Women of Courage (5 page)

‘Yes, go on. What other thing?’

Mrs Watson sighed. ‘There is a possibility that young children may be involved. Some ladies were watching a house in Hackney last week when they saw a middle-aged woman go in with two little girls, about thirteen or fourteen. She came out half an hour later with the same children dressed in gaudy clothes and feathered hats — not at all becoming. They got into a cab and our ladies tried to follow but they lost it in Kensington somewhere.’

‘Children?’ Sarah sat down weakly. ‘You mean little girls are still involved in prostitution today?’

‘So it seems. We can’t tell for certain. The suffragettes went back to Hackney and knocked on the door and asked for the owner of the house. A man came out but he didn’t help, far from it. He told them it was a respectable neighbourhood and called his manservant to throw them out.’

‘How awful!’ Sarah shuddered. ‘But why didn’t they call the police?’

She knew the answer even before Alice Watson confronted her with a resigned, reproving look. ‘Call the police and expect them to take the word of two suffragettes against a male householder? Where would that lead? There was no proof that he had done anything wrong, and in fact very few men were seen going into that building, no more than any other house. So perhaps the girls worked elsewhere and were just brought to that place on the way. We need evidence before we can move, evidence that will stand up in a court of law.’

‘Evidence of what, exactly? You say they saw these children come out.’

‘Yes, but where did they go? There is no crime in dressing a child in gaudy clothes. We need evidence that the children are actually under age and being exploited; we need to know who is procuring them and how; and then, if we are lucky, we need the names of the men who go to these places, as well as evidence against the madams who run them. If we knew all that, we would have a scandal to shake the streets of London!’

‘But what about the little girls? Surely they should be rescued, if possible. What about their parents?’

Mrs Watson shrugged. ‘Probably most of them are orphans, or the children of criminals. Maybe some of the parents even profit by it. We think the little girls are taken from house to house, to meet the needs of men who are attracted to that sort of thing. I agree it is . . . not pleasant.’

Not pleasant.
It most certainly was not, especially when you had just received an anonymous letter suggesting your own husband was connected with a scandal like this. And Mrs Watson’s story seemed to parallel the letter so closely. But there was one vital detail missing from what Mrs Watson seemed to know. And that, Sarah thought grimly, is perhaps what I have received in a letter. Only it names my husband as an accessory to this crime.

She felt sick. Perhaps Christabel Pankhurst was right, all men are diseased in their minds. Could Jonathan really . . .?

‘Are you all right, Mrs Beckett?’

‘What?’ She must have swayed, looked pale for a moment. If I go feeble now she’ll start nursing me again and I don’t want that. I’m tired of that, Sarah thought. She sat up straight on the sofa and smiled brightly. Whatever happens, whatever Jonathan has done, this woman must never know. No one must know, it is too foul, too shameful! Anyway, it may not be true. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘I’m fine. But we’ve talked too much. Let us finish our correspondence, shall we?’

Now, alone in the police cell, her hand pressed against the cold grimy stone of the wall, she thought: that was the hardest moment of all, to get up and go back to ordinary letters and work through them as though nothing had happened, with the foul secret eating away inside me like a tapeworm all that time, and say nothing at all . . .

When Mrs Watson left, Sarah went into Jonathan’s study and there they were, quite openly marked in his diary. Appointments with Dr Martin Armstrong. About once a week, regularly, sometimes more. For nearly a year now, usually on Tuesday or Saturday evenings. If it was for his stomach it clearly had not done much good — she had never thought of this before. She leafed her way back through the pages, appalled. Dr Armstrong’s address was, 40, Roland Gardens, Kensington.

And Jonathan had an appointment for tomorrow afternoon . . .

As the night wore on, the drunk in the cell down the corridor stopped singing and only made the occasional loud, querulous complaint which ended with a kick against his door. More women had been brought in — prostitutes possibly, Sarah thought, for they cursed the constables with a cheerful, raucous obscenity, and mocked them noisily from within their cells. Sarah didn’t know a lot about prostitutes and she didn’t want to. No doubt they were exploited by men, but it was the class of women she found it hardest to feel sympathy for. Especially when they were assertive, and proud of what they were.

First her father, and now Jonathan . . . She didn’t want to remember but now, in the lonely middle of the night, there was nothing else to think about. She had to. She thought back to the events of last night. After her conversation the day before with Mrs Watson . . .

She had only been out of the house a couple of times since her release from prison, and it had been difficult to arrange. She had had to face down Reeves, their butler, who was justifiably anxious for her health, and afraid that she might be re-arrested. She put on her oldest dark coat and a faded, flowery hat, took an old parasol, and slipped out of the side door where the deliveries were made. She had noticed no policemen in the Square, and when she had walked a couple of hundred yards she had hailed a motor taxi for Kensington.

She had found Roland Gardens without difficulty. It was an impressive street of tall, four-storey buildings, some still inhabited by wealthy families, others converted into expensive flats. Nannies pushed prams down it and ladies of Sarah’s own class strolled on their way back from the park, talking idly. Nothing in the least unpleasant or disreputable or frightening anywhere.

Doctor Armstrong’s brass plate was on a doorway about halfway down. When she had found it she walked quickly across the road, wondering where on earth she could position herself to watch the entrance. It was difficult, there were no restaurants or shops, nowhere obvious at all. Her only solution was to walk slowly to the end of the street and then, equally slowly, back up the other side. If I do this too often, she thought, people will start to ask questions.

The hansom cab arrived when she had just begun to turn to go back. A man got out, paid the cabbie, and walked briskly inside.

Jonathan!

She knew it was him even from a distance of a hundred yards. She would have known him anywhere — that brisk, lithe figure, the short beard, the casual tilt of the top hat. A gentleman calling for an appointment with his doctor. Nothing unusual about that, nothing suspicious. What could she do now?

Sarah walked slowly back down the street, thinking. She was not entirely clear why she had come. She had established that he did indeed come to see Martin Armstrong, but that was no secret — it was in his diary, openly admitted. What she really needed to know was what went on inside the house, and that she had no way of knowing. What had the letter said?
Treatment — he gets the same treatment as other men?
Something like that. But what did that mean? After all, one went to a doctor for treatment. Surely nothing indecent could happen in a proper consulting room, when Jonathan was there with Martin Armstrong?

What she needed to know was what was being said inside that house. What should she do? Walk up the steps and ring the bell?

And then go inside and say: ‘Hello, Jonathan, I was just passing and I dropped in to see how your stomach is being treated.’

The idea was absurd. So was the setting. The street was far too quiet, too respectable, too prosperous. She walked up and down it again, flushed with embarrassment, keeping her parasol between her face and the windows of number 40. She began to think of going home.

Then, as she turned down the street for the fourth time, a man approached her.

He was a short, rather stout man, in a business suit and bowler hat. She had seen him leaning against a wall reading a newspaper last time she had come down the street. This time, as she walked past, he fell into step beside her.

‘Nice evening for it,’ he said.

‘What?’ She glanced at him, surprised, distracted. Just before he had spoken she had seen the door of number 40 begin to open. No one had come out yet but . . .

‘I said it’s a nice evening, dear,’ the man said. She glanced at him and saw he was smiling in a way she didn’t like. ‘Got a place near here, have you?’ He offered her his arm.

What on earth did he mean? Despite herself, the polite gesture of a man offering a lady his arm was so compelling that she moved her own hand automatically towards his elbow, before she realised what she was doing and stepped hurriedly away.

‘I think you’re mistaken. I don’t think we’ve met.’

The man stared at her, puzzled, his arm still raised and the unsettling smile still on his lips. They were rather thick lips, she noticed, and there was a boil on his neck.

‘No, we haven’t met yet, petal, but I want to know all about you. How much do you charge?’

Oh God.
Understanding rose like bile in her throat. He thinks I’m walking up and down this street to solicit custom. She wondered whether to hit him with her parasol and then thought no, that will attract attention. And there is a man coming out of the doctor’s surgery . . .

‘Get away from me! You’ve made a mistake. I’m not one of those women. Leave me alone!’

The words sounded completely stupid, foolish, but what
could
one say? No one had ever approached her in that way before. She walked quickly away down the street and thank God,
thank God
the man did not follow. She could not walk very fast because she was still not fit, but no footsteps followed. As she went on down the street she came closer to number 40 and she saw the man who had come out cross the road in front of her. He reached the pavement on the other side and walked briskly back up the way she had come.

A well-dressed, burly man in morning coat and top hat, with thick eyebrows and moustache, heavy jowls, and a hearty confident stride. She had not seen him for nearly a year but she recognized him — it was Martin Armstrong.

She shielded herself from view with her parasol and walked to the end of the street. Her face was flushed and she was breathing deeply as though she had run a mile. As she stopped and looked back her legs trembled.

Now what? The man with the newspaper was still there. He stared back up the street at her, then snapped his paper shut and strode angrily away, out of sight round the corner. Dr Armstrong was getting into a cab.

I can’t stay here, Sarah thought, I can’t face that again. This is all a mistake, I’ll just wait until Jonathan comes out and then I’ll go home. I’ll think about what to say to him later.

After all, what
can
I say? I received this letter and then I followed you to your doctor and saw you go in and then waited until you came out, and a man accosted me in the street. What sort of an accusation was that?

This is all nonsense. It’s just a bad dream.

The flush faded from her face and her breathing returned to normal. Martin Armstrong’s cab had long gone, and the street looked peaceful and empty. A nanny was pushing a pram down one side, and a little boy was riding a tricycle on the pavement in front of her. The gas lights were coming on in some of the windows.

Why hasn’t Jonathan come out?

When you go to the doctor’s it’s never the doctor who leaves first, it’s the patient. Martin Armstrong came out five minutes ago, and Jonathan’s still in there.

Perhaps it’s a partnership and he’s seeing another doctor. So why did it say Armstrong in his diary?

Grimly, she walked down the street for a fifth time, keeping her eyes open for the man with the newspaper. She had to see, she had to be sure. When she came to number 40, the brass plate was quite clear, as she had known it would be.
Dr Martin Armstrong, M.D. Private consultations.
No partner, no one else.

She stared at the front door, willing it to open, willing her husband to come down the steps towards her, to smile and put his arms round her and tell her it was all right. She thought if he did she might put her arms round him and kiss him on the lips. As she had not done for months.

Or slap his face right there in the street. She didn’t know which.

Either way, she didn’t have to choose. Nothing happened.

There was a light on in the hall but no lights on in the downstairs rooms, which were surely the consulting rooms. There were net curtains in the rooms up above, and window boxes and gaslight, but they were too high to see in. Most of the rooms had gaslight showing and somewhere she thought she could hear the sound of a piano.

She thought, this is a four-storey building, but there are no other names on the door, no other bells to ring. What does one doctor do with four floors?

She heard a car drawing up behind her and turned to see a black taxicab. She walked slowly away along the pavement and then stopped as though she were about to cross the road. The taxi drew up outside number 40 and a man got out. A well-dressed man with smart grey suit, top hat and a loud, cheerful voice. He paid the driver and then turned to hand out a young woman. As she stepped out he said something to her and she laughed.

There was something about the laugh that grated horribly on Sarah. It was high, falsetto, slightly tipsy. As though the girl was slightly drunk and determined to seem more so, to get the maximum amusement out of the man’s joke and at the same time to seem silly, flighty, without a thought in her head but what he put there. As she came out of the cab she staggered and leant against him. He put his arm round her and led her up the steps.

The man did not need to ring the bell at Dr Armstrong’s consulting rooms. The girl, tipsy as she was, produced a key.

When they had gone it began to get dark. Sarah crossed the road and looked back at the house. The curtains were drawn now but there were gas lights in every room except those on the ground floor. Although from this distance she could hear no sound, not even the piano, in the gathering dusk the house had an indefinable air of gaiety.