by Robin Paige
“Thank you,” Sims said, holding up his hand. “We’ll let the chemist tell us what he found.” He pointed to a stack of papers and several books. “This Anarchist literature, which I have entered as Exhibit C-you found it in Mr. Kopinski’s room?”
“Yes. The papers advertise an Anarchist meeting. The books are by Anarchists named Kropotkin and Bakunin.”
“Books advocating violence against the state?”
Finney nodded violently. “Oh, yes, indeed, sir. Very much so, sir.”
“And one more found object.” Sims pointed to another bottle. “Exhibit D. Please tell his lordship and the members of the jury what it is and where you found it.”
“Bottle of glycerine, sir. Doctor Gabriel’s Pure Medicinal Glycerine. I found it when I searched the newspaper office.”
“Thank you,” said Sims. “You may step down-unless, of course, my estimable friend Mr. Savidge has questions.”
“I suppose I may have one or two,” Savidge said, rising slowly. “Prior to the raid on the Clarion, the newspaper’s employees were followed. How long did you say you followed the suspects, Detective Finney?”
Finney thought. “For about a fortnight, I’d say.”
“A fortnight before the explosion in Hyde Park?”
“Yes. Maybe more.”
“So you were following these persons for a fortnight or more for no other reason than that they wished to exercise the right of the free press?” As he spoke, his voice rose. The last few words were spoken with a flinty emphasis.
Finney looked uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“I would,” Savidge said. “I certainly would. But never mind. Let’s talk about these three ginger-beer bottles that have been entered into evidence. Did either of the officers with you handle the bottles?”
“No, sir.” Finney squared his shoulders, assuming a brave look. “I was the only one. If something blew up, I didn’t want them to get hurt.”
“A commendable caution, I’m sure,” Savidge remarked in a dry tone. “You testified that you applied the labels to the bottles. Where did you do this?”
Detective Finney smiled. “Right on the side, sir.” The spectators tittered.
Savidge smiled. “Very good, Detective, very good, indeed. Where were you when you applied the labels?”
“In the defendants’ rooms, sir. I labeled ’em as I found ’em.”
“Thank you. You testified that you handled the bottles with care. How exactly did you handle them?”
Finney frowned. “Sir?”
“Did you pick them up by the base?” Savidge asked patiently. “By the neck? Did you cradle them in your hands? Did you wear gloves?”
“No gloves.” Finney’s grin was crooked. “But I was careful. Didn’t want to get blown to pieces, y’see.”
“I do see,” Savidge said. He turned away as if to sit down, and the detective, obviously relieved, took a step backward preparatory to leaving the box. The prosecutor opened his mouth to call the next witness, but Savidge turned quickly, catching them both off their guard.
“And how about fingerprints, Detective Finney? Since fingerprint evidence prevailed in this very courtroom only two days ago, we must not neglect it. I don’t suppose you made an effort to wipe the bottles clean of any fingerprints that may have been left by persons who handled them prior to your discovery?”
“Wipe them clean?” Finney darted a surprised look at the prosecutor. “No, I didn’t see any reason to-”
“Very good, Detective. Now, then, did you make any effort to refrain from leaving your fingerprints on the bottles?”
Kate noticed that the judge seemed to be listening with a greater interest.
Finney frowned. “Well, no. I had to put on the labels, y’see, which means that-”
“So we are likely to find your fingerprints on all three of these bottles?”
“I suppose,” Finney said, now quite clearly nettled. “But I don’t know what you’re-”
Sims had gotten to his feet. “I would like to ask my estimable friend what he-”
“Thank you, Detective,” Savidge said. “That will be all.”
The judge was leaning forward, a slight frown on his face. “Does counsel for the defense wish to explain to the jury what fingerprints are? I rather think that most of them are puzzled.”
“I do indeed, but not at the present time, may it please your lordship,” Savidge replied. “I expect to have occasion to do so later.”
“Very well.” The judge took out his gold watch and consulted. “Twenty minutes to the luncheon adjournment.” He peered down at the prosecution. “Mr. Sims? Will that be sufficient time to present your next witness?”
“I believe so, Your Honor,” Sims replied. With a sidelong glance at Savidge, he added, “Unless my honored colleague plans a lengthy cross-examination.”
Savidge smiled.
“We’ll risk it,” the judge said, and tapped his gavel. “Proceed, Mr. Sims.”
“Call Mr. George Baker,” the prosecution said.
Mr. George Baker, sworn, identified himself as a chemist employed by Scotland Yard to conduct routine chemical analyses. He had, he testified, analyzed the contents of three ginger-beer bottles brought to him by Detective Finney.
“And what did your analysis reveal, Mr. Baker?” asked Sims.
Mr. Baker spoke with the precision that Kate might have expected from a chemist. “In the bottle labeled one, I found two hundred and ten milliliters of nitric acid. In the bottle labeled two, I found two hundred and fifty of the same substance. In the bottle labeled three, I found a hundred and seventy-five milliliters.”
“A little over a pint, all told.” Sims’s face was somber. He seemed to suppress a small shudder. “And how might an Anarchist use nitric acid? As a weapon, I mean.”
“In concentrated form, it can cause severe burns-thrown into a person’s face, for instance. And it is an active ingredient of nitroglycerine, a well-known explosive.”
“I see.” Sims paused. “And to make nitroglycerine, you also need-”
“Glycerine, of course.” At this elementary answer, Mr. Baker smiled in a self-deprecating way.
The courtroom buzzed. The judge rapped his gavel sharply. Sims raised his voice over the hubbub. “You’ve had an opportunity to analyze the contents of the bottle labeled Exhibit C, Mr. Baker?”
“Yes. It contains glycerine.”
“So the Anarchists had, ready at hand, the ingredients of a powerful explosive. Is that not correct?”
“That’s correct, sir. And nitroglycerine is the explosive compound in dynamite.”
There was an audible gasp in the court, and several small squeals from the more fashionably-dressed of the ladies. One fanned herself, while another appeared to be searching in her reticule for her salts. The journalists and artists along the wall were scribbling and sketching madly. Kate looked at Charles and saw that he wore a faint smile.
The prosecutor cast a sympathetic glance at the spectators. “But there is nothing to fear from these bottles, I understand, since the substances are not in combination. The ladies in this court are safe, are they not?”
“Yes,” Baker said dryly, “they are safe.”
“However, since each of these four bottles contains an ingredient of an explosive, each therefore falls under the sanctions of the Explosives Act.” He put on a pair of reading glasses, took a sheet of paper from his assistant, and read aloud, “ ‘Explosives are to be defined as any apparatus or substance used or adapted for causing, or aiding in causing, any explosion.’ Is that correct?”
“That is correct.”
Sims cast a triumphant glance in the direction of the defense. “Then, sir, we are justified in calling these containers of explosives ‘bombs,’ are we not?”
“I believe so, sir,” Baker said.
“That will be all, Mr. Baker,” Sims said conclusively, and swept to his seat.
Savidge rose. “I have several questions of the
witness.”
The judge pursed his lips. “You will be brief, won’t you, Counsel?”
Savidge bowed. “I fear I cannot promise, my lord. However, I shall certainly try to-”
The judge gave an audible sigh. “Proceed.”
“Very well. Mr. Baker, the nitric acid that you found in the bottles labeled one, two, and three. Does it have any purpose other than the manufacture of explosive?”
The chemist spoke somewhat reluctantly. “Nitric acid has many industrial uses related to metallurgy. It is also used to make certain fertilizers.”
“It could be used to etch metal printing plates, could it not?”
Mr. Baker was wary. “So I understand.”
“So it might not be surprising if nitric acid were found in the possession of a printer? And what about glycerine?”
“Glycerine,” Mr. Baker acknowledged slowly, “has a number of applications related to medicine.”
“It is used in soap, is it not? And in other cleaners? Could not Dr. Gabriel’s Pure Medicinal Glycerine also be used to remove printers’ ink from hands and equipment?”
“If you’re suggesting that-”
“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
Until the opening of the first tea shops, there was nowhere a lady could have a meal by herself, nowhere for women to meet their friends outside their own homes; it was inconceivable for them to go to a public restaurant unescorted by husband or brother… Roger Fulford in Votes for Women contends that the tea shop was an integral part of the Women’s Suffrage Movement.
Alison Adburgham, Shops and Shopping: 1800-1914
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 amp; Co. Ltd. tea shop, next door to Salmon amp; 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? Wher
e 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.”