Dizzy took a fortifying swallow of brandy. “Still, it is remarkable. Why, if I had read of this situation in a piece of fiction, I should have found it unconvincing. Even a novelist would have a difficult time conjuring up such a convoluted plot.”
“Dashed odd,” agreed the superintendent.
“Beggars belief,” said Dizzy.
I remained silent, but I resolved then and there to commit the story to paper someday. I’d have to wait a bit, for the British public isn’t quite ready to grapple with the nefarious doings of these combat cells and the machinations of the men who seek to stop them. They’re a simple folk, the British, and don’t take kindly to stories of double-crossing and treason, even if done in the name of all that’s good and true in the world. They prefer their heroes and heroines to be virtuous types who confront evil directly, with a firm resolve and the cross of St. George under one arm. They’re likely to sniff disapprovingly at brothel owners skulking about Seven Dials and playing blind man’s bluff with a bunch of nasty foreigners. I’d record the affair in my notebooks and keep it hidden until the appropriate time came along.
Such was my intention. Then one day in 1908, when I was advanced in years and had enjoyed some success with earlier tales of my adventures, I was shocked to discover a book in my local bookseller’s by a portly, wild-haired fellow with a moustache that would have done credit to a Corsican bandit. Chesterton was the chap’s name. The title was clever: The Man Who Was Thursday. Intrigued, I picked it up and began to page through it, with growing outrage. The man had stolen my story! Only in his version, everyone in the anarchist cell was a government agent. That bloody Stoke must have spouted off the details about the Dark Legion, probably while he was in his cups at his club and reveling in past successes. The destruction of the anarchist cell had been kept from the newspapers at the time so as not to frighten the public, and because Dizzy (and who can blame him, really) didn’t want anyone to know that he’d participated in his own kidnapping. Somehow this chap Chesterton had got hold of the story and thought it would make a dandy thriller. I bought the book and took it home, and I have to tell you, I thought it a second-rate effort and still do. But I digress.
It was dawn when the party broke up, but French and I were still too excited to sleep. We walked back to Lotus House and popped the cork from a bottle of champagne. French assumed his favorite position, sprawled in a chair with his boots propped on the fireplace fender. He leered at me over his glass.
“I don’t think we’ve quite finished celebrating.”
“Oh? What did you have in mind?” Was that a twinkle in the man’s eye?
“We haven’t had a bout in some time. Are you game?”
“Do you mean fencing, or are you speaking euphemistically?”
It was a twinkle in his eye. There might be hope for French after all.
Mrs. Drinkwater knocked on the door. “Ooh. Sorry, dears,” she said, taking in the champagne bottle and French’s flushed countenance. “Letter for you, miss.”
The envelope was dusty with snuff.
Dear Miss Black,
If you want to know about your mother, ask French.
Sincerely yours,
Lady Margaret Aberkill
Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine
Ask French? Oh, I certainly would.
“You wanted a bout?” I enquired coldly. “Let me get my rapier.”
* * *
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Berkley Prime Crime titles by Carol K. Carr
INDIA BLACK
INDIA BLACK AND THE WIDOW OF WINDSOR
INDIA BLACK AND THE SHADOWS OF ANARCHY
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A MADAM OF ESPIONAGE MYSTERY) Page 29