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Inspector Hammond grabbed his hat from the top of the filing cabinet. All the preliminary work on the Gladys Burnett case had been completed, and the body removed to the mortuary. But he was no further forward with the investigation. The house search had revealed nothing of use, not even the hint of a clue on her relatives or friends apart from the Women’s Freedom League pamphlet. It looked like he would be forced to visit the suffragette harridans in their lair; something he dreaded.
A fug of tobacco smoke in the corridor outside the constables’ room indicated the recent presence of several of the men, but now only one constable remained, hunched over paperwork on his desk.
‘With me, Buchan,’ Hammond snapped.
The constable laid down his pencil and rose.
‘Yes, sir.’ He buttoned his jacket and reached for his helmet.
Hammond sighed. The young man’s expression reminded him of a dog who wanted to please his master. Given the choice, he would have preferred one of the older, more experienced men. Men who could instil fear when interviewing witnesses and suspects. Not someone like Buchan, still wet behind the ears.
He strode up the corridor, through the charge-room and out into the quadrangle, Buchan at his heels.
‘How long have you been with us now, Buchan?’ Turning his back on the police wagon in the yard’s corner, he walked through the archway to the street beyond.
‘Three months, sir.’
‘Hmm.’ This constable would be as much use to him as a pencil with a broken point, although Hammond supposed he was better than nothing. The thought of interviewing women on his own always sent chills through the inspector. He was never at ease in the presence of women, and the suffragettes he was on his way to interview were a different breed again. Dominant and forceful, unafraid of men and with a tendency to aggression.
‘When we reach our destination, I’ll interview some women – suffragettes – and I want you to take notes.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘These . . . suffragettes may prove difficult.’ He grabbed the rim of his hat as a sudden breeze threatened to send it flying as they rounded the corner of Court House Square and Ward Road. ‘Have you come across suffragettes during the course of your duties?’
‘I was on plain clothes duty with Sergeant McKenzie in Albert Square on Tuesday, when Christabel Pankhurst was speaking.’
‘Any trouble?’
‘Apart from the usual hecklers, it was all right. These suffragette women weren’t as fearsome as I’d expected.’
‘Hmm.’ Hammond remained unconvinced.
They walked on in silence until they arrived at the shop the Women’s Freedom League used as their office. It looked no different from the shops on either side, apart from the posters calling for Votes for Women instead of the usual goods for sale.
Hammond rapped on the door and pushed it open, without waiting for a response.
The three women inside, two of them behind the counter and the third sitting in front of it, looked up in surprise. One of them rose to greet them.
‘I’m Lila Clunas, can I help you?’
‘Indeed, you can, ladies. I’m Inspector Hammond from Dundee City Police and I’m here to enquire about one of your members, Gladys Burnett.’
‘Gladys has done nothing wrong.’ Lila’s tone hardened. ‘It is not a crime to try to gain entry to a political meeting.’
‘I am afraid you misunderstand me. I am not here to arrest Gladys Burnett.’ He smiled, taking a grim satisfaction from what he was about to say. ‘I am here to interview you about your whereabouts yesterday evening and to acquire information on her relatives and next of kin.’
‘Next of kin?’ One of the other women rose, a look of alarm on her face. ‘Has something happened to Gladys?’
‘I am sorry to tell you we found her body this morning. The lady is deceased.’
‘Dead! How can that be?’ The woman clutched the end of the counter for support. ‘How did she die?’
‘I am not at liberty to tell you that. All I can say is, we found her body.’
The woman who had spoken sat down with a thump.
‘It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have allowed her to walk home alone. I should have paid more heed to the letter.’ She pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. ‘I thought it was one of the usual hate-mail letters . . . we receive them all the time.’
Hammond lifted the paper, spreading out the creases until the words were legible. He read in silence and then stared at the speaker.
‘This is a death threat,’ he said, waving the letter under her nose. ‘Why did you not bring this to the attention of the police?’
The woman straightened and glared at him.
‘What good would that have done? You would have dismissed it, the same way you dismissed us when we reported one of our members missing.’
Hammond’s mind flashed back to earlier in the week when he’d overheard two women in the office reporting a missing person. Victoria somebody or other; he couldn’t remember the details.
‘Well, I am not dismissing it now. I will keep this as evidence.’ He folded the letter and placed it in his pocket. ‘In the meantime, I need you to tell me everything you know about Gladys Burnett. After that, I will require you to give your names and addresses to the constable.’
Lila Clunas, who seemed to be the one in charge, rose to address him.
‘I am not sure how much help we can be. Gladys has been a member of the WFL for a few months. She was always keen to take part in demonstrations and to help us in any way she could. But she didn’t talk about her private life much. I know she had a husband; I assumed they were separated because they didn’t live together.’
‘I see. This husband – would you happen to know his name and where I can find him?’
‘I think his name is David Burnett, but I don’t know where he lives. I’m sorry I can’t help further than that.’
‘That wasn’t too bad,’ Hammond said to Buchan after they left the office. ‘All we have to do is find the husband. I want you to get on to that straight away. Check the electoral rolls and anything else you can think of. He is probably our prime suspect.’
* * *
‘I WASN’T AWARE GLADYS had a husband,’ Martha said after the police left. ‘What about you, Florence, did you know?’
‘She never mentioned it to me. But Gladys never discussed her private life.’
‘She didn’t talk about him,’ Lila said. ‘Which leads me to think they were no longer together as a married couple. She said he was a jute mill manager in India. Bengal, I believe.’
‘You omitted to provide that information to the detective,’ Martha said with a wry smile.
‘I didn’t think it relevant. The man’s not even in this country, so he can’t be the person responsible.’
‘I suppose so,’ Martha said. ‘I wonder how long the police will look for him before they give up.’