Death In Hyde Park

by Robin Paige

  Charles sat back in his chair, frowning over his coffee. He was already acquainted with the firm through its representation of the ASRS in the Taff-Vale matter, and had not been especially impressed by either the competency or the passion of Masters, Morley, or Dunderston—cold fish, the lot of them. But there was no barrister in the firm, as far as he knew, so Gould’s defense would have to be turned over to someone who was admitted to plead at the Bar. And he thought he knew just the man for the job, if Mr. Morley could be persuaded to agree.

  He drained his cup, tapped his pipe into the ashtray, and stood. It seemed to him that Adam Gould definitely required a bit of extra help to save him from his lawyers.

  Mr. Malachi Morley was deep in The Times when there was a deferential tap at his office door. He frowned. He had given explicit instructions that he was working on a case and was not to be disturbed. And he was working, of course, for every solicitor needed to be well-informed, and The Times was full of snippets of important information. Ignoring the tap, he turned the page, but when it came again, he dropped the paper and cried irritably, “I told you I was busy. Now go away and—”

  The door opened and the slender, red-haired clerk appeared. “I’m very sorry, sir,” the boy said contritely, “but his lordship says the matter is urgent and—”

  A tall, brown-bearded, brown-moustached gentleman in morning coat and gray-striped trousers stepped forward. “Charles Sheridan, Mr. Morley. I am a friend of Adam Gould, and I feel it is most urgent that we talk about his case.”

  Morley frowned down at his newspaper. “I’m actually rather busy with some research just now. Perhaps we could—”

  “Then I shall try to take as little of your time as possible,” his lordship said. He was a handsome man, with an imposing demeanor and an air of command. He placed his hat on Morley’s desk and seated himself comfortably, waving at Morley’s empty chair. “Please, sir. Do sit down. We shan’t stand on ceremony here.”

  Feeling a little confused at being invited to sit in his own chair, Morley did as he was bid. He recognized Lord Sheridan, of course; he was one of the few Liberal Peers who had supported Amalgamated in the Taff-Vale matter. But he had not known that Adam Gould was connected with—

  “Now, then,” his lordship said in a genial tone. He took his pipe out of his pocket and prepared to light it. “Perhaps you can tell me what charge our young friend faces.”

  Morley tented his fingers. “A very serious charge, I’m afraid,” he said dolefully. “Possession of explosives with intent to endanger life.”

  “Well, then.” His lordship drew on his pipe. “And I suppose you have already given considerable thought to the nature of Mr. Gould’s defense.”

  Morley hesitated. He had indeed given thought to the matter, and the end to which he had arrived was not at all satisfactory. It would not satisfy Masters and Dunderston; it would not satisfy Adam Gould; and it would most certainly not satisfy Amalgamated, since it would mean the loss of a valued employee. Nonetheless, he could think of nothing else to do.

  “I’m afraid,” he said, “that I must direct Mr. Delderfield—he has agreed to take the case—to enter a guilty plea on behalf of Mr. Gould.” He was not happy with the choice of Delderfield, but he was the barrister with whom the firm usually did business, and anyway, it did not matter who handled the defense, for there was only one likely outcome. In a somewhat more diffident tone, he added, “Gould hasn’t a chance, of course. Defense is a waste of time and money. I can’t in good conscience advise Amalgamated of any course other than a guilty plea.”

  “A waste of time?” His lordship’s eyebrows went up. “And what makes you say that?”

  “The evidence.” Morley cleared his throat. “The bomb that was found in his flat. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Mr. Gould denies any knowledge of it, of course,” he added hastily.

  “Of course,” his lordship said with an indignant air. He frowned. “The authorities were good enough to show this . . . bomb to you, then? What did it look like?”

  “It was a ginger-beer bottle. Similar bombs were found in the rooms of the two accused with Mr. Gould.” He shook his head sorrowfully, as if at the folly of such unlawful activity.

  “Ginger-beer bottles?” his lordship asked in an interested tone. “What sort of detonators did they have?”

  Mr. Morley frowned. “Detonators?”

  “In order to have a bomb,” Lord Sheridan said patiently, “one must have a means of detonating it. Of making it explode,” he added, as Mr. Morley’s frown deepened.

  “I don’t know about that,” Mr. Morley replied irritably. “But all three of the bottles contained explosives, according to Inspector Ashcraft. Some sort of acid, I think he said.”

  His lordship’s eyebrows went up. “What sort of acid? Picric acid? Nitric acid? Sulphuric acid?”

  “Nitric acid, I believe,” Mr. Morley said doubtfully, although the truth was that he had not paid a great deal of attention to the details.

  “So it was bomb-making material, not bombs, that the men are said to have possessed.”

  “It is all the same under the law.” Mr. Morley could feel himself growing defensive. This was not the sort of affair that Masters, Morley, and Dunderston usually found themselves engaged with. It was—

  “It is not the same under the law,” his lordship objected mildly. He paused, drew on his pipe, and expelled a stream of fragrant smoke. “The inspector seems to have been unusually forthcoming. Did you not find that a trifle . . . suspicious?”

  Morley adjusted his cuffs. “I suppose I did,” he admitted. In fact, it had occurred to him that Inspector Ashcraft might have shown him the evidence with the aim of inspiring a guilty plea. But Morley was not familiar with the conduct of criminal cases, and for all he knew, the entire procedure might have been quite normal. Of course, had it not been for the insistence of their largest client, the firm would not have taken the case at all and Amalgamated was certainly not going to like the idea of a guilty plea. He shifted uneasily. He was in rather a spot, and he knew it.

  “And you saw no reason to question the official explanation, I suppose, or the charge?” His lordship’s question was sharply put, and Morley winced.

  “I did not,” he replied, conscious that his answer left something to be desired. “I have never pretended, sir, to be a Sherlock Holmes. I am a solicitor, sir, and if there is some mystery here, it shall have to be left to the police to solve. Trial is scheduled for next week—August twenty-sixth, to be precise—which does not allow a great deal of time for preparation.”

  “August twenty-sixth?” his lordship asked with a frown. “Isn’t that rather precipitous?”

  Morley shrugged. “It seems that the docket was clear, and the authorities—”

  “The authorities want to get it over with.”

  “I suppose.” Morley sighed. “It is a difficult case, if I may be permitted to say so, and there is a great deal of public opinion against the accused men. Although,” he added deferentially, “Mr. Gould is fortunate in having a gentleman like yourself in his corner.” He gave a nervous laugh. “As it were. So to speak.”

  “I suppose,” Lord Sheridan said, pursing his lips in a judicious manner, “that this is not quite the sort of case that Masters, Morley, and Dunderston usually take. It is not the sort of thing that Delderfield handles, either.” He chuckled dryly. “Getting rather old, I should say.”

  “It is not our usual case,” Morley replied, attempting to suggest by his tone just how far beneath the firm’s usual notice this case lay. “My partners and I should not have accepted it at all if Amalgamated had not insisted quite so . . . strenuously.” In fact, Masters and Dunderston had preferred to reject Amalgamated’s request. It had only been his insistence that carried the day, and now he was faced with the unpleasant task of telling them that Delderfield would be entering a guilty plea.

  “I say, old chap,” his lordship said, interrupting Morley’s thoughts. “It seems to me that you’re in a bit
of a bind here. It’s not the sort of case you normally undertake, and not the sort of case you’d like to see associated with the firm’s name, either—especially since you anticipate a conviction. And Delderfield isn’t your man, either, from what I know of him. P’rhaps I might suggest another barrister with a bit more experience along . . . shall we say, criminal lines. A bit more drive, too. He would not be so quick to plead Gould guilty.”

  Morley eyed him speculatively, wondering if his lordship’s suggestion might help him avoid what promised to be an uncomfortable situation with Amalgamated. “Who did you have in mind?” he asked finally.

  “Chap named Edward Savidge. Good man, quite competent in his line. I thought perhaps . . .” His lordship let the pause lengthen.

  “I suppose we might be able to work something out,” Morley said, affecting reluctance. “But Amalgamated should have to agree.”

  “I will undertake to obtain their consent,” his lordship said. He picked up his hat and stood. “We are agreed, then, that Masters, Morley, and Dunderston will request the services of Edward Savidge for Mr. Gould’s defense?”

  “With pleasure, sir,” Morley replied with great alacrity, and took his lordship’s hand. “With pleasure.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  While women were recognized as superior gardeners, there was a distinct prejudice against women farmers. That is, women were encouraged to garden for enjoyment and to feed their families, but discouraged from doing it as a source of income.

  Susan Blake,

  “Women in Victorian Agriculture,” 2002

  Kate always found it easiest and most pleasant to do her writing in the morning, beside the window in the library of Bishop’s Keep. It was her favorite room, the paneled walls lined with old leather-bound books, generations of her Ardleigh ancestors looking down from the wall, and Charles’s leather chair placed near the fireplace, her own upholstered one opposite. But perhaps it was Charles’s lingering presence in the room that made these surroundings so pleasant, and the recollection of their enjoyable teatime and evening conversations here. For Kate had discovered, much to her delight, that marriage to Charles Sheridan included a great many hours in lively conversation.

  But the library was also a private retreat, for it contained Kate’s oak writing desk, placed in the small, green-curtained alcove in front of the casement window. This forenoon, Kate was seated there at her Royal typewriter, typing the final page of Beryl Bardwell’s latest fictional effort, a ghost story set at Glamis Castle, in Scotland. Several of Sir Walter Scott’s novels were stacked at her elbow for inspiration, and she had, for reference, a number of photographs that she had taken when she and Charles visited the castle the year before.

  Usually, Kate had no trouble keeping her attention focused on Beryl’s current fiction, especially when it was as gripping as this ghost story. But she was distracted this morning by a group of students who were being instructed, just outside her window, in the fine art of pruning rose bushes. She was watching them and thinking with satisfaction that they were an attentive and diligent group, when she was interrupted by a knock at the library door.

  “Come in,” she called, and Mrs. Bryan entered. She was dressed in her matron’s uniform of neat gray dress and white smock, and her brown hair was twisted up at the back of her head. She carried a sheaf of papers, the report that she made each Monday morning on the activities of the school. But she was not smiling.

  “Good morning, your ladyship,” she said gloomily.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Bryan,” Kate returned. She raised her eyebrows. “You don’t look entirely happy. Is something wrong?”

  “The calf’s dead,” Mrs. Bryan said shortly. “The veterinary came again early this morning, but couldn’t do anything for him.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Bryan,” Kate said. The matron always took such things to heart, as if the death of an animal were her own fault, or the fault of a malevolent Providence set on thwarting her best efforts to save it. “But I’m sure you did everything you could to save the poor creature. These things will happen.”

  “Aye,” Mrs. Bryan acknowledged. “But it was a blow.” She put her papers on the desk. “Egg production’s up, though, I’m glad t’ say. And the apple harvest is done, all but the late trees. Murchison’s taken it off to the fruit buyer and expects a good price.” She was still not smiling, although the successful completion of the fruit harvest was always a happy event.

  “I see,” Kate said. “It sounds as if things are going well.” She picked up the papers and thumbed through them, waiting to hear what else Mrs. Bryan had on her mind.

  The matron folded her arms. “Mary Murchison’s gone down with the measles. I sent her home yesterday morning, but some others may get it too, them as missed it when they were young. Better now than later, though.”

  Kate felt a stab of pain. Several years earlier, in the first few months of pregnancy, she had contracted the measles. She had lost the baby—a loss she still mourned—and the doctors had told her that there would be no others. Of course, there was Patrick, the boy, now nearly sixteen, whom she and Charles had taken as their own. She loved Patrick very much, but he could not quite fill the void.

  “You’re right, of course,” she said. “Better measles now than later. But do send a basket of fruit and cheese to Mary and her family, please, and some extra eggs.”

  “Yes, mum.” Mrs. Bryan stood stolidly, obviously not finished with her report.

  “And what else?” Kate asked.

  Mrs. Bryan gave her a dark look. “Conway’s gone.”

  “Conway’s . . . gone?” Kate asked blankly.

  “The new girl. The one who came from London on Saturday.”

  “Yes, I know. Charlotte Conway.” Kate frowned. “But I don’t understand. How can she be . . . gone?”

  “By shank’s mares, I s’pose,” Mrs. Bryan said shortly. “She must’ve left after prayers last night—after I told her that I was puttin’ her to the pigs today.” She tossed her head. “Anyways, she didn’t appear at breakfast. I sent Portia to fetch her, and she come back with the news that Conway had made up her bed with a roll of blankets, so it seemed she was in it—but she wasn’t. She’s gone.”

  “Oh, dear,” Kate said softly. “I expect she’s gone back to London.”

  “Well, if you ask me, that one wasn’t cut out to be a farmer,” Mrs. Bryan said tartly. “Too independent. And too clever by half, but not clever enough to learn. Thought it was beneath her. Didn’t fancy workin’ with the pigs, I s’pose. Beggin’ your ladyship’s pardon.”

  “You don’t need to beg my pardon,” Kate said in a mild tone. “It wasn’t my idea to bring her here, and it might not have been her idea to come. I don’t suppose we should be surprised that she’s gone.” She paused, thinking that it might be a good idea to telegraph Nellie that her friend had decamped, and to send a telegram to Sibley House as well. Charles had had quite an interest in the young woman and in her Anarchist associations; he would not be pleased to learn that she was on the loose in London, where she was sure to be picked up by the police.

  Or would she? Kate smiled a little, remembering the dashing figure the young woman had cut upon her arrival. At the thought of the disguise, she said, “I wonder—did Miss Conway leave her work costume behind?”

  Alice nodded. “ ’T was laid on her bed, so Portia said, and her brogans was on the floor.”

  Which meant, Kate thought, that if anyone should want to look for the elusive Miss Conway, they would be looking for a young man in a white linen suit. She frowned, wondering what to say in her telegram to Nellie, who might be watched by the police. If the telegram were intercepted—

  She glanced up at the clock, which showed that it was nearly time for luncheon, then sat back in her chair for a moment, thinking. No, a telegram was not the answer, after all.

  She would have to go to London.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  [Pudd’nhead Wilson] made fine and accurate reproductions o
f a number of his [fingerprint] records, and then enlarged them on a scale of ten to one with his pantograph. He did these pantograph enlargements on sheets of white cardboard, and made each individual line of the bewildering maze of whorls or curves or loops . . . stand out bold and black by reinforcing it with ink. To the untrained eye the collection of delicate originals made by the human finger on the glass plates looked about alike, but when enlarged ten times . . . the dullest eye could detect at a glance, and at a distance of many feet, that no two of the patterns were alike.

  Mark Twain,

  The Tragedy of Puddn’head Wilson, 1893

  Charles had a busy morning. Having left Mr. Morley, he went immediately to Holloway Prison in Parkhust Road, where he sat in a visiting cage and met briefly and sequentially with Adam Gould, Ivan Kopinski, and Pierre Mouffetard. Adam was glad to see him. He listened with gratitude to Charles’s report of his conversation with Mr. Morley and accepted the suggestion that a barrister be found who would make the effort to put up a real defense. He also insisted that he knew nothing of the bomb, if that’s what it was, that had been found in his flat. He suspected, he said, that the police had put it there.

  “For the past few weeks, Special Branch was dogging Ivan and Pierre—and Miss Conway, too,” he said. “Yuri’s bomb must have tipped the balance and they decided they had to arrest somebody.” He eyed Charles anxiously. “I don’t suppose you’ve any news of Miss Conway.”

  “As a matter of fact, I have,” Charles said, and told him that the young lady was staying at Bishop’s Keep.

  “Thank God,” Adam said fervently. “I was afraid she might be out on the streets. How did she come to you?”

  “Her friend Nellie Lovelace brought her,” Charles said, and smiled. “You can stop worrying, Adam. She is in good hands with Lady Sheridan. And I believe that you will be in good hands with Edward Savidge. I can’t promise that he will get you off, of course. But I can promise that he will try.”