India Black (23 page)

The horses fought the elements with all the strength they possessed, straining in the traces, their hooves fighting for purchase on the icy road. Occasionally, over the shrieking wind, I could hear the faint jingling of their harnesses and the hoarse shouts of the coachman urging them on. The coach laboured and strained too, lurching from side to side as the wheels slipped in the snow and the horses pressed on through the drifts.

There were no other conveyances on the road that night, and certainly no pedestrians struggling through the blizzard-like conditions, all sensible people being safely indoors, tucked up in bed with a heated brick or a hot water bottle at their feet. I envied them that simple existence, for here was I, setting out in a freezing brougham, in what could yet prove to be a futile attempt to recover Latham’s case, with a companion who made the Sphinx seem loquacious. I sighed. Not much hope of stimulating conversation to relieve the boredom, not with French staring moodily into space and gnawing his lower lip. I settled down in the rugs and furs and dozed uneasily, dreaming of feather beds and hot toddies.

After what seemed like hours, we juddered to a halt, the coach rattling over frozen cobblestones. I pulled back the curtains to find that we had reached the shelter of an inn, with the coach drawn up before the door where a lantern burned weakly, illuminating the sign of the Black Bull.

“We’ll change horses here,” said French. “And let Evans warm himself for a bit. We’ll have a bite to eat and something to drink, as well.”

I was too cold to be hungry or thirsty, but I threw off the rugs and furs and followed French into the warm snug. A low fire burned in the grate, and French strode to it and piled on a half dozen logs, stirring the embers and creating a roaring blaze in a matter of minutes. The sleepy-eyed publican stumbled down the stairs, still fastening his braces, and soon placed ale, bread and cheese on the table in front of us. I suddenly realized I was famished and tackled the food and drink with all the grace and delicacy of a pig at a trough. Well, it had been many hours since I’d had something other than tea or toast, and it’s deuced difficult to chase Russian spies through a blizzard on an empty stomach.

After our cold repast, French dickered with the landlord over the cost of food, drink and horseflesh, looking shocked at the landlord’s exorbitant demands and parsimoniously rubbing a few coins between his fingers so our host could hear the chime of Her Majesty’s gold. After protracted negotiations, the coins changed hands, with French sighing in exasperation at the preposterous rental for two broken down nags and the publican looking melancholy at letting go of his two best pacers for such a paltry sum.

With a clap of his hands and a shout, French summoned Evans, and the Black Bull’s ostler was soon backing a brace of swaybacked geldings into the traces of the brougham. There were no gambados or caprioles from these dobbins. They would look more at home pulling a plough than prancing proudly in front of French’s elegant equipage. Well, needs must, and all that. We trundled off, Evans struggling with the reins as the newcomers jumped and shied.

The stop at the Black Bull was the first of many that night. French would spring from the brougham and hurry into the King’s Bollocks or the Blind Wanker or wherever we happened to be, bellowing for the landlord and demanding food, drink, horses and information about any Russians who happened to be in the vicinity. French and the landlord would haggle over the price of brandy and coach horses, with French spending money with a lavish hand (I’d love to have seen Dizzy’s face when he saw French’s expenses for this trip). At two of the inns where we stopped, we struck lucky: Ivanov and Oksana had been there before us, doing much the same as us, bartering for the rental of horses and fortifying themselves against the cold with liquor and victuals.

Upon hearing this news, French would roar for Evans to finish his whisky and go charging out into the night. The fresh horses were harnessed to the coach, only to flounder courageously for three or four miles until, exhausted and covered with snow and ice, Evans steered them into another inn for food and water and a well-deserved rest. Between inns I’d drift into a dreamless sleep, only to be awakened every minute or so when the coach hesitated at a drift, then broke through with a lurch. The coals in the brazier would die and my feet would begin to freeze, making further attempts at sleep futile. By then it would be time to change horses again, and I’d alight into the frigid wind and scurry out behind the inn to relieve myself, returning to the chilly rooms to bolt down some cold beef or fowl, and to drink a tankard of mulled wine or cider.

The landlord would refill the brazier with a shovelful of coals from the fire, and we’d be off again, only to repeat the same exercise a short time later. After several hours of this, I was beginning to think the horses were having an easier night than I was.

 

 

 

Though I dozed intermittently, I don’t think French slept the entire night. I’d wake to find him with the velvet curtains parted, staring out into the darkness, though there was nothing to see. I didn’t dare say anything, as his face was hard as stone and his eyes flared with an inner fire that brooked no conversation. I’d thought him a thorough-going professional, and so he was, but I was sure his pursuit of Ivanov had now taken on a personal aspect. I just hoped that when we came face-to-face with Ivanov and Oksana, French wouldn’t let his feelings run away with him and do something stupid, such as challenging Ivanov to a fencing match when Ivanov’s only weapon was a pistol. At least one of us was prepared; I felt the weight of the British Bulldog in my purse and calculated how to avoid shooting French if he persisted in attacking Ivanov with his swordstick.

Near dawn I roused myself from sleep to find French silently contemplating me, his arms crossed over his chest.

“What is it?” I yawned and stretched, noting that I’d lost all feeling in my feet and wondering when we would make our next stop. A warm fire and a cup of tea would be just the ticket.

“Who are you, India?” asked French. He was staring at me with the intense scrutiny Mrs. Drinkwater would give a mess of kidneys for the evening’s pie.

“Who am I?”

“Don’t repeat my question, India. You’re stalling for time. Tell me, who are you?”

His question caught me off guard. To date, in our brief acquaintance, he’d shown no personal interest in me at all, something I attributed to the fact that he already knew everything about me that he needed to know: I was a whore, susceptible to blackmail and unexpectedly drawn to the excitement of the game.

“You know who I am. I’m the abbess of Lotus House.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that fact. But that hardly defines who you really are. There are a number of anomalies about you that require some explanation.”

“Do they? I wasn’t aware that I had to explain myself to you, or to anyone else for that matter.”

French ignored the rebuff. He’s very good at that sort of thing.

“For example, there’s your voice.”

“My voice?”

“Your elocution, to be precise. You speak like an educated woman.”

“I wasn’t aware of any laws prohibiting prostitutes from speaking the English language correctly.”

“And you have at least a passing acquaintance with Trollope and Shakespeare.”

“A girl picks up quite a bit of knowledge around a brothel, if she keeps her ears open. Useless bits of information, really. But sometimes you can impress a customer with them. You’d be surprised what some fellows want from their bints. I knew one cove who couldn’t get it up unless his judy recited ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade.’ Must have had a thing about young men and horses.”

“So you’re a magpie, collecting the sparkly bits of information that you hear and storing them away, dropping them into the conversation for the benefit of your clients. No education beyond that?”

“Not what you’d call a proper one, but I can add and subtract and, if it’s not too difficult, do some elementary long division. Oh, and I can sign my name.”

He gave me a skeptical look. “There’s more to you than meets the eye. I wonder why you try to hide it.”

I was growing irritated at this conversation. My private life was my own, and there was a limit to how much intrusion I’d tolerate. “You’re the bloody spy, French. If you want to know more about me, presumably you have the resources to find out.”

He smiled. “I wouldn’t presume, India. I must admit that I am curious about you, but I respect your privacy.”

I resisted the urge to feel his forehead, fearing that he’d contracted a fever in these appalling weather conditions, for nothing else could surely explain this very un-French behavior. It was time to turn the tables.

“As long as we’re becoming better acquainted with each other, I’ve a few questions of my own,” I said.

“You didn’t answer any of my questions, India. But go ahead and ask me if you like. I reserve the right not to answer any of yours.”

“Fair enough. For starters, do you have a Christian name?”

“I do. My parents insisted on it.”

“Oh, so you have parents.”

“Most people do. It seems a prerequisite for existence.”

“I thought you might have been conjured into being by some force of nature.”

“Hardly. Next question.”

“You haven’t answered the first.”

“I expect you could find out my Christian name. I’m not the only person in England with a network of agents.”

“If you’re referring to Vincent, his limitations include illiteracy and a lack of access to Debrett’s.”

“Well then, you’re an intelligent woman. You’ll have to sleuth it out on your own.”

“I hardly think you’d put me through the exercise for something mundane, like James or Henry. Your parents must have been unkind. I’m beginning to think you’re ashamed of your name. It must be something hideous.”

“Hideous?”

“Yes. Like Endeavour, perhaps.”

“Not Endeavour, no. Nothing quite so Bunyanesque. And nothing run-of-the-mill like John or William, either.” He peered at me in the gloom. “By the way, did any of your clients provide you with a précis of
Pilgrim’s Progress
at some time in your career?”

“I’ll admit to perusing a chapter or two, but some of the concepts are hard going for a whore, especially all that claptrap about virtue.” I settled back in my seat, wrapping the traveling rug around me. It was damned cold in the brougham, but at least the game was amusing and passed the time.

“Ranelagh?”

“No.”

“Gervase?”

“No.”

“Peveley?”

“No.”

“Theobald?”

“Good Lord, no. And while I don’t mind you entertaining yourself on this journey, since it’s turning out to be rather longer than expected, I find this exercise rather tedious.”

“Oh, very well. You won’t tell me your name. What is it exactly that you do for the government?”

“I work for the prime minister.”

“Doing what?”

“Whatever he wants me to do.”

“So you’re Dizzy’s man. Tory to the core?”

“I’m attached to the office of the prime minister, not the man. If the present government fell and Gladstone moved into Downing Street, I’d be at his beck and call.”

“I thought you didn’t like Gladstone.”

“Whether I like him or not is irrelevant. I serve the prime minister.”

“Have you an official title? Should I be addressing you as Special Agent or something?”

For the first time since we left London, a smile creased French’s face. “I do have a title, but plain French will do.”

“I’ll bet you’re admired for your discretion.”

“It’s one of the things that makes me useful.”

The brougham gave a sudden lurch and made a sharp turn, which signaled our arrival at yet another inn. This one was the Green Man, which made me yearn momentarily for a hot London summer and strolls through Hyde Park. But when I stepped outside, the air was still frigid, the wind wailing, and the snow hurtling down. I hadn’t thought the weather could worsen, but it surely had. I staggered through a knee-high drift into the warmth of the building and headed directly to the fire where I collapsed on a bench and propped my feet on the fender to warm them. I seldom drank spirits before noon, but whisky was indicated.

I was about to summon the landlord, but he and French were engaged in deep conversation (well, French was; the landlord was rubbing sleep from his eyes and fumbling with his buttons). The landlord listened drowsily to French, perking up now and then, probably at the mention of French’s going rate for the best horses available. Then French asked a question, and the landlord came to life, nodding vigorously and waving his hands emphatically. French turned to me, face shining with triumph.

“Ivanov and Oksana were here not more than forty minutes ago,” he said. “We’ve nearly caught them.”

“Good news, indeed. But have you noticed the weather has taken a turn for the worse? We seem to be stopping more frequently to change horses. Can we manage to get closer to them in these conditions, or will they make Dover before us?”

French was frowning, chewing his lip in concentration. “You’re right, we need to move faster. The brougham is deuced awkward on these roads. No purchase in the wheels, and too difficult to maneuver. Can you ride, India?”

“A horse?”

“Of course, I mean a horse. Can you ride?”

“Badly.”

“Damn and blast,” said French.

Well, it’s not my fault my mother couldn’t afford riding lessons. She’d been more concerned with seeing that I had a crust of bread at least once a day.

The landlord had decried my parched condition and had brought a bottle of whisky, glasses, and bread and meat to the table. He deposited the items on the table before me and coughed deferentially. “Pardon me, sir, but if it’s a faster form of transportation you’re in need of, I may have just the ticket. If you’ll follow me out to the stable, sir, I’ll show you what I have in mind.”