by Robin Paige
“ If the eight guineas can be found,” Ivan said dispiritedly. “That seems high.”
“I’m afraid it’s the charge,” Nikki replied in an apologetic tone. “If it had been anything else but explosives with intent, he would’ve come cheaper. But explosives-”
“Explosives?” Ivan had interrupted sharply. “How do explosives come into it?”
Nikki gazed at him as if he didn’t quite understand. “Why, the bombs,” he said. “In your room, and Pierre’s. Ginger-beer bottles with something in them-nitric acid, they say. Not to mention the Anarchist literature, and the bomb-making instructions found in Pierre’s pocket.” Admiration and pride were mixed with exasperation in his look. “The comrades said to tell you that they didn’t know that you were a Dynamitard, or that you and Yuri and Pierre were planning to blow up the King. If they’d known, they’d have said it wasn’t a good idea. Too dangerous all ’round.”
“It was Yuri’s plan, not mine,” Ivan said. “I had nothing to do with it.” He was about to add that he had no idea how a bomb had come to be found in his room, but held his tongue. The comrades could think as they liked about him. And if they liked to think that he was a man of deeds, rather than words only, well, that was their choice. He stood no chance before the British bench, anyway, with or without the aid of the eight-guinea Brownlow. He was a Russian and an Anarchist, and when he was found guilty and had served his sentence, he would be handed over to the Ochrana, the Czar’s secret police, who would arrange for his deportation. Once in Russia, he was a dead man.
And this opened another vast panorama of problems upon which Ivan must exercise his mental faculties. For the past three weeks, he had suspected that he was being trailed by one of the Russian secret agents who prowled London, keeping a watch on the Russian emigres, many of whom had sought refuge in the teeming East End. Ivan had done his best to avoid the man-a tall, thin fellow with a black Vandyke beard, wearing a dark overcoat with a fur collar-but he knew it was a futile effort. Whatever he did, he could not get away from the man. And even if he did, it would be of no use, for now that the Ochrana had located him, they would merely assign another agent to trail him.
In fact, now that he thought about it, it seemed to him quite likely that the explosives found in his room had been put there by a Russian agent, immediately after he was seen to be seized in the raid on the Clarion. The agent would know that Special Branch police would search his rooms and would want to ensure that they find something incriminating. Of course, the Ochrana would prefer to get their hands on him immediately, so it was possible that they might make some sort of arrangement with the British authorities to hand him over-a trade for another prisoner, or even an arranged escape. One had heard of that sort of thing.
Ivan ran his hands through his lanky, dirty hair. Of course, this didn’t explain why a bomb had also been placed in Pierre’s room, since an Ochrana agent was not likely to have any special animosity toward a French Anarchist. Ivan smiled bleakly. Especially an ineffectual French Anarchist, all fierce words and no deeds, whose passion for the Cause blinded him to any real possibility for vigorous action. But there were French secret agents in the City as well (not to mention German and Spanish and Italian and American) and perhaps there had been some sort of collaboration.
However, Ivan did not intend to expend his mental energies on Pierre and his fate. He had to think how best to manage to free himself from this unimaginably tangled web and from the agent who would be waiting to lay hands on him when the Court found him guilty-which would happen, he was sure of it, whatever the efforts of Mr. Eight-Guinea Brownlow.
But Brownlow was to make no such efforts on their behalf, as Pierre Mouffetard learned the next day. Pierre, a dingy, hard-faced man, his jaw patchily smudged with a meager whisker, had also been in jails before, usually on a charge of picking pockets, for that was his criminal trade. But he had never stayed for long, since he or his associates had always managed some early means of egress. He therefore remained unconcerned about his current situation and continued to carry himself with his customary air of blustery self-confidence, even when Nicholas Petrovich came to tell him that Brownlow would not be hired, after all.
The conversation had taken place just an hour ago, in the visiting cage. Nikki said that he had been sent to inform both Pierre and Ivan that the Hampstead Road Anarchists had changed their minds. Instead of helping to procure a defense, they had decided that it would be best for them to disassociate themselves from their jailed comrades. As a messenger, Nikki was clearly uncomfortable with this announcement, and stammered as he said it.
“They… we want to express solidarity with militant action, of course, but we… the group, that is, feels it can’t be reckless.” He colored. “You must take it as you like, Pierre, but they… we have decided to disclaim all connection with you and Ivan. And Adam Gould, too, of course-he’s not a member, anyway. It’s the explosives, you see. Everyone’s nervous.”
Pierre frowned, not so much at the way the comrades had abandoned him, but at the charge itself, which he had heard from Nikki the day before, for the first time. “But I had no explosives in my room,” he said. “I told you that yesterday.”
“That does not alter the fact,” Nikki replied somberly, “that the police say they found a bomb there. And there were the instructions for bomb-making in your pocket.”
“Instructions?” Pierre gave a hard laugh. “That was merely a letter-a French compatriot writing to tell me about a Spanish comrade who built an explosive device of some sort.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Nikki pressed his lips together. “The comrades said that they are sorry, but they know that you, of all people, will appreciate that they must act in their own self-interest.”
Of course they must act in their own self-interest, Pierre thought scornfully, and he would act-as he always did-in his. That was what it meant to be an Anarchist, and whatever else he was (and he was many things), he was an Anarchist at heart. He stared down for a moment at the knot of his long, thin fingers, thinking about the bomb that had been put in his room by-by whom? He frowned, for while his impulsive actions and inflammatory temper had made him many enemies, he could think of none who would have chosen this route to revenge. But Pierre had been in difficult straits before, and things had come right in the end. Things seemed dark indeed, but there would be a way out. And if he could not find one, why, then, he would make one.
So Pierre had merely smiled tightly, asked Nikki to tell the comrades that he appreciated their position, and retired to his cell to consider the matter further. In his considerations, of course, his mind went to Ivan and Adam, in whose rooms the police had also found bombs. Pierre had no special liking for Adam, who was a reformist, not a revolutionary. But he was truly sorry for Ivan, whom he especially admired, for Ivan was both passionate and dedicated and had suffered through many trials, always showing himself worthy. With his training as a printer, Ivan was well on his way to making important contributions to the Cause-far more than he, Pierre, could ever hope to make. Pierre did not possess a great deal of self-knowledge, but he knew enough about himself to recognize that he had made very little of his life, and of the opportunities that had come his way. If he had to do it over again, he would do what Ivan had done: study more diligently, learn a trade, and find a way to do something significant for the Cause.
But there was no use in regret. The past was past, and neither here nor there. For now, there was nothing to do but wait and see what might happen.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.
William Shakespeare, Henry VI, Part 2
Charles took the train up to London early on Monday morning. He disembarked when it reached the Liverpool Street Terminus and found a cab to take him to Sibley House, the Mayfair mansion that had been purchased by his great-grandfather for the family’s use when in London. Charles did not enjoy the pleasures of the City and much preferred his wife’s home at Bishop�
�s Keep to the London house-or to Somersworth, for that matter, his family estate in Norfolk. Now that his mother was dead, he went less often to Somersworth; at some point, and perhaps very soon, he ought to come to some conclusions about how best to deal with the estate, which was far too large to be conveniently managed. He did not like the idea of breaking it up for sale, for there were the tenants and estate staff to be considered, and besides, he had no need for the money. While he was in town, he planned to talk with his old friend Canon Rawnsley, who had created a new organization he was calling the National Trust. Perhaps the Trust would be the best way to deal with Somersworth.
But that question did not have to be settled this morning. When Charles reached Sibley House, he handed his hat and coat to Richards, the butler, inquired about messages, and then went into his study, where he lit his pipe, accepted Richards’s offer of a cup of coffee, and made a few telephone calls. After several brief inquiries, he learned that Adam Gould’s employer, the Amalgamated Society of Railway Servants, had handed over the matter of his defense to Mr. Morley of Masters, Morley, and Dunderston.
Charles sat back in his chair, frowning over his coffee. He was already acquainted with the firm through its representation of the ASRS in the Taff-Vale matter, and had not been especially impressed by either the competency or the passion of Masters, Morley, or Dunderston-cold fish, the lot of them. But there was no barrister in the firm, as far as he knew, so Gould’s defense would have to be turned over to someone who was admitted to plead at the Bar. And he thought he knew just the man for the job, if Mr. Morley could be persuaded to agree.
He drained his cup, tapped his pipe into the ashtray, and stood. It seemed to him that Adam Gould definitely required a bit of extra help to save him from his lawyers.
Mr. Malachi Morley was deep in The Times when there was a deferential tap at his office door. He frowned. He had given explicit instructions that he was working on a case and was not to be disturbed. And he was working, of course, for every solicitor needed to be well-informed, and The Times was full of snippets of important information. Ignoring the tap, he turned the page, but when it came again, he dropped the paper and cried irritably, “I told you I was busy. Now go away and-”
The door opened and the slender, red-haired clerk appeared. “I’m very sorry, sir,” the boy said contritely, “but his lordship says the matter is urgent and-”
A tall, brown-bearded, brown-moustached gentleman in morning coat and gray-striped trousers stepped forward. “Charles Sheridan, Mr. Morley. I am a friend of Adam Gould, and I feel it is most urgent that we talk about his case.”
Morley frowned down at his newspaper. “I’m actually rather busy with some research just now. Perhaps we could-”
“Then I shall try to take as little of your time as possible,” his lordship said. He was a handsome man, with an imposing demeanor and an air of command. He placed his hat on Morley’s desk and seated himself comfortably, waving at Morley’s empty chair. “Please, sir. Do sit down. We shan’t stand on ceremony here.”
Feeling a little confused at being invited to sit in his own chair, Morley did as he was bid. He recognized Lord Sheridan, of course; he was one of the few Liberal Peers who had supported Amalgamated in the Taff-Vale matter. But he had not known that Adam Gould was connected with “Now, then,” his lordship said in a genial tone. He took his pipe out of his pocket and prepared to light it. “Perhaps you can tell me what charge our young friend faces.”
Morley tented his fingers. “A very serious charge, I’m afraid,” he said dolefully. “Possession of explosives with intent to endanger life.”
“Well, then.” His lordship drew on his pipe. “And I suppose you have already given considerable thought to the nature of Mr. Gould’s defense.”
Morley hesitated. He had indeed given thought to the matter, and the end to which he had arrived was not at all satisfactory. It would not satisfy Masters and Dunderston; it would not satisfy Adam Gould; and it would most certainly not satisfy Amalgamated, since it would mean the loss of a valued employee. Nonetheless, he could think of nothing else to do.
“I’m afraid,” he said, “that I must direct Mr. Delderfield-he has agreed to take the case-to enter a guilty plea on behalf of Mr. Gould.” He was not happy with the choice of Delderfield, but he was the barrister with whom the firm usually did business, and anyway, it did not matter who handled the defense, for there was only one likely outcome. In a somewhat more diffident tone, he added, “Gould hasn’t a chance, of course. Defense is a waste of time and money. I can’t in good conscience advise Amalgamated of any course other than a guilty plea.”
“A waste of time?” His lordship’s eyebrows went up. “And what makes you say that?”
“The evidence.” Morley cleared his throat. “The bomb that was found in his flat. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Mr. Gould denies any knowledge of it, of course,” he added hastily.
“Of course,” his lordship said with an indignant air. He frowned. “The authorities were good enough to show this… bomb to you, then? What did it look like?”
“It was a ginger-beer bottle. Similar bombs were found in the rooms of the two accused with Mr. Gould.” He shook his head sorrowfully, as if at the folly of such unlawful activity.
“Ginger-beer bottles?” his lordship asked in an interested tone. “What sort of detonators did they have?”
Mr. Morley frowned. “Detonators?”
“In order to have a bomb,” Lord Sheridan said patiently, “one must have a means of detonating it. Of making it explode,” he added, as Mr. Morley’s frown deepened.
“I don’t know about that,” Mr. Morley replied irritably. “But all three of the bottles contained explosives, according to Inspector Ashcraft. Some sort of acid, I think he said.”
His lordship’s eyebrows went up. “What sort of acid? Picric acid? Nitric acid? Sulphuric acid?”
“Nitric acid, I believe,” Mr. Morley said doubtfully, although the truth was that he had not paid a great deal of attention to the details.
“So it was bomb-making material, not bombs, that the men are said to have possessed.”
“It is all the same under the law.” Mr. Morley could feel himself growing defensive. This was not the sort of affair that Masters, Morley, and Dunderston usually found themselves engaged with. It was “It is not the same under the law,” his lordship objected mildly. He paused, drew on his pipe, and expelled a stream of fragrant smoke. “The inspector seems to have been unusually forthcoming. Did you not find that a trifle… suspicious?”
Morley adjusted his cuffs. “I suppose I did,” he admitted. In fact, it had occurred to him that Inspector Ashcraft might have shown him the evidence with the aim of inspiring a guilty plea. But Morley was not familiar with the conduct of criminal cases, and for all he knew, the entire procedure might have been quite normal. Of course, had it not been for the insistence of their largest client, the firm would not have taken the case at all and Amalgamated was certainly not going to like the idea of a guilty plea. He shifted uneasily. He was in rather a spot, and he knew it.
“And you saw no reason to question the official explanation, I suppose, or the charge?” His lordship’s question was sharply put, and Morley winced.
“I did not,” he replied, conscious that his answer left something to be desired. “I have never pretended, sir, to be a Sherlock Holmes. I am a solicitor, sir, and if there is some mystery here, it shall have to be left to the police to solve. Trial is scheduled for next week-August twenty-sixth, to be precise-which does not allow a great deal of time for preparation.”
“August twenty-sixth?” his lordship asked with a frown. “Isn’t that rather precipitous?”
Morley shrugged. “It seems that the docket was clear, and the authorities-”
“The authorities want to get it over with.”
“I suppose.” Morley sighed. “It is a difficult case, if I may be permitted to say so, and there is a great deal of public opinion against the accu
sed men. Although,” he added deferentially, “Mr. Gould is fortunate in having a gentleman like yourself in his corner.” He gave a nervous laugh. “As it were. So to speak.”
“I suppose,” Lord Sheridan said, pursing his lips in a judicious manner, “that this is not quite the sort of case that Masters, Morley, and Dunderston usually take. It is not the sort of thing that Delderfield handles, either.” He chuckled dryly. “Getting rather old, I should say.”
“It is not our usual case,” Morley replied, attempting to suggest by his tone just how far beneath the firm’s usual notice this case lay. “My partners and I should not have accepted it at all if Amalgamated had not insisted quite so… strenuously.” In fact, Masters and Dunderston had preferred to reject Amalgamated’s request. It had only been his insistence that carried the day, and now he was faced with the unpleasant task of telling them that Delderfield would be entering a guilty plea.
“I say, old chap,” his lordship said, interrupting Morley’s thoughts. “It seems to me that you’re in a bit of a bind here. It’s not the sort of case you normally undertake, and not the sort of case you’d like to see associated with the firm’s name, either-especially since you anticipate a conviction. And Delderfield isn’t your man, either, from what I know of him. P’rhaps I might suggest another barrister with a bit more experience along… shall we say, criminal lines. A bit more drive, too. He would not be so quick to plead Gould guilty.”
Morley eyed him speculatively, wondering if his lordship’s suggestion might help him avoid what promised to be an uncomfortable situation with Amalgamated. “Who did you have in mind?” he asked finally.
“Chap named Edward Savidge. Good man, quite competent in his line. I thought perhaps…” His lordship let the pause lengthen.
“I suppose we might be able to work something out,” Morley said, affecting reluctance. “But Amalgamated should have to agree.”