able to have a private word with the man. Perhaps when we reached our destination I’d have the opportunity to sidle alongside French and arrange a rendezvous.

  But that ambition was thwarted as well. After slithering through refuse and stepping over sleeping drunks, we arrived at the cabstand where a few yawning drivers were gathered around a brazier drinking tea. They looked up drowsily. We must have made an odd tableau looming out of the dripping mist: an English gentleman, a beautiful, well-dressed but obviously experienced woman, and two foreigners, one of whom conveyed a distinct piscine odour.

  French spoke up. “Good evening, gentlemen. We shall require two cabs.”

  An old fellow with a crushed bowler and a pipe between his teeth stirred. “Where to?”

  French looked enquiringly at me, and I gave the address of Lotus House.

  “Not far,” said the old gent. “I’ll take you.”

  “And I wish to go to Fleet Street.”

  I flung a quick glance at French, for his objective lay in the opposite direction from Lotus House. He hadn’t paid me a jot of attention tonight, and I wouldn’t put it past the fellow to have chosen his destination deliberately to avoid sharing a cab. He evaded my eyes but tipped the brim of his hat in my direction. Bonnaire handed me into an ancient hansom with sprung seats and the smell of mildew, and the last I saw of French, he was haggling with a wall-eyed driver over the cost of conveyance.

  The drive to Lotus House seemed to last an eternity, and I fumed the entire way. My head ached, I was drained from the effort of playing the revolutionary hellion and I was furious that French had made no effort to arrange any sort of meeting before the next assembly of anarchists. For God’s sake, we were both agents of the Crown and you’d think the fellow would want to share some information and formulate a plan for getting our hands on Grigori, but French had ignored me for most of the evening. I considered the notion that he was just being cautious; for all I knew I might even now have Harkov or Thick Ed or any one of the others on my tail, and so might French. He was a wise bird, was French, and even I, who was prone to check the depth of the water by plunging in, could see the sense in being wary. That did not, however, mean that I wasn’t desirous of getting French in a headlock and forcing him to divulge all his secrets, professional and personal.

  I blame French for what happened next. If I had not been seething over his behavior, I would certainly not have exited the cab without bothering to check the street. I flung a few coins at the driver and mounted the steps of Lotus House, fishing in my purse for the house key.
I was rummaging through the contents with my head bent in concentration, when I heard the scrape of shoe leather on the stone step and I looked around just in time to see a cosh whipping through the gloom toward my head.

  I got a hand up, which helped to ward off the blow, but pain juddered through my forearm as my attacker struck again and I staggered, half-falling against the door. I tried to raise my fist to hammer on the door, but my arm hung, nerveless and inert, at my side. Then I felt a mighty blow on the crown of my head, and the last thing I remember is the dim yellow glow of the gas lamps fading, first to starry white pinpricks of light and then to velvet black.

  * * *

  A grimy thumb pried open my eyelid and a bolt of lightning pierced my brain.

  “Bloody hell,” I said, and rolled over to burrow my face in the pillow. This action was not sufficient, however, to cloak the noxious stench that had pervaded my room.

  “Open the window, you stunted little sod,” I said in a muffled voice.

  Vincent probed cautiously at the back of my head, and I let out a howl that would have done credit to a countess birthing triplets.

  “Get your bally hands off me,” I shouted.

  “Should I get some brandy?” Mrs. Drinkwater sounded anxious.

  “Only if it’s for me, you bloody woman.”

  “It ain’t cracked,” said Vincent, running a finger along the base of my skull. The thought of where that finger had been was enough to make Lazarus leap off his cot, and I rolled over and glared at my ragged nurse.

  “Kindly remove your hands from my person.” I did my best to sound severe, but the act of turning over and inhaling an unadulterated dose of pure Vincent made my stomach heave.

  Vincent whipped a basin under my nose, and I retched like a drunken sailor. Mrs. Drinkwater vanished, her hand fluttering to her breast in dismay. After I’d finished emptying the contents of my stomach, I sank back onto the pillows, exhausted, the beat of my pulse pounding in my temple like a piston. Vincent set aside the basin and kindly dabbed my mouth with his handkerchief. If I didn’t die from the blow to my head, I’d surely be felled in short order by some loathsome disease.