India Black in the City of Light (4 page)

He opened the door of the carriage for me and gave me a hand up. I was aware of a presence in the seat opposite me, but it was impossible to make out any details of face or figure in the darkness. Then French reappeared, breathing heavily and bearing Dunstan’s body. I helped drag the poor driver’s corpse into the brougham, where it lay sprawled across my feet and those of Cutliffe.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” said French, “but we’ll find a village soon and make the proper arrangements.”

I settled myself, propping my feet on Dunstan’s body (well, he was past caring, wasn’t he?), setting the Bulldog onto the seat beside me under my outspread skirt and placing the Tranter in my lap with my hand cupped loosely around the grip. It would be the work of only a second to grasp it firmly, cock the hammer and level it at my companion in the brougham.

I felt the coach sway as French climbed into the driver’s seat and set the horses in motion. They were nervous buggers, surging forward as the reins flicked across their rump. We jolted off at a fast trot.

Cutliffe proved to be a fine companion on our journey, as he remained resolutely silent. That suited me, as I had little to say to the traitorous bastard and I was still seething at the thought of my lost luggage. I was curious to see what the fellow looked like, however, and I was glad when the first wan rays of sunlight penetrated the gloom of the brougham’s interior and I could make out my surroundings. First, I had a good look at Dunstan and wished I hadn’t, for he was lying with his face turned toward me and I could see the blackened hole in his forehead. The driver had been unlucky, for the shot had been a matter of chance; no one could have seen clearly enough in the darkness to place such a well-aimed blast. Dunstan had been a bulky fellow with a full beard and thick, stumpy fingers. He looked like a capable fellow and would no doubt have done his best to drive away the attackers, but for the misfortune of being gunned down at the beginning of the fight. My examination of Disraeli’s man complete, I stole a glance at the Russian agent.

Albert Cutliffe did not look like a spy. But then, neither did I. The Great Hairy Character upstairs dispenses his favors in a most un-Christian manner, for I had been blessed with skin like alabaster, a mass of tumbling dark curls and blue eyes that made you look at me twice, if you weren’t already looking at the splendid figure the Almighty also had seen fit to bestow upon me. Cutliffe, on the other hand, was a bespectacled fellow with thinning ginger hair, a mustache that needed trimming and the calculating expression of a stoat surveying the chicken coop. He was a nasty little specimen. If the fellow had been a merchant I’d have counted my change twice, but the mandarins at the India Office had seen fit to hire the chap and entrust him with some pretty important stuff.

He had been dozing, but he must have felt my eyes upon him, for his popped open and I saw an expression of surprise there which he quickly masked with indifference. We stared at each other for a moment, and then he broke the silence.

“What a pleasant surprise, waking to such a vision.” The voice was as I remembered from last night, an unpleasant, grating whine that instantly set my teeth on edge. I hadn’t been predisposed to like the fellow anyway, but his appearance and that dreadful voice had removed any last vestige of civility.

“I assume you haven’t any experience with women, Cutliffe, or you wouldn’t trot out such a feeble line.”

That earned me a baleful look. He shifted on his seat and nudged Dunstan’s body with the toe of his boot.

“Too bad about this one. I trust the prime minister will see that the widow and children get a nice pension.” He pursed his lips. “Oh, dear. I’d forgotten that we’re talking about a servant of the British government. The poor woman and the kiddies will be lucky to get a letter of condolence.”

I hadn’t intended to converse with the rogue, but I found him deuced annoying. “I suppose you think your Russian masters give a toss about you?”

His raised a ginger eyebrow. “But of course they do. So much so that they’re exchanging one of Disraeli’s best agents for me.”

“If he’d been one of the prime minister’s
best
agents, I doubt he would have been caught,” I said lightly. “And the same goes for you, of course. I can hardly think that you’re very accomplished at this spying game if you’ve been apprehended.” I didn’t believe my own guff, but it gave me some pleasure to wind up Cutliffe.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t taking the bait. He gave me a placid smile and looked down at the revolver in my lap.

“I confess I am rather shocked to see a woman ride to the rescue. Has the British Empire fallen to such a state of decrepitude that it now recruits members of the fairer sex as agents?”

“Oh, women are naturals at this espionage game. After all, we spend our lives telling lies to men like you. Do you know your Dante?” I asked. “Do you remember where the traitors spend eternity? The ninth circle of hell. You know, the circle right next to Beelzebub himself, reserved for those who betray their countries.”

Cutliffe snorted disdainfully. “How very English you sound. All this talk of treachery and betrayal. Had I been paid a decent wage, I wouldn’t have felt the need to augment my salary with a stipend from the Russians.”

“I see. It wasn’t treason, merely a commercial transaction.”

“I expect you know all about that sort of thing. I don’t suppose you work for the government just because you enjoy it.”

Damnation, this fellow was a cool one. Inadvertently, he’d touched a nerve with that comment. As I have mentioned, I had been blackmailed into my first mission for the British government by French himself, the poncy bastard. Thereafter, I’d done my bit for the Sceptered Isle because running a going concern like Lotus House is a bit less exciting than chasing Russian spies and protecting Queen Vicky from assassination. On the other hand, I’d begun to fret at the rather cavalier way French and the prime minister just assumed I’d be happy to go undercover with anarchists and track down murderers without a farthing of compensation. I’d been meaning to speak to French about that very issue, and soon.

I checked my temper and gave Cutliffe a superior smile. “Has it escaped your notice that I’m the one with the gun and you’re the bloke in the handcuffs?”

Thereafter, we called it a draw and rode in sullen silence. The sun had cleared the horizon by the time we arrived at the next hamlet. I looked out the window as French eased the brougham off the road and saw a few houses of plaster and wood, with the obligatory geese foraging in the gardens and lines of washing swaying gently in the breeze. Wisps of smoke from a dozen chimneys trailed lazily into the sky. A cock crowed loudly. I was a bit disappointed, for rural France appeared similar to rural England, which is to say it looked deadly dull. I hoped we had found an inn at which to procure a decent meal and a belt of brandy, for I was feeling peckish. All my victuals and drink were destined to line my former coachman’s stomach.

I thought longingly of a feather bed and soft sheets. My eyes were gritty from lack of sleep and I’d begun to yawn, but I knew French would veto any attempt to stop until we reached Paris, which would be, by my reckoning, a good many hours from now. I should just have to make do with that brandy.

I peered out the window as French drove the team past the front door of a rambling two-story inn of pale limestone that gleamed in the soft morning light. Large white shutters were still closed over the windows, indicating the guests were not yet stirring, but as we trundled by the huge wooden door, the landlord dragged it open and watched us pass. He was a slender fellow sporting a noble Roman nose, close-set eyes and a clay pipe that emitted clouds of smoke. He caught sight of me and smiled hospitably. Then he stared curiously at the bullet holes in the coach. French continued on, driving around the side of the building into a cobblestoned yard surrounded by outbuildings. French pulled the team to a halt as a skinny youth with spots emerged from a shed, scratching an armpit. French greeted the boy cheerily and asked a question. French was speaking French, of course, no doubt learned from a private tutor. While I speak no Frog, I recognized the inflection in French’s voice. The youth raked a bit of straw from his hair and mumbled an answer. French tossed the reins to him and jumped down from the driver’s seat.

He stuck his head through the window. “I’m going to speak to the owner. I’ve asked the boy to hold the horses until I return.”

“We’re in need of food and drink,” I said. “At least I am. And if I am forced to express a preference, bring the drink first.”

“Naturally,” said French.

“What about this fellow?” I asked. “Won’t he scream his head off?”

“No. He’ll remain silent. We have an arrangement.”

I sighed in exasperation. “I suppose he gave you his word.”

“I did,” said Cutliffe.

“He did,” echoed French. “He has agreed not to draw attention to himself or to try to escape.”

“Is that why you posted me outside the coach with a revolver last night?”

“That was merely a precaution,” said French.

He walked off and Cutliffe and I stared gloomily at each other. Call me a pessimist, but I figured the slimy Judas would bolt at the first opportunity. I certainly would. It’s all very well to go around shaking hands and mouthing platitudes about trust and so forth, but when a fellow has betrayed his country I doubt he’ll scruple at breaking his pledge when his freedom is at stake. And despite his fine words to the contrary, I suspect French didn’t altogether trust Cutliffe either, hence his instructions of last night.

Cutliffe and I waited, listening to the sounds of a sleepy French village coming to life. Hens scratched and clucked in the stable yard. Geese honked and gabbled and strutted about. I could smell the smoke of cooking fires and the odor of sizzling meat. My mouth watered. French was certainly taking his confounded time parleying with the landlord.

After an interminable wait (I’m not at my most patient when tired, hungry and bored), two men strolled into view. French had a complacent air about him while the landlord looked smug, which I surmised meant that many of the Queen’s shillings had passed hands.

French opened the door and leaned in. “We’ll be changing to one of the owner’s carriages here. The boy will drive us the rest of the way. Right now, he’s going to move the brougham into one of the outbuildings so it can’t be seen. The landlord will provide us breakfast and then we’ll be on our way.”

The youth had already climbed into the driver’s seat and he guided the team with a sure hand into a large, open barn at the back of the property. Cutliffe and I crawled out, stiff and weary, and stretched luxuriously. The boy unhooked the horses from their harnesses and led them off for a well-deserved rest. I found a seat on an empty crate and peered around me. The barn had seen better days. The boards had sprung, the roof was missing several shingles and shafts of sunlight filtered through the gloom. The floor was of beaten earth. The odor of pigs was overwhelming. I was forced to acknowledge that my trip was not going at all as planned.

French motioned to Cutliffe. “Let’s take a walk.”

The little toad dutifully followed French out the door and around the building. Unfortunately, they remained close enough to the barn that I was left in no doubt of the purpose of their expedition. They returned just in time to meet the landlord at the door. He bore a tray from which wafted the most amazing odors. Say what you will about the Frogs, they’re rather good at this cooking business.

French directed Cutliffe to a seat on a bale of straw and fetched a plate for him. I would have tortured the turncoat by eating in front of him, but French is the epitome of the English gentleman and wouldn’t dream of mistreating a prisoner. Thus I suffered the indignity of watching a Russian spy dig into a plate of eggs and ham while I sniffed the air hungrily and cursed French (silently, I might add, for he was the one dishing up the comestibles). Finally, I’d a plate in front of me and I tucked into it like a stevedore. I had three eggs, a slab of fried ham and a loaf of bread slathered with golden butter, and I polished it all off with a quart of milk fresh from the cow.

I swabbed up the last of a yolk with a crust of bread and sighed contentedly.

French eyed my empty plate. “Should I fetch another loaf? Or perhaps the landlord has a side of beef handy.”

I patted my lips delicately. “That’s the first proper meal I’ve had in a long time.”

“I’m glad I wasn’t standing between you and the tray.”

“You’d have presented no obstacle.”

“So I gather.” French fetched a cheroot from his pocket and struck a match on the sole of his boot. He smoked silently while I yawned. It was going to be deuced hard to stay awake for the rest of the journey. I could happily have stretched out on the floor of that barn and slept for the rest of the day, notwithstanding the odor of
eau de porcine
.

“How much longer to Paris?” I asked.

“We’ll arrive in the early morning hours,” said French. “Barring further encounters with highwaymen.”

“I think they
were
thieves. My coach was in a shabby state. My luggage was inside the coach. They didn’t even pause as they galloped past. All that baggage on your shiny black brougham would have looked very inviting.” I glanced at Cutliffe and lowered my voice. “How did he react when those horsemen attacked you?”

“He was surprised, and scared. I don’t think he was shamming.”

“But you think they might have been Russians, or sent by the Russians to rescue him?”

“I don’t know what to think. I’m sure the Russians would like to have Cutliffe without having to give up Harkwright in return. If the tables were turned, we’d be glad to get our man back and hold on to Cutliffe. So I suppose it isn’t out of the question that the Russians tried to fetch him.”

“He seems to be a model prisoner,” I observed.

“Wouldn’t you be? If he tries to escape, he knows we’ll turn right around and head for England, where he’ll spend the rest of his life in gaol. Provided he’s not hung, of course.”