India Black in the City of Light Read Free Page A

brougham’s wheels on the gravel. I straightened up after the carriage had lumbered by and was pleased that my driver did not immediately hare off in pursuit. He paused until the creaking of the brougham had faded to silence, then clucked to his horses and we were off.
    Now that my journey had commenced, I treated myself to a bottle of beer and some bread and cheese. The road from Calais to Paris is a good one, smooth and flat and well surfaced, and for that I was grateful. I was thus able to drink my beer without the loss of my front teeth. I had a pleasant meal and then gazed out the window at the fields disappearing in the distance and the charming villages we passed through. Apart from geese and grass, there was nothing of interest to be seen. For my part, I prefer the bustle of traffic to a quiet country lane. Peace and quiet is an unnatural sensation for a Londoner. Now and then we crested a gentle rise and I felt the horses strain against their collars, but for the most part the ride was as smooth and peaceful as a Sunday excursion. Consequently, I dropped off and spent several hours napping.
    I woke a few hours later when the coach slewed right and came to a stop. I peered out the window, expecting to see an inn or public house where we would change horses, but we had stopped in a grove of trees. Immediately I was on my guard and fetched my Webley Bulldog revolver from my purse. I’d brought the pistol along for two reasons. As I have said, the chaps who frequent the wharves of Calais are a rough lot, and I wouldn’t put it past my driver to have decided that he might as well take my money by force and perhaps enjoy a bit of skirt on the side. Not, of course, that he would be able to do either of those things with a .442 slug in his chest. The second reason was that there were any number of ruffians out on the road who might be tempted by my beauty. The journey from Calais to Paris has always been a bit dicey, attracting brigands and highwaymen who preyed on the travelers and mail coaches. The Webley was my insurance that I’d make the trip safely.
    I stuck my head out the window. “Why have you stopped?”
    “I wait,” came the reply. “Ze coach ahead eez shangin’ horses. When she leave, we do ze same.”
    I’d chosen my ruffian well. He was an astute fellow. We lingered in the copse for a few minutes and I took the opportunity to have a stiff drink. There would be time to stretch my legs and inspect the lavvy while we switched out the nags. After a quarter of an hour I heard the driver speak softly and the coach jolted forward. Apparently, French was intent on making speed toward Paris and had not lingered at this first stop. Our weary horses clopped slowly into the yard of a coaching inn and I stepped out of the carriage. The innkeeper hurried forward and gestured to the doorway of his establishment, miming washing his hands and face and shoveling food into his mouth. I declined the latter, but repeated his gestures of ablutions. He smiled and indicated I should follow him inside. I instructed the driver to hire the horses (at a reasonable rate, mind you, although I’d no idea what that might be). I reckoned this trip would cost me a pretty penny, but I don’t like being told to wait behind like a good little woman, and I wasn’t about to miss a chance to exchange lingering glances with French over a glass of champagne.
    I performed my toilette and purchased some boiled eggs and hard rolls. When I ventured outside, a new set of ponies was being pushed into the traces and the driver was returning from the lavvy, buttoning his trousers as he walked. Well, I hadn’t hired him for his manners. He downed a brimming glass of wine, stuffed a loaf into his pocket and gestured me aboard.
    I was staring out the smudged window of the coach when the clatter of hoofbeats on the cobbles drew my attention. A band of travelers cantered into the inn’s yard. There were four of them and they were a rum-looking lot,