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

by Carol K. Carr

  “And Grigori disappears, only to return to London with a new group of conspirators,” I said. “If we do as I suggest, the cell stays together and Grigori remains within our grasp.”

  Dizzy sipped coffee and looked glum. There’s nothing like the prospect of a bomb attack at a public function to put the wind up a politician. If my plan didn’t work, the next question-and-answer session at Parliament would be beastly for the old boy. We all knew it was the prime minister’s decision to make and it would be his government that fell if things didn’t go as planned, so we waited silently while Dizzy turned things over in his mind. He stirred himself eventually and turned to Vincent. French had suggested the young imp come along, as “it was only fair.”

  “What do you think of Miss Black’s idea?” Dizzy asked.

  Vincent showed him a gum full of blackened teeth. “It’ll be a right doddle.”

  Superintendent Stoke spit out the ends of his moustache. “Really, my lord, this is most extraordinary. You can’t mean to accept this preposterous notion that we should let the anarchists—” The chap had been spurred to utter two complete sentences.

  “Plant several bombs in Trafalgar Square?” Dizzy toyed with the silken tassel of his dressing gown. “Put like that, it does sound rather preposterous. However, I am at present inclined to go along with Miss Black’s plan, provided that in the days to come we continue to feel comfortable that it will work.”

  “Not sure now that it will work,” the superintendent muttered mutinously. “Bloody bad show if things go wrong.”

  “Don’t fret yourself,” said Vincent. “I guarantee hit’ll work.”

  The superintendent slurped the ends of his tea strainer into his mouth and sulked.

  * * *

  After the meeting, I pootled off home and had a nap, which was exactly what I needed. Despite having been hauled around the streets of London like a sack of potatoes and imbibing a few lungfuls of the filthiest river in England, I was feeling in fine fettle when I awoke. It was nearly dusk, and I went down to the kitchen to roust Mrs. Drinkwater and see that the whores had dined and were getting ready for the evening’s customers. The girls were in a festive mood, for Major Rawlins had sent a note earlier in the day advising that he and his men from the Royal Horse Guards had so enjoyed themselves at Lotus House on their prior visit that they were returning tonight. I felt a little swell of pride that my bints had acquitted themselves so well and that trade was flourishing, for truth to tell, I had been feeling slightly guilty at haring off to chase anarchists. I could rest easy now, knowing that I had done all that a good coach could do and it was up to the girls to play the game once they got on the pitch.

  After a dinner that even the prisoners at Dartmoor would have rejected, I gathered my belongings and draped my traveling cloak around my shoulders. When Vincent and I had returned to Lotus House the previous evening, I’d found my purse just where it had fallen when I’d been snatched by Mother Edding’s rogues. To my relief not only was my money still in the purse, but so was my Bulldog. I had learned my lesson. From this point on, whenever I traveled alone, I would travel with the Bulldog in my hand, tucked away into the folds of my cloak or in the pocket of my skirt or coat. The next chap who tried to crack my head or deposit me in the river would get some hot lead for his trouble.

  As arranged, I met Bonnaire and Flerko at the Bag O’ Nails. I would have preferred a more inviting rendezvous, but such establishments were difficult to find in Seven Dials. Flerko was jumping like a flea at the prospect of planning some bloodshed, but Bonnaire was his usual smooth and urbane self, tucking my hand into the crook of his elbow as we made our way through the streets. Flerko chattered aimlessly until Bonnaire sent him to retrace our route, to ensure we were not being followed.

  We were the last to arrive. We exchanged pleasantries with the others, remarking on the weather and commenting upon the latest parliamentary debate, behaving much as I imagine Freemasons do before they don their robes and start spouting claptrap. Flerko was itching to get the meeting under way and kept tugging at Harkov’s sleeve while Harkov regaled French with tales of the committees he had chaired at the meeting in Geneva. Eventually Schmidt caught Harkov’s eye, and the Russian dragged himself reluctantly from his conversation with French and convened the meeting.

  I waited until everyone was seated, and then I produced from my purse two sheets of paper delivered to me that day by Superintendent Stoke’s messenger. I unfolded them and spread them over the table.

  “The list of dignitaries who will be on the grandstand at the memorial, and the schedule for the service.”

  Six heads bent over the table.

  Flerko gave a little squeal. “The lord mayor of London! And General Harmley!”

  Schmidt polished his glasses and peered at the paper. “The Earl of Aylesford. Baron Gowe. The Duke of Connaught. But where is the prime minister’s name?”

  “What?” exclaimed Flerko. “I thought Disraeli would be there.”

  Well, he’d been planning on attending, until Superintendent Stoke had begged him to stay at home that day, which showed, I thought, a shocking lack of faith in French and me.

  “Apparently, he’ll be in Paris that day,” I said. “Meeting a sheik from some dusty little country who’s been flirting with the Russians. The prime minister means to keep him sweet. Or so my sources tell me.”

  “Blast!” Flerko pounded his fist into his palm.

  Bonnaire ran a finger down the list. “Not a bad bag, though. If we assassinate this lot, we’ll decapitate the government.”

  “The service starts at three o’clock on Saturday afternoon,” said Harkov, consulting the schedule.

  “There’s something else,” I said, producing yet another sheet of paper. “Here’s the duty roster for the Yard. They’ll have men in place at the square from six o’clock in the morning on Saturday.”

  Flerko looked anxious. “We could place the bombs before that, but what about arming them?”

  “That won’t be a problem,” said Thick Ed. “The way those alarm clocks work, I can arm them up to twelve hours in advance. I’ll waltz into the square around four in the morning, put the bombs in place and set the clock to go off at a few minutes past three in the afternoon.”

  Schmidt swept his hand over the papers on the desk. “Where did you get this information, India?”

  “I have a friend at one of the dailies. The list of officials and the agenda for the program came from him. As for the duty roster, I obtained that from a young man of recent acquaintance. He’s an inspector with the Yard, and the poor lad is rather taken with me. He enjoys showing me his office, late at night.” I dropped my eyes modestly. “Occasionally, he falls asleep and I let myself out the door, but not before seeing if there are any morsels of information lying about. I visited him last night, thinking that I might pick up something useful.”

  I’d rehearsed this speech many times in the last few hours, but damned if the story didn’t sound a little thin when I reeled it off. I sneaked a glance round the table, to see how well the tale had gone down. Flerko looked slightly embarrassed at the degradation I’d endured to get my hands on the duty roster. As we were not discussing bombs, Thick Ed looked disinterested. Schmidt was studying the paper, while Bonnaire appeared bored, as did French. Harkov gave me a speculative look, his black eyes glittering in the lamplight. I sucked in a breath and waited for the challenge, but none came.

  “Well done,” said Schmidt, and replaced the sheet of paper on the table. “So, how do we proceed?”

  “I’ve drawn a map of the square, showing the location of the grandstand,” said French, conjuring a page from his pocket. “Yesterday I took a stroll there to verify the location of dustbins and the like, and found that the stand is already under construction. I bought a cup of tea for one of the workmen at a nearby stall, and he was happy to share the details about what he and his fellow workers were building.”

  Thick Ed studied French’s drawing, chewing a meaty
thumb. “I’d like to get a bomb right under the grandstand. Maybe two of them. The others I’d place among the crowd. In this area, I think,” he said as he tapped the sketch.

  “Not there,” I objected, leaning over the table. “Why not put the others at the edges of the square? I’d time those to explode slighter later than the bombs under the stand. The crowd will already be panicked and trying to escape. A few explosions along the main streets leading from the square, and we’ll create chaos.”

  I’d scored a goal with that proposal. A thin smile crossed Harkov’s lips. Schmidt nodded slowly. Flerko issued a guttural bark, which I assumed was Russian for “jolly good.” A fleeting look of horror crossed French’s face. I must have a talk with him soon. I feared that he wasn’t entering into the spirit of things. In for a penny, in for a pound, I figured. If you’re going to infiltrate an anarchist cell, then do so with gusto. I’d only suggested murdering innocent bystanders for effect, you understand. I aimed to boost my standing among my fellow conspirators. I did not think for a minute that our bombs would actually explode on Saturday. As French had backed my plan with Dizzy and Superintendent Stoke, he shouldn’t get distracted by my callous proposition that some of Vicky’s subjects should be included in our scheme of mass murder.

  “I’m going to have a look at the square tomorrow,” Thick Ed announced.

  “I’m going with you,” I said. “If I’m going to be involved in a plot against Her Majesty’s government, I want to know all the details. I’m not one to take chances.”

  Harkov nodded gravely.

  Thick Ed, however, did not seem pleased at the prospect of my company. “We can’t all go poking around there. We’ll draw attention to ourselves.”

  I concede that fact. A woman with my face and figure rarely goes unnoticed. Nevertheless, I was going to know every last component of the operation or I’d stay home with a cup of cocoa while the rest of this lot skulked about in the early morning hours before the memorial service. I informed Thick Ed, and the rest of them, of my feelings. Anarchists, like most men, collapse as easily as one of Mrs. Drinkwater’s imperfectly set blancmanges once an independent-minded female informs them of the way things will be. I could see that French wasn’t pleased about my horning my way into Thick Ed’s reconnaissance mission. I’m sure French had intended to invite himself along, and was now precluded from joining the party as Thick Ed clearly believed in the old adage of too many cooks, et cetera.

  I left the meeting feeling rather pleased with myself. French did not accompany me to the cabstand, disappearing in the opposite direction and leaving Bonnaire and Flerko to supervise my journey. I’d made arrangements with Thick Ed to meet him at Nelson’s Column the next morning, and we’d all agreed that as Saturday was just around the corner we would meet again tomorrow night to hear the result of the scouting mission and to refine our plan. One of these nights I needed to stay at Lotus House and keep an eye on the sluts, but there’s a lot of work involved in slaying gentry and bringing down the government, exactly how much I hadn’t realized. Clara Swansdown was a reliable girl, as far as whores go, and if I passed along a few extra shillings to her, I felt sure she’d do an adequate job of riding herd on the girls. This might be a temporary solution to my present predicament, but I’d have to make other arrangements for the future if I intended to trot off whenever Her Majesty called.

  THIRTEEN

  The next morning found me sloping around Trafalgar Square with the less than loquacious Thick Ed. I’ll tell you something you may not know about the square: it’s owned by the Queen, and knowing her propensity for frugality (except when it comes to her own dinner plate), I expect the British taxpayer was forking over a fair sum for the rental of the square for this memorial shindig. The authorities had closed the road on the north side of the square, and the grandstand, a small forest of timber beams and joists, was rising there in front of the National Gallery. All the swells and politicos would have a grand view to the south, looking down on the masses who were expected to flock there on Saturday to commemorate those luckless British folk who’d had the misfortune to be living in India when the sepoys rebelled. The masses would have to pack in if they wanted a decent view of Saturday’s proceedings. The fountains to the south had been added to reduce the size of the square and, consequently, the number of people who could congregate therein, British politicians having a morbid fear that any crowd had the potential to become a riotous gang. And quite rightly, I might add. A London mob can turn dangerous at the drop of a hat.

  Thick Ed and I wandered around, closely scrutinizing the dustbins situated around the square and peering up at the statues to see if we could wedge a box containing explosives in between the legs of some admiral or other. We surreptitiously examined the branches of the trees that lined the perimeter of the square and sauntered up the steps to the National Gallery, gazing at the columns and searching for hidden niches. Thick Ed might not be the most engaging of companions, but the fellow was thorough. Long after I’d tired of squinting into nooks and crannies, he was still at it, murmuring to himself as he estimated distance and calculated density and concussive effect. While he was at it, I wandered over to gaze at the grandstand and the gang of workmen engaged in building it. They were an efficient bunch, scuttling about with their sleeves rolled to their elbows. I’d have been knocked flat in ten seconds, as strapping coves darted here and there with boards balanced on their shoulders, but this crew must have done this before, as nobody lost his nut while I watched. The workmen were supervised by a wrinkled, grey-haired gent who looked as though he’d just gotten word that his horse had finished last at Epsom Downs. He stared glumly at the plans in his hand and frowned. The young fellow with him might have been his son, but if so he’d inherited his sunny disposition from the distaff side of the family, for his face was animated and he looked a cheery bloke. I didn’t fancy my chances with Papa, but the youngster looked approachable.

  “I assume you’d like to get under the grandstand today, to have a look at how it’s constructed,” I said to Thick Ed. “How were you planning to do that?”

  He shrugged. “I thought I’d have a word with one of the builder boys and see how much he can tell me. If I can’t find out anything that way, I’ll come back tonight, when everyone has gone home.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” I said. “Let’s see it in the daylight and save ourselves a trip.”

  We loitered for the best part of half an hour, waiting to see if the dour fellow and the young chap would part company. I was betting the old fellow would tire of the dust and noise and toddle off to his club for a preprandial snort. I’d gauged the chap correctly, for eventually he handed the building plans to his junior and, judging from the expression on the younger man’s face, gave him some unnecessary, or at least unwanted, advice. Then the old fellow climbed into a waiting carriage and left my new friend alone to carry on the work. Thick Ed and I ambled over, as innocent as two pet rabbits.

  We must have made an unlikely pair. He appeared to have just finished ploughing the south field, and I was dressed with my usual customary elegance. The young man looked up from his plans as we approached. One eyebrow darted upward, but he recovered himself quickly when he got a closer look at me.

  “What a marvelous sight!” I exclaimed. I swept a hand in the direction of the stand. “Are you the man responsible for this amazing creation?”

  He preened himself a bit at my words. “Yes, I am. I designed the grandstand. I’m an engineer.”

  “How very exciting. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Lady Beckinham, and this is my foreman, Edward.”

  Thick Ed played his part by grunting incomprehensibly and tugging his forelock.

  The young man lifted his hat. “David Dawkins. Very pleased to meet you.”

  “Edward and I are up from Dorset,” I chattered on. One of the keys to running a successful bluff is never giving the object of it the opportunity to think about the improbability of what you’re saying. It also helps if
you’re a stunner, like me, which is a further distraction for the average man. “My poor father had undertaken a building project at the Grange, where we live, you know, and then he had the misfortune to suffer a fall from his horse and now he’s laid up in bed and I am trying my best to finish out the work for him so that he doesn’t fret himself to death and of course Edward here has been a great help. We’ve come up to London today to look at some materials and we’d read about the memorial service and we thought we’d come down to see the work that’s being done and I must say it is impressive and now I find that a young man, just my own age, is actually in charge of this undertaking. It quite takes my breath away!”

  It had, actually.

  Dawkins blushed. “I’m not quite as young as I appear, you know. And naturally I’ve the proper degree and training. And I’m not really in charge. My father is.”

  “Oh, how wonderful! It’s lovely, isn’t it, to work with your father on such an important project.”

  Dawkins appeared to doubt the truth of this statement, but he nodded politely.

  “I say, do you think Edward and I could have a look at this structure? A close look, I mean. Some of the truss work looks to be just the sort of thing we’re thinking of doing at the Grange. Perhaps when the workmen take a break? Would we be imposing on your good nature if we requested a brief tour?”

  “You’re building something similar to the grandstand?” Dawkins asked dubiously.

  “Oh, yes.” I said. “And we’d very much like to look at your joinery, if you don’t mind.”

  “What precisely are you constructing?”

  “A dovecote,” Thick Ed said solemnly. I choked back a laugh. I’d have pegged Thick Ed to have a sense of humour akin to that of the average ox.

  “Dovecote?” Dawkins echoed faintly. “How extraordinary. I’d no idea—”

  “A very large dovecote,” said Thick Ed.