Robin Paige - Death in Hyde Park

Had the prosecution’s case been based solely on the evidence, it could not have held up against a vigorous defense in court. But fortunately for the Crown (the Attorney-General himself conducted the case for the prosecution), one of the conspirators, a man named Deakin, was persuaded to turn nose and supply a confession that implicated three of the others. Also fortunately for the Crown, several bombs exploded in France the week before the trial began, which increased the hysteria in Britain. It took the jury less than two hours to find Deakin and three others guilty and sentence them to five- and ten-year prison terms. Upon learning the verdict, the Commonweal, the Socialist League newspaper, printed an angry, impassioned editorial, pleading for justice. Shortly thereafter, the paper was raided, and both its editor and publisher jailed.

Charles pulled on his pipe. “This man Yuri Messenko,” he said. “The bomber. I read that he was employed at the Clarion. Did you know him well?”

Miss Conway sighed. “I knew him a little. His father was Ukrainian, his mother English, I believe. They lived in Manchester, although they are both dead now. Yuri seemed a soft-spoken, kind young man, always willing to run errands or do what he could to help. He was especially good with children and with people who were in trouble; he always knew what to say to comfort them.” She smiled a little, crookedly. “He wasn’t very bright, though. And his views were not threatening-at least, not as threatening as those of others, Pierre, for instance.”

“Did he have any expertise in chemistry?”

“In chemistry? I should say not!” Miss Conway gave a sad little laugh. “Yuri was no more able to build a bomb than to construct a flying-machine. He wouldn’t even know where to obtain explosive material.”

“But he was obviously carrying explosives,” Charles pointed out. “He might not have known exactly what was in the satchel, but someone did. Someone had to obtain the materials, construct the explosive device, put it into the satchel, and hand it to Messenko-all which suggests a conspiracy of some kind. Equally obviously, Yuri Messenko did not succeed in killing anyone else but himself.” Casually, he spoke around his pipe, not seeming to look at her. “Was that by accident, do you think, or by design?”

Kate frowned. “You’re suggesting that the explosion was not meant to kill the King?”

“I’m not sure what I’m suggesting,” Charles replied. “Miss Conway? Was it by accident?”

“How could I possibly know the answer to that question,” Miss Conway said defiantly, “unless I were a party to the conspiracy. And I was not.” Then, more tentatively, she added, “You are thinking that someone deliberately set out to kill Yuri?”

“At this point, it’s as likely an explanation as anything else,” Charles replied. “Do you know where he lived? Who his friends were?”

Miss Conway seemed wary, but she answered nonetheless. “He lived in Telson Street, Number 17, I think, or Number 19-not far from the Clarion office. As to his friends, I’m afraid I have no idea. Ivan might know. I’ve occasionally seen the two of them leaving the newspaper together in the evenings. Sometimes they went to meetings, sometimes they just went out for something to eat.” She pulled her brows together. “As for a conspiracy, all I can tell you is that different people who come to the newspaper-the Spaniards or the Italians, mostly-sometimes make threats or skulk around as though they are planning some violent action. But there isn’t as much of that as the authorities and the newspapers lead one to believe.” Her lips curved in what might have been a smile. “Most of the people in our cell-the Hampstead Road cell-prefer propaganda by word to propaganda by deed.”

At Kate’s puzzled look, Charles translated. “Miss Conway means that they prefer to educate people to the need for change, rather than try to bring about change through violent action.”

“Thank you,” Miss Conway said. Now she did smile. “Some, less charitably, say that the Clarion is a call to talk, rather than to fight.” She pulled a face. “I’m sorry. I’m not a very helpful informant.”

Charles puffed on his pipe. “After I’ve talked to Adam and the others and done a little more digging, I may have other questions to ask you, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind. I just wish I could do something.” Miss Conway sighed despondently. “Something more helpful than trying to answer questions.”

Nellie Lovelace always felt a special energy sweeping through her at the close of an evening’s performance. It was as if the audience’s laughter and delighted applause were a kind of electricity, jolting her awake and making her feel like dancing, a boost that was almost always strong enough to keep her going until the next performance. In fact, it had begun to seem to Nellie that she pretty much lived from one performance to another, the time in between a monotonous stretch of gray humdrum when nothing of interest happened. Her life was on the stage and the stage was what she lived for.

Tonight, however, she had the feeling that her life was about to change, for as she took her final curtain, a little brown-skinned boy, dressed in red satin and wearing the turban of an Indian potentate, leapt lightly onto the stage and thrust a gigantic bouquet of roses into her arms. “Compl’ments of Mr. London,” he lisped, bowing so deeply that his turban touched the stage.

And then, returning to her dressing room, she found it actually banked with flowers, their scent so strong that she could scarcely catch her breath. And there was Mr. London himself lounging in the open door, dressed in smart formal attire, a silk hat under one arm. She pulled in her breath at the sight of the flowers and at the sight of him, for he was even more striking than she had remembered, and there was a crooked smile on his lips and an admiring glint in his daring dark eyes, fringed by marvelous long lashes.

“You were magnificent, Miss Lovelace.” He grinned and waved expansively at the flowers. “A small thanks for the sheer pleasure of watching you perform.” He paused. “I should very much like to invite you to dinner.”

“And I should be pleased to accept,” Nellie said eagerly, although some of her gaiety evaporated, as she realized from his flushed face and the easiness of his gesture that Mr. London was already a little drunk. But just a little, she told herself, as she slipped behind a screen and quickly exchanged her costume for a close-fitting, low-cut gown of garnet velvet that showed her voluptuous figure and smooth white shoulders to advantage, adding a matching fur-trimmed velvet cape. Anyway, men who drank too much were among the hazards of the acting profession, and one learned to manage them, if one wanted to be invited to dinner.

Nellie’s gaiety was fully restored by the time they got into the waiting four-wheeler, for they were going, Mr. London told her with a certain careless flair, to the Carlton. The Carlton! Nellie’s admirers had taken her to some of the best restaurants in the City, but not yet to the Carlton, and the anticipation made her breath come faster. She settled into the leather seat with a shiver of delight and gave herself over to the pleasure of a late-night ride through the streets of London.

The daytime city might be gritty and grimy, but at night it became a glittering fairyland. A misty fog hung like a diaphanous curtain over the streets, the starry gaslights shimmered on the damp pavement, and the arc lamps shone like haloed moons. The uncurtained windows of brilliantly-lit salons gave glimpses of handsomely-dressed high-spirited pleasure-seekers of all ranks, and strains of music floated through the open doors. Heedless of the misty damp, men in silk hats and women in evening gowns tripped lightly along the sidewalks in front of gaily-decked shop windows, and the streets were crowded curb to curb with bustling black carriages and sleek hansom cabs, with here and there a shiny motorcar.