Chester Square was suffused with the pale light of a November sun. Ursula noticed that clouds were gathering over the rooftops and tugged her hat down low, concealing the bandage that covered the graze on the right side of her forehead. With long strides she crossed the square and was about to turn into Eccleston Street when a man called out to her from an Argyll taxicab that was parked on the sidewalk.
“Miss Marlow?”
Ursula ignored him and continued walking. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Harrison’s constable watching them closely.
“Anna asked me to come. Anna Proznitz.”
Ursula stopped dead in her tracks and turned around. “Anna?” she said slowly.
The man got out of the cab, dropped a cigarette on the ground, and flattened it underfoot. He wore brown trousers, an unkempt necktie, and a flat cap.
“Which newspaper are you from?” Ursula asked shrewdly.
The man grinned. “You’re a sharp one. Neville Hackett of the Star.”
The Star was a radical newspaper run by an Irish Nationalist.
“Well, Mr. Hackett of the Star, what do you want with me?”
Ursula was on her guard. She hadn’t spoken to Anna in over a year, and their last meeting had been acrimonious. Anna had never approved of her son’s relationship with Ursula, and when Alexei decided to join Lenin in Paris in the winter of 1908, Anna held Ursula partially responsible.
“Just passing on a message,” Hackett responded cheerfully. “Anna wants to know if you’ll be at the meetin’ today. She wants to talk about Miss Stanford-Jones.”
“And why would she want to do that?” Ursula asked.
The man grinned again. “Ain’t you seen the newspapers yet?”
“No.” Her father had taken the morning papers with him.
The man held up a copy of the Daily Mail. On the front page was a photograph of Winifred under the headline SUFFRAGETTE ARRESTED ON CHARGE OF MURDER.
Ursula closed her eyes. “Oh, God…” Her worst fears had been realized.
With trembling hands she took the newspaper from him and read.
Miss Winifred Stanford-Jones of Gower Street, Blooms-bury, was arrested last night in connection with the death of Miss Laura Radcliffe, daughter of the late Colonel William Radcliffe VC, DSO, of Radcliffe Hall, Surrey. Miss Radcliffe was found stabbed to death at Miss Stanford-Jones’s house in the early hours of October 29. Miss Stanford-Jones, a well-known agitator in the “votes for women” campaign, has been imprisoned twice before for breaches of the peace. A representative of both the Women’s Social and Political Union and the Women’s Industrial Council, and a member of the Independent Labour Party, Miss Stanford-Jones is a frequent speaker on trade unionism and the role of women in socialism. Her arrest on charges of murder comes after a detailed investigation by the Metropolitan Police. Inspector Harrison of the Metropolitan Police declined to provide any further particulars of the case. Sources close to the Radcliffe family say that they are devastated by the sudden loss of both father and daughter.
See page 14 for Mrs. Humphrey Ward’s editorial on women’s suffrage: “A Dangerous Leap in the Dark.”
“Arrested last night she was,” the man continued. “Anyways, Anna wants to have a chat.”
“Thank you. Tell her I’ll meet her there.”
He tipped his hat but lingered before getting into the motorcar. “Oy, how much do you know about this ’ere murder?”
“Not much,” Ursula replied cagily.
“Just thought maybe you’d give me a bit of the inside scoop.”
Ursula eyed him with distaste. Still, she thought, having someone from the press look into the possible link between Laura’s death, Colonel Radcliffe, and the expedition could be helpful. Ursula rubbed her nose. Harrison’s constable was still watching them closely.
“You ought to be looking at Colonel Radcliffe’s death,” she said as she started to walk away.
“Suicide, wasn’t it? Death of a daughter hit him hard, that sort of thing?”
“I think there may be a bit more to it.”
“Do you, now?”
“Yes,” Ursula replied lightly, giving the police constable across the street a wave and a smile. “Maybe there’s a link that the police haven’t made.”
“Right you are!” Mr. Hackett grinned. “Well, ta, luv. I’ll look into it.”
He got into the rear seat of the taxicab. Ursula straightened her coat and resumed walking. The cab drove off, and she hurried back home.
“Is everything all right, miss?” Bridget asked as Ursula burst into the house.
“Perfectly!” Ursula replied, grabbing her purse off the rosewood side table in the hallway. “Bridget, I’m going out for a couple of hours.”
“Ooh, miss, wait up!” Bridget replied, dropping her dusting cloth in a fluster. “I’ll ’ave to tell Mr. Biggs. Master said you’re not to go traipsin’ about on yer own—”
“Never you mind that!” Ursula replied firmly. “I won’t be long.” And with that she hurried out of the house and started walking briskly toward the Sloane Square Underground station.
Ursula exited the tube at South Kensington and boarded the double-decker motor bus for Albert Hall. Today’s WSPU meeting was an important one. They were going to hear whether the prime minister, Mr. Asquith, would support passage of the Conciliation Bill, which would grant the vote to women householders, through the House of Commons.
Albert Hall was crowded with WSPU supporters. Ursula hunted around to see if Anna was anywhere close by. She soon spied her standing alone by one of the doors, her hands thrust deep in the pockets of her dark green jacket. Anna had a leather-bound notebook and a copy of Woman Worker wedged under her arm. A frequent contributor to the WSPU magazine Votes for Women, Anna had been one the first people to encourage Ursula to pursue a career in journalism (before she learned of her imprudent relationship with her son).
Ursula took a deep breath and then started to nudge her way through the throng to greet her.
“Anna!” Ursula called out as she approached.
Anna looked up and caught her gaze with mournful brown eyes. Alexei’s eyes.
“Last I heard, you were in Manchester working with the Women’s Industrial Council. What brings you to London?” Ursula tried to sound nonchalant.
“Oh, this and that,” Anna replied in her peculiar Russian-English accent, and shifted her gaze, obviously unwilling to say more.
“I got your message,” Ursula said.
Anna nodded. There was an awkward pause.
“I hear you’ve been helping Freddie with this matter.”
There was something in Anna’s tone, an ill-concealed contempt, that irked Ursula.
“My father’s paying for her defense, if that’s what you mean,” Ursula responded curtly to what hadn’t been said.
“But you are, are you not, also trying to…” Anna searched for the appropriate word. “To…clear her…of these charges?”
“Yes. Yes, I am,” Ursula replied simply.
“I wanted you to know that she still has many friends among us. If we can do anything, please let me know.”
Ursula assumed that Anna was referring to the WSPU leadership when she said “us.”
“Thank you,” Ursula answered.
“No doubt the police are quick to pin it all on Fred.”
“Yes, they certainly are.”
“Typical! So what can we do?”
“Well…” Ursula paused for a moment before she continued. “It would be helpful to know who was at Madame Launois’s that night. The police don’t seem very interested, but I am. Perhaps another of Laura’s lovers was there—who knows? I’d be glad for anything, really, that could provide a lead…something that could help clear up this wretched mess for poor old Freddie.”
“I do know Laura by reputation. She had a number of lovers—and not just those of the female persuasion.”
“I’m sorry?” Ursula stared at Anna blankly.
“Sh
e liked men too.”
“Oh. Oh, I see.” Ursula looked faintly embarrassed.
Anna laid a hand on her arm. “It’s time we went in. How can I get in touch with you if I hear anything of interest?” Anna asked.
The crowd was moving quickly past them now, so Ursula scurried to find one of her correspondence cards in her purse. “Here.”
Anna looked at the Belgravia address with barely concealed distaste. “I’ll let you know what I find out as soon as I can,” she said.
“Thank you.”
A lady passed them carrying a small purple banner emblazoned with the WSPU motto: DEEDS, NOT WORDS.
“Before you ask,” Anna said, “I haven’t heard from Alexei. As far as I know, he is still in Paris.”
Ursula looked away.
“Good-bye, Ursula,” Anna said, and Ursula thought (with some surprise) that she detected a note of sympathy. “I’ll let you know if I find anything that may help Fred.”
Ursula nodded. “Bye.”
The atmosphere was tense and uncertain as Mrs. Emmeline Pankhurst rose to address the crowd. As soon as she read the prime minister’s statement that the Conciliation Bill would not be heard until the next Parliament, there was a great outburst of indignation. Her daughter Christabel Pankhurst leaped to her feet and declared war against the government. Mrs. Pankhurst announced that she would lead a deputation to Downing Street, and the crowd rose to follow her. Ursula was swept up in the excitement. The crowd moved quickly, with Mrs. Pankhurst setting the pace. Banners were unfurled: FIGHT FOR THE VOTE! THE BILL MUST GO THROUGH!
Within a quarter of an hour, they reached Parliament Square and were joined by a crowd of WSPU supporters who had been waiting to march to the House of Commons. Ursula saw a police superintendent signal the formation of a human barricade across the entrance to Downing Street. Mrs. Pankhurst pushed steadily onward toward the line of men until suffragettes and police came face-to-face.
Ursula found herself in the midst of a surging crowd. She fought just to remain standing. A policeman grabbed her arm and she struggled in vain against him. He twisted her arm so hard she thought it might snap.
The crowd soon broke through this human barrier, and some women managed to make it up to the prime minister’s house. Others struggled with the police. Ursula saw women violently pushed to the ground as the police endeavored to keep back the “masses.” She saw a woman being carried away half conscious. Banners were torn to pieces, women struck down by blows. Everything was chaos.
Ursula saw Anna being dragged away by two policemen and bundled into the back of a police van.
Ursula’s hair was down, and a mass of curls spilled over her face and eyes. Her dress was torn, and one of her sleeves had come loose at the seam. The policeman tried to grab her arm again and swore under his breath as she gave him a swift, sharp kick to the shin.
“Constable, I’ll take it from here,” a vaguely familiar voice called out.
Ursula stumbled to her knees as the police constable released her from his grasp. She looked up to see Inspector Harrison standing in front of her, arms crossed. His face looked pinched and grim. Ursula’s gaze remained defiant as she picked herself up from the ground. By now the crowd was dispersing. A woman was lying near the pavement, her black coat spread over her. She was being tended to by a young man, who called out for assistance.
“This is an outrage!” he yelled to Harrison. “An absolute outrage! This poor woman must be well into her sixties.”
Harrison ignored him and grasped Ursula by the arm.
“Are you arresting me?” she demanded.
Harrison’s top lip curled. “I’m sure you’d rather not embarrass your father any more than is necessary,” he replied.
“I don’t see how that is any business of yours.” Ursula wrested her arm free. “I demand to be taken with the others!”
“Don’t be so bloody ridiculous,” Harrison scoffed. “No one’s going to be arrested. You lot annoy me no end. Can’t wait to be locked up. Can’t wait to see the newspaper stories. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Not the vote, just to get your name in the papers. Disgusting, I call it. Like we don’t ’ave enough to do around ’ere.” Harrison’s East End accent became more pronounced as he lost his composure.
Ursula’s eyes narrowed, but before she could launch into a speech on the lofty principles of the WSPU, Harrison shoved her into the backseat of a motorcar.
“How dare you!” she spluttered as he closed the door behind her and got into the front passenger side.
“Go!” was all he said, and the unnamed driver sped off.
Ursula struggled to unlock the door, failed, and slumped resignedly against the back of the bench seat. How would it look to her fellow suffragettes, she wondered, to have been bundled off with a high-ranking member of the Metropolitan Police merely because of her father’s influence? Angry tears pricked her eyes. Even at twenty-two, she was being treated like a recalcitrant child.
The motorcar pulled up at the Cannon Row police station adjacent to the red-and-white brick Gothic headquarters of the Metropolitan Police.
Ursula leaned forward. “I thought you weren’t going to arrest me,” she said.
Harrison got out of the car. “I’m not,” he replied, “I just don’t plan on going any more out of my way for the likes of you…. I’msure you are aware, Miss Marlow, that I have a great deal of work to do. Until tomorrow.”
Harrison slammed the door and instructed the driver to take the willful young suffragette home at once.
Six
Julia unfolded Ursula’s pale yellow opera gown and laid it down carefully on the bed. Ursula was standing, looking out the bedroom window. The police outside the front door were still there and could hardly be considered discreet. Questions from neighbors and friends had prompted Robert Marlow to issue a brief statement describing the police presence as a “temporary but necessary” protection against threats made against him by “workers and hooligans.” This sparked calls throughout the neighborhood for increased police protection, as everyone became convinced that socialists and anarchists lurked on every corner of Belgravia.
“Miss?” Julia prompted with a pointed look at the clock on the mantelpiece.
“Hmm?…Oh, cripes!” Ursula responded, realizing she hadn’t finished unbuttoning her blouse.
“Here now, let me do that, miss,” knowing that Ursula was notorious for popping buttons in her haste to get dressed and undressed.
Julia helped her step into the opera dress and then sat her down on the small silk-covered stool as she finished unpinning Ursula’s hair. It felt good to have the weight lifted from the crown of her head. Ursula shook her head to loosen out the curls and was soon lost in her thoughts once more, oblivious to everything except the rhythmical brushing of her hair.
“I hear that the Abbotts have engaged a new lady’s maid for Cecilia,” Julia said as she started now to wind Ursula’s hair up and around the padding that she used to create the upturned hairstyles that were currently so popular.
“Who told you that?” Ursula asked, called back to the present with a start. “John?”
Julia blushed slightly. Her burgeoning relationship with the Andersons’ footman was the household’s worst kept secret.
“He seems to know a great deal about everyone’s affairs,” Ursula began to say, but, seeing Julia’s blush intensify, she decided not to continue.
Julia reached for the hairpins.
“So Lily has left the Abbotts,” Ursula mused. “I thought she was doing well there.”
“Apparently,” Julia said, two hairpins crammed in her mouth, “she had to leave, on account of her circumstances.” She patted her abdomen meaningfully.
Ursula was silent, unsure of what to say. “What will happen to her now?” she asked quietly.
Julia clicked her tongue impatiently as she continued fixing her hair. “Don’t you be wasting your pity on her, miss. Why, the tales that we heard after she’d gone. Th
ey say she isn’t even sure who the father is!”
“But surely…” Ursula tried to restrain herself, although it was hard not to remember the dire stories she had read and heard. “Surely Lily needs our compassion, not our censure.”
Julia looked at her mistress curiously. “What do they talk about at these meetings of yours?” she asked.
Ursula flushed.
Ever since she started accompanying Winifred to socialist party meetings, Ursula had become increasingly concerned about the plight of young, working-class women in London. Without education or access to appropriate medical care, they had no way of escaping the scandal of an unwanted preganancy. Although she vehemently opposed her father’s views on eugenics, she agreed with him that some means of birth control was needed to liberate these poor women from the vicious cycle of childbirth and poverty. Julia, of course, had heard Ursula air her views on such matters, but for her own part she remained staunchly censorious over the sexual indiscretions of her peers.
“Anyway,” Ursula changed the subject with a small cough. “You were saying that Cecilia has hired someone new….”
Julia waved the brush in the air for dramatic effect. “A French maid—from Paris, no less.”
“From Paris…” Ursula echoed, trying to hide the sudden envy she felt creeping into her voice. Julia’s face fell, and Ursula hastily changed tack. “And to think Cecilia doesn’t speak a word of French!”
Julia finished her mistress’s hair, and Ursula reached over to apply almond oil to her hands and neck. She dabbed some perfume behind her ears and stood up.
“We must be sure to be up on all the latest fashions,” Ursula said to Julia. “Can’t have Cecilia’s French lady’s maid showing us up, now, can we?”
Consequences of Sin Page 7
