Robin Paige - Death in Hyde Park

Kate looked at the speaker sharply, realizing that he was really she. “My goodness,” she said, startled. “It’s a very effective disguise. I was completely fooled.”

“I’ve learned a trick or two when it comes to costume,” Nellie said smugly. “But really, the only thing we did was cut Lottie’s hair and beg a suit of clothes at the theater. She makes a very handsome young man, don’t you think?”

“I do indeed,” Kate said, “although it was a pity, Miss Conway, that you had to sacrifice your hair.”

“Not a bit of it.” Charlotte tossed her head. “To tell the truth, Lady Sheridan, it’s topping. I feel light as a feather!”

The library door opened and a maid appeared with a tea tray. She set it down, curtsied quickly, and disappeared.

“Now, then,” Kate said, sitting down in front of the tray and picking up the silver teapot. “Why don’t we have a cup of tea while you two tell me what this is all about?”

“Thank you,” Nellie said. She sat back down on the plum-colored settee, her friend beside her. “I do hope we haven’t interrupted your work.”

Kate chuckled, looking down at her smudged tunic and trousers and brushing off a straw. “I was attending to a sick calf. As you can see, I’m not dressed for callers, but since Miss Conway is in trousers, too, I don’t feel a bit awkward.” Filling a cup and handing it to Nellie, she added, “Now, then. Let’s hear the story.”

The narrative took only a few moments, and by the time their cups had been emptied once and then refilled, Kate had heard the whole narrative, from Yuri Messenko’s death in Hyde Park to the raid on the Clarion and Charlotte’s narrow escape across the roof, to Nellie’s decision to bring her friend to Bishop’s Keep.

Not all of this was news to Kate, of course. She had read of the young Anarchist’s death in The Times, and Charles had told her about the raid on the Clarion and the arrest of everyone in the office, except for the editor, who had got away. He had also told her that he wanted to talk with the editor, as part of his inquiry into the Hyde Park explosion. Since he had only consented to investigate and report back to Ponsonby, it occurred to her now that Miss Conway might be willing to help him-although she would probably refuse if she were afraid of implicating any of her friends.

Kate didn’t reveal these thoughts, however. Instead, she merely remarked, in a mild tone, “My goodness, Miss Conway. You have had an adventure.”

“Worthy of one of Beryl Bardwell’s heroines,” Nellie put in. She gestured to a row of red leather-bound books on a shelf, “That’s who she is, Lottie. Lady Sheridan, I mean. She’s Beryl Bardwell. The famous novelist.” She turned to Kate. “I simply adore your most recent one- Death on the Moor. So realistic, in every detail. One would almost think you were on Dartmoor when that man broke out of that horrible prison!”

Kate suppressed a smile. As a matter of fact, she had been on Dartmoor when the man escaped, she and Charles and Conan Doyle. As a writer, she found it best to work from her own experience, although that sometimes got her into trouble with acquaintances who did not fancy meeting their own fictional counterparts in one of her books. Just now, she was at work on a book set at Glamis Castle in Scotland, where Charles had been summoned to find one of the Royal Family’s lost black sheep. ^4 Of course, she didn’t dare reveal the details of what had happened while they were there-the whole episode was, as Charles kept reminding her, a State Secret. But Glamis Castle had proved a splendid setting for a ghost story, with echoes of Macbeth and Bonnie Prince Charlie, and she would be taking the finished manuscript to her publisher in a few weeks.

Charlotte frowned. “Beryl Bardwell? I don’t think I’ve read-” She glanced at the bookshelf, hesitated, then added awkwardly, “I don’t have much time for novels, I’m afraid, Lady Sheridan.”

“I can’t think that you would,” Kate said, seeing her discomfort and wanting to ease it. “My novels are meant to fill idle moments, and I doubt that you have many of those.” She smiled at Nellie, who wore an embarrassed look. “It does seem as if we all have our secret identities, doesn’t it? Nellie has adopted a stage name, I write novels under a pseudonym, and you-”

“And I’m hiding from the police,” Miss Conway said. She put down her cup. “But I’m not under arrest,” she added earnestly. “I haven’t done anything wrong or against the law, so you wouldn’t be harboring a criminal.” She looked flustered. “That is, if you-”

“So you want me to take Miss Conway in?” Kate asked, with a questioning look at Nellie. “Is that why you’ve come?”

“In a word, yes,” Nellie said, “and thank you for putting it so simply. It’s all very unfortunate, of course, but that awful fellow has staked out his spies everywhere. Lottie’s disguise got her out of London, but-”

“Who?” Kate interrupted. “What ‘awful fellow’?”

“Inspector Ashcraft, from New Scotland Yard,” Miss Conway replied. Her mouth tightened. “He thinks I don’t know his name, or even that he is a police officer, for he always goes in plain clothes-brown tweeds, and a brown bowler hat. But all of us know him, for he has made himself an infernal nuisance. He thinks it’s his duty to harass us, even though we’ve not broken the law. It is not a crime to speak and write about the wrongs the people must endure and to say how we believe they can be righted.” A grim smile touched her lips. “At least, it isn’t a crime yet, although the government may make it so.” She looked down, her hands twisting in her lap. “I have no idea what Adam and Ivan and Pierre have been charged with, or whether they have been charged at all.”

“Who are they?” Kate asked.

“Ivan Kopinski and Pierre Mouffetard are employed at the Clarion, ” Miss Conway replied, her voice thin and tense. “Adam Gould is a friend of mine. He doesn’t work at the paper-he was only there so we could go to lunch together. But the police put all three of them into a van and took them off. They’re still being held, as far as I know.”

“The important thing is that these men haven’t done anything against the law,” Nellie said urgently. “And neither has Lottie. But she must be kept out of sight.” She extended her hand with a melodramatic gesture. “Please, Kate, please help us!”

Kate thought swiftly. “Why don’t you both plan to stay overnight, at least,” she suggested. “I believe that my husband will be interested in meeting Miss Conway and hearing her story. But he’s driven over to Chelmsford this morning to visit Mr. Marconi’s wireless laboratory. When he comes back-certainly by teatime-we can all discuss the situation.”

Miss Conway bit her lip nervously. “Your husband-Lord Sheridan?”

“He’s not what you think, Lottie,” Nellie said. “His lordship isn’t an Anarchist by any stretch, but he’s always on about free speech and the rights of workers. And he was interested in that union case that Adam was involved with a couple of years ago. In fact, he and Adam must know each other.” She patted her friend’s hand. “Anyway, there’s nothing in the least frightening about him, so don’t you be worried.”

Kate laughed. “If you have the courage to cross a roof three stories above the street, Miss Conway, I’m sure that Lord Sheridan should not cause you any difficulty.”

Miss Conway seemed not to know what to say, but Nellie consulted the gold watch pinned to her lapel, and rose. “I’m afraid I can’t stay to tea,” she said. “I have a performance tonight, and afterward, I’m going to supper with a visiting American author.” She glanced at Kate, her eyebrows raised. “His name is Jack London. I wonder if you know him.”