Death In Hyde Park (7 page)

From its beginnings, Special Branch had employed informants to help with investigations. In fact, while the Yard itself might modestly explain that a certain crime was solved by a good police work or a lucky chance of some kind—information offered by a disgruntled employee, a jealous lover, or a good-doing informant—the truth was that most often the information was purchased, and often at a very good price. This practice had been hotly debated for decades, for it certainly smacked of entrapment, and worse. Noses were known to sell unreliable information, and (when hard up for a guinea) to implicate innocent people. But Special Branch—and Scotland Yard in general—could not have done without noses, and continued, surreptitiously, to employ them. And Ashcraft himself would have dealt with the devil, if that’s what it took to do his duty.

But that was not necessary in this instance. The inspector procured the services of Mrs. Georgiana Battle, the owner of the green-grocer’s shop in the front of the building, as a nose—or in this case, perhaps she might perhaps rather have been called an
ear.
There was an opening in the wall at the back of the shop where, when the presses were not operating, voices could be distinctly heard, and Mrs. Battle was more than happy to keep Inspector Ashcraft apprised of what she heard when she applied her ear to the opening.

In addition to Mrs. Battle, Ashcraft had taken the precaution of obtaining the services of a young Russian émigré named Nicholas Petrovich, whom he paid to infiltrate the Anarchist cell in Hampstead Road. This group met each Sunday night in the grimy basement room of a bookseller’s shop a few doors down from the
Clarion
. Petrovich represented himself to the group as having just arrived from Munich, eager to carry out any duties to which he might be assigned. Anarchists, by and large, were a naive lot, and they readily accepted Petrovich’s offer, and he quickly became an indispensable member of the group.

In addition to these strategies, the inspector took the precaution of developing certain evidentiary contingencies that might make conviction more reliable, should he be called upon to make arrests in this case. He had once seen an Anarchist snatched from the clutches of the law, so to say, when a zealous barrister pointed out in the course of his client’s defense that there was no physical evidence of his guilt and that the informant upon whose word the police had acted had disappeared. The jury aquitted. Inspector Ashcraft did not intend that to happen in this case.

Given all these careful measures, then, it was certainly unfortunate that the inspector had neglected to monitor the movements of Yuri Messenko. But the young man had seemed a vague, gentle sort, not in the same class with the dangerous Kopinski, the inscrutable Mouffetard, or the clever, comely Miss Conway, and it did not seem useful to expend funds or footwork to watch a half-wit. It was only the greatest good luck, therefore, that had taken Inspector Ashcraft through Hyde Park on Coronation Day, at the precise moment that young Yuri blew himself into little pieces with the bomb that had obviously been meant for the King.

For once in his life, Earnest Ashcraft thought exultantly, he had been at the right place at the right time, and fully prepared to do his duty. Of course, it was altogether unfortunate that, in the subsequent raid on the offices of the
Clarion,
the tantalizing Miss Conway had been allowed to escape—how, he still did not quite understand. But that was of no great concern. He knew he would find her.

CHAPTER SIX

 
 
 
“No!” Nellie Lovelace exclaimed, raising a hand to her mouth and stifing a disbelieving gasp. “Across the
roof
and down the fire-ladder? You couldn’t have, Lottie!”

“Afraid I did,” Charlotte Conway replied with a rueful look. “It was rather a daredevil trick, and certainly ill-advised. I’m lucky I didn’t kill myself. But I was desperate, Nellie.” She bit her lip, looking anguished. “Adam and the others—I feel as if I abandoned them. It was a rotten thing to do.”

“But you had to,” Nellie said practically. “You couldn’t go to jail.” She knew that Lottie had been hauled before the magistrates on several previous occasions. She’d be in for it this time. Political radicals of all persuasions were increasingly targeted by the police, and since Lottie’s name was on the masthead of the
Clarion,
she was a perfect quarry. The newspapers would trumpet her arrest, the courtroom would be jammed at her trial, and the magistrate would be harsh.

Lottie sighed, glancing around Nellie’s bedroom. “I suppose I shouldn’t have come here, but I honestly couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. I can’t impose on any of the comrades—if I do, and I’m caught there, they’ll go to jail, too.” She lowered her head and glanced obliquely at Nellie. “I thought . . . well, you’re not a sympathizer. I didn’t think their spies would be watching you.”

“You did the right thing, Lottie.” Nellie opened her gold cigarette case—a gift from an admirer—and offered her friend a cigarette. “Good Lord, you
are
in a dreadful corner, aren’t you, old girl? Where did you sleep last night?”

“In Green Park.” Charlotte took the cigarette, wrinkling her nose. “I didn’t sleep, actually. A copper came along about midnight to roust out the vagabonds, and I slipped away before he collared me.” She bent to Nellie’s light and puffed, blowing out smoke. “The question is, Nellie, what the devil do I do now? I can’t go home, because that devil Ashcraft is no doubt watching Mum’s house. And I can’t go to the newspaper—from all the crashing and bashing I heard, I’m sure they wrecked the place. Last time, it took us a couple of months to put everything right and start printing again. This time, they’ve closed us down for keeps.” She closed her eyes and added, reflectively, “A damned shame, too. Without us, the movement has no voice.” Her own voice became bitter. “But that’s their aim, of course—to stifle anyone who doesn’t agree with the government. So much for the right of free speech.”

Nellie Lovelace sat back on her velvet sofa and regarded her friend. She had met Charlotte several years before, at the very beginning of her acting career. At the time, Nellie was still taking whatever parts she could find, mostly as a bit player at Henry Irving’s Lyceum Theater. She had gone to a meeting of the Fabian Society, the foremost Socialist group in England, to hear a lecture by the drama critic for the
Saturday Review
, George Bernard Shaw. She and Charlotte had sat next to one another. Nellie was only marginally interested in Socialism, and Charlotte was a committed Anarchist—a rather idealistic one, in Nellie’s view—but the two women quickly became fast friends and saw one another as often as their other commitments allowed.

“Yes, that is certainly the question,” Nellie said thoughtfully. “What are you to do now?” She surveyed her friend’s disheveled appearance with a critical eye. Never very tidy, Lottie certainly looked much the worse for wear: her boots were muddied, her skirt was torn, her blouse was stained, and her hair was a matted mess. “When did you last have something to eat?”

Lottie screwed up her forehead as if she were trying to remember. “An old lady gave me half of her sticky bun—this morning, I think it was.”

Nellie frowned, thinking that half a bun since morning wasn’t enough to keep body and soul together, even if you were a stick like Lottie and used to missing meals while you pecked away all day at the typewriter. “And you’re sure you can’t go home?” she asked. “You need a change of clothing, at least.”

“I don’t dare,” Lottie replied. “If Ashcraft so much as catches a glimpse of me, he’ll have me in Police Court by morning. I need to get out of London for a while, Nellie, but I’m sure the filthy beast is watching the railway stations.” She made a wry face. “I have no money for a ticket, anyway. And nowhere to go. I’m afraid I’m a dreadful nuisance.”

“Well, money is not a problem,” Nellie said, considering. “I certainly have more than enough.” The year before, she had taken on her first important role, as Princess Soo-Soo in
A Chinese Honeymoon,
at the Royal Strand Theater. Musical theater had not been her goal when she had declared to herself that she wanted to be an actress—a serious Shakespearean actress. But Nellie was nothing if not practical, and she had quickly discovered that there was a great deal more money to be made in musical comedy, which was more respectable than music hall and more appealingly lighthearted than serious theater. She’d had some incredible luck along the way, of course—meeting Lady Sheridan, for instance, who had introduced her to Henry Irving and Bram Stoker at the
Lyceum,
and then to Frank Curzon, who managed the Royal Strand. It was Lady Sheridan who had persuaded Mr. Curzon to give her a part as one of the bridesmaids in
A Chinese Honeymoon,
and he had suggested that she understudy the leading lady. When Beatrice Edward got into a tiff and left the play, Nellie had stepped into her role.

And from there on, it had been roses all the way. It looked as if the musical might enjoy a very long run, and Nellie was so much admired as Princess Soo-Soo that her dressing room was banked with fresh flowers every night and she was bombarded with invitations from men who wanted to make her acquaintance. Her photograph was in all the shops, her name was in all the newspapers, and she had a dozen admirers on her string, such as the charming American adventure writer she had met at the home of the Palmers the day before. Jack London was quite the man, she thought, and his rough-hewn American ways made him seem more rugged and virile than the foppish young men who usually courted her.

But that was all by the way. More important than attention, success brought money. Nellie was earning forty pounds a week—an unimaginable amount for a young woman who four years before had lived on one of the worst streets in Whitechapel and could only dream of somehow, someday becoming a lady, with beautiful dresses in her closet and clean sheets on her bed. Her earnings had enabled her to find this absolutely topping West End house with a bathroom with piped-in hot water and a garden and furnish it exactly as she’d always wanted, with a golden velvet sofa in her bedroom and yellow silk bed curtains, and a Persian carpet thick enough to curl her toes in. But her money and her newfound fame hadn’t separated her from her old friends—like the Palmer girls, who still lived with their policeman father in the East End, and Lottie Conway—and Nellie vowed that it never would. Whenever necessary, she was there to help.

Lottie lifted her chin with a proud look. “I’m not going to take any of your hard-earned money, Nellie. I can manage for myself.”

“Rubbish,” Nellie said, with a careless wave of her hand. “Don’t push your ridiculous Anarchist principles onto me, Lottie Conway. I know you’re a staunch comrade and all that, but everybody needs a helping hand every now and then, and you’re in a bit of a fix, if you ask me.” She frowned at her friend. “Let’s see, now. When exactly was it that you did your mad daylight flit across the roof?”

“Yesterday morning,” Lottie replied unhappily, looking down at the cuts and scrapes on her capable hands.

“It might be yesterday week, from the look of you,” Nellie said in a crisp tone. When Lottie looked up, her eyebrows raised, she added imperiously, “Well, take a peek at yourself, then.” She took Lottie’s hand and pulled her up, turning her around to face the cheval mirror in the corner of the bedroom.

“Oh, dear,” Lottie said, with an embarrassed little laugh. “My face is rather dirty, isn’t it? And my hair—” She turned away from the mirror. “I shouldn’t have come here,” she said quietly. “You can’t have me hanging about, Nellie—I’m too simply awful. I’ll go straightaway. You don’t need to see me to the door.”

“You
are
simply awful.” Nellie rolled her eyes in a theatrical gesture. “Your face is unspeakably dirty, your hair needs a wash and a curl, your boots are positively done for, and every stitch of your clothing ought to be burned. You are definitely going straightaway—for a bath.” She steered her friend toward one of the doors off her bedroom. “I think I can find something that might fit you.”

“But what—” Lottie spluttered, resisting. “What are you—”

“Don’t ‘but what’ me, Comrade Conway.” Nellie pushed her into the bathroom and closed the door firmly. She raised her voice. “If you turn the tap on the tub, you’ll get three gallons of hot water a minute. If you want more, it’ll be hot again in ten minutes. There are towels in the cupboard, and soap in the dish. I’ll get you something clean to wear. And after that, we’re having ourselves a nice tea.”

“But, Nellie—” Lottie protested.

“I don’t want to hear another word,” Nellie said smartly, “unless it’s
pass the jam.
” And with that, she went to her closet and pulled out a pretty cotton frock with embroidered lace on the bodice, singing under her breath the first verse of “I Wants to Be a Lidy.”

CHAPTER SEVEN