Death In Hyde Park (34 page)

“Tonight,” Lottie replied. “Very soon. A comrade who drives a freight wagon will take you to Dover, to a place where you will be safe. On Sunday morning, you will take passage to Ostende on a fishing boat. It is all taken care of. That’s what took so long, you see. We had to wait on a telegram confirming the details.”

“And after that?” Pierre demanded, his voice rising. “What after that?”

“Once in Belgium,” Lottie said, “you are to contact a man named Friedrich Witthaus. He will help you find lodging in Brussels, or see you on your way to Switzerland.” She looked from Pierre to Ivan, managing a small smile. “You are ready to leave?”

Ivan suppressed a dry chuckle. It was not as if he and Pierre had anything to pack. They had nothing but the clothes on their backs and a few toilet articles—a comb, a razor, soap, and a toothbrush—in their pockets. Pierre had also managed to obtain a small derringer, which was now in the pocket of his canvas coat. He had convinced Petrovich to get it for him, telling the man that he did not intend to be taken alive. Ivan didn’t like the idea that Pierre was armed; the Frenchman was impulsive and hot-headed and it was hard to predict what he might do. But Ivan’s protests went by the way. Pierre was resolute, determined. A man in his position must have a gun.

Lottie was speaking. “Since this is likely to be our last time together, there is something I have to know. Which of you put Yuri up to that business in Hyde Park? He could not have made the bomb himself.”

Ivan braced himself against the thought that he would not see Lottie again. “I wish I knew,” he said sadly. “Whoever it was signed poor Yuri’s death warrant.”

Lottie fastened her glance on Pierre, and he shifted uneasily. “I had nothing to do with it, if that’s what you’re thinking. I am no bomb-maker, regardless of what that fool of an inspector claimed. I could not have manufactured that device—and if I had, I would not have entrusted it to Yuri. He was incapable of carrying out a complicated and perilous task such as that.”

Lottie frowned, her face shadowed in the flicker of the candle. “Then where did he get it?” she persisted. “Who could have given it to him?”

Pierre shrugged. “Scotland Yard. That bulldog Ashcraft, or one of his agents. They would know Yuri would fail. They used him to discredit our cause—and to create an excuse to seize Ivan and me.” His eyes narrowed dangerously and he jabbed his thumb into his chest. “But not Ivan, no.
C’est moi,
Pierre, they were after. I am the one they were afraid of.”

Ivan shook his head, thinking it was just like Pierre to imagine that he was the center of the Yard’s attention. “It was not the English police,” he said. “Ashcraft is not very smart, but even he would not give a bomb to a half-witted boy to throw at your King and Queen. The boy might by some chance succeed, and even if he failed, other Englishmen might die. It is only the greatest chance that no one was nearby when the bomb went off.” He shook his head again. “No, no. The English are too sentimental for such things.”

Lottie looked at him intently. “Then who?” she demanded, and her voice took on an even greater urgency. “Who gave Yuri the bomb?”

Over the days in Holloway Prison, Ivan had applied himself to this question. He had thought at first that Yuri himself had conceived and carried out the action, one last splendid sunburst of anarchistic glory, one final heroic deed. But the more he had reflected, the more he had remembered of the details of the weeks before that fatal day in Hyde Park, and the more convinced he was that Yuri had not been a hero, but rather the unknowing pawn of a dangerous man.

“It was the Russian secret police, Lottie, the Ochrana.” He heard her little gasp of horror but did not stop to comfort her. She liked to play at being an Anarchist—it was time she knew the real truth of things. “The Ochrana are ruthless. They would not care who died, the King, the Queen, one or two Englishmen, a dozen. But they would have the same motive—to discredit our cause. And to provoke the English police into closing down the
Clarion
and making arrests.” He paused and added, in a lower voice, “They would do all this to have me arrested and sent back to Russia. A member of the Ochrana was following me, watching me.”
He
was the cause of Yuri’s death. Ivan knew this now, as certainly as he knew his own name. And he would have to live with the knowledge for the rest of his life, however long or short that might be.

Lottie’s eyes widened. “You, Ivan? But what have
you
done to make them come after you?”

Pierre laughed. “Yes, Ivan,” he said mockingly. “Tell us what you have done that has made you such a dangerous man that you must be hunted down and hauled back to Russia.”

Ivan took a deep breath. He would not have answered Lottie, but Pierre’s mocking tone pricked his pride. “When I escaped from prison in Russia,” he said, “I caused the death of a high official, the son of a princess and a favorite of the Czar. The Ochrana—”

There was a noise and Ivan stopped. The door was open several inches. Lottie stepped forward. “It is the wagon driver,” she said, “the man who has come to take you to Dover. He—”

“Wait,” Pierre commanded. His hand had gone to his coat pocket, where Ivan had seen him put the gun. “Let us see who it is.”

The door swung open and the candlelight glinted on the barrel of a revolver. Ivan sucked in his breath. The tall, thin Russian holding the gun was the same man who had followed him prior to his arrest.

“Frenchman,” the man said, “I will have that gun in your pocket.” His voice was cold and hard as steel.

Pierre hesitated, his eyes going to the man, then to Lottie. Ivan saw his jaw clench, saw him consider whether to seize her as a shield, then abandon the idea.

“Come, come now.” The man’s voice took on an edge. “No harm will befall you or the woman. I have no quarrel with either of you.” His eyes went to Ivan. His gun was trained on Ivan’s belly. “I am here for the murderer Kopinski.” He held out his left hand. “Give the gun to the woman, Mouffetard. It is of no use, anyway. There is no powder in the cartridge.”

No powder in the cartridge? The meaning of that came to Ivan at the same moment it came to Pierre. The other slowly lifted his hand out of his pocket, and Ivan saw that he was holding the derringer. He handed it to Lottie.

“Now to me,” the Russian said, still holding out his left hand. “Do it,” he said, more harshly. “I am losing patience.”

Reluctantly, Lottie put the gun in the man’s hand. “Who are you?” she whispered. “You’re not from Scotland Yard. What do you want with Ivan?”

“I heard your friend telling you all about it when I opened the door.” The man chuckled. “Do you not believe him?”

“You’re from the Russian secret police?”

“That is correct. I am Dmitri Tropov.”

With pain, Ivan saw that Lottie was breathing in short, irregular breaths, and her face had gone very pale. “How did you find us?” she whispered.

Tropov smiled. “One of your comrades is in my employ. I shall leave it to you to discover which one. You are clever—you should enjoy the sport. It will be like the game you call hide and seek.”

Lottie took a step forward. “And you are the one who gave the bomb to Yuri?”

“Who else?” Tropov shrugged. “Of course, he was not expected to get anywhere near your King and Queen, although if he had, it might have proved interesting. You can appreciate that, can you not? You are an Anarchist, or so you say. Had he succeeded, he would have been a hero, would he not?”

Lottie sounded incredulous. “But you expected Yuri to blow himself up on the street, where he would kill innocent people?”

“What of it?” Tropov asked. His voice grew sharp. “We are done with talk. You and your French friend may go. I want only the Russian.”

Lottie turned to look at Ivan, her eyes large and luminous and very frightened. “Ivan,” she whispered imploringly, “I can’t let you—”

“Go, Lottie,” Ivan said. The pain slashed through him like a sword. “You can do nothing to help me.” He raised his voice. “Pierre, take her out of here.”

Pierre held out his hand to Ivan. “Farewell, comrade.” His smile was crooked and there was a bright glint in his eyes. “We shall meet again.”

“I think not,” Ivan said, hopelessness enveloping him. “Just get her out, before Tropov changes his mind.”

Pierre pushed Lottie past the Russian. Stumbling, she put both hands on the knob and began to open the door. Lifting his chin as if in defiance, Pierre thrust both hands into his pockets and made as if to follow her. Then, so swiftly that Ivan could not be sure what he was seeing, the Frenchman whirled, his hand flashing in a lightning-fast slash across Tropov’s throat.

“Viva l’anarchie!”
Pierre cried triumphantly, and held up the bloody razor. “Death to all police!”

Tropov’s left hand went up to his throat with a lazy, languid gesture, as if he were brushing away an insect that had stung him. He leaned backward against the wall, his eyes going wide, his mouth gaping in a soundless cry, blood spurting from the slashed artery in his neck. His fingers loosened and the revolver clattered to the floor. His knees failed him and he slid down the wall.

He died where he sat, in a puddle of blood.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

 
 
 
 
Charles dedicated several days of the week following the trial to the drafting of his report to the King. Kate typed it for him on Thursday, and he delivered it to Ponsonby on Friday, the twelfth of September. In it, he wrote that the bombing in Hyde Park was an isolated event instigated by a Russian secret agent named Dmitri Tropov, who had been discovered murdered at the rear of a cigar shop in Church Lane, a victim, no doubt, of one of the many Russians who bore the Ochrana a passionate hatred. The young man who had carried the bomb was dead, the Anarchist newspaper for which he had worked was closed, the Anarchist cell in Hampstead Road had been disbanded, and two of the Anarchists had been brought to trial. What had happened in Hyde Park, he concluded, was not likely to happen again. Their Majesties faced no continuing threat.

The report was fairly brief, for Charles had intentionally omitted certain important elements of the affair. He did not, for instance, describe the details of Tropov’s murder or Kopinski’s and Mouffetard’s escape from the country, which Charlotte Conway had recounted to him and Kate when she visited them at Sibley House on the Saturday following the trial. Where the two fugitives had gone was none of his affair, and certainly none of the Crown’s. They were apparently beyond the reach of English justice, and when Charles discussed the possibility of their pursuit with Assistant Commissioner Edward Henry, he did not sense that Henry had an urgent interest in going after them. Henry seemed to feel, in fact, that Inspector Ashcraft’s illegal acts—the acts of
former
Inspector Ashcraft, that is, for the man had been sacked—had tainted the convictions to the point where he could not justify pursuit of the fugitives. And while numerous crimes had been committed, including two homicides, they had in effect cancelled each other out. Justice, it seemed, had been roughly served.

Moreover, Charles saw no reason to include in his report any description of the part played by Charlotte Conway and Jack London in the escape of Kopinski and Mouffetard. Nor did he say anything of his discussion with Captain Steven Wells, of the Intelligence Branch of the War Office, and specifically excluded what Captain Wells had said (which might have offended the Royal ears) when Wells learned that his Russian contact, Rasnokov, had also been in the employ of Ochrana, and that he had recently died a violent death. These omissions notwithstanding, Charles felt that he had fulfilled his commission, and he was glad to see an end to it.

There were a few other related matters in which the Crown could have no interest, and which were resolved over the next several weeks. Following his acquittal, Adam Gould returned to his position at the Amalgamated Society of Railway Servants, and was busy hammering out the details of a new contract with the Metropolitan Railway that gave the workers higher pay and shorter hours. Recognizing that Charlotte Conway needed work and confident in her valuable skills, Adam had found a position for her at the union’s office. Charlotte had stayed with Nellie Lovelace at the Rehearsal Club for a fortnight, but when she received her first week’s pay, she and Nellie pooled their resources and found a flat together. Nellie had discovered, much to her relief, that she was not pregnant; she was still working at the Alhambra, but had moved from the chorus line to a minor role and was understudy for the female lead. Nellie hoped that, over time, her disgraceful lapse would be forgotten and her talent would allow her to recover her reputation.

As for Jack London, he had completed the research for
People of the Abyss
and returned to America by way of the Continent—or so he had written to Kate in a letter that he hoped she would forward to Lottie. In it, he had humorously outlined his adventures with a group of rowdy Continental revolutionists:

 
Kate had debated whether to show the letter to Lottie and did, finally. Lottie, however, declined Jack’s urgent request to correspond with him, and (as far as Kate knew, anyway) that was an end to the matter.

 
* * *

Before they left London for East Anglia, Kate and Charles accepted a dinner invitation from Bradford and Edith Marsden. It was Kate’s first visit to the Marsdens’ elegant home, which was newly purchased and freshly furnished in the latest decorative style. Edith, too, was stylishly up-to-date in a low-cut gold-colored gown. Her bosom was adorned with a cascade of delicate lace, her hair was elaborately dressed and sparkling with diamond pins, and she wore a diamond-and-pearl choker at her throat. Kate, who did not often wear jewelry, felt very plain indeed in comparison to this brilliance, and briefly regretted that she had not worn something more elegant than her green dress.