“If someone holds your head down in a pail of water and you scratch their hands to escape, does that make you a criminal?” The woman raised a newspaper high in the air. “Mrs. Emmeline Pankhurst—lately jailed as a criminal for dealing out such scratches—intends to tell all about her experience in the next issue of the Suffragette!”
A cabbage sailed through the air from out of the group of laughing young men and glanced off the woman’s shoulder.
“Hey!” shouted Dorrie, taking a step toward them, her hands balled into fists and her umbrella up before she could stop herself.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” said the woman. She raised her voice so it reached the young men who were moving on, clapping their arms around one another’s shoulders and guffawing. “They throw cabbages because they don’t have the brains to make arguments.”
The woman winked at Dorrie. “They’re frightened by what they don’t understand.” She plucked a flyer from an open valise at her feet and held it out to Dorrie and Ebba. “Come to a rally at Hyde Park to end the jailing of suffragists as criminals!”
Dorrie and Ebba glanced at each other. Dorrie shook her head shyly, and then they hurried past the suffragist, out through the gate, and onto the wide avenue.
“Master Casanova would get apoplectic if he heard we showed up at the headquarters of the National League for Opposing Woman Suffrage with our bags full of suffrage flyers,” said Ebba.
Dorrie stopped to consult their map. “It should be right across the street.”
It was. A sign above a handsome bay window spelled out “National League for Opposing Woman Suffrage.” In front of the building, a table stood covered with pamphlets and flyers.
Holding hands and dodging traffic, Dorrie and Ebba darted across the street. After taking a moment to smooth their clothing and readjust their hats, they pushed open the door.
The room that lay on the other side was large and carpeted and full of highly polished furniture. A banner hung across the back of the room. It read: GIVE LADIES PROTECTION, NOT VOTES.
A woman dressed in black rose from a group of people sitting at the back of the room and came to greet them. “I’m Mrs. Richardson, the manager here. May I help you?”
“I’m Dorothea Rathcliffe-Exley of Rhodesia,” said Dorrie, feeling silly.
There was a faint stir at the table and a fluttery whisper of “‘Rathcliffe-Exley’ did she say?”
Ebba held out the letter. “We’ve brought a letter of introduction from Mrs. Humphrey Ward for Mary, Countess of Ilchester.”
“Why, that’s me,” said a heavyset woman with a great number of rings on her fat fingers. She bustled over, giving Mrs. Richardson the choice of moving out of her path or being injured. The last thing she seemed to need was protection.
Dorrie groped for her next lines. “With our parents’ permission, we’ve come to volunteer for the anti-suffrage cause.”
To Dorrie’s disgust, the Countess of Ilchester turned and beamed at those still sitting at the table. “Isn’t that darling?”
“Inspiring,” said a young woman at the table. She had a heart-shaped face, and her arms were encased in long, white gloves. “Two girls on the cusp of womanhood, firm in their abhorrence of women’s suffrage.”
“Well said, Lady Agnes,” said the countess. She smiled at Dorrie. “We’re happy to have your help. We have a benefit tea planned for next week and hundreds of rosettes to make for our supporters.” She fluttered her hand toward a closed door. “Your lady’s maid can hang up your coat.”
Dorrie stared at the countess, shocked into speechlessness by her mistake.
Ebba rose to the occasion. She dropped a graceful curtsy and smiled prettily. “Oh, what a funny mistake. I’m not the lady’s maid. I’m Ebba Risien, also of Rhodesia. I’m visiting my uncle James Risien Russell, a physician here in London. Ms. Rathcliffe-Exley is our guest.”
Now it was the countess’s turn to momentarily lose the power of speech. Her cheeks went pink. “Why, of course. I-I do beg your pardon.”
Dorrie and Ebba soon found themselves sitting at a table between Lady Agnes and a man with the thinnest mustache Dorrie had ever seen.
“And this is Mr. Sacks-Sandbottom, our tireless secretary,” the countess said, indicating the mustachioed man.
“Mr. Sacks-Sandbottom is wonderfully in demand,” said Lady Agnes. “Besides acting as our esteemed secretary, he also acts as a financial advisor to Lady Whitcomb.”
From the approving glitter in Lady Agnes’s eyes, Dorrie got the sense that this meant something wonderful. She smiled as though impressed herself.
“My aunt is a distant cousin of the Rathcliffe-Biddles of Kent,” said Lady Agnes. “Do you by any chance summer with any of the Upchuck-Ridmores?”
“Not that I remember,” said Dorrie, in serious danger of bursting into laughter.
“Perhaps you see the Archley-Smeggs occasionally?” said Mr. Sacks-Sandbottom to Ebba. “Fine family. Adore lion hunting. Every one a crack shot.”
Not daring to look at Ebba, Dorrie silently hoped her friend hadn’t packed her slingshot.
For several hours, Dorrie and Ebba worked dutifully at constructing rosettes. As Dorrie reached for a fresh sheet of paper, Lady Agnes suddenly jumped from her seat.
“Oh, that monstrous creature is back again!” she said, pointing through the window.
Craning her neck, Dorrie saw that across the street, the suffragist from the park had come into view, carrying her suitcase and box. She set them down.
“The nerve of her,” said Lady Agnes, jerking the curtains closed. “Setting up right in front of our headquarters!”
“She deserves a turn setting up in Newgate Prison,” said Mr. Sacks-Sandbottom.
“Why?” asked Dorrie. “What did she do?”
“Twice now,” said Lady Agnes, sitting down with a sniff, “she’s stolen freshly printed copies of our newspaper, the Anti-Suffrage Review, right off the doorstep.”
Dorrie felt Ebba step on her foot under the table.
“We believe,” said Mrs. Richardson as she filled a basket with rosettes.
“Oh, I’m quite certain it’s her.” Lady Agnes wrinkled her nose as though she’d just opened an outhouse door. “I found out she belongs to that lunatic window-breaking, building-burning, letterbox-destroying Women’s Social and Political Union.”
There was a great deal of tsking and head-shaking around the table.
“Did anybody actually see her take them?” asked Ebba.
“No,” said Mr. Sacks-Sandbottom, the word seeming to come through his nose. “But the circumstantial evidence is quite compelling. Isn’t that so, Mrs. Richardson?”
“Well…” said Mrs. Richardson as though she would really rather not say. “The printer always delivers the new edition of the Anti-Suffrage Review on Monday evenings sometime after I’ve closed up here. On two separate Tuesday mornings, I arrived and found the newspapers gone.”
“And both times, that mad banshee had spent the Monday carrying on across the street,” said Lady Agnes. “On the last several Mondays, she didn’t make an appearance, and no one stole the newspapers.”
Plying her pair of scissors crookedly, Dorrie glanced at Ebba.
“But no matter,” said Mr. Sacks-Sandbottom. “Lady Agnes has explained the situation to her uncle and our benefactor, Lord Cromer.”
“He’s promised a proper response,” said Lady Agnes. “Those WSPU outragers will be quite sorry for taking such an action against us.”
Closing the door of the League’s headquarters behind them a few hours later, Dorrie and Ebba let out twin whistles of relief into the chilly dusk.
“Don’t forget! Two weeks from Monday. 11:00 a.m. sharp to help us get ready for the benefit tea!” Lady Agnes had called out as they’d put on their coats.
Now as they waited to cross the
street, Dorrie looked down at the pamphlet Countess Mary had pressed into her hand. Against Women’s Suffrage: Some Reasons by Grace Saxon Mills. She looked at Ebba. “Not much of a title.”
Ebba snorted and thumbed through her copy. Affecting Lady Agnes’s tones, she read out loud: “‘Because women’s suffrage is based on the idea of the equality of the sexes and tends to establish those competitive relations that will destroy chivalrous consideration.’”
Now it was Dorrie’s turn to snort. She tried one: “‘Because past legislation in Parliament shows that the interests of women are perfectly safe in the hands of men.’”
“Ugh,” said Ebba.
Seeing the suffragist on the other side of the street, Dorrie lowered her voice. “Do you think she took the newspapers?”
“I hope not,” said Ebba. “I like her.”
“Me too,” said Dorrie, jamming Some Reasons into her bag.
They crossed the street.
“Ah,” said the woman, throwing back the hood of her cloak. Her eyes twinkled. “The young suffragists who watched me nearly lose my nose to a cabbage today!” She was repacking her valise.
Dorrie looked nervously back at the anti-suffrage headquarters, but the curtains were still drawn.
The suffragist waved her hand over the suitcase. “It’s all free. Take one if you’d like.” She pointed to a pamphlet called Fourteen Reasons for Supporting Women’s Suffrage. “One of my favorites.”
Dorrie took it. “Thank you.”
“How about you?” she said, handing Ebba a newspaper. “Can’t go wrong with the Suffragette.” She closed the suitcase smartly. “I’m Annie Knox, by the way.”
Dorrie and Ebba introduced themselves, sticking to first names.
“Off to earn my coppers and pence,” said Annie, picking up the suitcase. “My way is through the park. Yours?”
“The same,” said Ebba quickly. “Thanks for the newspaper.”
“Hot off the presses,” said Annie, grinning. “My sister helps edit it.”
They turned into the park.
Dorrie took a chance. “Have you ever…ever read the Anti-Suffrage Review?”
“Ha,” said Annie, swinging the valise. “Dull, infuriating drivel! But yes, I do read it. I like to know what the anti-suffragists are thinking. Or refusing to think.”
“Hot chestnuts!” called a young boy coming down the path from the other direction. A sweet, rich smell tantalized Dorrie’s nose.
“Manna!” declared Annie, stopping. “We suffragists are chilled to the bone and want a pound, please!” She dug in her cloak pocket while the boy, his bare hands blue with cold, scooped a mess of chestnuts into a newspaper cone.
“Oh, we can—” began Ebba.
“My treat,” said Annie.
“Thank you,” said Dorrie and Ebba as they popped the first ones in their mouths, glorying in the chestnuts’ heat as much as the rich taste.
Annie lifted the cone high. “To the vote! And long underwear!”
Dorrie and Ebba giggled.
“And the end of imprisoning suffragists,” Annie added more soberly.
“Have you ever been to prison?” asked Dorrie.
“No,” said Annie. “But I have another sister who’s been to Holloway three times. She’s there now.”
Dorrie stared at Annie, thinking back to all that Lady Agnes had said. “She didn’t…she hasn’t…”
“Burned down any buildings?” said Annie. “Thrown an ax at a prime minister?”
Ebba’s eyes widened. “Someone did that?”
“Yes, but not my sister. She’s in prison for cutting a telegraph line. She did it because she feels women have waited too long for our rights. Like Mrs. Pankhurst, my sister believes that petitioning our representatives for them has failed.”
“I’m…I’m sorry,” stammered Dorrie.
They had exited the park. Gas lamps winked in the darkness along the street.
“Women are going to get the vote,” said Annie firmly as they crossed the street. “We just have to help the public understand why it’s just and important. The next issue of the Suffragette is going to make a big splash, what with Mrs. Pankhurst telling her own imprisonment story.”
They had stopped in front of a store window with “McAndrews Laundry” painted on it.
“To the ramparts,” said Annie, opening the door. A bell jingled. “Lovely to have met you. Get home safe.”
Slowly, they walked in the direction of the Spoke Library.
“Now I really hope she isn’t the thief,” said Ebba.
Dorrie swung her bag thoughtfully. “And I really want to know exactly what kind of proper response Lord Cromer has planned for the suffragists.”
Chapter 16
Seals
The day after their return from London, Dorrie and Ebba went back to the main reference room fully intending to get out materials that might help them discover the identity of the Anti-Suffrage Review thief, only to find themselves leaving with books they thought might help them find out more about Lord Cromer’s intentions.
During the next week, they spent hours sitting in front of the attics’ fire, looking through the indexes for “Lord Cromer” and “National League for Opposing Woman Suffrage” and “Annie Knox” and “the Suffragette.”
“I don’t believe it!” Dorrie said suddenly one quiet evening.
Ebba, shrieked, jumping as though she’d been shot. She closed True Spine-Tingling Ghost Stories from around the World. “Sorry. I was at a really creepy part.”
“You’re always at a really creepy part,” Mathilde said irritably from across the room where she sat at a table, covered with the ink she’d just spilled. “Do you ever put that thing down?”
“Listen!” said Dorrie, her voice tight with excitement. “In 1913, the Home Office—”
Ebba set her book aside. “What’s the Home Office?”
Dorrie scanned the page. “It doesn’t say exactly. We’ll have to look it up. It’s some kind of department of the government, but just…listen… ‘In 1913, the Home Office, at a suggestion from Lords Cromer and Curzon, made a formal threat against subscribers of the Suffragette, informing them that it was now illegal to subscribe to the newspaper and they’d be charged with a crime for doing it.’”
“For reading something?” said Ebba outraged. “Oh, those, those…!”
“Rats” said Dorrie. “Just say it. They’re—”
“—poison ivy leaves,” Ebba said firmly.
“But this part’s the worst,” said Dorrie. “‘In late winter of 1913—’”
Ebba’s eyes widened. “That’s now, out in the London, 1913 wheren!”
“‘—The Home Office tried to suppress the Suffragette entirely. Sidney Granville Drew, the managing director of Victoria House Printing Company, the newspaper’s printer, was arrested.’”
Dorrie and Ebba stared at one another.
“That’s got to be what Lady Agnes was talking about when she said Lord Cromer had promised a ‘proper response,’” said Ebba.
“There’s more!” said Dorrie, excitement making her hands shake.
“Another printer was engaged, but the Home Office arrested the second printer. In the end, no printer in London was permitted to print the Suffragette.”
Dorrie threw the book aside. “Okra slime sandwiches!”
“I’ve tried to warn you,” said Mathilde primly.
“Can you believe it?” cried Dorrie. “We’re supposed to protect their stupid newspapers from being stolen while they’re off figuring out how to keep the Suffragette out of print.”
“Maybe we should tell the Lybrariad what we’ve found out,” said Ebba, reaching for one of the baked potatoes Mathilde had read out for them earlier.
Dorrie felt a surge of excitement at that idea, which then fizz
led. “The Lybrariad hardly has enough available lybrarians to take care of the most urgent missions.” She imagined the suffragist on her soapbox. “But maybe we could at least warn Annie.”
As the field trip drew closer, Dorrie and Ebba and Marcus spent more time in the Scooby-Doo Library, working out their respective plans to visit Critius’s house and talk Aristotle into dropping his charges against Timotheus. It didn’t take much reading about Critius before Dorrie realized that she was not a fan. He had been one of the Thirty Tyrants who had terrorized Athens, killing people left and right during the year they’d taken power in 404 BCE.
Their lair continued to surprise them. One day, when Ebba lifted the stuffed vulture up, intending to place it near Darling’s pen for company, another of the locked doors had flown open to the sound of a blood-curdling scream. Beyond it, they’d found a decrepit bathroom with a fake mummy sprawled in a claw-footed tub, along with a sink faucet that dripped something that looked convincingly like blood.
“How exactly are you going to convince Aristotle to drop his lawsuit?” Ebba asked Marcus later in the week, while she and Dorrie pored over a large map of ancient Athens they’d opened on the wide expanse of empty floor between the back of the couch and the spinning wall.
“I will use the word ‘ergo.’ A lot,” Marcus said from where he sat making a racket at the organ while Darling, banished from her favorite napping spot atop the keys, glowered at him from her pen.
“Ergo?” repeated Dorrie.
“It’s a logical argument word,” said Marcus, crashing his fingers among the keys. “He’ll love it. When are you going to get hold of that skipkey?”
Dorrie stared at the little square on the map that represented the Lyceum, Aristotle’s philosophy academy, where the skipkey would land them. “I can’t take it too soon or the Archivist will be more likely to notice.” Even as she said the words, Dorrie knew that she hadn’t yet taken it because she was feeling increasingly uncomfortable about going behind the Archivist’s back.
Their conversation had ended when Marcus played a particularly funereal chord, and a very large piece of the floor had simply dropped away on a hinge, nearly pitching Ebba into the dark fathomless depths of a stone-walled chute. After he’d found another chord to make the trapdoor rise into place again, Marcus was also banished from the organ.
The Ninja Librarians: Sword in the Stacks Page 15