“And what else?” Kate asked.
Mrs. Bryan gave her a dark look. “Conway’s gone.”
“Conway’s . . . gone?” Kate asked blankly.
“The new girl. The one who came from London on Saturday.”
“Yes, I know. Charlotte Conway.” Kate frowned. “But I don’t understand. How can she be . . . gone?”
“By shank’s mares, I s’pose,” Mrs. Bryan said shortly. “She must’ve left after prayers last night—after I told her that I was puttin’ her to the pigs today.” She tossed her head. “Anyways, she didn’t appear at breakfast. I sent Portia to fetch her, and she come back with the news that Conway had made up her bed with a roll of blankets, so it seemed she was in it—but she wasn’t. She’s gone.”
“Oh, dear,” Kate said softly. “I expect she’s gone back to London.”
“Well, if you ask me, that one wasn’t cut out to be a farmer,” Mrs. Bryan said tartly. “Too independent. And too clever by half, but not clever enough to learn. Thought it was beneath her. Didn’t fancy workin’ with the pigs, I s’pose. Beggin’ your ladyship’s pardon.”
“You don’t need to beg my pardon,” Kate said in a mild tone. “It wasn’t my idea to bring her here, and it might not have been her idea to come. I don’t suppose we should be surprised that she’s gone.” She paused, thinking that it might be a good idea to telegraph Nellie that her friend had decamped, and to send a telegram to Sibley House as well. Charles had had quite an interest in the young woman and in her Anarchist associations; he would not be pleased to learn that she was on the loose in London, where she was sure to be picked up by the police.
Or would she? Kate smiled a little, remembering the dashing figure the young woman had cut upon her arrival. At the thought of the disguise, she said, “I wonder—did Miss Conway leave her work costume behind?”
Alice nodded. “ ’T was laid on her bed, so Portia said, and her brogans was on the floor.”
Which meant, Kate thought, that if anyone should want to look for the elusive Miss Conway, they would be looking for a young man in a white linen suit. She frowned, wondering what to say in her telegram to Nellie, who might be watched by the police. If the telegram were intercepted—
She glanced up at the clock, which showed that it was nearly time for luncheon, then sat back in her chair for a moment, thinking. No, a telegram was not the answer, after all.
She would have to go to London.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
[Pudd’nhead Wilson] made fine and accurate reproductions of a number of his [fingerprint] records, and then enlarged them on a scale of ten to one with his pantograph. He did these pantograph enlargements on sheets of white cardboard, and made each individual line of the bewildering maze of whorls or curves or loops . . . stand out bold and black by reinforcing it with ink. To the untrained eye the collection of delicate originals made by the human finger on the glass plates looked about alike, but when enlarged ten times . . . the dullest eye could detect at a glance, and at a distance of many feet, that no two of the patterns were alike.
Mark Twain,
The Tragedy of Puddn’head Wilson
, 1893
Charles had a busy morning. Having left Mr. Morley, he went immediately to Holloway Prison in Parkhust Road, where he sat in a visiting cage and met briefly and sequentially with Adam Gould, Ivan Kopinski, and Pierre Mouffetard. Adam was glad to see him. He listened with gratitude to Charles’s report of his conversation with Mr. Morley and accepted the suggestion that a barrister be found who would make the effort to put up a real defense. He also insisted that he knew nothing of the bomb, if that’s what it was, that had been found in his flat. He suspected, he said, that the police had put it there.
“For the past few weeks, Special Branch was dogging Ivan and Pierre—and Miss Conway, too,” he said. “Yuri’s bomb must have tipped the balance and they decided they had to arrest somebody.” He eyed Charles anxiously. “I don’t suppose you’ve any news of Miss Conway.”
“As a matter of fact, I have,” Charles said, and told him that the young lady was staying at Bishop’s Keep.
“Thank God,” Adam said fervently. “I was afraid she might be out on the streets. How did she come to you?”
“Her friend Nellie Lovelace brought her,” Charles said, and smiled. “You can stop worrying, Adam. She is in good hands with Lady Sheridan. And I believe that you will be in good hands with Edward Savidge. I can’t promise that he will get you off, of course. But I can promise that he will try.”
“What about the others?” Adam asked. “Will he defend them, as well?”
“They have no barrister?”
Adam shook his head. “The comrades in Hampstead Road had agreed to obtain one, but decided against it. They’ve been abandoned, or so it seems to me.”
“I’ll talk with them,” Charles said.
Charles’s interviews with Kopinski and Mouffetard were much briefer. As he learned from Kopinski—a stocky man with high Slavic cheekbones and dirty brown hair that hung around his shoulders—the two had not yet arranged for their defense. If Adam’s barrister would take on their case as well, Kopinski supposed he would be grateful. He seemed to accept his situation with a stoic detachment, answering Charles’s questions briefly and dispassionately. He disavowed any knowledge of the Hyde Park bomber’s plot, and his face clouded when he talked about Yuri Messenko, giving Charles the idea that he had genuinely cared for the boy. His chief worry seemed to be the Russian agent he was convinced was on his trail, and who (he said) had probably hidden the bomb in his room. He seemed convinced that the man would be waiting for him the minute the trial was over.
“I would prefer,” he added, with a dry, humorless laugh, “to stay in jail. Here, at least, I am safe from being seized and sent back to Russia, where I will certainly be killed.”
“The man who is trailing you,” Charles said. “What does he look like?”
Kopinski gave a resigned shrug. “Tall and thin. Stooped a little. But he looks different each day. That is the way of these agents—they could fool their grandmothers with their disguises.”
Pierre Mouffetard carried himself with an air of nonchalance that barely hid his suppressed anger. He seemed not at all surprised to hear that a total stranger was proposing to obtain his defense. He provided a careless answer or two in response to Charles’s questions and denied all knowledge of explosives, explosive devices, and instructions for making bombs.
“I am a complete—how do you say?—dunce when it comes to things of a chemical nature,” he said with a shrug and a thin-lipped, indifferent smile. “Although I suppose that will not matter,” he added fatalistically. “We will no doubt be convicted. Your Scotland Yard, they are looking for Anarchists. They mean to make scapegoats of us.”
“And the bomb-making instructions the police found in your pocket?” Charles asked.
Pierre turned his head. “A letter, merely. A friend writing from France to tell me about an explosive device made by a Spanish acquaintance.”
Charles left the prison after a brief visit to the administrative office, where he discussed a certain matter of custodial procedure with one of the clerks. Feeling relieved to be out of Holloway’s chill, damp gloom, he stopped in a noisy café across from St. Andrews in Thornhill Square, where he lunched on a shepherd’s pie, washed down with a glass of ale. As it was still an hour to the time he and Savidge had set for their meeting, he decided to walk the two-mile distance to Gray’s Inn, down Caledonian Road to King’s Cross and into Bloomsbury. As he walked down Gray’s Inn Road, he noticed how many more motorcars were taking to the roads these days, and what a havoc they were wreaking among the horse-drawn hansons and four-wheelers that already jammed London’s streets.
As he passed Coram’s Fields, a seven-acre expanse of grass and trees that softened the press of crowded buildings, he took out his watch. It was a fine August day, the early fog had lifted, and he still had time to spare, so he sat down on a wooden bench. The fields were part of the grounds of the Foundling’s Hospital, established by Thomas Coran and endowed by George Frederick Handel, and they were full of nannies taking their young charges for an airing. The sight of children playing was pleasant, and he sat back to watch and think.
There was a great deal to sort out. Hearing Adam’s vigorous denial and the less convincing but still persuasive stories of the other two accused men, he believed that the bomb-making material had been put in their rooms, but by whom, it was not yet clear. The Russian agent who was following Ivan? The police? Both of these were obvious possibilities, but there had been something in Mouffetard’s denial that had made Charles doubt his complete candor. Perhaps that was the place to start a more intensive investigation. And he needed to inquire about Yuri. He took out his wallet and looked again at the address he had written down. Telson Street was off Hampstead Road, a mile to the west. He would go there after he had seen Savidge.
Edward Savidge kept chambers in the South Square of Gray’s Inn, in a suite of second-floor rooms that included a large conference room and library lavishly appointed with maroon leather chairs, polished oaken tables, and Oriental carpets. The whole was a mute testimony to Savidge’s success at the Bar—or at least, it gave the impression of success, which was equally likely to achieve the purpose.
One of Savidge’s several clerks, dressed in a natty gray suit and cravat, glanced up from the telephone when Charles entered. He gave his name and was rewarded with a welcoming smile. “I believe Mr. Savidge is ready for you, Lord Sheridan,” the clerk said crisply, and Charles was shown in. A second clerk followed with a silver tray on which were a pot of coffee and two cups. He poured the coffee and disappeared.
Edward Savidge was seated at an enormous desk, completely clear except for the paper on which he was making notes. Behind him was a window that looked out over the pleasant walks and green lawns of the inner court of Gray’s Inn. He stood and extended a hand, smiling broadly.
“Sheridan, old fellow!” he said, in a deep, booming voice that could reach to the farthest seat in the courtroom. “Very good to see you.”
“Indeed,” Charles said, grasping the heavy hand. “What has it been? A year or better?”
Savidge was a large and powerful man, well over six feet and weighing some fifteen stone, well-featured, with an enormous head of curling black hair. His eyes were dark and deepset under heavy brows and a thick black moustache did not hide his mobile mouth or ironic half-smile; in court, he carried himself like an accomplished actor, playing with deliberate effect to the judge and jury. Charles knew him to be a brilliant advocate and relentless cross-examiner.
They exchanged pleasantries—Charles asked after Mrs. Savidge, a well-known beauty who had disappointed half of the eligible bachelors of London when she married Savidge some five years before; and Savidge asked after Kate, whom he called “that splendid American treasure of yours.” He passed Charles a cup of coffee and then opened a box of fine Cuban cigars, from which Charles chose one.
Proffering a light, Savidge said, “Well, now, Sheridan, suppose you tell me what this is all about. You haven’t let your liberal views lead you into difficulties, have you?”
“Not yet,” Charles said with a small smile, putting his cup on the table beside him. “At least, not directly.” He pulled on his cigar, sat back in the massive leather chair, and went straight to the point. “The firm of Masters, Morley, and Dunderston has decided to ask you to represent a client of theirs named Adam Gould. I hope you will agree to defend the two men who are accused with him.”
“The charge?” Savidge asked.
“Possessing explosives with intent to harm.”
“Ah,” Savidge said judiciously. “Those Anarchist fellows picked up at the
Clarion,
eh? The ones who worked with the young chap who blew himself up in Hyde Park?”
“Yes,” Charles replied. He eyed his friend, wondering if he had promised something he could not deliver. Savidge was the right advocate, but would he take the case? “It’s not going to be an easy charge to defend,” he said. “But as I recall, you have always enjoyed a challenge.”
Savidge had for some years worked in the offices of Mr. George Lewis, the lawyer who represented the affairs—of the purse and the heart—of half the aristocracy. But after a few years as a solicitor, Savidge had been admitted to the Bar and now specialized in representing people who had gotten themselves into serious difficulties, in one way or another. Since most of his clients were quite wealthy, his practice was a lucrative one, as was readily evident from his well-appointed office.
“Tell me about it,” Savidge commanded, and Charles complied. He concluded his narrative with, “I very much doubt that a man of Adam Gould’s stature with Amalgamated would put himself and his future at risk by possessing explosives.” He paused. “Gould is a friend to Anarchists, there is no doubt about that, and he is an admirer and, I suspect, would-be lover of the
Clarion
’s editor, Miss Conway. But he denies any knowledge of the explosive material found in his rooms, and I believe him.”
“These others—Kopinski and Mouffetard—they also deny possession?”
Charles nodded. “I cannot vouch for them, of course. One or the other of them may have been involved in the Hyde Park bombing. At this point, it is difficult to say, although I hope to have more information along those lines soon.” He paused, half-tempted to tell Savidge of Ponsonby’s visit and the Crown’s interest in the affair. But he decided against it, since it had little to do with the task of defending the men, and Savidge might find it distracting.
Lounging in his chair, Savidge regarded the glowing tip of his cigar. “You think Special Branch may have wanted some extra insurance against their targets?” he asked dryly.
“Perhaps,” Charles said. “All of the staff at the
Clarion
believe they were followed by the police for a period of some weeks before the Hyde Park incident, although Kopinski seems to think that a Russian agent is after him. I gather that he is considered to be an enemy of the Romanov regime, although I can’t yet tell you why.”