Thick Ed’s huge hands proved surprisingly dexterous, moving with astonishing ease and grace. He removed the back plate of the clock. Moving cautiously, he packed one side of the wooden box with packets of dynamite, stacking them two deep to the top of the box. Between the packets he gently inserted one of the detonators. Next he loaded the cartridge into the revolver and wired the weapon to the clock so that the minute hand would make a final turn when the alarm ran off, depressing the trigger and firing the gun directly into the detonator. The hammer would have to be cocked, but once it had been, the slightest pressure against the trigger would be all that was necessary to explode the device.
It was damned fiddly work, and I wouldn’t have had the patience to make one bomb, let alone five, but Thick Ed was a man devoted to his work. French and I sat patiently while the fellow fussed with his creations, adjusting a wire here and a string there, and using blocks of wood to hold each clock and pistol steady.
“You’ll put these in place early Saturday morning?” asked French as Thick Ed put the finishing touches on the last device.
“I’ll be done and gone by the time the police show up at six. Won’t take any time to plant ’em, but it will take a few minutes to arm ’em.”
“You’ll need a lookout,” I said. “Why don’t we meet you there and keep watch? French could even hide a couple of the bombs for you.”
“Of course,” French said smoothly, though I could feel the rapier point of his gaze.
Thick Ed peered at us, eyes squinted nearly closed. “Damned if you two aren’t more helpful than the rest of this lot put together.”
My heart caught in my throat, but I forced a gay laugh. “You mean comrade Harkov hasn’t volunteered to carry any dynamite about?”
Thick Ed grinned. “Not him. He’s partial to committees and such.” We all smiled then, enjoying the bomb maker’s little joke, and the moment passed, but it was a useful reminder that French and I were constantly under suspicion, and even our proposals to engage more fully in the anarchists’ work was cause for paranoia among our erstwhile allies.
French and I bade good night to Thick Ed, arranging a rendezvous in the early hours of Saturday morning in Trafalgar Square, and then set a sharpish pace toward Lotus House. Gentleman that he is, French wouldn’t allow me to travel without an escort for fear that Mother Edding’s hired thugs might take another crack at me. Normally, this lack of confidence in my ability to take care of myself would infuriate me, but I had my own reasons for accepting French’s overweening solicitude tonight. But before I could raise the subject I wanted to discuss, French spoke.
“Are you confident those devices can be disarmed by an amateur?” he asked in a low voice.
“It seems simple enough.”
“Damned dangerous, though. I hope we haven’t misjudged the matter. We’re endangering a lot of innocent people.”
“It’s too late to worry about that. We’re committed to the plan. Stop fretting. It will all come right, you’ll see.” I sounded more confident than I was, but I jolly well wasn’t going to let French know I had any doubts. Our strategy for foiling the anarchist plot had been, after all, my idea. Best not to exhibit any doubt, for nothing undermines confidence like a general wondering aloud if an escalade was the right tactic just as the ladders go up against the wall.
I, however, would have made an excellent general, for I had considered my strategy for approaching French about his family, and if I do say so myself, it was bally brilliant.
“I say, French. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you,” I said, making sure to sound rather muted and diffident. Nothing arouses French’s gentlemanly instincts like a female in need of assistance. “I have every confidence that we’ll succeed in disrupting the anarchists’ plan, but this is a dangerous game we’re playing, and I’ve given a bit of thought to the future. If something should happen to me—”
French swung me round and gripped my shoulders. “Nothing will happen to you, India. I swear it.” I could feel his fevered breath on my cheek.
Well, this was deuced gratifying. Since his unexpected appearance at the anarchist meeting, the bloke had been treating me with studied indifference. From the intensity of his voice, he’d obviously been shamming.
“Well, I . . . I certainly don’t think things will go wrong, but . . . well, one never knows . . .” I felt curiously light-headed and at a loss for words, a condition with which I was confoundedly unfamiliar.
“I shan’t allow . . . I mean to say, I couldn’t bear . . . Oh, curse it.” His arms slid around my waist, and I was crushed to his chest. The Bulldog in my pocket clanked loudly as it encountered his Boxer revolver. Things had taken an unforeseen turn. I’d merely meant to ferret out the truth about his family. My tactical skills and customary composure had deserted me. What to do now?
I kissed him.
I wasn’t sure what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t that French would recoil from me like a dog whose nose has been bitten by a snake. I’ve kissed a fair number of gentlemen in my time, and I’m not boasting when I say that most have been more than eager to return the favor.
“Oh, India,” said French. “Damnation.”
I wrenched myself from his grasp. “I apologize. I obviously misinterpreted the situation,” I said coldly. In truth, I was humiliated. Well, who wouldn’t be? My first instinct was to pull the Bulldog from my skirt and shoot myself in the head for being such a bloody fool. On second thought, perhaps I’d shoot the poncy bastard. Serve him right for leading me on.
“No, no. You haven’t. Misinterpreted the situation, I mean. Oh, hell.” French was walking up and down the pavement in front of me, flapping his hands. I’d never seen him this agitated, and I stared, fascinated. He stopped pacing abruptly and stalked toward me. I held up a hand to fend him off.
He drew himself up. It was dark in the street, with only the faintest of light drizzling from the windows of the buildings on either side, but in the pale gleam I saw the anguish on his face.
“I hardly know what to say, India. You must know my regard for you. Surely you know that I would never let any harm come to you.”
“You might say the same thing of your aged spaniel,” I replied. No one meddles with my feelings.
“I do not have a spaniel,” he said in a brittle voice. “Why the devil are you maundering on about dogs at a moment like this?”
“I never maunder,” I snapped. “Is this an appropriate moment to discuss a blond wench in Mayfair?”
It was as if I’d slapped him. His head snapped back, and he took a step to steady himself. I had rocked him, but as I was to learn, not in the way I’d planned.
“Good God, India! Have you been following me?” The anguish had melted into a scowl.
“How else would I know about your little woman?”
“You’ve no right—”
“Don’t take that tone with me. I’ve as much right to traipse around after you as you have to put Vincent on my trail.”
“I was worried about you. That Edding woman—”
“Hang Mother Edding,” I said. “I can look after myself.”
We stared defiantly at one another for a long moment. Then he sighed deeply and removed his hat, turning the brim in his hand and looking up at the sky.
“I haven’t the faintest idea how I got myself into this predicament,” he said.
“I expect it’s because Dizzy—”
“Not the blasted anarchists and their blasted bombs,” he said, nearly shouting. My hand shot out and covered his mouth. He reached up and cupped my hand with his, inclining his head. I felt his lips purse beneath my palm, and he planted a gentle kiss there. “You,” he said. “India Black.”
It was working up to a romantic moment when a rat squealed and shot out of the nearest alley. I heard a muffled oath, and French wheeled like a racing hound and sprinted toward the alley, drawing his Webley revolver as he ran. I ran too, my hand tangled in my skirt, searching for the Bulldog. I confess
to feeling rather woozy, and it took me several seconds before I succeeded in pulling my weapon from the voluminous material. One of these days I’m adopting trousers, and to hell with gentle society. French had disappeared into the alley, and I skidded to a halt at the entrance. It was as dark as pitch down there, and I didn’t want to risk shooting French. On the other hand, after the evening’s events I didn’t want anyone else to shoot French. I compromised by whispering his name, softly at first and then louder, until I heard him approaching, swearing savagely.
“He’s gone,” he announced, emerging from the alley.
“You’re certain that someone was there?”
“I heard his footsteps. I chased him for a bit, but I lost him in that godforsaken maze back there.” He waved a hand dispiritedly toward the environs beyond the alley. “I wonder if he heard our conversation.”
“Would it matter if he did? We wouldn’t be the first co-conspirators to . . .” My voice trailed off.
“Not that,” said French. “The part about Dizzy.”
“Oh, Lord,” I said, crestfallen. “I can’t believe I put us at risk by saying that.”
“We’ll find out at the next meeting. Be sure your Bulldog is loaded. We may have to fight our way out of the room.”
“Perhaps it was just a footpad or fingersmith. This is Seven Dials, after all, and they’re a penny a dozen around here.”
“I hope you’re right,” he said, but he looked grim and he hustled me along.
We walked several blocks without speaking, with French stopping now and then to verify that no one shadowed us. When we reached the brighter lights of Piccadilly, he relaxed his vigilance long enough to hail a cab.
“Where are we going?” I asked, as the hansom pulled to the curb.
“You’re going to Lotus House.”
“But we—”
He shoved me into the cab and closed the door. “Have much to discuss. I know. And we will. When all this is over.” He reached through the window and seized my hand. “Until Saturday,” he said, and then he was gone.
FIFTEEN
I reckon most women would have been swept off their feet if a chap like French had declared his interest, but I have never swooned and I wasn’t about to start now. For one thing, for a fellow who’d seemed positively love-struck a few moments ago, he’d handed me into the hansom with alacrity and dashed off with scarcely a word. His silence concerning the flaxen-haired maiden in Mayfair had been deafening, and he’d made it clear that I wouldn’t be seeing him until Saturday. None of this seemed like the behavior of the smitten, but then French was a gentleman, a species mostly foreign to me, and perhaps that’s how these coves behaved. I felt a moment of compassion for the bloke (at least I believe that’s what it was—I’m so thrifty with that emotion that I may not have accurately identified it), for if he truly had a regard for me, he was no doubt torturing himself about the proper etiquette for dealing with a whore as a lover. I could have assured him on that count, as I had no intention of parading about on his arm and advertising my status as a kept woman, nor did I entertain ridiculous notions of being carted off home to meet Mama. I liked my independence, and I didn’t plan to give it up for any man, even a handsome chap with wild black hair and a steely gaze. I was sure French would come around to my way of thinking, after some proper training, of course. In the meantime, he was probably right to shoot off like a startled hare, removing himself from temptation. I can’t blame him, really, for I doubt he could resist my charms if he were anywhere in the vicinity. We had a job before us, and it was a damned dicey one at that. We’d need our wits about us if we were to locate Grigori and destroy the anarchist cell. This was no time for dalliances.
* * *
The whores at Lotus House had just turned in for the evening when I slipped out to meet French and Thick Ed at Trafalgar Square. It was three thirty on Saturday morning and deuced chilly, with a thick fog hovering over the city and a damp wind blowing off the river. The evening had been hectic. Major Rawlins and his men had descended again on the brothel, this time bringing a group of newly commissioned lieutenants who were ready to quaff champagne and prove their manhood to their brother officers. It made for a raucous night, and I spent a good deal of time pairing the lads and the girls and jollying along those who had to wait their turn. I’m damned good at that sort of thing, but it is exhausting work, especially as I haven’t the slightest interest in how Stinky Simons managed to capture the enemy’s colours after his braces had been slashed with a tulwar. But I soldiered on and did my duty and collected a fair bit of coin for it. By the time I’d counted the takings and seen the last of the chaps out the door, it was time to leave. I gulped a glass of whisky and wolfed down some bread and cheese, then flung a coat about my shoulders and stashed the Bulldog in the pocket. I must speak to French about a holster for the damned thing, as it’s awkward carrying it around this way.
Vincent was waiting for me on the pavement. “’Ow’s hit, India?”
“A successful evening. The whores are asleep in their beds, and the gold is locked in the safe.”
“’Ow much gold?” Vincent yawned.
“Don’t get any ideas.”
“I wouldn’t thieve from you, India. ’Twouldn’t be right. But I might ’ave a crack at some other ’ouse.”
“Splendid idea. I’d suggest Aunt Maria Taylor. She has a good clientele and charges a handsome fee for her girls.” And she was a vicious competitor of mine. I brightened at the prospect of Vincent burgling her establishment.
Even at this hour the streets of the city hummed with a subdued energy. Carts and drays passed by us on their way to the local markets, loaded with fresh flowers, barrels of oysters and crates of vegetables and fruits. The dense fog muffled the sound of creaking wheels and horses’ hooves. I heard the measured tread of a bobby on patrol, and we quietly crossed the street to avoid him. You can tell a bobby’s footsteps at a hundred steps. Regulations require a standard pace of two and a half miles per hour, and their cadence is as regular as the ticking of a clock.
Vincent peeled off before we reached the square, and I walked the last few blocks on my own. French and Thick Ed were waiting for me in the doorway of a marine insurance company.
“There are a lot of people about,” I whispered.
“Step lightly,” said Thick Ed. “We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”
Have I mentioned that men are great ones for stating the obvious, especially to the fair sex?
I peered behind Thick Ed’s squat frame. “Where are the boxes?”
“I loaded ’em in a wheelbarrow and took ’em to the square this afternoon after the workmen left. They’re under the grandstand.”
“This afternoon! Wasn’t that risky?” I asked. “What if someone had seen you?”
Thick Ed shrugged. “Someone did. There’s a guard on the site, but I just told him I was makin’ a delivery of nails and such, for some last-minute work we had to do the day of the memorial. Sometimes the best place to hide somethin’ is in plain sight.”
“We should go,” said French. “It’ll be dawn soon.”
Thick Ed whispered our assignments. I took up a position at the southeast corner of the square, ducking into a nearby doorway that afforded a view of the area where the public would gather that afternoon. French vanished into the misty dark to station himself at the northwest corner of the square, hard by the National Gallery and staring directly at the rear of the grandstand. Should the local plod, or anyone else for that matter, take an interest in Thick Ed’s activities, we were to create a distraction and draw off the concerned party. French had decided on the role of an inebriated nob who couldn’t find his club despite numerous trips along Pall Mall, and I would be, well, what I was actually, a woman of dubious virtue. I’d rely on charm and if that failed, on a bit of violence. The Bulldog made a highly effective cosh, if handled correctly.
I believe I’ve mentioned that patience is not a virtue that I value nor, for that matter
, possess. I’m much happier running round after spies or traitors, waving my Bulldog or brandishing a rapier, than I am waiting for something to happen. Five minutes after assuming my position I was bored, and after half an hour, I was nodding off. There wasn’t much action to speak of in the square, save for a couple of drunks who staggered past Nelson’s Column, giggling like schoolgirls, and a steady stream of deliverymen intent on getting their wares to market. It was impossible to see Thick Ed through the gloom, but I trusted that Vincent was as close to the bomb maker as his own shadow.
I yelped when a hand touched my arm.
“Quiet,” Thick Ed hissed.
French materialized at his elbow.
“Any difficulties?” I asked.
“No. No one turned up. All the devices are armed and hidden. Unless someone stumbles across them, they’ll explode as planned.”
On that happy note we separated. Thick Ed walked along the Strand, and French and I waited until he was out of sight before we crossed the square and angled to the northwest, toward Lotus House. Dawn was breaking, though it was a poor sort of dawn, with dirty white clouds scudding across a pearl grey sky and a fine mist slowly soaking through my woolen coat.
I shivered. “Damn this weather.”
“Are you cold?” French reached for me instinctively, but I skipped out of his reach.
“Vincent,” I murmured.
French put his hands in his pockets and contrived to look innocent. For the prime minister’s agent, he can be damned unconvincing sometimes.
He cleared his throat and said, “The weather may work in our favor. If it’s raining, the crowd will be smaller.”
I needed only to mention Vincent and the filthy scamp appeared, inserting himself between us and grinning cheerfully. I wondered what he had seen.
“This ’ere job is beneath me,” he announced. “Hit’s no challenge.”
“There are several pounds of dynamite in those bombs,” I said warningly. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Pish,” scoffed Vincent.
India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A MADAM OF ESPIONAGE MYSTERY) Page 19