“Good morning, Mrs. Bryan,” Kate returned. She raised her eyebrows. “You don’t look entirely happy. Is something wrong?”

“The calf’s dead,” Mrs. Bryan said shortly. “The veterinary came again early this morning, but couldn’t do anything for him.”

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Bryan,” Kate said. The matron always took such things to heart, as if the death of an animal were her own fault, or the fault of a malevolent Providence set on thwarting her best efforts to save it. “But I’m sure you did everything you could to save the poor creature. These things will happen.”

“Aye,” Mrs. Bryan acknowledged. “But it was a blow.” She put her papers on the desk. “Egg production’s up, though, I’m glad t’ say. And the apple harvest is done, all but the late trees. Murchison’s taken it off to the fruit buyer and expects a good price.” She was still not smiling, although the successful completion of the fruit harvest was always a happy event.

“I see,” Kate said. “It sounds as if things are going well.” She picked up the papers and thumbed through them, waiting to hear what else Mrs. Bryan had on her mind.

The matron folded her arms. “Mary Murchison’s gone down with the measles. I sent her home yesterday morning, but some others may get it too, them as missed it when they were young. Better now than later, though.”

Kate felt a stab of pain. Several years earlier, in the first few months of pregnancy, she had contracted the measles. She had lost the baby-a loss she still mourned-and the doctors had told her that there would be no others. Of course, there was Patrick, the boy, now nearly sixteen, whom she and Charles had taken as their own. She loved Patrick very much, but he could not quite fill the void.

“You’re right, of course,” she said. “Better measles now than later. But do send a basket of fruit and cheese to Mary and her family, please, and some extra eggs.”

“Yes, mum.” Mrs. Bryan stood stolidly, obviously not finished with her report.

“And what else?” Kate asked.

Mrs. Bryan gave her a dark look. “ Conway ’s gone.”

“ Conway ’s… gone?” Kate asked blankly.

“The new girl. The one who came from London on Saturday.”

“Yes, I know. Charlotte Conway.” Kate frowned. “But I don’t understand. How can she be… gone?”

“By shank’s mares, I s’pose,” Mrs. Bryan said shortly. “She must’ve left after prayers last night-after I told her that I was puttin’ her to the pigs today.” She tossed her head. “Anyways, she didn’t appear at breakfast. I sent Portia to fetch her, and she come back with the news that Conway had made up her bed with a roll of blankets, so it seemed she was in it-but she wasn’t. She’s gone.”

“Oh, dear,” Kate said softly. “I expect she’s gone back to London.”

“Well, if you ask me, that one wasn’t cut out to be a farmer,” Mrs. Bryan said tartly. “Too independent. And too clever by half, but not clever enough to learn. Thought it was beneath her. Didn’t fancy workin’ with the pigs, I s’pose. Beggin’ your ladyship’s pardon.”

“You don’t need to beg my pardon,” Kate said in a mild tone. “It wasn’t my idea to bring her here, and it might not have been her idea to come. I don’t suppose we should be surprised that she’s gone.” She paused, thinking that it might be a good idea to telegraph Nellie that her friend had decamped, and to send a telegram to Sibley House as well. Charles had had quite an interest in the young woman and in her Anarchist associations; he would not be pleased to learn that she was on the loose in London, where she was sure to be picked up by the police.

Or would she? Kate smiled a little, remembering the dashing figure the young woman had cut upon her arrival. At the thought of the disguise, she said, “I wonder-did Miss Conway leave her work costume behind?”

Alice nodded. “ ’T was laid on her bed, so Portia said, and her brogans was on the floor.”

Which meant, Kate thought, that if anyone should want to look for the elusive Miss Conway, they would be looking for a young man in a white linen suit. She frowned, wondering what to say in her telegram to Nellie, who might be watched by the police. If the telegram were intercepted-

She glanced up at the clock, which showed that it was nearly time for luncheon, then sat back in her chair for a moment, thinking. No, a telegram was not the answer, after all.

She would have to go to London.

Charles had a busy morning. Having left Mr. Morley, he went immediately to Holloway Prison in Parkhust Road, where he sat in a visiting cage and met briefly and sequentially with Adam Gould, Ivan Kopinski, and Pierre Mouffetard. Adam was glad to see him. He listened with gratitude to Charles’s report of his conversation with Mr. Morley and accepted the suggestion that a barrister be found who would make the effort to put up a real defense. He also insisted that he knew nothing of the bomb, if that’s what it was, that had been found in his flat. He suspected, he said, that the police had put it there.

“For the past few weeks, Special Branch was dogging Ivan and Pierre-and Miss Conway, too,” he said. “Yuri’s bomb must have tipped the balance and they decided they had to arrest somebody.” He eyed Charles anxiously. “I don’t suppose you’ve any news of Miss Conway.”

“As a matter of fact, I have,” Charles said, and told him that the young lady was staying at Bishop’s Keep.

“Thank God,” Adam said fervently. “I was afraid she might be out on the streets. How did she come to you?”

“Her friend Nellie Lovelace brought her,” Charles said, and smiled. “You can stop worrying, Adam. She is in good hands with Lady Sheridan. And I believe that you will be in good hands with Edward Savidge. I can’t promise that he will get you off, of course. But I can promise that he will try.”

“What about the others?” Adam asked. “Will he defend them, as well?”

“They have no barrister?”

Adam shook his head. “The comrades in Hampstead Road had agreed to obtain one, but decided against it. They’ve been abandoned, or so it seems to me.”

“I’ll talk with them,” Charles said.

Charles’s interviews with Kopinski and Mouffetard were much briefer. As he learned from Kopinski-a stocky man with high Slavic cheekbones and dirty brown hair that hung around his shoulders-the two had not yet arranged for their defense. If Adam’s barrister would take on their case as well, Kopinski supposed he would be grateful. He seemed to accept his situation with a stoic detachment, answering Charles’s questions briefly and dispassionately. He disavowed any knowledge of the Hyde Park bomber’s plot, and his face clouded when he talked about Yuri Messenko, giving Charles the idea that he had genuinely cared for the boy. His chief worry seemed to be the Russian agent he was convinced was on his trail, and who (he said) had probably hidden the bomb in his room. He seemed convinced that the man would be waiting for him the minute the trial was over.

“I would prefer,” he added, with a dry, humorless laugh, “to stay in jail. Here, at least, I am safe from being seized and sent back to Russia, where I will certainly be killed.”