India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A Madam of Espionage Mystery) (24 page)

“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, in 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.

“’Allo, India. Where’s the clobber? I’m famished.”

“You’d have to be to eat Mrs. Drinkwater’s cooking,” I muttered. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Drinkwater. Yes, we’ll have lunch in the study.” Damned woman was getting as adept as Vincent at slipping around without any noise.

Lunch was a joint of beef, the cold white fat flaking onto the platter as French sawed gamely. Even for an expert swordsman, he found it rough going. I chose a slice of bread and butter. Much easier on the teeth, and the digestion. Vincent and French made rough sandwiches. Vincent attacked his like a terrier going after a rat. French took a dainty bite.

“Are you ever going to get a decent cook?” he asked, delicately extracting a piece of gristle from his molars.

“Wot’s wrong with ole Drinkwater?” Vincent was working away heroically on his sandwich. “Nuffink wrong wif this. I’ve eaten worse. One time, I et a—”

“Not now, Vincent. We’ve got a crisis on our hands.” I recounted my conversation with Harkov and Schmidt.

“Blimey,” said Vincent. “That bugger Ivanov is somethin,’ ain’t ’e? Puttin’ the ’ounds onto French like that.”

“What the devil is the man doing?” French scowled.

“I should think that was obvious. He’s planning to kill you. Or,” I corrected myself, “planning to have you killed. It amounts to the same thing. We should have snatched him after the meeting.”

“Perhaps,” mused French. “I just wish I knew what Ivanov is thinking.”

“Wot’s it matter, guv? Don’t matter wot ’e’s finkin’. We got to find a way to keep you from gettin’ your throat slit. Or takin’ a bullet. Or gettin’ your ’ead cracked, or—”

“Yes, yes. We all understand the situation,” I said.

“Maybe you should just stay ’ome tonight,” Vincent suggested to French.

“I can’t do that. Harkov and Schmidt will suspect that India has told me of their suspicions. They’ll turn on her if I don’t attend the meeting.”

Vincent mulled this over. If it came down to sacrificing either his hero or me, the odds were not in my favor.

“I wonder why Ivanov is throwing me to the wolves and leaving you out of it?” French asked me.

“You know Ivanov. He’s probably enjoying the dilemma he’s presented to me. Save you, or reveal myself as a British agent. He’s got a nerve, that one. That’s what comes of letting those bloody Russian aristocrats own serfs. They start to relish cruelty.”

“You might be next,” said French, turning an anxious face to me. “Do you have your Bulldog?”

“I’m never without it,” I hastened to assure him.

“You may need it tonight. If Ivanov comes to the meeting, I see no alternative but to kill him and arrest the others.”

I liked the sound of that plan and said so. It may be shocking to contemplate cutting down a man in cold blood, but Ivanov wouldn’t scruple at pulling the trigger. He was a cold one and deserved to be treated the same way he would treat us.

“So wot do we do if Ivanov doesn’t show, and that Harkov bloke tells someone to kill French?” asked Vincent.

I smiled. Smugly, I might add. “I have a plan. Hand over that Remington pocket pistol of yours, French, and listen.”

* * *

An essential part of this plan was to hold tonight’s meeting of the Dark Legion here at Lotus House. It had been dashed easy to convince Harkov and Schmidt that the delights of a warm fire, gaslight and a full bottle of whisky outweighed the charms of a dank, musty cellar that smelled of sewage.

“Men are in and out of here all the time,” I said. “No one will bat an eye.” That was true to a point, though Thick Ed and Flerko might raise a whore’s eyebrow, not being the class of men we usually serviced here. Still, it shouldn’t be difficult for them to slip into the house in the early hours of the morning. The brothel’s inhabitants would be winding down for the evening and Mrs. Drinkwater safely in bed by the time my fellow anarchists would come in through the back door. I instructed Mrs. Drinkwater to make some sandwiches and brew some coffee, for I was meeting tonight with some prospective clients and given the hour, I knew they’d be peckish. Mrs. Drinkwater responded as she always responds: a sniff, a nod and a boozy retreat to the kitchen.

I had many hours to kill before my guests arrived and French bit the dust, so I occupied myself by writing a number of letters to the marchioness, trying to strike just the right tone. I finally settled on the following:

Dear Lady Aberkill,

You bloody woman. You’ve known all along that my mother came from Tullibardine.

Tell me what you know, or I swear you’ll not live to breed another collie.

Sincerely,

India Black

A bit ungrammatical, that, but it gets the point across. Of course I meant that the marchioness would not live to breed her collie bitches to her collie studs, but I felt that a lengthy explanation of the point would detract from the overall effect. The old trout would know what I intended.

In truth, I doubted that my words would roust the marchioness. Likely, she would inhale a quantity of snuff upon reading it, then sneeze uncontrollably and spew the nasty stuff all over the page. Come summer, I’d probably find myself on a train to Tullibardine to beard the lioness in her den, but I didn’t hold out much hope of being successful. The marchioness was a wily vixen and had bested better than India Black in her time. I sent one of the girls to the postbox and spent the remainder of the day resting in preparation for the evening’s festivities.

Being a Wednesday, it was a quiet night at Lotus House. We always have a midweek slump, and tonight was no different. The girls nattered among themselves, the few customers who appeared were hastily assigned to their designated bints, and all went off like clockwork. I spent a restful few hours in my study, loading, unloading and reloading the rimfire Remington pocket pistol in .41 caliber that French had loaned to me. It’s a beautiful little thing, squat and thick but absolutely deadly at close range. Ideally, your target would be sitting across from you at the poker table at one of those Wild West saloons, and you’d pull the trigger and send him to play five-card stud with the Prince of Darkness. It was the perfect weapon for tonight’s activities.

I was nodding by the fire, close on to two o’clock in the morning, when someone rapped lightly at the back door. Harkov was the first to arrive, and he scuttled in like a startled crab, peering suspiciously into the open doors leading into the parlor and my study.

“You’re sure we will be undisturbed? What about the girls?”

“They’re in bed asleep. They won’t come into the study without my permission, and what if they did? They’ve seen men before.”

“I wish we were meeting at the cellar,” he said. “There is too much risk in meeting here. I passed several constables on my journey, and I’m sure they suspected me.”

And quite rightly, I thought. I escorted Harkov into the study and put a glass in his hand. Nothing special, you understand, just garden-variety brandy from the local wine shop. I certainly wasn’t going to waste the good stuff on the likes of Harkov and Flerko.

The others stole in shortly after, arriving separately and every one of them as nervous as a grouse on the Glorious Twelfth. Their trepidation proved short-lived, however, when they saw a fire burning in the grate and the brandy in Harkov’s glass. Who wouldn’t prefer this over a damp, mouldy cellar and broken wooden chairs? French arrived last, bustling in with an air of purpose. I watched him carefully, but I could detect no sign of nervousness in his actions. He greeted the others, poured himself a drink and took a seat calmly. I was the one who was nervous. My palms were damp, and my hands trembled slightly as I sipped my brandy.

“May we smoke, Miss Black?” Harkov asked. I gave my assent and heartily wished I enjoyed tobacco. Its consolation would have been welcome tonight.

French lit a cheroot and puffed away placidly, hand draped casually across his waist. I knew his Boxer revolver was in a holster under his coat, and he could reach it with lightning speed if necessary. I was on edge and kept bustling about, refilling drinks and fetching ashtrays, which shows you just how nervous I was, as normally I wouldn’t stoop to such behavior. Under other circumstances, the gents could fetch and carry for themselves (unless they were prospective customers, of course; I can always rouse myself to deliver a glass of whisky if there’s money in it for me). I watched the hands on the clock move slowly, ticking away the minutes while I listened anxiously for a knock at the door. If Ivanov visited us tonight, it would be the last call he paid in his life, and though I cared not whether the wily devil lived or died, it was difficult not to contemplate the potential destruction to my study in the event a gunfight broke out. Bullet holes are costly to repair. Too late I remembered that I had planned to move the lovely little French table out into the hall and take down that rather nice oil painting of the ballerina that Lord Deveraux had given me so many years ago.

The minutes passed. Harkov looked at the clock and frowned. “I had hoped that Grigori would join us tonight, but we cannot wait any longer. Let us begin.”

I hadn’t expected the Russian wolf to attend this meeting. He had no way of anticipating whether French would be accused and murdered, or I’d show my hand as a British agent, or Ivanov himself might be killed or captured. Best to stay home with a bottle and a good book and see what developed.

“I took the liberty of drawing up a preliminary list of duties for each of us,” said Flerko.

“Pardon me, Flerko,” said Bonnaire, “but before we talk about the abduction, I should like to discuss the informant in our cell. We must root him out. The success of our plan depends upon it.”

“There is no need to concern yourself with identifying the spy in our midst,” said Harkov. His monocle glittered in the moonlight. “Grigori has already informed me of the traitor’s name, and I have told Schmidt.”

My stomach plummeted to the floor and stayed there. French still reposed languidly in his chair, but as I watched him, he reached over casually and tossed his cheroot in the fire. Bonnaire shot a startled glance at Harkov. Thick Ed cracked a knuckle and looked grave. I felt a chill wind pass through the room, as though someone had opened the window.

“What!” Flerko’s mouth gaped open. He looked wildly about the study. “Who is it? Who is the traitor?”

“Tell us, Harkov.” Bonnaire’s voice was scarcely louder than a whisper.

“Mr. French, you remain silent. Don’t you want to know the name of the man who has betrayed us to the British government?”

We’d discussed this moment, French and Vincent and I, and had debated whether French should deny the accusation. In the end, we’d concluded that a palaver over his guilt or innocence by a group of paranoid anarchists wouldn’t accomplish much other than rousing them into a hot fury and making our plan that much more difficult to execute. Now French shrugged, directing a hostile stare at Harkov.

Harkov smiled, a triumphant smirk that would have been right at home on Beelzebub’s visage. He waved a genial hand in French’s direction. “I regret to tell you that Mr. French joined our band under false pretenses. He is not the son of a wealthy manufacturer. He comes of rather more ancient stock. Permit me to introduce Mister Lachlan Nathraichean Alasdair French.”

Bloody hell. I’d only been joking when I’d asked French if his name was Aethelstan or Baldaric. I reckoned he’d be James or William or even Percival, but his true appellation exceeded anything I could have imagined.

Harkov continued, oblivious to my astonishment. “His father is Major-General Anthony French, and his mother is the daughter of a wealthy Scottish aristocrat. Mr. French is a product of Eton and Balliol College, with a first-class degree in classics. He is engaged to Lady Daphne Kenilworth, daughter of the Duke of Allingham.”

Engaged? The poncy bastard had kept that quiet, and no wonder. I sent him a look that would have melted iron. French’s face had been immobile, but he shifted uncomfortably at Harkov’s words. His gaze flickered to me.

Harkov continued with his recitation of French’s resume. “He is also Major French of the Forty-second Regiment of Foot and has spent time teaching Queen Victoria’s colonial subjects proper respect for their British masters. French is quite a brave fellow, actually. He’s received several medals for his courage in combat. I suppose that is what drew him to the attention of the prime minister. In any case, Mr. French now works for Disraeli in whatever capacity the prime minister requires. Mr. French’s latest assignment was to penetrate the Dark Legion.”