The Furies

by Irving McCabe

  Elspeth watched Vera vanish through the doorway and a moment later the front door slammed once more. A sudden calm filled the kitchen as Elspeth looked across at Sylvia and shook her head in disbelief. ‘I’ve always thought that Anya was eccentric,’ she said, ‘but this…it’s madness.’

  ‘I think she’s mad with grief,’ Sylvia replied, quite calmly, Elspeth was surprised to hear. ‘When she spoke about her friend Grace…well I think she must have loved her very dearly, for she seemed quite deranged with sorrow.’ She gave a short, sad smile. ‘But she’s very driven, Ellie. I think she’s capable of anything. I think she’ll shoot McCarthy if she gets the chance.’

  ‘I think you’re right.’

  ‘So what are we going to do?’

  ***

  Two days later Elspeth read the unsettling news that Britain had declared war on Germany. She was seeing a patient on the ward when excited shouts came from the corridor outside and one of the porters burst through the ward doors, waving a copy of the Evening Standard. Elspeth was stunned, but also dismayed at the general excitement at the prospect of war. Didn’t people realise that fighting a war meant death and bloodshed? Walking home along Praed Street that evening, she saw the Union Jacks, which hung like bunting in the shop windows, and the newspaper-stand banners that screamed ‘WAR’ in big, bold capitals. Her spirits fell further on seeing the happy grins of men she passed, seemingly eager for the fighting to begin, as if going over to Europe to thrash the Hun would be one big adventure.

  But her mood lifted a week later when the Pankhursts announced an end to the militant strategy and pledged their support to the British war effort. Elspeth felt such relief that she would no longer have to decide whether or not to take part in the arson campaign. And in return for the WSPU ceasefire, the British government proclaimed an amnesty for all crimes committed by suffragettes – which meant Vera would no longer face criminal charges.

  ***

  One morning in the middle of August, Elspeth arrived at St Mary’s and was told by the head porter at the front entrance that a marconigram was waiting for her. She tore the envelope open and saw that it had been sent the previous evening from Dr Inglis, who was arriving in London that afternoon for an appointment at the War Office: would Elspeth come and meet her afterwards as she had a proposition to put to her? Elspeth was thrilled at the prospect and hurried up to the surgical ward to tell Sylvia the news. But on arriving at the ward she saw that Sylvia looked pale with worry. She hustled Elspeth into the ward sister’s office, closed the door and then pulled a short blind down to cover the frosted glass window.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Elspeth asked her.

  Sylvia slumped into a battered canvas chair. ‘Anya’s gone missing.’

  ‘Missing?’ Elspeth said, sitting in a chair opposite. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just that,’ Sylvia replied. ‘She’s disappeared.’

  Elspeth frowned, blinked. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Vera came over to see me last night. She said that Anya was upset about the WSPU decision to end the arson campaign, and that she and Vera had an argument about it yesterday morning. Then when Vera went round to Anya’s lodgings in the evening to try and make up with her, her landlady said that Anya had left that same afternoon. She collected her deposit and simply vanished.’

  ‘Does Vera have any idea why she’s gone?’

  ‘The last thing Anya said during their argument was that she would continue to work on her own.’

  ‘Work on her own? You think that Anya plans to shoot McCarthy by herself?’

  ‘That’s what Vera’s afraid of.’

  A hollow feeling grew in the back of Elspeth’s throat as she saw Sylvia gently bite her lower lip, a sign she recognised. ‘There’s more, isn’t there, Sylvie?’

  Sylvia hesitated, then nodded.

  ‘Well, you’d do best to tell me,’ Elspeth said.

  Another hesitation was followed by a sigh, and then: ‘According to Vera, Anya also said some things about us.’

  ‘Us?’ Elspeth felt a flicker of alarm. ‘You mean you and me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Paranoid things. That we might write to the police about her, have her deported, that sort of thing.’

  Elspeth closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose between a finger and thumb. She opened her eyes again. ‘This is like a bad dream.’

  ‘I know,’ Sylvia said, a pained expression on her face. ‘I feel bad I dragged you into all this. If I hadn’t introduced you to Vera and Anya—’

  Elspeth reached across to place a hand on the back of Sylvia’s wrist. ‘No, I’ve no regrets about anything we’ve done, Sylvie. The government wasn’t listening to us; it hadn’t listened to us for decades. I couldn’t see any other choice but to do what we did.’ She leant back in her chair. ‘But now with the war…well, everything is different. This is an opportunity for us to do something decent, something constructive.’ She paused. ‘But this situation with Anya is worrying. Does Vera think she means to do us harm?’

  Sylvia shrugged. ‘It was difficult to know what Vera was thinking last night. She was in a real state: tearful, unhappy. I’ve never seen her like that before, never seen her so upset.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I can see that Vera has strong feelings for Anya. And I think she’s torn between her affection and loyalty for her, and worry over the danger she might pose to McCarthy and possibly us. She knows Anya better than most, but even she doesn’t know what she might do next.’

  ‘I suppose the only person who does is Anya herself,’ Elspeth said. ‘But her behaviour is so odd that it’s impossible to predict. And we still know so very little about her. We don’t even know which country she’s from.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  Elspeth furrowed her brow. ‘Seeing Anya handle that pistol made me realise she’s quite capable of using it. If she finds the opportunity to get near McCarthy—’

  ‘We can’t allow that.’ Sylvia took a deep breath. ‘We have to warn him of the danger.’

  Elspeth blinked and stared at her. ‘You mean…’

  ‘Write to him…anonymously…a warning.’

  ‘But…’ Elspeth began to say, then stopped as she realised the sense of Sylvia’s suggestion. ‘I never thought I’d ever contemplate such a thing,’ she finally said, ‘but Anya’s behaviour is so worrying that warning McCarthy might be for the best.’

  ‘I’d feel awful if something did happen to him…’

  ‘I’ll write the letter this evening,’ Elspeth said.

  ‘Good.’ Sylvia sat forward in her chair. ‘You know, Ellie, sometimes I wonder if Anya might be suffering from a mental illness, something like moral insanity.’

  ‘You mean psychopathy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Elspeth slowly nodded. ‘You could be right, Sylvie. Psychopath’s have no compunction about killing and Anya’s quite casual about the idea of shooting McCarthy. But after that performance a few weeks ago, when she thought she was being followed, and now her paranoia about us…well, it’s possible she might be suffering from a paranoid psychosis.’ She paused. ‘Which may be more dangerous.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because when a psychopath kills it is usually for a logical reason, whereas when a paranoid psychotic kills, it is often for irrational, delusional reasons.’

  ‘Like thinking that McCarthy is directly responsible for killing Grace?’

  ‘Yes. Or that we might be about to tip off the police about her.’

  ‘Well we are going to tip off the police about her.’ A smile appeared on Sylvia’s face. ‘So strictly speaking that’s not delusional.’

  ‘This is serious, Sylvie.’

  The smile faded. ‘I know it is, Ellie.’ She sighed. ‘So what do we do after you’ve written to McCarthy? If Vera is right, maybe we should leave London?’

  Elspeth suddenly remembered the marconigram. She reached inside h
er jacket pocket and gave it to Sylvia. ‘Arrived this morning, from Dr Inglis, my mentor in Edinburgh.’

  Sylvia quickly read the telegram. ‘Why is she going to the War Office?’

  Elspeth shrugged. ‘She doesn’t say. But I have a feeling it might have something to do with the fact she’s the commandant of a Voluntary Aid Detachment in Edinburgh. I know she’s trained over a thousand VADs and may be offering their services for the war effort. Anyway I’ll go and meet her, find out what she’s up to. It’s just possible she might have something for us to do.’

  8. London, August 1914

  The black taxi sputtered along Horse Guards Avenue towards Whitehall. Sitting in the back seat, Elspeth peered through the side window and watched the white corner domes and ionic columns of the War Office hove into view. The driver pulled up at the kerb and Elspeth quickly paid the fare; then climbed out the cab and hurried past two khaki-clad soldiers standing guard outside the main entrance. Stepping through the double doors, she found herself inside a spacious foyer, a large reception desk directly ahead of her, a uniformed porter wearing a peaked cap sitting behind the desk. A large bronze clock on the wall above his head showed half past five as Elspeth went up to him and told him she was there to meet Dr Inglis.

  ‘—who had an appointment here this afternoon,’ she continued. ‘Is it possible to tell me whether she’s finished or not?’

  The porter lifted a clipboard and ran his finger down the page, ‘She checked in at…’ He moved his finger along the line. ‘…3.57 p.m., but was only called in at…let me see…5.23 p.m.’ He glanced up at the clock above his head. ‘She’s had a long wait, ma’am, and only just gone in.’

  ‘Oh thank goodness,’ Elspeth said with relief. ‘I thought I might have missed her.’

  ‘No, she’s only been in for five minutes – she might be some time yet.’ He pointed to a row of chairs nearby. ‘You can wait over there if you like.’

  She thanked him and went to sit down. Leading away from both sides of the foyer, were two long corridors, the darkly polished wood floors extending the length of the building on either side, while at the back of the foyer a paisley-carpeted staircase led up to the first floor; two army officers chatted as they walked up the stairs. She sighed and sank back into the chair, pleased she hadn’t missed Dr Inglis. It had been a busy operating list at St Mary’s and she had rushed to get here on time, worrying that she might be too late. Now she would just have to sit back and wait. She glanced down at the ochre-coloured marks on the back of her wrists, from the surgical iodine used to sterilise the skin, which she had failed to wash away during her hurried exit from the hospital—

  ‘Elspeth!’

  Startled at the call, Elspeth looked up to see a figure on the staircase, waving at her as she descended the steps. A slight woman, dressed in a brown skirt and jacket and holding a small leather holdall, Dr Inglis arrived at the bottom of the staircase and walked briskly towards the reception desk. The porter handed her the clipboard and pencil, and then pointed to a place on the page. As Dr Inglis signed her name, he glanced up at the clock. ‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘That didn’t take long.’

  ‘Well, there’s no point in wasting time is there?’ Dr Inglis replied; Elspeth was pleased to hear the familiar Scottish accent.

  The porter grinned and nodded, and then doffed his cap to her as she walked past him to meet Elspeth.

  ‘Elspeth, dear, I’m so pleased you could make it.’ Dr Inglis leant forward to give her a hug.

  ‘It’s good to see you, too,’ Elspeth said as they pulled apart. It had been almost a year since Elspeth had last seen her mentor and she looked older, her grey hair swept behind her head and held in place with a mother-of-pearl clasp. ‘I thought I’d missed you, but the porter told me you’d only just gone in.’

  ‘Yes, it wasn’t a very long meeting I’m afraid…’ Her intelligent green eyes glanced up at the clock above the reception desk. ‘Look, they kept me waiting much longer than I expected and I’m in a bit of a rush to get back to Edinburgh. Can you come to the station with me and we’ll talk as we go?’

  ‘Of course.’ Elspeth led Dr Inglis back through the entrance, past the two soldiers on guard, and onto the pavement. A taxi was just pulling up at the kerb, and an army lieutenant stepped out of the vehicle, paid the driver his fare, and then held the door open for Elspeth and Dr Inglis.

  ‘Kings Cross, please, driver,’ Elspeth said and then sat back in the seat. As the taxi pulled away, she looked across at Dr Inglis. ‘I’m sorry to hear your meeting didn’t go well. Was it about your Voluntary Aid Detachment?’

  Dr Inglis sighed. She looked tired, Elspeth thought, her brow furrowed with worry lines, shadows under her eyes. ‘Yes, partly that. But as well as the volunteers we’ve trained, we’ve also established a Scottish Women’s Hospital Unit and have raised enough money to send two hospitals overseas to care for wounded Allied soldiers: one to France and another to Serbia. Both hospitals will be staffed entirely by women. My meeting today was to let the War Office know of our plan.’

  A hospital run entirely by women? Elspeth felt a sudden glow of excitement at the idea and its implications. However she knew how the male military hierarchy would have received such a radical proposal. ‘They weren’t interested, were they,’ she said.

  Dr Inglis shook her head, but then smiled philosophically ‘The senior officer in charge of the medical services took a minute to read the proposal and then point-blank refused to accept it. He said – and I quote – “a casualty clearing hospital at the battle-front is not the safest place for those of a gentler, more sensible disposition”.’

  Elspeth gently laughed at her mentor’s attempt at an upper-class English accent. ‘So he was condescending, with undertones of patronisation, and a hint of misogyny?’

  ‘Exactly that. “Go back to Edinburgh and sit still” were his parting words to me.’

  Elspeth shook her head. She was used to this sort of treatment from men – it was one of the reasons she’d joined the WSPU – but she still found it frustrating beyond belief. ‘But you’re going to go ahead with the plan anyway?’ she said.

  ‘Yes. This senior officer said the War Office will refuse to accept our hospitals, but I’ve already spoken to the French and Serbian governments via their London embassies, and they are more than happy to have us. You see, it’s not just VAD volunteers that will go out with these hospitals. We also need experienced professional women, like surgeons, nurses, drivers…people like you, Elspeth.’

  ‘So that’s why you wanted to meet.’

  ‘Yes. I’d really like you to come with us. With your surgical training and experience, you’re just the sort of person we’re looking for.’

  Elspeth felt light-headed at the thought. ‘I can’t think of anything else I’d rather do right now.’

  ‘We’re also looking for experienced nurses, so if you know of anyone—’

  ‘Yes! I can think of someone who would be keen to join,’ Elspeth said, thinking immediately of Sylvia. ‘When do we go? We can leave immediately if you want.’

  Dr Inglis laughed. ‘Actually the French unit is already fully staffed and due to leave in a few weeks. It’s the Serbian unit I’m recruiting for now, but because of the logistical difficulties of transporting staff and equipment, we won’t be sailing until mid-December.’

  That was three months away, thought Elspeth with disappointment. ‘But we’re both keen as mustard to help immediately. Do you know of anything else we could do before December?

  Dr Inglis’s brow furrowed. ‘Well, there is one possibility. The Women’s Hospital Corps left for Paris earlier this week. They’re another women-only-staffed hospital led by a young surgeon, Dr Louisa Garrett Anderson. Her second in command is Dr Flora Murray, a physician I know well as we used to work together. I hear through the grapevine that one of their associate surgeons has just been diagnosed with tuberculosis and they’re looking for a last-minute replacement. Their London contact is Dr Louisa Woodcoc
k. She lives at number four Nottingham Place, here in London. I suggest you contact her to see if they’ll let you join their unit and travel out with them.’

  ‘That sounds perfect,’ Elspeth said. ‘If Dr Anderson will take us to Paris now, then we can come back to London in time to join you—’

  ‘Just one slender note of caution, Elspeth,’ Dr Inglis interrupted. ‘You should be aware that Dr Anderson has a bit of a chequered past. She was at one time a member of the WSPU, and two years ago was imprisoned for militancy.’

  ‘Oh,’ Elspeth said, only just able to maintain her composure. ‘I see. What exactly did she do?’

  ‘She smashed the windows of a government minister’s house in Knightsbridge,’ Dr Inglis replied, with obvious distaste. ‘A crime for which she received six weeks’ hard labour in Holloway prison.’

  ‘Well, thankfully, that sort of thing is now behind us,’ Elspeth said.

  ‘Yes, and by all accounts she’s a very good surgeon. You’ll recognise the surname of course.’

  Elspeth frowned for a moment and then gave a slow nod. ‘Of course: her mother is Elizabeth Garret Anderson, the first woman doctor in Britain?’

  ‘Exactly. So you can see that she comes from a very good medical pedigree. If Dr Anderson’s Paris Corp does have room for you, I’d strongly suggest you go with them. Some early experience of battlefield trauma before you join us in December would be very useful.’

  Their taxi came to a halt outside King’s Cross station. Dr Inglis opened the door and stepped outside.

  ‘Please wait, driver,’ Elspeth said, and then followed Dr Inglis onto the pavement. ‘When exactly are you sailing for Serbia?’

  ‘We’re leaving from Southampton on the fifteenth of December, so you need to be back in London the week before.’ She turned to look up at the station clock on the tower behind her. ‘Well it was lovely seeing you, Elspeth, and I look forward to meeting you again in December. Do write to me at the Bruntsfield and let me know how you get on in Paris.’