Death In Hyde Park

by Robin Paige

  As Kate put up her umbrella and walked to the corner to look for a cab, she wondered at the multiple ironies of what she had learned, not just about Charlotte Conway and her relationship to her mother, but about the woman she had just left. In her teens, Helen Rossetti had been the rebellious and free-spirited editor of an Anarchist newspaper; now in her twenties, she appeared to be a conventional and rather bourgeois young woman who worked as her father’s secretary. Perhaps, somehow or another, it seemed to Miss Rossetti that while a young woman might be free to explore the possibilities of a self-governing life, an adult woman must give in to the definitions imposed upon her by her family and by society. Perhaps she could live free and unfettered only in her imagination, or in her recollection of her younger, more adventuresome years.

  Kate squared her shoulders and quickened her step. She, too, felt the allure of the comfortable domestic life, but she knew that she could never give in to it. She loved Charles, but she could never use him as a safe haven, for that would be false to the passion she felt for him. And she would never use her writing as a means of retreat, either. She would live in the world, explore every corner of it as freely as she could, and do her best to help other women free themselves from the constraints of their family’s and society’s expectations. There had to be some midway point between the self-centeredness of Mrs. Conway and the self-abnegation of Helen Rossetti.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Sed quis custodiet ipsos custodes? (Who guards the guardians?)

  Juvenal

  There has always been a question of oversight. Who polices the police? Who spies on the spies?

  Albert J. Williams,

  “A Brief History of British Anarchism,” 2002

  It was well past the lunch hour when Charles found the Little Moscow Café. It was entered from a rear alley off Whitechapel Road, next to the Post Office. Six narrow cement steps led down to a basement, a large, windowless room filled with diners seated at oilcloth-covered tables and in wooden booths around the walls. Painted pillars supported a low wooden ceiling, and gas jets illuminated the crowded room with a dusky glow. The walls and pillars were plastered with Russian posters, playbills, and newspaper clippings. In one corner, a balalaika player entertained with traditional Russian music. A menu board at the entrance announced in both Russian and English that diners today would be enjoying borscht, pirozhki (meat pie), golubtsi (stuffed steamed cabbage rolls), and yablochny rulet (apples, walnuts, and raisins wrapped in pastry).

  A waiter bustled up. “Table for one, sir?”

  “I am meeting Rasnokov,” Charles replied. “Is he here?”

  “His usual corner,” the waiter said with a careless gesture. “You will have lunch?”

  “Yes,” Charles said. “And I’ll have beer, please. Kars, if you have it.”

  Rasnokov had finished his lunch and was smoking a Turkish cigarette over a cup of coffee. He looked up inquiringly as Charles approached. He was a tall man of indeterminate age, thin, with slightly stooped shoulders, and clean-shaven. He wore a rusty black suit and round steel-framed eyeglasses that gave him a studious look.

  “My name is Sheridan,” Charles said. “I recently met a gentleman who suggested I look you up and ask if you had received a message from Smersk.”

  Rasnokov tapped his cigarette into the ashtray with a long, delicate finger. His hands might have been the hands of a surgeon. “Sit down,” he said, in unaccented, expressionless English.

  The waiter appeared at the booth with a bottle of beer. “Your lunch will be ready in a few moments,” he said to Charles. Rasnokov pushed his cup forward. The waiter put down the beer, produced a pot of coffee, and poured.

  The balalaika player swung into a soft rendition of “Moscow Nights,” obviously a familiar favorite, since several of the diners began to sing the Russian words. Rasnokov stubbed out his cigarette. “What do you want?” he asked indifferently, under the music. “I don’t know you.”

  “We have a mutual friend,” Charles replied. He raised his beer bottle as if in salute. “In Queen Anne’s Gate.”

  “Ah.” Rasnokov’s face became regretful, as if Charles had said that a friend had died, or that Rasnokov should have to do something he didn’t want to do. “You have a proposition for me, then?”

  “A question,” Charles said, and got right to it. “What do you know of the Hyde Park affair?”

  There was a slight hesitation, and when Rasnokov spoke, there was a defensive edge in his voice. “I’ve already given that report.”

  “You said, I understand, that two were involved in the business.”

  “Yes, two. The boy and a Russian named Kopinski. Both of them worked at the Clarion. Kopinski instigated the bombing and provided the materials.” Rasnokov frowned, as if he were offended. “It’s all in my report, if you’d taken the trouble to read it.”

  “Only the two? What about Gould and Mouffetard?”

  Rasnokov blinked behind his glasses, but was delayed in answering while the waiter set down in front of Charles a bowl of borscht and a plate with a fragrant meat pie and two thick cabbage rolls.

  Charles picked up his soup spoon. “You were saying?”

  “I know nothing of Gould,” Rasnokov replied sulkily. “Mouffetard was not involved, to my knowledge, although he appeared to be on friendly terms with the boy.”

  “Then how did it happen that a bomb and bomb-making instructions were found in Mouffetard’s possession? The Yard has arrested him, you know. And Gould as well. Both are charged with making bombs, along with Kopinski. Why did you not include their names in your report?”

  Rasnokov shrugged. He still wore no expression, and his spectacled eyes were guarded, the eyes of a physician who is withholding bad news from a patient. “Perhaps my information was not as complete as I thought. Or perhaps the Yard has its own reasons for implicating the others.” His dry chuckle held no humor. “That inspector, that Ashcraft. He is a wily one. He does not always play straight.”

  Charles thought it ironic that a secret agent would accuse a Yard detective of underhanded dealings, although in this case, Rasnokov was almost certainly right. It was more curious, however, that the man seemed acquainted with Ashcraft, and familiar with his ways. Charles wondered if Wells was aware of this, and what it might suggest about Rasnokov’s way of doing business.

  “But Kopinski is the one who managed Messenko?” Charles persisted. “The only one?” He fixed Rasnokov with his gaze. “You’re sure of that?”

  “Kopinski is the one,” Rasnokov repeated positively, as if offering a prescription for a medicine that would somehow fix things up. “The whole affair was his idea, start to finish. He is a most dangerous man, though he may not seem so.” He reached into his pocket, took out several small coins, and laid them beside his unfinished coffee. “Is that all?”

  “For the moment,” Charles replied, digging into his meat pie. The savory fragrance of hot beef and pastry rose up temptingly. “They make a fine pirozhki here, don’t you think?”

  For answer, Rasnokov slid out of the booth. “If that’s all, I’ll take my leave.” Standing, he bent over and said in a low voice, “Tell our friend in Queen Anne’s Gate that I will be unavailable for a fortnight. Business is taking me out of the country.”

  Charles, watching him go, felt disturbed. Either Wells had not told him all he knew about Rasnokov, or there was more to the man than Wells knew. And it was the latter, Charles felt, that was more likely.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Not many years ago ladies’ clubs were comparatively unknown; now-a-days, almost every up-to-date London woman belongs to one, butterfly of fashion and working bee alike. . . . But what do the members do at their clubs? This is what we are about to investigate.

  Sheila E. Braine,

  “London’s Clubs for Women,” in Edwardian London, 1902

  It is said that the fluffers—the people who clean the tunnels and Underground stations in London—were often frightened by the spectral figure of a woma
n in flowing white robes who appeared on the tracks at night at the site of the Aldwych Underground Station. The ghost was believed to be that of an actress who died before she could take her final curtain call, for the Aldwych Station (now closed except for use as a film and television set and for trendy opening-night parties) was built on the site of the old Royal Strand Theater. This venerable institution was erected in 1832, condemned and rebuilt in 1886, and finally razed in 1905, three years after Nellie Lovelace starred in the record-breaking musical comedy, The Chinese Honeymoon. The fact that it ran for 1,075 performances did not, unfortunately, preserve the theater from demolition.

  But Aldwych Station was yet to be built, the Royal Strand had not yet been violated by the wreckers, and on this particular rainy August afternoon, as Kate’s cab drew to a stop in Aldwych, Nellie had already finished rehearsal and was waiting outside, under the shelter of her umbrella. She didn’t have to be back to the theater for the night’s performance until seven-thirty, so Kate would be able to enjoy her company for several hours, at least.

  “Hello, Nellie,” Kate called, opening the door of the cab and motioning to her friend.

  Nellie lowered her umbrella and dashed through the splashing rain. “Thank you for coming to get me,” she said, settling herself beside Kate. “It’s so difficult to find a cab on a rainy afternoon.” Her smile came and went. “Has there been any word from Lottie Conway?”

  Kate patted Nellie’s gloved hand. “No, I’m sorry to say. I’ll tell you all about my search over our supper, though. For the moment, just catch your breath.”

  In her note to Nellie, Kate had invited the actress to meet her for an early supper at the Pioneer Club, which was located in the West End, in a three-story house in Grafton Street, just off New Bond. Kate could as easily have invited Nellie to Sibley House, but she could not be sure whether Charles would be home or what time he might want dinner, and she knew that Richards would find it impossible not to sniff each time he served Nellie. The club was pleasant, the meals very nice, and their waiter would not sniff.

  The last decade had seen a remarkable growth in women’s social clubs, and by the turn of the century a woman might belong to one or even more, depending on her social class, her means, and her interests. A titled lady would join the magnificent Empress Club in Dover Street, where an orchestra played nightly in the ornate dining room, the salon was available for chatting and writing letters, the drawing room was reserved for concerts and dances, and luxurious guest rooms might be had for overnight stays. An employed woman might join the St. Mary’s Working Girls’ Club in the East End, at Stepney; the Honor Club in Fitzroy Square, which boasted a circulating library, a gymnasium, and a lady doctor who was available on Monday nights; or the Jewish Working Girls’ Club in Soho, which offered lace-making and cooking lessons and classes in Hebrew. Professional women had several options: the University Club, which catered to the academic and intellectual woman; the Writers’ Club, to the woman journalist; and the Rehearsal Club in Leicester Square, to the theatrical woman, providing rooms, board, and laundry service. There was even a Ladies Automobile Club, which was headquartered in the Claridge Hotel.

  Given Charles’s peerage and social position, Kate could have chosen to be a member of the Empress, or of the Green Park or Alexandra, for that matter. Instead, she had joined the Pioneer Club, whose members were committed to women’s issues, social reform, and political affairs, and were far less interested in parties and balls. When she was in town, she often visited the club’s library, which subscribed to all the leading periodicals, and attended the Thursday evening debates. This evening, Kate felt that the Pioneer was exactly the right place to have a quiet conversation with Nellie, who would be much more at her ease here than in the stuffy, stately dining room at Sibley House.

  For her part, Nellie was simply glad to sit down to a nice supper in a pleasant room with a friendly face smiling over the bowl of white roses in the center of the table. It had been a long day, for she had spent the morning dropping in on several friends who, she thought, might have heard something from Lottie. But they had not, and she had gone on to the theater discouraged and more than a little angry at Lottie for spurning the refuge she had taken so much trouble to secure for her.

  Unfortunately, the afternoon rehearsal had not gone well, either; whether it was because Nellie was upset or simply inattentive, she had missed even more cues and bungled even more lines than she had during the matinee and evening performances on Sunday, and the director had taken her aside for a firm talk afterward. Nellie knew that the man had no animosity toward her; it was simply his job to remind her that there was a particularly promising understudy who would be delighted to take her place if she found she could no longer play the role she was being paid—and paid very handsomely—to perform. She could feel the ax hanging over her head by the slenderest of threads, and it frightened her more than she could say. Another missed cue, another bungled line, and she was out, as quick and easy as a snap of the fingers. One night, a successful musical comedy star; the next, an out-of-work actress.

  With this ominous black cloud looming on her professional horizon, Nellie said little as she ate her supper—a very good mock turtle soup, curried lobster, roast lamb, and vegetables. She didn’t have to say much, for Kate had plenty to tell her about her visits to Mrs. Conway and to Helen Rossetti. Nellie wasn’t surprised that Kate was making such an effort to find Lottie, for she knew her to be sympathetic, especially when it came to women who were in some sort of difficulty. She was a little surprised, though, to hear that Lord Sheridan had also involved himself in the case, to the extent of obtaining a lawyer to represent Adam Gould and the two men arrested with him, and that he had reason to hope that they might be acquitted of the bomb-making charge.

  “That would be wonderful!” Nellie exclaimed. “Now, if we could only find Lottie.” She fell silent. Her feelings about Lottie, now, were definitely mixed. On the one hand, they were still friends, and she wanted to help; on the other—

  Across the table, Kate was looking at her with concern. “You don’t seem yourself tonight, Nellie,” she said quietly. “Is there something wrong? Apart from Lottie’s disappearance, I mean.”

  “No, nothing,” Nellie said. She looked down at her plate, then up again, meeting Kate’s eyes. “Actually, there is,” she blurted out, and to her surprise, she found herself confessing the whole story. The Saturday night she and Jack London had spent together. The dinner at the Carleton and the excursion afterward to Earl’s Court. And then the brutal lovemaking and waking on Sunday morning to his terse note, which had made her feel used and tawdry.

  Kate stared at her, eyes wide. “You don’t mean to say that the man forced you!” she exclaimed in horror.

  “Yes,” Nellie said, in a low voice, “although it might be my fault.” She bit her lip. “That’s what makes me feel so awful, Kate! To think that I brought it on myself.”

  “Brought it on yourself?” Kate asked, frowning.

  “I drank too much champagne,” Nellie said guiltily, “and when we arrived at my house and he asked to come in, I let him. I did not intend—” She closed her eyes and swallowed painfully. “I didn’t mean for anything to happen, honestly, Kate. I thought perhaps we’d have a kiss or two and a romantic cuddle, and I confess I was looking forward to it. But then he—” She shook her head. “I tried to say no, but maybe . . . maybe I didn’t say it hard enough. Maybe I should have—”

  “That’s nonsense,” Kate said decidedly. “A kiss is not meant to be an invitation to—” She broke off. “If you made it clear that you wanted nothing more than a kiss or two, Nellie, the man was honor-bound to respect your wishes, whatever his own might have been.”

  “I wanted . . . I wanted . . . Oh, Kate, I can’t be sure what I wanted!” Nellie exclaimed. “But surely it wasn’t that. And then to wake up and find that note the next morning—” She bit her lip, the tears welling up in her eyes. Nellie had enough experience of the world to know that
many women suffered far worse at the hands of men than the loss of their virtue. She had often slept in close quarters with adults and was not naive about what went on in a woman’s bed when a man got into it. But she had read too many romantic novels and cherished too many romantic dreams, and she felt humiliated at the recollection of the cruel reality. And complicating her feelings (although she didn’t want to share this with Kate) was the thought that Jack London was far more interested in Lottie than in her. Mate woman, he had called her, as if they shared some sort of mystical romantic connection, even though he’d no more than laid eyes on her when she came down that ladder.

  “What a dreadful experience,” Kate said, reaching across the table and taking Nellie’s hand. “I am so sorry, so very sorry, that it happened. And that I did not warn you. Perhaps if you had known—”

  “Known what?” Nellie asked, startled.

  “That Jack London is married,” Kate said, her eyes full of compassion. “His wife Bess is in California, with their little girl. I learned this at the party his publisher gave for him when he arrived in London.”

  For a long moment, Nellie stared at her, the words echoing over and over again in her mind. Married married married married. Then, in spite of the fact that they were seated in a public dining room, she burst into tears, hot and harsh with bitter self-recrimination.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “When did you love me?” she whispered.

  “From the first, the very first, the first moment I laid eyes on you. I was mad for love of you then, and in all the time that has passed since then I have only grown the madder. I am maddest, now, dear. I am almost a lunatic, my head is so turned with joy.”