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Friday, 26th June 1908
Martha hurried downstairs, eager to get to the WFL office so she could inspect the Dundee Courier for any mention of last night’s meeting. The reporter had promised Gladys he would write an editorial on her invasion of the Kinnaird Hall and Martha was impatient to see it.
Lila Clunas and Florence Dakers were already in the office when she entered.
‘I’ve brought the Courier.’ She threw the newspaper on to the counter and spread it open. ‘It’s in the Stop Press bit – I suppose it went in too late for the main pages. See, here it is, “Suffragette Invades Churchill’s Meeting”. He kept his promise,’ she said. ‘Gladys will be pleased.’
Lila rummaged in a drawer and brought out a pair of scissors.
‘I’ll pin it on the noticeboard so everyone can see it,’ she said, brandishing the scissors. She snipped around the edges of the editorial and, following a further rummage in the cluttered drawer, she pinned it on the board with a brass tack. She stood back and admired it. ‘We should applaud Gladys. This is bound to bring women’s suffrage to the attention of more people.’
Martha nodded.
‘I’ll put the kettle on and make a pot of tea before we decide what to include in the next news-sheet. Gladys will take pride of place, of course.’
A room led off the main shop-front, and it was here that the women gathered to discuss their plans and share the latest news items. A sink filled the space in front of the rear window, which looked on to Martha’s courtyard and the stairs to her house. A small gas hob sat at one side of the sink and a sideboard at the other. In the centre of the room was a large table and enough chairs to seat several women.
‘Yes, we have a lot to discuss before Sunday’s meeting.’ Lila closed the paper and placed it on the top of the sideboard. ‘Will your new recruit be attending?’
‘Ethel moved into my house at the beginning of the week. I thought it for the best – her home life would have interfered with her wish to work for the cause. Her father, I believe, has a vicious temper.’
‘Is that wise?’ Florence struck a match and held it to the gas ring while Martha poured water into the kettle. Martha replaced the lid and set the kettle on top of the flame.
‘I think so. I have more room in my house than is necessary for one person. Besides, she’s keen and she’ll be company for me.’
‘You have a big heart.’ Florence pulled a chair over to the table.
‘I may have another recruit.’ Martha poured boiling water on to tea leaves inside the teapot and set it aside to brew. ‘I met this young girl, Kirsty Campbell, at the afternoon meeting. She expressed interest, so I’ve invited her to Sunday’s meeting.’
Lila nodded her approval.
‘The more people who show an interest in the cause, the better it will be. But, for now, it’s time to catch up with the business and plan our next activity.’
* * *
PAUL ANDERSON ADJUSTED his tie and made sure his hat was straight. This morning’s edition of the Dundee Courier was tucked under his arm. He rehearsed in his mind what he intended to say.
‘Miss Burnett, thank you for speaking to me yesterday after your adventure in the Kinnaird Hall.’ No, that wouldn’t do. ‘After you were thrown out of the Kinnaird Hall.’ No, that wasn’t right, either. He wanted to make a good impression so he could convince her to give him an exclusive on her life as a suffragette. Eventually, he settled on, ‘Miss Burnett, thank you for talking to me yesterday. I’ve brought you a copy of the Courier and I was wondering if we could talk again.’ Yes, that would do.
He raised his hand to knock on the door, but it swung open at his touch.
‘Miss Burnett?’ he called. There was no answer, so he raised his voice and called again. It echoed in the silence and there was no movement from within.
The entrance hall was gloomy but he could see a flight of stairs ahead to the left. To the right, at the end of the passage, a door stood ajar. His reporter’s instincts drove him there, and it only took a moment for him to overcome his hesitation at entering a young lady’s home uninvited. The sight that met his eyes was not what he expected. The woman lay sprawled in an armchair. Her head lolled at an unnatural angle and her arms hung limply over the arm of the chair, convincing him she wasn’t asleep. The sash, draped across one shoulder, fell towards her lap in such a fashion that the words, ‘Votes for Women’, were to the fore.
He walked over to her and put hesitant fingers on her neck, afraid she might wake up and accuse him of assaulting her. But her cold skin and lack of a pulse convinced him she was dead. His first inclination was to leave and find a policeman. But the opportunity to look around for information to use as background for the story he intended to write was irresistible. It wouldn’t take long, and it would make no difference to Gladys Burnett, now she was dead.
He fished his notebook and pencil out of his pocket and mounted the stairs to inspect the rest of the house.
* * *
PAUL HOVERED IN THE doorway of the police station. He had no great respect for policemen and the one behind the counter looked like a typical bobby with nothing between his ears but cotton-wool.
He let the door swing shut behind him, clearing his throat to draw the man’s attention. After what seemed an age, the sergeant laid his pen on the counter and surveyed him with lugubrious eyes.
‘Is there something you wanted, sir?’ The man’s walrus moustache wiggled as he spoke.
‘I’ve come to report a death,’ Paul said, glancing away from the policeman. If that moustache waggled any more, he wouldn’t be able to suppress his laughter. He’d been feeling on the edge of hysteria ever since finding Gladys’s body. He supposed it was a reaction to her death.
‘Perhaps a doctor might be more appropriate, sir?’
‘No, you don’t understand. This is a suspicious death.’ Paul could see the headline in the Courier – “Reporter Finds Suffragette Dead”. The editor couldn’t fail to be pleased that Paul had been on the very spot when the body was discovered.
‘I see.’ The moustache waggled. ‘And what makes you think it’s suspicious?’
Paul drew himself up to his full height, although the policeman was a good two inches taller than him.
‘She was young and healthy. Young women don’t just die.’
‘You knew the young lady, sir?’
‘Not really. I only met her yesterday.’
‘Ah!’
Paul didn’t like the tone of the man’s voice.
‘I’m a reporter. I interviewed her for the Dundee Courier. Look, see for yourself – there’s the piece I wrote.’ He slammed the newspaper on the counter and pointed to the Stop Press.
The policeman laid his pencil on the desk and inspected the newspaper.
‘She be one of them suffragettes, I see.’ Disapproval radiated from him. The pencil remained on the desk and he did not pick it up again.
‘What’s that got to do with anything? She’s dead.’ Paul struggled to suppress his irritation.
‘Ah, well. Those suffragettes aren’t natural women, are they? The things they get up to, I’m surprised more of them don’t drop dead.’
‘Does that mean you’re not going to do anything?’
‘I didn’t say that, sir. I’ll refer it to my boss, and I’ve no doubt he’ll go up there and take a look. In the meantime, I’d be obliged if I can have your name and details for how to contact you, in case we can’t find a relative or friend to take care of her.’
‘And I, sir, will report the death and its outcome in tomorrow’s Courier. If your boss is interested in updating the facts in my possession, I’ll be happy to discuss with him what I intend to write.’
Unconvinced the police would do anything about the matter, Paul stamped out of the police station, slamming the door behind him. Head down, he barged past several constables coming through the archway into the quadrangle.
‘Steady on, sir,’ one of them said, but Paul glared at him and continued on his way.
Once he reached the street, he leaned against the wall and took several deep breaths until his anger abated. A reporter should always be objective and in control of his emotions. How many times had his previous editor said that to him? At last, his head cleared and he could think straight again. He would return to the locus of the death and wait for the police to arrive. If there was no police attendance, that would be included in tomorrow’s editorial.
Three steps, bordered by a railing at each side, led up to Gladys’s front door, and he sat on the top one, leaning his back against the iron bars. He pushed his hat to the back of his head and turned his face towards the sun, enjoying the warmth of the rays. The wait might be a long one, so he’d best make the most of the sunshine. It was better than being enclosed in a poky office, writing the next day’s copy.
As it was, he didn’t have long to wait before a police wagon rolled up to the kerb and a policeman dismounted, followed by a man in a shabby, black suit. The man consulted the sheet of paper he held before walking towards the house.
Paul grabbed the railing and hoisted himself to his feet. The man in the suit frowned.
‘I presume you are the reporter Sergeant Edwards interviewed.’
‘You mean the policeman to whom I reported Miss Burnett’s death? I’d hardly call that an interview.’
‘He claims you think the death is suspicious.’ The man climbed the steps and stood in front of Paul.
‘It certainly didn’t look natural to me.’ Paul moved aside to allow the man to enter the house. ‘The door isn’t locked. You’ll find Miss Burnett in the room at the end of the passage.’
‘You found her?’ The man strode up the passage and into the room where Gladys lay in the armchair.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’ Paul trotted behind him.
‘I didn’t give it.’
‘It would help to know who I’m talking to. You could be anybody,’ Paul said. ‘How do I know you’re entitled to ask me questions?’
‘Smart arse,’ the man growled. ‘I’m Inspector Hammond, and you’d do well not to annoy me.’
‘Very well, Inspector Hammond. In answer to your question – yes, I was the one who found her.’
Hammond inspected the room.
‘How long had you known Miss Burnett? And why were you here today?’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t know Miss Burnett all that well. I interviewed her yesterday evening, outside the Kinnaird Hall.’
‘My understanding is that there were several suffragettes at that meeting. What was so interesting about this lady in particular? Or do you just like suffragettes?’
Paul ignored the disdainful tone of the man’s voice and stared back at him, intent on not allowing the detective to undermine him.
‘I found her interesting because she invaded Churchill’s meeting by lowering herself with a rope from the rafters in the hall. I thought it must be someone exceptional who would do that, and that it would make good copy for the Courier.’
Hammond bent over Gladys’s body.
‘Ah, I heard about that. These suffragettes will do anything to attract attention.’ He raised Gladys’s chin with one of his fingers and inspected the front of her neck. ‘I reckon that would explain the marks on her neck. They must be rope burns from the rope she used.’
‘Rope burns?’ Paul spluttered. ‘If she had rope burns from her descent, she would have hanged herself then, not wait until later to die.’
Hammond raised his eyebrows.
‘I am sure the doctor who examines her at the mortuary will be able to identify the cause of death. In the meantime, we are finished here, but I may want to see you again after I receive his report.’