The Suffragette's Secret: A Morton Farrier Short Story (The Forensic Genealogist Series)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘22nd February 1911. Suffragette Raid on Downing Street. Ministers Assaulted—Windows Smashed. Mr Asquith’s statement in the House of Commons on Tuesday, regarding the facilities the Government were prepared to give next session to the Women’s Suffrage Bill, raised the wrath of the militants. A meeting of suffragettes was being held in Caxton Hall when the terms of the Prime Minister’s announcement were made known. The meeting refused to accept them as satisfactory and Mrs Pankhurst announced that she would go herself to Downing Street, and the whole body of women, armed with banners on bamboo pole, set out to march to the Premier’s House. On arrival there they found only three or four policemen on duty, and thinking they had at last outwitted the powers of Cannon Row, they raised a cheer. Their victory, however, appeared to be more apparent than real. The constables on duty at once did their best to check the invading women, and in response to their whistles, a special force was despatched from Cannon Row. This force marched along Charles Street and through the Foreign Office quadrangle, emerging right opposite to the residence of the First Lord of the Treasury. The suffragettes threw themselves upon the police. For some minutes a bitter struggle prevailed, and then the police were forced back, and a shrieking, hysterical mass of men and women poured into Downing Street. For some moments a scene of pandemonium reigned. Policemen’s helmets were knocked off with bamboo poles, and suffragettes kicked their legs. Mr Asquith was crossing Parliament Square, apparently on his way to Downing Street, when he stumbled right into the midst of the deputation. He was quickly surrounded by the women, and one of them, Miss Grace Emmerson, approached him and struck him, saying, ‘You tax women as heavily as men, and yet not one woman is represented.’ Half a dozen policemen surrounded Mr Asquith, whistles were blown, a taxi-cab was driven up, and the Premier was hustled into it. As the cab was driven away Miss Emmerson shouted ‘Traitor, coward,’ and then put her fist through the small pane of glass at the back of the cab. Arrest after arrest was made and soon Downing Street was cleared.’

  Morton sat back and rubbed his tired temples. ‘Wow,’ he said. What a feisty woman, accosting the Prime Minister like that. Amazing. Having read the report once more and printed it out, he cross-referenced the date of the account with the information on Ancestry’s Suffragettes Arrested register. Bow Street 22/2/11 – 200.455. The same incident. Clearly, a visit to The National Archives would be in order.

  Having exhausted the newspaper articles on Grace, Morton turned his attention back to her childhood and to trying to understand the reason for her decade-long incarceration in Brighton Union Workhouse.

  He typed the names of Grace’s mother, Eliza Emmerson, into the 1881 census, followed by that of her father, Ebenezer. Although he didn’t know enough about Grace’s parents to be absolutely certain, he was fairly sure that they did not show up in the results. There were several possibilities for this, but the most likely being that they had died soon after Grace’s birth in 1876.

  He switched to the 1871 census and quickly found Ebenezer, an unmarried solicitor’s clerk living in Brighton. He also found twenty-six-year-old spinster Eliza—under her maiden name of Hodgson—living with her solicitor father and mother in a house on the outskirts of Brighton. But what, then, had happened in the intervening decade? Ebenezer and Eliza had met—most likely under circumstances concerned with her father’s and Ebenezer’s shared legal work; they had married in 1875 in the Brighton district and, one year later, Grace had been born. According to the birth indexes on the General Register Office website, there had been no further children to the marriage.

  Morton ran a search between 1871 and 1881 for their deaths and found them. Ebenezer had died in the Brighton district in 1877 and Eliza in the same district in 1880.

  Poor girl, Morton thought, an orphan before the age of four. It certainly explained the extended incarceration in the workhouse.

  ‘I can’t sleep,’ Juliette announced, suddenly appearing at the door. ‘I think I’m hungry. When did we last eat anything healthy?’

  Morton had no idea. Most of their meals had either been takeaways, something quick from the freezer or else skipped entirely. He shrugged. ‘Before Miss Farrier made an appearance, I guess. I’ll make us something. What do you fancy?’

  ‘Surprise me.’

  ‘Okay,’ Morton agreed, opening the fridge door. ‘Right. Let me think what I can make with milk, strawberry jam, three limp carrots, two out-of-date eggs and some red nail varnish. I think I’d better get down to Jempson’s.’ Morton kissed her on the lips and headed for the door. ‘Oh, carry on with this list.’ He handed Juliette the baby name book and the names which he had liked.

  ‘Beatrice, Burgundy and Catherine. Is that it?’

  ‘So far.’

  Juliette huffed and glanced down at the book. ‘Chinadoll? Really! Chickadee? Christmas? I don’t think I’m of sound-enough mind to do this—I’ll end up picking a name at random and scarring the poor girl for life.’

  Morton laughed, pulled on his shoes and opened the front door.

  ‘Cinderella—there you go!’ Juliette shouted. ‘Done.’

  Cinderella Farrier: his little princess. It certainly had a ring to it.

  Chapter Six

  The traffic had been horrendous. It was kind of his own fault for driving to Kew, on the outskirts of London, during rush-hour. What had he expected? Under a mackerel sky, he parked up and switched off the engine. He yawned, stretched and sighed, then grabbed his bag from the passenger seat and strode towards The National Archives. The building—ostensibly a monstrous block of uninspiring concrete—was reflected in a lake over which it presided, like an aloof monarch. A flock of Canada Geese flew low overhead, landing noisily in the still waters beside him.

  Morton entered the building and, having had a security guard rifle through his bag, removed his notepad and pencil and placed his bag in a locker, before bounding up the stairs to the first floor. Guarding the entrance to the Document Reading Room were two further blue-jacketed security guards. Morton swiped his card and entered the room with a smile on his face; he loved coming here. Over one thousand years of British history—much of it unexplored and untouched in the vaults for decades—could be in his hands at the click of a few buttons.

  He was like the proverbial child in a sweetshop; but he needed to focus. He had just a few hours here to find out as much as he could about Juliette’s great grandmother, Grace Emmerson. He had escaped the house this morning just before the anticipated arrival of Juliette’s highly-strung mother, Margot. She would undoubtedly arrive in a whirlwind of Mary Poppins’ good intentions: cooking, cleaning and reorganising their home. The first thing, about which she would complain, would undoubtedly be the baby’s not yet having a name. They had reached ‘F’ in the book, so technically they were almost a quarter of the way there. Cleo, Dakota, Eden, Eve, Felicity and Flora had made the shortlist. Just at least another 24,000 names to sift through and they should have a decent shortlist.

  Having abandoned the baby name book late last night, Morton had pre-ordered six documents to be ready for his arrival this morning, and so he headed directly to a bank of lockers with translucent orange doors. On each door was a number etched in white which corresponded to a designated seat number. 10B, that was Morton’s seat of choice and habit. Pulling open the locker door, he selected the first document: MEPO 3/203—Suffragettes’ Complaints against Police.

  He carried the thick file into the main search room and sat down at seat 10B. The room was vast, containing thirty-six tables, each offering eight places, plus a run of ten camera tables close to the windows, again each with eight spaces. Today, the room was around half-full.

  Morton unbound the file and turned to the first page. It was headed ‘Metropolitan Police, Bow Street, E Division’ and was an account from the side of the police about the incident at Downing Street: ‘I, with three sergeants and thirty constables proceeded to Cannon Row Police Station for reserve duty. Shortly after arrival we were sent to Downing Street where we
found a large crowd of people, chiefly women, endeavouring to force their way into the Premier’s residence. By threading our way through the people close to the building we were able to get in front of the crowd and assist in clearing the street. The women were very excited and time and again made concerted rushes at police, but after great difficulty they were driven back into Parliament Street. Two cordons of police were then drawn across Downing Street to prevent the crowd from reforming. The women, however, repeatedly hurled themselves at police and endeavoured to break through the lines until overcome by sheer exhaustion. During the whole time I saw no undue violence used by police of any kind. Neither was any complaint made to me by any person and had such conduct occurred as alleged by complainants, I could not have failed to observe it. Respectfully Chief Inspector John Millings.’

  Morton photographed the police’s version of events, which was supported by several pages of junior ranking officers, all of whom strenuously denied any wrong-doing. The subsequent pages—more than equal in number—were filled with complaint after complaint from men and women accusing the police of using undue and severe violence. Morton took time to read and photograph each account. A bleak picture of viciousness on the part of the police was forming. Among the statements was one from G. Emmerson: ‘On Wednesday 22nd February 1911, I was repeatedly thumped in the back. My arms were twisted and also my fingers. The police purposely trod on my feet while trying to take my hands off the railings. The policeman held me by the breast and I told him to take his hands off me. For an answer, he struck me in the mouth, making my lips bleed. I was then dragged along the pavement by three policemen who had torn off my hat and thrown away my hatpins. One of the policemen took off his helmet and hit me in the leg with it three times in a most violent manner. Some of the terrible injuries inflicted upon me that day have yet still to improve. I now walk with a cane—a situation my doctor informs me may never change.’

  After more than an hour of reading, Morton reached the end of the file and exhaled noisily. The countless suffragette complaints, identifying specific officers by their numbered epaulettes, were dismissed; hard labour custodial sentences of varying degrees were metered out by an unsympathetic Magistrate. Morton closed the folder, rebound it and handed it in to the Document Returns desk. He then selected another file from the locker: HO 144/1106/200455—the first of the three Home Office records referred to on the Ancestry Suffragette register.

  He carried the grey cardboard file, wrapped in a white cord, back to his desk. He sat down, carefully untied it and opened it up. It contained a collection of loosely bound papers, aged and discoloured by time. The first page comprised the criminal case of one Nellie Godfrey, arrested for throwing a missile into Winston Churchill’s motor-car. The next pertained to the case details of Sarah Carwin, convicted of breaking windows at the Board of Trade. Her file also included a petition to be classified as a political prisoner, a theme which Morton found continued throughout the documents of the convicted suffragettes. He was almost half-way through the file when he first encountered Grace’s name. It was an off-blue sheet, date stamped by the Home Office 4th March 1911 and entitled: PETITION.

  Name: Grace Emmerson

  Age on conviction: 35

  Conduct in prison: Bad

  Offence: Assault, damage to property

  Prison: H.M. Holloway

  ‘To the Right Honourable His Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State for the Home Department. The petition demand of the above-named prisoner humbly sheweth:-…’

  Before he even went on to read Grace’s personal statement, he could tell by the way that she had crossed out petition and replaced it with demand and had obliterated the words humbly sheweth that it was going to make for a very interesting read.

  ‘…that I am a political prisoner and demand to be placed in the First Division. Men, when they are convicted of political acts are allowed to wear their own clothes and various other privileges and I claim the right to the same treatment. I understand that all suffrage prisoners are entitled to certain privileges under Mr Churchill’s regulations, viz to write and receive letters, to see visitors once a fortnight, to have our own books and needlework, to exercise twice daily and talk freely during exercise time. This treatment has been refused us. I shall decline to keep the rules of the prison until this claim is granted, no matter what the punishment might be. Grace Emmerson.’

  Morton ran his finger over Grace’s original signature, his admiration for her growing with each new record that offered a glimpse into her life. He was far from an expert on suffragettes, but he was aware of the brutal treatment and force-feeding that had taken place in prisons.

  Next came a report from the Governor of Holloway Prison, James Scott, which Morton read with interest. ‘As I reported to you yesterday verbally, the 14 suffragettes, mutinous since reception, all broke their cell windows yesterday. They were left in the same cells. Some of them were singing loudly, and they all continued insubordinate in conduct. In the forenoon today they became very disorderly. They continued to sing and shout. Some of them waved their sashes through the broken panes. Some of their friends had secured a room in the neighbourhood, and spoke to them through a megaphone, made various signals, etc. The Police were referred to, and they inform me, as the result of their enquiries, that the room occupied by the outside suffragettes was secured by Cecil Barwise, of Linden Grove in Brighton, who is said to be a groom there.’

  Morton stopped reading and stared at the page. Cecil Barwise—the man who would later become Grace’s husband—had taken a room opposite the prison. Had it been to be nearer to Grace? Or simply to assist with the suffragette cause? Perhaps both.

  He returned to the document: ‘The committee met at 4pm, having been reported to them under Rule 82, paras 3 and 5. They tried the 14 prisoners separately. All of them admitted the charges and gloried in their offences. Not one of them would promise amendment. Some of them were impertinent, noisy, and violent. One of them declared that she would not eat any food in prison. One of them bit a wardress so severely in the hand, that she has been put on the sick-list. One of them threw her loaf at an Officer, and also threw her hot cocoa over her, burning her and spoiling her uniform. Some of them made so much noise in their cells, singing, knocking, ringing bells, etc during the trials that the Magistrates had difficulty in proceeding at times. The Magistrates had no difficulty in deciding that the prisoners must all be punished. They were all, after sentence, placed in different cells to those they occupied before trial. Eight of them have been put in the special cells. James Scott.’

  Special cells, Morton thought. An ominous-sounding, camouflage term that smacked of institutional abuses.

  It took him the best part of two hours to complete the file. Although there were no further mentions of Grace by name, the documents continued to provide an illuminating account of the suffragettes’ incarcerations. It saddened Morton to think that Grace, having spent her childhood in the Brighton Union Workhouse, had, as an adult, exchanged one draconian institution for another.

  The next file contained more complaints, letters written by suffragettes to the Home Office protesting at their treatment in prison. Several pages in, Morton discovered a letter written by Grace following her release.

  ‘The Right Honourable H. Gladstone. Dear Sir, In reference to your replies in the House Wednesday night as to the cells in which we suffragettes were placed, I should like to say that I think it is a pity that a man in your high position should not be more cognisant of the real facts as they exist. Having been brutalised and injured by the police whilst protesting at Downing Street, I was held in Holloway one month and during the whole of that time I was kept in close confinement for protesting against being put in the 2nd Division. For the same protest I was put into a punishment cell which was dark, foul and most insanitary. The place had been washed just previously to my incarceration and did not properly dry all night. The bed which was fastened to the wall was very damp and I was unable to take my clothe
s off but sat wrapped in a blanket the whole of that night. The cell in question is wholly unfit for human inhabitation. I have seen several of my colleagues since my release, all of whom were placed in similar disgusting cells and who suffered in the same way. The cells in question are below the level of the ground. Your cowardly allusion to “when prisoners refuse food they are hardly fit subjects for exercise” does not apply as I had been in close confinement for a week before I started the hunger-strike which was only resorted to as a final protest at being placed in the 2nd Division. Do you not think it would be more dignified when quoting facts to stick to the truth? I think the time has come for us to show that we no longer intend to lightly undergo the insults and contumely that we have patiently allowed to be heaped upon us in the past. Yours indignantly, Grace Emmerson.’

  Morton photographed the account, then turned the page. He was surprised to see that the women’s complaints had resulted in an assessment of the cells at Holloway by H.M. Inspector of Factories. His report, which tested for air quality, ventilation and carbonic acid stated that the cell, D.I.12 which had ‘previously been occupied by Miss Emmerson was a ‘special cell’, situated in the building at such a height that the ceilings of the cells are about 3 inches above the level of the pavement outside. The windows are constructed of very thick glass, which excludes a large part of the light, so that the illumination is inferior to that of the ordinary cells. Each cell measures about 12ft x 7ft with an air inlet consisting of a grating measuring 16x5 inches situated above the door.’ The report concluded: ‘It is probable that any sense of oppression or discomfort felt in these cells is of psychological origin, due to the feeling of close confinement affecting a person unaccustomed to it.’