“Schmidt told me that the anarchists’ leader, Grigori, has come to London to establish a unit of anarchists. Schmidt was sent to recruit new members here. I’ve been biding my time in Manchester waiting for Schmidt to return. When he came back last week, I volunteered to come here with him. I told him that the police had come round to my lodgings, asking questions about my political activities, and that I needed to go elsewhere for a time. I also told him that I wanted to do more than write polemics against the aristocracy and the government. I was ready to act. He invited me to come with him and to meet the local cell. Which, I was surprised to learn, included you. And that is what I have been up to since I last saw you. Your turn now. Tell me what you’ve been doing.”
I told him about Dizzy and Superintendent Stoke, and how I’d recruited Martine and given her false information about the meeting at Moreland House, which, incidentally, was never going to be held, as you no doubt have ascertained.
“Do you think the members of the cell have accepted you?” asked French.
“I think I’ve passed muster. Harkov seemed to trust Bonnaire’s judgment. And Flerko would accept anyone willing to assassinate an aristocrat. I have to say, though, that I wouldn’t want to spend much time with any of those chaps. Naturally, I would like to meet Grigori. I hope he’ll be at the next meeting and we can nab him then.”
“I doubt that he’ll put in an appearance. I went to scores of meetings in Manchester and he never came once. I didn’t even know his name until last night. He’s an elusive fellow.”
“Poor Superintendent Stoke won’t like that. He’s under considerable pressure to stop the assassination attempts on England’s peers.”
“It can’t be helped. All he has to do is sit in his office and stew. We’re the ones on the ground. I expect that you and I shall have to demonstrate our own commitment to the cause before we’re introduced to Grigori.”
“That could prove difficult. What if they ask us to prove our loyalty by shooting a peer of the realm?”
French stroked his chin. “I rather think that would depend on which peer they had in mind.” Had French just made a joke? He quirked a brow at me. It had been a joke. I believe the old boy is beginning to loosen up a bit.
“I think we should expect that we’ll have to participate in their schemes,” he said. “We’ll have to find a way to circumvent their plans without giving ourselves away.”
“Oh, right. That should be simple, considering the whole nest of them is obsessed with informants and turncoats.”
It was no use arguing with French or pressing him to formulate a plan for dealing with this awkward contingency. He’s a great one for dealing with things on the fly, is French. I’d be wasting my breath trying to convince him that we should think through our moves in advance. Besides, Vincent would return at any moment and I had other things to discuss with French.
“Did your family miss you while you were away?”
“My family?” He sounded puzzled.
“Yes, you know. Endearing little woman, flock of cherubs, faithful retainers, aged spaniel? That sort of thing?”
French’s jaw clenched; I could see it in the dim light. “I don’t have an aged spaniel.”
“All clear,” Vincent announced, appearing abruptly, and silently, at my elbow.
I suppressed a scream. “Bloody hell, Vincent. I wish you wouldn’t creep about like that.”
“’Ow else do you sneak up on someone?” asked Vincent.
“Well, you’re not meant to sneak up on me.”
French cut into this exchange. “I have to leave here in a few minutes. I have an appointment and I mustn’t be late.”
I was dying to ask, but of course his nibs wouldn’t condescend to tell me anything about said appointment. He’d been downright chilly about the spaniel.
“Vincent, I’d like you to tag along after India when she meets Bonnaire and Flerko and follow them to the meeting. I want you on Harkov’s tail when he leaves us.”
“I’ve already instructed Vincent to do that,” I said. “I am capable of managing this investigation without your assistance.”
I suppose my interest in his family had irritated the chap, for he ignored my comment and spoke to Vincent. “Be careful, my lad. These fellows are rough.”
This sort of solicitude from me would have spurred Vincent to sputtering indignation, but coming from his hero, this warning merited an uncharacteristically meek response: “Righto, guv. Wot do you want me to do after I tail that Russian bloke?”
“We meet here again on the night after the anarchist meeting, at the same time,” I said, before French had a chance to utter any more instructions. “And, French? Do be careful that you’re not followed.”
* * *
My parting shot had rendered French incapable of more than a strangled oath, and he stalked off into the warren of streets around St. Paul’s without bothering to take his leave. I said good-bye to Vincent and waited until he had scuttled off, and then let myself out the lych-gate and set off in the direction French had taken. I thought it would be a kind gesture on my part, to see that he arrived safely for his appointment.
I had to gallop to catch up with him, but I’d paid careful attention to the route he’d followed. I dodged down an alley in pursuit, running on my toes to avoid the clatter of my boot heels on the cobbles. The thick night air muffled my footsteps. The alley terminated at its junction with a narrow street, lined with small shops and offices. Gas lamps cast a sickly yellow glow and illuminated a shadowy figure striding stiffly away down Southampton Street toward the Strand. I smiled. I could tell by the set of his shoulders that French was still annoyed. I trotted after him, being careful to scout out hiding places as I went: a shadowed doorway here, the gloomy entrance to a shuttered shop there.
We covered the short distance to the Strand in this fashion, and I have to say that French didn’t bother to turn round once to see if he was being dogged. Unfortunately, I would not be able to point out this egregious professional error to French, as I would then have to admit to tailing him. Life is unjust in so many ways. Still, I would tuck this memory away and bring it out in the future, at an opportune moment.
French reached the bright lights of the Strand. Despite the hour, there was a good crowd about, streaming out of the restaurants and pubs, all very jolly and boisterous. French ducked into the throng, and I darted forward, trying to keep the crown of his hat in view. As you can imagine, a woman of my appearance soon attracted unwanted attention. Every bloke who’d had a pint fancied himself a wit, and there was a steady stream of ribald comments and suggestions hurled in my direction, along with the odd whistle. I saw French’s hat rotate at the sound, and I ducked behind a whiskered cove of ample girth. This would never do. Sometimes, it’s cursed bad luck to be born beautiful.
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
If 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 go
vernment 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.”
India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A MADAM OF ESPIONAGE MYSTERY) Page 14
