Death In Hyde Park (33 page)

 
 
 
Former Inspector Ashcraft was in a mood as black as the coffee he was stirring. From his seat in the corner booth, he was keeping one eye on the entry to the Little Moscow Café, although he was not sure that his message had been received—or if it had, that his contact would respond.

Early that morning, Assistant Commissioner Henry had called both Ashcraft and Chief Inspector Mattingly into his office. He was obviously angered not only by the debacle of the trial but also by the Anarchists’ escape, the news of which had stunned Ashcraft into a bewildered disbelief. How had the wardens been so lax as to allow their keys to be stolen and the men to escape? The Anarchists were known to be dangerous—why had there not been a larger guard, more effective security procedures? Who was responsible for—

But the inspector had not been able to give voice to any of the questions and doubts that stirred like a storm within him. He was required to stand at attention and listen as the assistant commissioner made it plain that he had only two choices: He could resign his position and leave Special Branch quietly, without any fanfare; or he could stay and face an internal investigation and, quite possibly, a public trial. The decision had been wrenching, for Ashcraft had wanted to proclaim to the world that he had done what he did only because it was his
duty
to keep the streets of London safe from Anarchists. His duty had required him to stretch the law, and justified him in stepping outside of its bounds when necessary. But the assistant commissioner did not want to hear any explanations or justifications; he only wanted to castigate him for breaking the law and embarrassing the Yard. And of course, Chief Inspector Mattingly could never acknowledge that he had encouraged Ashcraft to do what he had to do to bring the Anarchists to justice, and especially Kopinski, whom the Russians badly wanted. The inspector had taken the easiest way, and resigned.

But there was something else, too, that had figured in Ashcraft’s decision, something that he feared might come to light if he were swept up in an investigation. He knew, in the deepest recesses of his heart, that it was Charlotte Conway who had been his undoing. Even now, and even to himself, he was not prepared to admit how desperately he had wanted the girl. The more he had watched her through that lighted bedroom window, or tripping down the street, or bending over her desk in the newspaper loft, the stronger his desire had grown. And since he could not have her, something inside him—some fiercely passionate part of him that he could barely recognize as himself—had determined that no other man would have her, either.

It was this determination that had led to his fundamental error, for when the raid had inadvertently netted Charlotte Conway’s lover along with Kopinski and Mouffetard, Ashcraft had decided to take advantage of the situation. He should, of course, have released Adam Gould and been done with it. There was no question of finding evidence against the man, since Ashcraft knew he was not involved with the Anarchists. But since he had determined to ensure the conviction of Kopinski and Mouffetard—and especially of Kopinski—it seemed a small matter to make up another bottle and put it under Gould’s bed. He could not have known that the young man was a friend of some overly-enthusiastic lord who thought he knew something about fingerprints and wanted to meddle in police matters. If Sheridan had not organized the defense, it was likely that the whole thing would have come out exactly as he had anticipated, with guilty verdicts for all three.

“I received your message from Petrovich,” a voice said. There was a tone of deep disdain in it. “You wanted to see me?”

Ashcraft had become so deeply absorbed in his thoughts that he had not seen the tall, stooped-shouldered man enter the café. The man slipped into the booth on the opposite side of the table and regarded him with watchful eyes. There was nothing inside the man, Ashcraft thought drearily, no devotion to duty, no humanity, only that cold, uncaring, never-ending vigilance. Didn’t these Russians ever stop
watching
?

Tropov rested his elbows on the table. “What is it you want?” he asked finally. Ashcraft knew, by the tone of his voice, patronizing and contemptuous, that he had heard about the trial and guessed, no doubt, that he had been dismissed.

“I have something for you,” Ashcraft said stolidly. “Something that might be of value in your work.” Reaching into his coat pocket, he took out a small black notebook. His eyes lingered on it as he placed it carefully in the center of the table. Offering it to Tropov—was it a betrayal of his duty? Was he somehow giving aid to an enemy he did not fully understand?

No, his notes on the Hyde Park affair and the lists of names of the men and women who had served the Yard as informants—this was not evidence, but merely his own personal jottings. And since Assistant Commissioner Henry himself had made it clear that Ashcraft’s services were no longer required and the Hyde Park matter was closed, Ashcraft felt himself at liberty to do what he liked with his personal records. Moreover, it did not matter that Tropov served the Russian secret police. They were both on the same side, ultimately: the side of law and order, opposed to the death against lawlessness, chaos, and disorder.

Sitting across the table, Dmitri Tropov picked up the notebook and thumbed the pages. If he felt anything at all, it was something like contempt. He saw little that was new to him, and nothing that was of any particular interest. However, since the notebook contained Ashcraft’s personal notes, a closer reading might reveal something of the strange workings of the English, and for that reason might have some marginal value. This was his last meeting with Ashcraft, but there would no doubt be other policemen with whom he would have to deal. He tossed the notebook on the table in front of him.

“And why is it that you want me to have this?” he asked. It was an idle question, for nothing that Ashcraft had to tell him could be of any interest to him now.

Ashcraft turned away, appearing to be absorbed in the graceful movements of the balalaika player who was taking his seat on a stool in the corner. In a muffled voice, he said, “I assume that you have heard what transpired at the trial yesterday. You must know, as well, about the escape.”

“Right on both counts,” Tropov said carelessly. “And if you’re asking if I know where Kopinski and Mouffetard have got to, the answer is no. I have no idea.” He clicked his tongue scoldingly against the back of his teeth. “Careless of you, that business about the ginger-beer bottles. But it would have come out just the same in the end. They would all three have escaped. In Russia, of course, we would not have let that happen.”

Ashcraft turned back. A dullness seemed to have settled in his eyes, and his shoulders slumped as if he had suddenly become very weary. “My superiors have determined that my services are no longer required.” His voice was flat, without depth or resonance. “I was sacked this morning.”

Tropov pursed his lips, considering the matter. When he had heard the verdict and the report of what happened at the trial, he had known that Ashcraft was finished at the Yard. Did the notebook, and this meeting, constitute a request for employment? Did this fool think he had something of value to offer the Ochrana, something that might be of some conceivable use to them? Or might this be a trap, laid by someone with more brains than Ashcraft?

For a moment, Tropov studied the man’s hopeless eyes, his defeated expression, the dejection in his shoulders. Deciding that it was neither a trap nor a request for employment, he picked up the notebook and slipped it carelessly into his pocket. Ashcraft was a buffoon and this, whatever else it might be, was his final blunder. One must never give an enemy a weapon that might be used to destroy oneself—and that was what Ashcraft had just done.

Tropov smiled to himself. How could Ashcraft possibly explain the possession of his personal notes by a foreign agent? The man was obviously past ruination, and this was just another piece of evidence of his unforgivable errors of judgment. Tropov was quite certain that it was for similar errors of judgment and not a violation of some high-minded principle that Ashcraft’s superiors had turned him out. The man could count himself lucky. Had he been a Russian agent and brought so public a disgrace on the State, he would have lost not only his job but certainly his liberty and probably his life.

“So what will you do now?” he asked. Another idle question, since it hardly mattered to Tropov whether the man lived or died.

“My family and I will be leaving England,” the other replied dully. He shrugged his defeated shoulders. “Canada, New Zealand, Australia—who knows? Somewhere, anywhere.” He glanced at the pocket into which Tropov had dropped the notebook, his eyes as hungry as if he were searching for emeralds. “I trust you will put my information to good use. Some of those listed there—especially a man named Nicholas Petrovich, a very useful man, by the way—might know where the escaped Anarchists are hiding.” A light flickered briefly in his eyes and then went out. “Perhaps you will be better at catching and keeping them than the Yard.”

“Yes, of course,” Tropov said reassuringly, although he wasn’t sure why he bothered. He thought of the multiple ironies here. Much of the information in Ashcraft’s notebook was pure rubbish, and Nicholas Petrovich was the double agent who had fed it to him. The real truth about what had transpired in Hyde Park, and how and why, of course, Petrovich had not supplied.

Tropov slid out of the booth and stood, looking down at the man. “I wish you well,” he said, the phrase a meaningless formality. He touched his cap and turned to leave. Behind him, the balalaika player began to sing. The mournful notes followed him out the door.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

 
 
 
Ivan Kopinski sat cross-legged on the dirty floor of the tiny room at the back of the cigar shop in Church Lane, staring into the musty darkness. He could smell the familiar odor of strong Russian tobacco and hear the murmur of male Russian voices from the meeting room at the back of the Russian Free Library, on the floor above. The booming Slavic voice of the cigar shop proprietor, a ham-fisted brute of a man called Boris, could be heard occasionally, punctuating the murmur with bursts of raucous laughter, along with Petrovich’s nervous, high-pitched giggle. He and Pierre were among friends here, and safer from discovery than they would be anywhere in London.

But they had been hiding in this cramped space since the hansom driver had delivered them here the night before, with little opportunity to stretch their legs or move about. Petrovich had brought them packets of fish and chips from a nearby shop, and Boris had brought them a couple of bottles of beer and some tea. While Ivan had been able to tolerate the slow monotony of the passing hours by reviewing in his mind all of the things he would do once he was entirely free, Pierre had early on shown the strain, rolling his eyes, slapping his hands against his legs, and muttering incoherent French curses under his breath.

But while Ivan might be physically uncomfortable and Pierre fidgety, at least they were no longer handcuffed or shackled. They had rid themselves of the cuffs with the keys that had turned up in Pierre’s pocket after the fracas in the Old Bailey yard. Unfortunately, there were no keys to the shackles, so they had literally flung themselves out of the swift-moving van onto the pavement, hoping they wouldn’t break their necks. Fortunately, the hansom cab that Lottie had promised was close behind and the driver, a hulk of a man, had hauled them on board and driven them swiftly into the East End. The hacksaw Petrovich had provided had made short work of their leg irons, and they were free.
Free!
Ivan exulted, and in the next dazed breath wondered,
Free to do what? Go where? How?
But no matter. The answers to these practical questions would emerge when Lottie came, as the hansom driver said, to give them their instructions. For now, it was enough to know that they were free, and responsible to themselves.

It was night again now, Friday night, and the darkness pressed ominously against the pane of the single window high up in the wall. Even Ivan was beginning to find the long wait trying. That Special Branch inspector, Ashcraft, he would be turning over every rock trying to find them, of course, and there were betrayers everywhere—even upstairs, in the Russian Free Library, where information about those unfortunate enough to be fugitives from the Ochrana was passed quietly and sympathetically from mouth to mouth. One could not know who among the comrades could be trusted with one’s life, and who was ready to sell valuable information for the price of a family member’s freedom, or even for a hot meal and a bed.

There was a soft tap at the door, then two more in quick succession—the signal. In a fluid motion, Pierre rose from his crouch against the opposite wall and went to the door, opening it a crack. “It’s me,” came a whisper, and Pierre opened the door and stood back.

Ivan scrambled to his feet, blinking stupidly at the candle Lottie was holding shoulder-high. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder and slipped into the room. Pierre closed the door behind her.

Ivan watched as Lottie set the candle on the shelf beside the door and glanced around. Her hair had tumbled loose onto her shoulders and her eyes glinted like stars, he thought, in the oppressive darkness of the room. He stepped forward, suddenly aware of how hungry he had been for the sight of her.

She turned to him, smiling, a smile that seemed to banish the shadows. “Hello, Ivan,” she said, stepping toward him. “I’m sorry that this has taken so long. I came as soon as I could, but there were so many details to manage—”

“Never mind that,” Pierre growled savagely. “Is it arranged?”

Lottie turned to look at him, a furrow appearing between her eyes. “Yes,” she said.

Ivan found his voice. “When? How?”