Everyone waited. But no suffragette appeared, and no demonstration took place. Again they had outwitted the government. For while the crowd waited, more than a hundred women strolled along Knightsbridge, where not a policeman was to be seen, smashing the windows of every shop for blocks, then made good their escape. Not a single arrest took place.
Two weeks later, Emmeline Pankhurst, Mrs. Tuke, and both Mr. and Mrs. Pethick-Lawrence all appeared before the Bow Street magistrate. He released Mrs. Tuke, but committed the others for trial at the Old Bailey. The charge was straightforward enough: “Conspiring to incite certain persons to commit malicious damage to property.” In the meantime, led on by false trail after false trail planted by the suffragettes, the police continued to comb London for Christabel Pankhurst. Within days, however, she had fled to Paris.
The trial date arrived. Mrs. Pankhurst and the Pethick-Lawrences were sentenced to nine months, the two women in Holloway prison, Mr. Pethick-Lawrence in Pentonville. A hunger strike followed, which spread throughout to the other suffragettes in Brixton and Aylesbury jails. Christabel Pankhurst, living in Paris under the name Miss Amy Johnson, sent orders to the troops across the Channel.
In the various prisons where suffragettes were being held, the authorities now had no choice but to release their prisoners or resort to force-feeding. The first option would admit defeat. They therefore embarked upon a program to employ the second.
To get food into the belly of an unwilling prisoner required that several wardresses—however many were required, two, perhaps, at the feet, and at least two or three keeping the writhing head and shoulders motionless—held the prisoner down on her bed. Medical personnel forced the jaws open to insert wood or metal gags in place to hold them. This process cut the gums dreadfully, insuring that whatever food eventually found its way into the system was mingled with a good deal of blood. The feeding tube was then thrust down with extreme difficulty, doing the throat no more good than the gags did the lacerated gums. Through it was passed liquid nourishment, most of which was almost immediately vomited back up. It reportedly took nine women to subdue Mrs. Pethick-Lawrence—a large and extremely strong-willed lady. The ordeal left her in such bad condition that she was soon released on medical grounds.
Meanwhile, from Paris, Christabel urged the battle forward. Nothing in England was safe. Britain’s golfing enthusiasts now felt the suffragette wrath, discovering the words votes for women burned in acid across their greens, and teeing up to discover the flags on the pins replaced by purple suffragette banners.
Government officials were harrassed, accosted, heckled, even attacked. Incidents of arson increased everywhere. At first the women found empty houses in the country to burn, but gradually the tactics grew more dangerous and disturbing, with far-reaching effects everywhere.
Somehow the prison personnel managed to keep their captives alive, though the women who resisted with most determination were reduced to a dreadful state of nerves and health. But the hunger strikes continued.
One of the doctors in Holloway was so brutal in his application of feeding techniques that Emily Davison, already of nerves none too reliable, shrieked in horror at the mere sight of him and threw herself from the corridor into which her cell door opened onto the floor one story below.
If she had been trying to kill herself, she did not succeed. A wire screen broke her fall.
68
Out of the Frying Pan
Charles and Jocelyn Rutherford sat in their private sitting room on the first floor of the east wing of Heathersleigh Hall staring numbly at the walls surrounding them.
Two newspapers lay in their laps, which coincidentally had both arrived today. Husband and wife had each read the article in the Mail, though Charles had only moments before stumbled by accident upon the account in the Sun. He was the only one of the two with basis to feel its potential import concerning their lives. He had only moments before set it down, shaking his head in perplexity.
The heading above the Daily Mail account had been nearly enough to send them into shock: DAUGHTER OF FORMER MP RUTHERFORD EXONERATED IN MUSEUM ATTACK.
They had read on in disbelief.
Police are reportedly about to call off their search for suffragette Amanda Rutherford. A source close to the movement has confirmed to the Daily Mail that a statement will soon be released repudiating recent tactics of the W.S.P.U. and disavowing foreknowledge of the incident two days ago at the Porcelain Exhibit in the British Museum. It was on the basis of Miss Rutherford’s request that she, Sylvia and Christabel Pankhurst, and two other suffragettes were admitted to the exhibit, which resulted in the reckless breakage of a number of priceless objects on display.
Miss Rutherford, however, immediately broke off her affiliation with the Women’s Social and Political Union. She expressed outrage over the incident, claiming to have been used against her will, and agreed to an in-depth interview with this paper to set the record straight. She has stated that she will at that time outline her reasons for leaving the movement after a close association with the Pankhursts for three years. “Suffrage is one thing,” Miss Rutherford is quoted as saying, “violence and illegalities are another. I believe in the former, but I cannot endorse the latter. I only hope the public can forgive my part in what happened at the museum, which I deeply regret.” Miss Rutherford, it may be recalled, is the daughter of former Liberal M.P. . . .
Jocelyn put the paper down after perusing the account a second time, her horror at first reading moderated by a pride in her daughter that she hadn’t felt for some time.
“It is so odd to read about our own daughter in the newspaper, and have no idea where she is even living or what she is doing,” she sighed. “But at least we can be glad Amanda is finally distancing herself from those dreadful Pankhursts.”
Charles did not reply. His suspicions had only deepened as he reflected on the implications of the two articles.
Again he picked up the Sun and read through the strange account, looking to see if there was anything between the lines he had missed the first time through.
Daily Mail journalist, Ramsay Halifax, Esq., stepson of the late Lord Burton Wyckham Halifax, has been implicated in a plan to falsify news stories. His future journalistic career is in serious jeopardy as a result of a piece published last October in the Mail concerning the state of French troops in Fez. It has been learned that most of the individuals quoted are fictitious, and the accounts altogether made up to embellish the story.
The Mail has not yet issued a formal response to the charges, though rumors indicate that Halifax will soon be relieved of his duties.
Moreover, the reporter’s allegiances have come under close scrutiny. According to high-placed anonymous sources at the Bank of London, Halifax was seen aboard the German gunboat Panther during last fall’s tense stand-off in Morocco, raising even more serious allegations than falsification of a news account. He was seen with a German woman reported to be his mistress, Adriane Grünsfeld, leaving the Moroccan nightclub Chez Roi for the Hotel Ritz, from which, after spending the night together, they disappeared the following morning, apparently again to the Panther.
Halifax could not be reached for comment; however, sources close to the Sun indicate that these incriminating findings have been turned over to Scotland Yard for investigation.
A full report is expected from the Mail this week.
Charles was not the only individual to take note of the potential import of these developments. Three weeks later, midway through the afternoon, the telephone rang. The call was from London.
“Sir Charles,” he heard on the line, “it’s Admiral Wellington Snow.”
“Hello, Admiral,” replied Charles, sitting down at his desk in his study where he took the call.
“I am sorry to bother you, Commander,” the admiral went on, “especially on a matter involving your daughter. I understand it is a painful subject for you. However, there may be national security at stake, and therefore I really have no cho
ice.”
“National security,” repeated Charles in alarm, “involving my daughter?”
“We doubt she is involved directly,” replied Snow. “But the Lord of the Admiralty suggested I ring you up and talk the matter over with you. Actually, we don’t know who is involved—it’s all a bit of a mystery at this point, which is the reason for my call.”
“I can’t imagine what I can to do help,” said Charles. “I’ve been out of London for years.”
“It’s not you, Commander, it’s your daughter we’re interested in at the moment.”
“Of course I’ll do anything I can.”
“You were aware of her suffragette activity?”
“Only vaguely. She has, I believe, given it up, has she not?”
“As far as we know. You saw the article in the Mail, and the subsequent interview?”
“We did.”
“It is her activity since then that is of concern.”
“Of concern to the navy?” asked Charles, still bewildered as to why Winston Churchill and one of his admirals would be interested in Amanda.
“The navy is not part of the inquiry. I am acting as sort of an unofficial, and may I say private, liaison with the foreign office. Mr. Churchill is involved, discreetly of course, as well. It’s on the hush, hush—we’re not really sure who we can trust. No more than six individuals know of our inquiry. We are trying to keep it that way.”
“It sounds serious. But I can’t imagine what Amanda—”
“Are you aware that she is now living with Lord Halifax’s widow?”
“No . . . no, I wasn’t aware of that,” replied Charles, mounting concern clearly evident in his tone.
“Apparently the move took place after her break with the Pankhursts.”
The news sent a chill down Charles’ spine.
“She is apparently close, shall we say, to young Halifax, Lord Burton’s stepson. It was he who conducted the published interview given by your daughter.”
“Hmm . . . I see—the same Halifax implicated by the Sun article in all that business down in Morocco?”
“The same. Although in the meantime that report’s been proven to be rubbish.”
“I suppose that’s a relief.”
“We haven’t a clue how it fits in. We’re trying to track down the source but have no leads,” Snow went on. “In any event, it’s not Halifax himself we’re interested in, but his mother. That’s where your daughter comes in. She was involved with the Pankhursts for three years, and now Lady Halifax. She seems to have gotten herself mixed up in both things at once. We’re trying to discover if there’s a connection, to find out what she knows. That’s why we came to you.”
“We have scarcely heard from Amanda in three years. Mixed up in what?”
The phone was silent for several moments.
“Have you heard of the Source of Illumination?” asked Snow after a moment.
“I’ve heard of something that goes by the name Fountain of Light.”
“Hmm . . . the term is new to me—might be the same. Our information was intercepted and translated from German, so that could account for the difference. What about something called the Black Hand?”
“No, that phrase is new to me. Are they connected?”
“We don’t know. The Black Hand is an underground Serbian organization. Tell me what you know about this Fountain, as you call it.”
“I could never get any information from the people involved other than an extremely vague and, I must say, peculiar-sounding kind of almost pious nationalism. What is the group you are looking into?”
“We’re not sure,” answered the admiral. “We suspect they have connections with the east, and have a headquarters somewhere in England. Our sources suspect the east coast, perhaps Scotland, but we haven’t been able to penetrate the network. We hoped you might know something.”
Charles briefly told about the peculiar meeting he had attended in Cambridge.
“It sounds more a theosophical fraternity than sedition,” remarked the admiral. “Although the comments you say they made about people from other countries being involved—that worries me. As does the emphasis on secrecy.”
“It concerned me too, Admiral,” replied Charles. “There were definitely peculiar overtones.”
“What exactly do you mean?”
“I felt that spiritually things were not right, out of order, if you know what I mean.”
“I am not sure I do.”
“Actually, my wife was probably more in tune with it,” added Charles, “even though she spent far less time with the people than I did. I must admit, their smooth talk lulled me to sleep at first. It was very enigmatic, like a mystical society of sorts.”
“Interesting . . . hmm—I think I begin to get the picture.”
“Is the son involved, the journalist?” asked Charles.
“Not that we know of. He does travel abroad a good deal. But then he writes for the international desk of the Mail, and his reputation, except for this Moroccan business, is unsullied. Nothing in his history gives us reason for suspicion.”
“What about the secret service?”
“What about it?”
“I would think they would keep tabs on all such fringe groups.”
“They try, but there are hundreds . . . thousands—from full-fledged spy networks to little queer cult groups to the communists to the W.S.P.U. Keeping them all straight is impossible.”
“The spokesman at the meeting I told you about was a fellow by the name of Hartwell Barclay, who apparently works for the secret service. That’s why I wasn’t concerned at first.”
“Barclay, hmm? I’ll look into it—don’t know him personally. There are some, however, whose loyalties have come under scrutiny, which is why the investigation is being handled outside normal channels.”
“I know nothing more than that he and Lady Halifax are involved together.”
“We suspected as much. Have they tried to involve you?”
“Actually, yes, they have. That was apparently the purpose of my being invited to Cambridge. But that was last year—I’ve heard nothing since.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That I wasn’t interested. But there was certainly nothing treasonous in anything they said. In fact, it was love for the country which they kept talking about. In fact, I first met Barclay through an old navy acquaintance, now a professor of economics as I understand it—Morley Redmond.”
Again the line went quiet.
“I know Morley,” said Snow. “We were stationed together during my early naval days. Where did you and he see duty together?”
“Only a brief training stint at Portsmouth.”
“Well, I had no idea Morley was involved.”
“Now that I recall the afternoon at the coronation,” remarked Charles. “Dr. Redmond arrived with my old friend Chalmondley Beauchamp. Perhaps he knows something.”
“Beauchamp—this thing points in new directions all the time . . . now toward Parliament!”
“This . . . thing,” repeated Charles. “What exactly do you mean?”
“I don’t know, Sir Charles . . . none of us knows. I just pray to God our suspicions are wrong.”
Charles did not pursue the matter further.
“Is this . . . this thing you speak of,” Charles asked after a moment, “is it connected with the suffragettes?”
“Not that we know of. But then there’s your daughter, as I say, who shows up right in the middle of both. And with Christabel Pankhurst off in Paris, who knows what quirky people she’s mixed up with?”
When Charles hung up the phone, he knew instantly that he and Jocelyn needed to talk and pray.
69
Serious Talk With the McFees
Charles left his office and immediately sought his wife.
“Jocie,” said Charles, “let’s go for a walk.”
She rose and they left the house together, wandering first toward the heather garden. He
filled her in as they went.
“You know,” said Charles, “come to think of it, let’s go see Maggie and Bobby. We need some good sage advice.”
As they went, Charles explained what had come to him almost immediately after getting off the phone with Admiral Snow—to write Amanda a letter.
“What would be your purpose?” asked Jocelyn.
“To warn her—I honestly believe she is in danger.”
“Danger! Charles . . . surely—”
“I don’t necessarily mean physical danger. Good heavens, three years with the Pankhursts—I shudder to think what she might have been involved in. But with this change, I don’t know . . . somehow I feel a turning point may be coming in her life, and I am not sure we ought to continue being silent.”
“But do you think it would do any good, Charles?”
Charles sighed. “That I don’t know. In a way, I suppose I am doubtful. Yet I almost feel we must say something, whether she heeds it or not. We are her parents, after all. We still have a responsibility to her before God. That’s why we need to talk and pray with Maggie and Bobby—I don’t know what is the right course.”
They arrived at the cottage. Maggie greeted them, though a look of concern was visible on her face. They saw the reason soon enough. They entered the large sitting room and found Bobby seated inside, an unheard-of state of affairs during the middle of the day. His aging face lit up as they entered. He attempted to rise, but thought better of it and settled back down into the couch.
“Master Charles, Lady Jocelyn—good of ye t’ come by!” he said. His voice sounded tired.
“Are you ill, Bobby?” asked Jocelyn.
“Just weary,” he replied. “Don’t know what it is, but my energy’s up and left me. But ye didn’t come t’ hear me complain about my old bones, I’m sure o’ that.”
Wayward Winds Page 28
