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

by Carol K. Carr

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Ole Drinkwater sent one of the ’ores for me at the crack o’ dawn. She couldn’t sleep last night and she was cleanin’ in the kitchen. She ’eard a shindy outside the door and run out and saw a man with a cosh standin’ over you. She said she screamed and he run away and there you was on the ground, out cold and wif the blood runnin’ out your nose.”

  Mrs. Drinkwater cleaning in the middle of the night? More likely she was creeping about, filching my liquor. Still, it would be churlish to be ungrateful. Not everyone would have ventured outside to interrupt a cosh-wielding assailant.

  “She could have sent for the doctor,” I muttered, struggling to sit upright. Ooh. A mistake, that. I refrained from further movement.

  “Aye, she could ’ave,” agreed Vincent, though he looked offended that I preferred the ministrations of a qualified medico to his own well-intentioned assistance.

  “Wot ’appened to you? Did one of them anarchist buggers bash you over the ’ead?”

  “I don’t know who it was. I couldn’t see. It was dark and the fog was thick.” I pressed a hand to my forehead. “But it wouldn’t make sense for one of them to follow me all the way back to Lotus House and attack me here. I was with them for hours. They had plenty of opportunities to whack me.”

  “Well, you’ve chapped somebody good and proper, to get a wallop like that.”

  The light began to dawn. “Mother Edding,” I said gloomily. “The old bitch.”

  “An ole woman done that to you?” Vincent asked skeptically. “It’s a ’ell of a drubbin’.”

  “Of course not,” I snapped. “She’s hired someone. Mrs. Drinkwater said my attacker was a man. Mind you,” I added, “she could have done it herself. She’s as stout as a Berkshire sow and twice as mean.”

  “Wot you gonna do about it?”

  “I’ll sic the Bulldog on her if she tries it again.”

  “You ain’t gonna give ’er some of ’er own medicine?”

  “I haven’t time for that. I’m in the midst of playing spies, and Mother Edding will just have to wait until I can give her my full attention. Maybe I’ll ship Martine back to her when this affair is over with a note apologizing for the inconvenience. Which Mother Edding won’t be able to read.”

  I could see the lad was disappointed, but whether it was due to my reluctance to take on the stout, elderly madam or because I’d been felled by a thug for hire and not an anarchist, I wasn’t sure.

  Vincent sat down on the mattress at my feet.

  “Not the bed,” I cried. “A chair, for God’s sake. Take a chair.”

  Vincent shrugged and dragged a spindle-backed chair to my bedside.

  “Tell me about the meetin’,” he demanded. “Are you gonna scrag someone? Who’s gonna get hit next?”

  Mrs. Drinkwater lurched into the room, bearing a glass of brandy. She staggered to the bed and handed it to me. By the length of time she’d been gone and the alcoholic haze following her like a cloud of perfume, I presume she’d had a medicinal jolt herself. I swallowed a mouthful of the brandy and waited until the top of my head condescended to join the rest of my skull.

  “I’ll bring you some broth,” said the cook, and disappeared to make a perfectly good beef bone and a pot of water into a disgusting sludge.

  “Well? Wot ’appened last night?”

  He wanted every detail, so I recounted it all, struggling a bit to remember some of the hazier moments (that humbug about the rights of man, for example). When I reached the part where French had walked in the door, Vincent clapped his hands in excitement and sprang out of the chair.

  “’E’s back? Where the devil ’as ’e been?”

  “I’ve no idea. He hardly spoke at the meeting, and he didn’t say a word to me directly.”

  Vincent nodded thoughtfully. “’E’s a sly dog, alright. Trust ’im not to let on that ’e knew you.” Naturally, my own artfully concealed acquaintance with French drew no praise.

  The brandy was working its magic and my head had begun to clear, though a steady drumbeat throbbed in my veins. “I need to get in touch with him before the next meeting of the anarchists. Do you think you can find him?”

  I hadn’t meant to cast aspersions on Vincent’s professional skills, but I’d obviously touched a nerve.

  “Wot do you mean, can I find ’im? If ’e’s in Lunnon, I’ll run ’im to ground before noon.”

  His easy assurance irritated me. I had no idea where French might be found. I did not know his address or the name of his club (the poncy bastard surely belonged to several of those). I didn’t even know his Christian name, a fact that annoyed me no end. It nettled me so much that I persisted in dreaming up improbable names for the chap, which in turn chafed him. I’d had a great deal of sport out of French with that little game, but at the moment I would have foregone the pleasure of vexing the man if I’d only known how to reach him.

  “Tell him I want to see him, but don’t you dare say anything to him about Mother Edding.” I wasn’t keen that French should know I’d been careless enough to be ambushed by a portly bawd’s hired hand. He might draw the conclusion that I wasn’t up to the task of taking down a few dynamite-toting foreigners.

  Speaking of foreigners, I remembered that I’d tasked Vincent with checking the background of my newest slut and her acquaintances in the anarchist community.

  “What have you learned about Martine?”

  “Nuffink to worry you. When she ain’t ’ere, she’s ’angin’ around Bonnaire. She’s sweet on ’im. When she ain’t taggin’ along after Bonnaire, she’s visitin’ her mates.”

  “Does Bonnaire feel the same about her?”

  “Nah, I don’t fink so. ’E’s nice enough to ’er when they’re togevver, but ’e don’t appear all that interested in ’er. She’s useful to ’im. ’E sends ’er off wif messages, and she pays for his baccy at the smoke shop.”

  “And her mates? What are they like?”

  Vincent shrugged. “Most of ’em earn their bread on their backs, but one sells apples and another one sells matches. Nice girls, I reckon, though they all speak Frog when they’re togevver. I been close to ’em and I can’t make out wot they say.”

  “And Bonnaire?”

  “’E showed up a year ago, best as anyone can remember. ’E’s a quiet bloke, but a devil with the ladies. Got one on every corner, ’e does. Keeps ’imself to ’imself most of the time, but folk say ’e ’angs out with a crowd of political types.”

  “So he is what he purports to be,” I mused.

  Vincent shrugged. “Wotever that means.”

  The lad was set to dash off in search of his hero, but I had another assignment for him. While he waited, pacing the room, I scribbled a quick note to Superintendent Stoke to inform him that I had successfully penetrated the Dark Legion. I said nothing of French, for I’d no idea whether Dizzy had informed the Scotland Yard man that another of the prime minister’s agents had also infiltrated the group. One lesson I’d learned from that ballyhoo at Balmoral was that the government was a great one for not letting the left hand know what the right was up to. I informed the superintendent that the elusive ringleader of the anarchists was a chap named Grigori, and I’d try to find out more about him at the next meeting. I signed my name with an assertive flourish and asked Vincent to deliver it before starting his search for French.

  “And, Vincent? I’ll need you back here on the day of the anarchists’ meeting. I want you to follow me there and when the meeting is over, I’ll want you to dog Harkov. Find out where he goes after the meeting. Perhaps he’ll lead you to Grigori.”

  The prospect of action pleased Vincent enormously, and he was over the moon at the news that French had returned. The little chap scurried out with a cheerful grin on his face. I lay back on the pillows and contemplated putting the Bulldog to my head. That should surely cure my headache.

  NINE

  I dozed, and woke to the sound of Mrs. Drinkwater staggering in
to the room with a tray in her hands. She plonked it down on my lap, and I beheld a bowl of gelid brown slurry.

  “Has the wind shifted? I can smell the abattoirs at Smithfield.”

  “You eat that up,” said Mrs. Drinkwater. “You’ll be fighting fit in no time.”

  I contemplated the bowl. She meant well, but even Vincent, who had a cast-iron stomach, would have baulked at the sight.

  “And here’s a letter for you.”

  The envelope was addressed to me in a spidery hand and flecked with dozens of miniscule brown spots. Snuff. No prizes for guessing my correspondent. I tore open the flap and smoothed out the letter.

  Dear Miss Black,

  It’s no use playing on my sympathy, and I’m damned surprised that you tried. I wouldn’t have expected that of you. And there’s no point in coming up here, as I have nothing to say to you.

  Yours sincerely,

  Lady Margaret Aberkill

  Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine

  I crumpled the letter in my hand and hurled it at the wall. “Bloody woman! If I didn’t have a brothel to run and an anarchist plot to foil, I’d catch the first train to Scotland and strangle the wretched old hag.”

  “Don’t you upset yourself over a letter,” said Mrs. Drinkwater. “You have some of that nourishing broth I’ve brought you. That’ll settle your nerves.”

  Possibly it would. My stomach, however, would be another matter.

  “Fetch me my clothes, Mrs. Drinkwater. I’m going out.”

  “What? In your condition? You’ve just had a thump on the head. You’d best lie down until you feel better.”

  I flung back the bedclothes and tottered to my feet. I listed dangerously to port, and Mrs. Drinkwater steadied me, muttering under her breath about stubborn fools and the virtues of beef stock. She held me upright while I struggled into my clothes. I drained the last of the brandy, winced as the alcohol hit my gullet and staggered to the door. Mrs. Drinkwater clucked and flapped in my wake as I descended the stairs.

  “Summon a cab for me, Mrs. Drinkwater.”

  She uttered a protest, but one look at my face convinced her that I was not to be deterred.

  Nothing but the marchioness’s letter could have induced me to leave the house. My head throbbed and my forehead was clammy. My stomach churned. I struggled weakly into the cab and as the horse sprang forward, I fell back against the seat. Paying a call was the last thing I should be doing at the moment, but the letter had spurred me to action. If the marchioness refused to discuss my mother with me, then I would talk to someone who would.

  * * *

  It was only a short distance from Lotus House to the area around Haymarket, and had I been feeling my usual self, I’d have walked despite the pelting rain. The streets were thronged with carriages, hansoms and omnibuses. Pedestrians dodged in and out of the traffic, and street vendors bawled the virtues of their wares. Newsboys thrust papers through the open window of the cab, shouting the headlines at me. It was utter bloody chaos and the cacophony made my ears ring, but the roar died to a muted hum as we turned into Oxenden Street. It never ceases to amaze me that all you have to do to escape the din of a London thoroughfare is to walk down a side street, where you’ll find a silence as profound as that of a country village. Not that I’ve spent much time in country villages. And not that I like country villages, but some people do. There’s just no accounting for taste.

  The driver hauled on the reins and the wheels creaked to a stop in front of a pleasant house boasting a fresh coat of glossy blue paint on the shutters and a gleaming brass knocker on the door. My pulse fluttered in my throat, and there was a regimental drummer pounding a cadence in my head. For one moment I considered crawling back into the cab and nipping back to Lotus House, but I gave myself a stern talking to and told myself to buck up, and before I could change my mind, I sailed up to the door and lifted that gaudy brass latch.

  A meek young miss in a grey uniform, white apron and a lawn cap opened the door.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “I should like to see your mistress,” I said. “Tell her India Black is here.”

  “I don’t think she’s at home to anyone at the moment,” said the maid.

  “She’ll see me.” My expression brooked no argument, for the shy creature moved aside and I stepped into the house.

  “I’ll just run upstairs and let her know you’re here.” Her feet pattered up the carpeted stairs at dizzying speed. I leaned against the newel and wished that the silly goose had directed me to a drawing room or a parlor or anyplace with a chair. I’d bet the accommodations were first-rate. The hall was immaculate, with a gilded mirror polished to icy perfection on one wall, a spotless floor of black-veined marble, and vivid carmine wallpaper patterned with roses. A vase of hothouse lilies stood on a polished rosewood table. All very nice and proper, even if the scarlet paper did imply that the house’s owner might have been, in a former life, a trifle louche.

  I heard a low-voiced conversation in the hall above me, and then the maid flew breathlessly down the stairs past me, frightened eyes darting in my direction. That pleased me, for it meant that my presence hadn’t pleased her mistress. I might even enjoy this encounter.

  “India Black.”

  I’ve yet to hear Edina Watkins say my name with any inflection other than the faint condescension I heard now. That throaty voice brought back a flood of memories, none of them pleasant. I raised my eyes to the top of the stairs where the tall figure of my mother’s last employer had appeared. Edina had always loved an entrance, and too late I realized that I had played into her hands by mooching around the bottom of the stairs like some supplicant at the court of the empress. I should have waltzed into her best room and made myself at home. Ordered coffee, even, from the timid rabbit who’d answered the door. It was too late to correct the situation now, so I determined to make the best of it.

  “Hello, Edina. It seems retirement agrees with you; you’ve put on a stone. Or is two?”

  Edina had been a stunner in her day, a wasp-waisted beauty with flaxen hair and hazel eyes, and a low husky laugh that enchanted customers and froze the blood of anyone who crossed her, like yours truly. It was true she’d gained weight. Her tiny waist had ballooned, and her breasts would have done credit to a wet nurse. She wore a silk dressing gown of sea green silk and a pair of leather slippers in a muted dove grey. She was still a handsome woman, in a blowsy sort of way, but the bloom was definitely gone from the rose, which pleased me no end. Amazing what a bit of schadenfreude will do for one’s spirits. I felt almost cheerful.

  Her gown rustled as she advanced down the stairs. Her mouth was tight with anger.

  “Why are you here?”

  Too late I remembered the reason I had come. Dash it all, one of these days I was going to have to make an effort to stop charging into battle before war was declared. I needed this woman’s help, for as most of you will have concluded by now, I was here to ask Edina a few questions about my mater.

  No doubt you’re pondering why, if I knew where Edina Watkins lived, I had not dropped round for a chat before now. The truth is that I hated the viper. Just the sound of that low voice, dripping with disdain when she uttered my name, was enough to induce a murderous rage in me. Until now, I’d refused to see the woman for fear I’d run a blade through her or draw out my Bulldog and put a bullet into that cold heart of hers. I was only here now because the bloody Marchioness of Tullibardine had roused a curiosity in me that I had long suppressed. Despite the marchioness’s protestations, I was sure she knew something of my mother’s life before London. The only other person I knew who could tell me about my mother was standing before me now, her face flushed with fury.

  I’d spilled the milk already, so there was no point in trying to play up to the venomous bitch.

  “I’ve come to ask you some questions,” I said. “About my mother.”

  A smirk tugged at the corner of Edina’s mouth. “And why would you want to know anything
about that useless cow?”

  You can see why I despise the woman. The only reason I kept my temper in check was because I refused to give Edina the satisfaction of knowing she’d pricked me.

  “She may turn out not to have been so useless after all,” I said mildly, though I itched to plug the woman with my .442. “I’ve found out something about her. It may be worth some money.”

  Edina can no more resist money than a horse can resist a lump of sugar. I’d been counting on her greed and I was glad to see that I hadn’t underestimated her. She kept that frozen, lofty look on her face, but there was a flicker of interest in her eyes.

  “Money?”

  I shrugged, leaving it to Edina’s imagination to supply the details.

  “I’ll need to know more about her if I’m to benefit. Look here,” I said, very bluff and confidential, “we may not like each other, but there’s no reason we couldn’t do each other a good turn.”

  She snorted. I had to admit that given the icy freeze that had existed between us all these years, it was more likely I’d slit my own throat than do Edina a favor.

  “Not interested?” I said, very nonchalantly, and making as if to leave.

  She was torn, I could see, between wanting to see the back of me and adding a few shillings to her pile.

  Avarice won. People are so predictable. All you have to do is waggle a few bank notes under their nose and they start to pant.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “A few details.” I was dismissive.

  “Such as?”

  “Her life before she came to you.”

  Edina nodded, lips pursed. “Nothing in life is free,” she mused.

  “I learned that lesson at your feet, Edina.”