Dangerous Destiny

by Chris Longmuir

  The buzzing of the bluebottles increased and the stench intensified as Davvy got to work. Hammond clasped the handkerchief over his nose again. He’d be thankful when this was over.

  After what seemed an age, Davvy closed the lid of the barrow and fastened the lock. With a grunt, he hoisted the shafts up and, grasping them, he set off for the mortuary. The wheels clattered over the cobbles and Hammond waited until the noise faded into the distance before calling to the constables standing guard at the gate.

  ‘Buchan, McDonald – I want you to search the ground where the body was lying and the area surrounding it.’

  ‘What are we looking for, Inspector?’

  ‘Clues, man. Anything the killer may have left behind, anything that might point to who he is.’

  As Hammond left the graveyard, he chuckled to himself. The expression on the bobbies’ faces had been priceless.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Monday, 29th June 1908

  Martha’s face was wet with tears when she woke to the clatter of horses’ hooves in the Nethergate and the rattle of the milk cart. Her sleep had been fitful and filled with unpleasant dreams: Elizabeth sobbing and searching for her sister; the Howff, with its cobbled paths and crumbling gravestones; Inspector Hammond pointing an accusing finger at her; Paul restraining her and preventing her from seeing Victoria; and a faceless Victoria, rising from behind the bushes, covered in blood and gore. All of them pointing their fingers and saying, ‘It’s your fault.’

  Was it her fault? If she’d told everyone about the death threat, would it have made any difference? And would Victoria still be alive? It was impossible to tell, and she couldn’t change anything now. What was done was done.

  She untangled the sheet from her legs and thrust them out of the bed. The blankets were bunched in an untidy mess and her pillow lay on the floor. Her dress was where she left it last night. When she’d returned home, Ethel had comforted her and tucked her up with a cup of cocoa.

  ‘You’ll feel better in the morning,’ she’d said. But Ethel hadn’t known Victoria, so her murder wouldn’t have the same impact and she didn’t know about the death threat.

  Martha shivered. She would have to do something about that letter. At least, if the others knew, they would be on guard. Maybe it was a coincidence, as Inspector Hammond had stressed to her yesterday, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

  Her lips tightened, and she frowned as she thought of the policeman. The man was a boor with no manners, and he’d treated her with contempt during her interview. At one point, she’d been tempted to walk out, but what good would that have done? Ethel was right, the police were useless and had no interest in protecting suffragettes from violence. She doubted if they would spend much time looking for the person who killed Victoria and Gladys. Apart from that, Inspector Hammond believed the two deaths were unconnected. Another coincidence according to him; but Martha was convinced it must be the same killer.

  She forced herself to rise from where she sat on the edge of the bed, but she remained irate while she performed her ablutions and dressed. With no one to talk to, her anger simmered beneath the surface and she prepared and ate a breakfast that was tasteless in her mouth.

  There was no point in leaving for the Women’s Freedom League Office until ten o’clock, so she pottered about, keeping an eye on the clock even though the hands never seemed to move.

  Eight o’clock chimed and then, after an eternity, nine o’clock. Martha stopped pacing and went to the window to stare outside at the long row of hansom cabs lined up in the church’s shadow. Dundee High Street would be waking up, the shops and department stores unlocking their doors.

  The thump of the door-knocker disturbed her ruminations, and she hurried along the hall to find out who was seeking her this early in the morning.

  ‘I’ve brought you a copy of the Courier.’ Paul Anderson held it out to her.

  Martha caught her breath.

  ‘How did you know where I lived?’ She was certain she hadn’t told him.

  ‘I’m a reporter. It’s my job to find things out.’

  She took the newspaper from him.

  ‘It’s on page five,’ he said. ‘If you ask me in, I could show you.’

  Martha narrowed her eyes. He had a cheek, thinking a woman on her own would allow a strange man to enter her house. But she was a modern woman, a suffragette, and she wasn’t afraid for her reputation. In any case, Aggie, her daily maid of all work, would arrive soon. It would be a brave man who tried to get the better of this virago – she probably had more strength than any man in Dundee.

  ‘I suppose you can come in.’ She stood aside to allow him to enter.

  ‘The editor made me remove “suffragette” and replace it with “woman”.’ He spread the paper out on the table.

  Martha leaned forward to read the article.

  ‘Do you think the police will investigate?’

  ‘I reckon they’ll have to, although I’m not sure how much effort they’ll put in. But reporters are investigators, as well, and I thought I might make my own enquiries.’

  ‘Where will you start?’

  ‘I thought I might speak to the young lady who saw Victoria enter the Howff. There’s a possibility she might have seen the killer.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Martha turned the idea over in her mind. ‘You could be right.’

  ‘I wondered if you would come with me. She’s more likely to talk to me if you’re present.’

  ‘We should have her address on file. I’ll get my jacket.’ Martha’s heart pounded with excitement. Gladys and Victoria’s killer wasn’t going to escape justice if she had anything to do with it.

  * * *

  Inspector Hammond chewed the stem of his pipe and scowled at the reports in front of him. Two women dead, and either there was a killer stalking women, or two murderers had struck within days of each other. Either way, it was a mess. The interviews yesterday had left him uneasy. He disliked interviewing women, and when they were suffragettes, that only made it worse.

  The small one with the fair hair had been belligerent, and he’d lost his temper when she kept insisting on a connection between the deaths and the poison pen letter she’d received. It had made him more adamant there was no connection but, on reflection, she might have a point.

  Footsteps thudded up the corridor and stopped at his door.

  ‘Have you seen this, sir?’ Sergeant Edwards placed a newspaper on the desk. ‘It’s on page five, sir. That reporter’s wasted no time.’

  Hammond waited until the sergeant left before opening the Courier. He groaned as he read the story. The Chief Constable was bound to be on his tail, wanting to know what he’d done about the murders.

  He laid his pipe on the desk and strode along the corridor to the constables’ room. A haze of smoke hung over the desks and several bobbies were trying their best to look busy.

  ‘Buchan. My office, now,’ he called, after considering the scene for a moment.

  The young constable sprang to attention, but Hammond didn’t miss the look of alarm in his eyes. He was probably wondering what he’d done wrong.

  The corridor echoed with their booted footsteps as they returned to Hammond’s office. Once there, the inspector slumped into his chair while Buchan stood in front of the desk.

  ‘You will be attached to me while we investigate these murders. But don’t think it is because you are a better bobby than the others, though you do write a good report. It’s because you have been involved from the start, and the ladies seem to relax more when you are there. Not that I’m interested in pandering to them, you understand, but if they feel more relaxed, they’ll give us more information.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Now, your notes say it was a young lady –’ Hammond scrolled his finger down the page ‘– Amelia Craig, who witnessed the victim entering the Howff. We need to interview her and find out what else she saw.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘We don’t have an
address for her, so in the first instance we will call at the Women’s Freedom League shop to enquire.’ Hammond shuddered. That meant he’d have to deal with the suffragettes again. ‘You can make the enquiry, but I will accompany you.’

  * * *

  ‘That’s funny,’ Martha said as they approached the shop. ‘The door is open. It’s too early for Lila or any of the others to be here.’ She pushed the door and stepped inside. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust from the sunshine outside to the gloom. ‘Is that you, Lila?’ she asked as she focused on the figure sitting on a chair in front of the counter.

  The woman’s hat obscured her face, and she didn’t move.

  Martha frowned. The woman was too small to be Lila, but perhaps Lila had let her in to wait while she ran an errand.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ Paul muttered from behind her.

  A chill that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room shivered through Martha. Paul was right. The lack of response from the woman was unnatural. She tiptoed towards her and put her hand on a shoulder.

  ‘Are you . . .?’ Before she could say another word, the woman slid sideways and her hat slipped from her head. Martha struggled to breathe. This couldn’t be happening. Not again. Not here, where suffragettes should be safe.

  Paul took hold of Martha’s hand and removed it from the woman’s shoulder.

  ‘Who is she?’ he asked in a soft voice.

  The body slipped further to the side. One end of the silk scarf knotted around her neck dangled in front of her, revealing the motto, ‘Votes for Women’.

  Martha shuddered.

  ‘It’s Amelia. She won’t be able to tell us anything now.’

  * * *

  Hammond blew a cloud of pipe smoke into the air.

  ‘You know what you have to do when we get there.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I request information and the address of Amelia Craig.’

  ‘Good lad. Don’t let them fob you off. They’re a tricky lot, these suffragettes.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  When they reached the Women’s Freedom League headquarters, Hammond clamped his teeth around the stem of his pipe and walked through the open door. Inside, a man and a woman stood over what looked like a body.

  ‘Well, well, well. What have we here?’ Hammond removed the pipe from his mouth.

  ‘We have only been here a few minutes. She was like this when we arrived.’ It was that infuriating blonde woman again, and her voice held a note of reproof.

  ‘Likely story,’ Hammond said. ‘Strange that you are always on the spot when a body is found.’

  He fixed his eyes on the reporter, but the man stared back with defiance.

  ‘As Miss Fairweather has told you, we’ve only just arrived. We were on the point of sending for you.’

  Hammond pulled his brows together in a frown. The man sounded convincing, but he had his doubts; there was something about him that didn’t ring true. If the police doctor confirmed the death had been within the past hour, he would make sure the reporter spent time in the cells.

  ‘Buchan, take statements from these two but do it outside while I investigate what has happened here. After that, run back to Bell Street and arrange for the police doctor to attend. You two,’ he addressed Martha and Paul, ‘wait outside until I’ve finished here.’ Almost as an afterthought, he added, ‘Who is she?’

  ‘It’s Amelia Craig, the woman who witnessed Victoria Allan going into the Howff.’ The blonde woman glared at him. ‘And there is no need to send this young man for the doctor; you may use our telephone.’ She gestured to the instrument attached to the wall behind him before turning her back and flouncing out the door.

  Hammond rammed his pipe into his mouth and clamped his teeth around the stem. Damn it, he thought; the killer had taken care of the only witness to the earlier murder.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Kirsty pushed the guilty feelings to the back of her mind as she clattered down the stairs. She didn’t like being dishonest with Aunt Bea, but she dreaded her father turning up with a demand for her to return home. Besides, she wasn’t really being dishonest. She’d told no lies. On the other hand, she hadn’t told her aunt where she was going nor what she intended to do.

  ‘I need fresh air and it’s a lovely day,’ she’d said after breakfast.

  She knew there was no risk of her aunt offering to go with her because Kirsty had overheard her telling the maid to use the best china when her friends came to call later that morning.

  Outside, the town was coming to life. Early morning shoppers barely looked at her as she sped along Reform Street. If only they knew she was on her way to commit herself to something destined to change her life. An action she intended to carry out in defiance of her father.

  A few weeks earlier, she would have sought his approval, but now she didn’t care. Meeting and mixing with suffragettes had opened her eyes to the reality of being a woman in a man’s society and the possibility of change, provided she was willing to fight for them. Despite her rebellious thoughts, though, she was realistic enough to acknowledge her father’s authority. If he demanded she return home, Kirsty would be powerless to resist.

  The sixpence she clutched in her hand dug into her skin as her fingers tightened around it. This coin could open the door to her burgeoning independence. Once she handed over the sixpenny subscription fee, she would officially be a suffragette.

  When she reached the end of Reform Street, Kirsty pushed her way through the crowds streaming into the Overgate to do their daily shopping. A brewer’s cart pulled by a massive horse clattered past and she dodged behind it to cross the road. Further up the Nethergate, Kirsty recognised Martha and Paul standing on the pavement. What puzzled her was the police constable talking to Paul and writing in his notebook. It was the same policeman who had been present yesterday when they were being interviewed at the station. What was he doing here? Maybe the police had found the killer. Or maybe they just wanted more information. She quickened her step, eager to find out what was happening.

  Martha looked up as she approached, and it surprised Kirsty to see tears in her eyes. Her breath caught in her throat.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Kirsty grasped the hand Martha held out to her.

  ‘Ah, Kirsty, you have come to join us at the worst possible time.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Martha nodded her head towards the door, which hung ajar.

  ‘There has been another death.’

  ‘Another one?’ It seemed the most inane thing to say, but Kirsty, caught unaware, could think of nothing else. She closed her eyes and tightened her grip on Martha’s hand, feeling it tremble within her own. ‘Is it . . . is it anyone I know?’ She searched her mind, trying to visualise the women she’d met yesterday, but the only face she could remember was Ethel’s. Let it not be Ethel, she prayed inwardly.

  ‘You met her yesterday.’ Martha pulled free from Kirsty’s grip. ‘It’s Amelia, the girl who told us she saw Victoria go into the Howff.’

  Kirsty tried to conjure up Amelia’s face but failed. She flushed as relief that it wasn’t Ethel flooded, unbidden, through her.

  * * *

  Hammond laid the contents of the dead woman’s handbag on the counter; a purse containing a few coins, lace handkerchief, mirror, perfume bottle, a few hairpins and what he presumed was a hairpin holder. He’d hoped to find a notebook or a diary, something to show whose company she had been in when she met her death. But there was nothing of assistance.

  The door to the street crashed open, slamming into the wall behind it with a thud.

  ‘This had better be necessary.’ The man standing before him scowled. ‘You’ve pulled me away from a consultation with a private patient and he was none too pleased at my departure.’

  ‘Of course, it’s necessary,’ Hammond responded gruffly. ‘I wouldn’t have sent for you otherwise.’

  ‘I suppose it’s another dead body you’ve got for me, though why you think the dead are
more important than the living is a mystery to me.’

  Hammond bit back the retort hovering on his lips. Jenkins never failed to arouse his anger. The man was quick enough to accept the stipend attached to his position as police doctor, but he was less keen to turn out and do the job when the request was made.

  Unable to keep silent any longer, Hammond pointed to the body.

  ‘I am sure it will not take up too much of your time.’ He stood back to give the doctor room for his examination.

  ‘She’s dead, all right. You didn’t need me to tell you that. She’s as stiff as a board.’

  ‘I require the official declaration of death before I can move the body. You know that as well as I do,’ he couldn’t help adding.

  ‘Well, you’ve got it. I’ll be on my way, and good luck removing her to the mortuary. Getting her into the barrow will be a challenge.’ A faint smile twitched at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Before you go . . .’

  Jenkins halted in the doorway.

  ‘If you’re going to ask me for a time of death, you needn’t bother. I won’t know that until the post-mortem.’

  ‘Roughly?’

  ‘Given the state of rigor, I’d say anything from eight to twenty-four hours.’

  Hammond scowled, watching the door swing shut behind the doctor. His conviction the reporter and that brazen suffragette were involved didn’t diminish although the woman had been dead long before they found her. In the meantime, he had insufficient reason to insist they accompany him to the police station. He’d have to let them go.

  * * *

  ‘Pardon me, ladies.’ The portly man leaving the WFL premises lifted his homburg hat and nodded his head in their direction.

  Martha stepped forward. ‘Is the inspector finished?’

  ‘Ah, now. That’s something you’ll have to ask him. If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I must be on my way – my patients await.’

  Kirsty watched him waddle off towards the High Street. She supposed he must be the doctor, though he was nothing like her own family physician. She turned her attention back to the group standing on the pavement. It had grown while they were waiting for Inspector Hammond to emerge. Lila Clunas, the WFL organiser for Dundee, had joined them several minutes ago, as well as Constance Drysdale. Despite having met both women the day before, she wasn’t confident enough to address them and hovered in the background while they conversed.