“Did you check St. Alban’s Street?”
“’Course I did,” said Vincent. “Quiet as a cathedral at evensong.”
“You’ve been to evensong?” I was quite incredulous at the thought of Vincent attending a service.
“One of them charities got ’old of me once. ’Orrible, hit was. Them ole ladies ran me ragged, takin’ me to church and teachin’ me my letters.”
“Meddling cows.” I sympathized, having been the all-too-frequent object of some do-gooder’s grand plan.
“Could the two of you debate the merits of charitable efforts some other time?” French asked in a muffled voice. “I’m cold, this blood has congealed, and it stinks.”
Vincent and I unfolded the Turkey rug, and French sat up gingerly, probing his chest where the wadding from the blank charge had struck him. The front of his shirt was scorched and pocked with powder. The bladder of pig’s blood I’d obtained from a theatrical company and that he’d concealed beneath his shirt had contained a copious amount of blood, indeed much more than I had expected, a fact that may be useful to know, but I doubt it.
French was correct: the pig’s blood was highly odiferous. I sent him to the kitchen to wash. I hoped he’d brought a clean shirt, as I tossed the one he’d been wearing, along with the weskit, onto the fire.
“Worked like a charm,” said Vincent.
“Except that I failed to take into account the effect a pint of blood would have on my Turkey carpet.”
“Can’t you wash it?”
I was not surprised at Vincent’s lack of knowledge about the limits of soap and water.
“I’ll send it out to be laundered, but I’d be very surprised if it comes back clean. Oh, well. I’ll just have to purchase a new one and send the bill to Superintendent Stoke.”
French returned, scrubbing the last traces of blood from his torso with a towel. That would have to go in the fire as well. As this was the first time I had seen French en déshabillé, I took the opportunity to evaluate his masculine attributes. To my satisfaction, he possessed a nice chest with some noticeable muscles, strong arms and a lean, flat stomach. That would do nicely. He caught my frank appraisal and blushed. Fancy, a grown man turning pink like that. Most blokes would stick out their chest and flex their biceps, but not French. Sometimes I despair of ever corrupting the fellow.
He draped his coat over his shoulders and huddled before the fire.
“Do you think they fell for our scheme?” he asked.
Our scheme? As I recall, I’d been the sole author of this particular plan. I may have developed, shall we say, an affection for French, but that didn’t mean he was free to steal my thunder.
“Aye, I fink they did. They couldn’t get out of ’ere fast enough,” said Vincent.
French smote his forehead with his hand and swore softly. “I’m a bloody fool. I should have had Vincent stay on Harkov. He’s bound to report back to Ivanov, and we might have been able to capture the villain.”
“It couldn’t be helped,” I said. “We had to be sure that the group believed I had killed you and that they weren’t suspicious enough to wait around here to see your body carried out the door.”
“The others might have fallen for our ploy, but I think it unlikely that Ivanov will believe that you shot me, India.”
“He probably won’t believe it. But I’ve thought of a way around that problem.”
“Oh?”
“It’s quite simple, really. I shall send a private message to Ivanov informing him that I regret my previous work for the British government, that I was shabbily treated during the whole affair over the War Department memo, and as a consequence I am committed to the anarchist cause and have pledged my undying allegiance to the Dark Legion. When you appeared at our meeting, I suspected immediately that you were working for Dizzy, and I planned to use you to plant disinformation with the government about the anarchists’ plans. Before I could put this scheme into action, Harkov and Schmidt unmasked you. There was nothing to be done at that point but kill you. Which I have done. Thus, my anarchist credentials are impeccable, but his, meaning Ivanov’s, are not. I suggest that he demonstrate his own fidelity to the enterprise by participating in Dizzy’s kidnapping, or I shall be forced to denounce him to the others. That should draw him out.”
French was brooding over the fire, eyebrows knitted in a frown. “Exactly how do you propose to find Ivanov to deliver your message?”
I confessed, with some irritation, that I had not given that aspect of the project much thought.
“Send it to ’Arkov. Tell ’im hit’s for Ivanov’s eyes only.”
“That might work,” said French. “Although Harkov might be angered at not being trusted with the message and suspect that you are positioning yourself to become the next leader of the Dark Legion.”
The thought made me hoot with laughter.
“And even if you are successful in getting a note to Ivanov, do you think he’ll fall for your story? Frankly, I’d find it hard to swallow. If you were disenchanted with the way you’ve been treated, I can see you marching into Dizzy’s office and haranguing the poor man, but I can’t envision you joining forces with a bunch of anarchists. Ivanov has met you; he’ll surely see through the pretense.”
“For God’s sake, French. We can’t get wobbly at the knees just thinking of Ivanov. If you’ve got a better idea for getting that worm out of the woodwork, then by all means, let us hear it. Otherwise, let’s quit flapping about like frightened geese and figure out how we’re going to wind up this assignment. I’m tired of worrying about what Ivanov is thinking or doing or planning. To hell with Ivanov.”
French glared at me. “What if he decides the best thing to do with you is to put a bullet in you. Your note might result in him appearing on your doorstep with a revolver in his pocket.”
“Even better. We shoot the Slav bastard and round up our anarchist friends. I’d be jolly pleased if Ivanov tried to kill me.”
“You’re proposing yourself as bait,” French sputtered. “You can’t do that. I won’t stand for it.”
“You won’t stand for it? Who appointed you as my guardian? I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I have managed to toddle along without you for twenty-seven years, and I venture to say I can make the next several decades without a nursemaid.”
“I am not implying that you need a nursemaid. God knows you’re tough enough to take down Ivanov without my help. If he’d seen the look in your eye when you shot me, he’d head for Moscow tonight.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t pull out my Bulldog and do the job properly. You deserve a bullet in the heart for withholding information from me. Harkov knows more about you than I do. What kind of moniker is Lachlan Nebuchadnezzar whatever? And you’re engaged?”
French reached for my hand, which made his coat fall off his shoulder and exposed one side of that handsome torso. Quite a virile body. Just the right amount of dark, curling hair on his chest, contrasting nicely with the olive skin. I forced myself to look away. I don’t mind saying that it was jolly difficult to do so.
“Clothe yourself, French. It’s deuced hard to concentrate when you’re strutting around half-naked.”
He thrust his arms through the sleeves of the coat. “I am not half-naked.”
“You were.”
“Well, now I am dressed. You were spouting a load of drivel. Please continue.”
I had forgotten that Vincent was present.
“Oi, can you two stop flirtin’ wif each uvver until we get our claws on Ivanov?”
French and I rounded on Vincent. “We’re not flirting,” we said simultaneously.
Vincent shrugged. “Well, I don’t mind wot you call it, s’long as we grab Ivanov and put the rest of them blokes in gaol. And listen, you two don’t need to put on that act for me. You’ve been makin’ calf eyes at each uvver since you met.”
“I have never made calf eyes at anyone,” I said coldly. “Especially not at French.”
<
br /> “Neither have I.” French stood with his arms crossed.
“You could bof do worse,” Vincent announced. “Listen, guv, no duke’s daughter can stand the strain of bein’ married to a secret agent. And India ain’t ’ad no luck wif men, unless you count that gentleman thief. ’E was the best of the bunch, which ain’t sayin’ much. What was ’is name, India?”
The Turkey rug was already soaked with blood, so I didn’t think Vincent’s would be all that noticeable. If I’d had my rapier handy, I’d have run it right through the cheeky little sod. I was sure French shared my views, but when I snuck a glance at him, I noticed a grin hovering on his lips.
“A gentleman thief, eh? Sounds interesting, Vincent. When this is over, we’ll repair to the nearest pub and you can tell me all about the man.”
That didn’t worry me any. Vincent can always be bought. The thought of how much that might cost in this instance, however, did arouse some anxiety.
French and Vincent were grinning like ventriloquists’ dummies. Men are so infantile.
“We’ll discuss this later,” I said, tight-lipped. “Right now we’ve got a Russian agent to snare.”
At the mention of Ivanov French’s smirk disappeared, to be replaced by a scowl. “I know you don’t care to hear this, India, but I disapprove of you trying to lure Ivanov out into the open. It’s bloody dangerous, and I’d hate to think of anything happening to you.”
“How very sweet of you, but I’ve got my Bulldog and you can’t hang around Lotus House. You’ll have to lie low. You can’t be seen gadding about London when you’re supposed to be at the bottom of the Thames. Between the three of us, we should be able to trap that Russian wolf. And this time, please refrain from exhibiting any honourable behavior. If we can’t take him alive, just shoot the fellow.”
* * *
That afternoon I retired to my room for a nap. I was just dozing off when someone knocked softly at the door. I was fully awake in an instant, searching under the pillow for my Bulldog. I found the revolver and tucked it under the bedclothes and then bade my caller enter.
Martine put her head round the door. “I’m sorry to disturb you, mademoiselle. May I come in?”
I usually don’t allow the bints in my bedroom. It’s the only room in the house that’s off-limits and where I can enjoy some well-deserved privacy. I wasn’t best pleased to see Martine, but I needed to keep her sweet until I’d rounded up Ivanov and the others.
“Yes, of course. Is something the matter?”
Martine looked haggard. Her olive complexion was muddy and her eyes dull. She must be ill. I’d have to summon the doctor immediately and send the girl to her room. I just hoped she hadn’t infected any of the other trollops. I had my hands full, and caring for a brothel of sick whores would strain even my capacity for juggling multiple tasks.
Martine came in hesitantly, dragging the door shut behind her.
“What is it, Martine?”
“I have not heard from Julian in several days. I am worried.”
So that was it. The girl wasn’t truly sick, only lovesick.
“You needn’t worry. I saw him just last night, and he is fine. We’re very busy right now, and I expect he just hasn’t had time to be in touch.”
“You saw him last night?”
I do dislike repeating myself. “Yes,” I said curtly. Any sympathy I’d had for the girl had evaporated. I’ll go to great lengths to keep my fillies in racing form, but when a girl lets herself go because she’s fallen for a bloke, my patience (never very pronounced) disappears altogether.
“You see more of Julian than I do. Much more.” Martine took a few paces toward the bed. “I begin to suspect that your interest in him is personal rather than political.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I flung back the covers and swung out of bed. No employee of mine was going to stand over me and accuse me of pinching her boyfriend. It was time to assert my authority, though the diaphanous nightgown I was wearing and my bare feet did not exactly scream “power.”
I was still rising to my feet when Martine slapped me.
“Julian is mine,” she hissed.
“You should inform him of that fact. I don’t believe he’s aware of your ownership.”
Perhaps it would have been wiser not to have provoked Martine, but I will not tolerate being slapped by a woman, especially when that woman works for me. The apathetic creature who had walked through my door minutes ago was gone, replaced by a savage. Martine vibrated with energy. Her eyes were no longer dull but blazed with a manic fury, and the veins in her neck stood out in sharp relief. Bloody hell. I faced a berserker. All that was lacking was a wolf’s pelt slung over her shoulders and a sharp spear.
“Julian loves me,” she spat. “He does not care for you. But you refuse to see that. You must be taught a lesson. Every man I have hired to kill you has failed me. Now I will kill you myself.”
She swung a fist at my face, and I ducked instinctively under her arms, enveloping her in a bear hug. I’d meant to drive her back and force her off her feet, but when I’d dodged her blow, I had lost my momentum. We stood upright and wrestled, panting breathlessly, each of us trying to gain the advantage. I felt her hand twist in my hair and then a searing pain as she yanked my tresses. I shoved my foot between her legs and tried to hook an ankle, but she danced away from my maneuver with my hair still grasped in her hand. That was a mistake on her part, as the separation allowed me to take two steps and shove hard against her. We toppled over, Martine grunting loudly as my weight drove the air from her lungs. Her fingers clawed at my eyes. I got a forearm under her chin and shoved, and her hands moved to dislodge my grip. She pushed away my arm and brought her head up sharply, catching me on the bridge of the nose. Lights flared at the center of my vision and tears sprang to my eyes. We thrashed about like two cod in a basket for what seemed hours, both seeking the advantage and neither of us finding it.
I was wondering how much longer I could parry Martine’s probing fingers and swinging uppercuts when the cavalry arrived. I was yanked upward at astonishing speed, and Martine came with me, still grasping me with deadly intent. My rescuer was French. I am sure he saw the look of astonishment on my face as he thrust an arm between Martine and me. He put a hand in Martine’s face and pushed. He swore as her teeth clamped down on his palm. He cuffed her hard with his other hand, delivering a stiff blow to her temple that sent the girl staggering.
“Are you hurt?” French asked. Martine wobbled into his line of vision, and he gave her a shove that sent her to the floor. She collapsed in a heap, breathing shallowly. At last the bloody girl was down for the count.
“No major wounds, except to my pride. I knew Martine fancied Bonnaire, but I never suspected she was so jealous that she was mentally unstable. She always seemed so . . . so . . . bland.”
“Appearances can be deceiving,” French intoned.
“Yes, they can. For example, I wouldn’t have taken you for a gent who uses clichés. Or, if you do, I’d expect you to spout them in Latin. By the way, French, what the devil are you doing here?”
“Keeping an eye on you, of course. Vincent and I have been camped out in the vicinity in case Ivanov has you in his sights. I just happened to be in the kitchen when I heard the commotion up here.”
“In the kitchen?”
“Drinking tea with Mrs. Drinkwater. And attempting to eat a fairy cake. Hard going, that. I’m thinking of putting in for hazard pay.”
“I thought I made it clear to you and Vincent that I could look after myself.”
“You did. We chose to ignore your statements of independence.”
I glanced at Martine, who was snoring gently. “I suppose I’ll have to forgive you, just this once. But don’t make a habit of ignoring me in the future.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” French nudged Martine with the toe of his boot. “What shall we do with her?”
“I can hardly keep her locked up in the attic. Even Mrs. Drinkwater might b
ecome suspicious. Let’s hand her over to Superintendent Stoke. He can keep her under wraps until we’ve corralled the anarchists.”
I was becoming quite adept at removing bodies from Lotus House. French bound and gagged the dangerous minx while I sent a message to the superintendent informing him of the situation and requesting his assistance.
The whores flocked to the door at the sound of an ambulance drawing up before Lotus House. Two stocky attendants in the uniform of the Royal Free Hospital clattered up the stairs bearing a stretcher and returned in a few moments with a swaddled figure strapped to the litter. They loaded their burden into the ambulance and drove away. I informed the girls that Martine had become deathly ill and I had sent her to the hospital. There was the usual panic (really, it can’t be avoided when working with whores; they’re always finding some pretext for hysteria), and I wasted a good deal of time soothing the girls and assuring them that Martine did not have the plague or typhus or any other contagious diseases. I summoned Mrs. Drinkwater and requested tea, and after endless cups of that vile brew, the chatter finally subsided, the whores’ fear abated, and I returned to my bed. I needed my rest, after all, for tonight I would be kidnapping Great Britain’s prime minister.
TWENTY-ONE
The anarchists, still shaken by French’s death, had developed a new level of respect for me. At our next meeting Harkov was positively deferential, and the others, save for Flerko, treated me with a wary esteem. Flerko had decided that I was a bloody enthusiast, just like him, and greeted me as though we’d served in the wars together. I assured my confederates that French’s body was even now floating in the Thames and that I had not received a visit from the local constable, enquiring about gunshots and such. The anarchists were relieved at the news, and we settled down to sketching in the last details of our plot to kidnap Dizzy.
As usual, I was the tethered goat. Thick Ed had recounted my triumph with Dawkins, the young engineer at the construction site for the memorial service, and the rest of the anarchists had been suitably impressed. Men being the unimaginative creatures that they are, it was immediately proposed and seconded that the only proper job for me during the abduction would be to sashay past the guards and dazzle them with my undeniable attractions. Under other circumstances, I would have been reluctant to attempt to work my magic on Dizzy’s guards. I’d seen them many times, and they were just the sort of chaps you’d expect to be protecting the head of state of the greatest nation in the world: lean, hard and flinty-eyed. They weren’t barrack room soldiers. They were professionals. If a half-naked nautch girl had glided up to them and proposed a rendezvous in the alley, they’d have dropped her with a single shot to the head.
India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A MADAM OF ESPIONAGE MYSTERY) Page 26