by Robin Paige
“If you really mean that, Lord Sheridan,” a quiet voice said from the doorway, “I would welcome whatever help you are able to offer.”
Charles set his cup aside and stood as Kate made introductions. Charlotte Conway was thin and angular and her dark curly hair was cut startlingly short, but there was a lively intelligence in her face and she moved with confidence across the room. She was wearing one of Kate’s dresses, of a pewter color that made her dark hair and eyes seem even more lustrous and gave her a feminine appearance that was somewhat at odds with her assured manner. She sat down, accepted a cup of tea from Kate, and said, without prompting, “I expect you want to know what happened when the newspaper was raided.”
“I do, yes,” Charles said, and listened as she related the story of her narrow escape from the Clarion office. He concealed his surprise at the idea of this slight, fragile-looking young woman scrambling adventurously across a roof, and went instead to the thing that concerned him most. “Was there any warning of the raid?” he asked. “Did the police present a warrant?”
“A warrant?” Miss Conway frowned. “I heard Adam ask about it—he was quite insistent, actually—but I didn’t hear an answer. And I’m sure there was no warning.” The corners of her mouth quirked upward in a ghost of a smile. “If there had been, I shouldn’t have had to take to the roof, now, should I?”
Kate passed around a plate of buttered scones. “On what basis could the police obtain a warrant, Charles? If no laws were broken—”
There was no amusement in Miss Conway’s short, brusque laugh. “I doubt that Inspector Ashcraft would worry his head with such niceties, Lady Sheridan. But if he did, he wouldn’t have any difficult finding a magistrate to issue a warrant for the arrest of an Anarchist. Any Anarchist, it doesn’t matter who, or that he’s done nothing illegal.” Her voice became bitter. “The name itself is proof of our criminal deeds.”
“Inspector Ashcraft?” Charles asked.
“Special Branch,” Miss Conway said dispiritedly. “Most of the police are at least civil, but not that one. He’s aggressive and arrogant. He’s out to make a name for himself, whatever it takes.”
“I see,” Charles said, thinking that it might be good to have a conversation with this Inspector Ashcraft.
Miss Conway gave him a long, straight look. “As I came into the room, I heard you say that you thought the men ought to be freed. Do you mean to offer any help to make that happen?”
“I will do what I can,” Charles said. “One of them, Adam Gould, is an acquaintance of mine. I supported the union in a case that came up on appeal last year—the Taff-Vale case. You may have heard of it.”
Miss Conway’s eyes widened in surprise. “You took the union’s side in the Taff-Vale case?”
“Yes,” Charles said. He smiled slightly. “For what little good it did.” It had been an ugly matter, a suit by the Taff-Vale Railroad against the Amalgamated Society of Railway Servants, seeking reparation for losses suffered during a strike. The case had come up to the Lords of Appeal, who had found the union liable to the tune of twenty-three thousand pounds. The decision had annulled the long immunity that protected British labor unions against acts carried out by their members and exposed every union to crippling financial penalties each time its members were involved in a labor dispute. All but the most conservative newspapers had decried it as another instance of the power of the Lords being exerted on behalf of large industrialists and against the people.
Miss Conway tilted her head to one side and regarded him thoughtfully. “I had no idea,” she said. She gave a little laugh. “I supposed that all the Lords were against the unions.”
“Most are,” Charles said, “but there are a few of us who count ourselves Liberals—and worse.” He picked up his pipe and tobacco pouch. “I must say, I came away from the debate with a great admiration for Adam Gould’s courage. I should hate to see him brought to trial on a trumped-up charge.”
“If you sided with Adam on the Taff-Vale case, I can have no reason not to trust you,” Miss Conway said. She paused and, with a glance at Kate, added guiltily, “To tell the truth, I’m beginning to feel more than a little ashamed of myself. When I first escaped from the police, I was so frightened that I could think only of getting away. That’s why I went to Nellie and begged her to help me get out of London.” Her face darkened. “But the more I think about what I’ve done—coming here, I mean—the more I believe that I was wrong. I should have stayed in the City, where I might have been of some service to Adam and the others. They’re all alone, with no one to stand up for them.” She shook her head despairingly. “I don’t even know if they’ve been able to find a barrister to handle their defense.”
“I may know someone who might be willing to help,” Charles said, tamping tobacco into his pipe. “He is certainly more than competent. I’m planning to go up to London on Monday, and I’ll see him then. I’ll try to see Adam, as well, and find out exactly what the charges are.”
“I’ll go with you,” Miss Conway said vehemently, putting her cup down.
Charles shook his head. “Not unless you want to be jailed yourself. I don’t see how you can help Adam and the others if you are behind bars.”
“Lord Sheridan is right,” Kate said firmly. “You’re safe here, Miss Conway. If anything can be done, his lordship will do it. He’ll get at the truth, and within a few days, your friends will be out of jail.”
Miss Conway’s mouth hardened. “I hope you will pardon my skepticism, Lady Sheridan. Now that the men are in the hands of the law, the courts will never release them—not after what happened in Hyde Park. Scapegoats are wanted, and since Yuri is dead, others will have to do, the more the better.” She bit her lip. “Adam and the others will be lucky to get off with ten years’ penal servitude, like the comrades at Walsall.”
Charles put a match to his pipe. He had followed the Walsall case closely, and while he did not like to admit it, he suspected that Miss Conway might very well be right. Some years before, six Anarchists living in the village of Walsall had been charged with the unlawful possession of explosives with the intent to manufacture bombs. No explosives were ever found; in fact, the only evidence the police were able to produce was a length of fuse taken from one man’s house, a sketch of a bomb found in another’s, and a stack of Anarchist pamphlets discovered in the flat belonging to a third. On this flimsy evidence, the prosecution based its assertion that the men were “a dangerous new class of revolutionist,” part of a vast and frightening conspiracy that threatened the peace and stability of the entire country, and argued that it was not what these Anarchists had done that mattered, it was what they were prepared to do. The newspapers quickly took up the battle cry and a kind of mass hysteria began to prevail, for it seemed that unless the Walsall Anarchists were convicted and sentenced, all England would be at the mercy of terrorists with their dynamite.
Had the prosecution’s case been based solely on the evidence, it could not have held up against a vigorous defense in court. But fortunately for the Crown (the Attorney-General himself conducted the case for the prosecution), one of the conspirators, a man named Deakin, was persuaded to turn nose and supply a confession that implicated three of the others. Also fortunately for the Crown, several bombs exploded in France the week before the trial began, which increased the hysteria in Britain. It took the jury less than two hours to find Deakin and three others guilty and sentence them to five- and ten-year prison terms. Upon learning the verdict, the Commonweal, the Socialist League newspaper, printed an angry, impassioned editorial, pleading for justice. Shortly thereafter, the paper was raided, and both its editor and publisher jailed.
Charles pulled on his pipe. “This man Yuri Messenko,” he said. “The bomber. I read that he was employed at the Clarion. Did you know him well?”
Miss Conway sighed. “I knew him a little. His father was Ukrainian, his mother English, I believe. They lived in Manchester, although they are both dead now. Yuri seemed a soft-sp
oken, kind young man, always willing to run errands or do what he could to help. He was especially good with children and with people who were in trouble; he always knew what to say to comfort them.” She smiled a little, crookedly. “He wasn’t very bright, though. And his views were not threatening—at least, not as threatening as those of others, Pierre, for instance.”
“Did he have any expertise in chemistry?”
“In chemistry? I should say not!” Miss Conway gave a sad little laugh. “Yuri was no more able to build a bomb than to construct a flying-machine. He wouldn’t even know where to obtain explosive material.”
“But he was obviously carrying explosives,” Charles pointed out. “He might not have known exactly what was in the satchel, but someone did. Someone had to obtain the materials, construct the explosive device, put it into the satchel, and hand it to Messenko—all which suggests a conspiracy of some kind. Equally obviously, Yuri Messenko did not succeed in killing anyone else but himself.” Casually, he spoke around his pipe, not seeming to look at her. “Was that by accident, do you think, or by design?”
Kate frowned. “You’re suggesting that the explosion was not meant to kill the King?”
“I’m not sure what I’m suggesting,” Charles replied. “Miss Conway? Was it by accident?”
“How could I possibly know the answer to that question,” Miss Conway said defiantly, “unless I were a party to the conspiracy. And I was not.” Then, more tentatively, she added, “You are thinking that someone deliberately set out to kill Yuri?”
“At this point, it’s as likely an explanation as anything else,” Charles replied. “Do you know where he lived? Who his friends were?”
Miss Conway seemed wary, but she answered nonetheless. “He lived in Telson Street, Number 17, I think, or Number 19—not far from the Clarion office. As to his friends, I’m afraid I have no idea. Ivan might know. I’ve occasionally seen the two of them leaving the newspaper together in the evenings. Sometimes they went to meetings, sometimes they just went out for something to eat.” She pulled her brows together. “As for a conspiracy, all I can tell you is that different people who come to the newspaper—the Spaniards or the Italians, mostly—sometimes make threats or skulk around as though they are planning some violent action. But there isn’t as much of that as the authorities and the newspapers lead one to believe.” Her lips curved in what might have been a smile. “Most of the people in our cell—the Hampstead Road cell—prefer propaganda by word to propaganda by deed.”
At Kate’s puzzled look, Charles translated. “Miss Conway means that they prefer to educate people to the need for change, rather than try to bring about change through violent action.”
“Thank you,” Miss Conway said. Now she did smile. “Some, less charitably, say that the Clarion is a call to talk, rather than to fight.” She pulled a face. “I’m sorry. I’m not a very helpful informant.”
Charles puffed on his pipe. “After I’ve talked to Adam and the others and done a little more digging, I may have other questions to ask you, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind. I just wish I could do something.” Miss Conway sighed despondently. “Something more helpful than trying to answer questions.”
CHAPTER NINE
I never saw a man in all my life with more magnetism, beautiful magnetism . . . . When he talked, he was marvelous. His eyes were big and his mouth was just as sensitive and full of expression, and his words came out of him just rippling . . . . He talked better than he wrote.
Finn Frollich,
quoted in Alex Kershaw, Jack London: A Life
Nellie Lovelace always felt a special energy sweeping through her at the close of an evening’s performance. It was as if the audience’s laughter and delighted applause were a kind of electricity, jolting her awake and making her feel like dancing, a boost that was almost always strong enough to keep her going until the next performance. In fact, it had begun to seem to Nellie that she pretty much lived from one performance to another, the time in between a monotonous stretch of gray humdrum when nothing of interest happened. Her life was on the stage and the stage was what she lived for.
Tonight, however, she had the feeling that her life was about to change, for as she took her final curtain, a little brown-skinned boy, dressed in red satin and wearing the turban of an Indian potentate, leapt lightly onto the stage and thrust a gigantic bouquet of roses into her arms. “Compl’ments of Mr. London,” he lisped, bowing so deeply that his turban touched the stage.
And then, returning to her dressing room, she found it actually banked with flowers, their scent so strong that she could scarcely catch her breath. And there was Mr. London himself lounging in the open door, dressed in smart formal attire, a silk hat under one arm. She pulled in her breath at the sight of the flowers and at the sight of him, for he was even more striking than she had remembered, and there was a crooked smile on his lips and an admiring glint in his daring dark eyes, fringed by marvelous long lashes.
“You were magnificent, Miss Lovelace.” He grinned and waved expansively at the flowers. “A small thanks for the sheer pleasure of watching you perform.” He paused. “I should very much like to invite you to dinner.”
“And I should be pleased to accept,” Nellie said eagerly, although some of her gaiety evaporated, as she realized from his flushed face and the easiness of his gesture that Mr. London was already a little drunk. But just a little, she told herself, as she slipped behind a screen and quickly exchanged her costume for a close-fitting, low-cut gown of garnet velvet that showed her voluptuous figure and smooth white shoulders to advantage, adding a matching fur-trimmed velvet cape. Anyway, men who drank too much were among the hazards of the acting profession, and one learned to manage them, if one wanted to be invited to dinner.
Nellie’s gaiety was fully restored by the time they got into the waiting four-wheeler, for they were going, Mr. London told her with a certain careless flair, to the Carlton. The Carlton! Nellie’s admirers had taken her to some of the best restaurants in the City, but not yet to the Carlton, and the anticipation made her breath come faster. She settled into the leather seat with a shiver of delight and gave herself over to the pleasure of a late-night ride through the streets of London.
The daytime city might be gritty and grimy, but at night it became a glittering fairyland. A misty fog hung like a diaphanous curtain over the streets, the starry gaslights shimmered on the damp pavement, and the arc lamps shone like haloed moons. The uncurtained windows of brilliantly-lit salons gave glimpses of handsomely-dressed high-spirited pleasure-seekers of all ranks, and strains of music floated through the open doors. Heedless of the misty damp, men in silk hats and women in evening gowns tripped lightly along the sidewalks in front of gaily-decked shop windows, and the streets were crowded curb to curb with bustling black carriages and sleek hansom cabs, with here and there a shiny motorcar.
“Quite a city,” Mr. London remarked, pursing his lips. “Not up to New York’s mark, of course,” he added judiciously, “or even Frisco, which is still a bit raw. But quite a city nevertheless.”
Nellie felt at a disadvantage, since she had not been to New York or San Francisco. But she was stung by the condescension in his tone and observed tartly that many people seemed to prefer London to any city in the world. She softened her remark with a sideways smile, though, and the comment, “From the East End to the Carleton—you’re seeing quite a good deal of the City, Mr. London. The writing is going well, I hope?”
They talked about Mr. London’s new book, then, which he had described to her at length the other afternoon at tea at the Palmers’. He said he had spent the day doing research—tramping the docks, talking to dockworkers, and taking notes about their awful working conditions, as well as any number of photographs—and he gave her a detailed description of the dens and dives, as he called them, that he had explored. He had been glad to return to the Palmers’, where he could get a hot bath and change out of what he called his “slum costu
me” before coming out for the evening. He was writing steadily, he added with a conscious pride, working from notes he took on his expeditions into the East End and from some documents the Socialists had provided him, figures and statistics and the like. He expected to finish the book, which he was calling People of the Abyss, before he returned to New York.
“People of the Abyss?” Nellie repeated, not sure that she liked the sound of the title.
“People of the pit,” Mr. London said. He shrugged, his dark eyes glinting. “Hell, if you like that better.”
“Well, of course, some of Whitechapel is very bad,” Nellie conceded. “There’s no denying that. But I lived there myself for a time, and I—”
“Then you understand exactly what I’m talking about,” London said. He slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Now, Miss Lovelace, let’s talk about pleasanter things. You were a vision tonight, up there on that stage. The way you moved, I couldn’t keep my eyes off you.” His glance dropped to her breasts, and his lips to her mouth, forcibly. Nellie was decidedly relieved when the carriage jolted to a stop in front of the Carleton. Mr. London pulled back as a liveried valet opened the door.
And then they were entering the Carleton, and Nellie found herself surrounded by a wonderland of plush carpets, soft lights and music, sweet-scented flowers on the tables, and green palms in every corner. They were shown to a table covered by snowy damask linen and set with sparkling crystal and elegant china, where they quickly agreed to call each other Jack and Nellie, then lingered for a very long time over a lavish supper of rare roast duck (Jack’s favorite) and several bottles of Liebfraumilch (another of his favorites). Afterward, they floated (at least, that’s how Nellie remembered it) into a private lounge, where they sat together on a velvet settee with their coffees and liqueurs and cigarettes.
