Death In Hyde Park (27 page)

“I am only suggesting, Mr. Baker, that these substances have many innocent uses. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I suppose. But in combination—”

“But the ingredients were
not
in combination,” Savidge retorted sharply, “or so the learned counsel for the prosecution has assured us. That is correct, is it not?”

Mr. Baker sighed. “That is correct.”

“Nor did any of one of the three defendants have in his possession all the ingredients required to concoct an explosive?”

“I . . . don’t believe so.”

“Very good,” Savidge said, with the air of a man who is finally getting somewhere. “Now, tell us how you handled these bottles.”

“Delicately. I had no way of knowing whether they might contain an unstable explosive compound.” Baker paused. “However, once I unscrewed the stoppers of the ginger-beer bottles, there was little need to run an analysis. In fact, I was glad I was wearing rubber gloves.”

Savidge looked puzzled. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

“Nitric acid fumes are very strong and quite distinctive. As I mentioned earlier, in concentrated form, the substance causes serious burns to the skin. It turns a bright yellow and begins to peel off after a little time.”

Kate noticed that Charles, who had been watching the proceedings intently, was writing again in his notebook.

“So you never touched these bottles with your bare fingers?” Savidge asked.

“Absolutely not,” Mr. Baker replied, with emphasis.

“Thank you.” Savidge looked up at the bench. “That concludes my examination of this witness, if your lordship pleases.”

“I am indeed pleased,” the judge said, with obvious relief. “We will break for lunch, and return at two P.M.” He banged his gavel sharply. “Court is in recess.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

 
 
 
Kate had thought that she and Charles might have lunch together. He seemed, however, to be going off with Savidge, probably to talk over what had transpired that morning, and she did not like to intrude.

Still thinking about what she had heard that morning, she made her way out of the courtroom, left the Old Bailey, and walked the short distance to Ludgate Circus, where she chanced with pleasure upon a white-and-gold-fronted J. Lyons & Co. Ltd. tea shop, next door to Salmon & Gluckstein’s tobacconist shop.

The coffeehouses that had proliferated so widely in London since the 1650s had always been an almost exclusively male preserve, while the tea shops that had begun to spring up during the 1880s were principally the domain of women, respectable places where they could meet their friends and enjoy a bite to eat while out shopping. The first Lyons shop had been built in Piccadilly in 1894 and had become immediately and enormously popular; this one, Kate saw as she entered, was new and much larger than it had looked from the street. It had a flower garden decor, with plants hanging from the ceilings and potted palms in the corners. Each table was covered with a white tablecloth and centered with a fresh bouquet of tiny roses. The place was quite crowded, the air filled with a medley of perfumes and the sound of light voices. Here and there were a few young men, probably from the newspapers along Fleet Street, but the tables were mostly filled with women. Kate saw an empty table against the far wall, in front of the lace-curtained front window, to which she made her way and sat down.

In a moment, the waitress brought her a menu. She ordered a salmon salad sandwich, a piece of marmalade cake, and a pot of Earl Grey tea, and leaned back to enjoy the sight of the busy street filled with pedestrians, omnibuses, and cabs, as well as quite a number of motor lorries. As she watched, she thought about the events of the morning. She was not an experienced trial-goer, but it seemed to her that the judge had favored the prosecution in his ruling, especially in that business about not naming the informant. It seemed terribly underhanded and tricky to her. What if this so-called informant were only a convenient fiction to ensure that certain persons became “suspects”? Or what if an informant had an ax to grind, and wanted, for his own reasons, to deliver the “suspects” into the hands of the police? If the defense couldn’t question the informant, there was no way to ensure that the truth—

The waitress arrived with Kate’s tea in a gold-trimmed white china teapot. And at that very moment Nellie Lovelace, looking quite forlorn, opened the door and entered, standing hesitantly just inside.

“Nellie!” Kate called, waving to catch her attention. “Nellie, over here!”

Nellie saw her and came toward her. “Hello, Kate.” She seemed less than enthusiastic, or perhaps she was only weary. She did look tired, Kate thought—exhausted, in fact. Her face was gray and there were dark circles under her eyes. She was wearing a white shirtwaist blouse and a brown short jacket and brown skirt. The only color in her costume was a red tie and a red felt hat, its single feather hanging limply. She looked very young and vulnerable, almost like a school-girl.

“Do sit down and join me, Nellie,” Kate said. “What a lucky chance, to run into you this way, You’ve been at the theater, I suppose.” The Royal Strand was not far away, on Aldwych. She motioned to the waitress to bring another cup. “You’ll have lunch, won’t you? It will be my treat.”

“Yes,” Nellie said, sinking gratefully onto the chair. “How very kind of you to ask, Kate. I will have lunch. I know it’s my turn to treat, but I’m afraid I’m a little short of funds.” She asked Kate what she was having, and then repeated the order to the waitress. “What are you doing here, Kate?”

“I came for the trial,” Kate said, and added, at Nellie’s blank look, “the Anarchists’ trial. You remember, the three men who were arrested at the
Clarion
the day Lottie escaped across the roof.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Nellie said. “So much has gone on in my life in the past few weeks that I had quite forgot.” She sighed heavily. “You haven’t heard from Lottie, I don’t suppose.”

“No, I haven’t,” Kate said, and picked up the pot to pour Nellie a cup of tea. “I thought she might attend the trial. In disguise, of course,” she added with a chuckle, “since the police have a warrant for her arrest. I didn’t see anyone, male or female, who remotely resembled her, however. You’ve not heard, then?”

“Not a word.” Nellie busied herself with lemon and sugar. “I’ve moved, though. I left an address, but she might not have bothered.”

“You’ve moved?” Kate asked in surprise. “You’ve left your sweet little house? Where are you living?”

“At the Rehearsal Club, in Leicester Square.” Nellie met Kate’s eyes, her own lost and empty. “I’ve been replaced by my understudy, Kate. I’m not Princess Soo-Soo any longer.” She shrugged her shoulders as if to say that it didn’t matter, but the tone of her voice revealed otherwise. “I’m nobody, actually.”

“Oh, dear,” Kate said. “I’m so sorry.” She wanted to ask what had happened, but felt awkward about it.

“Yes,” Nellie said, picking up her teacup. “Well, I suppose it could have been helped, although I don’t quite see how. I finally found some work at the Alhambra.” She smiled bleakly. “In the chorus. But it’s enough to pay for my room and board, and the women at the club are awfully nice, and so willing to help out someone who’s in a spot of temporary trouble. I’m hoping that something better will come along.”

“Well, then,” Kate said with forced cheerfulness, lifting her teacup. “Here’s to your new situation, and to the something better. I’m sure it’s just around the corner.”

“Cheers,” Nellie said, raising her cup in salute. But her hand was trembling and the tea slopped down the front of her blouse. “Oh, drat!” she exclaimed. “Now I’ve gone and made a mess!” She snatched up a napkin and dabbed at her blouse, not making much headway. When she looked up, her eyes were filled with tears.

“My dear,” Kate said quietly, “are you ill?”

Nellie put down the napkin. “No,” she said, “at least I don’t think so. But I—But things—” She stopped, took a deep, ragged breath, and lowered her voice. “To speak frankly, Kate, I’m afraid I’m in . . . the family way.”

Kate stared at Nellie in surprise, mentally counting the days since the last time they’d had dinner together at the Pioneer Club, when Nellie had told her what had happened between her and Jack London. “It’s awfully soon, isn’t it, Nellie?” she asked gently. “You can’t be sure yet.”

“Perhaps.” Nellie colored deeply, biting her lip. “But I’m late. By nearly two weeks, now.”

“Perhaps it’s the strain of moving,” Kate suggested. “And the new work. Too many changes all at once. I know from my own experience how we are affected by change.”

“I suppose it’s possible,” Nellie said slowly. She lowered her glance, the color spreading from her cheeks to her throat. “Oh, I shouldn’t have told you, Kate! You’ll think I—”

“Fiddlesticks,” Kate said, reaching across the table to take her hand. “Of course you must tell me what troubles you.” She knew that Nellie must be uncertain and fearful, and she couldn’t help feeling that she bore some of the responsibility for what had happened. If she had warned Nellie that Jack London was married, Nellie might have reconsidered her decision to accept the man’s invitation to supper. She added, “I must know, so I can help.”

Nellie’s eyes were brimming. “Help?” she whispered. “If I’m truly—” She swallowed, and Kate felt that she could not bring herself to say the word
pregnant.
“If that’s what it is, no one can help me. How can I work, Kate? How will I live? I can’t support a child and care for it as well.” She didn’t say the word
workhouse,
but Kate knew that’s what she must be thinking. That was where unmarried women went to give birth to their babies.

The waitress arrived with the sandwiches and cake and set their plates in front of them, giving Kate time to arrive at a swift decision. When she had gone, Kate said, in a practical tone, “If that’s what it is, if you’re pregnant, I mean, I’m sure I can help, in a great many ways. But we won’t know anything for certain for a few more weeks. Maybe it’s not true.”

Nellie shook her head. “You’re just trying to comfort me.” She said it with a despairing sadness, as if comfort were a false commodity, something not to be trusted.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m trying to do,” Kate replied briskly. “Friends aren’t good for much if they’re not willing to comfort each other.” With a decisive gesture, she picked up her sandwich. “Now, both of us must eat. I’m starving, and I know you’ll feel better after you’ve had something.”

The two women ate silently for a few minutes, and when they had finished their sandwiches and begun on their marmalade cake, Nellie said, in a very low voice, “Thank you, Kate. I do feel better.”

“I hoped you would,” Kate said. She leaned forward, feeling a deep compassion for this young woman, who might be facing the most difficult and dangerous period in a woman’s life with no family to help and frighteningly few resources. “I want you to promise me that you won’t worry about this, Nellie. Worrying doesn’t accomplish anything. And I want you to keep in touch with me. I want to know what is happening.” She paused and added, “I want to know
everything.
”

“But if I . . . if I’m truly—” She gulped, her eyes large and frightened. “What will I do, Kate? Where will I go?”

Nellie looked as if she were once again slipping into despair, and Kate took charge. “If you are, truly, I have just the solution. You’ll come to be with me at Bishop’s Keep, for as long as you like. You can help Alice Byran with her matron’s work at the school, and help me with my own work.” She put her hand on Nellie’s arm. “And in the meantime, you are
not
to worry. Do you hear?”

“Oh, Kate,” Nellie whispered, blinking fast. “I feel just as I did when you came to Miller’s Court, to that awful, dirty alley where I was living, and offered me a new hope for the future—a hope that I could use my talent to help myself. How very long ago that seems!”

“Yes, it was long ago,” Kate replied, thinking to herself that it could not be above four years. But four years was a very long time to a young woman who was scarcely twenty-one. How hard it had been for Nellie, then, to trust her, to believe that her help was offered freely, with love and respect and without condition. “And now you are grown into a lovely and quite talented young woman, with the whole world before you,” she went on in an encouraging tone. “You’ve enjoyed a starring role in the theater, and you will again, once you’ve come through this sticky spot. You need to give yourself time, that’s all.”

“I wish I could believe you,” Nellie said wistfully.

“Believe me,” Kate replied, with emphasis. She drank the last of her tea. “Now, I have a request, Nellie. I need to go back to the courtroom, but I’m anxious for company. Won’t you come with me? When the day is finished, we’ll take a cab and I’ll drop you at Leicester Square on my way back to Sibley House.”

For a moment, Kate thought that Nellie was going to refuse. Then she managed a crooked smile. “I’d like to come with you, Kate. They say that court is sometimes as good as theater.”

Kate put down her napkin and pushed back her chair. “Well, I don’t know about that. But this trial is interesting, to say the least. And if you ask me, the chief villains may not be the defendants, but the prosecutor and the judge—and quite possibly a Scotland Yard inspector.”

“That sounds like quite a cast,” Nellie said, more cheerfully. She rose. “And a performance I don’t want to miss.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT