‘Next of kin?’ One of the other women rose, a look of alarm on her face. ‘Has something happened to Gladys?’
‘I am sorry to tell you we found her body this morning. The lady is deceased.’
‘Dead! How can that be?’ The woman clutched the end of the counter for support. ‘How did she die?’
‘I am not at liberty to tell you that. All I can say is, we found her body.’
The woman who had spoken sat down with a thump.
‘It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have allowed her to walk home alone. I should have paid more heed to the letter.’ She pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. ‘I thought it was one of the usual hate-mail letters . . . we receive them all the time.’
Hammond lifted the paper, spreading out the creases until the words were legible. He read in silence and then stared at the speaker.
‘This is a death threat,’ he said, waving the letter under her nose. ‘Why did you not bring this to the attention of the police?’
The woman straightened and glared at him.
‘What good would that have done? You would have dismissed it, the same way you dismissed us when we reported one of our members missing.’
Hammond’s mind flashed back to earlier in the week when he’d overheard two women in the office reporting a missing person. Victoria somebody or other; he couldn’t remember the details.
‘Well, I am not dismissing it now. I will keep this as evidence.’ He folded the letter and placed it in his pocket. ‘In the meantime, I need you to tell me everything you know about Gladys Burnett. After that, I will require you to give your names and addresses to the constable.’
Lila Clunas, who seemed to be the one in charge, rose to address him.
‘I am not sure how much help we can be. Gladys has been a member of the WFL for a few months. She was always keen to take part in demonstrations and to help us in any way she could. But she didn’t talk about her private life much. I know she had a husband; I assumed they were separated because they didn’t live together.’
‘I see. This husband – would you happen to know his name and where I can find him?’
‘I think his name is David Burnett, but I don’t know where he lives. I’m sorry I can’t help further than that.’
‘That wasn’t too bad,’ Hammond said to Buchan after they left the office. ‘All we have to do is find the husband. I want you to get on to that straight away. Check the electoral rolls and anything else you can think of. He is probably our prime suspect.’
* * *
‘I wasn’t aware Gladys had a husband,’ Martha said after the police left. ‘What about you, Florence, did you know?’
‘She never mentioned it to me. But Gladys never discussed her private life.’
‘She didn’t talk about him,’ Lila said. ‘Which leads me to think they were no longer together as a married couple. She said he was a jute mill manager in India. Bengal, I believe.’
‘You omitted to provide that information to the detective,’ Martha said with a wry smile.
‘I didn’t think it relevant. The man’s not even in this country, so he can’t be the person responsible.’
‘I suppose so,’ Martha said. ‘I wonder how long the police will look for him before they give up.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Saturday, 27th June 1908
Martha ran to pick up the Courier when it thumped through the letterbox. Carrying it to the kitchen table, she spread it out. The front page, as usual, was filled with adverts and public notices; the only news that ever appeared here was the Stop Press, which was empty today. She leafed through the newspaper until she identified what she was looking for on page five. The entry was so small she almost missed it, and all it said was that a body had been discovered and police were investigating. There was no mention of a name or that Gladys was a suffragette.
‘You’re up early.’ Ethel adjusted her shawl as she entered the kitchen. ‘I’m off to work, but the tea in the pot should still be warm.’
‘Thanks.’ Martha blinked back a tear. ‘I thought I’d check the Courier to see what they were reporting about Gladys.’
‘What’s it saying?’
‘Nothing much. It doesn’t even name her.’
Ethel peered over her shoulder.
‘You’d think they might have included more, particularly when she made news the day before for invading Churchill’s meeting.’
‘Maybe the police haven’t released the details.’
‘I’ll bet that reporter you met could find out what’s going on.’ Ethel fastened the front of her shawl with a safety-pin. ‘I’d better go or I’ll be late for work. I’ll see you later.’
* * *
Saturday was a half-day in the mill, but by the time the long, mournful hoot of the mill’s bummer signalled the end of work, Ethel was as tired as if she’d worked a full day’s shift. She grabbed her shawl, waved goodbye to Maisie, and ran to the gates. If she hurried, she would have time to help out at the WFL shop. Other mill workers accompanied her part of the way, but when she turned the corner at the bottom of the road where East Henderson Street led to the West Port, she was alone.
The man waiting for her grabbed her roughly by the shoulder and spun her around to face him.
Ethel gasped. All week, she’d been expecting her da to search her out, but she hadn’t expected him to be lying in wait for her on a Saturday in the middle of the day. She twisted her head from side to side, hoping to find someone to intervene, but this part of the street seemed deserted. Further up the West Port, several men clustered outside the Globe public house, while a carter watered his horse at the trough in front of it, but they were too far away to be of help. She could hear the clop of horses’ hooves in the distance and trams rumbling along Tay Street, but the empty tram rails in the West Port glistened in the sun with no hint of a tram anywhere near.
‘Hand it over,’ he said, his voice full of menace.
Hughie’s fingers dug into the flesh of Ethel’s shoulder, and no matter how much she struggled, she couldn’t escape his grasp. Her hand tightened around the pay packet in her pocket. She should have known he would come looking for money.
He pushed her against the wall.
‘Thought ye could get away from me?’ he hissed. ‘Never forget, ye’re my daughter and I own you.’
‘You don’t own me. I’ve left home and I’m not coming back.’ Ethel kicked his shins and struggled to free herself, but his fingers dug deeper, making her wince with pain.
‘Left home, have ye? We’ll soon see about that.’ He raised his fist and whacked her on the side of her jaw.
Pain sliced through Ethel’s face and head. Tears spurted from her eyes and she slumped forward.
Hughie grabbed her hair and forced her head back. He leaned his face so close to hers she could feel spittle on her cheeks when he growled.
‘Ye’re coming home with me now. It’s where ye belong. And I’ll have that pay packet, so hand it over.’ He rummaged through Ethel’s pockets until he found her the envelope. ‘Thought ye could keep this from me, did you?’ He shook her so hard her spine thudded off the wall at her back.
‘That’s enough of that.’
Ethel peered, through tear-filled eyes, to see where the voice came from, but the shape was a blur.
Hughie’s hands released their grip on her shoulders and she slid to the ground.
The voices faded in and out of her consciousness as she attempted to sit up.
‘I’m her da,’ she heard Hughie say. ‘I have a right.’
‘You don’t have the right to assault this girl even if you are her father. I’ve a good mind to arrest you.’
Ethel struggled to her feet. She wanted to be free of her da, but what good would it do if he was jailed? Her ma would feel the brunt of his anger and fists when he was released.
‘Let him go,’ she said. ‘I just don’t want him to come near me again.’
‘Are you sure, miss?’
/>
She nodded.
‘Ye haven’t heard the last of this,’ her father muttered as he shuffled off along the street.
‘I’d advise against that,’ the constable said. ‘I know who you are, and I know where to find you.’
Once Hughie was out of sight, the constable turned to Ethel.
‘I think this is yours,’ he said, handing her the pay packet he’d taken from her father.
‘Thank you.’ Ethel put it in her pocket and sneaked a glance at the bobby who’d come to her rescue. He was younger than most of the bobbies she’d seen on the streets of Dundee and he had kind eyes. ‘I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t come along when you did.’
‘You have the carter back there at the Globe to thank. He gave me a shout and told me there was a lassie in trouble down the road.’
‘I didn’t think they were bothering.’ Ethel tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, though she wasn’t sure why she bothered – she looked a sight in her mill clothes and her encounter with Hughie had left her even more dishevelled.
The constable frowned.
‘What will happen when you go home? Will he be waiting for you?’
‘You don’t have to worry about that. I don’t live at home. I’ve taken lodgings in the town.’
‘In that case, Ethel, I’ll accompany you to your lodgings in case he’s waiting for you, thinking I’ve left.’
‘How do you know my name?’
He returned her curious look with a smile.
‘It was on your pay packet. I looked at it when I picked it up.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Sunday, 28th June 1908
Martha studied Ethel over the top of her teacup. The bruise on the girl’s jaw had lost its angry, red colour and faded to blue, but it still looked painful. She laid her cup in the saucer and hesitated before she spoke, unsure whether Ethel would find her suggestion acceptable.
‘I have been thinking,’ she said, ‘after your unfortunate experience, whether it is wise for you to return to your mill job.’
‘But I have to work. I’ve no other way of earning my keep.’
Martha leaned forward and grasped Ethel’s hand.
‘I worry about you. Your father is a vicious man, and the next time he waylays you, it might be more serious than a few bruises.’
‘Mill work’s all I know. I don’t have enough education to be a teacher or a shop assistant.’
‘You are more intelligent than you give yourself credit for. I’m sure the league could find something for you to do.’
‘I don’t have any experience for that.’ A wistful look crossed Ethel’s face. ‘I’m not able to stitch banners because I’ve never been taught how to sew, and I’d be no use typing the letters you send out. I can’t imagine what I could do that would be useful. Besides, the league doesn’t have enough resources for paid workers. It relies on volunteers.’
Martha laughed.
‘If you have figured that out, you have more intelligence than you think. But I still believe you would be of more use to the cause than spending your time working in a mill. Give it some thought, at least.’
Ethel rose from the breakfast table and gathered the plates and cups together.
‘Best get yourself ready for this afternoon’s meeting,’ she said. ‘I’ll take care of these.’
Martha paused in the doorway.
‘After you’ve tidied yourself, look into my room. I can help you cover that bruise with face powder.’
Ethel raised her hand and touched her face.
‘I’ve never worn powder.’ She turned away with a self-conscious smile and plopped the plates and cups into the bowl of hot water in the sink.
‘There is a first time for everything,’ Martha said.
* * *
Excitement fizzed in Kirsty all morning. This was the day she had been waiting for. She ate her breakfast in a trance without tasting the food, and didn’t register the warmth of the sun on her face as she walked to church. The sermon made no sense because her thoughts were elsewhere. She sang hymns which, later, she could not have named.
This was Kirsty’s third day with Aunt Bea, and she was finding it strange. Her heart ached for Ailsa, though the respite from her parents’ demands and expectations brought relief. However, she was still testing out boundaries with her aunt, to see how amenable Bea might be to her plans. So far, all had gone well. Aunt Bea hadn’t minded her forays out into the streets of Dundee, nor her visits to various department stores. But it was the Women’s Freedom League meeting today, and she hadn’t told her aunt where she intended to go.
After Kirsty left Reform Street and the High Street behind and turned into Union Street, her footsteps became faster as she neared her destination. But on arrival, her courage deserted her, and she hesitated on the bottom step leading up to the ornate entrance to the Mathers Hotel. It wasn’t too late to turn back. But that was silly. What had happened to her resolution to be more independent? If she turned back, she would be running away. What was the point of that?
‘Courage,’ she muttered under her breath, staring up at the hotel in front of her. ‘I’ve come this far; it would be foolish to turn back now.’ Before she could change her mind, she mounted the three steps to the arched entrance, pushed through the glass doors, and followed the directions written in chalk on the board at the reception desk.
After the hush of the hotel’s foyer and corridor, the impact of the combined voices in the salon was unnerving and Kirsty hesitated in the doorway. She’d expected a small gathering, similar to the tea parties she attended with her mother. But this was different. Women of all ages, and a few men, sat at tables or on the sofas along the wall or stood in groups, chatting and laughing.
Where were the suffragettes she had met on Thursday? Strong women, prepared to fight and stand up for their rights. Defying the men intent on circumventing their demands. These women in the salon were more genteel and ladylike. More like her mother and her society friends than their radical counterparts.
This was a mistake, she thought. She felt out of her depth here; she shouldn’t have come. But she couldn’t turn and leave so soon after her arrival, that would be impolite. So, pasting a smile on her face, she hovered at the edge of the gathering. Snippets of conversation came at her from all angles.
‘Have you met Amelia? They say . . .’
Kirsty sauntered further into the room, wondering who Amelia was.
‘I say, the London rally was spiffing.’
‘Did you see Flora Drummond on her horse?’
‘No, Archie, not a penny more. You’ve had . . .’
‘What did you think of Churchill on Thursday?’
‘Have you heard the latest . . .?’
The soft buzz of voices continued, mentioning people unknown to her, comparing fashions stocked by different shops, exchanging details of milliners who designed the best hats. Kirsty sidled towards the exit. She had nothing in common with the people here, who seemed to stand for everything she rejected. The sooner she made her escape, the better.
The door to the salon burst open before she reached it, and a group of women entered the room. Kirsty spotted several familiar faces among them, including Martha, the suffragette who had invited her to the meeting. She hesitated, unwilling to push herself into their company. What did people do in these situations? She was sure there must be some kind of protocol to follow in polite society, but she didn’t know what it was.
The matter resolved when Martha looked up and saw her.
‘You came!’ Martha grasped her hand and drew her towards the group.
‘Everyone – you must meet Kirsty Campbell. I met her at the Churchill meeting. She was kind enough to rescue my bonnet and parasol after they threw me out.’
Kirsty relaxed. There was no mistaking the warmth of Martha’s welcome.
Martha continued to hold Kirsty’s hand as she presented her to the women in the group.
‘Lila Clunas, ou
r organising secretary in Dundee. She founded the Dundee branch of the Women’s Freedom League.’
‘You’re very welcome to join our branch, Kirsty. We are fighting for a worthy cause.’
Kirsty’s brain was spinning by the time Martha had introduced her to several more members; she was sure she would never remember their names.
‘And this is Ethel Stewart, who has only recently joined our ranks.’ Martha slung her arm around the shoulders of the dark-haired girl who had given Kirsty a leaflet at the rally in the Albert Square. ‘I’m sure you will find you have common interests. And now, I will leave Ethel to keep you company while I welcome our speaker and open the meeting.’
* * *
Ethel sensed Kirsty’s nervousness.
‘Shall we find a table before the meeting opens?’
Kirsty nodded.
‘This is my first time here. I’m not sure what to expect.’
‘I guessed as much.’ Ethel smiled. ‘It’s bound to be overwhelming with so many people here. It’s a pity your first meeting had to be one of the larger ones instead of an at-home afternoon.’ Ethel led the way through the salon until she located a small table near the podium at the end of the room. ‘This’ll do,’ she said. ‘It’s close enough to hear the speaker without having to strain our ears.’
‘Will it be Christabel Pankhurst?’
‘Good lord, no. Christabel will be back in London.’ Ethel poured water from the jug on the table into two glasses. ‘It’s Constance Drysdale who’s speaking today. Her talk is going to be about Women’s Sunday in London last weekend. I hear tell there were thousands there and that the suffragettes wore white dresses and carried flowers. It must’ve been a sight to see.’
Ethel closed her eyes, visualising it. She’d never been to London, but in her imagination, she could hear the brass bands, watch the suffragettes march and listen to them sing.
The room fell quiet as Martha and a tall woman of imposing appearance mounted the small platform.
‘I don’t think Constance Drysdale needs much introduction,’ Martha said. ‘She is a staunch member of the Women’s Freedom League and often attends rallies and demonstrations in London and elsewhere. She is here, today, to talk about Women’s Sunday in London. This demonstration was one of the largest there has been this year. I give you, Constance Drysdale.’
Dangerous Destiny Page 10
