Death In Hyde Park

by Robin Paige

  This threat to the Royal lives, coming only eleven months after the assassination of the American president, William McKinley, raised new fears. . . .

  The Times,

  10 August 1902

  Charles Sheridan poured a glass of after-dinner port and handed it to his friend, Bradford Marsden. “Sit down, Marsden,” he said, gesturing to a chair in the smoking room at Sibley House, the Sheridans’ London home. “I want to hear more about this new business enterprise of yours.”

  But Bradford Marsden had picked up the Sunday Times from the table and was reading the front-page headline. “One wonders where this will lead,” he said grimly. “Sounds like a repetition of the bombing at Greenwich Park seven or eight years ago, but with a clearer intent.” He dropped the paper onto the table and sat down in the leather chair opposite Charles. “This sort of thing simply cannot be tolerated, Charles. The Yard must put an end to it, once and for all.”

  Charles Sheridan pulled thoughtfully on his after-dinner pipe. “Well,” he said, “as to this particular incident, it would appear that the bomber has put an end to it—although not quite the end that he anticipated.”

  Charles and Bradford had been friends from childhood, but they hadn’t been close since Bradford had involved himself with Cecil Rhodes and his Rhodesian enterprises. That connection had ended with Rhodes’s death the previous March, and Bradford had created a new investment brokerage business, which was doing quite well, it seemed. His marriage to Rhodes’s goddaughter appeared to be progressing smoothly, too—at least, if one could judge by the way they had behaved at dinner that evening. Edith was intelligent and pretty and had produced a male heir within the first year. No wonder Bradford looked so smugly pleased with things, although Charles had to admit that his friend’s self-assured conviction that this was the best of all possible times grated a bit. He himself saw the world rather differently.

  Bradford, a fair-haired man, rather heavily handsome, put his feet on a leather hassock and lit his cigar. “A pity the idiotic fellow blew himself up, if you ask me. It would have been better if an example could have been made of him—and sweet revenge, as well.”

  “I rather think,” Charles said quietly, “that revenge is not the best course of action. The Anarchists believe that if the police and the courts can be provoked to harsh reactions, they will awaken the anger of the dispossessed and bring on the revolution. And they may be right.” He raised his glass in a mute salute. “After all, it’s happened before, in France and in America.”

  Bradford lifted his glass. “And just how do you know what’s in the Anarchist mind, old chap?” he asked jokingly. “Haven’t gone over to their side, have you?”

  This question, had it been meant seriously, would not have perturbed Charles, for it had been put to him any number of times by his colleagues in the House of Lords, who did not take it kindly when he supported the trade unions or advocated the removal of public education from ecclesiastic control. It did not ruffle him because he knew that his fellow Peers were as heedless of the need for social change as they were of the conditions that propelled it.

  But the landed aristocracy took comfort in their ignorance at the peril of their way of life. England had been changing in very fundamental ways for seventy years now, and the longer this fact was ignored, the harder would be the lesson, when it came. The triumphant rise of science and technology had brought the nation unimaginable riches, but had also shredded the fabric of its closely-knit society. Not only had machines eliminated the need for unskilled manual labor, but they were also rapidly displacing the skilled wheelwrights, coopers, cabinetmakers, smiths, weavers, and others, once the proud flowering of the English laboring class, now tossed on the scrap heap of the unemployed. At the same time, technology had flooded the English agricultural markets with cheap food from around the world, displacing farm workers and undermining the economic foundation of the old aristocracy: the production of their vast lands. Charles saw the crisis looming, and knew that if it came, it would be catastrophic.

  Bradford and his sort, on the other hand, with their keen sense of business and nose for opportunity, represented the promise of England’s future—but only if they recognized that while controlled capitalism would strengthen the entire country, uncontrolled capitalism would surely destroy it. Could they not see that everyone, rich and poor, must have a share in the future, or there would be no future for anyone? Could not some sort of compromise be found which allowed all to share in the opportunities of business and technology, or would the anger and frustration of the dispossessed ignite a final, terrible conflagration?

  So in answer to Bradford’s question, he reached under The Times and retrieved another newspaper, much thinner, scarcely a half-dozen pages. The banner declared it to be the Clarion.

  Bradford frowned. “What are you doing with that garbage?”

  “Better the enemy you know than the one you don’t,” Charles replied mildly, putting the newspaper down again. “The Clarion is sometimes strident, but most of it is quite well written, and it offers some interesting insights into the way these people think. This last issue suggested some ways that the fortune lavished on the Coronation might have been better spent to help those in need. It bears reading, Bradford.”

  Bradford sat forward, frowning. “Answer me this, then, Charles. How is this lot to be dealt with, if not by the police and the courts?”

  “Perhaps by addressing the underlying grievances,” Charles replied. “Wider suffrage, more employment, a more equitable distribution of wealth—”

  “But that would mean the end of the rights of private property!” Bradford exclaimed heatedly. “Is that what you’re after?”

  Charles shrugged. “Perhaps it would only be the end of the monopoly of privilege. Perhaps—”

  There was a knock at the door and the butler entered. “Mr. Frederick Ponsonby to see you, m’lord.”

  Charles and Bradford exchanged glances. Ponsonby was Assistant Personal Secretary and Equerry to His Majesty King Edward VII—in effect, a Royal messenger. Charles sighed and rose from his chair. A visit from this man, particularly at this hour of the evening, did not bode well. “Thank you, Richards. Show him in.”

  The man entered the room. A few years younger than Charles, with a finely-modeled face and a broad forehead, he was graceful and dignified, a courtier to his fingertips. He bowed.

  “Good evening, Sheridan. I’m sorry to trouble you so late. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  Charles smiled. “Ah, Ponsonby,” he said, with as much cordiality as he could muster—although it was not Ponsonby himself that he regretted, but that he had doubtless come on an errand. “Good to see you. You know Bradford Marsden, I believe.”

  Ponsonby bowed slightly. “My congratulations on your successful ventures in South Africa, sir.”

  “And my congratulations on your safe return, Ponsonby,” Bradford said, standing as well. “One day the Boers will thank us.” He stroked his blond moustache. “A pity we had to knock sense into them. All so unnecessary.”

  “A pity indeed,” Ponsonby agreed dryly, his eyes darkening.

  Charles knew that Ponsonby had seen a great deal of rough action during his nearly ten months with the Grenediers and had only recently been invalided home, a newly promoted lieutenant colonel—while Bradford had waited out the war in Rhodesia, a safe distance from the front. Covering the awkwardness, he said, “You’ll have a glass of port, Ponsonby?”

  “Thank you, yes,” Ponsonby replied.

  “Has His Majesty recovered from the excitement of his Coronation?” Charles asked, handing the glass.

  “Quite,” Ponsonby replied, as they all sat down. “He endured the strain very well, although the ceremony must have been physically trying.” He cleared his throat. “And there was that unfortunate incident, which rather marred the day.”

  “You’re referring to the death in Hyde Park, I suppose,” Charles said. “As a matter of fact, Marsden and I were just dis
cussing it.”

  “I was saying that we must put an end to this sort of nonsense,” Bradford put in, getting up to help himself to more port.

  “Yes. Well, the thing of it is,” Ponsonby said, “this incident has caused Their Majesties some considerable distress. Of course, the Queen does not like to show it to the public, but since the incident in Brussels, she has been rather nervous. It seems to have affected her strongly.”

  That near miss would have affected anyone, Charles thought. On 4 April 1900, Edward and Alexandra were passengers on a train to Copenhagen. When it stopped in Brussels, a fifteen-year-old boy dashed forward, thrust a revolver through the window of the Royal coach, and fired two shots before being wrestled to the platform by guards. One of the bullets had whizzed between the two Royal heads, but by a miracle, neither Bertie or Alexandra were hit. To make things worse, this was not an isolated event. Only eleven months before, William McKinley, President of the United States, had been shot at point-blank range by a self-proclaimed Anarchist named Leon Czolgosz, who was put to death less than sixty days later. As he was being strapped into the electric chair, Czolgosz had said, “I killed the President because he was the enemy of the good people. I did it for the good people, the working men of all countries!”

  Ponsonby cleared his throat and said, half-apologetically, “In regard to the Hyde Park event, Sheridan, I wonder if we might have a word alone.”

  Bradford glanced at Charles, his eyebrows raised, and then made for the door, glass in hand. “I’ll just tell the ladies that you’ll join them in a few moments,” he said, and went out.

  Charles felt his heart sink. “What is it?” he asked.

  Ponsonby regarded him thoughtfully. In a quiet voice, he said, “His Majesty regrets having to ask your assistance again, but he would like you to look into the matter. The Hyde Park affair, that is.”

  Charles frowned. “But the bomber is dead. Isn’t that an end to it?”

  “The incident might have been the work of one insane mind,” Ponsonby agreed. “But without some investigation, we cannot be sure. The bomber’s fellow Anarchists attempted to make a show of his funeral. What if one of them hopes to succeed where Messenko failed?” He paused and added, rather more delicately, “His Majesty is also interested in the . . . shall we say, underlying causes of the matter.”

  This assertion took Charles by surprise. He had long known that, while military matters held the Royal interest and foreign affairs were of great importance, social issues scarcely merited a passing thought. The King was quite aware, of course, that there were poor people in London and elsewhere, but he found discussion of the topic rather boring. How the poor lived and died, what they ate or wore, what illnesses afflicted them, what they hoped and feared—these matters were of as little interest to Edward as they had been to his mother Victoria, during the years of her long reign.

  Charles’s skepticism must have shown in his face for Ponsonby added, in an apologetic tone, “I did not make myself clear, I’m afraid. I mean that there may be a foreign angle in all this.”

  “A foreign angle?”

  Ponsonby gave a little shrug. “Our English Anarchists have been a relatively peaceable lot, as I’m sure you know. Marches, demonstrations, speeches, newspapers.” He dropped his glance to the Clarion and raised it again, with just the barest hint of a smile. “French Anarchists, of course, are rather more excitable, as are the Spanish and Russians. They prefer deeds—bombs, arson, assassination—to words. Owing to our leniency in the matter of immigration, a great many of these foreign Anarchists have taken refuge here, and some of their governments would like very much to get them back. We must walk a very fine line between protecting the rights and liberties of the people we have allowed to settle here, and alienating certain foreign powers.” He cleared his throat. “At the same time, we must make certain that these radicals are not infecting our own people with their militant ideas.”

  Charles got up and began to pace. All of this was true. The East End was full of Russians, Poles, Italians, and Jewish immigrants, each group with its own political and social agenda, and all covertly watched by agents of foreign governments. The Foreign Office and the Home Office had the devil of a time dealing with the complex situation, and he had no desire to become entangled in it. What was more, he had conducted one or two personal investigations for the King and he preferred not to conduct any others, if he could help it. But he couldn’t tell Ponsonby this, of course. He had to think of something else.

  He put down his glass and turned back to Ponsonby. “But surely now that Edward is King, he has the unlimited resources of the government to pursue such inquiries. What could I possibly offer?”

  Ponsonby sighed. “Ah, yes, therein lies the problem. Now that he is King, His Majesty knows that a great many persons will tell him only what they think he wishes to hear.” He pursed his lips and regarded Charles thoughtfully. “He is sure that this is not the case with you. And of course, there are many in his government with reasons to conceal important matters from him, particularly when it comes to foreign affairs. I speak confidentially, of course, but you may be aware that there is a great deal of strain at the moment. His Majesty is not anxious to involve Lord Landsdowne in this matter, for instance, or Mr. Balfour. And as far as the Home Office goes—” He paused. “I’m sure you take my meaning.”

  Charles did. Arthur Balfour, the new Prime Minister, was not an admirer of the King, while Lansdowne, the Minister for Foreign Affairs, was, according to all reports, ready to resign over the King’s refusal to grant the Order of the Garter to the Shah of Persia. Clearly, some of Edward’s ministers held the same low opinion that Queen Victoria had held of her oldest son’s ability to be trusted with matters of state.

  “The King does not expect you to handle this matter entirely on your own,” Ponsonby continued. “Rather, he has asked me to arrange for your introduction wherever you think it might be useful, particularly in the Intelligence departments.” He lowered his voice. “I am sorry to have to ask you to do this, Sheridan. But I am also aware that you have a . . . certain sympathy with the cause of the people and a knowledge of some of the parties who may be involved.” His glance fell once again to the Clarion. “You’re simply the best man for the job. In fact,” he added ruefully, “I’m afraid that you may be the only man for the job.”

  Charles stopped pacing. “And what does he wish me to accomplish?” he asked testily.

  “Merely to look into the incident and the circumstances and conditions surrounding it and report back to him what you find. No more, no less than that.” Ponsonby smiled. “It is not all that difficult, really. He is not asking you to crack the case, as our friend Sherlock Holmes might put it.”

  Charles sighed. “Well, then, I suppose I shall do my best. Lady Sheridan and I had arranged to go down to Bishop’s Keep at the weekend, however. I’m seeing Marconi on Saturday, and I hadn’t planned to come back to London before the beginning of next week.”

  “Splendid.” Ponsonby put down his empty glass. “The beginning of the week will do very well; I don’t think there is a great hurry.” He stood, his tone lightening. “Do give my regards to your wife, Sheridan, and tell her that I very much enjoyed Beryl Bardwell’s novel about Dartmoor, which I read while I was in hospital. I must say, I felt it to be more realistic than Doyle’s Hound of the Baskervilles, which was rather more Gothic than I would have liked. Lady Sheridan exactly caught the spirit of the moors and the people there.”

  Charles smiled. “She’ll enjoy hearing that. Funnily enough, Doyle was at the Princetown hotel, writing, while I was carrying out a project at the prison and Kate was doing the research for her book.”2

  “Is that right? Odd how these things happen.” Ponsonby took Charles’s hand and shook it. “Well, good night, then, Sheridan. Let me know how I can aid your inquiry.”

  “I shall,” Charles said. “Good night.” He watched Ponsonby leave the room and then, with a long sigh, went to join Kate and their g
uests.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  In the decade between 1903 and 1913, Scotland Yard faced a difficult challenge with regard to the Russians who sought refuge in London’s infamous End. There were two different revolutionary groups, the Anarchists and the Bolsheviks, and Scotland Yard frequently confused the two. To complicate matters still further, the Czar’s Secret Police, the Ochrana, hired spies to infiltrate both groups. These spies employed agent-provacateur tactics, inducing the revolutionaries to commit illegal or terrorist acts, then betraying them to the police. When the informants employed by the Yard were added to the mix, it was sometimes very difficult to know who belonged to one side or the other.

  Albert J. Williams,

  “A Brief History of British Anarchism”

  The Metropolitan Police, founded by Sir Robert Peel in 1829, was headquartered in an area of Whitehall known as Scotland Yard, a term that (owing to the English habit of naming buildings and agencies after their location) became synonymous with the force itself. Scotland Yard grew rapidly, from 1,000 in 1829 to 10,000 in 1870, to 15,763 on the eve of the new century. But new technologies and new kinds of crime required a new kind of thinking and a different sort of training. For instance, when the streets and roads began to fill up with motorcars, the work of the Public Carriage Office changed from monitoring horse-drawn lorries and brewers’ drays to dealing with speeders (motorized vehicles traveling faster than twenty miles an hour) and issuing licenses to drivers; and a new “Fraud Squad” had to be formed to investigate the escalating numbers of embezzlements, swindles, and con games, some of which involved some rather important personages who had lost (or had made) significant amounts of money.

  Other challenges required the Yard to branch out in other ways. In the early 1880s, a Special Irish Branch of the Criminal Investigation Department was staffed with Irish officers and organized to deal with the Fenians, the Irish Dynamiters who blew up The Times office and a government office in Whitehall and set dynamite bombs in Scotland Yard, Trafalgar Square, and Westminster Hall. By the 1890s, however, the Fenian threat was replaced by the Anarchist threat, and the Special Irish Branch became simply the Special Branch. The Continental terrorists making their way to England—Italian, French, Spanish, and Russian—seemed to believe that a few bombs were neither here nor there, and through the nineties, members of the Special Branch were kept busy hunting for bomb factories, pursuing accused bombers and their accomplices, and keeping a wary eye on those they suspected of plotting terrorist activity. There were Anarchists in Walsall and a botched explosion in Greenwich Park (which Joseph Conrad used as the inspiration for his novel The Secret Agent), followed by bomb bursts in Mayfair and in the Underground, together with a half-dozen other minor skirmishes.