The Hourglass Factory (20 page)

Milly breathed in, and when she breathed out she said the word that was on all their tongues, soft and quiet as if it were a betrayal even to whisper it. ‘Suffragettes?’

‘But why?’ said Frankie. ‘Why would they murder one of their own members?’

‘I don’t know. They’re not going to embroider it on a banner, are they?’

Frankie didn’t answer, thinking instead of the altercation at the Brook Street crossroads, her dressing down from Ebony Diamond, the cartoon. Coming to blows with the women’s
movement again; but this time it wasn’t just mockery, it was accusation. Murder, bumping off and kidnapping dissenters. Once she jumped down that rabbit hole there was no going back. And they
would string her up like a mutinous sailor if she was wrong.

They sipped their gin in silence for a few moments. Milly asked whether she might be directed to a bathroom. Frankie watched her leave, feeling the gin sinking to her stomach and wondering if
she should drink some water. When the door closed she turned back to Twinkle. ‘But the corset shop,’ she began again. ‘I know there’s . . .’

Twinkle cut her off with a croak that had none of her high drama in it. ‘The Barclay-Evanses.’

Frankie frowned. ‘Pardon?’

‘The Barclay-Evanses. They’ll be able to help.’

‘Who are they?’

‘He’s Evans, an ex-colonel, and she’s Barclay, a law graduate who can’t practise.’

‘And what have they got to do with anything?’

Twinkle stared at her like she was simple. ‘They’re suffragettes. Or they were until this week. There’s been some kind of split in the ranks; you can ask them about it when we
get there. And before you open your mouth again, don’t ask how I know them. Just don’t. Clear?’ She fumbled among the mass of trinkets on her bedside table until she came to a
little bell. ‘Right, what is that new girl’s name again? I’ve forgotten already. I’ll get her to send a telegram.’

The front door had been deadlocked from the inside. Primrose felt for his key with a pang of hurt. It was true there were burglaries from time to time in the neighbourhood, but
there was a latch. Surely Clara didn’t feel threatened enough in her own home to deadlock the door? She must have done it on purpose. Swallowing the sting in his throat, he unlocked it,
pushing it open with as much enthusiasm as he could manage.

‘Darling. Clara, I’m back.’

There was no answer. The hall was dark, the gaslights off. The grandfather clock chimed quarter past eleven as he shut the door. The air was cold, there was no delicious scent of cooking. He
gingerly turned the doorknob to the small parlour.

She sat in a rocking chair by the fire, her head drooped against her chest, a pair of knitting needles on her knee lolling down to a ball of blue wool that rested against her ankles. A little
bonnet, far too small for a newborn baby, was taking shape on her lap. Laid out on the armrest were other minuscule items of clothing; little white knitted gowns and stockings as slim as first
carrots. Primrose swallowed looking at them.

The room was thick with warmth compared to the hall, but the fire had died down to a mass of black ash and jewelled embers. He dropped his briefcase and crossed to the coal scuttle, scooping up
a handful of lumps to toss around the bright ash.

Clara sat up with a start and looked blankly around the room, then down at the little bonnet on her lap. Seeing Primrose she frowned, confused.

‘Freddie.’ He loved her voice, the softness of it. Though it could be sharp too when she wanted it to be.

‘Yes, I do come home sometimes.’ He forced a woeful smile.

‘I must have fallen asleep.’

He took off his overcoat and reached out a hand, trying not to look at the knitting. She took it between both of her small palms, warm as kittens. Her mouth opened into a yawn. He wanted to
grasp her, nestle his cold head against her warm shoulder but she looked so peaceful.

‘They’ve put me on a murder case.’

Clara looked puzzled rather than surprised. ‘Oh? I thought you’d changed division.’

‘Well, it’s connected to a suffragette. It might be. Complicated really.’

She nodded and yawned again. He hitched up his trousers and sat on the small couch facing the fire. He wanted to talk about something other than work, but it seemed there was nothing left in his
head to think of; all had been drowned in case files and arson and window-smashing the past month.

‘Chief’s been looking for a way into them for ages. Now it seems he has his chance. If only he wasn’t so brazen about it. I don’t know what to say to the men.’

‘What do they think?’

‘Oh, they realise. They must do. Most of them are from Special.’

‘Would I know any of them?’

He rubbed his forehead. ‘Probably not. I shouldn’t really be talking about it. I’m just cautious—’ he let the words die out in his mouth. Her watching eyes
rekindled them. ‘Stirring up trouble with a group who already have volatile feelings towards us. If this woman was some kind of liability, some kind of deserter . . . Perhaps. I don’t
know.’

‘You could try asking them yourself.’ She cocked her head as if searching for a way into his thoughts. ‘Take a trip to their headquarters. A peaceful one, mind. See what they
know.’

‘We have surveillance.’

Clara rolled her eyes. ‘Because that’s the way to make them cooperate?’ She watched him. He tried not to give anything away, but could tell she saw through his expression.
Trying to get an idea like that past Stuttlegate, who preferred to go in barrels ablaze, would be like trying to get a crooked sixpence past an expert minter.

‘There is this man,’ he began, ‘in Pentonville, that the Chief thinks might be able to help.’

Clara narrowed one eye. ‘A man?’

‘He’s a suffragette supporter.’

She shook her head, then stretched out her legs and got up from the chair, folding away her knitting. ‘I’ll fetch a plate for you.’

He clasped her waist as she passed him. ‘No, don’t. Stay a while.’ He tugged her gently onto his knee. The shawl round her shoulders smelled of the kitchen.

‘You’re going to interview a man before you go to suffragette headquarters because you think he’ll be more likely to play turncoat?’

‘I shouldn’t be talking about it.’ Primrose clamped shut his mouth and looked away.

‘Have you eaten?’

‘The usual rubbish.’

‘I can tell. Cockles, was it?’ She retreated from his breath.

They sat for a while with an awkwardness Primrose had not felt since their wedding, when they first bought the small house in Camberwell. He cast his eye round the room, the neat clean
collection of furniture, the humble bureau and the stiff couch, a gift from his family. His gaze landed on the knitting on the armrest and she caught him, the too-small bonnet and stockings.
‘It’s for the parish.’

‘I know.’

‘They need it as much as the ones that live. You can’t go to God without a stitch on.’

He said nothing.

She stood up. ‘I’ll fetch your plate.’

As she reached the door jamb she paused, hanging the door half open. A rush of the hall’s cold air flooded in like an unwelcome guest. ‘It was a boy, you know.’

Primrose looked up sharply.

‘My sister’s. I didn’t think you’d ask.’ She smiled a little sadly. ‘She had a baby boy. Healthy and bonny.’

Frankie hunkered her shoulders into her jacket as the carriage rattled towards Maida Vale. Under her bottom she was aware of the raffia pressure of a nosebag, while up above,
Liam’s heels rhythmically kicked the roof of the cabin in protest at being made to ride on top with the cabbie and the wind. She looked jealously at Milly who had borrowed a mink coat from
Twinkle’s slaughterhouse collection, hanging with paws and tails. On the other side of her, crammed into the open-fronted carriage sat Twinkle, her feet bound by a pair of Russian boots and a
skirt that hobbled her legs together. The fog was so thick they could barely see beyond the length of their own arms; streetlamps were balls of orange mist in a moonless night. The horse crept
carefully, placing one hoof after the other.

The cabbie stopped short and called the name of the street down to them. Twinkle grunted and thrust a fistful of coins up over the roof, at the same time making a great fuss of stepping onto the
pavement. Liam jumped down, landing nimbly on both feet.

‘Come on, haven’t got all night.’ Twinkle waddled them to the front door like a goose. It was only the second time Frankie had seen her outside her boudoir. She looked faintly
ridiculous in outdoor clothing, the way a pet might look dressed as a human.

The Barclay-Evanses lived on the ground floor of a block of flats identical to Twinkle’s in all but the garish colour. A maid, nonplussed at being called to duty so late in the evening,
showed them to a parlour where a fire sputtered behind an embroidered screen. The room was furnished with fine-legged settees and trinkets from the east; fans, elephant tusks and a Turkish water
pipe, with tubes coiled around its glass dome like snakes. Frankie saw Milly eyeing it up, while Twinkle busied herself depositing Liam into the custody of the maid. She had tried to insist he use
the tradesman’s entrance but he doggedly refused. For the first time Frankie saw behind his eyes a wounded look underneath the bravado. ‘He’s taking notes—’ she
began.

He held up his chin and winked. ‘I’ll keep guard outside. Don’t you worry about me.’

In the bay window of the lounge a man with a solid figure was waiting, his belly thrust proudly in front of him. Though he was only wearing tweeds he carried the look of someone in uniform. His
wife, standing by the fire, matched him in height. They both shared the same kind of soft face, flesh in their cheeks and chins that had grown plump and rosy with age, noses and eyes that had
sharpened.

They made their introductions and invited the trio to sit while the maid poured black tea. ‘Don’t mind our little habits.’ Mrs Barclay-Evans gave a half-hearted stab at
humility. ‘We’ve travelled around a bit.’

Twinkle beamed. Frankie tried not to think of how the three might know each other.

An awkward silence spread as they sipped the strong brew and Frankie only then began to realise how tired she was, the strangeness of the night before closing in. Her head felt steeped in
treacle, her brain all clogged. She found the Major’s low voice far too soporific and had to shake herself to concentrate as he gently probed, ‘Do you know if your girl is Peth or
Pank?’

Frankie and Milly cast glances at each other.

‘Don’t look at me,’ said Twinkle, stirring sugar through her tea while not very subtly scanning the room for a liquor cabinet.

Mrs Barclay-Evans explained. ‘When the WSPU split last week, they divided themselves into Pankhurst supporters and Pethick-Lawrences. We’re Peth, by the way.’

The name stirred in Frankie’s head. She remembered seeing the name in the newspapers but had never paid it much attention.

‘The Pethick-Lawrences were kicked out of the organisation this week – Panks might dispute “kicked out”, but that’s the size of it – for refusing to go along
with the new militancy.’

Milly, who had been discreetly picking the sides of her fingernails, stopped suddenly and leaned forward. ‘The “new” militancy? What was wrong with the old
militancy?’

‘Not violent enough.’ The Major picked up his cup. Silence hung and he went on. ‘Christabel Pankhurst – I don’t know if you know, but she’s hiding in Paris
under an arrest warrant at the moment – well, she snuck back to London last week to a meeting to unveil new plans, now the Conciliation Bill’s officially kaput.’ He paused to
slurp his tea.

‘What were the new plans?’ Milly asked, a note of impatience hovering in her tone.

He hesitated. ‘Not something we could approve.’

‘Window smashing?’ asked Frankie.

‘Arson.’ Mrs Barclay-Evans, noticing Frankie fumbling in her pockets, passed her a sleek fountain pen.

‘Arson?’ The word hovered.

‘Do you want to start at the beginning?’ Frankie asked. ‘We’d like to know as much as we can about the suffragettes.’

The Major and his wife exchanged a glance. At last Mrs Barclay-Evans said, ‘It depends how far back you want to go?’

‘Anything that can help us make sense of what Ebony Diamond might be running from.’

‘It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when the beginning was.’ Mrs Barclay-Evans eased herself down onto a chaise longue in the window. ‘I suppose John Stuart Mill and Richard
Pankhurst were important once. Ironic really, those men, back in the day. Well, I mean you could trace it back to Mary Wollstonecraft. Oh dear, you don’t recognise any of these names, do
you?’

Frankie shook her head politely, though her insides prickled.

‘It doesn’t matter, really. There have been official branches campaigning for women’s suffrage since before you were born. Before I was born. Not Nigel though,’ she added
with a teasing smile. No one laughed and she coughed, embarrassed. ‘But the militancy, the violent action, started with the Women’s Social and Political Union, the WSPU. You know that,
don’t you?’ She could see Frankie nodding and went on, encouraged.

‘They started out travelling round street corners and fairgrounds, speaking, handing out pamphlets. That could have been where they met Miss Diamond. They disrupted the odd meeting but
nothing notable. A couple of years passed like this, then Christabel and a woman called Annie Kenney decided to get themselves thrown in prison.’

‘For the publicity,’ her husband added.

‘Not just the publicity. They wanted people, they still want people, to know how serious they are, that being vote-less is so thoroughly intolerable you might as well be incarcerated.
Disrupting a meeting wasn’t enough to end up in gaol back then. Christabel had to spit at a police officer. I had to slap the cheek of one once; I did it lightly, mind. He asked for my lapel
badge as a souvenir.’ She smiled. ‘They started in Manchester but came to London about six years ago . . . But you’re not interested in that, are you? You want to know what might
have gone wrong. Well, the first split in the union came just after that London move.’