The White Feather Killer

by R. N. Morris

  Now was the time, if she was ever going to do it, to get up on her seat and shout out those words that were clumping and clenching inside her: Do you know what he did to me?

  ‘But you see, here is the thing. What we find is that these two wars are in fact one and the same war. And in them, we are fighting the same enemy. So he who would join me in the fight against Satan, must join also in the fight against Germany. It is the same fight. And he who would fight against Germany, why, it is only right and proper that he should join in the fight against Satan! Which is why we are here today, and why I am delighted to welcome our panel of distinguished speakers. On the continent of Europe our soldiers are battling to defend the tiny nation of Belgium against the might of the German militarist state. It is the same as if you or I were to defend a young virgin against the vile assault of a brutal rapist. I am a man of God, a man of peace, but I would not hesitate to take up arms to defend that virgin. And God would see that it was the right thing for me to do. I know that Sir William has much to say on this very subject, so I will cut short my remarks on this now and leave it to his greater eloquence. I would only say one more thing. You are all here today because you understand what is at stake in this war. What it is that our enemy threatens. We are defending the most precious possession we have as a nation. And that is the purity of our young people. I say people because I believe that the purity of our young men is as vital to our nation’s health as the purity of our young women. We must have pure young men to preserve the purity of our girls. You cannot have one without the other. We need soldiers for the war in Belgium. There is no question. But we need soldiers who are pure at heart, otherwise our very cause is sullied. Every grain of wickedness and sin that finds its way into the heart of just one of our soldiers contaminates and weakens the morale of the whole army. This is how the Devil works. When he tempts a soldier to indulge in vice of any kind, he is like the termite eating away our house. And that is how we will be defeated. Therefore, give us soldiers, yes, but give us Christian soldiers. That is what I say.’

  Pastor Cardew drew his remarks to an end and called upon Sir William Robertson Nicoll, whom he described as ‘a luminary of the nonconformist movement’, to address the audience. There was warm applause and some cheering, which at first startled and then disgusted Eve, when she realized that it was meant for her father. She glared at the most enthusiastic applauders. Did they not recognize a hypocrite when he stood in front of them?

  Sir William spoke with a soft Scottish accent, which belied the intensity and indeed ferocity of his oratorical style. His eyes shone with a zealous gleam. He began with a direct call to arms: ‘I call on all nonconformists who can fight to enlist without delay. That nonconformists are neither cowardly nor incapable when called to a righteous war the glorious name of Oliver Cromwell sufficiently attests. That this is a most righteous and necessary war cannot be contested.’ The directness of his message seemed to take Pastor Cardew off guard. He shifted uneasily in his seat. But when he saw how warmly the audience responded to Sir William’s tone, he began to relax. ‘We are fighting for our very life as a nation. We are fighting for our children as our fathers fought for us. It is the men who will go off to fight but the women and girls among us can play their part too. And their part is to encourage those of their menfolk who can fight not to shirk when it comes to their duty. It is those women and girls who must be defended, and so they have the right to insist on their defence. We are honoured to have here with us today, the two founders of a movement which began in Folkestone just a few days ago. I refer, of course, to Admiral Penrose-Fitzgerald and Mrs Humphry Ward, whose idea it is to have young ladies dispensing white feathers as a badge of dishonour to those young men who refuse to answer the call to arms. It is my fervent hope that we will succeed today in enlisting as many young women to that cause as we do men to the colours. There are, I believe, on a table at the rear of the church, envelopes already prepared with a quantity of white feathers for those of the fairer sex here today to take and use as they see fit. For the Order of the White Feather there will soon be no room in our land.’

  This rousing sentiment was met with a full-throated cheer. Eve found herself joining in the applause. She could not resist a sly look back over her shoulder.

  He was still looking at her. Had he been staring at her the whole time? Naturally, he looked away as soon as he saw her eyes on him, but the flood of pink across his face betrayed him. Ah yes, she remembered his frequent blushes and how they had once endeared him to her. She had seen them not as a weakness, but as a sign of his sensitivity and vulnerability. Perhaps they were partly responsible for her decision to invest her trust in him, and even to love him. She might now dismiss what she had felt then as not really love at all, but something strange and inexplicable and even grotesque. She was just a child, a silly child, even if not an innocent one. But it had not felt silly or childish at the time. It had been something huge and intense and overwhelming. It had felt real. And it had given her hope.

  And he had let her down.

  SEVENTEEN

  Eve could not wait for the meeting to end. She only half-attended to the remaining speakers, although now and then, something they said cut through and reached her. For example, when Florence Conybeare declaimed, her voice trembling slightly but still forceful, that for her it was an issue of a woman’s freedom. Purity, she believed, was synonymous with freedom. There was something in this, Eve thought. Hadn’t her purity been snatched from her? And with it, her control over her own body. But more than that, she was now a prisoner in an existence which she had no hand in shaping. By maintaining her purity, and refusing to debase herself with sexual intercourse, a woman asserted her right to self-determination. Mrs Conybeare (for she was a married woman) conceded the necessity of sexual contact for the purposes of reproduction, but deplored its occurrence in any other circumstances. She called upon men to exercise self-control. Eve could not help looking at Pastor Cardew. And, of course, he was nodding his head in sanctimonious agreement.

  She concluded her remarks by exhorting men and women to come together to defend the great and noble ideal of women’s purity. ‘If this must be done on the field of battle, then so be it. If our menfolk must shed blood and lay down their lives to defend this vital principle, then I say that there can be no nobler death. And to the women here today, especially to those of my sisters who marched beside me in the battle for suffrage, I say this. Now is the time to join in a new fight. We cannot, by law, take up arms in this battle. But we can do something else. We can arm ourselves with Admiral Penrose-Fitzgerald’s white feathers and use them to drive our menfolk to do their duty by us.’

  She received a reception of almost unanimous warmth, with even some cheers and foot-stamping. It must have been an unusual experience for a suffragist, Eve thought, whose meetings were normally disrupted by opposing protesters and the police.

  Next it was the turn of the admiral himself. He took off his funny hat and placed it on his seat as he stood up. Eve had an image of him sitting down on it after his speech, having forgotten it was there. She held her hand over her mouth to hide her sniggers. Before beginning his remarks, Admiral Penrose-Fitzgerald glowered at the audience fiercely, seeking out, she thought, the young men who were not in uniform. She hoped he found Felix Simpkins and sent his piercing gaze into his coward’s eyes. His clipped speech was peppered with stark warnings. ‘The time for words has passed. Now is the time for action. The nation is at crisis point. The Empire is under threat. We stand poised on the brink. Our fate is in the balance. Defeat or victory. This is no time for shilly-shallying. There can be no place for skrim-shankers. The enemy are barbarians. Be in no doubt. The fairer sex is in peril. Purity must be defended. Every man who can must answer the call. To fight. Men’s duty is to fight. Women have a duty too. To urge them on to the fight. The answer, white feathers. Show them the feathers. Shame them into fighting.’

  In the event, the admiral remembered his hat before taking his
seat, which Eve found strangely disappointing.

  The final speaker, Mrs Humphry Ward, was more eloquent, but in essence her sentiments did not differ so much from Admiral Penrose-Fitzgerald’s. She had the gift of presenting everything she said as a story, and so she engaged Eve’s wandering attention more than the others had.

  First there was the story of how the admiral had visited her to discuss ways in which our country’s womenfolk might be enlisted in the war effort. They both agreed that women had a crucial role to play. In times of peace, a woman’s part was to act as a civilizing influence on men, to temper their worst instincts and bring out the best in them. To provide comfort, support and companionship. It was true that a woman’s inclination was to all things soft and gentle and pleasing. But this was a time of war. And war was most definitely not soft and gentle and pleasing. So women must put aside this role, and take up another. This was what she and the admiral had decided, apparently. Who came up with the idea of the Order of the White Feather, she could not say. The admiral was kind enough to say it was her idea. Certainly, she had reminded him of A. E. W. Mason’s novel The Four Feathers, from whence their inspiration came.

  That set her off on another story about the time Alfie, that is to say, Mr Mason, the author of the book in question, had visited her to tell her of his idea to create a detective who would be the very opposite in every way of Sherlock Holmes. She could not claim any credit for the creation of Inspector Hanaud of the Sûreté, but she remembered talking to him of a recent visit she had made to Paris and noted how his eyes had seemed to spark with the fire of genius as he listened to her.

  Story followed upon story. Until she told the story of the young man who had forgotten his duty, who had fallen into soft and idle ways, who did not want to go to war because war was a frightful bore, and because it would take him away from his sweetheart. For, yes, this young man was in love. But fortunately, the object of his love remembered her duty, even if he did not remember his. She returned his blandishments and lover’s words with a gift that some might think strange: a single white feather. The whiteness of the feather reminded him of her purity. The lightness of it reminded him of her vulnerability. The many fibres of it reminded him of all those who were depending on him. The effect on the young man was galvanic. He rushed off to enlist that very instant. All it took to remind him of his duty was that strange token from the girl he loved.

  After the speeches there was a huddle of excited girls around the table at the side of the stage. A young woman who not so long ago might have been knocking policemen’s helmets off their heads was handing out the envelopes of white feathers. She seemed to be enjoying herself immensely, doing her best impersonation of a market hawker, even if it was a hawker with a distinctly plummy accent: ‘Get your feathers! Get your white feathers!’

  Eve pushed past her brother to get to the front of the queue. ‘Good show! That’s the ticket!’ said the erstwhile suffragette as Eve snatched up an envelope.

  She could no longer see Felix Simpkins anywhere. He and his mother must have slunk off as soon as the meeting came to an end.

  Eve barged her way through the clogs of people milling in the side aisles. As she went, she took out one of the feathers and hid it in a clenched fist, pushing the envelope into one of the pockets of her coat. Mama had once sewn up her pockets because she didn’t like Eve putting things in them. She claimed it spoiled the line. But Eve had simply unpicked the stitches. Some rebellions were easier than others, and though they might go unnoticed, they still afforded a secret satisfaction.

  At last she made it to the main entrance and burst outside. She caught sight of the two of them as they reached the bottom of the church steps.

  ‘Felix!’

  He turned round sharply at her cry. She noted the transformation in his face when he saw her waving to him. His face lit up. He beamed at her. It was perfect.

  His mother looked up too. It took a moment for the angry scowl in which her face was set to lift. Eve could see the woman’s emotional gears shift as she put on her habitual mask of sociability, a simpering smile with fluttering eyelids. It was horribly affected and insincere.

  The two of them waited for her to catch them up.

  She kept her hand with the feather in it clenched at her side.

  ‘Eve,’ said Felix, as she stopped in front of him. ‘How good to see you.’

  ‘Shall we not shake hands?’ she asked.

  He held out his hand. She clasped it with both of hers, transferring the hidden feather into his palm.

  ‘There. That is for you,’ she said, before leaving them speechless at the bottom of the steps. She ran off along Shepherd’s Bush Road. She did not, as yet, have any clear idea where she was running to. But she did not look back. She did not see him stare at the weightless insult in his palm. She did not catch the mute, uncomprehending appeal he cast towards his mother. Nor the resettling of an angry scowl on his mother’s face.

  She did not see him slip the feather wordlessly into his pocket.

  PART IV

  White Feathers

  6 September–11 September, 1914.

  A THOUGHT FOR TO-DAY.

  Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!

  To all the sensual world proclaim,

  One crowded hour of glorious life

  Is worth an age without a name.

  Sir Walter Scott.

  Daily Mirror, Monday, 7 September, 1914

  EIGHTEEN

  Sergeant Macadam looked down at the body on the ground. He had seen worse, but still, a dead body is a dead body. And this one was young. Had probably been pretty too before someone crushed her nose and covered her face in bruises.

  He heard a burst of laughter and looked up. DCI Coddington and his crony Inspector Leversedge were sharing a joke.

  The two of them had already blundered in and trampled all over the crime scene. Even Inchball – who was not the greatest at the forensic side of the job – knew better than that.

  ‘What you worrying about, man?’ Leversedge had said. ‘This is a public place. All sorts of people come through here. Especially today, Sunday. No point worrying about footprints, if that’s what’s bothering you. There’ll be too many to make sense of.’

  It was true, they were on Wormwood Scrubs, which was one of the most popular commons in London. However, the killer had chosen a secluded area of the Scrubs, a small triangular clearing surrounded by overgrown bushes towards the southeast corner. Most people kept to the paths and open fields. Perhaps the odd dog might wander in here, followed by its owner if it failed to respond to the usual whistles. Or it was the ideal spot for a game of Hide and Seek. Only, any children who played Hide and Seek here today would find more than they bargained for.

  It was more than likely that the last person to have walked here, before the individual who found the body, would have been the killer.

  None of this seemed to matter to Leversedge and Coddington, who were now blithely lighting up, with their backs to the crime scene. They were watching the comings and goings at the Royal Naval Air Station base. The big doors were in the process of being opened. Perhaps they would catch sight of an airship. It might even be brought out and take off.

  Macadam shook his head. They were like children, easily distracted. And lazy, too. No doubt they would throw their dog ends into the undergrowth when they had finished smoking.

  If only DCI Quinn were here.

  Macadam imagined bringing his old governor up to speed.

  ‘Do we know who she is?’ Quinn would say.

  ‘Eve Cardew. Aged eighteen. Daughter of the minister at Shepherd’s Bush Baptist Church. Pastor Clement Cardew.’

  ‘When was she last seen alive? By whom?’

  ‘Yesterday, Saturday, the fifth of September. Last confirmed sighting was fifteen thirty, or thereabouts. There was a meeting at her father’s church, which she attended. She was seen there by a number of people, but disappeared straight after. She did not return home and the
family became concerned. Her father and brother, one Adam Cardew …’ Macadam could imagine the governor’s questioning eyebrow hike at that – Adam and Eve? ‘… went out to look for her. Father returned after three hours, without success, deeming it more useful to comfort his wife and alert the police. Adam did not return until after eleven p.m., having discovered her body here.’

  This would no doubt arouse Quinn’s suspicions. ‘What made him think of looking here?’

  ‘Apparently, this was a place they used to come when they were children.’

  ‘Cause of death?’

  ‘We’re still waiting for the medical examiner. But there are no obvious wounds other than the bruising to her face and the broken nose. My guess would be that she was suffocated. Someone pressed down with considerable force to block her mouth and nostrils.’

  Macadam tried to think what Quinn would do now. No doubt he would examine the ground for clues.

  Some scraps of wood, a bit of torn tarpaulin and a yard of corrugated iron were propped up in the apex of the triangle to form a makeshift structure, an abandoned children’s den perhaps, or the sleeping quarters of a tramp. The corrugated iron was rusted away in parts, the wood rotten and weathered, soaked through with countless storms, the tarpaulin in tatters. It gave every appearance of having been there since time immemorial.