Death In Hyde Park

by Robin Paige

  Charles dedicated several days of the week following the trial to the drafting of his report to the King. Kate typed it for him on Thursday, and he delivered it to Ponsonby on Friday, the twelfth of September. In it, he wrote that the bombing in Hyde Park was an isolated event instigated by a Russian secret agent named Dmitri Tropov, who had been discovered murdered at the rear of a cigar shop in Church Lane, a victim, no doubt, of one of the many Russians who bore the Ochrana a passionate hatred. The young man who had carried the bomb was dead, the Anarchist newspaper for which he had worked was closed, the Anarchist cell in Hampstead Road had been disbanded, and two of the Anarchists had been brought to trial. What had happened in Hyde Park, he concluded, was not likely to happen again. Their Majesties faced no continuing threat.

  The report was fairly brief, for Charles had intentionally omitted certain important elements of the affair. He did not, for instance, describe the details of Tropov’s murder or Kopinski’s and Mouffetard’s escape from the country, which Charlotte Conway had recounted to him and Kate when she visited them at Sibley House on the Saturday following the trial. Where the two fugitives had gone was none of his affair, and certainly none of the Crown’s. They were apparently beyond the reach of English justice, and when Charles discussed the possibility of their pursuit with Assistant Commissioner Edward Henry, he did not sense that Henry had an urgent interest in going after them. Henry seemed to feel, in fact, that Inspector Ashcraft’s illegal acts—the acts of former Inspector Ashcraft, that is, for the man had been sacked—had tainted the convictions to the point where he could not justify pursuit of the fugitives. And while numerous crimes had been committed, including two homicides, they had in effect cancelled each other out. Justice, it seemed, had been roughly served.

  Moreover, Charles saw no reason to include in his report any description of the part played by Charlotte Conway and Jack London in the escape of Kopinski and Mouffetard. Nor did he say anything of his discussion with Captain Steven Wells, of the Intelligence Branch of the War Office, and specifically excluded what Captain Wells had said (which might have offended the Royal ears) when Wells learned that his Russian contact, Rasnokov, had also been in the employ of Ochrana, and that he had recently died a violent death. These omissions notwithstanding, Charles felt that he had fulfilled his commission, and he was glad to see an end to it.

  There were a few other related matters in which the Crown could have no interest, and which were resolved over the next several weeks. Following his acquittal, Adam Gould returned to his position at the Amalgamated Society of Railway Servants, and was busy hammering out the details of a new contract with the Metropolitan Railway that gave the workers higher pay and shorter hours. Recognizing that Charlotte Conway needed work and confident in her valuable skills, Adam had found a position for her at the union’s office. Charlotte had stayed with Nellie Lovelace at the Rehearsal Club for a fortnight, but when she received her first week’s pay, she and Nellie pooled their resources and found a flat together. Nellie had discovered, much to her relief, that she was not pregnant; she was still working at the Alhambra, but had moved from the chorus line to a minor role and was understudy for the female lead. Nellie hoped that, over time, her disgraceful lapse would be forgotten and her talent would allow her to recover her reputation.

  As for Jack London, he had completed the research for People of the Abyss and returned to America by way of the Continent—or so he had written to Kate in a letter that he hoped she would forward to Lottie. In it, he had humorously outlined his adventures with a group of rowdy Continental revolutionists:

  On the train I met a Frenchman named Pierre. We grew chummy. At Spezzio we were delayed by a train-wreck. We went sailing in the harbor, & on an Italian man-of-war became acquainted with a boatswain. The latter got shore liberty and proceeded to show us the town. Both he and the Frenchman were revolutionists. Birds of a feather, you know—and by three in the morning there were a dozen of us, singing the Marseillaize (spl?) and clashing with the police.

  Kate had debated whether to show the letter to Lottie and did, finally. Lottie, however, declined Jack’s urgent request to correspond with him, and (as far as Kate knew, anyway) that was an end to the matter.

  * * *

  Before they left London for East Anglia, Kate and Charles accepted a dinner invitation from Bradford and Edith Marsden. It was Kate’s first visit to the Marsdens’ elegant home, which was newly purchased and freshly furnished in the latest decorative style. Edith, too, was stylishly up-to-date in a low-cut gold-colored gown. Her bosom was adorned with a cascade of delicate lace, her hair was elaborately dressed and sparkling with diamond pins, and she wore a diamond-and-pearl choker at her throat. Kate, who did not often wear jewelry, felt very plain indeed in comparison to this brilliance, and briefly regretted that she had not worn something more elegant than her green dress.

  Bradford was in excellent spirits, Edith was her usual playful self, and the drawing-room conversation was sprightly. When the gong sounded and they went into the dining room, the cut-glass chandelier was filled with lighted candles, casting a warm, flickering light over the elegant table, laid with the best crystal, china, and silver and centered with an enormous bowl of hot-house flowers. The dinner, of course, was splendid: two soups and two entrées; for the second course, Chicken à la Richmond, sirloin of beef with horseradish sauce, and vegetables; and for the third course, roast partridges, Charlotte Russe, and Cabinet pudding. As they sat at the table over dessert, an imposing Apples à la Parisienne, Kate reflected that the food that had appeared on the table that night might easily feed an East End family for several weeks. She was turning over this troubling thought when Bradford remarked to Charles, in an offhand way, “I say, old chap, that trial you were involved in—it was a queer business, wasn’t it? And unfortunate.”

  “Yes, very queer,” Edith put in brightly. “Bradford told me all about it, Charles. One of the Anarchists was acquitted, wasn’t he, and the others ran away? Such dreadful, filthy creatures, Anarchists.” She smiled at her husband. “But Bradford assures me that they can do us no serious harm.” Edith had worked as a secretary to Cecil Rhodes before her marriage to Bradford, and Kate had rather liked her. Now, she wasn’t so sure, for Edith seemed shallow, and more interested in fashion and opulent living than in anything else. Kate wasn’t sure about Bradford, either.

  “Don’t know what the world’s coming to,” Bradford said, as the butler refilled his champagne glass. “Anarchists everywhere, assassination in America, revolution on the Continent, whole thing’s going to hell in a handbasket. Don’t know why the jury acquitted that trade-unionist, either. He—”

  “He was acquitted because he was innocent,” Kate put in hotly. “Because the policeman put the evidence in his room—and in the rooms of the other two men, as well.”

  Edith’s eyes widened. “Oh, no,” she said. “That can’t be true, Kate! Not a policeman!” She turned with a coquettish smile to Charles. “Tell me, Charles, that it’s not true. The police would never do such a thing!”

  “I’m afraid it’s rather sordid,” Charles said. “I don’t think the details would be of much interest.” He smiled at Kate, and she read the message in his eyes. Edith would neither understand nor believe what had happened, and as for Bradford—

  Bradford frowned. “What that fellow Ashcraft did might have been technically illegal, but in my opinion, he was morally justified. The function of the police is to keep us safe from dangerous men. They must use whatever means are necessary to ferret out terrorists and lock them away.”

  Charles said nothing. Kate opened her mouth to object, but closed it. Charles was right. The Marsdens were among those who feared social change because it might threaten their way of life. Argument would not persuade them otherwise. She might as well save her breath—here, at least. There would be other, more productive opportunities to speak out.

  “I heartily agree with you, my dear,” Edith said in a sensible tone. “They must use wh
atever means are necessary. Society must be protected at all costs.”

  Bradford smiled and his tone lightened. “As long as law and order are maintained, the country will prosper—as we have prospered, my dear.” He cast an approving look down the length of the table, his glance lingering on the magnificent choker Edith wore around her neck. “And if they want revolution,” he added almost carelessly, “they shall have to face the consequences. That’s all I have to say.”

  Edith smiled at Kate and signalled to the footman to pull back her chair. “Shall we, Kate? I’m sure the men are going to talk about politics. We’ll go to the drawing room for coffee and our own little chat. I’ve a new silver coffee set I’d like you to see, and I’d very much like your opinion on the draperies. They were quite expensive, but I’m not sure that the color is exactly right.”

  Suddenly Kate had had enough. “I’m so sorry,” she lied, “but I have the most terrible headache. I do hope you’ll forgive us if we say good night now.”

  A few moments later, Kate and Charles were in a cab, on their way back to Sibley House. “I trust your headache is better,” Charles said, looking at her with a grave smile.

  “It was a silver-coffee-set-and-expensive-draperies headache,” Kate confessed. “I did not think I could tolerate another minute.”

  There was a longish silence. At last, Charles said, “I heard from Hardwicke Rawnsley today, Kate. He’s just back from taking a look at the land I propose to give to the Trust, and is entirely in favor of the transaction.”

  “Well, I should think so,” Kate said with a little laugh. “Canon Rawnsley did not strike me as the kind of man who would look a gift horse in the mouth—especially when there are more magnificent horses to be had in a few years.”

  Charles reached for her hand. “You’re sure that you approve of my giving Somersworth to the Trust? It’s not the sort of thing that Bradford or Edith Marsden would understand, and I’m sure there will be others who feel I am letting down the side by giving it up. Shirking my duty, as it were.”

  “Shirking your duty?” Kate put her hand in his. “I should say you are doing your duty, my dear. The Trust will be here long after you and I are gone, and perhaps a way will be found to make Somersworth available to all the people.”

  “Perhaps.” Charles’s eyes lightened. “And we might look on it as a small gesture in support of the revolution.”

  AUTHORS’ NOTES

  I prefer living to writing.

  Jack London

  letter to Alice Lyndon, 1909

  Susan Albert writes about Jack London

  When Bill and I learned that Jack London, the noted American adventure writer, had visited the British capital at the time of the coronation of Edward VII, we decided that he would play a major part in the book that we had in mind. We had read and enjoyed many of his stories; we knew that he was a self-avowed Socialist; and we knew that his book, People of the Abyss (written during the months of August, September, and October 1902), was a scathing critique of the slum conditions in the East End. Although we didn’t know much else about him, he seemed to be a perfect character for our novel—a major American writer, in the right place at the right time, with strong political sentiments of the right sort.

  But as we began to read about London’s life, other aspects of his character began to overshadow his writing and his radical political beliefs. The man brimmed with exuberant life and sexual energy. He was greedy for experience, for fame, for money and all the things money could buy. He was the center of the universe for himself and for those who loved or desired him, often to their detriment. On the train trip from California to New York, a few weeks before the beginning of our novel, he fell into a railway-car sexual affair with a “sweet woman” with whom “nothing remained when our three days and nights were over.” He claimed never to have loved Bess (the woman to whom he was married at the time of this novel, the mother of his two daughters) and walked out on her in July 1903, claiming that she was turning him into a “house animal” and his home into a “prison.” He had already begun an ardent affair with Charmian Kittredge, who learned to sail, box, decipher Jack’s handwriting, offer judicious stylistic suggestions, and corrected and retyped his typescripts—all the prerequisites, one imagines, for a successful relationship with Jack London. But when Bess filed for divorce, she named another woman, Anna Strunsky, whom Jack had also loved (and quite as passionately as he now loved Charmian) in 1902. Bess’s error was corrected, and (despite several miscellaneous new affairs) Jack and Charmian were married in November 1905.

  As Jack’s enormously energetic life went on, many other conflicts emerged within this complex and self-destructive man. But at the time he appears in our novel, his greatest energies (outside of his writing) seem to have been devoted to finding the love of his life, his “mate woman,” and that is the way we have portrayed him. While his sexual relationship with Nellie and his romantic attraction to Lottie are entirely fictional, we believe they are an accurate portrayal of Jack London’s uses of women, and that they show him as he was, at once passionate and manipulative.

  London loved hard, lived large, and died early, before his fortieth birthday, his life a study in contradictions. As a Radical Socialist, he was eager for the revolution, but he pursued the capitalist dream to the last day of his life, accruing as much as he could and spending far more than he earned. As a writer, he had a stunning and disciplined talent, but his other appetites pulled him away from his work; as he said himself, he preferred living to writing, and while his readers gobbled up his stories, his critics felt that the more he wrote, the less memorable was his writing. As an adventurer, he genuinely loved the wilderness of the sea and the frozen North; as a skilled self-promoter, he knew that to sell his books, he had to sell his adventurous life. (Unlike other writers of his era, he would be very much at home in our time.) But it is these complexities and contradictions that made Jack London large, large as the world, larger than life, and that is the way he will be remembered.

  Bill Albert writes about Anarchism

  The liberty of man consists solely in this: that he obeys natural laws because he has himself recognized them as such, and not because they have been externally imposed upon him by any will whatever, divine or human, collective or individual.

  Mikhail Bakunin,

  Father of Anarchism, 1814-1876

  When I was growing up, my knowledge of the Edwardian period was embodied by a single large English penny in my small coin collection. On the back, Britannia was serenely seated with shield and trident on a throne, as she had been on other English pennies for the century before this coin was struck. On the well-worn front was the massive head of a man, in profile, with an impressive beard and high forehead: Edward VII. I was aware that this king had ruled for only ten years and I was convinced that nothing of importance could have happened during his reign.

  I was, of course, wrong. The first decade of the twentieth century in England was a period of radical change, in several senses of the word. At the beginning of the decade, the landed elite still had a firm if nervous grip on power. Against them were arrayed a multifarious assortment of liberals, radicals, and reformers: Chartists, Fabians, Socialists, nihilists, Communists, Bolsheviks, home rulers, trade unionists, and suffragists. And on the extreme fringe of these left-wing factions were the Anarchists.

  Unlike the others, the Anarchists had no real plan for social change, only a dream. In fact, their basic philosophy more or less prohibited the formation of a plan, for a plan would require organization and the Anarchist creed insisted that all forms of organization, even those as basic as the family, had to be abolished. The dream went something like this: One day the revolution would come, the state would be swept away, the people would be free from oppression, and all would be well. Man’s darker nature (which was the result of oppressive government) would be brightened, and evil would vanish. There was no point in attempts at reform; indeed, reform merely postponed the inevitable revolution.r />
  Anarchists sought to hasten the revolution in two ways: by propaganda of the word (education), and by propaganda of the deed (violence). English Anarchists seem to have contented themselves mostly with the former: countless meetings, lectures, marches, banners, leaflets, and of course, newspapers. They could adopt this milder approach because England had pursued a relatively tolerant course in dealing with political dissent, while in Spain, Russia, and elsewhere, protest was rewarded with the garrote and firing squad. The Continental Anarchist turned terrorist and resorted to bombs and assassinations, while Britannia watched nervously.

  In England, ultimately, it was the more moderate forces that swept away the monopoly of power held by the upper class. Unions were organized and strikes provided the workers with real economic power. The franchise was extended. Liberal and even radical politicians gained seats in the House of Commons, at first a few seats, and then a great many. For a few years, their programs were frustrated by the hereditary House of Lords, but finally, under the threat of the creation of massive numbers of liberal peerages by the King, the Lords allowed passage of the Reform Bill and ceased to exist as a significant political power. The social revolution had come, almost without bloodshed, and the Anarchists, left without a cause, slowly faded away.

  REFERENCES

  Here are a few books that we found helpful in creating Death in Hyde Park. If you have comments or questions, you may write to Bill and Susan Albert, PO Box 1616, Bertram TX 78605, or e-mail us at china@tstar.net. You may also wish to visit our website, www.mysterypartners.com.

  Bentley-Cranch, Dana. Edward VII: Image of an Era 1841-1910. London: HMSO, 1992.

  Dangerfield, George. The Strange Death of Liberal England 1910- 1914. New York: Capricorn Books, 1935.