Death In Hyde Park

by Robin Paige

  London had for centuries been a vigorously cosmopolitan city, but during the sixty years of Victoria’s reign it had attracted increasingly large numbers of exiles seeking safe harbor from the totalitarian governments of the Continent. Among these London refugee colonies, the largest and fastest-growing were the Russian and Polish, populated by men and women and children who had fled the tyrannies of the Romanov regime. Pursuing as far as they could the crafts and trades they had learned in their native land, living on black rye bread, potatoes, turnips, and onions, they crowded together in tenements along the by-streets and back alleys of East India Dock Road, Commercial Road, and Whitechapel. But while their living conditions might be difficult and luxuries few, these people—many of whom were Jewish—possessed what was to them the greatest luxury of all: the freedom to work and talk and think as they pleased, without being harassed by the authorities.

  The difficulty, however, as Charles well knew, was that not all of these people had come to settle down as peaceful, hardworking citizens of their adopted country. Most European governments had already passed severe repressive measures against Anarchists and others who aimed to disturb the social order, but tolerant Britain had taken no such action, and London’s East End had become the safest refuge that the revolutionaries could find, as well as a sheltering haven for the Czarist counterrevolutionaries who aimed to discredit and unmask them. It made for an extraordinarily volatile and confusing situation.

  Charles left the Underground at Liverpool Street Station and walked for some distance, past Spitalfields Market and the Ghetto Bank of Whitechapel. The bank was one of the busiest in London, for every Russian refugee managed, through sheer industry and determined economy, to send money to family and friends in Russia and Poland—a million rubles a year, it was said. As Charles walked along Commercial Road, he was struck by the vibrant energy and liveliness of the place: the remarkable variety of Yiddish and Hebrew and Russian dialects spoken on the street; the astonishing range of crafts—cabinetmakers, tailors, boot-makers, seamstresses, milliners, upholsterers, bookbinders, watchmakers, icon painters—represented in the shops along the way; and the fascinating spectrum of restaurants and cafés, serving such exotic delicacies as smoked goose, reindeer tongue, and pickled lampreys, along with the more usual caviar, smoked salmon, strong cheeses, black bread, and vodka. Someone else walking these streets—a Jack London, for instance, looking for the downtrodden and desperate—might see stooped shoulders, weary faces, and forlorn spirits. But Charles caught scraps of song drifting from open doorways and heard the pleasure in the greetings of old babushkas in aprons and shawls as they passed on the streets. These people might not have much, but their spirits were indomitable, their hopes invincible, and their dreams of freedom unconquerable.

  The address on the torn scrap of paper in Yuri Messenko’s shirt pocket proved to be that of a library located on the second floor of a small building in Church Lane, a block off Commercial Road. The first floor was occupied by a cigar shop that displayed tins of Russian tobacco and wooden boxes of Russian cigars in its square-paned, fly-specked window, along with hand-colored photographs of chubby-cheeked girls in native Russian costume and stacks of Russian newspapers and books. The entrance to the library was in a little alcove. There was a sign on the door; underneath a Russian inscription, in English, Charles read, “Free Russian Library. Open daily from 11 A.M. to 10 P.M.” The door was plastered with dozens of other notes and notices, also in Russian.

  The door gave onto a dark, steep stair. Climbing to the top, Charles opened another door and stepped into a crowded, stuffy room, lit by several hanging gas lamps. The walls were lined with shelves of paperbound books and journals, the air was filled with the distinct perfume of tobacco and sweat and unwashed bodies, and almost every chair at the two long wooden tables was occupied. Some of the men were reading books and newspapers, others were writing, and still others—those who could not write, Charles guessed—appeared to be dictating letters to scribes. The men were of all ages, from beardless students to elders with long gray beards neatly tucked inside their coats, and the muted murmurs of their conversations were sibilant and foreign.

  The librarian, or so Charles thought he must be, was seated behind a small wooden table. “Might I help you find something?” he asked, in heavily accented English. He was a very young man with dark, anxious eyes, clean-shaven, and neatly dressed in coat and cravat.

  Charles took off his cap and held it respectfully against his chest. “I’m looking for Yuri Messenko,” he said. “Is he here, please?”

  The librarian’s eyes widened. “You haven’t heard? Or read in the newspapers?”

  “Heard what?” Charles asked innocently. “I’ve been traveling on the Continent for the last several weeks.”

  “Messenko was . . . killed.” With an uneasy glance, the librarian took in Charles’s worn overcoat and baggy trousers, seeming to be reassured by the unassuming costume. “It was an accident, or so I was told.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that,” Charles said. “It must have been a terrible shock to his friends. He came here frequently, I understand.”

  “Occasionally,” the librarian replied, his tone becoming guarded, his eyes more anxious. “Why do you ask?”

  “I need to contact someone, and I was told that Yuri Messenko could tell me how.” Charles gave a discouraged sigh. “Now I suppose I’ll have to find a different way.”

  The libarian moved some papers on his desk. “Who did you want to contact?”

  “His name is Vladimir Rasnokov,” Charles replied. He bent forward, adding eagerly, and in a louder voice, “Do you know Rasnokov? I should very much like to reach him.”

  The librarian’s mouth tightened at the corners. “Rasnokov is not here.”

  Charles let out his breath. “Do you know where I might find him?”

  A bearded man wearing a dirty gray jerkin and a black knitted cap rose from his seat at the nearby table, returned his newspaper to a rack beside the window, and brushed past Charles on his way out the door. Another man, on the opposite side of the table, looked up and caught the librarian’s eye with a warning glance and an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

  The librarian turned back to Charles. “Regrettably,” he said, in a formal tone, “I cannot help you. Rasnokov is not here. I do not know where he is to be found.”

  Charles bowed his head. “Thank you,” he said humbly. He put on his cap and went out the door and down the steps. He was not surprised to see the man in the black knitted cap and gray jerkin waiting on the pavement in front of the cigar shop.

  The man approached Charles. “Ye’re lookin’ fer Rasnokov, eh?” His voice was low and gravelly and his breath smelled of onions and garlic.

  “I am,” Charles said. He straightened his shoulders.

  “Wot’s yer business with ’im?”

  Charles, no longer humble, gave the man a long, hard look. “That is between Rasnokov and myself. Do you know where to find him?”

  “Wot’s in it fer me?”

  Charles felt in his pocket and took out a shilling. “I have nothing else.”

  The man took the coin with a hard look. “Ye might try the Little Moscow Café, in the cellar next t’ the Post Office. ’E has ’is lunch there most ev’ry day.”

  “Thank you,” Charles said, and turned away. A few paces on, he paused and stood before the window of a tailor’s shop, his hands in the pockets of his coat. In the reflecting glass, he caught a glimpse of the man in the gray jerkin. He had mounted a rusty bicycle and was pedaling swiftly down Church Lane—on his way, no doubt, to the Little Moscow Café.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Unfortunately, the Rossettis [Helen and Olivia] could not sustain such a narrative of female emancipation. In the conclusion to their novel, Isabel retracts her belief in anarchism and instead forcefully reinscribes the traditional feminine myth of hearth and home.

  Jennifer Shaddock, Introduction to the

  Bison Book
Edition, 1992, of Isabel Meredith,

  A Girl Among the Anarchists, 1902

  Olivia Rossetti was now married and with her husband in Italy, but after a call to Mr. Perry at Duckworth, Kate had no difficulty finding Helen Rossetti, who was living with her father in a small, comfortable house with an ivy-draped porch in a street in Chelsea. Kate had no difficulty introducing herself, either, since she had finished reading the manuscript of A Girl Among the Anarchists the night before and could tell Miss Rossetti that she had heartily enjoyed the adventures of Isabel Meredith and was recommending the novel to her editors for publication.

  “I admired it very much,” she added, with genuine enthusiasm, when they were seated in the parlor. “It showed me an aspect of an Englishwoman’s life that I would otherwise have found difficult to imagine.”

  Helen Rossetti, a small, plump young woman with dark eyes and dark hair pulled snugly back into a bun, sat back in her chair and gave a little cry of delight. “My dear Lady Sheridan!” she exclaimed. “How kind of you to come and tell me!” She flashed a mischievous smile that showed the dimples in her round cheeks. “And you are truly Beryl Bardwell?”

  “Really, truly,” Kate said with a smile, glancing around the parlor. Miss Rossetti’s young years may have been unconventional, but her radical past could not be seen in this thoroughly conventional Victorian parlor: the tables skirted to conceal their legs, the windows heavily draped and closed to keep out the air, the souvenir knickknacks displayed on the fireplace mantle. But one wall displayed a large print of Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s “Proserpine,” and on a table lay a leather-bound copy of Christina Rossetti’s book, New Poems, which had been published two years after the famous poet’s death. Helen’s uncle was perhaps the best known of the Pre-Raphaelite artists, while her aunt’s poetry was widely admired.

  “You’ve read some of my work?” Kate added, seeing two of her novels on the bookshelf.

  “With great pleasure,” Miss Rossetti replied. “In fact, Olivia—my sister—and I have often read your books aloud. Our Isabel is a little like your Fanny, don’t you think, in The Adventure at Devil’s Bridge? Fanny is such an unconventional woman! Olivia and I loved the scene in which she drives the motorcar in pursuit of the balloon.”

  “Your Isabel has an even greater sense of independence than my Fanny, I should say,” Kate replied, wanting to lead the conversation away from herself. “I understand that her adventures as the publisher of the Tocsin were inspired by your own experience with the Torch.”

  “You know about that, then,” Miss Rossetti said, half-ruefully. “I suppose the editor at Duckworth must have told you. Yes, Olivia and I printed the newspaper on an old hand-press, and it was distributed by the local Anarchist group. We were very young—I was only thirteen when we brought out the first issue, and Oliva was sixteen—but we were quite in earnest about it.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so,” Kate ventured, “it seems an odd occupation for two young girls.”

  “It was indeed,” Miss Rossetti agreed cheerfully. “But it may be that Anarchism—as we understood it, at least—chiefly attracts the rebellious young, or those who never mature. Olive and I both came to believe that Anarchism, as a philosophy, does not allow for the ties of love and family, or permit the Anarchist to accept responsibility for anyone but himself. That is why Isabel gives it up, in the end. She is disillusioned with Anarchism’s self-centeredness.” She smiled reminiscently. “In some ways, I’m sorry the Torch is gone. It was a remarkable education for a young woman, to be accepted in such militant circles. And I had more freedoms then than I do now that I am older—freedom to go about the city alone, freedom to say and write exactly as I thought. I doubt that many girls are granted such opportunities.”

  Kate was sure of that. The English girls she knew were kept at home, where the reading of newspapers and the discussion of political topics was thought to be unladylike. “You say that the newspaper is gone,” she said. “You discontinued publication?”

  Miss Rossetti nodded. “My sister married in ’96 and went to Florence. I was not well, and Father took me abroad soon after. The Torch survived our departure by only a year or so.” She gave Kate a slanting glance. “That kind of existence is chaotic, actually. There was always some turmoil or another—we did not much exaggerate Isabel’s experience. Life is much more peaceable now. Father and I live here very quietly. I am helping him write the life of my Aunt Christina.”

  Kate smiled. “I know of another young woman like your Isabel, who edits an Anarchist newspaper. She also speaks of chaos—although she clearly values the independence her work affords her.”

  “You must be speaking of Charlotte Conway,” Miss Rossetti replied. Her face darkened. “I understand that the Clarion was raided by Scotland Yard last week, and is now closed down. The men were arrested and jailed—something to do with that appalling Hyde Park business—but Lottie got away.”

  “Oh,” Kate said, leaning forward eagerly, “you’ve talked to her, then?” Perhaps her search was over.

  “No,” Miss Rossetti said, and Kate felt immediately disappointed. “I read about it in The Times. I haven’t seen Lottie for some time, I’m afraid.” Her expression was regretful. “We write very often, however. Mrs. Conway—Lottie lives with her mother—is not well. She does not permit her daughter to have visitors.”

  “I’ve met Mrs. Conway,” Kate said carefully. “She edited the Clarion before her daughter took it on, I understand.”

  Helen gave a short, hard laugh. “Yes, she edited it. But speak of anarchy! Mrs. Conway was completely disorganized, and the newspaper was always on the brink of total disaster. It didn’t come out at all half the time, and when it finally did appear, it might be one page, merely, or two.” She pulled her brows together. “And it was always full of the wildest rantings and ravings. Some people said that the editor must be mad, and I do think so.”

  “I see,” Kate said thoughtfully. Yes, it had seemed to her that Mrs. Conway might be mad, and she was sorry, for her daughter’s sake.

  “Lottie was very reluctant to take over her mother’s job,” Miss Rossetti went on, “but it was a good thing for the Clarion that she did. She takes her work seriously, and others have taken her seriously—unlike Mrs. Conway, I must say, who was always the butt of jokes. No one could take her with any seriousness.”

  Kate looked at her. “Miss Conway did not want to become the editor of the newspaper?” The girl had said that she did it out of a sense of duty, but she had not said that she did not want to do it.

  “Oh, my goodness, no,” Miss Rossetti replied. “Oh, she supported the Cause, of course. But her heart was set on entering Girton College at Cambridge and becoming a teacher, and she had even won a scholarship. When her mother suffered what was thought to be a nervous collapse, however, Lottie felt there was nothing for it but to continue the work. The Clarion brought in almost no money, but even so, it was Lottie’s and Mrs. Conway’s only source of support. Now, under Lottie’s management, the paper has begun to yield a little money. And the rooms Lottie lets in that big old house bring in some additional money.” Her voice took on a darker edge. “Enough to keep Mrs. Conway in chocolates and incense, anyway.”

  “I see,” Kate said quietly. So it was the daughter’s industry that supported the mother’s household in Brantwood Street. The young woman had taken on quite a large responsibility.

  Miss Rossetti’s mouth hardened. “You may think I am being unkind, but really, Mrs. Conway has made things so very difficult. And in spite of all, I do believe that Lottie loves her mother. She is not doing her duty, but is rather doing what her heart tells her to do.” Her voice became softer, her smile sentimental. “I understand this, I suppose, because I choose to live with my father, who needs me to see to his welfare. Father’s writing is important, and I am his secretary, as well as keeping his house.”

  “But what of your writing?” Kate asked in some wonderment. “Are you planning another book?”


  “No,” Miss Rossetti said, pulling herself up straighter. “It gets in the way of helping my father, and his writing is so much more important than mine. I imagine that Lottie has something of that feeling about the Clarion, which was her mother’s work.”

  “Oh, dear,” Kate said ambiguously. “I had no idea.”

  Miss Rossetti seemed to construe her remark to refer to Miss Conway. “Lottie is one of the bravest young women I know. She is not in the least bit conventional. She has the true Anarchist spirit; she believes in the freedom of the individual. She argues that marriage is a bourgeois tool to restrict a woman’s freedom, and she believes in free love.” She smiled slightly. “Yet she insists on taking care of her mother.”

  Feeling that the implicit contradictions defied every logic, Kate went back to the question she had come to ask. “Have you heard from Miss Conway since the paper was raided?”

  “Not a word,” Miss Rossetti said with a troubled look, “and I’m very anxious about her. It is not like her to be out of touch. I can only think that she is afraid that the police might be following her. I’m sure that she is reluctant to involve her friends, for fear the police might attempt to implicate them in the Hyde Park explosion.”

  Kate took a calling card out of her bag and handed it to Miss Rossetti. “I will be going back to the country this week,” she said, rising. “The address is that of our town house, where my husband is staying. If you should hear from Miss Conway, I would very much appreciate it if you could send a note. If I am not there, it will be forwarded.” She paused. “I would like to help Miss Conway, if she will allow it. I am sure there is something I can do.”

  “I doubt that she will accept help,” Miss Rossetti said, getting to her feet. “She is so fiercely independent. But I shall certainly send word if I hear from her.” She smiled. “And thank you for your recommendation to Duckworth. I’ll write immediately and let Olivia know. She’ll be delighted. And my father will be pleased, too.” She added, diffidently, “The money from the book is of some importance to us, as you might guess.”