Dangerous Destiny

by Chris Longmuir

  The woman tried to block their entry, but Martha swept past her.

  ‘I take it you are new here.’ Martha looked her up and down with her most officious stare. ‘I am usually announced by the butler. Where is he?’ She stared around the hall, observing the pile of cabin trunks piled up to the left of the door.

  ‘Mr McGregor has gone on ahead to open the London house.’

  Martha frowned. Constance, before her death, had indicated a return to London, but she hadn’t given the impression it would be so soon.

  ‘What is it, Gloria?’ Archie emerged from a door further down the hall.

  ‘I tried to tell them you weren’t well enough for visitors, but they wouldn’t listen.’

  Leaning heavily on his walking stick, Archie shuffled towards them.

  ‘It’s quite all right. Show Miss Fairweather and her friends into the small parlour. I’ll see them there. And perhaps you can bring us a pot of tea and a plate of those shortbread biscuits.’

  ‘We are so sorry for your loss,’ Martha said, once Archie had joined them in the room. ‘Constance will be greatly missed.’

  ‘Such a terrible thing to happen.’ Archie eased himself into an armchair. ‘We had intended to journey to London on the midday train. Our preparations had been made. The permanent staff have gone ahead, and the temporary ones dismissed. I don’t know what I’ll do now.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised you were intending to go to London so soon.’

  ‘Constance insisted. She was worried because my bout of food poisoning weakened me. She wanted me to see my Harley Street doctor.’ Archie’s shoulders shook, and he buried his face in his hands. His stick clattered to the floor. Kirsty leaned forward, picked it up, and handed it to him. He grabbed it from her with more haste than necessary and his hand closed on the eagle-shaped handle.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said after a moment.

  ‘My father has a similar cane. His one is a sword-stick,’ Kirsty said, staring first at the cane and then Archie.

  ‘How interesting. I can assure you that this one is a simple walking stick, to enable me to move around.’ His gaze lingered on her before he looked away to reach for a handkerchief. He wiped a tear from his eye and sighed.

  An awkward silence ensued until Gloria entered the room, pushing a trolley with the tea things.

  ‘Thank you, Gloria. I don’t know what I would do if you weren’t here.’

  ‘Is Gloria the only servant left?’ Martha asked once the woman had left the room again.

  ‘I’m afraid so, but she’s not actually a servant. She’s the nurse who has been looking after me during my illness. I’ve asked her to stay on until I leave. Although, if I continue to be debilitated, I might have to ask her to accompany me on the journey to London.’

  ‘You still intend to go?’

  ‘I’ll stay until after the funeral.’ He wiped another tear from his eye. ‘I don’t think I can remain in this house without Constance.’

  * * *

  ‘Damned women,’ Hammond muttered as he and Constable Buchan set out on the next stage of their investigation. ‘Why can’t they be like normal women? Ones who know their place?’

  Buchan knew better than to reply, though Hammond scowled with displeasure when he saw a glimmer of amusement cross the young bobby’s face.

  The address on the cab’s registration details was a small cottage near Ninewells tram terminus. It sat back from the road, with a strip of grass at the front. A rough-hewn path at the side of the house led to a stable at the rear of the property. Hammond thumped on the door with his fist.

  The woman who opened it looked like a younger version of his gran. Worn out before her time, her expression showed defeat. Worry lines crisscrossed her face, though otherwise, her features held no signs of ageing. She wiped her hands on the apron that encompassed her body.

  ‘Police,’ Hammond announced. ‘Is this the abode of Douglas Paterson, cab driver?’

  The woman stepped back. The worry lines intensified.

  ‘Dougie? He’s not here. What’s he done? What’s happened?’

  ‘It might be better if we came in,’ Buchan said.

  Hammond glowered at him, but the young constable continued.

  ‘I’m assuming you’re Mrs Paterson?’

  She nodded and stepped aside to let them enter. The room she led them into was a cross between a sitting-room and a kitchen; a jawbox sink filled the window recess, a table and chairs hugged the wall at the opposite side, and two armchairs and a dilapidated sofa sat in front of the fire, which glowed red despite the heat of the day. A savoury smell wafted from the range attached to the fireplace.

  Mrs Paterson gestured for them to sit, but Hammond remained standing. He didn’t fancy subjecting the sofa to his weight.

  ‘Your husband, Mrs Paterson – when did you last see him?’ He signalled to Buchan to take notes.

  ‘Yesterday, after lunch. He left for work.’ Her voice sounded anxious and her eyes flitted between both men.

  ‘And you’ve not seen him since.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is that usual?’

  ‘I expected him to come home before breakfast. He works most of the night but stops for breakfast and then returns to the rank. We need every fare he can get.’

  ‘I see. So, when he didn’t return, was that a matter for you to worry about?’

  ‘No. I just thought he’d picked up extra fares and would come home when they were completed. What’s this all about? Has he been in an accident?’ She swayed and panic made her breathing laboured.

  Buchan took hold of her arm and lowered her into an armchair.

  ‘You’ll feel better if you sit down.’

  ‘Not an accident, but we need to trace him,’ Hammond said. ‘We found his cab on the rank last night and it contained the body of a woman.’

  ‘Body of a . . .’ Mrs Paterson, unable to continue, surveyed them with horror. ‘You mean, someone died in his cab?’

  ‘The dead woman was murdered.’ The harshness in Hammond’s voice contained no sympathy.

  Mrs Paterson sagged and uttered a moan.

  ‘You can’t think Geordie had anything to do with that?’ Her voice shook. ‘He wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

  ‘We won’t know until we talk to him, and we have to find him first.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Buchan said. ‘This must be a shock for you.’

  Hammond glared at him. The boy was getting too big for his boots. He had no right to interfere during an interrogation.

  ‘We will need to search your house and any outbuildings, in case he is hiding here. I will also need a photograph of him.’

  The woman’s shoulders sagged in defeat.

  ‘I can’t afford to have photographs taken, but search where you like. You won’t find him here.’

  ‘Buchan, you do the search, while I remain here with Mrs Paterson.’

  The search didn’t take long and Hammond’s frustration grew as he listened to Buchan’s report that nothing had been found. Hammond stamped away from the house, leaving Buchan to close the gate behind them.

  ‘We need to find that cabby before he kills someone else.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Thursday, 9th July 1908

  Kirsty arrived at the breakfast table the next morning to find her aunt reading the Dundee Courier with a frown on her face.

  ‘There has been another murder,’ she said without looking up from the newspaper. ‘Apparently, it happened after a meeting on Tuesday.’ She laid the paper on the table and fixed her eyes on Kirsty. ‘Wasn’t that the meeting you attended?’

  ‘Yes, Aunt Bea.’ Kirsty held her breath, anticipating her aunt’s next comment.

  ‘In the circumstances, I think you should return home. It would be safer than Dundee.’

  Kirsty leaned forward and grasped both her aunt’s hands in her own.

  ‘Not yet,’ she pleaded. ‘I can’t desert Martha when she’s lost her bes
t friend to this maniac.’

  ‘She was a friend of Martha’s?’ Bea stared at Kirsty with an expression of horror on her face.

  ‘Yes – you met her on Sunday. The lady you were sitting beside.’

  ‘Oh, dear. Such a nice lady. I remember thinking, if every suffragette was like her, they would be much easier to accept.’

  ‘You must see, Aunt Bea? I can’t leave Martha in her hour of need. At least let me stay until after Constance’s funeral.’

  ‘I do understand. But I worry, dear.’

  ‘I’ll continue to be careful and only go out during the daytime. Please, Aunt Bea.’

  ‘Very well. It is against my better judgement, but you can stay here until the funeral. After that, you must return home to your parents.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Monday, 13th July 1908

  Kirsty completed the last stitch in the banner and held it up for Ethel to admire.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ Ethel said. ‘I can sew a hem but I couldn’t do that.’

  ‘Embroidery is the only sewing I was taught. I wouldn’t know where to start with dressmaking.’

  ‘May I?’ Martha reached for the banner, running her hands over it. ‘This will take pride of place on the wall and we will carry it when we march.’

  The bell over the shop door tinkled and the stooped figure of a woman entered. Her clothes were grimy and a headscarf covered her hair.

  Ethel gasped when she lifted her head to look at her.

  ‘Ma! What are you doing here?’

  Margery Stewart leaned over the counter and grasped her daughter’s hands.

  ‘I came to warn ye. Your da’s on the way and he’s had a good bucket. He’s raging and threatening to drag ye home by the hair on your head. He says if ye willnae come, he’ll kill ye.’

  ‘Lock the door, Kirsty.’ Martha tossed a key to her. ‘I’ll telephone the police.’

  ‘Hurry, Kirsty! I can see him crossing the street.’ Ethel stared out of the window, feeling powerless. Kirsty rammed the key in the lock, turned it, and shot the bolts at the top and bottom of the door.

  ‘He mustn’t see you in here, Ma.’ Ethel lifted the flap at the end of the counter. ‘Quick, hide in the back room.’

  ‘Only if you come with me.’

  ‘Yes,’ Martha said. ‘You need to be out of sight, as well. If your father gains entry, leave by the back window and take your mother into the house.’

  The door rattled as the man outside sought to enter.

  ‘Maybe he’ll go away,’ Kirsty whispered.

  ‘I think that doubtful, considering what Ethel has told me about him. I can only hope the police arrive to apprehend him.’

  A face appeared at the shop window. Malevolence shone from his eyes and his brows knitted together in a ferocious scowl.

  ‘I know ye’re in there, ye wee bitch.’ He banged on the glass. ‘Ye canna escape me. I’m your da and ye have to do as ye’re bid. If ye dinna, it’ll be the worse for ye.’

  Kirsty shrank back.

  ‘Did the police say they would come?’

  Martha shrugged.

  ‘The sergeant I spoke to was noncommittal. Said most of the bobbies were out on the beat but he would try to find someone.’

  Glass shattered around Kirsty’s feet as the window caved in.

  ‘Think ye could stop me from coming in, did ye? Well, ye’d best think on,’ Hughie bellowed. Glass perforated his hands as he grasped the window but he paid no heed to the blood running down his wrists, soaking the cuffs of his grubby shirt.

  Martha lifted the counter flap.

  ‘Quick, get behind here.’ She slammed the flap closed as Kirsty joined her behind the counter.

  Hughie leaned over it, globules of spit hitting their faces as he roared, ‘Where is the wee bitch?’

  * * *

  There was no mistaking the sound of Sergeant Edward’s boots pounding on the flagstones in the corridor. Constable Buchan laid his pen on the desk and pushed the unfinished report aside. He was the only one in the constables’ room, and if Edwards was looking for spare bodies, he was it. The door opened with a thud and the sergeant’s bulky frame filled the open space.

  ‘Are you the only one here?’ he growled. ‘I suppose you’ll have to do.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Constable Buchan sprang to his feet. The sergeant had taken a dislike to him after Inspector Hammond had co-opted him as a detective. The sergeant looked at him with an expression of distaste on his face.

  ‘I need someone to check out a disturbance in the Nethergate. You sure you’re up to it?’

  Buchan held back a retort. Disturbances had been part of his daily routine before Hammond claimed him.

  ‘Yes, sir. If you give me the details, sir. I’ll get on to it right away.’

  Sergeant Edwards crossed the room and slapped a piece of paper on Buchan’s desk.

  ‘Details are on there,’ he said. ‘Hop to it, lad.’

  The sergeant’s footsteps receded as Buchan shrugged on his uniform jacket. It would be good to do real police work instead of hanging on Inspector Hammond’s coat-tails and writing his reports. He finished buttoning his jacket and picked up the sheet of paper. By the time he’d finished reading, he was running up the corridor. The disturbance was at the Women’s Freedom League shop, and that was where Ethel now worked.

  He grabbed a bicycle leaning against the courtyard wall and pedalled through the archway to West Bell Street. The bike wobbled when he skidded around the corner leading to Barrack Street, but he managed to keep his balance. The Overgate loomed up in front of him, impeding his progress, but he pedalled through the crowds, frantically ringing the bell on the handlebars. A hansom cab blocked his way at the end of Tally Street, but that gave him time to blast twice on his whistle. There were always bobbies on the beat in the Overgate. He pushed the bike past the hansom and stared across the street.

  Despair swept through him when he saw the shattered window. He was too late. Abandoning the bicycle against the church railings, he dodged between cabs, carts and carriages on the busy road. Curious onlookers clustered around the front of the shop, but he pushed past them, grabbed the window frame and clambered into the shop. Inside, Hughie Stewart was wrestling with the counter-flap while the two women behind it were attempting to keep it closed.

  He grabbed Hughie. The man’s eyes were bloodshot; they flashed with fury as he turned towards Buchan. He lashed out at the constable but missed his face, the blow landing on the bobby’s shoulder. Buchan pinned the man’s arm up his back, twisted him around and pushed him forward so that his face pressed into the counter.

  ‘You’re under arrest,’ he said, ‘for criminal damage, threatening behaviour, and assault of a police officer.’

  By the time two constables raced over the road from the direction of the Overgate, a subdued Hughie was sitting on the floor complaining.

  ‘I only came to take my wee lassie home. I didnae deserve this.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  ‘You’re bleeding,’ Martha said to Buchan after the two constables led Hugh Stewart off to the police cells.

  The constable stared at his hand as if wondering how the blood got there.

  ‘You probably cut yourself climbing in through the window.’

  ‘It’s nothing, just a scratch.’ He looked around the shop. ‘Miss Ethel . . . has she been harmed?’

  ‘The back room is empty, so she must have gone out of the window as I suggested. She should be in the house by this time.’

  Buchan nodded and Martha thought she detected relief in his eyes.

  ‘You should be safe as long as Mr Stewart is under lock and key.’ After a moment’s hesitation, he added, ‘Will you give my regards to Miss Ethel?’ He placed his hand on the doorknob. ‘Ah! It appears I’m locked in. Perhaps I should leave the way I entered?’ He nodded at the window.

  ‘Kirsty,’ Martha said, turning to the younger woman, ‘do you still have the key?’

  ‘I put i
t under the counter. Give me a minute.’ She picked her way through the glass splinters and sidled past Buchan and Martha. The lock clicked when she turned the key while the bolts at top and bottom screeched as she pulled them from their sockets.

  ‘What about the window?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Martha said. ‘I’ll get a carpenter to board it until we get a replacement.’

  ‘Ladies,’ Buchan said, tipping a finger to his helmet as he turned to leave.

  Martha placed a hand on his arm.

  ‘I have bandages in the house. You must let me dress that injury before you leave.’ She sensed his reluctance, and added, ‘I am sure your inspector wouldn’t wish you to leave before assuring yourself that Mr Stewart didn’t harm his daughter.’

  Several women remained outside the shop to watch their exit; most of the crowd had dispersed after the policemen left with their captive. One of the stragglers stepped forward as the trio left the shop.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘I know some people are against you suffragettes, but there’s no excuse for that kind of violence.’

  ‘Thank you for your concern,’ Martha replied. ‘We are fine. The only damage done is to the window.’ Eager to escape curious eyes, she ushered Kirsty and Buchan into the close at the side of the shop and didn’t relax until they emerged into the courtyard at the back of the building.

  Aggie was washing crockery when Martha led Buchan into the kitchen.

  ‘I believe we have bandages in one of the cupboards,’ Martha said.

  The maid removed her hands from the soapy water and dried them on a towel. She extracted a small box from a cupboard and handed it to Martha.

  ‘Miss Ethel and her friend are in the drawing-room. I served them tea to calm them.’ Aggie’s eyes glittered with curiosity. ‘Been some kind of rumpus, I was told.’

  Martha opened the box and inspected the contents. Bandages, iodine, several safety-pins and a small pair of scissors nestled inside.

  ‘You could say that,’ Martha replied. ‘It has left the shop with a broken window. It will need to be repaired to make sure intruders don’t get in and create more damage.’ She selected a bandage and two safety-pins from the box. ‘Do you know any carpenters who could board it?’