India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A Madam of Espionage Mystery) (22 page)

As the chap hauled me up by the wrist, I stiffened the fingers of my other hand and jabbed him viciously in the eye. Mother Edding’s messenger let out a muted howl, but he hung on to my wrist. He pulled back his arm and prepared to deliver a roundhouse that would have knocked me in to next week. Silly man. As long as he persisted in hanging on to me with one hand and trying to strike me with the other, I had free run of his defenseless appendages. I balled my hand into a fist, crouched to avoid his own swinging fist and caught him with an uppercut in the tallywags. I’m a great fan of rattling a chap’s bollocks when he gets feisty. You don’t have to be an Amazon to lay a bloke out flat, just be sure you catch him square. He won’t have much appetite for shenanigans after that.

Some fellows are more resilient than others, however, and my assailant proved to be made of sterner stuff than most. True, he did fall over as if he’d been poleaxed, but as I brushed past to fetch the Bulldog, he managed to kick out a leg and sweep my feet from under me. I crashed to the floor, and he grabbed a handful of my hair, pulling hard. He was wicked strong, and I yelped. My hair felt as if it was being torn from the roots, and my scalp burned. Now the bugger had done it. I’ve beautiful black hair, you see, soft and thick as sable, and if the bastard had pulled a single strand of my crowning glory from my head, he’d bloody well pay for it. Not to mention that hair pulling is a woman’s trick and any thug who resorted to it deserved the punishment that I was about to mete out.

The blow to his testicles had weakened him, but he staggered to his feet, dragging me upright with him. Instead of trying to wrench myself from his grasp, I took a half step to the right and drove my fist into his unprotected ribs. It wasn’t a hard punch, but it was strong enough to make him flinch and curse, and loosen his grip on my locks. Then I lifted a foot and kicked him hard in the kneecap. He uttered a feeble cry and collapsed, but the bugger still wouldn’t let go of my hair, dragging me down with him. Enough was enough. I used my knee to pound him sharply in the ribs, and finally the ruffian called it a night. He lay on his side with his legs drawn up, moaning piteously. I fetched the Bulldog and drove the butt of the revolver down onto my attacker’s skull. The moaning ceased, and it was a damned good thing it did, for the fellow was beginning to get on my nerves by this time and I had been tempted just to dispatch all five rounds from my gun into his head.

Mrs. Drinkwater opened the door, yawning belligerently. “When you wants your tea, all you have to do is ask. No need to throw a barney.”

* * *

When my visitor regained consciousness, I served him tea and buttered toast and attempted to have a civil chat with him regarding his employer. You’d think that after these courtesies he’d have been forthcoming about her identity, but the fellow proved to be either excessively loyal or exceedingly stupid, claiming he had picked up the job at a pub in Seven Dials from a stranger and knew nothing more than that the bounty on my head was five guineas. That news only increased my anger. For a woman like me, five guineas was an insultingly paltry sum, although to a man from the rookery of Seven Dials it must have seemed like a fortune. I dismissed the fellow from my presence with a warning that if I saw him again, I’d part his hair with a bullet.

It was time to put an end to Mother Edding’s clumsy attempts to introduce me to the grim reaper. Frankly, I didn’t understand the old trout. In our business it’s only natural to lose a girl now and then. Of course, if your bint flounces down the road and joins a competitor’s nunnery, you’ll demand some recompense from the other abbess and if she isn’t forthcoming with the ready, you’ll do your best to steal her customers and besmirch her name. Just like any other business, really. What you don’t do is hire some dirty thugs to abduct the madam who stole your girl and toss her in the Thames like a dead cat. That’s beyond the pale. Consequently, I thought it best to reacquaint Mother Edding with the unwritten code of conduct for our profession.

I didn’t bother to knock when I reached the house on Endell Street. I gave the front door a prodigious shove that sent it flying into the wall, and the resulting crash made the whole building tremble.

Two wretched creatures gaped at me from the shabby parlor. Their dresses, poor maids, were little more than rags. One was barefoot. Neither had seen a bar of soap in donkey’s years. Evidently, Mother Edding’s customers were not particular, but then the customers themselves were probably not out of the top drawer.

“Find Mother Edding and tell her India Black wants to see her. Now!” I barked.

My voice brooked no disobedience. The girls scampered from the room, looking relieved at having escaped from the well-dressed lunatic who had appeared in the parlor at eight o’clock in the morning, before decent people were up and about.

I heard the gabble of voices overhead and then the ponderous tread of Mother Edding on the stairs.

Her stumpy form appeared in the doorway. “Wot the ’ell do you want?” she rumbled in that basso profundo voice of hers. God, she was a frightening sight: a prizefighter’s jaw thrust forward pugnaciously, quivering red jowls, and the mean little eyes of an angry shoat.

“I’m here to settle our differences, once and for all,” I said. “I’m getting bloody tired of brawling with your hired ruffians.”

“Wot the ’ell are you gabblin’ about?”

The venerable matriarch must be going deaf. I raised my voice. “I said, I’m through sparring with those chaps you’re sending round. If one more of your boys tries to bash me over the head or dump me in the river, I’ll send him back to you in a coffin. Then I’ll be by to put you in one, too. Is that clear?”

The madam’s face was screwed into a puzzled frown. “Don’t know wot you’re on about. I ain’t sent anyone to do you ’arm.”

“You threatened me.”

Mother Edding snorted. “’Course I did. Wot’d you expect me to do? Let you walk off wif Martine wifout liftin’ a finger to stop you? I had me reputation to fink about. But I never made good on the threat. It was all for show, so’s you’d fink twice about comin’ ’ere when you need a new girl.”

I wouldn’t have even thought once about raiding Mother Edding’s establishment, but for Superintendent Stoke’s directive to do so. It wouldn’t do to disparage the abbess’s establishment, however, not when she was standing between me and the door.

“So wot’s all this about me tryin’ to ’ave you killed? And mind you,” she added, “if I wanted you dead, you would be. I’d ’ave done it meself. Do I look like I got the money to pay someone to ’ammer you?”

A sensible question, that. I studied the old abbess, who looked truly befuddled by my accusation.

“You’re not trying to murder me?”

Mother Edding scowled. “Over Martine? Why, girls like her are thick as fleas in Seven Dials. I ’ad a new one in ’ere ’fore Martine’s bed got cold.” She gave me a shrewd look. “So someone’s after you, eh? You been stealin’ girls from other ’ouses?”

I was beginning to feel that the botched attempts on my life might have nothing at all to do with Mother Edding. It was not a pleasant thought. Had someone in the anarchist cell targeted me? Had I done something to tip my hand? And if I had earned the mistrust of the group’s members, why not confront me directly rather than lumbering around in the dark, making clumsy efforts to do me in?

As you can see, I had a fair bit of thinking to do, and my efforts were not assisted by the sight of Mother Edding’s wicked grin and triumphant air. I ignored her question and fixed her with a basilisk glare.

“My apologies for accusing you,” I said coldly. “But you would do well to remember that I am not to be trifled with.”

“Coo,” Mother Edding breathed, cocking her head mockingly. “Get ’er! Not to be trifled wif!”

I like to have the last word in most exchanges (who doesn’t?), but it wasn’t worth the effort of formulating a reply to Mother Edding. I had some cogitating to do, and quickly. I brushed past the madam without a word and stalked out the door. I’d reached the street when she called after me. “Don’t go slanderin’ me, India Black, and tellin’ people I backed away from a fight wif you. It won’t do my reputation a bit o’ good. You spread any lies about me gettin’ old and soft, and I
will ’
ave to kill you. You ’ear me?”

EIGHTEEN

I
walked until I found a hansom to hail, and then I rode the rest of the way to Lotus House. I scarcely noticed the journey, not even the hike through the hellish streets of Seven Dials, as I was preoccupied with the disturbing news that Mother Edding was not trying to murder me. That meant that someone else was. There were plenty of candidates in our radical group, but why were they so deuced slow about cutting me down? Had the intention been to frighten me rather than to kill me? Well, it was hard to argue that my dunking in the Thames had been meant as a warning, not with my hands and feet bound and a bag over my head. Under those circumstances, the odds favored death by drowning. Was Ivanov behind the assaults? Of course he could be, as he was a treacherous Russian bastard who hadn’t hesitated to shoot French and wouldn’t scruple at eliminating India Black. But I’d be damned if I could fathom why Ivanov might do such a thing. French had been right: we must get our hands on the devious bugger and find out what he was doing masquerading as an anarchist.

Mrs. Drinkwater had been watching out the window for me, and she flung open the door before I’d finished climbing the steps.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, ma’am, but them gentlemen insisted, ma’am, and they wouldn’t take no for an answer.” The cook’s bosom heaved in agitation. She smelled strongly of rum.

“You reek of rum,” I said.

“Making a pudding,” she mumbled. “Must have spilt some on my apron.”

I sighed. Now the wretched woman would feel compelled to produce one of her inedible concoctions as proof. I’d have to send her to the chemist’s for some bismuth.

“What men?” I asked.

“Strange men,” Mrs. Drinkwater said, clutching her apron and raising it to her mouth. “They look like Fenians.” Everyone looked like an Irish terrorist to Mrs. Drinkwater. She’d once chased a baronet from Lotus House, brandishing a broom and accusing him of advocating Home Rule for Ireland. “They’re in your study. I told them you weren’t at home, but they ignored me and came in anyway. I tried to keep them out, but they weren’t to be denied.”

I patted the cook’s arm. “Everything is fine, Mrs. Drinkwater. I shall see what the gentlemen want.”

I wasn’t unduly concerned. Strange men often turn up at Lotus House. I’m proud to say that my establishment has garnered a favorable reputation and its fame is spreading. These fellows had likely just arrived from the colonies, where they’d heard of the glories of Lotus House from some officers or colonial administrators. The prospect of new customers always lifts my spirits, and I breezed into my study with a spring in my step and my most alluring smile on my lips, only to be greeted by the sight of Harkov and Schmidt sitting stiffly in my Queen Anne chairs.

No good could come of this development, I thought, but there seemed no way to avoid having a natter with the two of them, so I greeted them politely and draped my coat over a chair. The Bulldog was in the pocket, and I wanted it close to hand. My visitors looked severe, if not downright menacing. Harkov’s black eyes glimmered in his saturnine face, and his mouth was stretched in a bitter grimace, as though he’d just discovered a weevil in his porridge. I’d never cared for that face, and I cared less for it now. If the fellow had turned up at Lotus House as a customer and offered to pay ten times the going rate, I’d have turned him away. He looked more like Old Nick than ever, and I hoped my spoon was long enough to sup with the fellow today.

Schmidt’s presence was reassuring, though I couldn’t tell you why. After all, he’d been the one to suggest that our cell harbored a traitor. I just hoped he hadn’t concluded that the traitor was me. But he resembled a kindly grandfather with the sunlight reflecting off his spectacles and his bald pate gleaming, and I found it hard to credit the notion that he was about to judge, condemn and execute yours truly.

I offered them refreshments, but they declined. Harkov glanced at Schmidt, who nodded gravely, granting permission for the Russian to speak.

Harkov cleared his throat. He sat stiffly, with his hands on his knees. “Schmidt and I are here to discuss the issue raised at last night’s meeting, namely the possibility that our cell has been penetrated by a government agent.”

I began to wish that the Bulldog was not close to hand, but actually in my hand. My mouth felt dry. “I’d have to defer to you gentlemen on that subject. You’ve had more experience at that sort of thing. Rooting out spies, I mean. I wouldn’t recognize a spy if I met one. Not that I’ve ever met a spy. That I know of, anyway.” Confound it, I was babbling. I clamped my mouth shut.

Harkov and Schmidt looked at one another. I wished they would stop doing that. It must signify something, but what?

Harkov leaned forward, staring intently at me. “You have impressed us, Miss Black, with your commitment to our cause.”

“Not just your commitment, but your skills as well,” said Schmidt.

When a bloke starts the conversation with a compliment, you can bet you’re not going to like what follows.

“Thank you,” I said cautiously. “But it appears that others in the group may doubt my dedication to the cause. Last night, Bonnaire was pointing out how likely it was that I was an agent provocateur.”

Schmidt’s smile was humourless. “Bonnaire does not speak for the group.”

“He does not,” added Harkov ominously, “speak for Grigori.”

“Are you insinuating that Bonnaire is a government agent?” I asked cautiously, for if they suspected the debonair Frenchman they might also suspect his recruits, whom, I need scarcely mention, included me.

“What do you know of Mr. French?” Harkov asked abruptly.

I was caught off guard. A muscle at the corner of my eye twitched. Had Harkov and Schmidt noticed? “French? Well, nothing really, beyond what he told us the night he joined the group.”

“He has accompanied you from the meeting to the cabstand on one or two occasions. What did you discuss on the walk?”

I assumed an air of serious study. This was not difficult, as my mind was racing. Clearly they were suspicious of the poncy bastard. Tread carefully, India, I thought. “He’s a quiet chap, and we didn’t talk a great deal. We mostly talked about the meeting and what we had discussed there, and our plans for the memorial service.”

“Aha!” Harkov looked significantly at Schmidt. “You see?” Dear God, they
did
suspect French.

“See what?” I did not have to feign perplexity.

Harkov leaned across the table and fixed those serpent’s eyes on mine. “We have reason to believe that French is an agent of the British government.”

My mouth felt as parched as the bloody Sahara. My eyes flickered over to Schmidt. “Why do you think French works for the British government, and if you do think that, why did you let him walk out of the meeting last night?”

Schmidt was filling his pipe, pushing the tobacco into the bowl with intense concentration. “You see why we prize you, India? For a woman, you think quite logically.” I could see that I’d have my work cut out for me in the worker’s Utopia. These anarchists weren’t half as egalitarian as their propaganda would lead you to believe.

“As for your first question,” said Harkov, “the answer is that French has been seen with men who are known to work for Her Majesty’s government.”

If he had, that was a startling lack of judgment on his part and I’d have to have a word with him. In the meantime, I wasn’t sure what tack I should take. Defend the bloke, or scream for his blood? I’d try protecting French first and if that proved dangerous, I’d have to switch to the outraged radical mode. Just for the moment, you understand. I certainly didn’t want French being targeted as a spy, but he was free, roaming about outside, while I was closeted with two anarchists who were not in a convivial mood. I needed to ensure my own safety first.

“French could be gathering information from them. He
is
a member of the establishment. He’s quite likely to use his contacts in government to try to find out information that would be useful to us. Perhaps he’s deflecting attention away from our group.”

“Grigori is satisfied that French is an agent,” said Harkov. “Grigori does not make mistakes.” I could see the truth of that, as Grigori was dead right about French. Now to the second question.

“Then why did you allow French to leave alive?”

“That is quite simple. Grigori has only told me of French’s treachery this morning. I went right to Schmidt, and we came here.”

Damn and blast. Ivanov had put the cat among the pigeons. It was clear that he had waited to tell Harkov until after the meeting. You did not have to have a degree to understand why. If the wily Russian had accused French at the meeting, either French or I might have revealed Ivanov’s identity to the others. But why had Ivanov betrayed French at all? And why were Harkov and Schmidt telling me?

“Why are you telling me this?” I’ve never much cared for flank attacks. You might as well draw your sabre and charge.

“Grigori instructed us to discuss the matter with you. He would like to know your views on the subject.”

Bloody hell. That Slavic brute was a cruel bastard. He was playing with French and me, like a cat toying with a mouse before he kills it. I could just picture Ivanov’s green eyes glowing with sadistic pleasure as he formulated this fiendish plan.

“Are you confident that Grigori is correct about French?”

Harkov reared back in his seat. “Naturally.” He sounded deuced offended that I had dared to doubt Ivanov. This was probably not the best time to tell these two chaps that their beloved leader Grigori had another life as a Russian military agent.

“What do we do now?” I had a sinking feeling that I already knew the answer to this question.

“We must kill French,” said Harkov.

I took no pleasure in learning that I was correct in my assumption.

“When?”

“We shall ask for a volunteer at tonight’s meeting.” Harkov leered at me. “Nothing exhibits loyalty like executing a Judas.”

I had to bite my tongue from asking Harkov if he’d offer to scrag French, or would he be busy at a committee meeting somewhere?

The two anarchists were studying me intently. There was no point in protesting or in trying to deflect suspicion from French. I’d only turn it on myself. In situations like this, a bold approach is required.

“I shall shoot him myself.” I sounded calm, despite the inferno raging in my internal organs. Now don’t go rupturing yourself over what I said. I fully intended to tell French that I’d signed up for the firing squad, but the first order of business was for me to emerge from this encounter without meeting the fate planned for French. My mind had been racing since Harkov and Schmidt had announced their suspicions of French, and I’d come up with an absolutely wizard idea while chatting calmly with Harkov and Schmidt about putting a bullet in French. My talents had clearly been wasted as a madam; I was a natural at this espionage game and I’d have to speak to French and Dizzy about a promotion.

After my visitors left, I sent an urgent message to French and spent the next hour knocking about Lotus House, pacing feverishly up and down the hallways and snapping orders at any slut who wandered into my path. I’d put the first phase of my plan into place before Harkov and Schmidt left the house, and now I sent Mrs. Drinkwater to the butcher and the grocer, to lay in supplies for that evening. The next meeting of the Dark Legion, you see, was to be held at Lotus House.

French returned a message saying he was occupied at the moment but would be with me at one o’clock. Confound it, that was three hours away. I should have to find a way to busy myself until the meeting. So I walked the halls and chivvied the whores, examining complexions and looking for contraband in their rooms (haul: one empty bottle of gin, a pouch of tobacco and three novels of romance among the upper classes). When I’d completed that task, I conducted an inventory of the pantry and the liquor cabinet. There wasn’t a bottle of sherry, brandy or Madeira in the house, though I distinctly remembered paying for several bottles just last week. Damn Mrs. Drinkwater. I was prepared to look the other way if she wanted a nip now and then, but at this rate I’d soon be running Lotus House just to pay her bill at the bottle shop. I resolved to have a word with her after killing French, and went upstairs to have a kip before he turned up at one o’clock.

But I couldn’t settle, and is it any wonder? I had a few things on my mind. On three occasions someone had attempted to kill me, and though I had weathered two of the attacks, being tossed into the Thames would certainly have been my death warrant had not Vincent possessed such surprising aquatic abilities. If Mother Edding wasn’t the culprit, then the villain was still at large and I could expect to be fending off knives and clubs and assorted other weapons for the foreseeable future. It wasn’t a pleasant prospect, and it was doubly unsettling because I was busy masquerading as an anarchist. Not to mention that Ivanov and his intentions needed sorting out, and something needed to be done about French’s proposed demise. Trying to sleep was a waste of time, with all that whirling around in my head. I needed action.

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.