A Death for a Cause

by Caroline Dunford

  ‘My experience has been,’ I said, thinking of Madam Arcana, ‘that mediums offer a mixture of information some of which may feel true and some of which does not.’ I nodded to Angela, ‘I mean no offence, but I fear at best people hear what they wish to hear and at worst they are misled by the unscrupulous.’

  ‘As if I could take offence at that,’ said Angela with a sharp laugh.

  ‘But who would take the shank?’ asked Constance.

  ‘If you are insistent that this women be not handed over to the guard, which I consider most unwise, then I will take it,’ said Martha, and held out her hand.

  ‘I think, perhaps, none of us should have it,’ said Constance. ‘I could not feel easy that it was in the cell. It could be obtained by the killer.’

  ‘We could throw it out of the cell,’ I suggested. ‘If we aim correctly though the bars it will likely go unnoticed for some time in the dim corridor. And even if it is found then no one will be sure where it came from.’ Abigail threw me a startled look.

  ‘What about fingermarks?’ asked Constance nervously. ‘I hear there is a new science that traces who has touched things by examining the marks on the ends of one’s fingers.’

  ‘Let ’em try and look at my fingers,’ said Abigail, ‘I’ll give them a knuckle sandwich.’

  ‘No one has taken an imprint of our fingers, which is how I believe the science works,’ I said. ‘I read a little about it in the newspapers. I believe we have handled it enough between us that any marks would be quite confused.’

  ‘So you too side with this woman?’ asked Martha.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I do not wish to side with anyone. However, I do wish that true justice will take its course, and I have been convinced by all of you that merely turning Miss Stokes over to the guard will ensure her found guilty without the bother of a proper investigation. That is not something my conscience will allow.’

  ‘Neither will mine,’ said Constance stoutly. ‘Well said, Euphemia.’

  I could, of course, hope that Fitzroy would see that true justice was done, but I feared that the spy would be most keen on closing the incident at quickly as possible. I had borne first-hand witness to his ruthlessness and I doubted strongly that he considered the death of poor little Maisie Dawson as important. Indeed, I knew he was chafing to be put back in the dark world of intrigue that was his natural milieu. I feared Fitzroy would all too happily embrace the easy option.

  ‘So throw out the knife and we can prepare for the séance,’ said Angela. Mary went over to the bars and threw the knife into the corridor. It landed some distance from the cell.

  ‘I believe that to be out of reach,’ she said in a satisfied manner.

  Jasmine and Eunice released Abigail, who stood forlornly attempting to rub the feeling back into her sore arms. ‘Thanks,’ she said very quietly as I passed her to sit on the bench.

  ‘So let’s get on with it,’ said Eunice stoutly.

  ‘Needs to be twilight, at least,’ said Angela. ‘The spirits do not like bright light.’

  Martha groaned. ‘How tiresome of them.’

  As I had seen Madam Arcana take séances during both evening and daylight hours I did not know what to make of this statement. I looked across at Angela Blackwood and to my astonishment she grinned at me. Her whole face lighting up. The expression was gone in an instant, so I could not be entirely sure the smile had been aimed at me, but no one else seemed to have remarked it. It then dawned on me that perhaps Miss Blackwood was a lot more clever than I had given her credit. None of us knew for certain whether or not she could speak to Maisie, though I strongly doubted it, but I felt certain that the killer sitting waiting for the long day to pass would find the impending séance extremely uncomfortable. In fact they might find it so unnerving that their behaviour might give them away. Who knew what a woman desperate enough to kill in a cell full of sleeping women might do if she thought there was a chance she was shortly to be unmasked? I looked across once more at Miss Blackwood. She nodded very slightly at me. I felt a slight shiver down my spine. I had no doubt she knew exactly what I was thinking.

  31 They say that pets take after their owners and Mother’s spaniel, Walter, had been grumpy and nippy with a very shrill bark. I was not terribly sad when it died after being crushed by a cow whose legs it had been snapping at.

  32 As was the rest of me, but that is perhaps a little too indelicate to mention.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A most unexpected visitor

  Once matters had been decided an uneasy calm settled in the cell. I determined to watch the other women closely as the day wore on. However, watching others when you are closely confined, as I quickly discovered, is no easy task. Not least because the others were openly watching each other. All of us were also exhibiting a natural nervousness, not unlike that of a group of hens who fear a fox is in their midst. Abigail Stokes had withdrawn as far from the group as she could. Her eyes darted back and forth as she surveyed the group. Martha Lake had also retreated to a corner and was staring dismally at the small barred window high above us. Her thoughts obviously elsewhere. The twins were seated once more on the bench. Jasmine leant against her sister with her eyes closed and snored softly. Eunice’s bright eyes met mine and I sensed she had appointed herself guard to her sleeping sister. Angela had taken a third corner. She appeared awake and watchful. She flashed me another broad grin when my eyes encountered hers. This left only Constance, Mary and myself. There remained one corner, but all three of us seemed to be inhibited by politeness from retreating.

  We had been too slow to claim our space and now sat uneasily in the middle of the cell. ‘It is surprisingly comfortable sitting on the floor,’ said Constance.

  ‘A relaxing of the rigorous nature of deportment from time to time is certainly welcome,’ answered Mary.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Constance lowering her voice, ‘I own that I have not given up corsetry entirely as some of our Sisterhood have done, but I have – shall we say – expanded my standards.’

  Mary and I dutifully gave a small chuckle each. Though I liked both women well enough,33 internally I was well aware of a rising boredom. It seemed likely to me that unless one of us broke under the strain the day would be spent in conversation on undergarments, knitting, and other such inane mundanities. Soon I might be the one resorting to murder. Certainly none of the women here were currently exhibiting either the political fanaticism or hysteria that the newspapers claimed was the norm for the ‘Shrieking Sisterhood’.

  I became dimly aware that Constance and Mary had moved on to discussing the merits of stockings of various materials. ‘I prefer woollen,’ injected Jasmine, startling us all. ‘So cosy.’

  ‘I thought you were asleep, dear,’ said Eunice.

  ‘Resting my eyes, dear,’ returned Jasmine. ‘As if one could sleep when one is so hungry.’

  It struck me that it must be well past breakfast time. However, having been overfed by Fitzroy, who seemed to have an affection for childish, stodgy puddings, much like Bertram did, my stomach had issued no complaint.

  ‘It does not seem a good idea to summon the guard,’ said Mary sadly.

  ‘Talk of food may provoke them,’ echoed Constance.

  ‘I do feel a little faint,’ moaned Jasmine.

  ‘You have missed one meal,’ snapped Angela. ‘There are many in this city who daily count themselves lucky to have even one crust of bread.’

  ‘I don’t want bread,’ said Jasmine, ‘but I rather fancy a coddled egg.’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ said Abigail under her breath.

  ‘It’s not a blooming hotel,’ countered Angela.

  ‘I would ask you not to speak to my sister in such terms,’ said Eunice, sitting very upright. I wondered if things were about to start up again, but not in the way I wanted. I strongly doubted that fighting over foodstuffs and stockings would bring us any nearer to exposing the murderess. This was all becoming extremely wearisome. So it was with both alarm an
d relief that I jumped at the sound of my name being called in a male voice. The guard, who had told me to call him ‘Mark’, stood at the bars.

  ‘Miss St John,’ he said coldly, ‘you are wanted.’ I struggled to my feet.34 Mary put out her arm to support me. I thanked her and made my way across to the door. Mark opened it and ushered me out.

  However, instead of taking me along the corridor towards the room Fitzroy favoured, he took me in the direction of the visiting room. When he opened the door I strode in expecting to see Richenda or perhaps Bertram. However, the person seated at the table was the very last person I expected to see.

  ‘Good morning, Hans,’ I said, my voice a little shaky. I put up my hand to push the pins further into my hair. ‘I am afraid we have not been provided with basic facilities. I must look quite atrocious.’

  Ever the gentleman, Hans rose and took my hand in his. He led me to the seat, which he pulled out for me. ‘You never look anything other than enchanting, Euphemia.’

  I collapsed into the hard seat. ‘Hans, I am so very sorry.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ he asked sitting opposite me.

  ‘You must be furious,’ I said. ‘And rightly so.’

  ‘I am,’ said Hans with sudden frown, ‘but not with you. Richenda had no business involving you in her madness. Good God, a public march! What could she have been thinking.’ He gave me a slight smile. ‘I acquit you of all involvement, Euphemia. I know you are far too well-bred to ever have considered making such a public spectacle of yourself.’

  My mind flashed briefly back to the moment I had pulled that policeman from his horse. ‘It is not that I do not support the Sisterhood, Hans. Richenda may well have believed I would be happy to attend.’ I found myself defending my employer with some warmth.

  Hans made a passing gesture with his hands. ‘Be that as it may. The genteel support of the cause through letter-writing and the occasional well-regulated meeting for ladies of class is one thing. What Richenda has done is quite another.’

  ‘You support the cause?’ I asked, suddenly curious, but Hans, as ever, was diplomatic. ‘I do not oppose it per se. I am unsure if the majority of women wish for the vote and to take on the extra burden of interesting themselves in the matter of running the country. I believe that many of your sex, Euphemia, are far too busy, and indeed successful, in running their own homes and families. It seems to be that the role of a woman supporting a man is a very full one. Or should be.’ His face darkened.

  ‘I believe Richenda is motivated by belief rather than any desire to cause trouble for … anyone …’ I trailed off. There was a rigid set to Hans’s mouth.

  ‘I do not suppose you would be able to tell me where my wife is?’

  ‘She is not at the hotel?’

  ‘I arrived this morning to be told she had left me a note. She obviously was well aware that despite her request not to follow her to town, I would do so. Despite the fact I have told her I am engaged in the most serious business at present. Not to mention that she has left Amy alone for far too long. It was her decision to adopt the child, and I was happy to acquiesce to her request, but my wife must be brought to realise the consequences of her actions and that she cannot flit from one frivolous scheme to another as she did before our marriage.’

  I quailed inwardly. It was out of character for Hans to criticise Richenda in front of me, or anyone. He must be extremely angry. ‘What did the note say?’ I asked gently, praying she had not mentioned anything about investigating the incident at the railway station.

  ‘It merely said that she had an errand to do and that she would return shortly, if I cared to wait.’

  ‘Then she knew you were coming to town?’

  ‘I think that after your incarceration she rather expected it,’ said Hans dryly. ‘No, tell me, Euphemia what is this all about?’

  ‘It started with the deaths doubtless read about in the newspapers, but since then one of my cellmates was strangled in the night and we are all under suspicion.’

  ‘Good God!’ exclaimed Hans. ‘I am sorry for my language, but to think my wife has placed you in this position. It is unconscionable.’

  I reached out a hand and laid it briefly and lightly on his arm. ‘Hans, I really do not blame anyone. Or if I do it is the authorities for the way they handled the march. They rode in amongst us on horses.’

  Hans paled. ‘I read of it in the newspapers. I have already written to my MP.’ He sighed. ‘For all the good that will do.’

  ‘At least it isn’t Richard,’ I said with a smile.35

  Hans gave a short laugh. ‘No that would be a pointless exercise.’ Then he straightened his cuffs and gave me a level look. ‘I assume you believe the girl who was killed witnessed an action that one of your other cellmates perpetrated during the march? And that this is most likely connected to the firebombing?’

  ‘It could be something else, but that does stretch incredulity.’

  ‘Of course, she could have been killed for any number of reasons, but this does seem the most likely. From what I gather, Wilks was a high-ranking civil servant without immediate family. From the limited information I can gather he appears to have lived beyond what I would have expected of even one in such a position as his. Of course, he may have been a beneficiary of a legacy we do not know of.’

  ‘But you think he may have been committing embezzlement?’

  Hans looked shocked. ‘Euphemia, as a banker I would never say such a thing about someone without absolute proof.’

  ‘But his manner of living arouses your suspicions?’

  ‘That I will allow. He also went to one of the very best schools, so as well as his position in the civil service I am certain he had connections of significance.’

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ I murmured.

  ‘Of the people he knew well I have come across five names that he appears to be most closely associated with: Sir Henry Bassington, a peer in the House of Lords, who he fagged for at school; Mr Humphrey Wellington, a man who shocked his family by making a fortune in trade – stockings and other ladies’ fripperies, I believe; Mr Eric Bellows, a man of independent means who spends his time hiding from his wife and five children in the better clubs in town; Sir Harrington Blake, a stalwart of the Foreign Office; and lastly Mr Pierce Clegwood, a merchant banker.’

  I had been listening with astonishment, but at the last name I collected myself, and closed my mouth that had fallen open in a most unladylike manner. ‘I assume it is the last man to whom we owe a debt for this information?’

  Hans shook his head. ‘I have helped him make sound investments. There is no debt.’36

  ‘I am very grateful you have gone to such lengths, Hans, but what do you expect me to do with this information?’

  ‘I have been aware that you and Bertram have certain connections …’ He let his words hang in the air for a moment, then continued, ‘I believe that they will find these links too, but I think I have found them quicker. I hope it might help.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ I said.

  ‘It is the least I can do, not merely because of what my wife has done, but because of what I must do.’ A feeling of unease crept over me. After all his assurances, was Hans about to evict me from his home and my position?

  33 Though not well enough to acquit them of murder without further investigation! What a strange life I have led.

  34 It is not easy for a lady in skirts to rise from the floor with any degree of dignity, especially when she is unused to such an exercise.

  35 I was referring to his brother-in-law Richard Staple ford, Richenda’s twin, who was currently a Member of Parliament, which demonstrates beyond doubt that civic standards have fallen to an all-time low.

  36 Sometimes he could be absurdly literal.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Anyway…

  ‘I am afraid I must distance my family from this situation. My position at this time, being of German heritage, is not a comfortable one. I cannot afford to draw unwa
nted attention to myself. I am only a director. I can always be voted out of my position, and there is the estate to think of. It is not yet self-sufficient and a great many people’s livelihoods are in my hands.’

  Tears pricked at the back of my eyes, but I swallowed hard and said in as strong voice as I could. ‘I quite understand.’

  ‘You are truly a most estimable woman,’ said Hans.

  ‘Let us hope another employer will think so,’ I said with a quivering smile.

  Hans frowned. ‘What? No! Good heavens, as if I would … how could you …’ He took a deep breath. ‘I meant that I must remove both Richenda and myself from London for the present. You will, of course, return to us as soon as you are released. To that end I have engaged Sir Bartholomew Farnsworth. I understand him to be one of the country’s best defence lawyers, if not the best.’

  ‘Heavens, Hans,’ I cried, ‘I cannot allow you such expense.’

  Hans raised one of my hands to his lips and said, ‘You are worth it, my dear. Now, I must leave you, and I feel a dashed cad for doing so, but it is in the certain belief that Sir Bartholomew will have you home very shortly.’ And he left the room.

  ‘Drat,’ I said aloud to the empty cell. I could just imagine what Fitzroy would make of me suddenly having obtained the services of highly regarded legal counsel. As soon as Mark appeared to return me to my cell, I told him of what had passed. ‘I fear Fitzroy won’t like this,’ I finished lamely.

  ‘Not like? He’ll go bloody ballistic,’ said Mark and then blushed. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘This place isn’t conducive to gentlemanly behaviour.’

  ‘I find it odd that at one moment you gentlemen treat me like some kind of fragile flower and the next you throw me in a cell with a murderess.’ I knew my tone was not conciliatory, but I was growing weary of having my loyalties tugged in all directions. It was at that moment that the dreadful sergeant appeared.

  ‘Give ’er to me. She’s wanted.’