I edged away from him, which incidentally placed me closer to Bonnaire. Martine took note and her lips tightened. The Frenchman paid her no heed but inclined his head in my direction, with an indulgent glance at Flerko.
“You mustn’t mind our friend here,” said Bonnaire. “He’s been treated roughly by the Third Section.”
Stoke’s briefing had been thorough; I recognized the name of the tsar’s secret police.
“My ideas were too progressive for Russia,” Flerko said sadly. “I advocated democratic elections and confiscation of land from the aristocracy to be distributed to the peasants.”
“Those ideas are too progressive for England,” I said.
Flerko’s eyes blazed. “So I have learned. I came to London so that I might express myself freely, and I find the nobility here just as reactionary as in Russia. For many years I deceived myself, believing that the privileged classes could be persuaded to share their wealth with the workers who had created it for them.”
It’s a deuced good thing Flerko had passion, as he was clearly deficient in the common sense department.
“I have realized that we must take drastic measures to affect such a change.” A bubble of froth flecked the corner of Flerko’s mouth. “We must remove those who claim the right to rule their fellow men. We must slay the rich and destroy the government.”
Martine glanced nervously around the room. “Careful, Flerko. There are ears everywhere.”
Flerko wiped away the spit from his mouth with the back of his hand and glared ferociously at her. “Let the police try to take me. I will kill them all.”
Enthusiasts are not only dangerous, they’re tedious. I hadn’t come here to listen to a deranged poet advocate wholesale slaughter. I had to check the urge to ask the time and send Bonnaire to find a cab. The Frenchman must have sensed my total disinterest in Flerko’s fulminations, for he smiled gently and patted Flerko’s arm.
“You must understand the trials our comrade has endured. He suffered much at the hands of the tsar’s agents. He is a man of culture and taste, yet he is forced to degrade himself by flogging fish just to earn a place in a doss house each night. His anger fuels a great commitment to our cause.”
“I can see that,” I said. “He must have been very disappointed to learn that the meeting at Moreland House had been canceled.”
A frown creased Bonnaire’s face. “We had hoped to eliminate many important men. It is unfortunate that the meeting did not take place.”
I kept a close eye on the bugger to see if that “unfortunate” coincidence had aroused any suspicion, but he merely took a moody sip of gin and contemplated the pitted surface of the table.
It might be useful to remind Bonnaire that Martine’s intelligence had been valuable to the group. “It is regrettable that the Russian delegation was struck down by influenza,” I said, “but quite encouraging that the general information Mr. Brown shared with Martine was accurate. The newspaper reports confirm the meeting had been scheduled. Perhaps we should concentrate on cultivating the loquacious Mr. Brown. He should have other news to share, and he seemed quite satisfied with Martine.”
Martine shot me a warning glance. I could see she wasn’t best pleased that I’d reminded Bonnaire of just how Martine had come by the information about the meeting at Moreland House.
Bonnaire raked a hand through his chestnut curls. “Indeed. I would be most interested in anything Mr. Brown has to tell us. He seems a singularly garrulous young man.”
“There are quite a few of his type in the government. And as long as the primary qualification for obtaining a ministerial position is whether you attended the right school, there always will be. I fancy that I have become an expert at ingratiating myself with the Mr. Browns of this world.”
Bonnaire settled in his chair and lifted his glass, studying me over the rim. “So Martine has told us. She also advises that you are prepared, indeed, have been seeking a means by which to provide the fruits of your labours to people who are willing to act upon the information you obtain from these Mr. Browns.”
“I trust Martine has also told you that if I am to continue to supply reports to such people, I should like to meet them to assure myself that they are, shall we say, capable people.”
There was a glint of displeasure in Bonnaire’s eye, and I could see I’d annoyed him. That was the point, naturally. Most people are easily played. Infer that they’re not good enough for you for whatever purpose, and they’ll bend over backward to convince you that they are. I was pleased to see that anarchists are just like other people, really, except for that nihilistic death wish so many of them seem to have.
True to form, Bonnaire assumed the expression of a brush salesman and leaned forward with his elbows on the table.
“I can assure you, the members of my organization are more than capable, Miss Black. As you mentioned the newspapers, you will no doubt acknowledge that our bombs caused significant damage to the building. Had anyone been inside, they would surely have perished. We are professionals, Miss Black. Provided we have precise intelligence about our target, we can eliminate it.”
I favored him with one of my most winning smiles. “Forgive me if I appear to doubt you, Mr. Bonnaire. Before I purchase a wine for Lotus House, I taste it. If I buy a bolt of silk, I examine it. It’s a habit I’ve acquired over the years. In the cases I just described, I was concerned only with saving my money, but in providing information to you and your organization, I run the risk of becoming involved with the police. Surprisingly, they are more tolerant of trollops than of anarchists.”
Bonnaire chuckled. “That is true of most policemen, whether in Paris or Moscow or here in London.”
“You understand, then, why I wish to meet everyone.”
He cocked his head. “Oh, yes. However, I am not entirely certain why you want to help us at all.”
It was time for my best imitation of a closet radical. That meant manufacturing a fiery gleam in my eye and a quivering intensity in my voice. I launched into the story of my life upon the streets, with a lot of sob-inducing tales that would have reduced the average Christian to tears. I described the swells who preyed on young girls, and the degradations I’d endured just to earn the cost of a bun, and my growing realization that I was a victim of a tyrannical system dominated by the rich and powerful. My yarn was convincing for I was telling the truth, but at that point I had to diverge from the factual and fabricate a chapter or two about my growing sympathies for my fellow human beings and my desire to create a Utopia with these hapless creatures, where we’d all work together and share the proceeds of our labours (which made me sound a bit like that old crank, Sir Thomas More, and look what happened to him). This last bit was hard going, and I nearly choked as I said it, for of course my natural inclination is to shove my fellow man overboard in order to grab the last place in the lifeboat. Luckily, Bonnaire, Flerko and Martine seemed to think I had been overcome with the passion of my convictions rather than gagging at the thought of sharing my hard-earned cash with the ragged chaps here at the Bag O’ Nails.
I finished off this load of codswallop with some well-aimed darts at the bloody toffs who ran our society like their private fiefdoms and expressed the view that as Darwin’s theory of natural selection had failed to make much headway among the aristocracy, it was time someone stepped in and helped out Mother Nature. At this point Flerko seized my hand and began spouting some Russian nonsense and covering my poor paw in kisses. I managed to extricate it from the Russian’s grasp (not without difficultly, for though Flerko was a weedy chap, he was strong). The odour of herrings wafted up to my nostrils, and I reckoned the neighborhood cats would be trailing me back to Lotus House.
Bonnaire looked amused at Flerko’s antics, but then his smiled faded and his expression became grave. “Your history is a sad one, Miss Black, but I am pleased that you have overcome the misfortune of your youth and are now willing to join in our struggle.”
Gad, I hoped he wasn’t goi
ng to ask for money. I hadn’t considered that in anarchist eyes, a successful madam might be good for a few crowns.
“I will do my best to obtain confidential information for you from my clients,” I hastened to say. “That should enable your group to eliminate some of the oppressors of the people.” I was seized with a fit of coughing. I was going to have to practice spewing such rubbish until it sounded natural.
Flerko lunged for my hand again with a fervid exclamation, but I’d seen him coming out of the corner of my eye and managed to get my mitts in my lap before the fellow could lay hands on me.
“Comrade Flerko seems convinced of your commitment,” said Bonnaire, stroking his beard. I held my breath, waiting for his verdict. Martine stared at him anxiously. After a long moment, those bright blue orbs of his settled on my face and he smiled. It was a smile of acceptance. I exhaled slowly.
“Tonight at midnight,” Bonnaire said, rising. “Meet me here and I will you show you the way.”
SEVEN
If there was one thing worse than entering Seven Dials during the daylight hours, it was venturing into that vile den as the city’s clocks were striking midnight. The driver of the cab I’d hired was as nervous as a bitch whelping her first litter. I didn’t blame the man; I sat with my hand in my purse, clutching the Bulldog and wondering if I’d make it to the Bag O’ Nails in the pristine condition in which I’d left Lotus House. The rain that had blanketed the city for days had ceased, but one of the city’s mucilaginous fogs had descended on the streets, covering every surface with oily drops of water and obliterating the already inadequate light from the gas lamps. It was as dark as the inside of a coffin tonight, but the streets throbbed with noise. Most of the inhabitants of the area appeared to have foregone the domestic comforts of hearth and home (likely because such things were nonexistent here) and were roaming the streets in various stages of drunkenness. A low roar issued from every public house we passed, and the street rang with the raucous cries of street vendors, ladies of the evening and their customers. Ragged children roamed in gangs, eyes glazed from the gin they’d been tippling, swarming around the hapless drunks who crossed their paths and plundering the pitiful sods’ pockets with abandon. Even the poor nag pulling our cab was apprehensive, his ears pricked and his head swiveling at every shriek and wail. All the noise was playing hell with my nerves as well, and I nearly screamed when a dirty face appeared in the window of the cab bawling incomprehensible gibberish at me. I yanked the Bulldog from my purse and thrust the barrel into the man’s nostril. He disappeared from view.
The cab drew up with a jerk, and I peered out the window.
“Where are we?” I asked the driver.
“Bag O’Nails,” he replied, and pointed into the viscid fog with his whip.
Dimly I perceived a faint amber light through the swirling brume and detected the drone of well-lubricated voices.
“Are you sure this is the place?” asked the driver.
The door crashed open and a cone of light split the fog briefly; the drone increased to a low rumble.
“As much as it pains me to admit it, I believe we have arrived,” I said. I handed the driver some coins and made a reluctant exit from the relative safety of the cab. He didn’t bother counting the money but shoved it into the pocket of his coat, slapped the reins against the horse’s rump and cried, “Hi, get up there, Bill.” Bill stepped out with alacrity, and in a moment I was alone.
Then the wolf pack moved in. I saw a half dozen lean faces, eyes glistening with a predatory gleam as shadowy figures closed around me in a circle. A dirty claw reached out and plucked at my cloak.
“Oi, look at that. That’ll fetch a good price.”
“Forget the cloak, you stupid clot. Look at ’er!”
I’m not usually one to forego compliments, but I thought it likely there might be complications if I accepted this one without demurring. I extracted the Bulldog from my purse and cocked the hammer. The noise was uncommonly loud in that thick atmosphere, and the feral lads who had been advancing checked their movements.
“Now, chaps, who’d like to be the first to get a bullet in the chest? Come on, don’t be shy.”
“She’s got a barker,” said the chap nearest me.
“Well, take hit away from ’er,” one helpful fellow suggested. “Wot are you worried about? She’ll prob’bly cry if she pulls the trigger.”
“Wot if she shoots me?”
“Ah, go on. She ain’t gonna shoot you.” There’s one in every crowd, always standing at the back, mind you.
I’ve mentioned before that I lack patience. I had a meeting to attend and an anarchist plot to uncover and I couldn’t stand around here all night palavering with the Seven Dials Debating Society. I pointed the Bulldog skyward and pulled the trigger. The revolver roared.
I surveyed the results and was gratified.
The coves who had encircled me had disappeared into the gloom. The Bag O’ Nails had gone as quiet as a Carthusian charterhouse. I replaced the Bulldog in my purse, lifted my skirts to avoid the worst of the mud and walked inside.
My entrance attracted roughly the same amount of attention that a bucket of chum would have provoked from a school of piranhas. I suppose there are women who would have been gratified at the shouts, whistles and graphic gestures that met my arrival, but I just fixed the pub’s patrons with that gimlet glare of mine and stalked across the room to the table in the corner, where Flerko and Bonnaire were enjoying a convivial glass together. I wasn’t sure my welcome would be at all warm, for I could hardly have done more to draw attention to myself short of spontaneously combusting, but Flerko bounded up like an untrained gun dog to greet me, and Bonnaire bestowed an utterly ravishing smile upon me. I petted Flerko briskly (actually, I shook his hand) and let Bonnaire plant a moist and lingering kiss on my knuckles. ’Twas a pity the bloke’s political views were so dicey; I would have enjoyed a dalliance with this handsome Frog dandy.
“I heard a shot,” said Flerko anxiously.
“Yes,” I murmured. “I heard it, too.”
“It sounded very close. Did you see anything?”
“I could hardly find my way from the cab to the door,” I said. “The fog is terrible tonight.” I saw no need to inform my companions that I had fired the shot, nor indeed even that I was armed. Bringing a revolver to one’s first meeting with a group of paranoid radicals would hardly make a good first impression.
“A London particular,” said Bonnaire. “What a quaint name for fog. I do not think of the English as being a quaint people.”
“We English are pragmatic, but underneath, I am sorry to say, there is a streak of whimsy.”
“There is no whimsy in Russia,” said Flerko. “Only sorrow. So long as the tsar rules, there will be only suffering and pain for my people.”
He looked so downcast that I tried to cheer up the little fellow. “Well, we shall just have to strike a blow for liberty in London.”
Flerko nodded and knuckled away a tear.
Bonnaire looked at me and shrugged. “He is often like this. He is homesick for Russia.”
Flerko pulled out a thin gray wisp of linen and blew his nose vigorously. “Do not mind me. I am better now.”
Bonnaire reached into his vest and extracted a cheaply made watch. “We should be going.”
Flerko brightened, presumably at the thought of planning the death of some aristocrats. Bonnaire took my arm and guided me through the crowd, with the Russian bringing up the rear. I endured another round of suggestions and comments that would have sent our dear Queen Vicky into an apoplectic fit but which fazed me not one whit, having heard them all (or worse) before. We escaped from the fug of the bar into the street (which, to tell the truth, didn’t smell any better), and Bonnaire steered me along with his hand under my elbow. I was grateful for the guidance, for I’d have been lost immediately. Bonnaire seemed quite at home in these squalid streets and completely unfazed by the thick fog, traveling at a rapid pace that left
me clutching his arm and struggling to stay abreast. Flerko trailed along behind us, stepping on my skirt and muttering in Russian, while he kept an anxious eye to the rear to be sure we were not being followed.
Until that moment I confess that my assignment had seemed a bit of a lark, really. I’d matched wits with Martine and persuaded Bonnaire and Flerko of my bona fides without a great deal of effort. True, there had been that sordid brawl with Mother Edding, the nagging notes from Superintendent Stoke and the visits to the insalubrious environs of Seven Dials, but on the whole the entire affair had not been unpleasant. Martine seemed a nice girl, save for a streak of the revolutionary in her. Bonnaire was a charming fellow. Flerko was a comic character; it was hard work imagining the fizzy little chap handling a bomb without it exploding in his hand. But that trip through the dismal streets and disgusting alleyways of this wretched part of London marked the moment I began to realize that this was not a pleasant diversion from the drudgery of running Lotus House.
It was Flerko who first set me on edge. His nervous energy had increased tenfold since we had left the Bag O’ Nails. He was right on my heels, breathing raggedly and darting glances into every alley and doorway we passed. The heels of his boots beat an anxious tattoo on the cobblestones. His trepidation communicated itself to Bonnaire, for as we walked he tightened his grip on my arm and increased his pace until my toes were barely touching the ground.
“Not far now,” the Frenchman said in a low voice. “Flerko?”
Flerko melted into the churning mist. Bonnaire pushed me gently to the right, and we made an abrupt turn into a narrow passage, flanked on both sides by tall tenements of bricks blackened by decades of soot and smoke. Feeble light filtered through smudged windows, making the fine mist glow wanly. Bonnaire halted, loosening the grip on my arm.
“We’ll wait here for Flerko,” he said. I noticed that his other hand was secreted in his pocket, where, I had no doubt, there was a weapon of some kind.
India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A MADAM OF ESPIONAGE MYSTERY) Page 9
