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

by Carol K. Carr

  “Is everything arranged?” asked French.

  “Count on it, guv.”

  “Cheeky sod,” I said. “You’d better be right or there won’t be enough left of any of us to make a good meal for the pigeons.”

  “Stop bickering,” said French. “We still have much to do today.”

  We hurried back to Lotus House to do it.

  * * *

  There’s nothing like a bit of bunting to bring out the patriot in an Englishman. Despite the clinging mist, thousands of loyal men, women and children had thronged Trafalgar Square to pay homage to the poor souls who had died in the Indian Mutiny of 1857. The occasion might be melancholy, but the crowd was festive, with vendors hawking chestnuts, pies and muffins. Some enterprising folk had erected stalls around the edge of the park and were ladling up tea and mulled cider for customers. Newsboys darted through the horde hawking the latest broadsheets. Nobs in top hats and working men in flat caps jostled for space while children scampered underfoot and women chattered gaily.

  I had no idea where my fellow conspirators were, except for Harkov, who was no doubt just now having a natter with a group of foreigners in Lyon about conditions in English factories. At a previous meeting we’d agreed to observe the impending carnage separately. Flerko had expressed a fear of our intrepid band being discovered and easily captured if we attended as a group, and no amount of discussion would convince him that the odds of being identified as the perpetrators of the chaos were virtually nonexistent. I’d have liked French at my side, but we’d agreed that we should abide by the group’s decision and not risk being seen together. That is how I came to be standing alone on the steps surrounding Nelson’s Column, with a fine view of the grandstand. Of course, I wasn’t alone, for the steps were thronged with people, and I had to employ a sharp elbow and the occasional shove to maintain my view. I wouldn’t have waded into the middle of this seething mass except that I knew where the infernal machines were located, and I planned to be as far away as possible if our plans went awry and the bombs exploded. Not that I expected them to, you understand, but a good agent always has a contingency plan. In this instance, mine included attaching myself like a limpet to the admiral’s column in the event there actually were any explosions today and the crowd turned into a surging, panicked mob.

  A file of elderly blokes dressed in uniform and sporting a variety of medals and ribbons began to totter onto the grandstand. I presumed these were the military wallahs who’d been responsible for the mutiny in the first place, turning a blind eye and a deaf ear to the grumblings and discontents of the Indian troops. Dealing with the issues would have required foregoing port at lunch and an afternoon nap. Ironic, isn’t it, that the blokes who sat behind desks issuing orders get the medals and the invitations to the celebrations, while the poor devils who risked their lives on the field of battle have to make do with half pay and a hand-whittled crutch? But I digress.

  The generals and colonels and what have you were followed onto the grandstand by a line of dignitaries, who’d clearly dined well at lunch and now looked plump, pink and slightly boozy, sporting ceremonial robes representing the Society of Squint-Eyed Jewelers, the Worshipful Company of Drunken Brewers and other notable London guilds. It was quite a sight, those rows of fellows looking stiff and very stately in their glittering uniforms and scarlet robes. A few of the chaps were kitted out in dark suits and respectable headgear, and among them I spotted Stoke, looking as though he’d swallowed a cup of hemlock before ascending the grandstand. A thin, stooped figure in a top hat and pince-nez stepped forward and lifted his hands. The crowd strained forward as one, ears cocked. It takes a prodigious voice to address a crowd in Trafalgar Square, and this chap wasn’t up to the task. He gave it all he had, but no one past the first few rows could hear a word. This being a London crowd, the fragile old coot soon learned of their displeasure. From the back of the crowd, where the tough boys and louts had gathered looking for a chance to pick a pocket or steal a purse, came a rising chorus of catcalls and hooting. The old fellow’s face grew red, and he appeared fussed as he struggled to project over the shouts of “Speak up, there,” and “Can’t ’ear you, Granddad.”

  And then came an interruption of a different sort. I couldn’t see from my vantage point, but the crowd shifted and muttered, and I heard the whoops and cries of a youthful and undisciplined mob surging toward the square. Some of the fossilized gentlemen on the grandstand stood up and looked about anxiously, no doubt reminded of the war cries of the sepoy regiments who’d turned on them during the mutiny and wondering how to find immediate transport to the rear. The guild members and the other dignitaries craned their necks and looked annoyed. Things were not going as planned. The thin bloke in the top hat stuttered to a halt, looking, I thought, rather relieved at the disruption. Behind him a few of the dignitaries, including the lord mayor of the city, held a hurried confab, and one of them gestured peremptorily to Stoke, who’d been sitting quietly in his seat feigning complete ignorance of the developing situation. The last thing I saw before all hell broke loose was Stoke getting a flea in his ear from the lord mayor.

  Then the crowd shuddered around me and from the edge of the square came hoarse shouts and the sound of women screaming. Over the noise of the crowd I heard the eldritch cry of what appeared to be an Apache war party.

  “’Ere, wot’s that?” exclaimed the fellow next to me. He turned to his friend. “Boost me up, Dick, so I can see wot’s goin’ on.”

  Dick steadied himself with one hand on the base of the column and crooked a leg for his friend to stand upon. His friend clambered up, clinging precariously to the base of the column.

  “See anything, Ned?” the lifter called.

  “Oi, there’s a mob o’ street arabs up by the church, runnin’ through the crowd like a pack o’ ruddy wolves.”

  I knew he referred to the venerable St. Martin-in-the-Fields, which stands at the northeast corner of the square.

  “Oh, what’s happening?” I cried, doing my damnedest to imitate the type of hysterical female I despise. I had no idea where the other anarchists might be in this crowd, but if any of them happened to catch sight of me, I’d be looking just as shocked as everyone else.

  The people around me had grown uneasy, and at Ned’s words there was an apprehensive ripple through the audience.

  “What are they doing?” a voice shouted.

  Ned stared keenly in the direction of the tumult. “They’re liftin’ up the ladies’ skirts, the miserable little sods. And they’re pushin’ and shovin’ the men. Crikey! They’re ’eaded this way!”

  Indeed they were. The crowd around the church had fallen back among much confusion. It was as though the infantry had been routed by a cavalry charge. Men, women and children were surging toward me, intent on fleeing the pesky lads who had appeared from nowhere and seemed intent on creating havoc. A woman charged past me, dragging a small boy by the arm. His feet hardly touched the ground as they flew by. Pretty young girls, their bonnets askew and curls bobbing, pelted past, shrieking deliriously. Two portly gentlemen careened through the crowd, clutching their hats and walking sticks and using the latter to good effect to clear a path. The panic of their flight infected the multitude around the column. Ned clambered down, and he and Dick departed posthaste, shoving an elderly woman to the ground to expedite their escape. I hung on grimly, trying to avoid being swept away in the flood.

  I saw my first urchin then, darting through the law-abiding citizens with a maniacal grin plastered on his face and a kidskin wallet in his hand. More members of the dirty, ragged gang whisked by, yelling like banshees and pursued by a determined group of constables, to little effect. I watched one policeman swing his baton at a boy’s head, but the object of the attack danced away and disappeared into the crowd. The lads were everywhere, taunting the constables and terrorizing the crowd, overturning rubbish bins and pelting the constables with rotten oranges and apples. The noise was deafening, what with the war cries of the
youngsters, the squeals of frightened women and children, the angry shouts of the men in the crowd and the roaring curses of the police. I clung to my post and pasted an anxious frown on my face.

  A group of nippers peeled off from the general melee and pushed through the crowd toward the rubbish bin containing one of our bombs. I thought I spotted Vincent but couldn’t be sure, really, as those bloody tykes all looked the same to me. But it was Vincent, for as the boys approached the bin they formed a phalanx round it, creating a barrier, and I saw my young friend deftly remove the lid and plunge his head into the interior. Crumpled newspapers, orange peels and other trash spurted from the bin as Vincent burrowed deeper. Then the deluge of garbage halted for a time, and finally he emerged with a wooden box in his hand, which he handed off to a pinched-face, grimy lad who sported a fine grey bowler (recently acquired, I venture to say). The lad sprinted off, headed southwest for Cockspur Street. Then Vincent rallied his ragged warriors, and the pack loped off in the direction of the shrubbery where another infernal machine waited. They made short work of the decorative plantings, ripping up the shrubs by the roots while Vincent huddled behind them, deftly handling the container housing the bomb. He was as cool and efficient as an army sapper, and I felt rather proud of the little scab, though I’d no intention of telling him that. He’s insufferable enough as it is.

  The chimes of St. Martin-in-the-Fields struck the quarter hour, and I held my breath as the last remnants of the crowd scattered to the four winds and the wild boys pursued them, hooting and jeering, while the constables raced after the lads in a futile attempt to lay hands on them. The square was growing quieter as the mob disappeared into the streets around it. Figures milled about on the grandstand. There was a great deal of gesticulating and shouting, and I knew Stoke was bound to catch hell. The press would have a field day as well. Confoundedly unlucky for the superintendent, but he’d have to bear it until French and I could capture Grigori, and then Stoke could take all the credit and wallow in the public’s adulation while French and I disappeared into the shadows, eschewing the thanks of a grateful nation in favor of anonymity.

  I climbed down from my perch then and picked my way through the litter left behind by the fleeing throng. There were some jolly nice purses lying about and one silk bonnet that was rather fetching, but I regretfully passed up the chance to rifle through the handbags. Lucre is always welcome, as is a free addition to the wardrobe, but I didn’t want to attract attention to myself. I hurried west along Cockspur Street, turning into a mews a few blocks from the square. I opened the second door on the right and found Vincent and French counting packets of dynamite.

  “Well done, Vincent. Your boys were brilliant.”

  “Aye,” said Vincent, distractedly chewing a nail. “But we got a problem. We only got four of the bombs.”

  “Four!” Indeed, there were four boxes sitting on the floor of the mews. The three of us stared at them with apprehension.

  “I got the two unner the grandstand and the one in them bushes and one in that rubbish bin. But there weren’t no bomb in that bin at the southeast corner.”

  “There were five,” I insisted.

  “You sure about that?”

  “Absolutely. Thick Ed made five bombs. The fifth was supposed to be in the bin near the southeast corner of the square.”

  “And I just tole you, I looked there and there weren’t no bomb in that bin.”

  “Could one of your friends have taken it? After all, you could sell the dynamite for a goodly sum,” I said. “Those boys—”

  “They’re me mates,” said Vincent flatly.

  It is sometimes better to retreat than advance. “And that’s good enough for me,” I said. “So what happened?”

  Vincent went to work on the fingernail again. “Could that Thick Ed chap ’ave changed ’is mind? Maybe put one of them bombs someplace else?”

  French and I stared at each other. If Thick Ed had moved one of the bombs . . . We turned and raced for the square.

  SIXTEEN

  Trafalgar was crawling with bobbies and a passel of grim-looking coves in street clothes surveying the scattered programs, hats, purses and other detritus left by the departing crowd. Superintendent Stoke was huddled with a group of dignitaries at the bottom of the grandstand, nursing his moustache.

  “We can’t be seen with him,” I said. “Any member of the cell could be hanging about, watching. In fact, we shouldn’t be seen with Vincent, either.”

  French pulled a notebook and pencil from his pocket and scribbled a message. “Vincent, you’ll have to get this to Stoke. Mind those bobbies. They’re liable to collar you and cart you off to gaol.”

  French watched Vincent slip away. “Let’s go back to the mews. I asked Stoke to meet us there.”

  We hurried back up Cockspur Street to relative safety. French pulled the door to, but left a half-inch crack through which he scrutinized the cobblestoned yard. “No sign of any of the anarchists, but that doesn’t mean one of them didn’t see us in the square with Vincent and follow us here.”

  “What do you think happened? To the fifth bomb, I mean?”

  “Damned if I know. It should have been there. The only explanation that I can think of is that Thick Ed came back after he planted the bombs and moved that one. But why move that one and not the rest? It doesn’t make sense. And if Thick Ed did move the bomb, why hasn’t it exploded? Could he have removed it entirely? Why would he do that?” French peered through the crack in the door. “Here come Vincent and Stoke.”

  The superintendent shoved open the door and stumped inside, followed by his ragged guide. A drop of spittle hung from one end of Stoke’s moustache, and he was breathing hard from the rapid walk. He had the irritable, distracted and slightly panicked air of a colonel who’s just been told his battalion has been demolished by an inferior race.

  “I’m needed at the square,” he barked. “What’s this about?”

  It would be an understatement to say that Stoke was not best pleased to hear that we couldn’t account for the fifth bomb. Stoke’s face flushed the colour of old bricks, and his jowls quivered like a turkey’s wattle. His moustache lay in two lank strands around his mouth, which hadn’t closed since French and I had delivered the news. The old copper stood gaping at us so long that I was mentally composing the anonymous letter to the home secretary that would advise him of Stoke’s demise from apoplexy when, at long last, the superintendent rallied. His mouth snapped shut, and he shot me a malevolent stare, as hard and sharp as forged steel.

  “This is what happens when an amateur is permitted to play at spying. I was against using you from the beginning, Miss Black. I see that my worst fears have been confirmed. This was your plan, and it’s gone disastrously wrong. I hope the prime minister is satisfied. For my part, I shall have nothing further to do with you. And now I must find that device. If one of my fellows is killed when he stumbles upon the blasted thing, I shall have your head.” Vincent opened the door for him, but Stoke gave him a halfhearted cuff on the ear and stalked out.

  Vincent uttered an oath and took a step after the superintendent, but French grabbed his collar and held him back.

  “Don’t bother,” he said. “I have something for you to do now.”

  “But the bastard hit me,” said Vincent, rubbing his already reddening earlobe. “I won’t stand for that, guv.”

  “Neither will I, Vincent. But we’ll deal with Stoke later. I need you to get back to the square and see if Stoke’s men turn up the fifth bomb. Someone in that cell has a plan of his own. If he’s moved the device, he may be watching the square, waiting for it to explode.” He patted Vincent on the back. “Bring us a report at Lotus House. I’ll be waiting there with India.”

  The happy news that French would be spending a few hours at my establishment might have been expected to cheer me, but it was confoundedly difficult to muster any romantic feelings under the circumstances. Stoke’s indictment of me was understandable; after all, he’d be the
poor bugger raked over the coals in the papers for the chaos that had overwhelmed the memorial. It would be bloody unfair, of course, as the newspaper johnnies wouldn’t know the bit about the four bombs that had been disarmed by the unruly gang of urchins, and the brilliant mind behind the plan (that is to say, mine), instead focusing only on the public relations disaster that had occurred. The lord mayor would be blaming the Home Office, the Home Office would point an accusing finger at Scotland Yard, the editorials would call for a thorough investigation of the matter, and Stoke would be blamed by everybody. Things would drag on until the next anarchist attack, and then the whole cycle would start again.

  I didn’t permit the superintendent’s words to trouble me unduly. I was more concerned with unraveling the mystery of the fifth bomb. So was French. We retreated to Lotus House, closeted ourselves in the study with a good fire and a bottle to hand and applied ourselves to working out what had happened. French thought Thick Ed the most likely candidate for removing the device, but I pointed out that we’d openly discussed the location of the bombs and the timetable for planting and arming them and therefore any one of our small cell could have been the culprit.

  “Could someone else in the group be working as an informant?” I asked.

  “That’s a possibility, although Schmidt and Flerko seem dedicated to anarchist ideals. Thick Ed doesn’t strike me as the ideological type, but he seems happy enough to be building bombs. He probably sells his expertise to the highest bidder. I’m not as sure of Bonnaire’s views. He says and does all the right things but doesn’t appear particularly enraged by the system, the way Flerko is.” French’s eyes met mine briefly. “Perhaps you know him better.”

  “Mmm,” I murmured. “I’d agree with your assessment of his commitment to the cause,” I said neutrally.

  “And then there’s Harkov.”

  “It couldn’t be him. He’s eating snails and decrying the working conditions of the poor at the moment.”