by Robin Paige
Charles swallowed, hardly knowing where to begin. “Nellie Lovelace is carrying Jack London’s child?”
“She’s not sure,” Kate said quickly. “And she told me in confidence, so perhaps I shouldn’t have told you. But it does explain why she wants so desperately to talk to Lottie.” She glanced down at the gold watch on her lapel, pushed back her chair, and stood up. “I must leave now, Charles. I promised to pick Nellie up in half an hour, so we can go to the East End and look for Lottie.”
“The East End.” Charles frowned. “Is that why you’re dressed like a Salvation Army matron?”
“Exactly,” Kate said. “And if I’m late, I’m afraid Nellie will go charging off on her own, without me.” She bent over and kissed him. “I hope you have a good day, my very dear.”
Charles stared at her departing back. “More coffee, Richards,” he said at last. “Black, please.”
Richards’s sniff, he could have sworn, was sympathetic.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
And so it goes. I wander through life delivering hurts to all that know me . . . it is the woman who always pays.
Jack London,
letter to Anna Strunsky, 23 July 1904
Charlotte Conway had just finished tidying up the two beds when there was a quiet rap at the door. Frowning, she went to it and put her ear against it. Who could be knocking? No one but Jack knew she was here.
“Lottie,” a voice whispered urgently. “It’s Nellie Lovelace. I know you’re in there, Lottie, so let me in!”
So surprised that she didn’t take time to think, Lottie opened the door and stepped back. “Nellie, what are you—” She stopped, feeling herself go rigid with shock. “Lady Sheridan!”
“Hello, Miss Conway,” Lady Sheridan said, entering the room. She was dressed in a very plain gray suit and wore no jewelry. She glanced around, her eyes lingering on Jack’s typewriter. “What a cozy little room. I hope you won’t mind if Nellie and I come in for a visit.” Without waiting for an answer, she went on, in a light tone, “I always enjoy seeing other writers’ work in progress. I’m sure that Mr. London won’t mind if I have a look.” She went over to the table and picked up the top pages of Jack’s typescript, turning her back.
Lottie put her fists on her hips. “What can you possibly mean, coming here, Nellie?” she hissed. “Somebody might have seen you, or heard you walking up the stair. And if it’s Jack you want to talk to—”
“I didn’t come to talk to Mr. London,” Nellie said loftily. “In fact, we—Lady Sheridan and I—lingered on the street to be sure he was gone. We saw the Palmers leave, as well,” she added. “The house is empty. There’s no risk of our being overheard.”
Lady Sheridan put down the manuscript pages and turned around. “We know what happened last night, Charlotte,” she said quietly. She pointed to the red babushka draped over the head of Lottie’s bed. “You were wearing that, and an embroidered apron when you and Jack London went into the Old Bailey yard. Somehow, the two of you managed to slip a key to the prisoners. They freed themselves and—”
“They’ve escaped?” Lottie cried, nearly beside herself with relief. “Oh, I’m so glad! We weren’t sure the plan would—” She stopped, suddenly suspicious. “How do you know about this?”
“Nellie and I, and Adam Gould, saw you on the street outside the Old Bailey,” Lady Sheridan replied. “This morning, Lord Sheridan showed me the Times story. The two men bashed the guard on the head and went out the back of the van. It was unlocked when the driver arrived at the prison, and empty, except for the guard.”
At the mention of Adam, Lottie’s heart gave a little lurch. “Did Adam see what happened?”
“I don’t think so,” Lady Sheridan said. “He didn’t seem able to get through the crowd. Or perhaps he saw that Mr. London was with you and gave it up.”
Lottie felt suddenly anxious. “I hope you’re not planning to turn us in. I—”
“Don’t be silly, Lottie,” Nellie said. “Of course we’re not planning to turn you in. We came because I need to talk to you about Mr. London. I would have come sooner, if I had known you were here. It wasn’t until last night, when we saw the two of you together, that I realized that you must be staying with . . . him.”
Lottie colored. “Mr. London?” she asked defensively. “What do you want to talk about?”
“I’m sorry,” Nellie said with a sigh. “I don’t mean to embarrass you. But if you and he are . . . I mean, if he’s promised you . . . if you have. . . .” She stopped, her cheeks glowing, her eyes suddenly brimming. Two enormous tears ran down her cheeks.
“What’s wrong, Nellie?” Lottie asked urgently. She took Nellie’s hands. They were very cold. “Why are you crying?”
“Oh, Lottie,” Nellie burst out, “I hope you haven’t let him make love to you. He’s . . . he’s married !”
“I know that, Nellie,” Lottie said gently. “And I have not allowed him to make love to me. I am simply staying here until the police are no longer looking for me, and then I’ll leave.”
“Is that really true?” Nellie asked, searching her face. “You . . . didn’t?”
“Of course it’s true. I said so, didn’t I?” Lottie dropped Nellie’s hands, frowning. “But what does this have to do with you? Why—?”
And then an awful idea came to her, and she thought she understood why Nellie was crying. “I know that Jack took you to Earl’s Court, because he told me,” she whispered. “But did you allow him to—” She didn’t have to finish the question, because Nellie’s flaming face told her the truth.
“Nellie has had a difficult experience, Lottie,” Lady Sheridan said quietly. Her look was very straightfoward and direct. “Mr. London was not a gentleman. She has been concerned that he might have put you into a similar awkward and compromised position—perhaps even a precarious one.”
Lottie lowered her head. “He might well have,” she admitted. “But I found out that he was married and made it clear that I . . . wouldn’t.” She took a deep breath. “Since then, he’s been . . . restrained. And helpful, I must say.” She smiled crookedly. “He’s a first-rate dipper.”
“A dipper?” Lady Sheridan asked.
“A pickpocket,” Lottie said. “He learned it when he was in jail. He picked the guard’s pocket last night, while I was screaming Russian words at Ivan.” She frowned at Lady Sheridan. “When you say that he wasn’t a gentleman, do you mean—”
“He forced me, Lottie,” Nellie broke in. “I think I’m . . . pregnant.”
“Nellie isn’t sure about that,” Lady Sheridan said cautiously. “It’s really too early to—”
“He forced you!” Lottie exclaimed, stunned. “Oh, Nellie, how awful! I would never have believed that he—”
“We’d both had quite a bit to drink,” Nellie said, shame-facedly. “Part of the fault is mine, I know.” She held out her hand in a pleading gesture. “But I tried to make him stop, honestly, I did, Lottie. I did! And then Lady Sheridan told me about his wife and child back in California. His wife is pregnant too.”
“Oh, Nellie, I am so very sorry,” Lottie cried, and opened her arms to her friend. How could Jack have done such a thing? But she did not doubt Nellie’s word. There was something about Jack that allowed him to use vulnerable people to suit his own ends—and of course, when men took their pleasure, it was the woman who paid.
After a few minutes, Lady Sheridan cleared her throat. “We must decide what to do,” she said. “Miss Conway, now that the trial is over, you are safe from the police. You may wish to return home to Brantwood Street, or you could come back to Bishop’s Keep with me.”
Nellie wiped her eyes. “You could come and stay with me, Lottie. I lost my place at the Strand, but I’m working again, and living at the Rehearsal Club. The other bed in my room is empty just now. You’d be welcome.”
Lottie squared her shoulders, thinking swiftly. If she left the City, she would not be able to help Ivan and Pierre, and her first obligation was t
o them. “I won’t stay here any longer,” she said at last. “That much is certain. Lady Sheridan, I’m grateful for your invitation, but I feel I had better remain in London. I’ve already made up my mind not to go back to Brantwood Street, so I’ll accept Nellie’s offer, at least for a few days.” One thing, at least, she had decided over the past several days: She was no longer willing to be tied to her mother. The lodgers’ rent ought to be enough to buy meat and potatoes, if not chocolates.
“I’m glad,” Nellie said simply.
“Do you have anything to pack?” Lady Sheridan asked, glancing around the room. “Perhaps we had better leave, before—”
But it was too late. The door opened and Jack London, wearing his grimy slum costume, his camera bag slung over his shoulder, came into the room. At the sight of the visitors, his mouth dropped open. “What—?” His eyes went to Nellie, his brow furrowed, and a flush came into his cheeks.
“Hello, Mr. London,” Nellie said, with a strained composure. “I—” She stopped, swallowing hard. “I think you should know—”
Lady Sheridan smiled and put her hand on Nellie’s arm. “Good morning, Mr. London. Miss Conway, I think it’s time we were going. Miss Lovelace and I will wait for you in the street.”
“Thank you,” Lottie replied, lifting her chin. “This won’t take long.” She gave Jack a pointed look. “Not long at all.”
Out on the street, Kate put her arm around Nellie’s shoulders. “You did very well, Nellie,” she said quietly. “I was afraid I was going to cry again,” Nellie said. She gave Kate a grateful look. “Thank you for coming here with me. If I’d been alone with Lottie when he came in, I might have told him. About me, I mean.” She flushed. “But it wouldn’t have been a good idea.”
Kate nodded, agreeing. A vendor’s wagon at the corner caught her eye. “Let’s have some hot tea while we’re waiting for Lottie,” she said. “It will make us both feel better.”
They had just finished their tea when Lottie came around the back of the Palmers’ house, carrying a paper bag. She was wearing a dark dress, with a shawl tied around her shoulders. Catching sight of Kate and Nellie, she waved and came toward them across the street.
“Well, then,” Kate said, “shall we get a cab and go to the Rehearsal Club?”
Lottie handed the bag to Nellie. “I must ask you to take this and go on without me,” she said. “I’ll come to the club later this evening, or perhaps tomorrow. I must do an errand right now.”
Nellie took the bag, which Kate saw was full of clothing. “Do you know where to come?”
“It’s in Leicester Square, isn’t it?” Lottie replied. “If you could leave my name at the desk, with a spare key, I could let myself in even if you aren’t there.” She paused, frowning. “No, don’t use my real name, Nellie. Leave the key for . . . for Hazel Lovelace. I’ll be your sister. And I have a little money. I can pay for my share of the room.”
Kate regarded her steadily. “This errand,” she said. “Does it have to do with the escaped men?”
A wagon filled with vegetables clattered past on the cobbled street. Down the way, a newspaper boy was crying the headlines. “Anarchists escape from prison van! Getcher news here!”
Lottie looked as if she did not want to answer, but after a moment, she said, in a guarded tone, “I suppose I owe you the truth, since you and Lord Sheridan have been so kind. Yes, my errand has to do with the escape. Getting the men out of the van was only the first step. They’re safe now, in a hiding place in the Russian area of the East End. I am meeting a comrade this morning to make arrangements for getting them out of the country.” She turned back to Nellie. “That’s why I can’t go with you now, Nellie. And if I’m caught, I don’t want you involved.”
Nellie shook her head. “Lottie, you are so brave.”
Lottie laughed. “Brave? Foolhardy is more like it. Smuggling them out won’t be easy, since the Yard is probably looking everywhere for them. But we have to try.”
Kate remembered the anger she had felt when the jury’s verdict was announced, and her feeling that justice had not been served.
“Yes,” she said firmly. “You have to try.” She bent forward and kissed Lottie’s cheek. “Good luck, Lottie. We’ll be thinking of you and wishing you well.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
There is no denying the aesthetic satisfaction, the sense of poetic justice, that pleasures us when evil-doers get the comeuppance they deserve. . . . The satisfaction is heightened when it becomes possible to measure out punishment in exact proportion to the size and shape of the wrong that has been done.
Arthur Lelyvekl,
Punishment: For and Against
Former Inspector Ashcraft was in a mood as black as the coffee he was stirring. From his seat in the corner booth, he was keeping one eye on the entry to the Little Moscow Café, although he was not sure that his message had been received—or if it had, that his contact would respond.
Early that morning, Assistant Commissioner Henry had called both Ashcraft and Chief Inspector Mattingly into his office. He was obviously angered not only by the debacle of the trial but also by the Anarchists’ escape, the news of which had stunned Ashcraft into a bewildered disbelief. How had the wardens been so lax as to allow their keys to be stolen and the men to escape? The Anarchists were known to be dangerous—why had there not been a larger guard, more effective security procedures? Who was responsible for—
But the inspector had not been able to give voice to any of the questions and doubts that stirred like a storm within him. He was required to stand at attention and listen as the assistant commissioner made it plain that he had only two choices: He could resign his position and leave Special Branch quietly, without any fanfare; or he could stay and face an internal investigation and, quite possibly, a public trial. The decision had been wrenching, for Ashcraft had wanted to proclaim to the world that he had done what he did only because it was his duty to keep the streets of London safe from Anarchists. His duty had required him to stretch the law, and justified him in stepping outside of its bounds when necessary. But the assistant commissioner did not want to hear any explanations or justifications; he only wanted to castigate him for breaking the law and embarrassing the Yard. And of course, Chief Inspector Mattingly could never acknowledge that he had encouraged Ashcraft to do what he had to do to bring the Anarchists to justice, and especially Kopinski, whom the Russians badly wanted. The inspector had taken the easiest way, and resigned.
But there was something else, too, that had figured in Ashcraft’s decision, something that he feared might come to light if he were swept up in an investigation. He knew, in the deepest recesses of his heart, that it was Charlotte Conway who had been his undoing. Even now, and even to himself, he was not prepared to admit how desperately he had wanted the girl. The more he had watched her through that lighted bedroom window, or tripping down the street, or bending over her desk in the newspaper loft, the stronger his desire had grown. And since he could not have her, something inside him—some fiercely passionate part of him that he could barely recognize as himself—had determined that no other man would have her, either.
It was this determination that had led to his fundamental error, for when the raid had inadvertently netted Charlotte Conway’s lover along with Kopinski and Mouffetard, Ashcraft had decided to take advantage of the situation. He should, of course, have released Adam Gould and been done with it. There was no question of finding evidence against the man, since Ashcraft knew he was not involved with the Anarchists. But since he had determined to ensure the conviction of Kopinski and Mouffetard—and especially of Kopinski—it seemed a small matter to make up another bottle and put it under Gould’s bed. He could not have known that the young man was a friend of some overly-enthusiastic lord who thought he knew something about fingerprints and wanted to meddle in police matters. If Sheridan had not organized the defense, it was likely that the whole thing would have come out exactly as he had anticipated, with guilty verdi
cts for all three.
“I received your message from Petrovich,” a voice said. There was a tone of deep disdain in it. “You wanted to see me?”
Ashcraft had become so deeply absorbed in his thoughts that he had not seen the tall, stooped-shouldered man enter the café. The man slipped into the booth on the opposite side of the table and regarded him with watchful eyes. There was nothing inside the man, Ashcraft thought drearily, no devotion to duty, no humanity, only that cold, uncaring, never-ending vigilance. Didn’t these Russians ever stop watching?
Tropov rested his elbows on the table. “What is it you want?” he asked finally. Ashcraft knew, by the tone of his voice, patronizing and contemptuous, that he had heard about the trial and guessed, no doubt, that he had been dismissed.
“I have something for you,” Ashcraft said stolidly. “Something that might be of value in your work.” Reaching into his coat pocket, he took out a small black notebook. His eyes lingered on it as he placed it carefully in the center of the table. Offering it to Tropov—was it a betrayal of his duty? Was he somehow giving aid to an enemy he did not fully understand?
No, his notes on the Hyde Park affair and the lists of names of the men and women who had served the Yard as informants—this was not evidence, but merely his own personal jottings. And since Assistant Commissioner Henry himself had made it clear that Ashcraft’s services were no longer required and the Hyde Park matter was closed, Ashcraft felt himself at liberty to do what he liked with his personal records. Moreover, it did not matter that Tropov served the Russian secret police. They were both on the same side, ultimately: the side of law and order, opposed to the death against lawlessness, chaos, and disorder.
