Cat and Mouse

by Vicary, Tim

  ‘But you said I was going to Glenfee — didn't you?’

  ‘Yes. It seems the safest place. Deborah will tell you about it, later.’ She leaned forward to tap their young chauffeur on the arm. ‘This is it, Miranda. We get out here.’

  The yellow car pulled up in a side street near Euston station. The three women got out and the car drove away quickly. They walked round the corner into the main road and Sarah suddenly felt dreadfully vulnerable, like a ten-year-old English child suddenly abandoned in Timbuctoo. The street was crowded with strangers, who understood nothing of how she felt. Her legs were shaky, and she could hardly stand, but she realised that to lean too obviously on Alice's arm would attract unwelcome attention.

  There was a policeman in the street, further down — she could see him, calmly strolling along with his hands behind his back, occasionally catching sight of himself in a shop window and preening his moustache. Everyone in the street — men, women, children — was a potential enemy, who could betray her without even meaning to. Would it be in the newspapers that she had escaped yet? Surely not. But still, any attention attracted to her was dangerous.

  The doctor, Rachel Camperdowne, left them to go along to the station and hire a taxi. She disappeared in the crowd and Sarah felt even more dreadfully alone.

  ‘Why didn't we just drive there?’ she asked irritably. ‘This is stupid, Alice — I can't stand!’

  ‘Lean on me. Look, if you do it like this it's not so obvious.’ She stood very close to Sarah, holding her hand at waist level, shoulders touching. ‘She'll be back in a minute. There are always taxis at Euston.’

  ‘But why didn't we just drive there?’

  ‘That yellow car of young Miranda's is too conspicuous. She was the only one I could trust to take us from the laundry but I don't want anyone to remember where we've gone. Look, there's Rachel already. You'll be all right, Sarah.’

  To Sarah's vast relief the taxi arrived, and they got in. She sank back in the seat, exhausted. Her own weakness frightened her. Rachel Camperdowne felt her pulse anxiously, then pulled back the skin of her eyelids and looked underneath. Alice pulled the window across, so that they could talk without the taxi driver hearing. ‘When did you last eat?’

  ‘This morning. I think it was then. I had porridge.’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘The day before. It was . . . difficult.’ Haltingly, Sarah answered the woman's questions about her time in prison. Her fast, the forced feeding. The number of times she had vomited it all up. The bromide. Dr Camperdowne listened, appalled.

  ‘The man should be struck off the register!’

  ‘He will be, Rachel. Don't worry,’ Alice Watson said. ‘But not for any of that. That was just government policy.’

  ‘Well, it's a good bowl of beef broth for you, Mrs Becket,’ Rachel said. ‘And then bed. A long quiet sleep, I should think, with just a few friends and no emotional strain.’

  ‘You're very kind,’ Sarah said. ‘But I don't think I can. You see, there's something . . .’

  ‘This is the place. Set us down outside that door, driver, would you?’

  Sarah got out of the taxi carefully, and looked round. They were in a quiet side street with a motley terrace of tall buildings behind iron railings on either side. Directly in front of her was a tall narrow four-storey building sandwiched between two larger ones. The house was not very imposing. It had three small steps up to a brown door with a brass knocker and a fanlight above, in the glass of which she could see the letters Anglesey Hotel. There were net curtains in the windows, and colourful flower boxes on the sills outside. It looked clean and neat and comforting and feminine.

  They walked up the steps and knocked on the door.

  ‘You last saw her when?’

  Ten forty-six. ‘I couldn't say when exactly, sir.’

  Ruth stood on the carpet in front of the prison governor's desk. It was a large room, comfortably furnished with a desk, fireplace, books, leather armchairs and a collection of pictures on the walls. The pictures were of ships on the Thames, sea battles, and bearded former holders of the governor's office. The present governor, a small man with luxuriant side-whiskers and moustache over a pink bristly chin, sat upright in the large leather chair behind his desk, glaring at Ruth. Beside him, on either side, stood Martin Armstrong and the head wardress, Mrs Canning. Both looked furious but, underneath that, a little anxious too. Ruth wondered at that. Were they afraid? Why was that?

  She was too afraid herself to pursue the thought. This is my whole career at stake — my liberty, in fact. If they find out what I've done I'll be locked up straight away. Of course they'll find out — how can they fail?

  ‘When more or less did you last see her, then, young woman?’ the governor asked, with heavy sarcasm. ‘Try to be as accurate about the time as you can.’

  Ruth frowned. ‘Well, it was between ten and eleven, I suppose, sir. You see, we were getting the cells cleaned out and taking the linen down, and then there was that riot on C landing. I was up there trying to quieten the suffragettes. Nearly all of us were.’

  That was true at least, she thought. Nearly all the wardresses had been there. Ruth had played as prominent a part in quelling the riot as she could, so that everyone would remember her presence. Presumably the other wardresses who had been summoned into this office before her had already testified to that.

  At least that was a point of faint hope. If the governor had been certain Ruth had been involved in Sarah's escape he wouldn't have bothered interviewing anyone else. She squared her shoulders and waited for his next question.

  ‘When did you find out Mrs Becket was gone?’

  ‘When Dr Armstrong came to see her, sir. I unlocked her cell door and went in and there was just a blanket rolled up on the bed. It was about — eleven o'clock, I think.’

  And now it is twelve thirty-four, she thought, as she glanced at the clock on the wall behind Mrs Canning's scowling face. Joy burst in her like sunrise. Three hours since I fastened Sarah in the basket, two and a half since the laundry van went out of the main gates. If Alice Watson hasn't got her out safe and free by now she never will. And still the governor doesn't know how it happened!

  Or are these three just playing with me?

  ‘You are smiling, Miss Harkness. You find something funny about this, perhaps?’

  The smile drained from Ruth's face. ‘No sir, of course not.’

  ‘Then why were you smiling?’

  ‘It . . . er . . . I was just thinking, sir, how odd it was to see those blankets there on Mrs Becket's bed,’ she said lamely. And how very much odder it had been to see the face of Dr Armstrong in the cell. She had thought the man would have a seizure. He had snatched the blankets from the bed in his great hairy hands and flung them aside as though he thought he would find Sarah Becket hidden beneath them. Stupid man; all he saw was a cockroach. Then he had turned on Ruth. His face had been as white as a ghost and he was sweating, great big droplets of it standing out on that fat forehead, running down his heavy jowls.

  ‘Where is she, girl?’ he had roared. He had even seized her shoulders and shaken them, beside himself with shock.

  But that was all it had been. Only shock. He had not suspected Ruth at all, so far as she could see. He blamed Sarah; he seemed to think she had somehow escaped all by herself. And now that man Armstrong is longing to be elsewhere, Ruth thought. She stole a swift, nervous glance at him. He was fidgeting, shifting anxiously from one foot to the other, gazing everywhere around the room but never particularly at her.

  The governor was the real danger. And Mrs Canning.

  ‘Try to think back, Miss Harkness,’ the governor said. ‘Did you take Mrs Becket out of her cell this morning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For what purpose?’

  ‘To empty the sluice bucket as we always do. And then to change the linen.’

  ‘Did she carry her own bucket and linen?’

  ‘She did, sir. Yes.’
/>   ‘And then you took her back to her cell?’

  Ruth hesitated. Only for an instant, but it was a fateful one. ‘Yes, sir. I did.’

  The governor's eyes met Ruth's. She was aware that the other two were watching her intently too but she ignored them. Just kept her eyes cold and steady on the governor's while she trembled and shook inside.

  ‘You took her back to her cell and locked her in? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Quite sure.’

  Dear God, Father in Heaven, don't let me blush now. Please if you have ever loved me don't let that happen. I have never told a lie in my life before - why on earth did I tell this one?

  She had not planned it. The idea had come into her mind out of nowhere. A gift from God perhaps. Or the devil . . .

  Mrs Canning stared at her fiercely. ‘You were with her in the linen room, weren't you, Miss Harkness? You are saying you took her back up to her cell and locked her in before you came on to help to quell the nonsense with the suffragettes?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Canning. I did it for her own safety, you see. She was weak after her hunger strike, and I thought she might get hurt, so I locked her in. I think she lay straight down on her bed. Then I came on to C landing to help you.’

  ‘And you didn't check up on her afterwards?’

  ‘Only through the judas, ma'am. She was asleep on her bed, or at least I thought she was, so I saw no reason to disturb her, like.’

  This is it, then. Condemned out of my own mouth. They must know I'm lying, surely. Why did I do it?

  To Ruth's surprise the governor and Mrs Canning began to confer in front of her.

  ‘It must have been to do with the suffragettes' demonstration then, Mrs Canning. I'm sure of it. They started it deliberately to distract you and your staff. Then, when it was in full flight, one of them would have slipped over to D landing to unlock Mrs Becket's cell door.’

  ‘But what with, sir? They wouldn't have a key.’

  ‘A skeleton key or a copy, Mrs Canning. It's been done before. These women are educated and determined. They have connections outside.’

  ‘But even if they got her out of her cell, sir, how could she leave the building?’

  ‘Over the wall, perhaps with a rope ladder? That disturbance of yours took some time to quell, I fear.’

  ‘It's possible, sir, but unlikely. If one could get out, why didn't they all go?’

  The governor shook his head sagely. ‘Ah that, Mrs Canning, is a political question, the answer to which may only become apparent with time. It depends on what advantages in publicity they believe they can make out of this wretched affair. What the devil?’

  Ruth looked over her shoulder, away from her inquisitors, who seemed for the moment to be ignoring her. A wardress stood in the doorway. She looked upset and shocked.

  ‘Excuse me, gentlemen, Mrs Canning. But there seems to be another suffragette demonstration. The prisoners on C landing are singing again and can't be stopped.’

  The truth of what she said was obvious. Even at this distance the sound of singing came clearly through the open door. Mrs Canning reacted quickly.

  ‘Right, then. I'll put an end to that straight away! If you'll excuse me, sir.’ She strode across the room. ‘Come on, Harkness. Come with me. It's time those fancy bitches learnt a proper respect for Holloway — and they can start right now!’

  So I'm still regarded as part of the staff, Ruth thought with amazement. She followed the stocky figure of Mrs Canning out of the governor's room and down the corridor. At least, I'm a member of staff until I choose to resign. If they haven't worked out how I was involved by tonight, I can walk out of here and never come back. Take up that job Mrs Watson said she'd find for me. And by then Sarah Becket will be miles away.

  The only problem will be to stop myself laughing. And singing. Singing the same song those women are singing right now on C landing.

  As they came nearer, the words reached her more clearly. The whole landing was singing.

  ‘Sarah Becket's body went

  a-marching through the wall!

  Sarah Becket's body went

  a-marching through the wall!

  Sarah Becket's body went

  a-marching through the wall!

  And her cell is empty now!

  Glory, glory halleluia!

  Glory, glory halleluia!

  Glory, glory halleluia!

  Her cell is empty now!'

  ‘Debbie!’

  Sarah stood quite still in the doorway, swaying lightly. Deborah stepped forward, hoping that the smile on her face hid her shock at the gaunt face, the painfully thin hands her sister reached out to her.

  ‘Welcome, my dear. I've been expecting you.’ But her voice broke, she couldn't go on. For a moment the two embraced, and Deborah thought: how light she is, just a skeleton in a coat.

  They drew apart and looked at each other through a film of tears.

  ‘Same old Debbie. Always here when I need you,’ Sarah said. ‘But why . . .?’

  ‘Never mind all that now.’ Deborah took her sister's arm and led her forward. ‘Come on in and sit down, poor thing. You need rest.’

  ‘She does indeed,’ said Rachel Camperdowne. ‘I suggest this lady goes straight to bed. You can save any talking until she is comfortable there.’

  Sarah said: ‘Oh, don't fuss, please.’ But she swayed as she said it. Deborah took her arm.

  ‘It's all ready for you, dear. Come through here. I've brought clean nightclothes, everything.’

  She led the way through a pleasant sitting room, furnished with soft carpets, comfortable chintz armchairs, and light, cheerful wallpaper, to an equally pleasant bedroom. The afternoon sunlight poured in through a window that looked out over a quiet mews and there was a large double bed with clean, crisp sheets turned back. On the dressing table were her own combs, hairbrushes and makeup case from home, a basin with a jug and ewer, and a small fire crackled in the grate. Tears came into Sarah's eyes.

  ‘Is this my cell? It's like a dream!’

  ‘Let me help you undress.’ Deborah smiled, and began to unbutton the fastenings of Sarah's dress. It was an effort to keep the cheerfulness in her voice. She had known her sister would look thin, but not this skeletal. She wondered if she had been wise to plan the journey to Glenfee. And the other thing . . . But they could talk about that later.

  Sarah climbed into bed and lay back with a sigh on the soft clean pillows. Deborah sat down beside her, took her hand.

  ‘Now, our landlady, Mrs Stewart, has a particularly sustaining beef broth on the stove downstairs, with her own home-baked rolls and cheese. Do you think you could manage those?’

  ‘Just a little, perhaps.’ Sarah frowned, torn between laughter and a sudden, overwhelming desire for sleep. ‘Debbie, what are you doing here?’

  Deborah hesitated. Too much truth would be painful for both of them; she was not sure that Sarah was ready for it. But then, part of the truth could be a reassurance, she thought. She said: 'I heard you took a dislike to a picture, and so I came over to offer my help. I confess that at first I thought Jonathan might need my support too, but since then I have met Alice Watson here and learnt some things that . . . have made me change my mind. Oh Sarah, I am so sorry!'

  ‘About Jonathan, you mean? Don't be. It's not your fault.’

  ‘I used to like him, Sarah. I believed in him!’

  ‘So did I, once. Debbie, I want to see him.’

  ‘No!’ They both turned to see Alice Watson glaring at them through her round spectacles, looking more than ever like a headmistress. ‘It would be far too much risk for Sarah to go anywhere near her husband, either at her home or at his office. You have to appreciate that the police will be searching for you, my dear. It is your duty to stay out of sight. That is why Deborah and I have agreed that it would be best for all concerned if you were to get on the train tomorrow morning and go to her house in Ulster. No one will be looking for you there and you can rest in peace and comfort.’
>
  ‘I see you have it all planned,’ Sarah said. ‘Glenfee would be wonderful. But, sooner or later, I have to see Jonathan. I could confront him at the House of Commons, Alice — why not? That would cook the man's goose — and the government's too. Escaped Suffragette Raids Parliament — MP husband exposed as whoremonger — wouldn't that look fine in the newspapers?’

  She began to laugh, but then the tears took over. She turned away from them all, staring out of the window into the useless sunlight.

  ‘You will do no such thing,’ Mrs Watson said gently. ‘Dr Armstrong is the main villain in this affair, not your husband, and, now that you are free, I will take care of him. If I can do it without causing a scandal to Mr Becket I will, for your sake. When you are safely settled in Glenfee I will write and let you know whether it is necessary to arrange for a lawyer to take a detailed statement of all you know about Dr Armstrong, but it may not be. We already have that letter you received, and there are one or two other things in the WSPU files about that wretched man which you may not have guessed at. So for the moment you need do nothing. Your duty is to obey orders, stay out of sight, look after yourself and get well. Do you understand me now?’

  ‘Oh yes, I understand you.’ Sarah wiped her eyes with the handkerchief Deborah had given her, and stared bleakly at the three women watching her. ‘But life is not as easy as you think, Alice. You are a widow, but my husband is still alive, and marriage is for life, whatever happens. Whatever he has done, I loved him once, you know.’

  There was a silence. Deborah watched and thought: marriage is for life. That is the cruellest thing she could have said, for either of us. What will Charles say, when we arrive together in Glenfee? God forgive me, but he will have to do exactly what I ask, for once in his life. At least as far as looking after Sarah is concerned. Then, when she is stronger, I will tell him about the baby.

  And Sarah will be able to help me.

  Not until Sarah had finished her beef broth, and Mrs Watson and Rachel Campderdowne had left, did Deborah say: ‘It may have been very wrong of me, my dear, but I left a note for Jonathan before I came away. Asking him to meet me here in this hotel, tonight.’