“Only the two? What about Gould and Mouffetard?”

Rasnokov blinked behind his glasses, but was delayed in answering while the waiter set down in front of Charles a bowl of borscht and a plate with a fragrant meat pie and two thick cabbage rolls.

Charles picked up his soup spoon. “You were saying?”

“I know nothing of Gould,” Rasnokov replied sulkily. “Mouffetard was not involved, to my knowledge, although he appeared to be on friendly terms with the boy.”

“Then how did it happen that a bomb and bomb-making instructions were found in Mouffetard’s possession? The Yard has arrested him, you know. And Gould as well. Both are charged with making bombs, along with Kopinski. Why did you not include their names in your report?”

Rasnokov shrugged. He still wore no expression, and his spectacled eyes were guarded, the eyes of a physician who is withholding bad news from a patient. “Perhaps my information was not as complete as I thought. Or perhaps the Yard has its own reasons for implicating the others.” His dry chuckle held no humor. “That inspector, that Ashcraft. He is a wily one. He does not always play straight.”

Charles thought it ironic that a secret agent would accuse a Yard detective of underhanded dealings, although in this case, Rasnokov was almost certainly right. It was more curious, however, that the man seemed acquainted with Ashcraft, and familiar with his ways. Charles wondered if Wells was aware of this, and what it might suggest about Rasnokov’s way of doing business.

“But Kopinski is the one who managed Messenko?” Charles persisted. “The only one?” He fixed Rasnokov with his gaze. “You’re sure of that?”

“Kopinski is the one,” Rasnokov repeated positively, as if offering a prescription for a medicine that would somehow fix things up. “The whole affair was his idea, start to finish. He is a most dangerous man, though he may not seem so.” He reached into his pocket, took out several small coins, and laid them beside his unfinished coffee. “Is that all?”

“For the moment,” Charles replied, digging into his meat pie. The savory fragrance of hot beef and pastry rose up temptingly. “They make a fine pirozhki here, don’t you think?”

For answer, Rasnokov slid out of the booth. “If that’s all, I’ll take my leave.” Standing, he bent over and said in a low voice, “Tell our friend in Queen Anne’s Gate that I will be unavailable for a fortnight. Business is taking me out of the country.”

Charles, watching him go, felt disturbed. Either Wells had not told him all he knew about Rasnokov, or there was more to the man than Wells knew. And it was the latter, Charles felt, that was more likely.

CHAPTER TWENTY

It is said that the fluffers-the people who clean the tunnels and Underground stations in London-were often frightened by the spectral figure of a woman in flowing white robes who appeared on the tracks at night at the site of the Aldwych Underground Station. The ghost was believed to be that of an actress who died before she could take her final curtain call, for the Aldwych Station (now closed except for use as a film and television set and for trendy opening-night parties) was built on the site of the old Royal Strand Theater. This venerable institution was erected in 1832, condemned and rebuilt in 1886, and finally razed in 1905, three years after Nellie Lovelace starred in the record-breaking musical comedy, The Chinese Honeymoon. The fact that it ran for 1,075 performances did not, unfortunately, preserve the theater from demolition.

But Aldwych Station was yet to be built, the Royal Strand had not yet been violated by the wreckers, and on this particular rainy August afternoon, as Kate’s cab drew to a stop in Aldwych, Nellie had already finished rehearsal and was waiting outside, under the shelter of her umbrella. She didn’t have to be back to the theater for the night’s performance until seven-thirty, so Kate would be able to enjoy her company for several hours, at least.

“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.