‘We close in half an hour,’ the verger said. ‘I’m afraid you’ve missed the last guided tour, so you’ll need a guidebook if you want to know about the exhibits.’
Elspeth paid for the book and then followed Sylvia through a metal grille and along a short passageway into the central open space at the heart of the Abbey. Directly ahead of her Elspeth could see the Abbey’s high altar, behind which lay an ornately carved stone screen.
‘Edward the Confessor’s chapel is behind that stone screen,’ Sylvia whispered, ‘and the Coronation Chair is inside the chapel.’
She led Elspeth across the central space, bearing left to enter another gently curved passageway. After a short walk along this passage they arrived at a short wooden staircase, which led up to a stone archway.
‘The chapel entrance is through there,’ Sylvia whispered, pointing up at the archway and stepping onto the bottom tread of the staircase. At that moment, another blue-cassocked verger – a blond-haired, good-looking youth – appeared at the top of the stairs. Sylvia hesitated, then stepped back again and waited while the youth, followed by a group of visitors, began to descend. With each of their footsteps, the eight wooden steps of the staircase let out a low moan, like the throaty croak of a bullfrog. Elspeth also stepped aside as the group arrived at the passage floor. The verger flashed her a smile of thanks and then led the visitors away. Elspeth waited until they were out of earshot before turning back to Sylvia.
‘It’s much busier than I thought it would be,’ she whispered.
‘Yes, but most of the visitors are leaving,’ Sylvia replied. ‘I expect it’ll be empty now – come on, let’s go up.’
Elspeth mounted the staircase, each step creaking loudly as she climbed. The noise was unnerving, almost as if the staircase was sending out a warning; an absurd notion she quickly dismissed. Arriving at the top of the steps, she followed Sylvia through the archway.
They were at last inside the chapel, a space bordered by the tombs of five kings and queens. In the middle of the room stood a tall, gilt-trimmed shrine, and according to the guidebook, St Edward was buried beneath it. But Elspeth wasn’t interested in that fact: she was much more concerned with who else might still be in the chapel.
And with dismay, she now saw an older couple reading an inscription on the side of the shrine. She walked a little deeper into the room and her heart sank even further as she caught sight of a third person; an unkempt, bearded young man drawing on a sketchpad. A few more steps and the rear of the chapel – the back of the carved stone screen – came into view. And then finally, resting against the stone screen, she saw the Coronation Chair.
Elspeth’s initial reaction to the modestly sized wooden seat was one of disappointment: the chair did not look particularly grand or regal; indeed, at first appearance it seemed rather ordinary. It was only as she drew near, that she could see the intricate engravings and graffiti on the darkly varnished oak frame that told of the chair’s turbulent history. And beneath the seat was her own country’s Stone of Scone, the red sandstone encaged in a metal cradle, guarded by four gilt lions…
‘The English on top of the Scots, as always,’ whispered Sylvia, and Elspeth looked across and saw the mischievous grin on Sylvia’s face.
‘Then we’ll be striking a blow for Scots, as well as for women, won’t we,’ she whispered in reply, before returning her attention to the chair.
Where to place the bomb? Protruding above both sides of the seat’s high back-rest were two spikes of wood: after some consideration she decided she would hook the bag over one of the spikes and allow it to hang behind the chair. Then she would light the bomb inside the bag, so the explosion would occur between the stone screen and the back of the chair, reducing the risk to anyone inadvertently walking into the chapel. Feeling more confident with this plan in mind, she tried to act like a normal visitor, casually flicking through the guidebook and then wandering back to the shrine. A number of purple velvet knee-cushions were scattered around the altar’s base, and with Sylvia beside her Elspeth knelt, positioned so she could see the entrance archway and chair at the same time.
Her hands clasped as if in prayer, Elspeth discreetly monitored the other occupants. The elderly couple were now standing in front of the chair. They both appeared frail: the husband – bald and stooped – was reading from a guidebook, while his wife – white-haired, painfully thin – held onto his arm, her head tilted slightly towards him. To her right Elspeth could see the young man with the goatee gazing at the top of the shrine, making deft strokes on his drawing pad with a piece of charcoal. With scruffy shoes and clothing he looked to her like an art student.
Elspeth pulled out her pocket watch; only twenty minutes before the Abbey was due to close. A sudden movement caught her attention and she glanced across to see the older couple turn away from the chair and, arm in arm, shuffle towards the archway. A moment later Elspeth heard the creaking of wood as they descended the stairs. Good, she thought; only the art student left.
But now he moved to stand in front of the chair, and for the next few minutes remained engrossed with his drawing. Elspeth tried to stem her rising frustration: the Abbey would be closing soon; how much longer was he going to be? In exasperation she began to stare at the back of his head, silently willing him to leave. But her annoyance distracted her, for as she quietly cursed him he unexpectedly turned his head in her direction and, with a smile, made eye contact. She bowed her head and pretended not to have seen him, tried to pretend she was taken in prayer. But she could feel his gaze on the crown of her head and for several seconds knew he was still staring at her. A full minute passed before she dared look up again, to see him once more absorbed with his drawing. Now a wave of nausea passed through her, because if he didn’t go soon…well, they would have to abort the mission. And could she go through all this again? She was not sure she had the nerve.
The noise of creaking wood startled her. She looked towards the archway and saw a ginger head appear. ‘Just to let you know, the Abbey closes in fifteen minutes,’ said the verger who had sold them their tickets, glancing first at Sylvia, then at Elspeth, and finally the student.
‘Almost finished,’ the art student replied. Elspeth nodded to the verger and then watched him disappear. She bowed her head again. A few minutes later she heard footsteps as the student walked away from the chair, followed by the groaning of the wooden staircase, and then finally silence.
‘Thank goodness,’ Sylvia whispered. ‘I thought he’d never leave.’
‘We need to hurry,’ Elspeth replied as she rose to her feet. ‘There’s very little time left.’
With Sylvia close behind, she hurried through the archway and leant over the top of the staircase, craning her neck to look back towards the Abbey’s central space. The passageway below appeared empty, but because of the gentle curve she couldn’t see all the way to the end. Were there still visitors further up? She looked across at Sylvia and shrugged her uncertainty.
And now a furrow of determination rose on Sylvia’s face as she unslung the feather boa and handbag – handing both to Elspeth – before lifting the hem of her skirt and skipping lightly down the stairs. Elspeth’s heart began to pound as she watched her friend disappear along the passageway, but within half a minute Sylvia had reappeared and hopped back up the steps.
‘Can’t see anybody,’ she whispered, breathing heavily. ‘I think it’s all clear.’
‘Good. Stay here and keep watch. If anyone appears, give a wee cough to warn me.’
‘Alright, but be quick.’
Elspeth hurried back through the archway and across to the chair. She placed the guidebook and feather boa on the floor and then opened the handbag; a yellow box of Swan Vesta matches lay on top of the linen bundle. She slipped a hand inside the bag and was just about to remove the matches when Sylvia suddenly coughed: Elspeth turned to see her friend scampering back through the archway, her green eyes wide with alarm, the familiar noise of creaking wood following her. A moment later the face
of the blond verger appeared behind her.
‘Ten minutes to closing,’ he said to Sylvia, who smiled at him before resuming her sham fascination with the carvings on the shrine. Then he looked at Elspeth – standing paralysed with surprise beside the chair – and smiled at her. She had already taken a step forward to hide the boa and guidebook lying on the floor; now she swallowed hard and forced a smile back, and then watched as he turned away. Again there was the sound of creaking wood and then silence. Sylvia turned to Elspeth, a hand held over her breastbone.
‘Oh my Lord, Ellie,’ she whispered. ‘He must have been in one of the alcoves off the passageway.’
Elspeth – who had held her breath throughout his appearance – exhaled, her heart thumping furiously in her chest and her hands beginning to shake. But Sylvia had already followed the verger through the archway. Thirty long seconds later, she reappeared.
‘He’s gone,’ she whispered breathlessly, ‘and I’ve checked all the alcoves. I’m really sure it’s clear now. Go on, Ellie – do it.’
Elspeth took a deep breath and tried to compose herself again, clearing her mind of everything except the task ahead. Opening the bag once more, she removed the box of matches. The linen bundle was underneath, and when she pulled the cloth away the wick was pointing obscenely towards her. She looped the handbag’s leather strap over the left-hand spike on the seat’s back-rest, before draping the open bag down the back of the chair. One final glance at Sylvia – who swivelled her head to look through the archway before turning back and whispering, ‘Still all clear,’ – and Elspeth knew the moment had come.
She struck a match against the side of the box and watched it flare with a hiss, the bright phosphor flash dazzling in the gloom of the chapel. With the after-image of the flame still black on her retina, she lowered the match to the oily wick. There was no going back now.
The wick immediately took fire with a flame that leapt a good two inches in the air, and Elspeth knew instinctively that something was wrong, that this was more than expected. She sprang away from the bag, and, dropping the box of matches, ran towards Sylvia. Taking her by the hand, she pulled her back through the archway.
They practically flew down the staircase to the floor below, Elspeth lifting the hem of her skirt as they dashed along the passageway, her heart hammering in her chest as they arrived at the central space, her shoes skittering on the stone floor as they came to a halt and were forced to casually saunter between the visitors still present. Every nerve in Elspeth’s body seemed to scream at her to hurry, to escape, the blood pounding in her head as she fought the urge to run as fast as possible.
It was only now she realised she had been silently counting the seconds since the wick was lit:
Ten: as they crossed the central space towards the exit grille alongside the quire.
Twelve: remembering she had left the feather boa and guidebook beside the chair – too late to worry about that now.
Fourteen: as she fought down a wave of panic when they had to stop behind a group of visitors slowly filtering through the grille back into the nave.
Eighteen: tensing with frustration at the precious seconds wasted before they began to shuffle forwards again.
Nineteen: why were they going so slowly?
Twenty: knowing that the faster-burning wick meant the bomb would explode sooner than thirty seconds.
Twenty-one: but how much sooner?
Twenty-two—
An ear-splitting crack rent the air, like thunder directly below a lightning strike.
Even though she had braced herself for the explosion, the shocking intensity of sound stunned Elspeth, weakening her knees and causing her to drop to the stone floor. A cacophony of echoes still rang about her as she lifted her head and looked back to see a cloud of dirty grey dust billowing towards her, a wobbling disc of black smoke spiralling up to the high ceiling above. Sylvia was crouching beside her as the cloud of debris reached them, the noise of the blast still reverberating around the Abbey walls. Elspeth’s ears were ringing as the blond-haired verger ran towards her.
‘Are you alright, miss?’ he shouted to Elspeth as he helped her up.
‘I’m fine,’ she replied, brushing dust from her skirt and shaking her head to try and clear the noise from her ears. And then, remembering to stay in character, ‘What’s happened?’
‘It’s a bomb I think,’ he answered, and then hurried past her towards the smoke.
Through the dusty haze Elspeth could see other visitors slowly getting to their feet, coughing, blinking, rubbing eyes and ears. And then ahead of her she noticed the elderly couple that she had first seen in the chapel: both appeared bewildered; the frail woman’s face pallid and drawn, the old man leaning against the passage wall for support. Sylvia had already gone forward to help the woman: Elspeth – now filled with a sudden, awful remorse – hurried towards the man. He looked at her with surprise as she took his arm; then smiled with gratitude as she gently led him towards the exit grille and into the nave. She glanced back: Sylvia had her arms about the man’s wife, supporting the frail, older woman as she slowly tottered along beside her. And now Elspeth felt truly wracked with guilt: she had only considered the physical injuries from the bomb, not the fear, nor the panic that might ensue.
Steering the man slowly down the nave, Elspeth arrived at the west entrance. But to her concern she saw a crowd of visitors blocking her exit. Above their heads she could see that the door was open: why had they not left the Abbey? Stretching herself up on her toes to peer over the crowd, she saw two police constables with outstretched arms holding back the visitors. Her unease grew: how had they gotten here so quickly? Then she remembered that the Houses of Parliament were nearby and guessed that the unexpectedly loud noise of the explosion must have quickly drawn them to the scene.
Sylvia and the woman were now by her side, and leaving the old man with them, Elspeth wormed her way around the side of the crowd towards the door, keeping her body out of the policemen’s line of sight.
‘…No, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait until Inspector McCarthy arrives,’ one of the policemen was saying to an agitated-looking visitor trying to leave. ‘Scotland Yard is only two minutes away, so he should be here shortly. Our instructions are to keep everybody in the nave. The culprits might still be inside, you see. Ah, that looks like him now.’
Another man appeared: very tall, ginger mutton-chop sideburns and moustache, dressed in a black suit and bowler hat, collar and tie. There was an imposing authority about him, thought Elspeth, leaning further back inside the doorway and straining her ears to listen.
‘Right, constable, you can let them out, but I want names and addresses.’ The inspector lowered his voice and spoke in hushed tones, which Elspeth could just catch. ‘Keep a look out for any suspicious women. This’ll be suffragettes again.’
Elspeth felt a spasm of fear in her abdomen, but instantly quelled it: I must not panic, she told herself. Turning around, she saw Sylvia and the elderly couple standing behind her and motioned for them to come forward. Taking the man by the elbow, she guided him through the doorway and out into the early evening daylight.
Both constables were busy taking the names and addresses of the first visitors to have left the nave; the inspector stood to one side, watching the crowd. But as soon as Elspeth came into his field of view she saw his head swivel in her direction: a moment later he was striding towards her.
‘Do you know each other?’ he asked, waving a finger at her and the man.
‘Yes. We were together when the bomb went off,’ Elspeth said.
‘That’s not what I asked.’
She looked him directly in the eye, knowing that to look elsewhere would appear evasive. ‘As I’ve just stated, inspector, I was with this gentleman and his wife,’ she said, turning to indicate Sylvia and the older woman coming through the doorway behind her, ‘when the explosion occurred.’
The inspector’s expression did not change as he turned to the man
. ‘Do you know this young woman, sir?’
The man hesitated as he looked at Elspeth, then back at the inspector. ‘No, but she was near us when the bomb went off.’
‘So she didn’t go into the Abbey with you?’
‘No…’ The man’s eyes flicked uncertainly between Elspeth and the inspector. ‘But the young lady has been of great assistance to me, sir.’
The other visitors appeared to have noticed Elspeth’s interrogation by this authoritarian figure, and she could feel their curious looks just as Sylvia and the frail woman arrived alongside her.
‘Is there a problem?’ the woman asked with a look of concern.
The inspector merely glanced at her before his gaze fell upon Sylvia. ‘There’s no problem, ma’am. However, it’s more than likely this bomb was planted by suffragettes.’ The implication was clear, as his eyes were now firmly fixed on Sylvia: she, in turn was staring confidently back at him.
There was a moment’s stunned silence. Then: ‘Suffragettes?’ The old woman’s shock seemed to have completely evaporated. ‘Oh, inspector, these young ladies are not suffragettes!’ she continued, her indignant tone clearly indicating how ridiculous the inspector’s suggestion was. ‘No, no, they’ve been of great help to my husband and I.’ Still holding Sylvia’s arm, she squeezed it with affection and turned to smile at her. Sylvia returned the smile and then, with a slight tilt of her head, turned back to the inspector, giving him her most coquettish of looks.
‘Hm.’ He rubbed his chin between his index finger and thumb. ‘So you can confirm that neither of you are members of any suffragette organisations?’
‘I assure you we’re just visitors,’ Elspeth replied, ‘helping this gentleman and his wife, who were affected by the violence of the explosion. There are no signs of trauma or other physical injury, but they are both shaken by the experience.’
His eyebrows narrowed as he looked at Elspeth without reply. Finding his silence unsettling, she suspected her answer might not be specific enough and so she continued.
The Furies Page 2
