Dangerous Destiny

by Chris Longmuir

  Lila nodded her approval.

  ‘The more people who show an interest in the cause, the better it will be. But, for now, it’s time to catch up with the business and plan our next activity.’

  * * *

  Paul Anderson adjusted his tie and made sure his hat was straight. This morning’s edition of the Dundee Courier was tucked under his arm. He rehearsed in his mind what he intended to say.

  ‘Miss Burnett, thank you for speaking to me yesterday after your adventure in the Kinnaird Hall.’ No, that wouldn’t do. ‘After you were thrown out of the Kinnaird Hall.’ No, that wasn’t right, either. He wanted to make a good impression so he could convince her to give him an exclusive on her life as a suffragette. Eventually, he settled on, ‘Miss Burnett, thank you for talking to me yesterday. I’ve brought you a copy of the Courier and I was wondering if we could talk again.’ Yes, that would do.

  He raised his hand to knock on the door, but it swung open at his touch.

  ‘Miss Burnett?’ he called. There was no answer, so he raised his voice and called again. It echoed in the silence and there was no movement from within.

  The entrance hall was gloomy but he could see a flight of stairs ahead to the left. To the right, at the end of the passage, a door stood ajar. His reporter’s instincts drove him there, and it only took a moment for him to overcome his hesitation at entering a young lady’s home uninvited. The sight that met his eyes was not what he expected. The woman lay sprawled in an armchair. Her head lolled at an unnatural angle and her arms hung limply over the arm of the chair, convincing him she wasn’t asleep. The sash, draped across one shoulder, fell towards her lap in such a fashion that the words, ‘Votes for Women’, were to the fore.

  He walked over to her and put hesitant fingers on her neck, afraid she might wake up and accuse him of assaulting her. But her cold skin and lack of a pulse convinced him she was dead. His first inclination was to leave and find a policeman. But the opportunity to look around for information to use as background for the story he intended to write was irresistible. It wouldn’t take long and it would make no difference to Gladys Burnett, now she was dead.

  He fished his notebook and pencil out of his pocket and mounted the stairs to inspect the rest of the house.

  * * *

  Paul hovered in the doorway of the police station. He had no great respect for policemen and the one behind the counter looked like a typical bobby with nothing between his ears but cotton-wool.

  He let the door swing shut behind him, clearing his throat to draw the man’s attention. After what seemed an age, the sergeant laid his pen on the counter and surveyed him with lugubrious eyes.

  ‘Is there something you wanted, sir?’ The man’s walrus moustache wiggled as he spoke.

  ‘I’ve come to report a death,’ Paul said, glancing away from the policeman. If that moustache waggled any more, he wouldn’t be able to suppress his laughter. He’d been feeling on the edge of hysteria ever since finding Gladys’s body. He supposed it was a reaction to her death.

  ‘Perhaps a doctor might be more appropriate, sir?’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. This is a suspicious death.’ Paul could see the headline in the Courier – “Reporter Finds Suffragette Dead”. The editor couldn’t fail to be pleased that Paul had been on the very spot when the body was discovered.

  ‘I see.’ The moustache waggled. ‘And what makes you think it’s suspicious?’

  Paul drew himself up to his full height, although the policeman was a good two inches taller than him.

  ‘She was young and healthy. Young women don’t just die.’

  ‘You knew the young lady, sir?’

  ‘Not really. I only met her yesterday.’

  ‘Ah!’

  Paul didn’t like the tone of the man’s voice.

  ‘I’m a reporter. I interviewed her for the Dundee Courier. Look, see for yourself – there’s the piece I wrote.’ He slammed the newspaper on the counter and pointed to the Stop Press.

  The policeman laid his pencil on the desk and inspected the newspaper.

  ‘She be one of them suffragettes, I see.’ Disapproval radiated from him. The pencil remained on the desk and he did not pick it up again.

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything? She’s dead.’ Paul struggled to suppress his irritation.

  ‘Ah, well. Those suffragettes aren’t natural women, are they? The things they get up to, I’m surprised more of them don’t drop dead.’

  ‘Does that mean you’re not going to do anything?’

  ‘I didn’t say that, sir. I’ll refer it to my boss, and I’ve no doubt he’ll go up there and take a look. In the meantime, I’d be obliged if I can have your name and details for how to contact you, in case we can’t find a relative or friend to take care of her.’

  ‘And I, sir, will report the death and its outcome in tomorrow’s Courier. If your boss is interested in updating the facts in my possession, I’ll be happy to discuss with him what I intend to write.’

  Unconvinced the police would do anything about the matter, Paul stamped out of the police station, slamming the door behind him. Head down, he barged past several constables coming through the archway into the quadrangle.

  ‘Steady on, sir,’ one of them said, but Paul glared at him and continued on his way.

  Once he reached the street, he leaned against the wall and took several deep breaths until his anger abated. A reporter should always be objective and in control of his emotions. How many times had his previous editor said that to him? At last, his head cleared and he could think straight again. He would return to the locus of the death and wait for the police to arrive. If there was no police attendance, that would be included in tomorrow’s editorial.

  Three steps, bordered by a railing at each side, led up to Gladys’s front door, and he sat on the top one, leaning his back against the iron bars. He pushed his hat to the back of his head and turned his face towards the sun, enjoying the warmth of the rays. The wait might be a long one, so he’d best make the most of the sunshine. It was better than being enclosed in a poky office, writing the next day’s copy.

  As it was, he didn’t have long to wait before a police wagon rolled up to the kerb and a policeman dismounted, followed by a man in a shabby, black suit. The man consulted the sheet of paper he held before walking towards the house.

  Paul grabbed the railing and hoisted himself to his feet. The man in the suit frowned.

  ‘I presume you are the reporter Sergeant Edwards interviewed.’

  ‘You mean the policeman to whom I reported Miss Burnett’s death? I’d hardly call that an interview.’

  ‘He claims you think the death is suspicious.’ The man climbed the steps and stood in front of Paul.

  ‘It certainly didn’t look natural to me.’ Paul moved aside to allow the man to enter the house. ‘The door isn’t locked. You’ll find Miss Burnett in the room at the end of the passage.’

  ‘You found her?’ The man strode up the passage and into the room where Gladys lay in the armchair.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’ Paul trotted behind him.

  ‘I didn’t give it.’

  ‘It would help to know who I’m talking to. You could be anybody,’ Paul said. ‘How do I know you’re entitled to ask me questions?’

  ‘Smart arse,’ the man growled. ‘I’m Inspector Hammond, and you’d do well not to annoy me.’

  ‘Very well, Inspector Hammond. In answer to your question – yes, I was the one who found her.’

  Hammond inspected the room.

  ‘How long had you known Miss Burnett? And why were you here today?’

  ‘I’m afraid I didn’t know Miss Burnett all that well. I interviewed her yesterday evening, outside the Kinnaird Hall.’

  ‘My understanding is that there were several suffragettes at that meeting. What was so interesting about this lady in particular? Or do you just like suffragettes?’

  Paul ignored the disdainful ton
e of the man’s voice and stared back at him, intent on not allowing the detective to undermine him.

  ‘I found her interesting because she invaded Churchill’s meeting by lowering herself with a rope from the rafters in the hall. I thought it must be someone exceptional who would do that, and that it would make good copy for the Courier.’

  Hammond bent over Gladys’s body.

  ‘Ah, I heard about that. These suffragettes will do anything to attract attention.’ He raised Gladys’s chin with one of his fingers and inspected the front of her neck. ‘I reckon that would explain the marks on her neck. They must be rope burns from the rope she used.’

  ‘Rope burns?’ Paul spluttered. ‘If she had rope burns from her descent, she would have hanged herself then, not wait until later to die.’

  Hammond raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I am sure the doctor who examines her at the mortuary will be able to identify the cause of death. In the meantime, we are finished here, but I may want to see you again after I receive his report.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Paul pushed past the young policeman standing guard at the door and fumed all the way back to the Courier building. If Gladys had been anyone other than a suffragette, the police would have treated her death more seriously. It appeared to him they would prefer to brush it under the carpet, but he wasn’t going to let them off with that. He determined to write an editorial which would force them to pay attention.

  He was new to Dundee but keen to get ahead, and with suffragettes stirring things up, he was sure people would sit up and take notice of his editorials. Not that women’s suffrage meant anything to him – it just made good copy.

  ‘Anderson!’ The summons came before he reached his desk.

  Duncan Wallace, a burly figure who looked more like a navvy than an editor, strode into the pressroom with a glower on his face which boded no good for Paul. He came to a halt and stood, hands on hips and feet planted firmly on the floor.

  Paul hadn’t got his measure yet, and their paths hadn’t crossed to any great extent since his interview with the Courier’s management. He’d got the impression then that they were pleased he was joining their ranks. But looking at the editor now, Paul reckoned he’d misjudged this man.

  ‘My office. Now.’ His voice brooked no argument.

  Heat built below Paul’s collar. The look on the editor’s face was enough to tell him trouble was brewing. What had he done to incur his wrath?

  His office was at the far end of the pressroom and Paul found it difficult to keep pace with Duncan’s long strides. He was conscious of the other reporters and staff keeping their heads down in a semblance of work. It was as if a tornado was building and they wanted to stay out of the way.

  Once inside the office, the editor slammed a copy of the day’s newspaper on top of his desk.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ He pointed at the front page.

  Paul swallowed.

  ‘It’s a stop press item that came in after the newspaper was ready to print.’

  ‘You are aware that all editorial material is subject to my approval, are you not?’

  ‘It was late and everyone, apart from the printing staff, had gone by the time I got back last night.’ He tried to sound confident.

  The editor’s brows drew together in a frown.

  ‘That’s no excuse.’

  Paul squirmed. Surely the man couldn’t be such an ogre he required every word written to be passed by him before going to print? He resisted the urge to loosen his collar, which suddenly felt as if it was attempting to strangle him. Sweat trickled down his back; dampness soaked his armpits. He pressed his sweaty palms to his trouser legs, hoping the editor wouldn’t notice.

  ‘You’re new here but there is something you need to understand.’ The editor drew a breath and raised his voice. ‘I will not have the Dundee Courier used to publicise suffragette antics. We are not in the business of promoting the suffrage cause. These women make a nuisance of themselves and our readers will not stand for it.’

  ‘But you told me to report on Churchill’s meeting, sir, and I still have to write the editorial on that.’

  ‘Write your report but do not mention any of these women by name and turn them into heroic figures. The only newspaper space we will give them is to show they are troublemakers who gathered outside the hall, making a nuisance of themselves and bothering those attending the meeting.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Paul said. ‘But there’s been a development. Gladys Burnett has been found dead under suspicious circumstances.’ He drew a breath. ‘It’s news, sir. We can’t ignore it. Surely that warrants space in the newspaper.’

  ‘Suspicious death, you say?’ The editor stroked his chin as he thought for a moment. ‘Have the police given you permission to use her name?’

  ‘I didn’t ask.’

  ‘You should have. It is not this newspaper’s policy to identify anyone in these circumstances until the family have been informed.’

  ‘But, sir – we need to report the death. We can’t ignore it.’

  ‘Very well, but when you write your report, you will refrain from making any mention of her name or that she was a suffragette. We don’t want to turn her into a martyr. As long as I am in charge of the news, the Courier will not be party to propaganda.’

  * * *

  ‘Blasted reporter, poking his nose in.’ Hammond waited until the man was out of sight. ‘If he comes back, make sure you keep him outside,’ he said to the constable standing in the doorway. He stomped back into the house to continue his investigation.

  Now that he was alone, he sketched the crime scene in his notebook and re-examined the body. He was forced to admit that the reporter had a point; this death was suspicious. The silk sash draped over her shoulder obscured the extent of the bruising and he removed it to examine her neck. Creases in the sash convinced him it had been used as a garrotte to strangle her. He jotted a note alongside the sketch.

  His search of the house revealed nothing of use to identify her next of kin, and it was obvious she lived alone. He tapped his pencil against his teeth and returned to the living-room, where the body lay. A further examination of the room provided little else of help apart from pamphlets produced by the Women’s Freedom League. He thrust one of them into his pocket. Suffragettes annoyed him, creating trouble and unrest wherever they went. He would gladly see them in hell.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Inspector Hammond grabbed his hat from the top of the filing cabinet. All the preliminary work on the Gladys Burnett case had been completed, and the body removed to the mortuary. But he was no further forward with the investigation. The house search had revealed nothing of use, not even the hint of a clue on her relatives or friends apart from the Women’s Freedom League pamphlet. It looked like he would be forced to visit the suffragette harridans in their lair; something he dreaded.

  A fug of tobacco smoke in the corridor outside the constables’ room indicated the recent presence of several of the men, but now only one constable remained, hunched over paperwork on his desk.

  ‘With me, Buchan,’ Hammond snapped.

  The constable laid down his pencil and rose.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He buttoned his jacket and reached for his helmet.

  Hammond sighed. The young man’s expression reminded him of a dog who wanted to please his master. Given the choice, he would have preferred one of the older, more experienced men. Men who could instil fear when interviewing witnesses and suspects. Not someone like Buchan, still wet behind the ears.

  He strode up the corridor, through the charge-room and out into the quadrangle, Buchan at his heels.

  ‘How long have you been with us now, Buchan?’ Turning his back on the police wagon in the yard’s corner, he walked through the archway to the street beyond.

  ‘Three months, sir.’

  ‘Hmm.’ This constable would be as much use to him as a pencil with a broken point, although Hammond supposed he was better than nothin
g. The thought of interviewing women on his own always sent chills through the inspector. He was never at ease in the presence of women, and the suffragettes he was on his way to interview were a different breed again. Dominant and forceful, unafraid of men and with a tendency to aggression.

  ‘When we reach our destination, I’ll interview some women – suffragettes – and I want you to take notes.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘These . . . suffragettes may prove difficult.’ He grabbed the rim of his hat as a sudden breeze threatened to send it flying as they rounded the corner of Court House Square and Ward Road. ‘Have you come across suffragettes during the course of your duties?’

  ‘I was on plain clothes duty with Sergeant McKenzie in Albert Square on Tuesday, when Christabel Pankhurst was speaking.’

  ‘Any trouble?’

  ‘Apart from the usual hecklers, it was all right. These suffragette women weren’t as fearsome as I’d expected.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Hammond remained unconvinced.

  They walked on in silence until they arrived at the shop the Women’s Freedom League used as their office. It looked no different from the shops on either side, apart from the posters calling for Votes for Women instead of the usual goods for sale.

  Hammond rapped on the door and pushed it open, without waiting for a response.

  The three women inside, two of them behind the counter and the third sitting in front of it, looked up in surprise. One of them rose to greet them.

  ‘I’m Lila Clunas, can I help you?’

  ‘Indeed, you can, ladies. I’m Inspector Hammond from Dundee City Police and I’m here to enquire about one of your members, Gladys Burnett.’

  ‘Gladys has done nothing wrong.’ Lila’s tone hardened. ‘It is not a crime to try to gain entry to a political meeting.’

  ‘I am afraid you misunderstand me. I am not here to arrest Gladys Burnett.’ He smiled, taking a grim satisfaction from what he was about to say. ‘I am here to interview you about your whereabouts yesterday evening and to acquire information on her relatives and next of kin.’