A Death for a Cause (7 page)

I sat back on heels and surveyed my surroundings. Eight women looked down at me. None of them were smiling.

¹⁸
Though in all fairness the food was superb.

¹⁹
I have seen him do so with other women at superior social gatherings, so I know he is capable of treating a lady as a lady, but he never does so with me. I am unsure, but I believe from him that this may be a compliment.

²⁰
Being brought up alongside farmyard animals has proved most helpful in this

Chapter Ten

Thrown to the lions (or rather, lionesses)

Richenda was not in the cell. Our number had been reduced to nine. My task was now to interrogate these eight women discreetly. I did not have pen and paper to hand for obvious reason, but even if I had I would have been loath to record anything another might read. My thoughts about whether it might be safe to write in Latin served only to remind me that I had forgotten many of my conjugations through lack of use. Instead, as I made tentative moves towards knowing my cellmates, our proximity making this a necessity and thus not too lacking in subtlety, I attempted to make mental notes in the manner I imagined Fitzroy might. Of course he was used to this and I was not. For the first time I actively missed having either Bertram, or even a sulky Rory, with me on my adventures. I felt very alone.

And so it seemed did little Maisie Dawson, the maid who had been taken away before me. She was the first to come over and ask in the quietest of voices, ‘Are you alright, m'um?'

‘I am, thank you.' I smiled at her and brushed back a few stray locks. ‘A bit roughly used, but I will survive. I'm Euphemia,' I added, holding out my hand.

The girl brushed away a tear and tentatively took my hand. ‘Maisie Dawson.' She gulped. ‘I think you're right brave, miss. They were horrible to me.'

‘Did they beat you?' asked the freckled face woman who had been so forthright before.

‘N-no,' stammered Maisie. ‘Are they likely to?'

‘Depends on whether or not we go on hunger strike! Which of course we will if they threaten to hold us here much longer!'

‘Perhaps it will all be sorted out much sooner than you expect,' I suggested, noticing Maisie's terrified expression.

‘My name is Abigail Stokes and I am proud to be a long standing member and activist for women's rights! Onward, sisters!'

I blinked at this forthrightness. ‘We may have to suffer to reach our aim, but it will be worth it,' continued this redoubtable matron.

The woman, who had been sitting calmly and was particularly well-spoken, came across to the little group. ‘Maisie, I am Mary Hill,' she said kindly, ‘and I assure you that you need do nothing that you do not wish to do. We may all be united in our belief women should have a say in the running of their own country, but we are not,' and she gave Abigail a stern look at this point, ‘all of the persuasion that force-feeding or even the indulgence in violence is the way forward. If you are polite and co-operative with the police force I am sure we will all be quickly released.'

Maisie gave Mary and I muttered ‘thanks, m'ums' and disappeared over to the corner.

‘Quiet as a mouse,' opined Abigail not bothering to keep the scorn from her voice.

‘Young and frightened,' retorted Mary Hill. ‘That she came on the march at all shows great courage.'

Abigail gave a loud sniff. ‘What would the likes of you know about courage? Bet you're sitting pretty. I bet your nob of a hubby will have you out of here in a jiffy.'

‘I am unmarried,' said Mary calmly and quietly, ‘and if the imprisonment of Mrs Pankhurst and others has shown us nothing else, it has proved that rank is no protection against imprisonment.'

‘Well, they will have to put us up before the magistrate soon,' said Abigail. Then she turned on me, ‘Unless there's something
you
know that I don't!'

To my horror I felt the blood rushing into my face. Why had Fitzroy asked me to spy on these women? It was a task I was most unsuited to.'

Mary came to my rescue. ‘Oh, hush,' she said, ‘for a women who protests to support the Sisterhood you appear to be doing your best to set us each against the other.'

Abigail fairly glowered at this, but turned her back on us to go over and talk to two older women, who were dressed very much alike, sitting close together and regarding us all with great suspicion.

‘They,' said Mary Hill to me, ‘are Eunice and Jasmine Pettigrew. Both of them retired teachers and on a much reduced income. I do not believe they are twins. Although they dress alike and appear to be of similar age.' She smiled at me. ‘I have met them at previous meetings. They live near to me. They are resolute in their belief in the suffrage movement and also that the rest of the world is against them, poor things. I fear they have both had a very hard life and have learned to cling only to each other for support.'

‘You are most observant,' I remarked.

‘I have had a little longer than you to become acquainted with our companions. In situations when one is confined in such close quarters I find it helpful to assess who I am with. Sadly, while we might all be suffragettes, of late the cause has become much divided. It is not uncommon for fights to break out in the cells. At least, until the confinement takes a crueller turn.'

‘You have been arrested before.'

‘I do appear to have the unfortunate knack of being arrested,' said Mary, her eyes twinkling, ‘however, I have never been detained formally in prison. It is not just words. I do not believe in anything more than passive protest. Anything else gives the establishment leave to demonise us and to use violence towards our persons.'

‘Does that really happen?' I asked.

‘I am afraid so,' said Mary, her voice very low. She cast a quick look towards Maisie, but the young woman had remarkably curled herself up and appeared to be fast asleep. ‘It is why I was glad of your help in dealing with Miss Stokes. Her actions could make life for us all very difficult.'

‘Do you know who the other women with us are?' I asked hopefully. Could it be that Mary had already done most of my job for me?

‘Constance Woodley,' she said pointing discreetly to a blonde-haired woman with a round face and slightly fuller figure. ‘We had an interesting conversation. She is the wife of a doctor and the mother of two young children. She is most conflicted concerning her role as a campaigner and a mother. She has one daughter and one son, and has remarked to me many times that already she sees such unfairly different futures for them both. Her husband assumes her son will also train as a doctor, but Constance feels her daughter is the brighter of the two.'

‘She wants her daughter to train in medicine?' I asked amazed.

‘It is not so unusual for women to train in the higher education systems. I, myself, studied mathematics at Oxford. Though of course, despite sitting the exams, and passing them, I have not been awarded a degree.'

‘Why?'

‘Because I am a woman, my dear, and women cannot be awarded degrees. I have met many intelligent women, from all walks of life. It is one of the main reasons that I joined the movement. It makes little sense to me that our country should not make use of the talents of its citizens regardless of their gender.' Her eyes shone brightly. ‘By the very nature of our different genders men and women must perceive things differently. Imagine what a disciplined and well-trained female mind might do with some of the great problems of our age if they were allowed to bring their intelligence to bear!'

‘Indeed,' I said. ‘When you put it like that the argument is unassailable.'

Mary laughed heartily at that. ‘Sadly, I fear only another woman would agree with me.'

‘No,' I said, ‘I can think of more than one man of my acquaintance who would agree with you.'
²¹
I took the plunge and changed the subject. ‘Who are our other two companions?'

‘The middle-aged lady I believe is an actual Lady. She has given her name as Martha Lake, but I suspect that was to spare her husband. The other woman, perhaps in her thirties, with the long black hair trailing down her back – I suspect she lost her hat in the fray, has given her name to the sergeant as Angela Blackwood. I have not yet had a chance to converse with her. She is terribly thin and frowns a great deal, which I believe has put the others off approaching her. She certainly alarms me. Anyway, perhaps you might like to tell me about yourself, Euphemia, now I have answered all the questions I can.'

I felt myself blush again. ‘I am the daughter of a Vicar,' I said truthfully. I felt I had enough duplicity playing my role for Fitzroy without adding further lies. ‘My father believed women should be educated. He did not go as far as sending me away for education,' I gave a little shrug, ‘though in all honesty I doubt our finances would have stood the expense. However, he taught me to how think analytically, a very little mathematics, allowed me to read great literature, and introduced me to the classics, including some of the ancient languages.' I blushed again, aware that I was attempting to prove to this woman I was as intelligent as she.

‘Allowed you to read,' said Mary and broke off sighing. ‘That any woman should have to be given permission to read!'

‘I did not mean it like that,' I protested hotly. ‘My father was a good man! The very best.'

‘Ahh, he has passed,' said the all-too-acute Mary. ‘I'm sorry, Euphemia. I meant no offence. For a man of his generation to educate you so he must have been exceptional.'

‘I am now companion to Richenda Muller,' I said quickly, before my background could be further explored. ‘Her husband is in banking and the owner of a neat little country estate that is a marvel of prosperity and efficiency.'

‘And how does he feel about his wife's actions?'

‘I don't believe he had any idea of the strength of her feelings. Even I had no idea that she was bringing us to this march. I thought we were coming on a shopping expedition!'

‘But your clothes …' began Mary. Then she added, ‘Ah, she bought these for you.'

‘She said she wanted me to have a signature style. It never occurred to me that these colours were also those of the Sisterhood. You see, she has never had much in the way of style or colour co-ordination. I feel bad saying so but it is quite true –' I broke off. ‘I feel so foolish.'

‘It sounds to me as if your employer dressed you in the campaign colours because she either felt too afraid or too embarrassed to wear them herself.'

I winced at this. ‘She is the most generous of employers. We have been through so much together.'

Mary raised an eyebrow. I lifted my chin. ‘We were on the
Carpathia
. Such an experience changes and bonds people.'

‘Indeed, I imagine it could, but essentially I believe character is set when one is quite young and that people cannot change who they fundamentally are whatever their experiences in later life.'

‘What a very dark perspective!'

A shadow crossed Mary's face. ‘I fear unpalatable though these thoughts may be, they are the truth. I have found them borne out as truth time and time again in my life.'

I sensed a story behind Mary's words, but before I could press her further, they was another ringing of the bars.

‘That will be the guard bringing us our evening gruel,' said Mary. ‘I do hope they have not spat in it, as they are wont to do!'

I looked at her aghast. I felt sincerely grateful towards Fitzroy for the first time since my incarceration. At least he had seen I was fed properly, but whether he would continue to do I had no idea.

Three guards, two bearing trays of bowls, opened the door enough to shove the trays through. Then another appeared and lobbed bread into the cell. Most of the crusts fell upon the filthy floor, but one hit Abigail Stokes above the eye. ‘Oi! That hurt!' she yelled. ‘It's bloody stale.'

I tried hard not to smile.

²¹
Actually, I could only think of one: Fitzroy. Both Bertram and Rory still needed my continued input to convince them of the durability of my sex. Though under my tutelage, if it is not too immodest to say, I do feel they have come a very long way.

Chapter Eleven

Issues of trust and cake

The women sipped unhappily at the gruel, but wary of dark mentions of force-feeding, it seemed that no one wanted to leave a full bowl. The bread proved more of a challenge. Eunice Pettigrew opined sourly that ‘it was a surprise they should gift us with something more useful for digging an escape tunnel than eating.' A small ripple of amusement ran through the room. Her sister Jasmine followed her quip by suggested it might be more useful as a weapon, but unlike her sister's strong if sour voice, Jasmine's was weak and whispery. No one paid her much attention with the exception of Abigail Stokes. A lump already blossomed above one eye where the crust had caught her. With anyone else I might have offered sympathy, but my head ached and I longed for sleep. I felt I could not bear any more of her sharp-tongued hostility. I smiled at little Maisie, who had awoken for the food, but remained curled tightly into her chosen corner.

I observed Mary sighing and crumbling her bread into gruel. I tried to do the same, but found my fingers were not strong enough. A lassitude had fallen upon the cell. Abigail and perhaps Mary had expected us to held overnight, but in the rest of our small group I espied a weary astonishment. I suspected Eunice and Jasmine had thought their age would protect them. Constance Woodley frowned into her gruel and I thought I detected the glint of tears on her cheeks. I assumed she missed her children. I knew very little about motherhood. My mother had not been the doting kind. And Richenda's adopted daughter, Amy, remained a mixed bundle of joys and difficulties. I found myself wondering if Hans or Merry would be reading her a bedtime story tonight. An indulgence my mother would have decried as spoiling and ridiculous, but I had more than once read that Amy her story and seen her fieriness fade under the weariness of the day as she slipped into sleep. I had discovered that a sleeping child could easily burrow into one's heart. How much worse must it be for Constance who had left her own little ones behind?