The Burning Issue of the Day Read online

  ALSO BY T E KINSEY

  A Quiet Life in the Country

  In the Market for Murder

  Death Around the Bend

  Christmas at The Grange

  A Picture of Murder

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by T E Kinsey

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542041157

  ISBN-10: 1542041155

  Cover design by Lisa Horton

  Contents

  The Bristol News

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Author’s Note

  Notes on the text

  About the Author

  The Bristol News

  Friday, 28 January 1910

  ONE DEAD IN SUFFRAGETTE ARSON ATTACK

  A fire was deliberately started at the shop of H A Greenham of Thomas Street, Bristol, shortly before midnight on Tuesday. Mr Greenham and his wife live above the shop but were, thankfully, out for the evening. Tragically, their lodger, Mr Christian Brookfield, a highly respected reporter for this newspaper, was apparently asleep in an upstairs bedroom, where he was overcome by the smoke and flames and perished.

  Suffragette literature was found scattered in the street, as was a signed note claiming responsibility for the attack which had been pinned to a nearby telephone pole. This is the suffragettes’ usual means of claiming responsibility for their criminal damage. On Wednesday morning the police arrested Miss Elizabeth Worrel of Woodfield Road, Redland, on suspicion of arson and murder. She was charged with both offences and appeared before magistrates on Wednesday morning, where she was indicted for trial at the Lent Assizes. She was remanded to the women’s wing of Horfield Prison to await trial.

  It had been understood that the Women’s Social and Political Union, the so-called ‘suffragettes’, had suspended their campaign of violence during this General Election. It seems that the word of these reckless women cannot, after all, be trusted.

  Mr Brookfield, their innocent victim, leaves no family, but this brave young man, whose integrity and industry shone a light into the darkest corners of our society, will be greatly missed not just by those who worked alongside him, but by all the citizens of this great city.

  Chapter One

  ‘Be a dear and pass the pepper, would you?’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  I distractedly did as she asked. It was Friday morning and we were each reading a newspaper. Wherever we had been in the world, Lady Hardcastle liked to take The Times as well as a more local newspaper. When we had settled in Littleton Cotterell nearly two years earlier, she had chosen the Bristol News as her source of regional tittle-tattle. There was an even more local newspaper, published in the market town of Chipping Bevington, but she preferred to read the news from our nearest big city. The Bristol News was published twice a week on Monday and Friday and was always her first choice when there were two newspapers on the breakfast table.

  ‘Anything exciting going on in Bristol?’ I asked.

  ‘Much the same as usual,’ she said. ‘Permission granted to build new commercial premises on . . .’ She paused to scan the article. ‘. . . Thomas Street. A strident call from the sports editor for the sacking of Bristol City’s manager after their two-nil loss to Sheffield Wednesday on Saturday. News of a gold shipment coming into Avonmouth, from Chile of all places. And an arson attack on a shop on . . . oh, Thomas Street again. One man dead. Police have arrested the woman responsible.’

  ‘You’d make a rubbish newspaper editor,’ I said. ‘You should have led with “Arson Murder – Woman Arrested”.’

  ‘Then you should contact the newspaper and tell the editor that he’s rubbish, too. He led with the General Election. Again.’

  ‘It’s not often you hear of a woman arsonist, after all. It’s by far the most interesting story.’

  ‘This one was a suffragette,’ she said as she reread the article.

  ‘Even more reason to run it as the main story,’ I said. ‘The Bristol News has never made a secret of how much it despises even the idea of women getting the vote, let alone the women campaigning for it.’

  ‘Well, it went with coverage of remarks made by Sir Howell Davis at a Liberal Party meeting in Bedminster.’

  ‘Pfft,’ I said.

  ‘Pfft, indeed.’ She inspected her breakfast plate, lifting the edge of her fried egg to see what might be concealed beneath. ‘Have we run out of haggis?’

  ‘We had the last of it at your impromptu Burns Night celebration on Tuesday,’ I said.

  ‘What a pity. An unexpected bonus of our trip. We should have bought more.’

  Shortly before Christmas we had made a trip to Scotland, where we had attended the wedding of Lady Hardcastle’s brother, Harry, to Lady Lavinia Codrington, sister of the Earl of Riddlethorpe. They had eloped to Gretna Green to escape the seemingly endless bickering over the wedding arrangements that had broken out among the various branches of her family. We wished the happy couple continued happiness after a ceremony at the blacksmith’s shop, and then continued to Edinburgh, where we acquired a small supply of haggis after tasting it in the hotel’s excellent dining room.

  ‘There’s a strict limit on the amount that can be brought out of the country,’ I said. ‘The Scots are very protective of the haggis.’

  ‘Understandably so,’ she said. ‘They’re quite rare, and a beggar to catch.’

  ‘Not if you know their ways,’ I said. ‘They live on hillsides and their left legs are shorter than the right to stop them falling over. A clever evolutionary adaptation, but it means they always face the same way and can only run widdershins around the mountain.’

  ‘Making them easier to trap?’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said.

  ‘One lives and learns. What are your plans for today, tiny servant?’

  ‘Once again I seem to have some mending to do. Your green dress—’ I began.

  ‘Ah, yes, sorry about that. I tripped over in the orangery and it got caught on a nail.’

  Lady Hardcastle flitted between hobbies and interests, but her enduring passion was the making of ‘animated stories’ in the moving picture studio she had built in what had originally been an orangery.

  ‘If you would just let me tidy up in there . . .’

  ‘I have a system, dear,’ she said. ‘A place for everything and everything in its place.’

  ‘So you keep saying. But “the place” for everything always seems to be the floor.’

  ‘It’s only a tiny rip,’ she said. ‘It won’t take you long. What next?’

  ‘After that, I find myself facing an unaccustom
ed lull in my otherwise ceaseless labours. With Edna and Miss Jones both still working longer hours, I seem to have much less to do. I thought I might read.’

  ‘Has Miss Jones made plans for lunch?’

  ‘I don’t think so. What do you fancy? She’ll be amenable to anything, I’m sure.’

  ‘Why don’t we give her an easy time of it and have lunch at the Dog and Duck?’

  ‘If you like,’ I said. ‘Although I’m not sure that one of Old Joe’s doorstep sandwiches can compete with even the least ambitious of Miss Jones’s prandial creations.’

  ‘He might have pie. And he gets his pies from Holman’s.’

  ‘Ooh, he might, mightn’t he? And it’ll give me a chance to catch up with Daisy. All right, then, you’ve talked me into it. Noon at the foot of the stairs?’

  ‘I’ll see you there,’ she said.

  As I had promised, I was waiting in the hall in my hat and coat at noon precisely. Or ‘noon’ according to the hall clock, anyway, whose accuracy I was beginning to doubt. As well as a tendency to run fast or slow depending upon its whim, it had also taken to chiming the quarter hour at seemingly random times near the quarter hour, but never quite actually on it.

  As I had privately predicted, Lady Hardcastle was late, even allowing for the vagaries of the increasingly eccentric timepiece. I picked up the post from the hall table and leafed through it to pass the time.

  I recognized the handwriting and postmarks on letters from two of Lady Hardcastle’s regular correspondents. One was the wife of a diplomat whom she had met in the nineties and with whom she had maintained an eager correspondence on subjects as diverse as embroidery, knitting, painting, electronics, chemistry, and Dr Einstein’s ‘special relativity’. The other was a celebrated concert pianist with passionate views on modern music . . . and gardening. I felt sure Lady Hardcastle would be pleased to receive both letters.

  There were also two bills, one of which was from our vintner and was certain to be terrifyingly large.

  The final letter was most intriguing. The envelope was of heavy, and unquestionably expensive, paper and it was addressed in an elegant, yet slightly girlish, hand. It was postmarked Bristol. I put it on the top of the pile so that Lady Hardcastle would spot it first and, perhaps, satisfy my curiosity.

  Only ten minutes late, she finally exploded through the kitchen door.

  ‘I’m so sorry I’m late, dear,’ she said. ‘Things just sort of ran away with me.’

  ‘Ran over you, more like,’ I said. ‘What the devil are you covered in?’

  ‘Fuller’s earth, mostly,’ she said. ‘Although I think that bit might be coffee.’ She indicated a splattered stain on her shoulder. ‘Lucky I put on the overalls, eh?’

  ‘Fortunate, indeed,’ I said.

  ‘Give me ten minutes to wash my face and put a clean dress on and I’ll be with you.’

  ‘Right you are, my lady,’ I said.

  She saw the small pile of post on the table. ‘Ooh, post,’ she said. ‘It’s been getting later and later since Christmas. Anything for me?’

  I frowned. ‘It’s all for you,’ I said. ‘As always.’

  ‘Good-o. Hand it over. I’ll have a quick look before I go up.’

  She flicked through the small pile. Pleasingly, she was as intrigued by the topmost letter as I had been.

  ‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘Who can this be from, I wonder?’

  She produced a penknife from the pocket of her overalls and used it to slit open the envelope. She walked up the stairs, reading the letter.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’ll wait here.’

  ‘Right you are, dear,’ she said, still reading. ‘I shan’t be long.’

  To give her at least some credit, she actually wasn’t long and when she returned – with her dress wonkily buttoned and her hair looking as though it had been styled by a very young child – she was rereading the letter.

  ‘You look enchanting,’ I said.

  ‘Nothing seems to be going right for me today,’ she said. ‘If you could give me a hand to sort things out, I’d be forever in your debt.’

  I set about rebuttoning her dress and repairing her hair.

  ‘What is it about that letter that’s set you so adrift?’ I said.

  ‘We’ve been asked to help save someone’s life,’ she said.

  ‘Good heavens. Who?’

  ‘The woman in the newspaper.’

  ‘The suffragette who set fire to the shop?’

  ‘If my correspondent is to be believed, she’s the suffragette who definitely didn’t set fire to the shop,’ she said. ‘And she offers one or two compelling reasons why not.’

  ‘It’s not just another letter from some buffle who’s read about you in the newspaper and thinks you have mystical powers.’

  ‘She might be a buffle for all I know, but she says she knows Simeon so I don’t imagine she has any illusions about my powers, mystic or otherwise. He’d have set her straight in no time.’

  Dr Simeon Gosling was an old friend of Lady Hardcastle’s who was now working as the police surgeon for the Bristol Police Force.

  ‘What does she say that you find so convincing? How can she be so sure that the suffragette didn’t do it?’

  ‘Her name is Georgina, Lady Bickle, and she says that she herself is a member of the WSPU. She vouches for this Lizzie Worrel woman personally and says that not only does the WSPU not engage in arson, but there is also a moratorium on all militant action for the duration of the General Election.’

  ‘That much was in the newspaper,’ I said. ‘But could she not have been acting on her own initiative?’

  ‘Lady Bickle covers that. She says, “I have known Lizzie Worrel for more than a year and I can safely say that no one is more loyal to the WSPU and its aims. It is unthinkable that she would go against the instructions of Mrs Pankhurst and act on her own initiative, most especially when the stakes – that is, the possibility that the men of the country might finally elect a government sympathetic to our cause – are so high.” I’m not sure one could be more emphatic than that.’

  ‘It does sound compelling,’ I agreed. ‘What does she want you to do about it?’

  ‘She wants us – “us”, dear, she mentions you by name – she wants us to have elevenses with her tomorrow morning.’

  ‘And what good will that do?’

  ‘She wishes to give us a full briefing in the hope that we might feel able to set off and find the real culprit. Or so she says.’

  ‘And shall we go?’

  ‘I don’t think we can refuse, do you? I’ll send her a wire while we’re in the village for our luncheon. Later, I thought we might drive into Chipping for a quick look round the shops. I need one or two sundries.’

  ‘But lunch is still at the Dog and Duck?’ I asked.

  ‘I promised you pie. I can’t let you go pie-less.’

  ‘How can you have no pies?’ I asked the barmaid, my friend Daisy.

  ‘Calm down,’ she said with a laugh. ‘It’s not like we’ve run out of cider.’

  ‘No, I know,’ I said. ‘But I really fancied pie. Lady Hardcastle promised me pie.’

  ‘I can do you a cheese sandwich,’ she said.

  Daisy Spratt was the butcher’s daughter and my best friend in the village. But she was offering me a cheese sandwich instead of a pie. It’s easy to go off people.

  ‘What if I nip down to Holman’s and buy some pies – could we eat them in here?’

  ‘You could if he had any, my lover,’ she said. ‘But the reason we don’t have none is because he don’t have none. And he don’t have none because our dad don’t have no beef skirt. And he don’t have no beef skirt because—’

  ‘Because of a chain of events leading all the way to a farmer with a bad back not being able to get his cattle to market?’ I suggested.

  ‘I was goin’ to say the wagon threw a wheel and the delivery never got here,’ she said. ‘Two rounds of sandwiches?’

  ‘Yes, pl
ease,’ I said. ‘And a brandy for Lady Hardcastle. I’ll have a glass of ginger beer.’

  ‘It’s not like you to abstain.’

  ‘We’re driving over to Chipping later. I like to keep my wits about me. I’ll be in charge of a deadly machine.’

  ‘I’ve seen your motor car,’ she said. ‘Folks is more likely to die laughin’ when they sees you drivin’ by than from the effects of some what-do-they-call-it? “High-speed collision”.’

  ‘I’ll have you know that on a good day we can get the Rover up to twenty-four miles an hour. Downhill. With a following wind.’

  She laughed and passed me the two drinks. ‘You sittin’ in the snug?’

  ‘We are. We’re ladies of refinement and distinction.’

  ‘I’ll bring your sandwiches over when they’s ready.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  As I was about to make my way back to our table in the other bar a couple of young farmhands clomped into the public bar and approached Daisy. They leered unpleasantly so I put the drinks down and waited to see what happened – just in case.

  ‘Two pints, please, sweetheart,’ said the first.

  ‘And a kiss when you’re ready,’ said the second.

  ‘Two pints comin’ up,’ said Daisy. ‘And you can whistle for your kiss, Davey Witten – I i’n’t that kind of girl.’

  ‘That’s not what we ’eard,’ said the first.

  ‘Oh, yes?’ said Daisy. ‘And what is it that you heard?’

  ‘We ’eard you was seen kissin’ Lenny Leadbetter round the back of the cricket pavilion last week.’

  ‘Well, you heard wrong,’ she said. ‘I a’n’t so much as spoken to Lenny Leadbetter since afore Christmas, much less kissed ’e. Who told you that?’

  ‘It’s all over the village,’ said the second farmhand. ‘Come on, just a quick kiss.’

  I returned to the bar.

  ‘Everything all right, Dais?’ I said.

  ‘Right as rain,’ she said, although she was obviously slightly flustered. ‘Just gettin’ these two nice young gentlemen their beers.’

  ‘And a kiss each,’ said the first farmhand. ‘And one from you an’ all since you’s here.’