India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A MADAM OF ESPIONAGE MYSTERY)

by Carol K. Carr

  She looked at me sharpish, but I kept a neutral expression on my face.

  “I’ll take half.”

  “Half?”

  “Of whatever you get.”

  “Ten percent.”

  “Ten!” she squawked. “I’ll not tell you anything for less than forty.”

  “Twelve.”

  A stranger might have given in at this point, concerned lest he have a case of nervous collapse on his hands, but I hadn’t spent all those years at Edina’s knee without learning how the game is played. We haggled for some time, with Edina getting more and more agitated until she finally realized that I wasn’t going to give in and so she grudgingly accepted twenty-five percent.

  “But I’ll need twenty pounds now,” she said, when we’d concluded our negotiations.

  “Three,” I said, and we started all over again.

  By the time Edina had agreed to seven pounds and I’d coughed it up to the blond snake, my head was vibrating with pain. I had yet to get the information I’d come for, and I had my doubts whether I’d be able to palaver with Edina for much longer. Luckily, the prospect of mammon had thawed Edina’s manner somewhat, and she now produced a decanter of gin and two glasses. We shared a toast, though I had to pronounce my part through gritted teeth as the gin hit the top of my head like a sledgehammer.

  “You’ve got a quarter of an hour,” said Edina, drawing her dressing gown around her and pouring another tot of gin for herself.

  “An hour,” I said automatically.

  We settled on thirty minutes, which was probably more time than I needed, but you can’t let your opponent get the better of you.

  I had vague memories of the early days at Edina’s brothel, when my mother and I had first arrived at Edina’s door, and the experience of my mother’s last illness was seared into my heart, but I remembered little of what had gone before, and it was that sort of information I needed from Edina. Not, of course, that she would be inclined to tell me much, and what she would tell me might be half lies. The only hold I had over Edina was money, and I’d have to be prepared to part with a goodly sum.

  “Do you know where my mother and I had been living before we came to your academy?”

  Edina smiled at the word. “Such a nice name for a brothel,” she said, “if a bit pretentious.”

  “Edina?”

  “Right. Well, I seem to remember that she’d been living somewhere grand, with some flower of society. She always acted so superior, your mother. A lot of the toffs liked her. They said she had class.” Edina sniffed. “As if I didn’t,” she muttered, revealing the root of her dislike for my mother, and for me (though eventually I’d given her plenty of reason to hate me, too).

  “Did she tell you anything about this man? His name? Where he lived?”

  Edina nursed her gin and ruminated for a minute. “I believe the house was in Kensington.” She frowned. “Or was it Belgravia? Somewhere like that. I remember she talked about the garden, and the library. He was a great one for books, this gent, and your mother said she could read all she wanted. I expect that’s where you learned to read. Waste of time, that. No need for a tart to read books. Look what an education did for your mum.”

  I hastily swallowed the last of my drink and reminded myself that it was too soon to thump Edina. I needed to know more.

  “You had a few books when you came here. Always had your nose stuck in one of them. When the laundry needed doing, we’d find you up in the garret, lost in a book. I had to take the birch to you to get any work out of you.”

  Ah, happy days. I wondered how much longer I could resist the urge to snatch up the poker from the fireplace and apply it to Edina’s skull.

  “What happened to the man? Did he die? Is that why we came to you?”

  Edina rocked back with laughter, dribbling gin into her lap. She dabbed at the dressing gown, still snuffling merrily. “My, that’s a romantic picture, India. True love. Poor fellow dies young. Your mother turned out of the house by the man’s family.” The smile vanished from her face, replaced by triumph. “Rot. Your mother got sick and lost her looks. She was no good to him then. He wanted a beautiful wench on his arm, not a walking skeleton. He sent her away, and you with her.”

  “If she was wasting away, why did you take her in?”

  “Someone had to, didn’t they? I felt sorry for her.”

  That was a bloody lie. Edina had as much sympathy as a scorpion.

  “You mean she was still good enough for your customers,” I said. I had gripped the glass in my hand so tightly I was sure it would break, which meant I’d soon have a shard of glass to plunge into Edina’s wicked heart.

  “Don’t you say a word about my customers. They were fine gentlemen. Mostly. Anyway, they were good enough for the likes of your mother. No one else would have her, especially not with a brat in tow. You were just another mouth to feed, you know. You should be grateful for what I did. I could have turned you out into the street, but I didn’t.”

  That was true. After my mother’s death, Edina could have tossed me out with the clothes on my back and left me to fend for myself. She had saved me from that fate by keeping me around as slave labour, forcing me to scrub floors and clean up after her whores, beating me when I disobeyed (which was bloody often) and feeding me with the scraps from the table, which, I can tell you, did not amount to three squares a day. And when I turned twelve, she brought a bloke to my room and informed me that it was time to earn my keep. She left us alone, which was a mistake on her part, for I fought like a hellion and succeeded in planting a toe into my visitor’s tools that left him gasping for air on the floor of my room, whilst I gathered my meager belongings and hightailed it out the window, never to return to the kindly embrace of Edina Watkins. I might have ended up in the life she’d planned for me, but it had been on my own terms and on my own account. If I owed Edina anything, it was a thrashing. Someday, I’d give it to her. But not today.

  “Did my mother ever tell you the name of the man?”

  Edina gave me a cat’s knowing smile. “If I give it a think, I can probably remember it.”

  She stared at the ceiling, humming a little tune under her breath, and when I hadn’t appeared to cotton on, she looked at me from the corner of her eye and sighed. “Worth more than seven pounds, don’t you think? That name.”

  I knew she’d hold out for more. For the fourth time I negotiated with the old crocodile. I found the additional three pounds in my purse and put it in her outstretched hand. I was feeling deuced odd by then. My head was playing up, throbbing like blazes, and Edina seemed to be drifting in and out of focus.

  She was counting the coins when I produced the Bulldog. Her hands froze, and a vein twitched in her eyelid.

  “Is this the way you do business, India? We have a deal. You’ve paid me, and I’m going to give you the name.”

  “I just want to be sure that you tell me the correct name. If you do, I won’t be back here. If you lie to me, expecting me to pay you more money, I’ll come back and we’ll have a conversation you won’t enjoy.”

  “I’m not enjoying this one,” she said. Edina might be a callous witch, but she had spirit.

  “The name,” I said.

  It might have been the Bulldog or the feverish gleam in my eye that prompted her, but she opened her mouth. “Charles Goodwood.”

  The name meant nothing to me. I looked at her sternly, just to let her know I’d be back if she had misled me, and tucked my Bulldog back into my purse.

  As you can imagine, the conversation was over at that point. Edina didn’t even have the courtesy to show me to the door. I let myself out and breathed in the moist, fetid odour of London with relief. In comparison to the atmosphere in Edina’s parlor, the air outside smelled fresh. I trotted away from the house at a fair clip, though my knees felt weak and my hands were trembling. I needed a bath and a whisky, and then some more whisky. The encounter with Edina had left me shaken. I’d rather consort with anarchists than spend
another minute in that woman’s company. Then there was the matter of my petty cash, which was now short ten pounds. But I’m not one to agonize over life’s little difficulties. I had a name. And if Edina knew what was good for her, it would be the right name.

  * * *

  Vincent was waiting for me at Lotus House, sprawled in a chair with his feet on the fender of the fireplace and having a dram of my Martell brandy.

  “You oughter lock up the liquor,” he said. “Ole Drinkwater’s passed out again.”

  I noted the level of brandy in the bottle and decided Vincent had made an excellent suggestion. “You should be thankful. Otherwise, you’d be waiting outside the kitchen door.”

  He gave me the eye roll this observation deserved, then examined me more closely. “Wot’s the matter wif you? And wot are you doin’ out of bed, anyways?”

  “I had an errand that couldn’t wait. Did you see Superintendent Stoke?”

  “I ’ad to dodge a few blue-bottles, but I put the message in ’is ’and.”

  I frowned. “He was supposed to let his men know that you’d be bringing messages to him.”

  “I reckon they’d ’ave let me in if I’d tole ’em who I was, but I thought I’d ’ave a romp and see ’ow easy it’d be to get into Stoke’s office wifout anyone seein’ me.”

  My headache made me irritable. “Next time, do as I say. You’ll end up in the clink, and I’ll have to waste time getting you out of there.”

  Vincent stiffened. This was one dig too many. “Damned if you would. I can take care of myself. Hit’s alright for you, consortin’ with them dynamiters and ’avin’ all the fun, whilst I’m runnin’ pieces of paper about like some kind o’ messenger boy.”

  He had a point. I don’t like to be left out of the action myself.

  I retreated gracefully. “You’re quite right, Vincent. What did Stoke say?”

  “He read wot you wrote and then ’e said, ‘Hit’s about time.’”

  “Ungrateful bastard.” I collapsed in a chair. “Pour me a drink, will you?”

  Vincent obliged, and took the opportunity to fill his glass. Oh well. What’s a little Martell between friends?

  “That’s all he said?”

  “’E thanked me for bringin’ hit to ’im and gave me a farthin’.” Vincent produced the offending coin from his pocket and held it up for me to see. “Wot’ll that buy you, eh?”

  “Did you find French?” I asked casually.

  Vincent was truly irked at this question. “Did I find ’im? O’ course I did. Wot do you take me for? Han hamateur?”

  “I didn’t mean to insult you, Vincent.” I was half-irritated myself at the apparent ease with which Vincent had located French.

  “’E wants us to meet ’im tonight at ten o’clock, in St. Paul’s churchyard.”

  We? All I had wanted Vincent to do was deliver a message, but I should have guessed that he’d worm his way into the affaire de anarchists.

  TEN

  After Vincent had taken his leave, I staggered upstairs to my room and collapsed on the bed. I didn’t even bother to remove my boots; just pulled a blanket over me and dropped immediately into sleep. I had a good long nap, for it was growing dark when I awoke and I could hear the girls bustling about, talking and giggling as they prepared for the night’s work. A quick glance at the sky confirmed that the rain had evidently tired of the city and gone elsewhere for the evening. Not only did that signify an increase in customers, it also meant I wouldn’t get a thorough soaking on the way to my rendezvous with French and Vincent.

  I shed the clothes I’d worn to Edina’s and considered burning them, as they seemed to reek of sulphur, but I put that down to my imagination and threw them into a hamper for Mrs. Drinkwater to sort out. I flung on a dressing gown and proceeded to stalk the halls, poking my head into various rooms and barking orders at the sluts. It’s best to keep them on their toes, you know. Otherwise, they’ll be helping themselves to your cosmetics and pawing through your dresses. I left Clara Swansdown in charge for the evening, with strict instructions to the girls to mind her, and strict instructions to Clara to collect what was owed without dispensing any favors or I’d put her on the first boat back to Ballykelly.

  As Mrs. Drinkwater was still snoring happily at the table, I treated myself to a chop at a nearby restaurant and toward ten o’clock began making my way to the church. I was anxious to see French, as the chap owed me an explanation of his appearance at the anarchists’ meeting, but I was mindful that the radicals were a paranoid lot and since they feared infiltration by government agents, they might just have set someone to watch my movements. I had also not forgotten that some hireling of Mother Edding had cracked me over the head last night and might attempt a second attack. Consequently, I took care to confirm that I was traveling alone to the rendezvous, stopping now and then to dart down an alley and doubling back on my own track from time to time.

  French had chosen a dandy location for a meeting. Contrary to what you might think, I was not headed to St. Paul’s Cathedral but to the parish church of Covent Garden of the same name. It’s a quiet place, for though its classic portico faces one of the most raucous squares in London, the churchyard in the rear of the building is as isolated as a village chapel at night. Given the area’s history, a lone gentleman and a lady conducting an assignation in the dark churchyard at a late hour would not arouse curiosity. Neither would Vincent’s presence, as a passerby would assume the boy was loitering with intent and make haste to the nearest lighted thoroughfare. Our conversation should be a private one.

  I let myself in by the lych-gate, which screeched like a banshee on its hinges. That put paid to arriving without announcing myself.

  “India?” The voice belonged to French.

  “Yes. Where are you?”

  “We’re under the beech tree.”

  I joined Vincent and French under the outstretched branches of an ancient tree. I could just make out their figures in the dim light emanating from the windows of the nearby houses.

  French brushed past me to stare down the street up which I had walked. “Were you followed?”

  “And good evening to you,” I said. “Of course I wasn’t followed.”

  “You’re certain?” he asked, still conning the street.

  “Absolutely certain. I was careful. Were you?” Men can be so condescending; it’s good to give them a little taste of their own medicine. Especially when, in this instance, I had spent my youth dodging predators through the streets of London and French had spent his sitting in some drab schoolroom with other little poncy bastards, conjugating Latin verbs.

  “Schmidt and the rest spend most of their time trying to ferret out informers. They trust no one, and it would be normal procedure for them to send someone to shadow you.”

  “That thought had occurred to me,” I said drily. “Which is why I am sure that no one followed me here. I was discreet.”

  “I’ll slip out and take a look,” Vincent volunteered, and before French or I could say a word, he’d slipped off into the darkness, as silent as a wraith.

  One can be annoyed that one’s ability to arrive at a rendezvous without a tail is being doubted, or one can overlook that fact and interrogate the secret agent chap who has dropped from sight and reappeared like a magician’s assistant. Possessing an equanimous temperament, I chose the latter close. I’d have to work bloody fast, though, as Vincent would not be gone long, so I dispensed with the usual courtesies.

  “I trust you enjoyed yourself up north,” I said, sending out a flanking attack to open the skirmish.

  “I’ve not been away on holiday, India. The prime minister sent me to Manchester on a mission of the utmost urgency. I scarcely had time to send you a note.” He looked at me sharply. “You did receive my note?”

  “I vaguely remember a dirty scrap of paper with a word or two on it.”

  “I didn’t have time to explain further. Nor, I might add, permission to do so.”

  “Permis
sion?”

  “Don’t ruffle your tail feathers. There are some matters the prime minister believes should be known only to a very small group, most of whom are other ministers. You needn’t feel you weren’t trusted enough to be included in this affair, at least initially. Apparently the prime minister has now felt it necessary to ask for your assistance.”

  “Did you keep him informed of your movements? Did he know you were going to be at that meeting last night?”

  “I don’t provide him with details, and nor, presumably, do you. If what you really want to ask is whether I knew you’d be there, the answer is no, I did not. Lord Beaconsfield said that you were trying to penetrate the group, but he was not aware that you had succeeded and would be at the meeting.”

  “Does Superintendent Stoke know Dizzy sent you after these chaps?”

  “The prime minister may have told him, although I doubt it. Dizzy prefers to use his own agents on political matters, and he considers anarchist plots to be more of a political issue than a criminal one. I expect that Stoke approached him to ask for more resources to find the Dark Legion and destroy it. The prime minister suggested you as an undercover agent, knowing that we would likely cross paths soon, as we were both attempting to find the man behind the cell, namely this Grigori that Schmidt described at our meeting.”

  “Did you meet Schmidt in Manchester?”

  “Yes. He was a member of a local cell there. I spent several weeks establishing my cover as a liberal intellectual who had denounced his family’s exploitation of the workers but who had retained enough of the ill-gotten gains to fund publication of various antigovernment tracts.”

  “How tedious, especially if you had to write the drivel yourself.”

  “It wasn’t difficult. In fact, it was rather enjoyable. Did you know that I can now call a banker a profiteering bloodsucker twenty-seven different ways?”

  “A useful skill,” I observed, “but only in certain circles. Tell me, why did Schmidt come to London? And why are you here?”