by Robin Paige
“Hello, Nellie,” Kate called, opening the door of the cab and motioning to her friend.
Nellie lowered her umbrella and dashed through the splashing rain. “Thank you for coming to get me,” she said, settling herself beside Kate. “It’s so difficult to find a cab on a rainy afternoon.” Her smile came and went. “Has there been any word from Lottie Conway?”
Kate patted Nellie’s gloved hand. “No, I’m sorry to say. I’ll tell you all about my search over our supper, though. For the moment, just catch your breath.”
In her note to Nellie, Kate had invited the actress to meet her for an early supper at the Pioneer Club, which was located in the West End, in a three-story house in Grafton Street, just off New Bond. Kate could as easily have invited Nellie to Sibley House, but she could not be sure whether Charles would be home or what time he might want dinner, and she knew that Richards would find it impossible not to sniff each time he served Nellie. The club was pleasant, the meals very nice, and their waiter would not sniff.
The last decade had seen a remarkable growth in women’s social clubs, and by the turn of the century a woman might belong to one or even more, depending on her social class, her means, and her interests. A titled lady would join the magnificent Empress Club in Dover Street, where an orchestra played nightly in the ornate dining room, the salon was available for chatting and writing letters, the drawing room was reserved for concerts and dances, and luxurious guest rooms might be had for overnight stays. An employed woman might join the St. Mary’s Working Girls’ Club in the East End, at Stepney; the Honor Club in Fitzroy Square, which boasted a circulating library, a gymnasium, and a lady doctor who was available on Monday nights; or the Jewish Working Girls’ Club in Soho, which offered lace-making and cooking lessons and classes in Hebrew. Professional women had several options: the University Club, which catered to the academic and intellectual woman; the Writers’ Club, to the woman journalist; and the Rehearsal Club in Leicester Square, to the theatrical woman, providing rooms, board, and laundry service. There was even a Ladies Automobile Club, which was headquartered in the Claridge Hotel.
Given Charles’s peerage and social position, Kate could have chosen to be a member of the Empress, or of the Green Park or Alexandra, for that matter. Instead, she had joined the Pioneer Club, whose members were committed to women’s issues, social reform, and political affairs, and were far less interested in parties and balls. When she was in town, she often visited the club’s library, which subscribed to all the leading periodicals, and attended the Thursday evening debates. This evening, Kate felt that the Pioneer was exactly the right place to have a quiet conversation with Nellie, who would be much more at her ease here than in the stuffy, stately dining room at Sibley House.
For her part, Nellie was simply glad to sit down to a nice supper in a pleasant room with a friendly face smiling over the bowl of white roses in the center of the table. It had been a long day, for she had spent the morning dropping in on several friends who, she thought, might have heard something from Lottie. But they had not, and she had gone on to the theater discouraged and more than a little angry at Lottie for spurning the refuge she had taken so much trouble to secure for her.
Unfortunately, the afternoon rehearsal had not gone well, either; whether it was because Nellie was upset or simply inattentive, she had missed even more cues and bungled even more lines than she had during the matinee and evening performances on Sunday, and the director had taken her aside for a firm talk afterward. Nellie knew that the man had no animosity toward her; it was simply his job to remind her that there was a particularly promising understudy who would be delighted to take her place if she found she could no longer play the role she was being paid-and paid very handsomely-to perform. She could feel the ax hanging over her head by the slenderest of threads, and it frightened her more than she could say. Another missed cue, another bungled line, and she was out, as quick and easy as a snap of the fingers. One night, a successful musical comedy star; the next, an out-of-work actress.
With this ominous black cloud looming on her professional horizon, Nellie said little as she ate her supper-a very good mock turtle soup, curried lobster, roast lamb, and vegetables. She didn’t have to say much, for Kate had plenty to tell her about her visits to Mrs. Conway and to Helen Rossetti. Nellie wasn’t surprised that Kate was making such an effort to find Lottie, for she knew her to be sympathetic, especially when it came to women who were in some sort of difficulty. She was a little surprised, though, to hear that Lord Sheridan had also involved himself in the case, to the extent of obtaining a lawyer to represent Adam Gould and the two men arrested with him, and that he had reason to hope that they might be acquitted of the bomb-making charge.
“That would be wonderful!” Nellie exclaimed. “Now, if we could only find Lottie.” She fell silent. Her feelings about Lottie, now, were definitely mixed. On the one hand, they were still friends, and she wanted to help; on the other Across the table, Kate was looking at her with concern. “You don’t seem yourself tonight, Nellie,” she said quietly. “Is there something wrong? Apart from Lottie’s disappearance, I mean.”
“No, nothing,” Nellie said. She looked down at her plate, then up again, meeting Kate’s eyes. “Actually, there is,” she blurted out, and to her surprise, she found herself confessing the whole story. The Saturday night she and Jack London had spent together. The dinner at the Carleton and the excursion afterward to Earl’s Court. And then the brutal lovemaking and waking on Sunday morning to his terse note, which had made her feel used and tawdry.
Kate stared at her, eyes wide. “You don’t mean to say that the man forced you!” she exclaimed in horror.
“Yes,” Nellie said, in a low voice, “although it might be my fault.” She bit her lip. “That’s what makes me feel so awful, Kate! To think that I brought it on myself.”
“Brought it on yourself?” Kate asked, frowning.
“I drank too much champagne,” Nellie said guiltily, “and when we arrived at my house and he asked to come in, I let him. I did not intend-” She closed her eyes and swallowed painfully. “I didn’t mean for anything to happen, honestly, Kate. I thought perhaps we’d have a kiss or two and a romantic cuddle, and I confess I was looking forward to it. But then he-” She shook her head. “I tried to say no, but maybe
… maybe I didn’t say it hard enough. Maybe I should have-”
“That’s nonsense,” Kate said decidedly. “A kiss is not meant to be an invitation to-” She broke off. “If you made it clear that you wanted nothing more than a kiss or two, Nellie, the man was honor-bound to respect your wishes, whatever his own might have been.”
“I wanted… I wanted… Oh, Kate, I can’t be sure what I wanted!” Nellie exclaimed. “But surely it wasn’t that. And then to wake up and find that note the next morning-” She bit her lip, the tears welling up in her eyes. Nellie had enough experience of the world to know that many women suffered far worse at the hands of men than the loss of their virtue. She had often slept in close quarters with adults and was not naive about what went on in a woman’s bed when a man got into it. But she had read too many romantic novels and cherished too many romantic dreams, and she felt humiliated at the recollection of the cruel reality. And complicating her feelings (although she didn’t want to share this with Kate) was the thought that Jack London was far more interested in Lottie than in her. Mate woman, he had called her, as if they shared some sort of mystical romantic connection, even though he’d no more than laid eyes on her when she came down that ladder.
“What a dreadful experience,” Kate said, reaching across the table and taking Nellie’s hand. “I am so sorry, so very sorry, that it happened. And that I did not warn you. Perhaps if you had known-”
“Known what?” Nellie asked, startled.
“That Jack London is married,” Kate said, her eyes full of compassion. “His wife Bess is in California, with their little girl. I learned this at the party his publisher gave for him when he a
rrived in London.”
For a long moment, Nellie stared at her, the words echoing over and over again in her mind. Married married married married. Then, in spite of the fact that they were seated in a public dining room, she burst into tears, hot and harsh with bitter self-recrimination.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“When did you love me?” she whispered.
“From the first, the very first, the first moment I laid eyes on you. I was mad for love of you then, and in all the time that has passed since then I have only grown the madder. I am maddest, now, dear. I am almost a lunatic, my head is so turned with joy.”
Jack London, Martin Edin
It was nearly eleven on Tuesday morning when Jack London donned his slum costume and locked the door of his room on his typewriter and pile of manuscript pages. His room might be small and lack important amenties, but he could lock the door and know it would not be disturbed. Putting the key in his pocket, he went down the private stair and into the alley at the back of the garden, his Brownie in a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. The camera had cost him all of two dollars in New York City, and the film was cheap enough, twenty cents for six exposures. He planned to take pictures for his book-a great many pictures, since he was an amateur and couldn’t know how the photographs would turn out until he had them developed back in America.
But it wasn’t a very nice day for taking photographs. The gray fog that drifted through the streets was streaked with yellow, and the air had a sharply sulphurous smell. The smell of the pit, London thought dourly, glancing with loathing at the grim, smoke-smudged brick buildings that rose on either side of the street. He had spent the morning reading about that poisonous smoke in a report he had obtained from the Socialists. The curator at Kew Gardens, a fellow named Sir William Thistelton-Dyer, had studied smoke deposits on vegetation, concluding that each week no fewer than six tons of soot and tarry hydrocarbons fell out of the sky onto every quarter of every square mile in and around the City.
Six tons! It was no wonder, London thought, trudging in the direction of the East India docks, that the children were growing up into rotten adults, without virility or stamina or any energy for work. The Abyss was a huge, smoldering, sulphurous fire that smoked the juices of joy and spirit out of everyone, as if they were sides of beef hung to cure in some country smokehouse. Why, not a soul had any look of pleasure or delight or spontaneity or His eye was caught by a slender figure sauntering up the street ahead of him, a young gypsy woman in a gay red shawl, with a red flounce on her ragged dress and a red bandana tied over the mop of thick dark hair that swung loosely around her shoulders. He could not see her face, but her hips had a provocative sway and she carried herself with a confident defiance that made her stand out like a Romany princess among the weary multitudes on the dirty, crowded street. Now, there was a woman whose vital juices had not yet been smoked out of her, London thought with a sense of surprised pleasure, and when she turned into an eating-house, he went in after her.
She leaned her elbows on the dirty wooden counter, looked up at the fly-specked menu board, and ordered a two-penny pie and a bottle of lemonade. She was untying the money out of a knotted handkerchief at her belt when London slid several coins across the counter.
“Permit me,” he said with a smile.
The woman turned toward him, and he was struck dumb. She was no gypsy, but the very same Charlotte Conway whom he had last seen jumping down from the rusty iron ladder in Hampstead Street. Now, as then, she seemed to him easy and free in her body, unconstrained and open and frank in herself, ready to meet any peril or opportunity that the world might offer. Stunned, he realized that this Anarchist gypsy was the woman he had been looking for all his life.
It took a moment-it felt like a lifetime-to shape her name. “Lottie!” he whispered. “Lottie Conway!”
Her eyes met his with an astonishing boldness, widening and then narrowing, taking in his seafaring clothes and his green cloth cap. “Do I know you?” she asked.
The huskiness of her voice, the artlessness of her greeting, delighted him. “Jack London,” he said. “I’m an American journalist here to do a story. We met in an alley off Hampstead, when you shinnied down that ladder the day the cops raided the Clarion.” He grinned. “That was swell, the way you ditched those John Laws. A second more or less, you’d’a been pinched and hauled off to the calaboose.”
She looked at him as if he were speaking a foreign language, but at that moment, the meat pie and lemonade were passed across the counter. He picked them up and, in a proprietary way, led the girl to a wooden table in the farthest corner. She sat down and dove into the pie as if she were starving, saying not a word.
“You’re on the lam, are you?” he asked, when she was finished.
She frowned and pushed back the empty plate. “On the lam?”
“Trying to keep clear of the cops.” With a grin, he ran his eye down her frock, admiring the swell of her breasts beneath the dirty bodice, the narrow waist, the trim ankles under the muddy hem of her skirt. “Done that myself in my hobo days, riding the rails across America. Got a few tricks up my sleeve I’d be glad to teach you. I remember once in Reno, Nevada, back in ‘92-”
“Thank you for the meal.” She stood. “Good-bye, now.”
He caught at her wrist. “No, don’t, please!” he said, and heard and was not ashamed of the pleading in his voice. “I’ve just found you. You can’t go away.”
“I can’t?” Her eyes were on his, his fingers still tight on her wrist. “Why not?”
“Because.” Because I didn’t know there were such women in the world, he thought wildly. Because you give wings to my imagination, and open great, luminous pages in books where heroes do heroic deeds for the sake of beautiful ladies. Because I am greedy for the feel of you. “Because I can help you,” he said humbly. “I want to help you.”
“Help me? Why?” She pulled her arm away, but she sat back down.
“Because you need me,” he said, his humility vanishing in a hero’s boldness, which was abashed the very next moment by her throaty laugh.
“Need you?” She tossed her head, an amused smile on her lips. “Why in the world should I need you?”
“Because,” he said, and leaned toward her, his eyes glinting with delight at the thought of the temptation he was offering her, his heart filled with the almost overpowering hope that she would accept. “Because I know a place where you can hide. A place where no one in the world would ever look for you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
When bloody finger marks or impressions on clay, glass, etc. exist, they may lead to the scientific identification of criminals. If previously known, they would be much more precise in value than the standard mole [informant] of the penny novelists… There can be no doubt as to the advantage of having, besides their photographs, a nature-copy of the forever-unchangeable finger furrows of important criminals.
Henry Faulds, letter to Nature Magazine, 28 October 1880
At the Sibley House breakfast table on Tuesday morning, Kate was handed a telegram from Hodge, her butler at Bishop’s Keep. Patrick, the sixteen-year-old red-haired boy whom she and Charles had taken as their own, had arrived home the night before and was laid up with a badly-sprained ankle. ^6 The boy-a young man now, nearly-had a marvelous gift for working with horses and served as an apprentice to George Lambton at Newmarket, one of the country’s leading horse trainers. But he had suffered an accidental fall, and while he was not badly injured, Mr. Lambton had thought it best that he go home for a week or two to recuperate.
Hodge’s telegram assured Kate that the doctor felt Patrick to be in no danger, but she knew she wouldn’t be easy in her mind until she saw him for herself, and if she went home, she could put the time to good use by working on her manuscript. Anyway, there was no purpose to her staying in the City, for it was clear that she could not find Charlotte Conway unless the girl wanted to be found. She could be anywhere in the vast city of London, and looking for her
on the streets would be like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. Perhaps Charlotte would contact Nellie or Helen Rossetti or even Mrs. Conway, and Kate had made sure that each one of them knew how to get in touch with her. If Charlotte turned up, and if there was something she could do to help the girl, she could always go back to London.
On Tuesday afternoon, Charles and Edward Savidge went to New Scotland Yard, to the newly-established fingerprint department. There, they met with Sergeant Collins, who had been appointed and trained by Assistant Commissioner Henry as the Yard’s chief fingerprint expert. The evidence, now boxed and labeled with a caution against handling, had been moved from the evidence locker to Collins’s office.
Sergeant Collins pulled on a pair of thin cotton gloves and opened the box. He took out a three-inch stack of Anarchist literature, all appearing to be copies of the same meeting notice, and several books, one by Prince Kropotkin, two others by Mikhail Bakunin. Next, he took out a much-folded sheet of cheap paper, clearly a letter, handwritten in French.
“Found in Mouffetard’s pocket,” he said, handing it to Savidge. To Charles he said, “No point in testing for fingerprints, not on that rough paper.”
Savidge unfolded the letter and read it. “I’d like to copy this,” he said.
The sergeant nodded and took out a bottle of what appeared to be a clear, viscous liquid, bearing the label Dr. Gabriel’s Pure Medicinal Glycerine. “Found in the newspaper office, on a shelf,” he said, setting it on the table.
Finally, he took out three ginger-beer bottles, one at a time, very carefully. The long-necked, champagne-shaped bottles were made of stoneware (as was usual with ginger-beer bottles, which were meant to be returned and refilled), the neck colored brown, the rest of the bottle plain salt-glazed, with the manufacturer’s name and bearded likeness impressed on the front. The bottles, each one capped with a screw-in stopper, appeared to be half full of a noxious-smelling liquid substance, identified by the Yard chemist, Sergeant Collins reported, as nitric acid. A square white evidence label had been applied to the back of each bottle. On it was written in ink the time and place the bottle was collected and the name Finney, the officer who had brought it in.