India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A Madam of Espionage Mystery) (14 page)

I was fending off a drunken nob in a top hat and monocle when French stepped into the street and hailed a cab. Damn and blast. I stamped on the nob’s instep, flung an apology over my shoulder and threw out my arm for the nearest hansom. I don’t know why people complain of the difficulty in finding a cab in this town; the driver of this particular vehicle took one look at me and hauled on the reins. He was off the seat in a flash, opening the door for me and sweeping off his hat in one grand gesture.

“Where to, luv?”

I pointed at French’s hansom, fast fading from view down the length of the Strand. “Can you follow that cab?”

The driver clapped his ancient bowler on his head and sprang onto the seat. He slapped the nag’s buttocks with the reins, and we lurched away from the curb. I had my head out the window, but it was dashed difficult to see, what with the carriages and hansoms directly in front of us. I hoped the driver had a better prospect from his seat above, and indeed the fellow drove with purpose, whipping his horse through gaps in the traffic and cursing his fellow drivers with a fluency I hadn’t heard for some time. We followed the Strand, passing the soaring elevation of Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar Square and trundling down the Mall. We turned north, skirting Green Park, and entered the rarified atmosphere of Mayfair, moving steadily into quieter areas where few pedestrians strolled and now and then a cab or carriage creaked slowly down the streets. It was close to eleven o’clock when the hansom halted and the driver’s face appeared in the window.

“Tallyho,” he whispered. “You’ll find him round the corner there, payin’ his driver. You’ll be alright, miss?”

I handed him the fare and a generous tip. “Yes, I shall be fine. You’re a superb driver.”

He sketched a salute to me as he jumped up onto the seat and clucked at his horse. I made haste for the corner.

French’s hansom was pulling away from the curb, and the man himself was gliding sedately up the steps of a handsome town house of generous proportions. The curtains had been drawn back from the ground-floor windows and lights blazed within. Against a backdrop of glittering candles and emerald watered-silk wallpaper, men in white tie and ladies in pink and mauve gowns chattered animatedly, glasses of champagne in their hands. I had thought French’s appointment might be with Dizzy or perhaps an informer; I hadn’t anticipated that he would set aside his role as the prime minister’s agent long enough to attend a bash. Perhaps he wasn’t quite the dedicated spy he’d seemed to be.

This wasn’t French’s residence; he had rung the bell and was now cooling his heels impatiently, slapping his gloves into his palm. From my vantage point, I had a clear view of the door. I waited impatiently, too. Eventually an ancient geezer with a face like a desiccated pear pulled open the door, bowed precariously and held out an arthritic claw for French’s hat.

A rosy-cheeked blonde in a glorious peach satin dress and a diamond choker (well named, that; a monkey would have strangled on that bloody stone) appeared behind the butler, produced a squeal that made me wince and rushed to French, clasping his hands in hers and putting up her cheek to be kissed.

I knew she’d be a vapid little wench.

ELEVEN

I
f you’re the romantic type, then you might think this bit of news was shattering and that poor India would be reduced to tears and need a cold compress and a sleeping draught, in which case you haven’t been paying sufficient attention and are sadly misinformed about my character. I did feel an uncharacteristic tightness in my throat, which I attributed to a night spent with the anarchist chappies in a smoke-filled room. I will also admit to feeling rather surly for the next couple of days. People are entitled to their secrets, but that rule, in my opinion, does not apply to French, or come to think of it, to men in general. Certainly women are permitted to hold a few cards close to the vest. The last time we admitted to any curiosity or confessed to sampling an apple, we were slapped down pretty hard. Consequently, we’ve learned to smile and simper and pretend to be agreeable idiots while plotting the best way to winkle a few more quid out of our blokes. Yes, women have always had secrets and always will. I’m afraid men would be very distressed to learn what their sweet darlings were thinking. Frankly, I don’t think men are strong enough to bear the shock. But I digress.

The next meeting of the anarchists was looming, and I set aside (temporarily) my musings upon how best to muscle the truth from French about his domestic arrangements and concentrated on contributing some suitably bloodthirsty plan to my radical friends. On the evening of the powwow I armed myself with my Bulldog, summoned a cab and once more made my way to the Bag O’ Nails. The fog and mist that had shrouded the city for weeks had lifted, but rain clouds scudded across the sky, visible in the hellish glow from the tanneries and factories along the river. Entering Seven Dials, I almost wished for the obscuring veil to blot out the scenes of destitution and squalor that met my gaze.

Bonnaire and Flerko were waiting for me outside the tavern. Bonnaire held my hand a bit longer than strictly necessary while he gazed into my eyes. I simpered a bit and pulled my hand away like a shy lass, and he lapped it up. After exchanging pleasantries with Flerko, the three of us set off at a rapid pace. On our previous journey the brume had obscured the streets and I’d walked along blindly, propelled by Bonnaire. Tonight visibility was better and I made note of our route, paying close attention to our twistings and turnings and observing any landmarks we passed. We turned right out of the Bag O’ Nails and left at a rag and bone shop and skulked along various streets and alleys. Once I thought I heard light footsteps behind us and Flerko swung round and surveyed the street. I was sure our follower was Vincent and sucked in a breath, but the little bugger must have found cover, for Flerko stared for long minutes into the darkness before turning back to us and signaling us to proceed.

When we reached the vacant shop, Bonnaire sent Flerko out for a reconnaissance, and the Frenchman and I groped our way down the passage to the secluded chamber. We were the last to arrive. Schmidt and French had their heads together over a sheaf of ink-smeared papers, Thick Ed was whistling a popular ditty and gauging the thickness of a wire and Harkov was languidly smoking a cigar, his boots propped on a wooden box. Flerko bustled in behind Bonnaire and me and announced that we had arrived at our destination unobserved.

“Let us begin,” said Harkov, extinguishing his cigar on the stone floor and sliding the stub into the pocket of his coat. “I shall first report on my visit to the International Congress of Working Men in Geneva that was held two weeks ago. There was not sufficient time at our last meeting to inform you of the events that took place there, nor of the findings of the congress.”

I stifled a groan, and I could have sworn I heard Bonnaire do the same. The sound obviously did not reach Harkov, for he polished his monocle and launched into a lengthy monologue of such dullness it would have done credit to a bishop. He told us all about the congress, which apparently was a group of disgruntled workers, socialists, Communards and other revolutionary types committed to the abolition of government and the elimination of the people who employed the workers, all of them gathering at some public hall in Geneva to exchange ideas and plot strategy for the destruction of all governments. My notions of proper anarchical behavior were stretched by Harkov’s account, I can tell you. It seems that anarchists are great ones for organization and administration, with a committee for this purpose and a board for that, with a few delegations and councils thrown in for good measure. Frankly, the idea of a bunch of blokes in stiff collars and sober suits saying “A point of order, here,” or “May I have the floor?” certainly dented my image of a lone foreigner, grimy and ragged, building bombs by candlelight in a freezing attic.

I don’t believe anyone was truly interested in Harkov’s account, but that didn’t stop him from blathering on until Schmidt finally cleared his throat.

“How very interesting, comrade. It was, I am sure, a worthwhile investment of your time and energy.” There was an ironic undertone to his words that made Harkov bristle.

“Indeed, it was,” he said. “I had the opportunity to learn what our brothers in arms are doing in Germany and Russia. And there were some Italians there who had some fascinating theories regarding the relationship between trade unions and anarchism. They—”

“I should be very glad to hear their theses,” said Schmidt. “Perhaps after the meeting you and I might repair to my lodgings and discuss the matter over a drink. Now, I think, we must plan our next campaign.”

Harkov chewed his lip and nodded sullenly. “Of course, comrade. I merely wanted to inform you of the issues we discussed in Geneva.”

“I’m sure you enjoyed the intellectual stimulation of the conference,” said Bonnaire, “but we were dealing with more practical matters here, namely the destruction of Moreland House.”

“What a pity the meeting between the British and the Russians was cancelled,” said Schmidt.

I was afraid this line of talk might eventually wander into the territory encompassing the reliability of the intelligence I had passed along, so I thought I’d lead the hounds astray.

“Should we select an individual to assassinate, or disrupt a government function?”

“We should choose an action that will have a devastating effect upon public opinion. The newspapers are already critical of the government’s inability to stop the attacks,” said Harkov.

“We could blow up the Tower of London,” Flerko said. “It is emblematic of the power of the British Empire.”

Thick Ed snorted. “You got any idea how much dynamite it would take to demolish that thing?”

Bonnaire was stroking his beard. “An individual would be more accessible, though the effect would be less dramatic than destroying the Tower.”

“What about Viscount Cross, the home secretary?” I put in.

French’s cool grey eyes darted in my direction. “That would certainly stir up Scotland Yard,” he said.

“That is why I suggested it. It would be quite a feather in our cap if we could kill the man responsible for policing and national security.”

There was a general murmur of approval, and Flerko clapped a hand over mine in his excitement.

“But that would be superb!” he crowed.

Harkov’s glistening black eyes were leveled at me. “Have you any clients who could provide information about his movements?”

I hesitated a moment, pretending to think. “I’ve one or two chaps in mind. I might be able to tease something out of them.”

Schmidt had folded his hands over his belly and was contemplating the ceiling. “May I venture to present another proposal?”

Harkov nodded politely.

“It would certainly be a coup if we were to assassinate the home secretary. It would indeed have the desired effect of arousing the Yard, but I would suggest that might not be the best thing for us.” Schmidt dropped his gaze and surveyed us each in turn. “At the moment, the police are worried about us, but they have not yet brought the full weight of their authority to bear upon us. Should we kill Viscount Cross, every foreigner in this city will be placed on a ship and sent back to his own country. I cannot speak for the rest of you, but I should find the situation in Germany a bit awkward.”

Flerko gnawed a fingernail and looked anxious. “The Third Section—”

“Quite,” said Harkov quietly. “The Third Section would rejoice at laying hands on me.”

“I cannot go back to Russia,” said Flerko.

For anarchists, they were a pusillanimous bunch. Of course, I’d never been tortured by the tsar’s secret police, so perhaps I should be more forgiving.

“I don’t think we should delude ourselves into thinking that the police will be less diligent in hunting us down if we kill a baronet rather than a duke,” French said quietly. “Any action we take will prompt a public outcry and increase the pressure on the authorities.”

We all sat and contemplated those sobering words. Trust French to put a damper on the party.

“If that is the case,” said Flerko, “then we should aim to inflict as much damage as possible with one blow, and plan an escape that will allow us to leave the country and regroup elsewhere.”

Damn these radical types. Flerko might be happy floating from country to country, living on scraps and dreams, but I’m fond of England and do not plan to spend the prime of my life scraping a living in some ghetto populated by grubby foreigners who exist on cabbage soup and dumplings. I hadn’t signed up to Dizzy’s scheme in order to flee the country after a spectacular (and possibly suicidal) gesture. And if we all put up our tails and scattered to the four winds, who’d find the elusive Grigori for Superintendent Stoke? Speaking of Grigori . . .

“What would Grigori prefer that we do? Assassinate an important leader or plan a grand stroke that will terrify the public?” I asked.

Harkov squared his shoulders and sat up straight at the mention of our sponsor. He was a self-important bastard, and here was his chance to condescend to the rest of us through his connection with Grigori.

“Have you spoken with him about possible plans?” asked Schmidt.

“Naturally I have consulted with him,” Harkov said sulkily.

“And what did he suggest we do?”

“His general view is that we should seek to cause as much confusion and fear as possible. It is all very well to exterminate the odd aristocrat, but that act does not create sufficient apprehension in the public mind. Only when the citizens of the city are themselves at risk will we generate the kind of mass hysteria that undermines the government.”

I didn’t dare meet French’s eye for fear of giving away the game, but I quailed at the prospect of trying to prevent bloodshed at some sort of public gathering. French and I could easily have thwarted a plan aimed at an individual (though it might have been deuced difficult to do so without revealing ourselves as British agents), but a plot on a larger scale would be hard to circumvent.

“We might attack a conference of the Conservative Party,” said Bonnaire. “Or a public address by a party leader. Politicians never miss a chance to appear before an audience.”

“A football match?” suggested Schmidt.

“Football?” said French. “We want people to join our cause, not hang us from the nearest lamppost because we blew up their favorite sporting club.”

Flerko was bouncing in his chair, emitting muted shrieks. “The memorial! The memorial!”

“What memorial?” asked Harkov.

“On the twelfth of the month the government is holding a public memorial service in Trafalgar Square, marking the twentieth anniversary of the Indian Mutiny. That is this Saturday.”

I vaguely recalled seeing the service mentioned in the papers, but it had slipped my mind. Why anyone would want to remember that particular sequence of horrors was beyond me, but we English love to wallow in the darkest moments of our history. Just mention the massacre at Sati Chaura Ghat to any chap on the street and watch his spine straighten and his jaw jut out. It won’t be a minute before he’ll be looking for a Hindoo to wallop. A commemoration of the poor sods who perished in the mutiny would likely draw a fair crowd, eager to shed a tear at the thought of English innocence and Indian perfidy.

A murmur of interest ran round the table.

“The prime minister will be there,” said Flerko, beaming. “And a whole host of cabinet ministers and generals and admirals. What a blow to the state. Boom! Just like that. All gone.” He flung up his hands in glee. Lord, but he was an excitable chap. I made a mental note to stand as far as possible from the little Russian at the memorial service. The chap was deuced twitchy.

Harkov rooted in his pocket and found the cigar stub he’d placed there earlier. He popped it in his mouth and sucked it contemplatively.

“A large crowd,” he muttered. “Prominent figures. A bloody great explosion.” He whipped the cigar from his mouth and pointed it at Thick Ed. “No! Not one explosion. A series of explosions!”

“How many?” asked Thick Ed.

“A dozen,” Harkov said firmly.

Thick Ed shook his head. “Impossible. I only have the materials for five.”

Harkov sulked. “Well, it shall have to be five, then.”

Flerko chortled. “And I shall help you arm the bombs and place them around the square.”

“Um,” said Thick Ed, “appreciate the offer, comrade, but it might be best if I handled things myself.”