India Black in the City of Light (5 page)

“He doesn’t look dangerous. Hardly like a spy at all. Is he that valuable to our friends in Saint Petersburg?”

French smiled mirthlessly. “We’ve made him valuable. We’d had our eye on him for some time now, and we were just about to arrest him when we got wind that Harkwright had been picked up in Samarkand. Harkwright is invaluable to us. I told you he had a Russian mother, didn’t I? Well, he still has family in Russia who are highly placed in the government. They’ve not only smoothed the way for his travels around the country, but have also, though inadvertently, provided us with a wealth of information about the Russian court and its foreign policy.”

“Why would they tell Harkwright anything? Surely they wouldn’t trust a man who’s half English with valuable information?”

“He doesn’t appear half English to his Russian cousins. I told you he speaks the language fluently, and he’s as at home in Russia as he is in Oxford. Probably more so. He loves the language, the literature, the history, even the religion of Russia. His father was Anglican, but Harkwright attends an Orthodox church in London. He has an insight into the Russian character that we’ve found priceless. We must get him back at all costs.”

“But what use will he be when he returns? I presume he won’t be able to set foot in Russia again, or in any Russian territory.”

“No, but he still brings a great deal of expertise and experience to the table. The prime minister will rely on him to help us interpret Russian activities and discern Russian motives.”

“And what of his relatives? Haven’t they noticed that he’s missing?”

“As far as we know, the Russians have not revealed that they’ve arrested him. And his absence wouldn’t alarm his family. They’re accustomed to Harkwright disappearing into the hinterlands for long stretches. He’s cultivated the image of the dotty academic who lives for his research.”

“What did you mean when you said you’d made Cutliffe valuable?”

“Cutliffe
was
passing information to the Russians, but it was of little importance. When we learned that Harkwright had been captured, we decided to see if we could make Cutliffe’s contributions more critical to the Russians and attempt to arrange an exchange. So we built up Cutliffe’s reputation by providing him with doctored information to feed to the fellows in Saint Petersburg. They are desperate to find out what we are planning in India, and Cutliffe was considered a desirable source, placed as he was in the India Office. We created a fantasy, giving Cutliffe enough real information to entice the Russians, but also planting false data that would make Cutliffe appear more knowledgeable than he really is. That information was couched in such a way so as to not arouse Cutliffe’s suspicions, while at the same time leaving the impression that he was some sort of superior spy with access to much more information than he could safely transmit. His arrest was quite a heavy blow to the Russians, or at least they thought it was. We made sure of that.”

“So you sold them a bill of goods,” I said. “Bloody good work, French. Nothing makes me happier than outfoxing those Slavic bastards. But does Cutliffe know he’s been used as a dupe? What will happen to him when the Russians find out he’s got nothing else to tell them?”

French smoked contemplatively for a moment. “I’ve no idea. I should think they’ll dump him on the street when they learn he’s merely a low-grade clerk. Alternatively”—and here French frowned, as he often does when he cogitates about the villainous Russians—“I do hope they don’t figure out that Cutliffe was a plant. The Russians don’t take kindly to being deceived. It could go badly for Cutliffe.”

I felt a twinge of sympathy as I gazed over at the gingery little fellow, but the feeling passed quickly. He should have considered what he was getting into, throwing in his lot with those cruel thugs.

“What is the arrangement for exchanging Cutliffe?” I asked as I brushed the crumbs from my lap.

French knocked the ash from his cheroot. “I am to meet the Russians tonight, or more precisely, tomorrow morning, at 4:00 a.m., behind the provisional chapel of the Basilica of the Sacred Heart.”

“We should get there early for reconnaissance,” I said.

“Only I am permitted to accompany Cutliffe.”

I gave him a withering look. “Of course I’m not going to charge into the middle of your exchange. I’ll be hiding out, making sure that you’re not ambushed.
Is
there any place to hide at this basilica?”

“I should think so. It’s under construction at the moment and I expect there are piles of stone and lumber to lurk behind.”

“So that’s why you referred to the ‘provisional’ chapel. The basilica itself isn’t open for business yet.”

“That’s right. The chapel has been consecrated and services are being held there while they build the church around it.”

“So the Russians want a rendezvous at a deserted building site in the dead of night. My womanly intuition tells me they’re planning something nefarious.”

French dropped the cheroot at his feet and ground out the ember with his boot. “Being a mere male my intuition is not as highly developed as yours, but I’d venture to say that you’re correct.”

“And you were going to waltz in there without anyone watching your back?” I asked.

“Not quite. Have you forgotten Dunstan?”

I had, actually, but I saw no reason to admit that. “What about Dunstan? Has the landlord agreed to keep his body here until it can be retrieved?”

“Yes. After we’ve gone, the body will be taken to the local doctor’s house, and the landlord will explain that he’s a coachman who was shot by highwaymen but made it to the inn before dying. We’ll be well on our way to Paris by then, so we’ll avoid any questions. In fact, we should be on our way now. I’ll just go and see if the boy is ready.”

Our conveyance to the French capital was an enclosed carriage of modest appearance but surprisingly comfortable inside, with tufted leather seats. Granted, the leather was cracked in a few places, but the seats were still soft and springy. Cutliffe climbed in, stretched out on one side of the coach and covered his face with his hat. He was snoring before we were out of the stable yard. I snuggled into the cushions, anxious for a bit of shut-eye.

“Take the first watch, will you, India?” French asked. “I’m dead on my feet.” He leaned his head against the cushion and joined Cutliffe in dreamland. Confound the man. I had the urge to kick him but he was clearly exhausted. The skin under his eyes looked bruised and his face was pale beneath the dark stubble on his jaw. I probably wouldn’t stand close scrutiny myself. It had been twenty-four hours since I’d run a comb through my hair and I was dusty from our travels. All I wanted to do now was hand off Cutliffe to his Slavic employers, collect the bronzed and stalwart Harkwright, and repair to the nearest fine hotel for champagne and a hot bath. But there were many miles left to travel and so I brought out Dunstan’s revolver and laid it in my lap. I sat up straight and stared out the window, willing myself to stay awake. To occupy my mind I pictured a succession of silk frocks, each more dazzling than the last. I found this exercise so stimulating that I felt quite refreshed and awake. Let French sleep; India Black was on the case.

• • •

“Wake up, India. We’re nearly there.”

I jerked upright. I had fallen asleep with my head on French’s shoulder. I felt a thin trickle of saliva down my chin. I swabbed it away with my hand.

“I must have just dozed off,” I said.

“Yes, you did. About six hours ago.”

I shot a quick glance at Cutliffe, who had a smirk pasted across his face. Annoying little beast.

I floundered upright and patted my hair. A few strands had escaped my tortoiseshell combs and I tucked them back into place.

The coach had stopped. I peered out the window but it was as dark as Beelzebub’s backside out there. This was the City of Light?

“Where the devil are we? I can’t see a bloody thing.”

“We’ve stopped at a village just outside Paris. I’ll drive Cutliffe into the city and make the exchange while you wait here.”

I was about to inform him of my opinion of this plan when I felt the slightest pressure of his knee against mine.

“Very well,” I said meekly, for I assumed French did not want Cutliffe to know I’d be hanging about the rendezvous with a revolver in my hand.

French led Cutliffe off into the darkness for the usual reasons and I exited the carriage for a look around. We had stopped at yet another inn in a small French village. I was heartily sick of inns, coaches, Gallic hamlets and Cutliffe by now, but the proprietor of this establishment redeemed his country’s honor somewhat by bringing out a splendid plate of roast beef and potatoes and a copious amount of red wine to wash it down. I had already tucked in by the time French and Cutliffe returned. I’ve been in this situation before, where you’re face-to-face with the enemy but for some reason you’re constrained from putting a bullet through his head. It’s a real predicament, and doesn’t lend itself to civilized discourse. Consequently, we ate in silence.

After the meal, French very kindly allowed Cutliffe to draw his pipe from his pocket and even went so far as to light the thing for the man. Then French selected a cheroot from his case and ambled a few feet away, motioning for me to follow.

“I’ve hired a carriage for you. You’ll be leaving an hour before Cutliffe and me. The driver knows the city. He’ll drop you near the chapel, and you can find a suitable location from which to watch the proceedings. I don’t need to tell you to be careful. The Russians may also arrive early to post a sentry.”

“You needn’t worry about me. I’ve dodged all manner of street scum in London. Outwitting a few Russian spies won’t pose a problem.”

He slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out the ungainly pepperbox pistol. He extended it to me. “Take this. I’ve got my Boxer and you’ll have Dunstan’s Tranter, but you might as well carry this, too. Remember, it’s only effective at close range.”

“I can’t very well go traipsing about with a gun in each hand. Have you something I can borrow to carry these?”

“I’ve a small Gladstone. Will that serve?”

“Admirably.”

He went off to fetch the bag and when he returned, I deposited the two guns inside. I handed him my Webley Bulldog and requested that he pack it away for me in his luggage. I’m fond of that gun and wanted to be sure it returned to England with me. Dunstan’s Tranter would serve me tonight. To French’s credit, he resisted the urge to give me a lengthy briefing with advice as to what to look for and when to fire and other such needless instructions. I prefer to think that was because he knew I was as capable as he at this sort of thing, but perhaps he just didn’t bother to give me the spiel as he knew I wouldn’t listen anyway.

To keep up appearances, French and I said good-bye to each other within Cutliffe’s hearing. I didn’t bother to take my leave from that dastardly chap. I’d soon be seeing him again, and in any case I didn’t think he warranted a display of manners from me. I ambled into the inn and spent a pleasant hour in front of the fire, sipping brandy and cogitating about the evening’s activities. After spending an inordinately long period of time jostling around in the back of a carriage over France’s dusty roads and bolting my food in various insalubrious environments, the end of the affair was nearly here.

In the early hours of the morning, a lanky old gent with a seamed face and a shock of salt and pepper hair approached me and enquired whether I was
Mademoiselle
Black. None other, I said, and rose to follow him, the Gladstone clutched in my hand and the revolver and pepperbox clanking awkwardly inside. I followed him out the back door of the inn, to an open carriage where he handed me in and then sprang onto the box. The horses stepped out and I was on my way, at last, to Paris.

Our journey was brief. We rounded a curve and topped a hill and ahead of me the lights of the city winked into view. There was a great, ruddy glow on the horizon and I felt a stir of anticipation. Barely an hour after we started we were clopping through the streets of the metropolis. It was getting on for three o’clock in the morning. The shutters of the houses and shops were closed. Here and there I caught the gleam of a candle through a window. There were a few folks about, some staggering home from the taverns and bars, some bustling along quickly. Under a gas lamp I saw a policeman, hands behind his back, pacing slowly back and forth in the arc of light. Then the horses began to strain and I noticed that we were ascending a hill. French had told me that the basilica was being built upon the highest point in the city, the
butte Montmartre.
I strained for a glimpse of my destination, and saw before me a mass of scaffolding outlined against the glow of the city. Moments later, the driver spoke softly and drew in the reins. The horses clattered to a stop.

My lanky guide turned in his seat and pointed to my left.
“La chapelle.”

I squinted into the darkness and just made out the faint outline of a cross against the sky. I sprang down from the carriage, clutching the Gladstone, and thanked the driver, though I could have said “cat spit” for all the reaction I got. These foreign types should learn to speak English. It might improve their service. In any case, the fellow drove away and within a minute I was standing alone in the street, gazing at the piles of bricks, stones and timber that would one day be the Basilica of the Sacred Heart.

The chapel was located at one corner of the construction site with an entrance facing the street. I trotted round the building and found myself at the edge of a vast complex. Piles of brick and stone dotted the ground, and planks and beams were stacked high. I would have no trouble finding a hiding place that afforded me a view of the rear of the chapel. But then neither would anyone else. With that thought in mind I scurried back to the front of the chapel and began a slow, cautious circumnavigation of the grounds. The site for the basilica was massive and it took me a good long while to skulk around the perimeter. I stopped every few steps and listened, but the only thing I heard were the faint sounds of barking dogs and the rumble of a cart wheel in the distance. Now and then, some small animal scurried away from my approaching footsteps. I hoped it was a wayward tom, out for a night of action, and not a rat. I’m not fond of rats. Indeed, I abhor rats. I did not relish the prospect of waiting for French, hunkered down with a troop of rodents roaming about. I pushed my apprehensions away and turned my attention to my reconnaissance.