Chapter Fourteen

Bertram blusters

It took me quite some time to calm Bertram down, but as he has also signed this new-fangled thing called The Official Secrets Act²⁶ it meant I could reveal everything that had happened so far.

‘Fitzroy,’ said Bertram, as if the word were poison in his mouth. ‘Hasn’t that man caused us enough trouble?’

‘But if I hadn’t gone out to see Richenda I might have been able to prevent Maisie’s death. You must understand I feel culpable.’

‘Oh, I know that dratted man is more than capable of making you feel like that.’

‘No, he wanted to remove me from the situation. I had to beg to stay.’

‘Good God, woman, do you want to be murdered?’

‘I was talking with Richenda about cake when it happened.’ Bertram looked baffled. ‘She came to see me. I wasn’t in the cell when the murder occurred. I am almost certain I would have awoken otherwise.’

‘I suppose that does make it less likely the murderer will be concerned with you,’ interrupted Bertram. ‘It’s not like you could have seen anything.’

‘But that’s just it,’ I said, feeling tears prickle my eyes, ‘if I had been there maybe I would have been able to do something …’

‘Like getting killed?’ snapped Bertram.

‘If I had kept my eyes open. Paid more attention. She was so young, Bertram!’

Bertram reached out a hand to me across the table and patted mine. ‘You can’t think like that, Euphemia,’ he said gruffly. ‘We both know better than most there is evil in this world and there are ones intent on it whether we will or no.’

‘But…’

‘Enough,’ said Bertram, tapping my hand lightly and withdrawing his own. (Note: This appeared to be closest he dared to slapping my hand. In some ways Bertram is surprisingly wise.) ‘I see that nothing I say will deter you from your course and frankly, if Fitzroy wants to keep you in that cell I’m not entirely sure what I can do about that without striking the cad. Not that I wouldn’t, if I needed to,’ he added.

I gave a faint smile. ‘That will not be necessary. Although I was technically absent when the murder was likely committed until a doctor has been able to determine, by which I mean guess, the time of death, I must still be a suspect and it would be awkward for all concerned if I was removed from the scene.’ I put my head on one side, musing. ‘I imagine that Fitzroy is currently engaged in checking whether or not I had any connection with Maisie.’

‘Good God! You think he would suspect you?’

‘He is thorough. Besides, even you asked me.’

Bertram made a number of gruffling sounds like a bear hunting for honey, which I took to be an apology.²⁷

Finally he said, ‘What can I do?’

A glimmer of an idea formed at the back of my mind. I already had Richenda out in the field, as it were, researching matters I could not attend to inside my cell, so why not use Bertram as well? But I knew the task I would set for Bertram would be far less to his taste. ‘The man who died in the fire, Wilks, was a member of some elite – er – clubs. If I can get from Fitzroy the name of his favourite haunts perhaps you could be so good as to check them out and see how he is remembered?’

Bertram brightened at that. ‘That certainly sounds like something I could do. I would be happy to help.’

I felt certain that Bertram’s mood would change when he learnt the true nature of clubs I wished him to investigate.

We parted on good terms and I returned to the cell, feeling both weary and so nervy I was wide awake. Again I was escorted by the sergeant, who was overly keen on restraint. As he passed a fellow guard I heard him hailed as ‘Givens’. It was a name I intended to mention to Fitzroy should he show any sign of wanting someone to expend his ire upon. The man was a beast. Not only for the names he called me, but he left bruises on my upper arms that were quite unnecessary as I was not resisting.

The mood in the cell was sombre. Sergeant Givens thrust me forward, but did not then leave. ‘Right, ladies, your stockings. Let’s be having them.’ As one the women in the cell turned towards him. I imagine each of us looking as astonished as the other. I could not see for I too was staring open mouthed at the sergeant. His lips curved into a sneering smile. ‘Or do you need any help?’ he asked.

‘Outrageous’, came the clear, sharp tones of the woman, I now knew to be Martha Lake.

I heard the sound of skirts rustling and turned to see that Mary Hill, her back now turned towards the sergeant, was obeying his orders.

‘You can’t ask us for ’em!’ growled Abigail Stokes, as vicious as any tiger in an Indian jungle.²⁸

‘Yes, I bleedin’ can,’ retorted the Sergeant. ‘Should have been taken off you when you were taken in, but what with you lot murdering each other it got forgot.’

‘Murder!’ said Constance. ‘I thought that poor young woman had died of natural causes.’

‘Yeah, that’s right. One goes blue in the face from nat-u-ral causes,’ said the hateful sergeant, mimicking her. ‘Choked, she was, and our doc reckons a stocking would just about do it.’

‘It really is better just to give him what he asks,’ said Mary, holding her now removed stockings out to the sergeant. I saw they were badly torn. ‘He will only fetch reinforcements to carry out his orders if we refuse.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Martha. ‘The man is a pervert.’

The sergeant raised his truncheon menacingly.

‘That is as may be,’ said Mary calmly, ‘but he is right. A murder has been committed and we must do what we can to find the fiend who did this to our poor fallen sister.’

With varying degrees of awkwardness, and many muttered comments, finally all the women had divested themselves of their stockings and handed them over. The sergeant bundled them all together in one big pile. Then he clanged the door shut and locked.

‘Wait a minute,’ I called out. ‘How will you know whose is whose?’

‘Doesn’t matter, does it?’ he replied with a leer. ‘I reckons how you was all in it together, so you’ll all hang.’ The he stomped off.

‘What does he mean all hang?’ asked Jasmine Pettigrew in a wavering voice.

‘Now, now, dear, don’t let the nasty man upset you,’ answered her sister.

‘I reckon the stupid man is only trying to frighten us,’ said Martha haughtily. ‘As Miss …’ she looked at me.

‘St John,’ I supplied.

‘As Miss St John remarked, the man has no way of telling one stocking from another.’

‘I reckon he was doin’ it for a bet with the lads,’ broke in Abigail. ‘Who can get the underthings off a suffragette! You know the kind of thing.’

‘Well, really,’ said Martha, turning away in disgust.

‘Was she strangled?’ asked Constance, the doctor’s wife. ‘I would have thought …’ she tailed off.

‘It was still dark and the body was removed quickly,’ said Mary. ‘I think all of us were too shocked to take notice of the details.’

‘I mean, if she had been hanged,’ continued Constance, ‘I mean, hanged herself, then it would have been obvious by the colouring, but strangled, I am unsure …’

Jasmine Pettigrew sat down heavily on the bench all the colour draining from her face. ‘Have some thought for others,’ snapped her sister, Eunice. ‘My poor sister is prone to fainting fits.’

‘Undo her stays, then,’ said Abigail, not too unkindly. ‘They are an unnatural harness for any woman and you too seem to have right pulled yours in.’

‘Eunice,’ moaned Jasmine, ‘is that gal mentioning underthings?’

‘Too right I am,’ said Abigail. ‘Next thing you know that copper’ll be checking to see all our laces are intact.’

Jasmine gave a low moan at this and slid onto the floor, her eyes fluttering. Her sister fussed over her. ‘Now see what you have done, you unnatural creature,’ she cried.

‘I have smelling salts in my reticule – oh, blast it. They took that away,’ said Martha. ‘Fan her face.’

‘With what?’ said Abigail as Eunice flapped her hands uselessly around her sister’s face. ‘Undo her stays, you silly besom. There’s no way she should have slept in something that tight. It’s a wonder there’s any blood left in her head.’

‘Allow me,’ said Constance. She turned Jasmine on her side and then quickly and efficiently loosened her stays. Gradually the colour came back to Jasmine’s face. Constance helped her sit up slowly and demanded someone find her a glass of water.

I found some leftover water in a forgotten mug and passed it to her. ‘Did you learn about this sort of thing from your husband?’ I asked, impressed.

Constance nodded. ‘I asked him for information on the sort of injuries that one might expect to find after a march.’

‘He does not mind you attending?’ asked Martha.

‘Of course not,’ said Constance. ‘He says that in another time I would have had the brains to be a doctor myself.’

‘What a forward-thinking man,’ said Martha in somewhat shocked tones.

‘There are women who have qualified as doctors, I believe,’ said Mary. ‘A very few indeed. Of course they are not allowed to practise.’

‘Then what the hell is the bleedin’ point?’ asked Abigail.

‘Why, to show the men they are capable,’ said Mary. ‘Just as I have taken degree examinations, but will never be awarded a degree in my lifetime, despite my excellent marks.’

‘I do believe the female brain, while smaller, makes many more internal connections than the male, and thus leads to a superior intelligence when correctly trained.’ Angela Blackwood spoke for the first time. ‘I am an amateur, but extremely keen, anatomist and botanist. Angela Blackwood. You may have heard of me.’

²⁶ Only a man could have come up with a name like that. It sounds terribly school boyish to me.

²⁷ I am of course imagining what a bear would sound like. I have yet to meet one. Although my life has so far proved so unpredictable that I am not ruling out encountering a bear one day.

²⁸ Not that I have ever been to India, but I can imagine. Stapleford Hall had a rug that was once a tiger and still displayed quite daunting teeth and claws. I used to dream it had awakened and was stalking the house looking for people to eat. When I told Merry, she said she would leave a trail of breadcrumbs from it to Richard Stapleford’s study just in case.