The Burning Issue of the Day Read online

  ‘Taking your thumbscrews, eh?’

  ‘I’ve rather gone off thumbscrews, lately,’ I said. ‘They weigh down my pockets and ruin the line of my dress. To be honest, I’ve never really needed mechanical assistance to make a man scream for his mother, anyway, so I tend to leave them at home nowadays.’

  The inspector smiled. ‘I’ve said it before, Miss Armstrong, and I’m sure to say it again, but I’m exceedingly glad you’re on the side of the angels.’

  I smiled sweetly.

  ‘Well, then,’ said the inspector, rising to his feet. ‘On that mildly alarming note, I shall take my leave – crimes to prevent, villains to nab, you know how it is. It was a delight to bump into you both.’

  ‘And into you, Inspector, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Do take care of yourself, won’t you? And give our regards to Mrs Sunderland.’

  ‘I shall, indeed,’ he said. ‘Thank you. Though I should warn you that once I mention your name at home, I shall be nagged once more into inviting you to dine with us.’

  ‘Then we shall have to resolve to take her up on her offer. We can’t have you being nagged, even if it is for the most convivial of reasons.’

  He nodded a farewell and navigated his way between the tables to the hatstand by the door. Putting on his bowler, he stepped out into the chill air and was gone.

  We lingered for a few minutes more over the dregs of our coffee while we tried to decide on our next course of action.

  ‘Oh, and we never did talk about the WSPU meeting this evening,’ asked Lady Hardcastle. ‘What do you think? Shall we go?’

  ‘I’d be happy to go along if you want to,’ I said.

  ‘Which means “no”, really, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Well, I’d have been more likely to say, “No, thank you, my lady,” but the sentiment would be the same. We’ve been to suffragette meetings before and I don’t really need to be further convinced of the need for women to get the vote. For every adult to get the vote. They’re not going to say anything we’ve not heard before, are they? The only reason I can think of for going would be as a show of solidarity.’

  ‘You’re right, of course,’ she said. ‘It has the potential to be stultifyingly tedious, but it couldn’t do us any harm to be seen to be supporting the cause. We might need those ladies on our side.’

  ‘As I said, my lady, I’m happy to go if you want to. It’ll be well lit – I can take some sewing.’

  ‘How about we stay until they break for tea and biscuits and then slip out? We can get fish and chips on the way home.’

  She left a few coins on the table to cover the cost of our snack and a generous gratuity, and we began to gather our belongings. We were about to stand to leave when the bell above the door tinkled and in waddled the spherical form of the shop’s owner, Mr Oswald Crane.

  A waitress hurried to fawn over him while he surveyed his empire. His smug, proprietorial smile faded when he saw me.

  ‘What are these two women doing here?’ he demanded.

  The waitress was taken aback by the harsh tone, and slightly baffled by the question itself.

  ‘Drinking coffee and eating sticky buns, Mr Crane,’ she said uncertainly. ‘They spoke to one of the other customers briefly. He came over to them when his companion had left.’

  ‘Don’t be impertinent,’ he snapped. ‘Get them out.’

  ‘Don’t worry, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘We’ve finished and we’re on our way. Thank you for the wonderful service. You’ve been most attentive.’

  ‘Lady Hardcastle and her maid – yes, that’s right, “my lady”, don’t think I don’t know who you really are – are not welcome in any of my establishments,’ said Mr Crane. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the waitress with an embarrassed curtsey.

  Mr Crane seemed to become aware that he had missed some important information.

  ‘Wait a moment. One of the other customers?’ he said. ‘Which other customer?’

  ‘Inspector Sunderland of the Bristol CID,’ she said, proud of her knowledge. ‘He’s a lovely gentleman. Comes in regular, like. Always polite.’

  Mr Crane’s florid complexion paled a little.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Crane,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘He was only asking us where you were on the evening of Tuesday the twenty-fifth. And we don’t have the first idea. I’m sure he’ll contact you in due course.’

  Mr Crane drew us hastily into an unoccupied corner of the shop. It offered no more privacy than he’d had before, but he seemed to think it made our conversation inaudible to the other customers.

  ‘Now listen here, Hardcastle,’ he said with a lot less forcefulness than I imagined he intended. ‘You have no proof whatsoever that this Brookfield’s foul insinuations about my wife are true, and if you’re repeating them to this Inspector . . .’

  ‘Sunderland, sir,’ I said.

  ‘. . . to this Inspector Sunderland, then I shall sue you for slander.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘But, as I say, it wasn’t your wife he was interested in. It was your own whereabouts on the night Christian Brookfield died.’

  ‘On the night . . . Now, look here. I had nothing to do with that terrible fire and you have to tell him that.’

  ‘But we don’t know where you were any more than he does,’ she said. ‘We can’t really tell him anything.’

  ‘I was at home that evening, and you can tell him as much.’

  ‘Can your wife corroborate this?’

  ‘My wife was . . . out that evening.’

  ‘Your servants, then?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure they can. Why don’t you ask them? I had nothing to do with any of this.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Crane,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘If we see the inspector before you do, we’ll be certain to pass the information on. And we have your permission to question your servants?’

  ‘By all means,’ he said. ‘I have nothing to hide.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Crane. Good day.’

  With that she turned towards the door with me behind her. It was only when the hubbub of conversation resumed that I realized how quiet the shop had become during our conversation.

  Chapter Nine

  On Monday evening we drove back to Clifton to the WSPU meeting at the Victoria Rooms, not far from the shop. Lady Bickle greeted us warmly and introduced us to a few of the regular attendees. We took seats near the back and settled in.

  Lady Bickle opened the meeting, welcoming the regulars and introducing Lady Hardcastle and me. She reassured the members that we were making every effort to clear Lizzie Worrel’s name and that we were hopeful of a resolution in the near future. I didn’t share her optimism, nor her assessment of Lizzie herself, who, she said, had been in good spirits when we had visited her on Friday. Nevertheless, I understood the need to put a brave face on things – despondency would get us nowhere.

  The first speaker was the wife of a prominent Bristol lawyer, who offered a summary of recent events from a suffragette perspective. She recounted press reports of political speeches and offered her own commentary on the opinions expressed by the newspapers’ leader writers. She was well informed and surprisingly funny, with a knack for undercutting the less encouraging news with a well-pitched joke, usually at the expense of the original speaker. She left the stage to an enthusiastic round of applause from the assembled women – I estimated there to be getting on for fifty of us – and returned to sit with Lady Bickle.

  Administrative notices from the branch secretary followed, covering the need to make sure that membership subscriptions were paid on time, and reminding ladies of the importance of wearing WSPU colours during the General Election.

  ‘And don’t forget,’ she said, ‘if you’re short of a sash or a badge, or you think your husband’s views might be swayed by the sight of a pair of white, green, and purple bloomers, get yourself along to the WSPU shop on Queen’s Road. Georgie, Beattie, and Marisol will be happy
to supply you with anything you need.’ She paused for an unexpected round of applause for the shop team. ‘And speaking of Marisol, it is my great pleasure to introduce our next speaker, all the way from Chile, Miss Marisol Rojas.’

  Marisol stepped on to the stage to another ripple of applause. Despite having met her a couple of times already, I was somewhat unprepared for the confidence with which she addressed us, and the forthright nature of her opinions. She was a passionate lady.

  ‘Mine is a young country,’ she said at one point. ‘There are many in Chile who remember what it is like to live in a land where no one has the vote. Within my lifetime there has been a civil war to bring to us the sort of parliamentary rule that you enjoy in Europe. We fought. And we won. Or we thought we had. But it was an illusion. Still power rested in the hands of the rich men. In England you think you have more rights, more power, but even here the true power is in the hands of the rich men. We fight for votes for women, but there are men here with no say in their own futures.’

  She continued on this theme for a while and I became convinced that she would call for a revolution before the night was out. Such was her passion, I’m sure more than half of us would have followed her if she had. By the time she had finished whipping us into a mutinous frenzy, the hall was abuzz with renewed enthusiasm for the cause.

  It was time for the interval – a chance for the members to discuss the issues she had raised over a nice cup of tea. As discussed, though, we slipped discreetly away at the tea break and made our way out of the hall.

  There were two ladies positioned by the doors who ushered us out into the cold night air.

  One said, ‘Goodnight, ladies. Mind how you goes.’

  The other made me pause when she said, ‘There’s some lads outside come to cause trouble. Just shout out if they bothers you.’

  I turned back. ‘Lads?’ I said.

  ‘Nothin’ to worry about,’ said the second lady. ‘Just a few students, I reckons, come to have a laugh at the silly women tryin’ to get the vote. They won’t hurt you.’

  ‘If they tries, mind,’ said the first woman, ‘just you yell out and we’ll give ’em what for.’

  I was intrigued. ‘You’re suffrajitsus?’ I said. ‘I’ve read about your training.’

  They laughed. ‘Not us, my lover,’ said the first one. ‘We just likes a punch-up. But we’s hopin’ to get some trainin’ soon.’

  ‘“Suffrajitsu”?’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘Sorry, my lady,’ I said. ‘I meant to read you the article a couple of weeks ago, but I must have forgotten. The WSPU are training interested ladies in jiu-jitsu – one of the Japanese fighting arts. The principles are similar to some of the things that Chen Ping Bo taught me in China – one uses one’s opponent’s strength and size against him. It’s ideal for smaller women and it’s starting to help in their confrontations with more . . . “enthusiastic” policemen.’

  ‘You knows it, then?’ said the second lady.

  ‘Not jiu-jitsu,’ I said. ‘I learned my fighting skills in China, not Japan. But I can teach you a few tricks to keep you safe until you get your proper suffragette training.’

  ‘That would be wonderful,’ she said.

  ‘I’m Florence Armstrong,’ I said, offering her my hand. ‘Lady Bickle knows how to get in touch with us. Tell her I offered to take a class with as many of you as wish to learn.’

  ‘We will,’ she said. ‘I’m Cissie and this is Ida.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ I said. ‘And this is my employer, Lady Hardcastle.’

  They both bobbed a curtsey. ‘Pleased to meet you, ma’am,’ they said.

  ‘And you, ladies. Thank you for looking out for us.’

  ‘A pleasure, m’lady,’ said Cissie, and held the door open for us.

  Once outside, I said, ‘You didn’t mind my offering, did you? It all happened so quickly that I didn’t get a chance to ask you.’

  ‘You’re not an indentured serf, dear,’ she said. ‘You’re free to do as you please. And I’d have been most disappointed if you hadn’t offered – I think it’s a wonderful idea. I’m very proud of you and your skills, you know. I don’t say it often enough, but I am.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You’re very—’

  ‘Oi!’ shouted a voice from the dark. ‘Get home and look after your husbands.’

  ‘Did someone just “oi” me?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘How very uncouth. I haven’t been “oi”-ed for years.’

  ‘I believe he was “oi”-ing both of us,’ I said. ‘Shall we remonstrate?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s worth the effort, dear,’ she said. ‘Like the ladies said, it’s probably just some students having a lark.’

  As we approached the gates, we saw by the light of the streetlamp that it was, indeed, a group of young men in university scarves. There were empty beer bottles on the ground at their feet.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ said Lady Hardcastle affably. ‘No studying for you this evening?’

  ‘Field studies, madam,’ said one of them with an exaggerated bow. ‘We’re observing the species mulieres stulta in their natural habitat.’ He resumed his previous pose, leaning casually against the lamppost.

  ‘Foolish women, eh?’ she said. ‘I look forward to reading your paper.’

  ‘We’ve found a Latin-speaker, lads,’ he said. ‘You see what happens when you let them have access to a little learning? One minute they’re stumbling through Ovid, the next minute they begin to imagine that they’re clever enough to vote.’

  He pushed himself upright and took a couple of steps towards us. His companions, still about five yards away, arranged themselves to block our path.

  I sighed.

  ‘You see,’ said the ringleader, ‘there’s only one thing worse than a woman who thinks she should have the vote, and that’s a woman who thinks she’s clever. And we think it’s high time someone taught you your proper place.’

  A sudden movement to my right caught my eye. One of the young men had stooped to pick up one of the empty beer bottles and was readying himself to throw it.

  ‘Beer bottle on the right,’ I said quietly.

  ‘I’ve seen him,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I do hope nobody gets hurt.’

  This made the young men laugh.

  ‘We’ll only hurt you a little bit,’ said the ringleader. ‘To teach you some manners.’

  The bottle wielder lobbed his missile in a high, graceful arc towards us. I caught it easily and put it gently on the ground.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ I said. ‘It’s not nice.’

  ‘It’s not nice for uppity women to think they should be entitled to vote,’ said the ringleader. ‘But it doesn’t seem to stop you.’

  I wasn’t entirely certain how we were going to resolve the situation, which now seemed to be at a rather tense stalemate. The boys – it was obvious by now that these were boys, not men – seemed somewhat nonplussed by our calm reaction to their half-hearted aggression. They had clearly expected more in the way of flap and panic on our part and appeared unsure of what to do next. They hadn’t, I thought, expected to get as far as actual violence and didn’t seem to want to engage us, but I couldn’t believe they would be able simply to back down and let us past, either.

  Luckily, the ringleader proved a bit more decisive and his decision, though woefully stupid, did at least give us the chance to end things. He rushed towards me and threw a wild punch. At last, I thought, something I could deal with.

  I dodged the clumsy swing and stepped inside his reach, landing a better-aimed blow of my own on the poor lad’s chin with my open palm. As he began to stumble, I helped him on his way by sweeping his feet out from under him. I grabbed his wrist as he fell, and lowered him gently to the ground to protect him from smashing his head on the pavement. He was out cold.

  The others took a step back. Good.

  ‘You’d better help your pal,’ I said. ‘He might be a little embarrassed when he comes round,
but we’ll leave it up to you how much you rag him over being floored by a five-foot woman. He’ll have a sore jaw for a few days but he should be fine. If he blacks out again, or starts throwing up, take him to a doctor at once.’

  The bottle thrower had picked up another empty bottle and was holding it uncertainly in the manner of a club. I stepped over to him and pushed the bottle downwards.

  ‘Don’t do that, dear,’ I said. ‘I told you once it’s not nice, and look what happens when you start trying to play rough with the big boys and girls.’

  I swept my arm to indicate his fallen comrade, who was beginning to rise woozily to a sitting position.

  He let the bottle fall to his side and two of the others rushed to help the groggy ringleader.

  ‘I think you’d all better get back to your digs,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Before anyone else gets hurt.’

  ‘I’ll bally well get you,’ slurred the ringleader from the floor. ‘You’ve not heard the last of this. My father’s a KC, you know. I’ll bally well sue you for . . . for . . .’

  ‘Well, you work it out, dear, and we’ll expect your summons in due course,’ she said.

  We left them to soothe his bruised chin – and even more badly bruised ego – and went to find the Rover.

  The Rover, bless its little carburettor, started first time. I hopped into the passenger seat beside Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘Well, that was bracing,’ she said.

  ‘Starting the engine?’ I said. ‘It’s always an invigorating experience, yes. Gets the old heart pumping.’

  ‘No, silly, I meant walloping those university boys. Although starting the engine does look like fun.’

  ‘You should try it sometime,’ I said. ‘I won’t mind.’

  ‘No, dear. I wouldn’t want to spoil your enjoyment.’

  She pulled away from the kerb and we set off up Whiteladies Road.

  ‘Why this way?’ I asked. ‘I thought we were going to get fish and chips in town.’

  ‘I thought since our blood was up, we might visit Mr Crane’s house and question his servants.’

  ‘I’m not going to wallop any doddering old butlers,’ I said.