Death In Hyde Park (17 page)

“You’d think that the police would do a better job of preserving evidence,” Kate said warmly, “especially when so much depends upon it.”

Charles’s laugh was ironic. “The proper handling of evidence is not something the ordinary policeman thinks much about, I’m afraid—not, at least, at the moment. If Harry Jackson’s left thumb convicts him of burglary next month, things will change. In the meantime—” He shrugged. “We’ll see what can be discovered tomorrow, when Savidge and I study the fingerprints on those bottles.”

“You’ve certainly covered a great deal of territory since this morning,” Kate said.

“I did something else, too,” Charles replied. “I took a cab to Telson Street, where Yuri Messenko lived. Number 17, upper floor rear.” He grimaced. “A sad little room, with only a bed and a chair. The boy kept his clothes in a paste-board box under the bed. The landlady had already let the room and was anxious for someone to take the box away, so I’ve brought it with me. I’ll go through his things later tonight.” He glanced at the clock on the mantle. “Did Richards tell you that Hardwicke Rawnsley is coming to dinner tonight?”

Kate nodded. “I take it, then, that you’ve decided to talk with him about Somersworth and the National Trust.”

“Mother would hate me,” Charles said wearily, “but the estate is much too large to be managed as it should be, especially in the current economic situation. It’s beautiful, though, with all those open meadows and wooded lanes, and it’s convenient to the people of Great Yarmouth, who like to picnic at the weekends. The Trust might find some parts of it of interest—as a gift, of course.”

“And the house itself?” Kate had liked the great house’s aspect, overlooking the Norfolk Broads, the shallow lakes and vast fens and marshes of the meandering River Yare. But the place was enormous, its upkeep a burden, and neither she nor Charles had any wish to spend a great deal of time there. And if they did, the keeper’s lodge would be far more suited to the two of them. There were the tenants, of course, but Charles had closed down most of the house and kept only a skeleton staff.

“I don’t know that the Trust will be any better able than I to deal with that medieval monstrosity,” Charles said with a rueful chuckle. “But we can ask Rawnsley what he thinks.” He glanced at her. “You will join us at dinner, won’t you, my dear?”

“Of course,” Kate said, “with pleasure.” She paused. “I wonder if Hardwicke has heard from Beatrix. She told me that he brought her Peter Rabbit book to the attention of Frederick Warne, and they are to publish it—quite soon, I think.” Canon Rawnsley was a friend of Beatrix Potter, with whom Kate usually kept in close touch. But Beatrix and her parents had gone to the Lake District for the summer, and Kate had not heard the latest news. She sighed. “I do hope the book does well, for Bea’s sake—and because it is so delightfully original. But it is difficult to predict these things. How many children will be interested in reading the adventures of a rabbit?”

 
 
Dinner featured Mrs. Hall’s usual splendid rack of lamb, preceded by a julienne soup, salmon with caper sauce, and chicken fillets with mushrooms, and followed by a greengage tart, iced pudding, and a plate of fruit and cheese. The elegant array might easily have fed a dozen guests, so three for dinner (rather than two) had clearly presented no difficulties to the able Mrs. Hall.

Canon Rawnsley was an affable, handsome man with regular features and a graying beard and moustache. He looked remarkably like King Edward, if substantially slimmer and more energetic, and was full of lively conversation. To Kate’s delight, he told her that Beatrix’s little book was to be published the first week of October in an edition of about eight thousand copies. And he was indeed interested in acquiring part of the Somersworth estate for the Trust, which he had helped to create in 1895 and which was already beginning to enjoy significant approval as a means of preserving some of England’s most scenic and unique areas, which might otherwise have been broken up and sold to the affluent as housing sites. Already, as the Canon eloquently pointed out, far too much of the shoreline of the lakes in the Lake District had been purchased by wealthy people and closed off from public access. And the fens and marshes and ancient peat diggings of the Norfolk Broads were home to a vast variety of birds and wildlife. A gift of unspoiled property would be most welcome.

They had just finished dessert—one of Mrs. Hall’s splendid trifles—when a maid came in and whispered to Richards. In turn, Richards came to the table and whispered to Kate, who put down her napkin and rose.

“I must leave you gentlemen now,” she said. “I’ve received a message to which I must respond—from our theatrical friend, Charles.” She smiled at their guest. “Canon Rawnsley, so lovely to see you again, as always. I hope you will visit us at Bishop’s Keep.”

The men stood. “Oh, I shall,” Canon Rawnsley replied, with a genial enthusiasm. “You may depend upon it, Lady Sheridan.”

In the hall, the maid dropped a curtsy and pressed a note into Kate’s hand. “Tommy brought it,” she said. “’E’s waitin’ in the kitchen, if yer ladyship wants t’ answer.”

Kate carried the envelope into the library, turned up the lamp, and sat down at the desk to open it. Nellie’s brief note was written in a sprawling hand and smelled strongly of lilac perfume. She wrote with distress that she could not imagine why Lottie would leave the safe haven of Bishop’s Keep. She had not yet heard from her and promised to let Kate know the minute she got any word; she did, however, know that Mrs. Conway and Lottie lived at Number 12, Brantwood Street. In a post-script, she added that she would be very glad to meet Kate for supper the next evening. Kate rang the bell and, when the maid appeared, told her to tell Tommy that there was no reply, and that he might go on to bed.

Kate went upstairs, put on her dressing gown, and settled into a chair by the bedroom fire with a typescript she had been given to read by an editor at Duckworth, who wanted her opinion of it. The short novel was called
A Girl Among the Anarchists
and was written in the first person by Isabel Meredith—a pseudonym, the editor had told her, for Helen and Olivia Rossetti, the young nieces of the artist Dante Gabriel Rossetti and his sister Christina, the poet. The book was a fictionalized account of their actual experiences as editors of the Anarchist newspaper,
The Torch,
some seven or eight years before, which the girls, then teenagers, had published. Kate found the novel deeply engrossing, for it explored an aspect of women’s activities—the political aspect—that was almost never written about. She admired Isabel’s rebellion against the traditional female codes of behavior that confined women to the domestic world and promoted their submission to others. There was a great deal about the book that reminded her of Charlotte Conway, who seemed to be exactly the same sort of young rebel as Isabel. If the liberation of women was what Anarchism was about, she thought with a smile, there certainly ought to be more of it! She should like very much to meet the young Rossetti sisters and discover if they were as unconventional as their heroine.

An hour or two later, when Canon Rawnsley had left and Charles had come up to bed, Kate asked if anything had been decided about the fate of Somersworth.

“Only in part,” Charles replied, taking off his shoes. “The land is not a problem for them, of course. They are especially glad to have the marshes, and that can be arranged straightaway. But the house and gardens are another matter, unfortunately. Rawnsley says that the Trust is in the midst of raising funds to purchase a property in the Lake District. Once that is done, he hopes to put a bill through Parliament to give the Trust a stronger management authority. Rawnsley thinks we should postpone any discussion of the house until then.” He unfastened his collar stays and turned to Kate. “What’s that you’re reading?”

“A novel that Mr. Perry, at Duckworth, has asked me to look at. I’ve just finished it and am going to recommend it for publication.” She gave Charles a mischievous look. “It is entirely subversive, and explains a great deal about our friend Miss Conway and her Anarchist connections.”

“Speaking of Anarchist connections,” Charles said, sitting down to take off his shoes, “I went through Messenko’s box after Rawnsley left.”

Kate put down the typescript. “Did you find anything of interest?”

“I’m not sure,” Charles said. “I’ve found something I want to investigate, but it may not turn out to be of much consequence.” He dropped his shoe and put out his hand, his eyes glinting with desire. “I have something else in mind that
is
of consequence, though.”

Kate put her hand in his and let him pull her into his familiar embrace, and for the next little while there were no sounds except for their own soft sighing and the easy fall of embers in the grate.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

 
 
 
The item that Charles had found in Yuri Messenko’s box was a torn and much-folded scrap of yellow paper, tucked into the pocket of a ragged shirt. On it was printed an address in Church Lane and a man’s name: Vladimir Rasnokov. Charles pondered the matter as he breakfasted with Kate, then put on his hat, picked up his umbrella, and went out into Grosvenor Square. He walked the few blocks up to Oxford and, when the drizzle turned into rain, hailed a cab.

The Intelligence Branch of the War Office was housed in a residence in Queen Anne’s Gate, the shuttered building hidden behind a high wall and an unkempt garden—a fitting metaphor, Charles thought as he approached the building, for espionage work.

For nearly the whole of the previous century, polite society had regarded spying as indecently devious and completely out of character with the British gentleman’s code of sportsmanship and fair play, something to be ignored, even actively thwarted where necessary. But the situation began to change in the 1850s, when the debacles of the Crimean War spotlighted the inadequacies of Britain’s intelligence in the Middle East and it became clear that most of the military blunders of that ruinous war had resulted from an almost complete lack of information about the enemy. Disastrous as the Crimea had been, however, it was essentially a sideshow, for what really threatened John Bull was the predatory shadow of the Russian bear falling inexorably across Central Asia, Afghanistan, and the northwest region of India. To counter this threat to the Empire’s “Jewel in the Crown,” the War Office began to increase its effort to develop a more effective espionage program, including mapping explorations in remote Central Asia, contacts with foreign agents across the Continent, and networks of native spies, some of whom Rudyard Kipling had recently immortalized in
Kim
as players in the “Great Game.”

But Whitehall still did not give military intelligence the support it deserved, and the Intellligence Branch continued to labor under the long-standing constraints of insufficient funding and staffing. One section, made up of only two officers and a clerk, had the task of covering the entire Russian empire and almost the whole of Asia, including China, India, and Japan. Despite the scale of its responsibilities, however, it was probably the most efficient and effective of all the sections, for Britain’s history of confrontations with Russia in Central Asia had resulted in an increasing pool of knowledge about the Romanov regime and its military and political espionage activites.

It was this section that Charles intended to visit, for he had known one of its officers, Captain Steven Wells, during his military service in India during the eighties. Wells was a veteran of the Second Afghan War and had gone on to play the Great Game in the northern border region of India until he was summoned to England in ’99 to join Intelligence. But Wells’s interests were no longer exclusively focused on the far reaches of the Empire. Since joining Intelligence, he had begun to pay special attention to the activities of certain Russians in the East End, and Charles knew it.

“Sheridan!” Wells exclaimed, unfolding his long legs and standing behind his desk, on which were stacked a number of files with red caution notices on the covers. “Hullo, old chap. What brings you here?” His monocle dropped out of his eye and swung across his uniformed chest on its black ribbon. The third son of an earl, he had the unmistakable look of an aristocrat.

“Thought I should come and see what you’ve been digging up these days,” Charles said with a grin. He looked around at the piles of papers on the shelves and floor, and the large maps laid flat on a table and rolled and stored in bins. The draperies were drawn and the room was lit, glaringly, with electric light. “Quite a change for you, Wells. Gone the days of mountain peaks and open plains, eh?”

“Afraid so, blast it,” Wells said, grimacing. He raised his voice and bellowed, “Dinsmore! Tea, chop-chop!”

“Still the same voice,” Charles remarked. “I’ve always thought that roar could move mountains. And it did, a time or two.”

“All I move these days are mountains of paper,” Wells said in a disgruntled tone. “Chaps here complain when I roar, as well. Don’t know what the Service is coming to.” He lowered himself into his chair as an orderly brought in a tray, placed it on the desk, and poured two cups of tea. When the young man had left the room, Wells eyed Charles. “What brings you here?” he asked again, stirring in sugar. “I doubt it’s idle curiosity.”

Charles put his hand into his pocket and pulled out his pipe. “I wonder,” he said quietly, “whether Intelligence has any special interest in the incident in Hyde Park involving Yuri Messenko.”