India Black in the City of Light (3 page)

The driver glanced over his shoulder and uttered an oath. “
Non, non.
We must fly!”

“Drive on,” I screamed. “We must help them.”

In the pale light I saw my coachman raise his arm, the whip in his hand a thin black line against the moon. When he brought it down, it would be with the purpose of laying into the horses. I had no intention of returning to the safety of the nearest lighted inn, not if French was fighting for his life.

I jumped from the coach just as the whip cracked over the nags and the coach lurched forward. The driver gave a shout and the horses took to their heels. I hit the ground hard enough to jar my teeth and bruise my shoulder. I felt a flash of irritation at the feckless driver and wondered how and when I would reclaim my lost luggage. I’d half a mind to turn my Bulldog on the fellow and shoot him. I didn’t intend to kill him, of course, just wing him. Blood loss would surely weaken him and I’d have the opportunity to track him down just as soon as I had dispatched the desperados who were besieging French. But any thoughts of rescuing my bags disappeared at the sound of the fusillade up ahead. The road stretched away from me, a pallid ribbon in the moonlight. I gathered my skirts in one hand and, brandishing my pistol in the other, I sprinted toward the sound of battle.

And it had become a battle. The brougham had come to a stop in the road and was now encircled by a gang of men. I could hear the metallic clang of iron shoes striking the graveled road as the horses reared and plunged. They were snorting and neighing frantically, and the brougham rattled and creaked. Then a volley of shots rang out and I recognized the roar of French’s own weapon, his beloved Webley Boxer. The pistol uses a .577 caliber bullet, which is roughly the size of a small cigar. If you’re unlucky enough to be hit by the bloody thing, it’ll blow a hole in you big enough for a cat to climb through. The sound of French’s gun was reassuring, but his attackers responded with a barrage of shots that peppered the coach like a spatter of hail. I was close enough now to see the orange muzzle flashes from the guns and to smell the smoke that hugged the ground like a London fog. I wished I hadn’t seen the blaze of the guns for the light dazzled me and it was damned difficult to find a target.

But I reckoned I’d soon figure out which chap needed potting so I plunged forward, waving my Bulldog and screaming a high-pitched war cry. I felt rather than saw a pause in the action as my caterwauling registered with the participants in the fray. No doubt the highwaymen were having a brief think, wondering what the devil a demented female was doing bursting out of the night into their midst.

Then the action resumed. I could see the bulk of the brougham, pitching about as the terrified animals lunged in the traces, surrounded by four men on horseback. As I watched, one wheeled his steed and leveled a revolver at the brougham. He fired at point-blank range and wood splintered with a sharp
crack
that echoed through the misty air. I skidded to a stop and raised the Bulldog. I didn’t have much hope of hitting the fellow, for his horse was capering wildly, but I fired off a round anyway. I missed the bloody thug by a mile, but the report from my weapon had one singular effect: it drew the attention of the highwaymen from French’s brougham. Unfortunately, all four now turned their focus upon me. Damnation. I hadn’t really had time to formulate a plan of attack beyond rushing to the carriage with my revolver in hand. Further action on my part was clearly required, as these fellows showed no signs of leaving the scene.

Well, it is not wise to linger very long in one place during a gunfight, so I darted to my left and raised the Bulldog again, this time drawing a bead (at least, I hoped I was—it was too dark to tell, really) on the chap who’d fired into the brougham. I pulled the trigger and the revolver leapt in my hand. I heard a stifled cry and one of the thieves went flying off his mount, arms flailing. I stood for a moment in some consternation, as the victim was not the man at whom I’d been aiming, but then I shrugged. Obviously, the sights on my Bulldog needed an adjustment. I’d have French see to that, just as soon as I’d rescued him.

As for French, he now recognized that salvation was at hand and I heard his Boxer bark. I took a third shot at one of the mounted figures, and then fired off another. French was strafing the bandits from the interior of the brougham. One of his shots scored a horse’s flank and the animal screamed. The sound shattered the nerve of the attackers and I heard a guttural shout. Then three of the horsemen spurred their charges and pounded away down the road. The fourth fellow, the one I’d shot, was on his feet and looking for his mount, but when his compatriots bolted, he gave up the search and took to his heels across the fields. It was bloody lucky that they had run, for I had only one shot left in the Bulldog and my spare ammunition was in my purse, which was halfway to Calais by now.

Peace crept across the battleground. The smoke drifted away, leaving only its thick stench behind. The brougham’s nags stopped plunging and stood stamping nervously, whickering softly. The door to the coach opened slowly and French stepped cautiously to the ground, Boxer in his hand. I saw the wicked gleam of the barrel in the moonlight.

“Hello, French.”

His shoulders sagged. In relief, I hoped, and not in disappointment. He shoved his pistol into his waistband. “I knew you were back there somewhere. Where the devil have you been? I thought I’d have to fight off these fellows by myself.”

I admit to being a bit stung at this reaction. I do hate being predictable. However, French being a man, I thought it highly unlikely that he had actually known I was following him; he was just too damned stubborn to admit he was glad I’d turned up. I had saved the man’s life, after all, and his cuff links as well, and
some
gratitude would have been in order. I advised French of this in an acid tone. The fellow had the impertinence to laugh.

“You’re quite right, India. My thanks to you. Now then, let’s find Dunstan and get back on the road. Where’s your driver, by the way?”

“My driver is headed to the nearest public house, where he’ll no doubt rifle through my luggage and steal anything of value,” I said. “Who’s Dunstan?”

“Dunstan is
my
driver.”

“Dunstan. Doesn’t sound very French to me.”

French had shut the door of the carriage and was reloading his revolver. “That’s because he’s English.”

“So you
did
have another man along with you. After telling me I couldn’t come.”

“Dunstan possessed some qualities which you do not.”

“Such as?”

“He’s a dab hand at taking orders.”

“Oh,” I said huffily. “If that’s all—”

“Dunstan,” French shouted, which startled me so I nearly dropped my Bulldog. “Are you there, man?”

“Perhaps he made a run for it when the shooting started,” I suggested, rather smugly.

“I’m afraid he’s taken a bullet. I distinctly felt the carriage lurch after the shooting started, as though he’d fallen, and the horses were running unchecked until those ruffians snagged a halter.”

“Oh. Well I hope he’s only wounded.”

“I say, would someone mind telling me what is happening out there?” The voice was thin and high, with an undercurrent of fear.

“It’s alright, Cutliffe,” said French. “We’ve driven off the robbers.”

“I hear a woman’s voice.”

“You do indeed. She was traveling in a coach behind us and has come to our assistance. She is also an agent of the British government, so do not think you can prey on her sympathy.”

“I shouldn’t dream of it,” the disembodied voice said drily.

“Stay where you are,” French ordered. “If you try to leave the coach, my associate will shoot you.”

“That would disappoint my Russian employers,” said Cutliffe.

“But not me,” French replied.

“I’ve only one bullet left,” I whispered to him.

“Then make it count,” French hissed. In a louder voice, he said, “I’m going to fetch a light. I want you to hold the horses and keep an eye on this door. The other door is locked tight. If our friend in there tries to leave, don’t hesitate to pull the trigger.”

French patted the horses and cooed at them until they’d settled, then motioned me forward. “Put your hand here, on the cheek piece, and hold on.” He guided my hand to a leather strap along the horse’s head and slid my fingers inside it. The horses had worked themselves into a lather during the attack and the leather was damp beneath my fingers. There was also a pungent odor of sweat and fear hanging like a cloud over the nags.

I gripped the bridle tentatively. I don’t know much about horses, and what I do know, I don’t like. They’re untrustworthy brutes, apt to jump like a demented kangaroo if you touch an ear or wave a handkerchief in their face.

“What do I do if they start to move?”

“They won’t,” said French with an assurance I was very far from feeling. “Just pretend they’re your customers and talk to them in a soothing tone.”

“Very amusing,” I said sourly.

French removed the coach lamps from the brougham and lit them. “I’ll leave one by the door, so you’ll have a good shot at Cutliffe if he tries to run.” French lowered his voice. “I just said that for his benefit. He’s a timid fellow.”

“And he calls himself a spy?”

“He did it for the money, not the excitement.”

French hoisted the other lantern and wandered off, calling Dunstan’s name. I stood in the road, grasping the bridle and praying the horses wouldn’t feel the urge for a warm stable and a bucket of grain. I hoped French was right about this Cutliffe fellow and that he wouldn’t try to scarper, for the single bullet in my revolver might hit its target and leave us without a spy to exchange. The Russians might balk at accepting a corpse if I accidentally killed the chap. I was pondering this potential dilemma and cursing French for leaving me alone in the middle of the night on a deserted French road with only a couple of jittery steeds and a Russian spy for company when I heard his footsteps on the gravel.

French came into view, walking ponderously, with a thunderous scowl on his face.

“Dunstan?” I asked.

“Poor fellow,” said French. “He took a bullet to the head. Knocked him clean off the seat.”

“I’m sorry, French. Did you know him well?”

“I just met him in Calais, but he seemed a capital fellow.” He extinguished the lantern in his hand. “I’ll collect his body. We’ll leave him at the next village and I’ll send a telegraph to have him taken back to England.” He scuffed his boot against the ground and breathed a sigh of exasperation. “Bloody hell. This was supposed to be a simple operation. Now I’ve lost a man.”

“May I point out the obvious? That you had nothing to do with Dunstan’s death? That’s down to a pack of thieves.”

“If thieves they were,” French muttered in a low voice.

“You don’t think—”

“That they came for Cutliffe? It’s possible. This road is the most direct route from Calais to Paris, and the odds are that we’d be on it. And information is just like any other commodity. There’s a market for it. Someone could have sold the details of our journey to the Russians.”

“I hate those Slav bastards,” I said. I felt an intense yearning for my missing ammunition. I didn’t want to meet a passel of Russian cutthroats with just one bullet. I expressed my concern to French in a hushed voice.

“We’ll replace the ammunition,” he said. “In the meantime, you can use Dunstan’s weapon. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you used it to gun down one of those devils from tonight.”

I allowed that he would not and French fetched the gun for me. He examined it in the light of the lantern. “A Tranter revolver. Good quality, very little use. Takes a .442 cartridge just like your Bulldog.” He opened the cylinder and spun it gently. “Fully loaded. He didn’t have time to get off a shot.”

“I shall do my best to get one in for him, if the opportunity presents itself.” I took the gun from French. “What’s that?” I asked, looking at the ungainly item in his hand.

He displayed his find. “It’s a pepperbox pistol. Dunstan carried it in his coat pocket. Have you seen one before?”

“No, I haven’t. I’d remember something that ugly.”

It was indeed a homely object, looking more like a cosh than a handgun. It had a grip like a revolver, and what appeared to be a cylinder like a revolver, but there was no barrel. I mentioned this curiosity to French.

“It doesn’t discharge the bullets from a revolving cylinder through a single barrel,” he said. “There are actually multiple barrels.”

“Good God,” I exclaimed. “Do they all go off at once?”

French chuckled. “They’re not supposed to, but it does happen. When one charge ignites, it can touch off all the others.”

“Sounds dangerous,” I said.

“But useful,” said French, tucking the pepperbox into his pocket. “Now then, I’ll drive and you ride inside to keep an eye on Cutliffe. We’ll find an inn and change the horses. These poor chaps are done in.”

“You don’t think we’ll attract attention? The brougham has taken a few shots, Cutliffe is in irons and I’ve no luggage.”

“Never mind about that. I’ve yet to meet an innkeeper who wouldn’t turn a blind eye if the price is right. We’ll rent a new vehicle and leave this one behind. No doubt there’s a dress shop between here and Paris, as well.”

I did not relish the idea of purchasing some dowdy item in a dirty French village. I would wait until we arrived in Paris to purchase my wardrobe. I informed French of my decision. “I hope you’ve plenty of money. All of mine is in my purse, or
was.
I expect it’s in my driver’s pocket by now.”

“I can spare a sous or two. You may have to rein in your extravagant taste, however.”

“There’s no chance of that, I’m afraid. I do not plan to return from Paris with a single cheap dress. I’m sure you’ve a connection at a French bank, in the event I need more funds.”

“We’ll talk about that later,” said French, in the time-honored tradition of all men, who can’t abide a frank discussion of finances with a member of the fairer sex. “Let’s move along. I’ve a rendezvous with the Russians and time is wasting.”