A Death for a Cause (5 page)

The cell had hushed to listen to this extra-ordinary outburst.

Someone began to applaud. It was the young woman who had been sitting so neatly. ‘There is much truth in what you say, madam,' she said in a soft, well-spoken voice. ‘What we lack is an influence in the laws that govern the country. In law we are regarded as no more than chattels and that is an offence against every woman who has ever lived or shall ever be born. That is why we must protest. That is why we must win.'

‘If yer don't know how to influence your man by now, lass, I doubt there is any hope for you,' said the old woman crudely, but without malice.

At this conversation that had been naturally stilled by the frightening nature of our surrounding broke loose once more. Debate raged and the atmosphere in the room lifted. Beyond the bars lay a long corridor that faced only a brick wall that had perhaps once been white washed. Richenda saw where I was looking. ‘I pressed my face against the bars. There is nothing to see.'

‘But what if we wish to use – the facilities,' I blushed.

Richenda nodded at a bucket in the corner. ‘They are treating us like animals.'

‘Good God!' I said shocked. ‘That must be some cruel joke. There is no privacy. Not simply from each other, but from any policeman who might choose to walk along that corridor. As if summoned by my prediction a police guard appeared at one edge of the bar. He wore a sergeant's stripes on his sleeve. His face was worn, and the veins in his nose clearly widened and split by drink. He regarded us with the same loathing a child might a particularly ugly specimen in the zoological gardens. Then he rang his baton along the bars. ‘Shut up, you whores!' he shouted.

As one the women quietened. And then almost at once they began to shout out and decry his foul accusation. Two more policemen appeared. They also ran their batons along the bars. The noise echoed in the close confines of the prison and was as intimidating as it was intended to be. Then on policeman pointed his baton at the young maid I had noticed earlier. ‘She'll do.'

A fourth man appeared with keys at his belt. The three men entered, pushing back the other women with batons raised and dragged the screaming girl out.

‘You cannot do this!' I screamed. ‘This is the King's England.'

The guard who had called us such foul names pointed at me. ‘You, Euphemia St John, you're next!'

All faces turned to me. He knew my name. Of the thousands of women on that march they knew my name!

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See my journal
A Death in the Asylum
.

Chapter Seven

Tension in the ranks and a most unexpected arrival

‘That is outrageous!' exclaimed Richenda.

‘It is not that unexpected,' said the quiet woman, who had been sitting on the bench. She held out her hand to us. ‘Mary Hill. I have taken part in a number of marches and the behaviour you have just witnessed has become increasingly common, I am sad to say.' She blushed slightly, ‘Please excuse my appearance. I lost my hat and all my pins in the commotion.'

‘What will they do with her?' I asked, thinking this was no time for sartorial concerns.

‘They will ask her questions and attempt to determine if they should send her to the court for prosecution, hold her for longer or let her go. She is young, scared, and obviously working-class with no one to defend her. She is a natural target.'

‘For?' I pressed.

Mary sighed. ‘As you may be aware, some of our Sisterhood have reached the point of frustration at which they feel they must use violence to make their point. The police are keen to find these particular women and their associates.'

‘What has that got to do with that little girl?' demanded Richenda, her maternal instincts seemingly aroused.

‘They think she will be easy to intimidate,' I answered for Mary. ‘That is correct, is it not? They hope she may be the weakest link in a chain.'

‘Exactly,' said Mary. ‘I am not among those favouring violence, but if I were I would choose my tools with care. Ones able to withstand questioning and, if necessary, to endure force-feeding.'

‘Force-feeding?' echoed Richenda blankly. The concept clearly baffled her.

‘Some of us believe in passive resistance, and if imprisoned, we will go on hunger strike. Obviously, the Establishment does not care to see any of us die or be released so malnourished. They fear it would create public sympathy. They have devised a manner to force food into those who abstain.'

‘Doesn't sound too bad,' said Richenda, who had never knowingly turned away food.

‘Imagine being held down, a tube forced down your mouth, on down through your chest and into your stomach. A funnel is attached to the end and liquid food is poured into you without your consent. If you struggle, damage done to your body may be considerable. As well as humiliation you may risk permanent disability.'

I sat down upon the floor. The pain in my head had not ceased and I now felt decidedly queasy. ‘I cannot believe that this is happening to free women in this century.'

‘There is nothing free about our position, my dear,' said Mary kindly. She crouched down next to me. ‘When the guard returns I shall see if they will allow a doctor to visit you. You have gone alarmingly pale. Were you harmed in the fracas?'

‘I was hit on the head with a baton by a policeman on a horse,' I said surprisingly myself with my succinctness.

‘Pulled him right off his seat, she did,' remarked another woman coming over to join us. She wore the plain dress of a servant off duty. Her face was freckled and her hair, scraped back into a bun. I judged her to be in her mid to late twenties. ‘Saw it myself or I'd never have believed it. Hauled him off by his belt and onto the ground.'

‘He was over-balanced, attempting to reach a young girl who was with me.' Recalling the incident more clearly, I looked around the cell, but the girl I had attempted to rescue was not with us.'

‘Well, good for you,' said our new friend. ‘A bit of sauce for the gander!' She thrust out her hand to me ‘Abigail Stokes. Pleasure to meet a sister in arms.'

‘Euphemia St John. He was about to trample a girl underfoot. I had little other recourse.'

Abigail frowned, large creases appeared along her forehead and she looked extremely formidable. ‘Hmm,' she more or less snorted. ‘They deserved no less.'

‘I cannot agree that violence will advance our cause,' said Mary in her well-modulated voice.

Abigail sneered and retreated. ‘I don't think we meet with her approval,' said Richenda in her usual loud and carrying tone. ‘So much for sisterhood!'

I grimaced inwardly. My memory had returned to me enough that I recalled a remarkable number of women from all ranks had been more than happy to indulge in violence. ‘Richenda, I really think you should keep your voice down,' I said quietly. ‘We must all co-exist in this extremely inadequate cell until our captors are prepared to release us.'

‘I'm not staying here!' announced Richenda. She rose and approached the bars. ‘Guard!' she cried loudly. ‘Guard, I say! I demand to be released. I am Lady Richenda, Mrs Hans Muller. I must be released at once.'

‘Is she really a lady?' asked Mary quietly of me.

‘Her brother is a Baronet, their father the first ennobled. I rather fear the family has been playing fast and loose with titles ever since.'

Mary nodded. ‘That would only make her an Honourable. And she has married a commoner too.'

‘She has a heart of gold,' I said defensively. Richenda continued to yell.

Mary gave a small smile. ‘That may be so, but if she does not quiet she will cause trouble both within and without this cell.'

But before any further altercation could occur a guard did appear at the bars. ‘Shut your trap,' he told Richenda bluntly. Richenda at once began to protest even more loudly. The man resorted to running his baton along the bars mere inches from her face. The noise as well as the threat caused her to back away.

‘Right, Euphemia St John, you're up next. I can fetch men to drag you or you can come quiet like.'

Richenda clutched my sleeve. ‘Don't leave me,' she begged.

‘They are offering to allow me to walk to the interview. I take this as a good sign,' I murmured to her. ‘I will come,' I said to the guard.

‘Right, you others, back off. One blow of my whistle and twenty men will answer.' What these men would do when they arrived was emphasised by another beating of the bars. I rose unsteadily and made my way to door. The guard opened the cell, his whistle at his lips. I passed through and he relocked the door. He poked me in the back with his truncheon. ‘That way!'

He was a small man and an ugly one, much like his temperament. I resisted the temptation to turn, wrest the baton from his grasp, and beat him over his head with it. I felt far too dizzy to try such a manoeuvre. I did however turn and give him a look learnt from my mother – a woman of four foot eleven inches, who swore that she had once reduced a Duke to tears. ‘I will go with you,' I said coldly, ‘there is no need to poke me.' I thought I saw a flicker of surprise or perhaps even concern in his eyes, but he covered it quickly and gestured onwards with his baton.

I was taken along several narrow brick passageways. I noted windows, small, barred, and up against the ceiling. Light came from them in dusty, dull shafts. Could we be below ground? I grew increasingly uncomfortable. We passed no other cell or office. I was alone with this man. Just as I was seriously considering knocking him to the ground and attempting to flee, we reached a wooden door. The guard knocked on it with his truncheon. A muffled voice answered. The guard opened the door and pushed me forward.

Light blinded me. After the dimness of the corridors it took my eyes time to adjust, but I recognised the voice at once.

‘Goodness, Euphemia! What have you done to yourself!'

‘Fitzroy!' I exclaimed and slumped to the ground in a dead faint.

Chapter Eight

A most unusual supper in familiar and not totally unpleasant company

‘Good God man! Fetch a doctor. She is badly injured. I will hold you personally accountable if she has suffered any lasting harm.'

My eyes flickered open. ‘You sound cross,' I said.

Fitzroy's grey eyes bored down into mine. ‘I am exceedingly cross.' He had been leaning over me, but after this comment raised his face. ‘And when I am exceedingly cross I become exceedingly dangerous.' I heard the sound of feet running away. A smile flickered across my face and I slipped from consciousness once more.

‘Ow!'

Fitzroy slapped me again. ‘I am sorry, Euphemia, but if you are badly concussed then it is imperative you stay awake.'

‘I understand,' I said, pushing myself up to a sitting position. Fitzroy helped me over to a chair. ‘Frankly, Euphemia, I am extremely annoyed with you.'

‘You do not believe in the suffragette cause?' Fitzroy dragged a chair round from the other side of the desk that lay between us and sat next to me. He swatted away my idea as another man might a fly. ‘I have told you previously on more than one occasion I believe your sex is under-rated, but protests while Asquith are in power are pointless.'

I put up my hand to rub my sore cheek. ‘Why?'

Fitzroy gave a bark of laughter. ‘Because the man only values women one way. On their backs!'

My eyes felt like they were popping from their sockets. I must indeed have pulled an unusual expression, because Fitzroy laughed again. ‘In some ways you are such an innocent. Euphemia, some men will only ever see a woman, at best, as a breeding vessel, and at worst as a plaything. Despite all the suffragettes' protests he simply does not feel they are important enough to take notice of their pleas.'

‘But that's terrible,' I exclaimed.

‘In any fight it is important to understand your opponent,' Fitzroy said seriously. ‘I fear that in this situation both sides are underestimating each other to a dangerous degree.'

I felt myself become a little dizzy. Fitzroy put out an arm to steady. ‘Where is that damn doctor? You're no use to me like this!'

Despite all I had been through this brought a real smile to my lips. ‘So we get to the heart of the matter.'

‘Later,' commanded Fitzroy. ‘After you have seen the doctor and eaten a decent meal.'

My head began to feel a little clearer and for the first time I took in his appearance properly. Fitzroy is a spy in the service of the crown. In general in concerns himself solely in the matter of international politics, but our paths have crossed more than once. Normally a most conservative dresser, he was wearing an extremely well cut and obviously expensive suit. His face had acquired more lines, but then when I had last encountered him he had recently been tortured for some days. I was relieved to see that his arm had mended, and while it did not escape me that from time to time he flexed his fingers tentatively, it appeared that all the obvious injuries he had incurred were healed. His face, pleasant enough to look at but one unremarkable in a crowd,
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was paler than usual, and his cheeks thinner and more gaunt that before. ‘You look much better than when I last saw you,' I remarked, ‘but not quite your normal self.'

Seeing I now seemed able to keep to my seat unaided Fitzroy began pacing the room like the proverbial caged tiger. ‘Even I must admit I am not yet back to my top form,' he growled. ‘That's why I am here dealing with this mess.' He opened his mouth to say more, but a small balding man clutching a doctor's bag burst into the room. He moped his face with an enormous handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. Sweat beaded all across his face. He was on the stout side and I realised must have been going at quite a pace. ‘So sorry,' he puffed. ‘Came as quick as I could. Where's the patient?'

‘If you need me to tell you that,' snapped Fitzroy, ‘I doubt you are the man to help us.'