India Black in the City of Light Read Online Free PDF Page A

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