by Robert Ryan
‘You can begin by telling me the identity of the man shot by Captain de Griffon.’
The lieutenant flipped a few pages in the book. ‘It was a sergeant. Man called Platt.’
‘Platt?’ Watson almost shouted the name.
‘You’d met, apparently.’
‘Yes, he helped me saddle poor Lord Lockie. The horse that had to be put down. Why on earth . . . ?’
‘We think the reason he killed Sergeant Shipobottom was to take his place. Promotion.’
‘Promotion? And de Griffon? The man who promoted him?’
‘Perhaps he was afraid the captain would change his mind. Or discover the murder. He also had a written undertaking from de Griffon that he would have a position as a tattler in the mills once hostilities had ceased. It’s some kind of overlooker, by all accounts.’
Watson grunted his assent. ‘Oversees the looms, I believe.’
‘Well, with the captain out of the way, I have no doubt that the family would have honoured the appointment.’
Watson didn’t feel the usual excitement that came when a solution presented itself. Instead, he heard the swirl of waters being muddied. ‘And me? Why try to kill me?’
‘Perhaps you were getting close to the truth.’
It wouldn’t do. Wouldn’t do at all. ‘Not to that truth, Lieutenant. That truth wasn’t even a twinkle in my eye.’
The tea arrived. Watson was glad of the interruption. The whole business didn’t make any kind of sense to him. There was an inevitability about, an elegance to, the correct interpretation of a series of events. He had seen it time and time again, a golden thread running through a Gordian knot of dead ends and diversions. Not in this case. ‘You’ve spoken to de Griffon?’
‘Yes. Something of a broken man, sir,’ said Gregson.
‘After shooting Platt? Understandable.’
A slight raise of the eyebrow. ‘After shooting the horse, I think.’
‘Ahh. Of course,’ said Watson. ‘So, will the Military Police take action against de Griffon for the killing? Of the soldier, not the horse.’ Although with the British Army, one could never be sure. Sometimes there were more tears shed over one dead pony than a thousand slaughtered men.
Gregson shook his head. ‘Good officers are in short supply. He acted in self-defence. And to rescue you. We are assuming the balance of Sergeant Platt’s mind was disturbed.’
Watson picked up the telegram and handed it to the policeman. ‘Read that.’
‘Sugar?’ Miss Pippery asked.
‘Two please,’ said Gregson, as he read. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘My friend Anwar in Egypt. A doctor who helped me with the transfusion experiments. I asked him to investigate the death of a captain in Egypt. Leverton. He died sometime after I left the country.’
‘Cyanosis,’ the policeman read.
‘A blue colour to the skin.’
‘Thank you. Terrible grin. Spastic limbs . . .’
‘And?’
‘A roman numeral carved on one arm. Post mortem.’
‘Which numeral?’ Watson prompted.
‘The number two.’
‘Two. Which suggests this man was the second victim. If Platt was the murderer, this little spree began back in Egypt. Perhaps before. We still have no idea who number one might be. You’ll need a motive to explain all that. A promotion to sergeant and the promise of a foreman’s position just won’t do.’
‘You don’t suspect who number one might be?’
‘No. And we aren’t certain yet that Hornby is three.’
‘And could you be mistaken about Shipobottom’s mark?’
‘I could be mistaken about a great many things. But I’m sure that was a number four on Shipobottom, not random scratches.’
‘And Captain de Griffon . . . if he was a potential victim?’
‘He should have a “V”, a Roman five. But remember, Shipobottom’s marks were post mortem. The poisoner might have intended to score de Griffon once the toxins had done their work.’
‘I see.’ Gregson looked thoughtful. ‘Does that not suggest the murderer might be someone who would know he would have access to the body?’
‘Such as?’ Watson asked.
‘A doctor. A nurse.’
‘An orderly, a stretcher-bearer or a gravedigger,’ Watson completed. Talking of which, where was Brindle? he wondered. ‘Possibly. We don’t tend to guard our dead as well as we might, though.’
‘Thank you,’ the policeman said to Miss Pippery as she handed him the tea. He took a sip and smiled. ‘Perfect.’
‘Sir, I hope you don’t mind me interrupting, but we have a Mrs Gregson here. Or did have until recently,’ said Miss Pippery.
‘I have interviewed her. At Bailleul hospital.’
Miss Pippery glanced at Watson. Her cheeks were glowing red with embarrassment. ‘We were wondering if she was a relative. Of yours.’
‘We’ were wondering? Watson began a gentle admonishment. ‘Miss Pippery, I’m not sure this is appropriate—’
‘That’s perfectly all right,’ Gregson said. ‘The answer is no, not really.’
‘Oh,’ said Miss Pippery. ‘Right, I’ll leave you to it—’
Watson spotted the evasion. ‘Not really? What is she then?’
The policeman swallowed hard and squirmed a little in the canvas chair. ‘Wife. Ex-wife, to be perfectly frank. We were divorced some years ago.’
Miss Pippery’s eyes grew to saucer size and her hand went to her mouth. She gave a small gasp of dismay. ‘But she told me . . .’
Gregson waited for her to finish the sentence. But Miss Pippery was unable to. ‘Divorced? From George?’
‘Georgina, yes. I am afraid so,’ he confirmed.
Miss Pippery turned and ran from the tent, leaving only the dying echo of a sob behind her.
‘Tricky subject. Divorce,’ said Watson. ‘Mrs Gregson told me she was a widow, too.’ What had she said? ‘In my experience nobody seems too concerned about the honour of an aging widow.’ He had naturally assumed she was referring to herself. But he hadn’t pursued it, not wanting to open old wounds.
‘I can’t blame her,’ said Gregson, running a hand through his hair. ‘There’s still a stigma.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the departed Miss Pippery. ‘Your nurse seemed rather upset by the news.’
‘Miss Pippery is a Catholic. At least I assume so by her cross,’ explained Watson. ‘She might be modern in some ways. But perhaps not divorce.’
‘I never wanted it, Major. I had no choice. Georgina was, is, a headstrong woman.’
‘Headstrong enough to save my life. If de Griffon hadn’t inveigled upon her to give him a lift to Suffolk Farm to collect Lord Lockie . . .’
‘Yes, quite.’ He paused. ‘Georgina joined the suffragettes in late 1906, perhaps early ’07. Just as I was making progress in my career at Scotland Yard. I blame myself. I couldn’t pay her my full attention. A policeman’s hours . . . Well, she got up to mischief. She couldn’t see how untenable the situation was for me. Always being arrested, civil disobedience and what have you. And then there was the trial. The last straw. I was told in no uncertain terms that if I wanted to remain a policeman, I would have to separate myself from her. Which I did.’
‘Trial?’
‘At the Old Bailey. You probably remember it. The Sutton Courtenay Outrage.’
It rang an ominous bell, but it was around the time he had been so wrapped up in the death of Emily, he had hardly picked up a newspaper. It was more a sensation than a clear memory, a prickling of the skin. ‘What was she on trial for?’ Watson asked, dreading the answer.
‘Attempted murder.’
‘Of whom?’
‘The Prime Minister.’
FIFTY-NINE
THE PALL MALL GAZETTE
THE OUTRAGE AT SUTTON COURTENAY: VERDICT IN
At the Central Criminal Court, yesterday, before Mr Justice Bankes and a jury, Mrs Georgina Gregson, thirty, was placed on h
er trial charged with having set fire to the summer house (by the use of a specially constructed ‘arson’ or ‘Orsini’ bomb) at The Wharf, Sutton Courtenay, knowing full well that the Prime Minister, The Right Hon. H. H. Asquith was within, which resulted in a charge of attempted murder. Mr Bodkin and Mr Travers Humphreys prosecuted; Mr Langdon, KC, and Mr E. D. Muir appeared for the defence.
Despite testimony of good character from Mrs Carter-Tate and Mrs Gregson’s husband, Inspector Tobias Gregson, a member of Scotland Yard’s élite CID squad, Mrs Gregson was found guilty.
Mr Justice Bankes, in summing up, said that ‘not very long ago it would have been unthinkable that a well-educated, well-brought-up young woman could have committed a crime like this. Not long ago one would have heard appeals to juries to acquit her on the grounds that it was unthinkable she could have committed such a crime. But, unfortunately, women as a class have forfeited any presumption in their favour of that kind. As a consequence it is impossible to approach these cases from the standpoint from which they would have been approached only a few years ago. It was open to the accused to give some explanation, but she has not done so, and the suggestion of her counsel that she is wholly innocent when traces of mercury of fulminate were found in her home and on her clothes was rightly dismissed by the jury.’
The judge went on to call her alibi for the night in question ‘laughably thin’ and to praise the anonymous individual who had ‘tipped off’ detectives that Mrs Gregson was one of the perpetrators.
The prisoner then proceeded to read a long statement in which she denied the jurisdiction of the Court, contending that women should be on the jury.
The Judge: ‘I have listened to what you have had to say, and my duty is to pass sentence upon you. It is no desire of mine to lecture you, but I am provoked by what you said to say this, and this only: The statement you have made seems to me to indicate that you have lost all sense of the consequence of what you are doing. You do not seem to realize the loss and injury and anxiety that such acts as yours cause to all classes – not only to the rich but to the poor and struggling; not only to men but to women. You talk about man-made law as if that was the only law that ought to govern people’s actions. You must have heard of another law which says: “Ye shall do unto others as ye would that they should do unto you.” That is the law you are breaking.’
The judge also said that her unwillingness to give up her coconspirators would count against her. Mrs Gregson was sentenced to ten years with hard labour. She immediately announced her intention to go on hunger strike.
SIXTY
Watson waited until the policeman finished explaining the case and the coverage of it by the newspapers and periodicals. ‘I remember it, vaguely. Bad business. Did the women’s cause no good at all.’
‘Georgina, or the Red She-Devil as the lower papers liked to call her, had a hard time of it in Holloway. You have to bear that in mind when she is being . . . prickly. The force-feeding, the humiliating searches, the attacks, they took their toll.’
‘Attacks?’
‘A policeman’s wife in prison? It was one of the reasons I divorced her. She could deny being a copper’s missus then. Of course, too stubborn to change her name.’
‘Only one of the reasons?’ Watson asked gently.
‘Don’t judge me too harshly, Major.’ From the depths of his wallet he produced a small newspaper cutting. ‘You might not have seen this.’
It was two paragraphs long. It described how ‘new evidence’ had come to light that suggested that Mrs Gregson had been wrongly convicted. She was freed on appeal. In a statement she said she was glad justice had been done and swore to promote the cause of women’s rights through peaceful means. What was she looking forward to most? A bath in private and a ride on a very fast motor cycle.
‘The trials and the convictions get all the fanfare,’ said Gregson, ‘the aftermath very little. I still meet people who remember the Red She-Devil, but not that she was acquitted. It’s why I carry this around.’
‘I must confess this second act of the drama passed me by completely,’ said Watson. ‘But if she didn’t . . . ?’
‘It was to frame her, Major. The Women’s Freedom League, which Georgina supported, believed in civil unrest and disobedience, but not some of the extreme anarchist acts that the Women’s Social and Political Union and others indulged in. Nor the harrying and physical assaults on politicians that were commonplace.’
Watson nodded. He recalled that Churchill had been laid into with a riding crop by the suffragette Theresa Garnett. He had not pressed charges, merely saying that he had sworn to treat his horse more humanely in future after feeling the bite of a whip.
‘Well, the guerillists of the WSPU were losing influence to the WFL, and they decided to tar them with the same brush. They planted the bomb, having lured Georgina to a false meeting, and left materials that implicated her in our cellar. It took me a long time to prove that she had gone to the deserted hall for a fictitious meeting and could not have planted the bomb.’
‘You continued the investigation?’
‘She was my wife,’ Gregson said softly.
But you did divorce her, Watson thought. Still, the man at least had the decency to carry on trying to clear her name. He should be given credit for his tenacity. ‘And relations now with Mrs Gregson?’
‘Cordial,’ he said with regret. ‘Little more than cordial. After her release she moved from London, to where she enjoyed rather less notoriety.’
‘But still didn’t change her name?’
‘No. She was an innocent woman, she said. With nothing to hide.’ Except a husband, it seemed. ‘Still, interesting. That a militant suffragette should be part and parcel of the events here.’
Gregson looked as if he had been slapped. ‘You’re not suggesting—’
‘No.’ Watson shook his head vigorously. ‘No. Not unless Mrs Gregson was in Egypt within the past year.’
‘Not that I am aware of.’
‘There is something here that is making me uncomfortable. Something not quite right.’ Watson slumped back on his pillow, drained by the effort of thinking, and of groping in the dark for tenuous connections. ‘I’m not quite on top form, Inspector—’
‘Lieutenant,’ Gregson corrected.
‘Sorry. I can see your father in you now, you know. We were a little cruel to the policemen. Not just your father. Poor Lestrade. And to Inspector Gregory. I’m sorry. It was just a little game.’
‘Major Watson, let me tell you, he used to huff and puff, but secretly he was pleased as Punch to be included in your stories. Proud, even. I should let you rest now. I will be back to continue our discussion.’
‘Thank you. Can you send Miss Pippery back in? If she feels up to it?’
Watson’s eyes were closed when Miss Pippery returned to the tent and she was about to tiptoe out when he spoke. ‘Don’t think too badly of her.’
Miss Pippery fingered the cross on the chain she had taken out from her collar. ‘I’ll try not to, but divorce.’ She said it in the way she might have said ‘cockroaches’ or ‘spiders’, and with an accompanying shudder. ‘Perhaps I should have guessed. My parents never liked her, you know.’
‘Well, forgive me, Miss Pippery, but I do. Like her, I mean.’
Her face was a picture of distaste. ‘But—’
‘Thirty years ago, I might have thought like you. I hope not, but I had views then at odds with those I hold now. But there are also mitigating circumstances at play here. Powerful ones. I suggest you write and ask her to explain herself.’
‘I couldn’t.’
‘Write to her at the hospital.’
‘I already have. I have told her that we can never be friends again.’
‘So soon? You haven’t posted it?’
‘There was a messenger leaving for Bailleul. I scribbled a note—’
‘No!’ the vehemence with which he pronounced the word brought on a coughing fit. He groped for the water and to
ok a gulp. ‘You foolish girl. Trust me on this one thing if no other. You let that stand, from the other end of your life you’ll look back with nothing but regret. She’s your friend, and that is not something to be tossed away lightly. You get in touch with her.’ He found himself wagging a finger. ‘God, if He is anything like the God we think we know, will forgive you.’
‘And her? You think He will forgive her?’
‘Yes. God will forgive her. But will He forgive you if you drive a schism between two friends?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘We are born alone and die alone. In between we have the chance to make precious few connections to other men and women. It is a human imperative to find someone, be it friend or lover, that we can take succour from and offer it in return. Look at those men in the trenches. To them, the comradeship forged out there might turn out to be the most important bond they will ever know. Because, one day, only someone who has been through this at their side will understand, really understand them.’
He took another drink of water. ‘It’s a messy business sometimes. Husbands and wives divorce, friends become enemies, love cools. But we are driven to try again. And again. You are wounded because Mrs Gregson lied to you. So am I. You feel deceived, betrayed. Put those feelings aside for a moment. Tell me about Mrs Gregson.’
Miss Pippery began to fiddle with her cross again. ‘Well, let me see . . .’
‘Put the cross away. Not the divorcee. The Mrs Gregson you love.’
‘Love?’ she repeated, as if it was the first time she had heard the word.
‘Don’t you?’
‘I . . .’ She squeezed the cross and tucked it down her neckline. ‘I love that she has this, this skin that seems thicker than everybody else’s. That she is always ready to try something new. That she isn’t cowed by authority. I love that she defends me.’
‘You love that you can call her your friend. You love that she chose you to be her friend. It makes you proud,’ he said, remembering what Gregson had said about his father. ‘Doesn’t it?’
