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

by Carol K. Carr

  I had indeed liberated myself, but there was a rather steep price to pay. Being dropped from a height of three feet or so knocked the wind out of me and half-stunned me to boot. I lay in a heap in a puddle of rainwater, wheezing like a retired coal miner, while the blokes stood over me blowing hard and muttering curses.

  “Bit o’ trouble, ain’t she?” said one, in a voice like a barrow load of gravel being emptied onto the ground.

  “She tole us she would be, didn’t she?” replied his compatriot. Neither sounded as though they were old Wykehamists. “Pick ’er up and let’s get on wif it.”

  “I’d like to finish this one off right ’ere, but she don’t want it to be quick. She said to draw it out and make ’er suffer.”

  My breath rattled in my throat. This did not sound like your average robbery with violence. I had only one card to play and I put it face up on the table. “I’ve got money,” I informed them in a shaky voice. “It’s in my purse. I dropped it when you nabbed me. Take me back to Lotus House and you can have it all.” What I intended to do, naturally, was recover my Bulldog from my purse and acquaint these two thugs with the business end of Mr. Webley’s creation.

  I waited while the two geniuses thought this over. After a lengthy pause, Gravel Voice cleared his throat. “Wouldn’t ’urt to take the money, ’Enry. She don’t ’ave to know a fing about it.”

  I was occupied trying to surreptitiously worm my way out of the hessian bag. The sack had been pulled down to my forearms, but if I squirmed gently along the surface of the road, the bag would ride up and soon my arms would be free to the elbows, at which point I’d be able to reach up and pull the blasted thing off my head.

  “’Ere’s a plan for you, Tom. Why don’t you run back and snaffle the purse and I’ll stay ’ere with ’Er ’Ighness. Then we do the rest just like she told us to.”

  This attracted my attention. I’d be hanged if I let these two louts roll dice for my Bulldog. If they weren’t going to cooperate, neither was I. I commenced thrashing like a demented salmon, trying to wriggle out of my hessian shackles and screaming at a volume calculated to raise the ghosts from the nearest cemetery.

  “Bloody ’ell!” said Gravel Voice.

  “Shut ’er up,” urged his friend.

  Gravel Voice was trying. He had me in a headlock, with the bag pressed tightly against my face. I informed him that I did not care for this treatment by hammering his body with my fists. I’m embarrassed to admit that this did little more than annoy him, for I distinctly heard him say, “Blasted woman,” right before he rapped me sharply on the point of my chin with his clenched fist.

  A sour, metallic taste filled my mouth, and a sharp pain, as sharp as the point of Mother Edding’s pigsticker, skewered me right between the eyes. My arms and legs flopped limply. Gravel Voice had a hand on my head, pressing me into the ground, but he needn’t have bothered. All the fight had gone out of me. I was still conscious, but only just. Sounds came from a long distance away. I heard a window rumble open and a querulous old lady railing against the three of us for disrupting her sleep.

  Gravel Voice was still huffing from the exertion of thumping me, but his companion answered. “Nuffink for you to worry about, ma’am. ’Igh spirits among friends, is all.”

  We were sharply advised to take our high spirits elsewhere or she would set the dogs on us. One of my abductors propped me into a sitting position and pulled up the bag just long enough to stuff a dirty handkerchief into my mouth. Then he yanked the sack down over my head again. I was in no condition to spar with these blokes, but they weren’t taking any chances now. I felt a rough cord drawn around my body, entrapping my arms, and a second piece of rope was pulled tight around my ankles. They could have saved themselves some trouble if they’d trussed me up at the start, but I suppose they thought that notwithstanding Mother Edding’s warning, they could handle India Black. Which, if I am truthful, they appeared to have done. I had just enough wit about me to feel a certain amount of satisfaction that the old woman in the window had sent them on their way with such alacrity that they seemed to have forgotten my purse. I wasn’t keen on parting with my hard-earned cash, but I’d rather lose a few sous than have my weapon filched.

  After binding my arms and legs, the two of them gathered me up and off we went. We hadn’t traveled far when Gravel Voice grunted, “’Ere we are,” and I was lifted into the air and deposited unceremoniously onto a bed of rough wood. One of the men threw a coarse wool blanket over me. A horse stamped fitfully and nickered, and the cart (for so I presumed it to be) creaked loudly. My resting place tilted precariously, first to one side and then the other, as the two men climbed aboard. Gravel Voice made a clicking noise, and the cart started with a jerk.

  Stretched out in the back of the cart, snug and warm and protected from the night chill by a blanket, may sound like a deuced fine way to travel, but it is not. I felt every cobble and brick in the city of London as the contraption jolted along toward its destination. The wheels rattled and the nag clopped along and my head bounced against the crude boards of the cart with every step.

  I was floating in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware that we were moving into less sanitary surroundings than my neighborhood. An odour of rot and decay soon penetrated the cloth bag, and the air grew thick and moist. Soon I smelled tar and tallow, spices and coffee, rotting fish, and the stench of human waste being hauled to the dumping grounds east of the city. Even in my half-fuddled state, I felt a prickle of unease. I’d been expecting to be presented to Mother Edding, and at the sight of the ancient trollop I’d regain my strength and give her the walloping she deserved. But we were near the Thames, not Seven Dials. I felt a frisson of fear.

  An astonishing variety of items is dumped into the river: kitchen refuse, ashes, broken nails, old boots, oyster shells, Mrs. Drinkwater’s muffins and the occasional dead body. This is not a fact that ever gave me pause, until now. There’s something about becoming the evening meal for the local fishes that brings one up short. Not that there was anything I could do about it, not strapped down like a lunatic on the way to Bedlam, nor feeling as limp and woozy as I did. Perhaps Gravel Voice and his friend were stopping by the docks for some other reason, to purchase a bale of wool, say, or a bit of ambergris. I felt a jolt of anger at the evil Mother Edding, and then at myself, for underestimating the old horror, and at the fact that I was going to have to engage in some first-rate groveling if I was going to save myself.

  The cart rumbled to a halt. It was dead quiet here, save for the lap of waves against the wharf and the sad drone of a ship’s horn out in the fogbound reaches of the river. The smell of the foul water was overpowering. I’m a cynical optimist, mostly, or an optimistic cynic, if you like, which means I always expect the worst and I am pleasantly surprised when it doesn’t happen. At this moment, though, I wasn’t feeling sunny.

  Gravel Voice and Company hopped off the seat and walked to the back of the cart, where they seized my ankles and dragged me backward like a rat from a hole. I moaned piteously and mewed like a kitten, trying to extract an ounce of pity, but they were having none of it. I willed myself to struggle, but my limbs were paying me no mind and my head hurt like blazes. The clatter of their boots on the cobbles changed to a hollow thumping noise, which matched the tempo of my heart. Surely those echoing footsteps indicated that my two kidnappers had left dry land and were now carrying me out onto one of the many wharves along the Thames. We straggled onward, and then, to my utter horror, I heard Gravel Voice say “’Eave ’o,” and I was falling helplessly through the air. I had the presence of mind to take one last gasping breath before I hit the water.

  Shocking cold it was, not to mention greasy and foul. The force of my fall knocked the wind from me and startled me back to full consciousness. Unfortunately, I also expelled the last drops of precious air I’d inhaled in preparation for my dunking. My nose filled with a disgusting liquid. I expelled it with a snort and pondered my situation. At least the hessian bag an
d the gag would keep the larger detritus from my mouth, but as I needed to breathe, and soon, it hardly mattered that I wouldn’t have to contend with spitting out the odd fish head. I lacked oxygen, my hands and feet were tied and I had a gag in my mouth and a sack over my head. Things could hardly get worse, except they could. Even if I were able to loosen my bonds, rip off the bag and float to the surface, I had yet another obstacle to overcome: I cannot swim. Well, I don’t know many whores who can.

  I need hardly point out that things were looking very bleak. But India Black doesn’t give up without a fight. I didn’t know if I was upside down, right side up or facing sideways, but damned if I was just going to float there in the current until I died. I pulled up my knees and kicked, fluttering my feet like a fish tail. I sent an abbreviated message to the Venerable Old Chap in the Sky. My lungs were burning, and pinpricks of light appeared behind my eyelids. I heard a roaring in my ears that grew louder and louder. I was starving for air, and the urge to breathe was overwhelming.

  Two things happened simultaneously: I burst through the surface of the river blowing like a porpoise, and some object, roughly the size and weight of an elephant, fell out of the sky and landed on me, driving me back under the water. Stunned, I inhaled more of the wretched stuff, shuddered wildly and kicked hard for the surface. I might come face-to-face with my assailant, but that prospect frightened me less than drowning. My thoughts were not as crisp as usual, but it did occur to me to wonder why one of my abductors had bothered to jump in after me. I didn’t concern myself much with the thought, as I still felt the pressing need to breathe.

  I broke the waves again and finally got a nose full of pure, blessed air. My God, it was bloody heaven, although I found it hard going, paddling my feet and trying to stay above water while I made up for all those minutes with only river water in my lungs. I choked and spit and gagged, all of which produces a fair amount of noise, but suddenly a sound penetrated the racket. Splashing, and not the gentle paddling of a baby in a tub, but the energetic sloshing of someone headed in my direction.

  The bag over my head was becoming quite an inconvenience. I’d have liked to look my attacker in the eye before he held me underwater and ended this affair, but I could only wait, my legs flailing more slowly with each passing moment, while he closed in on me.

  A hand touched my shoulder, and I summoned the energy to thrust my feet once more against the weight of the water, shoving the fellow with all the strength I could muster. It must have felt like a gentle head butt from a month-old lamb. I had, however, taken him by surprise, and I heard him grunt when I hit him. I kicked again and succeeding in driving my shoulder into his. He lurched backward and sputtered loudly, cursing faintly. But that was all I had. My hands and arms were numb, my breath came in ragged gasps and the weight of my clothes was dragging me inexorably to the bottom of the Thames. It was small comfort, but I’d be waiting in hell when Mother Edding joined the party, and then we’d see who had the upper hand.

  “Stop thrashin’ about, India, or you’ll kill us bof,” said Vincent.

  * * *

  I have to hand it to that little toad. Within minutes of towing me to shore, he’d organized an army of odiferous imps to steal a handcart and haul me home, all the while assuring the urchins that I’d be “’appy to pay up” just as soon as I was feeling better.

  I sat in my drawing room, wrapped in a blanket and shivering like a stray dog. Mrs. Drinkwater had provided a glass of hot whisky, with a teaspoon of honey and two cloves floating in it, which I sipped gratefully. Her scones might be inedible, but her toddy was brilliant. Vincent, also wrapped in a blanket (which I would have to burn later) had eschewed the toddy for a tumbler of brandy and a cigar. And French was perched across from me, turning a glass of whisky grimly in his hand and glaring at me as if I’d arranged my own kidnapping.

  “Thank you very much for coming to my rescue, Vincent.” I smiled sweetly at him. I positively adored the scamp tonight. I allowed myself to indulge the feeling, as I knew it wouldn’t last long. “Wherever did you learn to swim like that?”

  “Oh, I been playin’ in the river since I was a boy,” he grinned. That might account for the smell that accompanied the young rapparee.

  “You, however, have some explaining to do.” This was directed at French. “Why was Vincent following me? He was supposed to be following Harkov.”

  “Two reasons,” said French. “You’d already been attacked by this Edding creature once before, and if you weren’t going to take any precautions against another incident, I intended that Vincent would be on hand to assist you.”

  So Vincent had told him about the disgruntled madam. I would have to settle that score with the whelp at a later time. Actually, I might have another score to settle with him.

  “If you saw the whole thing, Vincent, why didn’t you intervene sooner? You might have saved me from a Thames baptism.”

  Vincent looked sheepish. “I was ’angin’ back, you see, on account of you always gettin’ so fussed about bein’ followed and looked after. By the time I got up to Lotus House, those blokes had already wrapped you up and were carryin’ you off. I reckoned I’d just follow and take me chance when I got it. I didn’t know they was gonna throw you in the river. I figured they’d take you to Mother Edding so she could teach you a lesson, and I’d rescue you then.”

  “I could have handled Mother Edding, if only the witch had played fair and challenged me directly.”

  French sighed theatrically. “You’re right. It’s bloody inconsiderate of your enemy to ambush you.”

  “And the second reason?”

  “I wanted to be sure that no one in the Dark Legion suspected that you are a spy and decided to do something about it.”

  “I don’t know why I would be singled out by that bunch of foreign hooligans. You’re just as likely to be thought a spy as I am.”

  “I’m merely taking precautions.”

  “Well, then, who’s following you? Or don’t you need someone to keep an eye on you as well? And don’t give me any tosh about my being a woman. I can look after myself.” I tugged my blanket tighter around my shoulders and gave French a hard look, daring him to point out that in fact I had been bushwhacked rather easily on my own doorstep. Twice. Best to get on the front foot now. “It’s much more important that Vincent stay on Harkov. We need to find Grigori, and following Harkov is the best option we have for locating that Russian devil.”

  The door to the study opened.

  “Mon dieu,” Martine gasped when she saw my wan face and bedraggled hair. “I am sorry to disturb you, but Mrs. Drinkwater said you had been attacked by thieves and treated brutally. I was afraid—”

  I waved a hand negligently. “It’s nothing, Martine. Mrs. Drinkwater was mistaken. It was an accident, nothing more.”

  Martine’s eyes slid across the room to my companions. She gave French the lengthy gaze his dark looks deserved, but did not linger on Vincent.

  “Thank you for your concern, Martine. Off to bed now. You need to look fresh for the gentlemen.”

  The girl nodded and gently closed the door.

  “She’s a bit of alright,” said Vincent.

  “She’s the girl you hired from Mother Edding? The one who introduced you to Bonnaire?” asked French.

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder if Bonnaire has told her that I’m a member of the group. Do you think she’ll tell him that I was here?”

  “What does it matter? You’ll just be another anarchist who’s fallen under my spell.”

  French shot me a look. “What do you mean, another anarchist?”

  When I ignored his question, he asked another.

  “Do you trust the girl?”

  I shrugged. “Who can you trust in this game? She’s given me no reason to doubt her, but I wouldn’t share any secrets with her. Nor anyone else, for that matter.”

  “Very wise,” said French.

  God, the man annoys me with that condescending attitude. �
��Of course it’s wise,” I snapped. “You don’t have to be the prime minister’s agent to appreciate confidentiality. Do you think I’d have Lotus House and a successful business enterprise if I couldn’t hold my tongue?”

  As he always does at the mention of my profession, French looked embarrassed and quickly changed the subject.

  “Why don’t you dress, and we’ll visit the prime minister and Superintendent Stoke?”

  “Now? It’s three o’clock in the morning. I don’t think Dizzy would appreciate being woken at this hour just to hear about my dip in the Thames.”

  “We need to discuss the memorial service with him. And I suppose we should summon Stoke. I’m afraid he may want to move against the anarchists immediately. I’d prefer to string them along until we have time to devise a plan to thwart the attack.”

  “You needn’t worry about that,” I informed him airily. “I’ve already thought of a way to prevent the anarchists from detonating any bombs in the square.”

  * * *

  I must say that I had anticipated a shade more gratitude than Superintendent Stoke and Dizzy exhibited when I revealed my scheme to them two hours later. The superintendent’s black suit was rumpled, and his hair hadn’t seen a brush. Dizzy was immaculately turned out in a viridian silk dressing gown and a black velvet fez.

  The superintendent sucked his moustache and twittered like an uneasy cockatoo. “Good Lord, that’s risky. Sure it will work?”

  “I believe it will,” said French.

  A vote of confidence from this quarter being so unexpected, I nearly choked on my brandy.

  “Could send some officers to the next meeting of the cell,” mused Superintendent Stoke. “Could arrest ’em all, including you two. Hold you for a few hours. Let you go. No one the wiser. Ship the rest of the chaps back to where they came from.”