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

by Carol K. Carr

  I left a note for Mrs. Drinkwater, informing her that I would be out until one, that Mr. French was expected then, and could she please have a cold luncheon prepared for us? Even Mrs. Drinkwater could slice and butter bread and put a cold joint on the table. I hoped. Then I donned a sober but well-cut dress and my finest bonnet. I had to look my best; I was on my way to one of London’s wealthiest districts.

  I secured a hansom and directed the driver to drop me at Eaton Square. It’s a fine park, as parks go, which is to say that if you like grass and pigeons, you’ll like this one. It’s the second most fashionable square in Belgravia, after Belgrave Square, and is chock-full of earls and duchesses with the odd merchant banker and shipping magnate thrown in just to prove the inhabitants aren’t complete snobs. The park is surrounded by a row of terraced houses faced with white stucco, in that classical style that the toffs think demonstrates their good breeding and superior education. The whole affair might look dazzling in the sunshine, but on this rainy morning the stucco was streaked with water and the white walls reflected the dull grey of the clouds overhead, looking dismal and foreboding.

  You might think a girl of my humble beginnings would be impressed by a show of wealth, but I’ve prowled the halls at Balmoral and attended a ball at the Russian embassy. I’ve even met the Queen and dodged the attentions of her randy son Prince Bertie. They’re an odd lot, and if they were your family, you’d be deuced ashamed and pretend to be Italian or Polish or something. Frankly, I’d rather take tea with my good friend Rowena Adderly. She may be a whore, but she’s class. But I digress.

  As you will have surmised from my destination, I’d come to have a natter with Charles Goodwood, Earl of Clantham. I ambled along the perimeter of the square looking at the numbers of the houses and seeing if the local plod was lying in wait for visiting whores, but it was quiet in the square. The light drizzle that glazed the pavement and streaked the stucco had discouraged most visitors to the park, and the social hour was not yet in full swing. Toward lunch, I expected the streets would be thronged with carriages and landaus delivering the wealthy ladies of the neighborhood to their engagements.

  The earl lived in one of the terraced homes near the northeast corner of the square, near to St. Peter’s Church. A memory of playing among its massive columns came unbidden to my mind. Then a flood of memories engulfed me: strolling with my mother in the square on a sunny afternoon, cadging a book from the shelves of an enormous library, drinking a cup of warm milk in an attic bedroom. A final, unbidden recollection of a scrawny old man calling my mother’s name. It was dashed unsettling. For a moment I felt as ill as if I’d eaten one of Mrs. Drinkwater’s meat pies.

  An old battle-axe was bearing down on me, followed by a maid in uniform tugging a decrepit Maltese on a leash. The battle-axe and the Maltese both glared at me through bulbous dark eyes. The old lady looked pointedly at the earl’s house, sniffed loudly, thrust her nose imperiously in the air and studiously ignored me as she passed. If I’d needed confirmation that the earl was still a bit of a bounder, the woman had provided it.

  The Maltese snapped at me as it sauntered past. The maid gave the leash a sharp jerk and me an apologetic smile. The dog yelped.

  The battle-axe wheeled with surprising dexterity. “Rose, did you pull poor Maximus’s leash? He despises being hauled about.” She rested a glove on the mutt’s head and scratched an ear. “Poor Maxie,” she crooned. “She didn’t hurt you, did she? If she did, you shall have permission to bite her.”

  The maid looked resigned. The trio marched away. I summoned my courage and mounted the steps.

  When the butler opened the door to me, I had to stifle a gasp. I’d never seen such an ugly cove. His brow and jaw would have attracted most female apes. A hank of unruly white hair tumbled over his forehead. His skin was pocked and sallow. One eye was missing, the socket puckered closed. The remaining eye was as cold as a shark’s.

  “Yes?”

  “I’d like to speak to His Lordship, please. I am India Black.”

  The single eye gave me a swift appraisal. “Did His Lordship send for you?”

  I’m not one to waste a good opening, even if it does involve telling a lie. “Yes, he did.”

  “Ah.” The cove didn’t move. “Are you from Mrs. Snapely’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  The butler shuffled to one side and allowed me entrance. He shut the door behind me and then motioned for me to follow him. “Wait in here,” he said, and ushered me into a parlor that had once been grand. The air smelled musty in here, with an overtone of stale cigar smoke and whisky fumes. The velvet curtains at the windows were shabby and coated with dust. A layer of dust covered the marble mantle. The cushions in the chairs had last been plumped in King William’s day (William III, that is). I wandered over to the window and stared out at the rain, now beating down on the grass of the square. Lights had appeared in the house windows. Like many London mornings, this one was as bright as twilight in more temperate climes. I hoped the battle-axe had been caught in the deluge.

  “India Black. The name is familiar.” The voice was high-pitched, imperious and faintly mocking.

  I took a deep breath and turned to face my father. Or more accurately, the man who might be my father.

  I took one look and knew immediately that he was not. There was no way a gorgeous apple like myself had fallen from this blighted shrub. The Earl of Clantham was an unprepossessing twit, struggling to top out at five feet, with a hooked nose, a crabbed expression and the crazed eyes of a fighting cock. I exhaled a sigh of relief that whoever the man was, he certainly wasn’t any relation of mine.

  “Come away from that window,” he said. “I can’t see you against the light.”

  I walked forward until I was a few feet from him. He gave me a head-to-toe survey that was anything but fatherly. I might have been a slightly superior chop, for he gave me an approving, and avaricious, smile as I drew closer.

  “Well, well. Mrs. Snapely has done herself proud.”

  Time to get on the front foot. “Mrs. Snapely didn’t send me.”

  His forehead wrinkled. “Not from Mrs. Snapely? I confess I am confused. I hardly do business with anyone else.” Comprehension dawned and he snapped his fingers. “Of course. Dear old Featherstone. I believe he mentioned you at the club the other day.” He chuckled. “I must say, his description of your charms was entirely inadequate. What did you say your name was, m’dear?”

  “India Black.”

  Again his forehead wrinkled. “That name. Have we met?”

  “Many years ago, I believe.”

  “Surely I would remember the occasion.” My God, the little ferret was simpering. “Although I must say, you look dashed familiar.”

  “I was a child,” I said coldly.

  He recoiled slightly, and the smirk died on his lips. “A child? Then I daresay we have not met. I do not trifle with children.” The last was said stiffly, with an air of self-satisfaction.

  “I believe you trifled with my mother. Her name was Isobel Black.”

  A fond and foolish smile cracked the earl’s face. “Isobel. It’s been years since I’ve heard that name. You say you are her daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I do believe I remember a little girl.”

  “That was me.”

  “Ah. I see. I didn’t recognize you. You spent most of your time upstairs or stealing books from my library. You were a wee sprat with a vicious temper, as I recall.” He gave me a frankly appreciative look. “You’ve grown into a fine woman.”

  “Yes, I have. But I didn’t come here to listen to compliments.”

  “Why are you here?” he asked. The demented eyes were suddenly cunning, and suspicious. “Is it money? Do you want money? I’ll tell you now—”

  “I didn’t come for money. I’ve plenty of my own, thank you.”

  “What then?”

  “I want to know more about my mother. What she was lik
e. Where she came from. How long we stayed here and why we left.”

  “I see. A genealogical quest.”

  “Yes.”

  He put his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “Hmph. Well. I don’t know if I can be of much assistance.”

  “I’d be grateful for anything you can tell me.”

  “And you are not expecting cash remuneration?”

  “I am not.”

  He sighed. “Oh, very well.” He crossed to the door, opened it and bellowed, “Clump, come here.”

  The grotesque butler appeared.

  “Bring tea for us,” snapped the earl.

  Clump regarded his master balefully through his single eye, nodded briefly and shuffled away toward the rear of the house, feet scraping audibly over the marble floor.

  The earl indicated that I should sit and I did so. He remained on his feet, choosing to stand by the mantelpiece. I suppose it gave him some confidence to be able to look down at me, for I had towered over the poor sod.

  We waited silently until Clump returned with a tea tray. It was deuced poor fare for an earl. The tea leaves had been used before, the cake was crumbling from age and the bread was green with mildew at the edges. Perhaps I should introduce Clump to Mrs. Drinkwater. They could exchange ideas about how to poison their employers. I accepted a cup of tea and waited while the earl cut a large portion of the cake and tucked in. I suppose cutting corners at the tea table enabled him to spend more money for whores. Normally, I’d applaud such careful planning, but I felt a twinge of horror at the idea of the earl as a faithful customer.

  The earl slurped his tea. “Go on, m’dear. Ask your questions.”

  “How did my mother come to live here?”

  “I asked her, of course. She was a handsome filly, full of life and utterly beautiful. You favor her greatly.” His leer made me wince.

  “How did you meet her?”

  He leaned his head back on the cushions and stared at the ceiling. “Well, now. That’s difficult to remember. She might have come from Mrs. Armfield’s, or Mother Farrell’s. I had arrangements with both of them at the time. It’s possible she was recommended to me by one of my friends. You know how these things work, m’dear, unless I’m very much mistaken.”

  “You are not mistaken, and I do know how things work.” That’s fact, but it still pained me to speak of my mother as though she were a cough remedy, the efficacy of which was debated by acquaintances.

  “Can you remember when she came here?”

  “The mind isn’t what it used to be, but let me think.” He pulled his lip and rumpled his hair with the effort. “I remember it was summer. It was very warm that year, and the roses in the square were luscious. Just like your mother. It might have been ’52. Or perhaps ’53. I don’t know how old you were then. I know nothing of children.” He glared at me resentfully. “I wasn’t keen. No, I wasn’t keen at all on having a little nipper about the place, but your mother was damned persuasive. I told her to farm you out to one of those women who care for bastard children, but she wouldn’t have it. Told me that if I wanted her to stay, you were part of the arrangement. So I gave you a room on the servants’ floor and let your mother come up to see you now and then.”

  “I remember the room,” I said through gritted teeth. “It was freezing in the winter, and too hot to sleep in the summer.”

  “Was it?” He didn’t seem disturbed by this piece of news. “Frankly, I thought it was the best place for you, up there with the maids. Thought you’d learn a useful skill if you lived with the servants.” He frowned. “Your mother had other ideas, of course. She taught you to read, which I believed a great waste of time. Naturally, I was shocked that she knew how to read, but she could. Her tastes were catholic, m’dear, as were yours.”

  “How long did we live here?”

  “A good many years. Your mother was a rare beauty, and every man I knew envied me. Pleasant times, they were.”

  I’m sure they had been for the randy old goat.

  “Why did we leave?”

  He gave me a sidelong glance, and I reckoned he was figuring out how much to tell me.

  “Your mother became ill,” he said carefully. He’d weighed that answer a long time. I remembered what Edina Watkins had told me. This bantam cock had tossed my mother out after she sickened and ceased to adorn his scrawny arm. There was no point in aggravating the gent at the moment, as there was still plenty I wanted to know, but I added Charles Goodwood, Earl of Clantham, to the list of rascals who deserved a good cudgeling.

  “Did she ever tell you about her past? Did she mention her home or her family?”

  “She rarely talked about the past. It made her . . . uncomfortable.” The earl looked rather uneasy himself.

  “You will not offend me, no matter what you tell me. As you have discerned, I make my living as my mother did. There is nothing you can say that will shock me.” Brave words, indeed, but an icy chill had crept into my bones and I dreaded hearing what the earl might say next.

  He sipped his tea to buy a few seconds’ grace, studying my face. My gaze never wavered, though that cold, hollow feeling had enveloped me. His cup tinkled as he placed it on the saucer. The earl had resolved to tell me. I could see it in his face. He leaned back against the cushions, steepling his fingers and staring over them at me.

  “As I said, she did not discuss her past as a rule. However, on one or two occasions she did condescend to inform me of the reason she had entered pros . . . er, the profession of . . . er—”

  I threw the fellow a rope. “How she came to be a whore.”

  “Ah. Yes. Quite. Apparently, your mother became attracted to her father’s groom. A fellow named Black. The two of them were resolved to run away together, but before they did so, your grandfather discovered the plan. He dismissed the groom and sent your mother to live with his sister. This Black fellow found out where your mother was staying and traveled there. They resumed their relationship, and your mother soon discovered that she had become pregnant.”

  “With me?”

  “Yes, you were the child. Your mother’s aunt contrived to keep the news from reaching your grandfather, but he learned of her condition somehow and forbade her to return to her home. Your mother said her aunt would have allowed her to stay and have the child, but Black insisted he would care for your mother. They came to London. Sadly, Black caught typhus and died, and your mother was forced to fend for herself.”

  I hadn’t taken my eyes from the earl, but I was finding it dashed difficult to follow what he was saying. I felt as though I had plunged my head underwater, for there was a roaring in my ears like a stream in torrent.

  The earl had abruptly shut his mouth. He was watching me carefully. At length he rose and fetched a decanter of brandy from a table near the window. He splashed some into my cup. I raised it to my mouth, hands trembling, and drank it all in one swift motion. I can’t say it cleared my head, but it did dispel some of the frigidity that gripped my body. The earl extended the decanter, offering to fill my cup again, but I shook my head.

  “Is there more?”

  “Are you certain—”

  “Yes. Tell me everything.”

  “There’s not much left to say. Your mother had been working for a couple of years when we met. She was a beauty and had no shortage of regular customers. Gentlemen,” he hastened to add, as if that made a difference, and in a way, I suppose it did. At least she’d been appreciated and had perhaps escaped the rougher sort of life endured by many fallen women.

  “We exchanged services, your mother and I. I offered her security, a steady income, a handsome property, and I took in her bast—” The earl remembered he was speaking to the bastard child. “That is to say, I took you in with her. The arrangement suited us both.”

  Until she’d lost her bloom, and then he’d turned us out. But it was ever thus. Under the circumstances, it had been damned sporting of the fellow to keep me around at all. He must have been fond of my mother, i
n his way, and up to a point. When she failed to arouse the envy of his friends, he’d found another woman who would. There’s no use getting angry; it’s just the way things are.

  “Did my mother ever tell you where she had lived before she came to London?”

  The earl poured a tot of brandy into his own teacup. “Somewhere in Scotland, I believe she said. Tullimore? Tullicairn?”

  “Tullibardine,” I said flatly.

  The earl cocked his head. “Yes, I think that might be the name of the place.”

  NINETEEN

  I returned to Lotus House just in time to meet French and Vincent for a council of war. Of course I’d fretted about the information the earl had given me. The Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine figured into this somehow, and I was jolly well going to find out how, just as soon as I’d saved French from death at the hands of the anarchists, put Ivanov in a British gaol and closed down the Dark Legion. The old crone was going to deliver the goods about my mother’s past or else. What comprised “else,” I did not yet know, but I’d find something suitably wicked for the marchioness.

  French and Vincent were reclining in the study, having a lively discussion about nitroglycerine and detonators. I’d have to have a word with French. It was too much to expect that Vincent would not make use of this information in some criminal way. After wrapping up the present assignment, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn in the weeks to come that someone had blown the doors off the nearest bank and absconded with all the money.