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Monday, 13th July 1908
Kirsty completed the last stitch in the banner and held it up for Ethel to admire.
‘It’s lovely,’ Ethel said. ‘I can sew a hem, but I couldn’t do that.’
‘Embroidery is the only sewing I was taught. I wouldn’t know where to start with dressmaking.’
‘May I?’ Martha reached for the banner, running her hands over it. ‘This will take pride of place on the wall and we will carry it when we march.’
The bell over the shop door tinkled and the stooped figure of a woman entered. Her clothes were grimy, and a headscarf covered her hair.
Ethel gasped when she lifted her head to look at her.
‘Ma! What are you doing here?’
Margery Stewart leaned over the counter and grasped her daughter’s hands.
‘I came to warn ye. Your da’s on the way and he’s had a good bucket. He’s raging and threatening to drag ye home by the hair on your head. He says if ye willnae come, he’ll kill ye.’
‘Lock the door, Kirsty.’ Martha tossed a key to her. ‘I’ll telephone the police.’
‘Hurry, Kirsty! I can see him crossing the street.’ Ethel stared out of the window, feeling powerless. Kirsty rammed the key in the lock, turned it, and shot the bolts at the top and bottom of the door.
‘He mustn’t see you in here, Ma.’ Ethel lifted the flap at the end of the counter. ‘Quick, hide in the back room.’
‘Only if you come with me.’
‘Yes,’ Martha said. ‘You need to be out of sight, as well. If your father gains entry, leave by the back window and take your mother into the house.’
The door rattled as the man outside sought to enter.
‘Maybe he’ll go away,’ Kirsty whispered.
‘I think that doubtful, considering what Ethel has told me about him. I can only hope the police arrive to apprehend him.’
A face appeared at the shop window. Malevolence shone from his eyes and his brows knitted together in a ferocious scowl.
‘I know ye’re in there, ye wee bitch.’ He banged on the glass. ‘Ye canna escape me. I’m your da and ye have to do as ye’re bid. If ye dinna, it’ll be the worse for ye.’
Kirsty shrank back.
‘Did the police say they would come?’
Martha shrugged.
‘The sergeant I spoke to was noncommittal. Said most of the bobbies were out on the beat but he would try to find someone.’
Glass shattered around Kirsty’s feet as the window caved in.
‘Think ye could stop me from coming in, did ye? Well, ye’d best think on,’ Hughie bellowed. Glass perforated his hands as he grasped the window but he paid no heed to the blood running down his wrists, soaking the cuffs of his grubby shirt.
Martha lifted the counter flap.
‘Quick, get behind here.’ She slammed the flap closed as Kirsty joined her behind the counter.
Hughie leaned over it, globules of spit hitting their faces as he roared, ‘Where is the wee bitch?’
* * *
THERE WAS NO MISTAKING the sound of Sergeant Edward’s boots pounding on the flagstones in the corridor. Constable Buchan laid his pen on the desk and pushed the unfinished report aside. He was the only one in the constables’ room, and if Edwards was looking for spare bodies, he was it. The door opened with a thud and the sergeant’s bulky frame filled the open space.
‘Are you the only one here?’ he growled. ‘I suppose you’ll have to do.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Constable Buchan sprang to his feet. The sergeant had taken a dislike to him after Inspector Hammond had co-opted him as a detective. The sergeant looked at him with an expression of distaste on his face.
‘I need someone to check out a disturbance in the Nethergate. You sure you’re up to it?’
Buchan held back a retort. Disturbances had been part of his daily routine before Hammond claimed him.
‘Yes, sir. If you give me the details, sir. I’ll get on to it right away.’
Sergeant Edwards crossed the room and slapped a piece of paper on Buchan’s desk.
‘Details are on there,’ he said. ‘Hop to it, lad.’
The sergeant’s footsteps receded as Buchan shrugged on his uniform jacket. It would be good to do real police work instead of hanging on Inspector Hammond’s coat-tails and writing his reports. He finished buttoning his jacket and picked up the sheet of paper. By the time he’d finished reading, he was running up the corridor. The disturbance was at the Women’s Freedom League shop, and that was where Ethel now worked.
He grabbed a bicycle leaning against the courtyard wall and pedalled through the archway to West Bell Street. The bike wobbled when he skidded around the corner leading to Barrack Street, but he managed to keep his balance. The Overgate loomed up in front of him, impeding his progress, but he pedalled through the crowds, frantically ringing the bell on the handlebars. A hansom cab blocked his way at the end of Tally Street, but that gave him time to blast twice on his whistle. There were always bobbies on the beat in the Overgate. He pushed the bike past the hansom and stared across the street.
Despair swept through him when he saw the shattered window. He was too late. Abandoning the bicycle against the church railings, he dodged between cabs, carts and carriages on the busy road. Curious onlookers clustered around the front of the shop, but he pushed past them, grabbed the window frame and clambered into the shop. Inside, Hughie Stewart was wrestling with the counter-flap while the two women behind it were attempting to keep it closed.
He grabbed Hughie. The man’s eyes were bloodshot; they flashed with fury as he turned towards Buchan. He lashed out at the constable but missed his face, the blow landing on the bobby’s shoulder. Buchan pinned the man’s arm up his back, twisted him around and pushed him forward so that his face pressed into the counter.
‘You’re under arrest,’ he said, ‘for criminal damage, threatening behaviour, and assault of a police officer.’
By the time two constables raced over the road from the direction of the Overgate, a subdued Hughie was sitting on the floor complaining.
‘I only came to take my wee lassie home. I didnae deserve this.’