The Hellfire Conspiracy

33

The next day, between us, Mac and I convinced the Guv not to go to service. I told him he must heal, that his body had suffered a shock, and that he didn’t realize how close he’d come to death, but it was only when Mac told him his appearance would frighten visitors away from the Baptist Tabernacle that he agreed not to go.

I went downstairs to my own bed. I’d had a most irregular schedule since the case had begun and needed rest myself. When one has been sleeping on a hard mattress on the floor for a week or so, a bed with crisp sheets, soft pillows, and a down counterpane is the closest thing to floating on a cloud. I tried reading MacDonald but fell asleep after the first few pages and dozed through lunch.

After another dinner brought in from the Elephant and Castle, I sat down at my small table and got out pencil and paper. I had a solemn duty ahead of me, one for which I did not feel equipped. I had decided to track down my late wife’s resting place to give her a proper burial. I had a satisfactory bank balance now and could afford to give her the funeral she had deserved. The cost meant nothing to me, but finding her was another story. I didn’t quite know where to begin other than to explore every cemetery in Oxford-shire. I would also have to go to Oxford, the place of my former disgrace, and speak with the very court system that had been responsible for my incarceration, as well as to hire a solicitor to search for Jenny’s mother. She was an avaricious creature, and smelling the money, would place hazards and injunctions in my path until she was bought off. Who knew how long that would take? Then there was the coffin to buy, the exhumation that I would not be there to oversee, and the service. A simple Methodist service was what I would prefer, and I hoped her mother would not cause a tempest over that. There was so much to do and so little hope it would all go as planned, but that didn’t matter. I would do it for Jenny. It was my duty. I only hoped Barker would not mind my taking a few days off.

After breakfast the next morning, I went upstairs, for Barker was not in his garden as usual. I found him at one of the tables in his garret with an open copy of the Pall Mall Gazette in his hand. This was the day Stead fired his salvo at the House of Commons. “The Maiden Tribute of Modern Babylon” screamed the headline. When I entered, the Guv motioned me into the chair and put the article into my hand before charging his thimble cup with another spoonful of tea.

I read. Stead admitted everything, which was the only way, really. He gave names of everyone involved, explained the depth to which the government had allowed this to go, and the numbers of the girls involved. He turned “white slave trade” into a phrase that everyone would use for the next several years and then forced it onto every breakfast table in the land between the toast rack and the Dundee marmalade.

“Good heavens,” I said when I finally finished. “The government shall not be able to sidestep this or play it down.”

“Precisely,” Barker said. “Stead knows how to provoke people as well as any sermon writer in England, but Hesketh’s people shall retaliate, you may be sure.”

Barker and I went to our chambers that morning, but my employer spent his time in the office receiving messages and telephone calls about the coming crisis. It appeared all of London was in an uproar over the special edition. Some were calling Stead a monster, and others naming him a hero. The Gazette editor had pulled back the grate on a stinking cesspool, and now London would have to acknowledge it and clean it up. The children of the East End owed much to William T. Stead, but I had learned enough in Barker’s employ to know what happened to those who pointed out the government’s faults. They usually received nothing but punishment.

The Guv sent me off to the charity to have a private word with Miss Potter. I was going to tell her that the case was over and her services were no longer required but that she had acted admirably. I also had things to discuss with her of a more private nature.

She was not at the charity, as it turned out. Some of the volunteers were away, for it appeared the government was going to speak upon the matter of the white slave trade, convened by Chamberlain himself, at a building in Whitechapel in Commercial Street. If I hurried, I could just make it. I sprinted out the door, thinking that perhaps now I could finally make sense of the connection between Beatrice Potter and Chamberlain.

When I arrived at the building, the meeting was already under way. The meeting hall was packed full of lower-class parents who had been upset by the morning’s article, which must have been dispersed and read far and wide. Her Majesty’s government must have been very concerned about Stead’s article to convene a hasty meeting just hours after publication. Joseph Chamberlain had been dispatched to clamp a lid down on the problem.

“The dangers in the Gazette have been exaggerated,” he told the crowd. “It was an incendiary headline produced solely to sell newspapers. The number of white slavers in England is very small, and they have always been caught and prosecuted.”

“Then why has Mr. Stead barricaded himself in his offices?” a man asked from the audience.

“No doubt because the scandalmonger fears arrest from Scotland Yard.”

I had to admire Chamberlain’s fearlessness. The crowd could quite easily turn into a mob.

“Why hasn’t there been a successful bill to raise the age of consent?” a woman asked. Her daughter was sitting beside her, obviously close to that age.

“We hope the bill will not be forced upon us,” Chamberlain explained. “It is not that Her Majesty’s government finds this unimportant. No one finds the slave trade more reprehensible than we. However, you must understand that there is a queue, and that bringing forward this bill shall push back badly needed funding or reform in other quarters.”

They would not allow him to pontificate but peppered him with questions. I was impressed by his calm demeanor and logical mind. No subject was brought up on which he was not fully informed. Perhaps the government was capable of handling this, one could see them thinking, but there were still skeptics and angry mothers who remained unappeased.

I looked through the mass of people and saw Miss Levy sitting beside Miss Hill, but Beatrice Potter was not with them. Scanning the faces of the crowd, I looked for her light hair and lovely face before finally spotting her in the back, half hidden by a pillar. She leaned forward, looking mesmerized. Chamberlain’s speech was not that enthralling. And then I realized what was happening. She and this man were lovers, despite the wide gap in their years. I had never stood a chance with her. When she had followed me from the British Museum, it had been merely to secure employment as a professional agent. I reached into my pocket for her check and, skirting the crowd, came up behind her. She started when I spoke.

“Good morning, Miss Potter,” I said, raising my hat formally. “I realize this speech is important, but I would like to speak with you outside for a few moments.”

She hesitated for a moment and then followed me out into Commercial Street, where the sunlight must have highlighted my burns.

“Oh, Thomas, your face.”

“It will heal. I’ve gotten used to getting hurt in this line of work.”

She understood my underlying irony, pursing her lips and looking down. “You found Gwendolyn’s killer,” she said at last. “It was Stephen Carrick. Inspector Swanson told us this morning. The charity is quite upset over it all, especially Miss Levy. She says it is yet another woman’s life ruined by a rapacious husband.”

I saw Rose Carrick in my mind’s eye, flinging a pan of acid at me. I would hardly have called her a victim, but perhaps it was best to keep my own counsel. These girls had been her friends, after all, and perhaps the only semblance of normality she had known.

“I feel terrible that I never told you about Joseph,” she continued. “I used you to make him jealous. I didn’t plan to, but it happened anyway.”

“Do the two of you plan to wed?”

“I’m not certain anymore. We have seen each other for a couple of years, but there has never been any formal announcement of engagement. We’ve broken it off twice. I felt free to speak with you and to invite you to hear Miss Lee speak, but I must admit I wanted to tweak Joseph’s nose. You were a fine escort and I enjoyed our evening very much. More than I can say.”

“Are you and Mr. Chamberlain together again?”

“We are at an impasse. I no longer believe he will marry me, and I refuse to be his mistress. Oh, I am wretched!” She held the palms of her hands to her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and genuinely meant it. I didn’t hold her actions against her, now that I knew more about them. She had already been punished more than I would wish.

“Mr. Barker asked me to give you this,” I said, pulling an envelope from my pocket. “He encloses a bank draft for your services and a letter of recommendation. He sends you his compliments and says if you wish more work in the future, to speak with him again.”

“Thank you,” she said, taking the envelope. “I was very glad to help him, but I don’t believe I shall be available for future work. This has been a rather trying time for me.”

I pulled my handkerchief from my breast pocket and gave it to her. She wiped her eyes and held it to her lips, stifling a cry, before handing it back to me.

“I’d better get back in. Who knows what Joseph will promise the crowd.” She attempted a smile. “I didn’t want you to hate me, Thomas.”

“Small chance of that, Beatrice, if I may call you that at our parting. I wish you only happiness.”

“Thank you,” she replied in a ragged voice.

I lifted my bowler and bowed, not daring to show how wretched I felt. “Good day, Miss Potter.”

I whistled for a hansom, conscious of her scrutiny. Climbing into the cab, I waved, and then she walked into the hall and I never saw her again.

I was dispirited when I arrived back in Craig’s Court. She had treated me poorly, so why did it feel as if it were the other way about? Beatrice was in a bad situation and all because of Chamberlain.

“Did you find Miss Potter?” the Guv asked when I returned.

“I did.” Right then, I decided not to tell Barker about the relationship unless he continued to pursue Chamberlain’s part in the case. “She said to thank you for the letter of recommendation.”

“She deserved it,” he said.

“Has the major communicated with you?”

“Not so far, though I sent him a note detailing all that we uncovered. He may be at his barracks.”

“I hope so,” I said. “I mean, I hope he hasn’t gone back to the drinking.”

“I would not worry over his lack of response. The poor fellow’s got a lot to think over.”

Jenkins came in with a new edition of The Times. I left the Guv alone to read it while beginning the process of preparing a bill. There was a weeks’ worth of cab fares, Soho Vic’s lads, the warehouse rental, and a half dozen other expenses. I wondered if I should expect a bill from Reverend McClain for his instruction, as well. Then another thought occurred to me.

“What shall become of little Esme, sir?”

“I’ll send a message to Andrew to find a proper home for her, at least until her brother is released from the workhouse.”

“Do you think he was angry about my losing the first boxing match?”

“If I know him, he’ll say it was a typical example of the inadequacy of gloved boxing and your winning without them is proof. You needn’t worry on that score.”

“Has anything happened with Stead?”

“He is still in his office, refusing interviews. Vic reports that the Ratcliff Highway Boys have been gathering materials all day. Something is very definitely in the offing. The Times has been assessing public opinion all day and, I believe, shall come down in favor of a bill raising the age of consent to sixteen. I would hazard the bill is already being written by liberal members of the House of Commons. The fight, however, shall be in the House of Lords, where Hesketh and his party votes. The latest editorials claim it shall pass, but not without some struggles.”

“Are we going to the Gazette office then?”

“Oh, you may be sure of it.”

After a dinner of haddock at the Northumberland Hotel, we proceeded to the Pall Mall Gazette building.

There was a large crowd in the street, and somewhere up ahead I heard the sound of breaking glass. I pushed my way through after my employer. When I finally reached the offices, everything looked so different from the last time we’d been there, I thought perhaps a bomb had gone off.

All the lower windows of the newspaper office were broken, and inside one could see a makeshift barricade of desks and filing cabinets. The upstairs windows were still intact, and now and again I could see the top of a man’s head peer over the sill. In front of the building there were dozens of broken bottles, along with rotting vegetables, eggs, and fish offal, all glittering on the pavement. I lost sight of my employer but recognized the Ratcliff Highway Boys, with whom we had faced off in Bethnal Green. Lord Hesketh was keeping them very busy these days. Barker surfaced then, pushing his way through the crowd. He made his way to the door and knocked upon it through a hail of flying bottles, which he ignored.

The door opened quickly, and Barker stepped in but not before another volley of glass crashed into the office entranceway.

“Look, there’s Barker’s man,” one of the gang members said, and I realized all of them were looking my way. Their leader stepped through the knot of them to get a look at me.

“It’s him, all right,” he said.

I wasn’t sure whether they really meant mischief to me, but I was not about to take any chances. I thrust my hand into my pocket and raised my coat with my fingers around the butt of my Webley in its built-in holster. I gave it a gentle push until the muzzle poked through the eyelet hole sewn into the hem. Whatever happened, the leader of the Ratcliff boys was going down with me.

The leader shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands. “Keep your shirt on,” he said. “You’re a nervous little cove, aren’t ye? No need to be a-fingerin’ firearms. We’re just ’avin’ a bit o’fun.”

Then they turned back and continued to pelt the door with bottles and food. They were yelling and joking and making a lot of noise, but if this was a siege, it looked like it would be a long one.

I assessed what strength the crowd might have. There were a dozen or so Ratcliff boys, and it looked as if the tumult had emptied every public house in the area. If they finally broke through the door, how much of this crowd would go with them, and what would happen then? Would they hang Stead from a nearby gas lamp? One could not tell what would happen when a crowd turned into a mob. Where were the police? I wondered. A Division was not so many streets away.

Barker slipped out again, and when the barrage of glass missiles came his way, he butted them away impatiently with the brass head of his walking stick.

“You!” he said, pointing to the leader as he walked to the center of the circle. The rough-hewn man met him there. I was not going to be left out; and as I stepped across, a fourth man, obviously his lieutenant, came as well. Our quartet met in the middle.

“How far are you prepared to take this?” Barker asked.

“As far as it need be,” the young man jeered back.

“But how far are you contracted to go? Are you here to frighten Stead or to take him?”

“To take him.”

“The damage is already done,” the Guv said. “The article came out this morning.”

“But Stead’ll come out with another one tomorrow.”

“If we let you come in and stop the press, will you let Stead alone?”

“Nah,” he said flatly. “He is to be made an example of.”

Barker crossed his burly arms and stood in thought. “There is a lot of give in that statement,” he finally stated. “Do you intend to take his life?”

“I didn’t say that, did I?”

“Break an arm or leg, then?”

“Hadn’t thought that far. Are you tryin’ to broker a compromise?”

“I did not say that, but it appears we are at an impasse. I’m certainly not going to recommend to him that he come out so you can break his head.”

“He should have thought of that before he started making reckless remarks in the newspapers.”

“I think it best,” Barker said, addressing me, “if we went in and joined Stead.”

Our quartet separated, and the bottles came flying again like arrows at a besieged castle. We squeezed sideways through the doorway, closed the door behind us, and listened as more glass shattered on it.

Most of the ground floor was deserted, but there was a brace of Salvation Army women at the door who seemed capable of taking on the entire crowd outside themselves and were not frightened by a little glass. In the back, there was a printing press going full blast, putting out another special edition for the next morning. Upstairs we found a couple of dozen employees watching anxiously out the windows. In Stead’s office, the editor himself sat at his desk, while across from him, the stern but clear-cut features of General Bramwell Booth of the Salvation Army regarded us calmly. If the purpose of the crowd outside was to frighten the men into submission, they had chosen the wrong men. For all the cowering employees outside in the hall, these two acted as if it were any other evening.

“Their intent,” Barker explained to the editor, “is to do you harm.”

“I am prepared for that,” Stead said coolly. “My subordinates have copy for the next two days, and if we are broken into and the press smashed, I have arranged with the Standard to borrow theirs for a limited run.”

“How capable do you think they are of carrying out their threats?” Booth asked my employer.

“They are hirelings and only in it for the purse. I doubt there are many in the crowd genuinely perturbed over the ‘Maiden Tribute’ article. However, we cannot control the crowd. If they are agitated, we could have a riot on our hands. How well are you prepared for a siege?”

“We have food and water for a day or so,” Stead said. “If they make a concerted effort to break in the door, we can push the press in front of it.”

There was a crash of glass behind us, as one of the upper windows was shattered by a paving stone.

“Did you expect such a response?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” Stead said.

“They shall certainly have to force a bill in the House of Commons after today,” Booth stated. “The edition has sold out. Half of London has read it.”

“Shall you bring the child you purchased back to England now?” Barker asked.

“Soon,” Stead replied.

Booth cleared his throat. “She’s in a Salvation Army property we own in the north of France.”

“Eliza is a smart little thing,” the Gazette editor said, referring to the child in question. “She should do well if she is to speak at my trial.”

“You believe it shall come to that?”

“It may, that is, if I survive this night.”

There was a sudden thud at the outer door.

“Woodbury!” Stead called. “What is that racket?”

A young and frightened-looking clerk came shuffling into the room. “They’ve pulled a stout table from one of the pubs, sir, and are trying to use it as a ram.”

There was a second crash against the door and a third. Barker looked over at me, as if to say it is only a matter of time now. Then suddenly, it stopped.

“What the deuce?” Barker asked.

Woodbury came shuffling in again.

“The police, sir! They’ve just arrived. It looks as if some of the crowd is going away.”

“Thank heavens,” Booth said, and Stead gave a sigh of relief.

Our celebration was premature, however. The Yard had not come to save W. T. Stead at all.

“Stead! Open this door and surrender yourself,” a voice boomed from a speaking trumpet in one of the inspector’s hands. “You are under arrest for transporting a child out of the country.”

Stead drummed his fingers atop the blotter of his desk and rose. “I suppose that is it, then,” he said. “You know what to do, Booth.”

“I shall arrange counsel,” the general said, shaking his hand. “God bless you, William.”

“Thank you, Bram. Mr. Barker, they might have hanged me waiting for the police to arrive. I owe you a debt.”

Booth’s guardians at the front door allowed the police in, and soon we were all being questioned about the event of the evening, while Stead was put in darbies and escorted to Scotland Yard. The Gazette office was in complete disarray, and I did not envy the staff the tremendous work and expenditure necessary to get it looking as respectable as it once did, but I noticed that the press never stopped cranking out endless copies of the next edition. Booth took over Stead’s chair and fired off messages and before we left, I noted that most of the staff was seated in front of typewriting machines, taking down the events they had witnessed firsthand that evening for the later edition.

By the time Barker and I left, the crowd had almost dispersed. People loitered about here and there, looking at broken brickbats and an inch-thick carpet of broken glass in front of the Gazette ’s door. Of our friends, the Ratcliff Highway Boys, there was no sign.