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

by Carol K. Carr

  A whistle shrilled and the workmen downed tools.

  I batted my eyelids and favored Dawkins with an inviting smile, while my fluttering hand drew attention to my bosom. “What perfect timing,” I said. “May we?”

  The eyelids, the smile and the breasts had the desired effect, as I knew they would. The poor boy didn’t stand a chance. Any objections young Dawkins might have had, had been overruled instantly.

  And so I found myself on a work site, dodging pails of screws and stepping over scraps of lumber, all the while prattling on like a debutante after her first glass of champagne so that Dawkins wouldn’t notice the intensity with which Thick Ed was scrutinizing the underside of the grandstand. Luckily, Dawkins soon warmed to the task of explaining the technicalities of building the grandstand to such a charming audience. I heard a great deal about proportion and scale, load bearing and massing, and a number of other construction techniques, all of which I immediately consigned to my mental rubbish bin, knowing full well that I should never require any such knowledge in the future. I listened to the building wallah with wide eyes and coos of admiration at some particularly clever bit of structural engineering, while Thick Ed wandered round with one ear cocked in our direction, grunting now and then and asking an occasional question about weight distribution, which young Dawkins was only too happy to answer. I reckon the average construction superintendent doesn’t often get a stunning young woman hanging on his every word, for Dawkins rambled on with an enthusiasm I generally reserve for fine whisky and comely fellows. Finally, Thick Ed gave me the briefest of nods, and I interrupted Dawkins’s monologue about the proper wood for flooring planks with, “Oh my goodness, is that the time? We must dash, Edward, or we’ll miss our train.” We left Dawkins gawping after us with his hat raised and the “Pleased to have met you” dying on his lips. I only hoped the fellow hadn’t noticed that neither Thick Ed nor I had a watch and that we’d scuttled off in the opposite direction from Victoria Station.

  * * *

  Our cabal convened that night in the damp cellar. Thick Ed had appropriated French’s drawing of Trafalgar Square and augmented it with details about the grandstand and the few hidey-holes he’d sussed out on our visit that morning. We gathered round the table and stared down at the paper.

  Thick Ed tapped the sketch with a massive finger. “Two bombs under the grandstand, to ensure we get all the dignitaries at one go. You lot don’t care about the details, but I’ll place the machines at the weakest structural points. I’ll set the timers so that the explosions are simultaneous and the whole structure will collapse at once.” His finger moved to a rubbish bin whose location near the grandstand he’d marked with a penciled circle. “I’ll place another bomb here. The other two bombs will go here and here,” he said, pointing out the locations on the drawing. “Those three bombs will go off a couple of minutes after the first two devices, just as the crowd is trying to run away.”

  He’d chosen good hiding places for the last two infernal machines. One would be tucked away beneath the shrubbery growing in a stone planter at one edge of the square, and the second would be hidden inside another rubbish bin at the intersection of Northumberland Street and the Strand, near the southeast corner of the square.

  While Thick Ed found it hard to master normal conversational gambits, he clearly knew his stuff when it came to wreaking havoc and was delighted to share his knowledge with the rest of us. The whole scheme sounded bloody efficient, not to mention deadly, and I spared a thought for the poor folk who would otherwise have been turned into mince had Her Majesty’s agents not been on the case. Still, there was much to do to avoid an unhappy outcome, including convincing Thick Ed that I had an unrequited love for all things explosive and would be the happiest whore in the world if I could have a tutorial in building bombs.

  My request produced a silence so profound that I thought I had erred. Schmidt and Harkov stared at me incredulously. Well, they were the brains of the outfit and despite all that tripe they spouted about equality and such, it was clear they both preferred the intellectual cut and thrust of anarchist theory and not the grubby details. Flerko, predictably, approved of my revolutionary ardor, and I thought Bonnaire might plant a kiss on me then and there.

  “Building the devices is a task best left to the experts,” said Harkov.

  “One cannot become an expert without an education and the opportunity to practice one’s skills,” I said. “I suppose Thick Ed was born knowing how to make a bomb?”

  “Why do you want to learn?” asked Harkov.

  “I’ve already explained to you that if I’m going to trust my fate to you chaps, I plan to know everything there is to know about our operation. And just think of the possibilities! Who would suspect a woman like me of planting bombs? The rest of you might just as well have a placard round your neck that says ‘Anarchist Devil’ on it.”

  Harkov sputtered, but Schmidt smiled benignly. “You have a point, Miss Black.”

  “And I am equally free of suspicion,” said French. “I have access to places even Miss Black cannot go. I’d like to learn the art of bomb making myself. Would you have any objection, Thick Ed, if Miss Black and I watched you put together the devices?”

  Thick Ed’s face was impassive. He glanced at Harkov, who shrugged.

  “Alright,” said the bomb maker. “But you two aren’t to touch a thing, mind. Just watch me. I’ll put ’em together on Thursday night before the memorial. Be here at midnight.”

  I nodded casually, but there was a hard knot in my throat at the prospect of fiddling about with dynamite that no amount of swallowing would remove.

  * * *

  I had a couple of days until Thursday, so I put aside my duties to queen and country and concentrated on the affairs of Lotus House. Major Rawlins and his fellow guardsmen had proved to be loyal customers, returning on a frequent basis and boosting my income enormously. There were the usual bills to pay, including a suspiciously large one to the nearest public house for several bottles of gin I did not remember ordering. I had a think about that and one afternoon while Mrs. Drinkwater was out doing the shopping, I conducted a quick search of her room and found a stash of empty bottles under the bed. Naturally, I had a word with her when she returned, and endured a burned joint for my dinner that evening in retaliation.

  Other than the unpleasantness with Mrs. Drinkwater over the gin (an incident the likes of which occurred with such frequency that, frankly, I would have been surprised if it hadn’t), things at Lotus House were proceeding on an even keel. Besides the major and his men, our regular customers were returning in droves. Having been kept indoors by inclement weather and forced to endure the company of their charming wives for several weeks, they were a randy bunch and the girls were kept busy. Nothing suits me more than the bustle and hum of a busy brothel. The sluts don’t have time for spats, and they’re happy counting their shillings. I’m happy toting up the takings and contemplating the seaside bungalow I plan to purchase.

  The only event that marred these idyllic days occurred one afternoon while I was having my tea and contentedly reading through my ledgers. I heard a tentative knock at my study door.

  “Come,” I said, and shoved the books into my desk drawer.

  Martine sidled in, lovely as ever but with a subdued and shadowed countenance.

  “What is it, Martine? Are you unwell? You are very pale.”

  “No, mademoiselle. I am not ill.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth and looked at me shyly. How I wish I could teach that look to my other sluts; men would go down before it like so many skittles.

  “Is something troubling you?”

  She hesitated.

  “Well?”

  She sighed. “Please don’t be angry.”

  In my experience, there’s usually a good reason to be when your conversational partner leads with this remark. “Yes, Martine?”

  She clasped her hands together and raised them imploringly. “He shouldn’t have told me, but he d
id.”

  “Who told you what?”

  “Julian. Monsieur Bonnaire. He has told me what you plan to do at the memorial service.”

  I got up from my desk and crossed the room to close the door. “What has Bonnaire told you?”

  “That you intend to assassinate many people at the service, and that he will have to flee the country.” A sob caught in her throat. I didn’t think she was weeping at the thought of the people who might be slaughtered by her boyfriend.

  Bugger. I could have kept our plans secret until the last horn sounded, but trust a man to try to impress a girl by baring his bloody soul.

  “Nonsense,” I said briskly. “There isn’t any risk to Bonnaire.”

  “But he said he would be in danger—”

  “Only if we get caught, and if we all keep our mouths shut”—and here I gave her a black look, to let her know I included her in my directive—“no one will know of our involvement.”

  “You are certain? Julian said—”

  I cut her off. “Of course I’m certain. Monsieur Bonnaire exaggerates the peril.”

  Relief swept her face. “Then he will not die.”

  “Not unless you tell anyone else that he has told you of our plans.”

  Puzzlement replaced relief. “I don’t understand.”

  “You know that there are many police informants among the anarchist cells. If any of the others found out that Bonnaire had revealed our objective, they might accuse him of being a spy. They might even kill him.”

  Martine’s pale face grew paler still. “Kill him!”

  I seized her arm. “Do not tell anyone else what Bonnaire has told you. His life may depend upon it.”

  “I will not,” she muttered. “Of course I won’t.”

  “Good.” I released her and gently patted her shoulder. “Now, wipe away those tears and leave here with a smile on your face. I don’t want the other girls asking questions. Can you do that?”

  She nodded, and swiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. She gave me a tremulous smile. “I will say nothing, but I still fear for Julian. And for you,” she added. “You have been so good to me. I would hate—” She turned abruptly on her heel and scurried out.

  “Touching,” I muttered to myself. “But unnecessary.” Of course there was no danger; not to Bonnaire, nor to me, nor to anyone else who might plan on attending the memorial service. At least, I hoped there wouldn’t be.

  FOURTEEN

  Bonnaire had offered to accompany me from the Bag O’ Nails to the cell’s meeting place, but I dispensed with his services on Thursday night. I had applied myself to learning the route to the cellar beneath the shop with all the assiduity of a starving Bushman tracking an antelope, and I felt confident I could find my way. I left Lotus House with plenty of time to spare, for I wanted to be sure that I was not followed to my destination. I had my Bulldog for company, and I stalked through the streets of Seven Dials with my hand curled around the revolver’s grip, daring anyone to cross my path. I must have looked a right Amazon, for most of the men I encountered, even the drunks, took one look at my face and stepped aside. I wasn’t to be trifled with, not tonight, not by that harridan Mother Edding and certainly not by the greasy wraiths who passed for men in this part of London.

  French was waiting for me in the doorway of the shop. He lifted his hat politely and bowed his head.

  “Good evening,” he said.

  “Good evening. And before you ask, I was not followed. Were you?”

  “I have arrived unaccompanied,” he said, a hint of a smile in his voice.

  Heavy footsteps echoed down the street, and French ducked his head out of the doorway. “Thick Ed,” he said, removing his hand from the pocket of his overcoat. I was not the only one who had come armed.

  Thick Ed returned our greetings with a grunt while he fitted the key in the lock. Downstairs we shed our coats and lit the lamps, which did little to penetrate the musky gloom of the place. The bomb maker sat down at his worktable and began to arrange his tools while French and I brought chairs and arranged ourselves on either side.

  “Two rules for tonight,” said Thick Ed. “The first rule is that neither of you touches a thing on this table unless I tell you to. And the second rule is that neither of you touches a thing on this table unless I tell you to. Understood?”

  “Perfectly,” said French.

  I nodded.

  “Right. Let’s get started. First we need something to put the bomb in, you understand?”

  I did not find this a difficult concept to grasp and averred as much to Thick Ed.

  French shot me the “Don’t be cheeky” look and said, “What are you using as containers, Ed?”

  Thick Ed shoved back his chair and disappeared under the table, emerging like a large disheveled rabbit and dragging a number of wooden boxes with him. He left all but one on the floor and deposited the box he’d selected onto the table with a triumphant thump.

  “There,” he said. “Ain’t that prime?”

  I leaned forward. “Consolidated Ironworks,” I read aloud. “Screws. One inch. One thousand. Birmingham.”

  Thick Ed grinned proudly. I did not see what all the fuss was about, and said so.

  “It’s from the job site, ain’t it? I went back there last night and helped myself to a few boxes and such.”

  “Splendid work, Ed,” said French. “If anyone sees these lying about, they’ll think they were left behind by the builders and won’t be alarmed.”

  “That’s it. We’ll tuck ’em away to one side, of course, but they’ll be less likely to attract attention than a biscuit tin or a portmanteau.”

  I figured our lads in blue might be wary of anything left beneath the grandstand where the lord mayor of the city would be sitting, but if the bombs were found and disarmed by the local plod, then so much the better. The plan would fail, and French and I wouldn’t run the slightest chance of being detected. Consequently, I declined to argue with Thick Ed about the logic of his position and made myself comfortable for the lecture. He began to assemble the makings of the infernal device, selecting objects from various containers on the table: a pocket pistol, an alarm clock, a coil of copper wire, a .22-caliber cartridge, some small disc-shaped objects and a knife with a blunt edge.

  I picked up one of the discs. “What’s this?”

  Thick Ed plucked it from my fingers. “A detonator. Didn’t I tell you not to touch anything?”

  “My apologies, Thick Ed. Now, where’s the dynamite?”

  “Under the table,” he said. “Be careful you don’t kick it.”

  “No worries there,” I said, and indeed there were not, as my legs had recoiled under my chair and frozen into position at Thick Ed’s words.

  He disappeared from view again and came up bearing a handful of the paraffinned paper packets I’d seen on my first visit to the cellar. Each of the packages was a little over six inches in length and three wide, and a mere half inch thick. I had to squelch the urge to vacate the premises, but Thick Ed was a prudent fellow and handled the packages with all the reverence of an Orthodox priest carrying an icon. He gently deposited the dynamite on the table and exhaled slowly. Despite my misgivings about the deadly stuff, I was curious.

  “I’ve never seen dynamite. What’s it look like?”

  “Depends,” said Thick Ed, “on what’s used as the binding agent. Dynamite is nothing more than nitroglycerine and some other material, like dirt or sawdust or charcoal. Some chaps use plaster of paris. Any of those things will keep the nitroglycerine stable. Otherwise, the stuff is too bloody dangerous to handle.”

  French had been studying the array of items on the table.

  “You figured out what I’m going to do with all this, squire?” asked Thick Ed.

  “I’ve no experience making bombs, but I’m acquainted with firearms. I’m guessing the pistol will fire the cartridge and detonate the dynamite, but I’ve no idea how the clock comes into it.”

  “Not bad fo
r an amateur. The trigger of the pistol will be wired to the clock. You notice there’s no trigger guard on this gun? That’s why I use a pocket pistol. When the alarm runs off, the winding handle of the clock will depress the trigger, firing the cartridge. That will ignite the detonators, and their explosion will set off the dynamite.”

  “Deuced ingenious,” said French. “But you surely can’t arm these devices and then carry them about London? If you have the misfortune to trip over a cobblestone, you’ll blow yourself to kingdom come.”

  “Occupational hazard.” Thick Ed seemed pleased with this situation. I suppose a bomb maker has a higher tolerance for risk than the average clerk in an insurance office. He picked up the clock and used the knife blade to loosen the screws holding the metal back plate. “But I won’t arm the bombs until I’ve got them in place. Once I’ve hidden them, I’ll cock the triggers of the revolvers and set the time for the alarm to run off, which will be at three fifteen p.m. for the bombs under the grandstands and two minutes later for those around the square.”

  That was the end of the lesson for the moment as Thick Ed concentrated on the task at hand and French and I leaned over his shoulder and watched him work. I had a particular purpose in learning how to build an infernal machine, but as I observed Thick Ed’s beefy fingers moving delicately among the workings of the clock, I permitted myself a little fantasy. It would serve Mother Edding right if her brothel disappeared in a mysterious blast. Now if I could just find a way to ensure that only the old harridan was in the house and all the girls and customers were safely away. And then there was the problem of the house itself. The buildings in Seven Dials were so rickety that even a small explosion would level a city block. I enjoy revenge as much as the next person, but I draw the line at wanton killing. No, I should have to find a more direct means of removing Mother Edding from the scene. But Mother Edding would have to wait until this sceptred isle was safe from the likes of Harkov and Flerko, and so I settled in to learn how to make a bomb.