“Permit me,” he said with a smile.
The woman turned toward him, and he was struck dumb. She was no gypsy, but the very same Charlotte Conway whom he had last seen jumping down from the rusty iron ladder in Hampstead Street. Now, as then, she seemed to him easy and free in her body, unconstrained and open and frank in herself, ready to meet any peril or opportunity that the world might offer. Stunned, he realized that this Anarchist gypsy was the woman he had been looking for all his life.
It took a moment—it felt like a lifetime—to shape her name. “Lottie!” he whispered. “Lottie Conway!”
Her eyes met his with an astonishing boldness, widening and then narrowing, taking in his seafaring clothes and his green cloth cap. “Do I know you?” she asked.
The huskiness of her voice, the artlessness of her greeting, delighted him. “Jack London,” he said. “I’m an American journalist here to do a story. We met in an alley off Hampstead, when you shinnied down that ladder the day the cops raided the
Clarion
.” He grinned. “That was swell, the way you ditched those John Laws. A second more or less, you’d’a been pinched and hauled off to the calaboose.”
She looked at him as if he were speaking a foreign language, but at that moment, the meat pie and lemonade were passed across the counter. He picked them up and, in a proprietary way, led the girl to a wooden table in the farthest corner. She sat down and dove into the pie as if she were starving, saying not a word.
“You’re on the lam, are you?” he asked, when she was finished.
She frowned and pushed back the empty plate. “On the lam?”
“Trying to keep clear of the cops.” With a grin, he ran his eye down her frock, admiring the swell of her breasts beneath the dirty bodice, the narrow waist, the trim ankles under the muddy hem of her skirt. “Done that myself in my hobo days, riding the rails across America. Got a few tricks up my sleeve I’d be glad to teach you. I remember once in Reno, Nevada, back in ‘92—”
“Thank you for the meal.” She stood. “Good-bye, now.”
He caught at her wrist. “No, don’t, please!” he said, and heard and was not ashamed of the pleading in his voice. “I’ve just found you. You
can’t
go away.”
“I can’t?” Her eyes were on his, his fingers still tight on her wrist. “Why not?”
“Because.”
Because I didn’t know there were such women in the world,
he thought wildly.
Because you give wings to my imagination, and open great, luminous pages in books where heroes do heroic deeds for the sake of beautiful ladies. Because I am greedy for the feel of you
. “Because I can help you,” he said humbly. “I want to help you.”
“Help me? Why?” She pulled her arm away, but she sat back down.
“Because you need me,” he said, his humility vanishing in a hero’s boldness, which was abashed the very next moment by her throaty laugh.
“Need you?” She tossed her head, an amused smile on her lips. “Why in the world should I
need
you?”
“Because,” he said, and leaned toward her, his eyes glinting with delight at the thought of the temptation he was offering her, his heart filled with the almost overpowering hope that she would accept. “Because I know a place where you can hide. A place where no one in the world would ever look for you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
When bloody finger marks or impressions on clay, glass, etc. exist, they may lead to the scientific identification of criminals. If previously known, they would be much more precise in value than the standard mole [informant] of the penny novelists. . . . There can be no doubt as to the advantage of having, besides their photographs, a nature-copy of the forever-unchangeable finger furrows of important criminals.
Henry Faulds,
letter to
Nature
Magazine, 28 October 1880
At the Sibley House breakfast table on Tuesday morning, Kate was handed a telegram from Hodge, her butler at Bishop’s Keep. Patrick, the sixteen-year-old red-haired boy whom she and Charles had taken as their own, had arrived home the night before and was laid up with a badly-sprained ankle.
6
The boy—a young man now, nearly—had a marvelous gift for working with horses and served as an apprentice to George Lambton at Newmarket, one of the country’s leading horse trainers. But he had suffered an accidental fall, and while he was not badly injured, Mr. Lambton had thought it best that he go home for a week or two to recuperate.
Hodge’s telegram assured Kate that the doctor felt Patrick to be in no danger, but she knew she wouldn’t be easy in her mind until she saw him for herself, and if she went home, she could put the time to good use by working on her manuscript. Anyway, there was no purpose to her staying in the City, for it was clear that she could not find Charlotte Conway unless the girl wanted to be found. She could be anywhere in the vast city of London, and looking for her on the streets would be like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. Perhaps Charlotte would contact Nellie or Helen Rossetti or even Mrs. Conway, and Kate had made sure that each one of them knew how to get in touch with her. If Charlotte turned up, and if there was something she could do to help the girl, she could always go back to London.
On Tuesday afternoon, Charles and Edward Savidge went to New Scotland Yard, to the newly-established fingerprint department. There, they met with Sergeant Collins, who had been appointed and trained by Assistant Commissioner Henry as the Yard’s chief fingerprint expert. The evidence, now boxed and labeled with a caution against handling, had been moved from the evidence locker to Collins’s office.
Sergeant Collins pulled on a pair of thin cotton gloves and opened the box. He took out a three-inch stack of Anarchist literature, all appearing to be copies of the same meeting notice, and several books, one by Prince Kropotkin, two others by Mikhail Bakunin. Next, he took out a much-folded sheet of cheap paper, clearly a letter, handwritten in French.
“Found in Mouffetard’s pocket,” he said, handing it to Savidge. To Charles he said, “No point in testing for fingerprints, not on that rough paper.”
Savidge unfolded the letter and read it. “I’d like to copy this,” he said.
The sergeant nodded and took out a bottle of what appeared to be a clear, viscous liquid, bearing the label
Dr. Gabriel’s Pure Medicinal Glycerine
. “Found in the newspaper office, on a shelf,” he said, setting it on the table.
Finally, he took out three ginger-beer bottles, one at a time, very carefully. The long-necked, champagne-shaped bottles were made of stoneware (as was usual with ginger-beer bottles, which were meant to be returned and refilled), the neck colored brown, the rest of the bottle plain salt-glazed, with the manufacturer’s name and bearded likeness impressed on the front. The bottles, each one capped with a screw-in stopper, appeared to be half full of a noxious-smelling liquid substance, identified by the Yard chemist, Sergeant Collins reported, as nitric acid. A square white evidence label had been applied to the back of each bottle. On it was written in ink the time and place the bottle was collected and the name
Finney,
the officer who had brought it in.
Savidge sat down to copy the letter into his pocket notebook. Charles watched as Collins dusted the four bottles with charcoal powder. A few prints showed quite clearly on the glazed surface, and these the sergeant photographed. Then he began to study the bottles, comparing the fingerprints on them to the inked prints of the jailed men, obtained from Holloway Prison.
“Any matches?” Charles asked, peering over the sergeant’s shoulder. He had worked with Collins before, and had a great deal of respect for him. The man was, by now, the Yard’s resident fingerprint expert.
“With your boys’ prints?” Collins asked, putting down his magnifying glass. “No, I don’t see any matches,” he said slowly, then added, “But that doesn’t mean they haven’t handled these items, of course. The police who picked ’em up obviously didn’t give a thought to preserving possible fingerprint evidence.” He sighed heavily. “They never do, y’know. It’ll take a couple of convictions and a great deal of training before anybody pays attention. The prints on the bottles probably belong to the officers who brought them in.”
Savidge stood. “This means, of course,” he said into Charles’s ear, “that we’ll ask for a continuance until after the Jackson trial.” To Collins, he said, “I should like to fingerprint all the officers who have handled the bottles. Can that be arranged?”
“No need, sir,” Collins said cheerfully. “When Assistant Commissioner Henry took charge of CID, he ordered that every policeman’s fingerprints be taken, for the purpose of exclusion. They’re all on file. You and Lord Sheridan are welcome to come in and have a look.”
“Splendid,” Savidge said, “although it won’t do much good for me to examine them. That’s Lord Sheridan’s bailiwick.”
Charles, also wearing gloves, was taking another look at the four bottles, carefully turning them as they sat on the table, inspecting them from every angle to be sure that Collins had photographed all the prints. On the bottle that had been collected from Gould’s room, he noticed half of a black-dusted print at the left edge of the label.
“This partial print here,” he said. “Is the rest of it on, or under, the label, do you think?”
“On top, I’d guess,” Collins said, glancing at it. “But the label has a matte surface. Doubt if it would take a print.”
Charles took out his penknife, raised the left edge of the label and said, “Whiff a little of that dust here.”
It took only a moment to see that the print extended under the label. Collins was about to remove the label to photograph the print when a fourth man walked in, thickset and wearing brown tweeds and a brown derby. Collins looked up. “Good afternoon, Inspector Ashcraft,” he said.
Charles gave the man an appraising look. Charlotte Conway had said he was out to make a name for himself, Wells had called him a “rather obsessive fellow,” and Rasnokov had suggested that he did not play straight. These were qualities that might well make him a valuable man to Special Branch.
“What’s this?” the man demanded angrily. He threw his hat on the table and glared at Collins. “Why are you removing that label, Collins? That’s police property you’re tampering with! It should have stayed in the evidence locker.”
“But, sir,” Collins protested, “I was only going to—”
“I don’t care
what
you were going to do. Those bottles are evidence in the Hyde Park case. They are not to be meddled with.”
“Sir,” Collins said quietly, “I very much need to—”
“Who gave you leave?” Ashcraft demanded, obviously in a foul temper. He looked at Savidge and Charles. “And who the blazes are these men? No one’s applied to me for—”
“Assistant Commissioner Henry gave leave, sir,” Collins replied, with the air of a man who knows when he’s defeated. “This is Lord Charles Sheridan, who had the management of the fingerprint project at Dartmoor. And Edward Savidge, the barrister for the defendants—”
“I don’t care who the devil they are,” Ashcraft snapped, “they’ve no business messing about with evidence.”
“We are hardly ‘messing about,’ Inspector,” Savidge retorted. “As barrister for the defense, I have the right at any time to examine the evidence against my clients, and to submit it to expert analysis. Lord Sheridan, whose expertise in fingerprint analysis has already been recognized by the Home Office, is serving in that capacity.”
“Fingerprints,” Ashcraft said in a disdainful tone. He gave a loud snort. “See that those bottles are handled carefully, Sergeant. The contents must not be spilled on any account.”
Savidge took out a notebook. In a measured voice, he said, “Please be so good, Inspector, as to give me the names of the officers who collected the bottles. They will testify for the Crown, I assume.”
“Finney was in charge,” Ashcraft replied sulkily. “He was assisted by Perry and Cummings.”
“And yourself, I suppose,” Charles said.
“Not I,” Ashcraft replied.
Charles looked at him. “You’ve not handled the bottles, then?”
Ashcraft shook his head. “Nothing to do with them. Finney brought them in, along with the Anarchist literature. The glycerine was found in the newspaper office, and one of the Anarchists—Mouffetard, it was—was carrying the bomb-making instructions in his pocket.” He looked at the stoneware bottles, which bore smudges of the black dust used to make the fingerprints visible, then scowled at Collins. “Those damned fingerprints of yours, Sergeant, are causing us no end of trouble, and to no purpose, none at all. When will you understand that they are
not
reliable evidence? They may be useful as a means of identifying certain criminals—
may,
I say—but they have never been used to achieve a conviction in a court of law. No jury will ever be persuaded by such scientific hocus-pocus.”
“You are correct on the one point, Inspector,” Savidge said, closing his notebook with a snap. “Fingerprints have not yet been used to obtain a conviction. In a fortnight, however, the case may have altered.” He nodded at Collins. “Isn’t that so, Sergeant?”
Ashcraft fixed the sergeant with a black look. “What’s happening in a fortnight, Collins?”
“Why, the Jackson burglary case, of course, sir,” Collins replied, as if he were amazed that Ashcraft did not know of it. “Haven’t you heard talk of it? Jackson’s to be tried at Old Bailey a fortnight hence. I’m to testify, since I made the fingerprint match. And there’s a very good man—Richard Muir—standing for the Crown. Assistant Commissioner Henry chose him himself.”
“Yes, Muir,” Savidge said, in a tone of great satisfaction. “I don’t know who’s up for the defense, but in this case, my money is on the Crown. Muir is a workhorse, I’ll tell you. Keeps all the facts and notes for a case on colored cards, one color for direct, another for cross, and so on. ‘There’s Muir at his card game,’ people say. He—”