The Hourglass Factory

by Lucy Ribchester

  ‘Will you leave us be? People will think you’ve escaped from St Barnabas.’ The younger woman tried to grab Lady Thorne’s cloak but instead ended up with a fistful of the pamphlets. A sea of papers fell over the cobbled street like giant confetti.

  ‘Jezebel!’ the woman cried. ‘Sharper than a serpent’s tooth!’

  The girl looked ready to launch another attack, but then she put her face in her hands and took a deep breath. ‘François, call one of the cabbies over.’

  A man in a bowler hat took his cigarette out of his mouth long enough to whistle and in a few seconds a bony horse appeared, leading a hackney into the yard. Frankie darted back as the horse passed her. The girl had her arm on the old woman’s cloak and with a surprising strength managed to manhandle her into the cab, but not before the old lady had grappled up a few of her pamphlets from the mucky ground. Her shoulders were hunched now; she looked as if she had woken from a bad dream and was willing herself to vanish. The young woman in the turban muttered something in the driver’s ear. He frowned, and asked if she was sure.

  ‘Don’t worry, she’ll pay.’

  Frankie leaned out of the way as the cabbie lashed his horse and the vehicle lumbered off back into Soho.

  The young woman leaned against the railings and wiped a hand across her face. When she took it away a trail of smeared make-up had been left in its wake, black kohl and green eye paint. Frankie only realised she was staring when the girl looked across at her. She ran her eyes up Frankie’s body, from the dark brogues on her feet to her trousers, jacket and short hair. ‘Haven’t I seen you in the halls?’ She had a cool educated voice.

  Frankie shook her head. ‘No, I’m . . .’ she hesitated. ‘I’m a reporter.’

  The girl’s eyes rolled back in her head. Her face was familiar-looking; the large cold features. ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘I’m sorry? I’m looking for Ebony Diamond.’

  She paused, then something like relief flooded her face. ‘She didn’t turn up tonight. Matter of fact I’m doing the finale.’

  ‘Any idea when she’ll next be on?’

  The girl nodded towards the entrance. ‘Ask Lizzy. She’s the dwarf. Does the rotas. I’ve no idea.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The girl shrugged. ‘You’re a reporter. You should know.’

  Frankie shrugged back.

  The girl sighed. ‘She’s been in and out of prison. She’s never here. I’m surprised Jojo keeps her on.’ Shivering, she gathered her arms round her shoulders. Something in her pockets moved. She dipped a hand into the fabric and to Frankie’s horror produced a heavy curled pink snake. Struck by the mawkishness of what she thought must be an automaton, Frankie peered closer. The snake flicked its tongue and she jumped back. It began to travel round the girl’s hands in a slow dance.

  She didn’t seem to notice Frankie’s revulsion. ‘Look, you can come in and watch the finale if you want. It’s tuppence tonight, and for sixpence more you get devilled kidneys and potatoes.’ The snake licked the air again.

  Frankie shuddered. Another wasted trip. She glanced at the covering of pamphlets sticking to the ground and bent to pick one up. In black dripping letters it read, ‘This way to the Pit of Hell’. Below were listed the dangers of going to the theatre. There was a grotesque drawing of a group of prostitutes lurking like cats behind the Alhambra in Leicester Square.

  ‘That woman. That was Lady Thorne, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I have no idea who she is. Will you excuse me.’ The woman moved away from the railings, stroking the head of her snake as she went.

  ‘Wait. Can you tell me anything else about Ebony Diamond? When was the last time you saw her?’

  She stopped and turned. ‘I don’t remember. Last week probably.’

  ‘But I thought . . .’ Frankie’s gaze shifted to the poster where Ebony Diamond was the centrepiece.

  ‘Things change, don’t they?’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  She hesitated. ‘Salome. My name is Salome.’ With a seashell rattle she disappeared down the stairs into the gaping red door.

  Frankie stood thinking for a few seconds. Did she want to part with eight pence? It would cost her at least that to fix the camera. There were still two more days before Saturday’s cheque. And her bed was beckoning.

  What would the girls on the society pages do? They would go in, of course. Teddy Hawkins would. But then none of them had just spent two hours having their skin purged by Twinkle and being offered bull testicles for refreshment. She peered closely at the poster, still flapping against the railings. There were a few names on it: ‘Eloise, the two-headed chan-teuse’, ‘Jojo the wolf-man’, ‘The Black Diamond’. And there was the other woman tucked behind a pair of conjoined twins, ‘Salome Snake dancer, Princess of Egypt’. Frankie stared for a second, then turned her nose up. That well-spoken girl with her hair all piled up in a Paul Poiret turban had never set a foot near Egypt, she would bet all the riches in Mayfair on it. She began to skulk back towards the main street and was almost there when a child ran up to her, blocking her path. ‘Tuppence for a Lady Thorne doll.’ From behind his back he thrust out a hand, full of half-inflated balloons with eyes and mouths sketched on in feathery traces. ‘Look,’ he put on a hoity-toity voice, ‘“This way to the pit of hell!” Look at her faint in the face of the demons.’ He let the air out of the balloon and it farted to a flop.

  ‘Enterprising bag of little shits, aren’t you?’ She prised the boy out of the way and disappeared off down Greek Street, heading back on foot towards Clerkenwell.

  Eight

  Primrose was helping two junior constables book in a couple of suffragettes when his Chief appeared, brandishing a telegram. Bow Street Police Station raged with the noise of furious women and hoarse constables. Behind the front throng, queues of prisoners were lining up waiting to be registered; conversations were breaking out between bored policemen and the well-dressed ladies attached to them by the wrist.

  Chief Inspector Stuttlegate was Primrose’s immediate superior in the suffragette branch, and had been in the role as long as the unit existed. At five foot seven he was just under the regulation height for new recruits. Common folklore had it that his wits had got him through the training rather than his brawn, but those who knew him suspected ‘wits’ was a generous word for brass neck. He had a pointy nose like a sniffer dog and wiry ginger hair twisting from his head in separate threads. He pulled Primrose’s elbow.

  ‘This,’ he held out a crumpled piece of paper, ‘just came in from Dover.’ There was a shifting of attention among the officers behind the desk. One of the constables turned his head. ‘Did I ask you to join this conversation? Look there’s a woman there wants booking, get on with it, fingerprints.’

  The woman standing before the counter fixed the Chief with a stubborn look. ‘I shan’t give fingerprints.’

  ‘You’ll bloody do as you’re told or it’ll be third division and no porridge.’

  ‘I’m not obliged to give fingerprints unless I’m convicted of a crime. We may be women, but we’re not stupid.’

  The Chief’s face coloured from the neck up. ‘Now you listen to me!’

  Primrose pointed to the telegram. ‘What does it say, Chief?’

  Stuttlegate released his fix on the woman and gestured to Primrose to move further down the bench. ‘Out of that bitch’s hearing.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  He sighed tersely. ‘She’s only gone and been here, under our bloody noses, cavorting like a sparrow, probably there tonight with this lot.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Who do you think, the cat’s mother? Wake up, Primrose. Christabel Pankhurst.’

  Primrose, in his weary state, smarted from the admonishment. His gaze drifted to the clock on the wall. He was bleary-eyed and it took a moment to focus on the time. A headache had begun brewing behind one of his eyes.

  ‘She was spotted on the Paddington train, transferring to the ferr
y to Calais.’ He rapped his fist on the bench. ‘If they’d been a second sooner we’d have had her.’ He gritted his teeth but didn’t sound convinced by his words.

  ‘She was here tonight?’

  ‘Yes tonight, Freddie. Suffragette leader, the one in hiding, here. Tonight. Do you have somewhere you need to be? You keep looking at that clock.’

  Primrose swallowed, ‘No, sir.’ He cleared his throat and tried to demonstrate that he was paying attention. ‘Why didn’t they just arrest her when they spotted her?’

  ‘Because it wasn’t our bloody man who clocked her. It was a solicitor travelling with her on the train. Says he couldn’t be sure till he got a look at her in the light. He pulled the guard in just before the ferry left. They tried to find her, but I don’t know, she was in the tea room or the ladies’ room or wherever they go to polish up their broomsticks. If you ask me he’s one of them.’

  ‘A suffragette?’ Primrose’s brow creased.

  ‘You do get them, Primrose, men’s league for women’s whatever it is.’ He puffed out his cheeks and released his breath. ‘Seems a bit of a coincidence that he kept mum all that time on the train because he couldn’t be sure, then soon as that ferry’s on its way, that’s when he’s bloody sure.’ He looked at Primrose with his pinprick eyes. ‘They’re laughing at us, Freddie. They brought her over here under our noses.’

  Primrose said nothing. He sensed the Chief was testing him, willing him to agree.

  Stuttlegate smoothed out the telegram on the counter. ‘Look, I’m at the end of my tether here. Don’t mind telling you this is driving me into the ground.’

  ‘You and me both,’ Primrose said quietly. The headache was starting to spread out to his ears. He thought of Clara. He hadn’t had time to send her word or even telephone her yet to say he would be late.

  The Chief rubbed his head. ‘I’ve got to get out of here. My wife’s raising merry hell. Says the children have forgotten what their father looks like.’

  Primrose raised a weak smile. He knew what was coming.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you, Freddie? Just need to get the statement from the man logged, write up a quick report tonight and we’ll file an investigation tomorrow. It’s just if I leave something this big . . .’

  Primrose nodded. He hadn’t realised until now quite how hungry he was. Perhaps the hot potato stand at Covent Garden would still be open, he could pass by it on his way back to the Embankment office.

  The Chief slapped his back. ‘Knew you’d come good. Next time, we’ll nail her. Then we’ll both be heroes.’ He gave a wink and strode off past the two constables on his way out, knocking into the shoulder of one of the suffragettes. ‘Pardon me,’ he called, and made to tip his hat.

  Primrose looked at the grubby telegram from the Dover Customs office with its brusque capital letter account of the sighting of Miss Pankhurst. It was marked twenty past ten. He elbowed past the desk constables until he reached the station telephone. Picking up the receiver, he asked the operator for Clapham two-seven-five.

  Clara answered almost immediately. Sitting near the telephone meant she was worried.

  ‘My love?’

  She was silent.

  ‘Suffragettes,’ he said. ‘Again.’ He tried to smile. He imagined her nod. ‘Didn’t you fancy a smash and a jolly to Bow Street yourself?’ Either she didn’t understand the joke or she didn’t find it amusing.

  There was a short silence. ‘I’ll leave the stove on. There’s stew and potatoes. I’m going to bed mind.’

  ‘That’s ok, I’ll . . .’ He wanted to say ‘I’ll be home as quick as I can’ but he didn’t dare.

  ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ she said. The line went dead.

  Primrose made it to Covent Garden just in time to see the hot potato seller emptying a pile of cold ash into the market rubbish heap. He looked to see if the toffee apple stalls were still out, or if anyone was selling whelks but the market was deserted, the food smells muted. On the other side of the square, a man in a filthy apron was hawking brown paper bags of sliced pigs’ ears from a greasy basket. Deciding he had no choice Primrose grudgingly parted with a ha’penny.

  They were brined to bursting, then fried to a crisp so that little remained of them but scraps of salty leather. He took a couple of mouthfuls before depositing the rest into the hands of a beggar on the Strand. The wind was blowing up foul gusts from the Thames as he approached New Scotland Yard’s building on the Embankment. He had hoped the walk might have woken him up a little but as he hopped up the steps and tried to focus on the clock in the deserted lobby of the building he could feel his eyes fuzz with fatigue. It was past midnight but there were a few lights on in the downstairs offices and he could hear the Remington typewriters slamming away under weary fingers. Someone had recently boiled coffee. It lingered in the cold lobby air.

  He had heaved himself up half a staircase towards his office when he heard his name called by one of the clerks downstairs. He didn’t know the boy, so he hesitated. The boy called again.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You are Primrose, aren’t you? Sorry, Inspector Primrose?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Primrose from Special Branch?’

  Primrose pinched the upper bridge of his nose where the headache hurt most. ‘How many Primroses are there in Central Office?’

  The boy, who could only have been twenty or so, looked put out. ‘Telephone call from Bow Street. They said you would be on duty, and they need someone from Special.’

  Primrose stifled the simmering of rage that came from hearing that phrase ‘on duty’, the image of Stuttlegate kissing his children goodnight hovering close to his mind.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  The boy consulted a yellow notebook in his hand covered in messy ink. ‘There’s been a girl murdered up Tottenham Court Road. Sorry, Inspector, Bow Street said you would be on duty.’

  Primrose felt briefly ashamed to think the boy had noted his sourness.

  ‘Any other details?’

  ‘They’re saying her throat was cut.’

  He couldn’t stop a little groan coming out from between his lips but quelled it when he saw the boy’s face. ‘No chance this is a late Hallowe’en prank is there?’

  The boy’s face told him there was not.

  A thought suddenly occurred to him. ‘Why Special Branch?’ He asked. ‘Murders go to the divisional detectives.’

  The boy shifted. ‘No one’s allowed to pass this on but . . .’

  ‘Well, what is it then?’ Primrose asked, scratching the bridge of his nose.

  When the boy opened his mouth again Primrose almost wished he hadn’t asked. ‘Suffragette, sir. Victim was a suffragette. She’s not been identified formally yet, but the local landlord will swear on his life the girl’s name is Ebony Diamond.’

  Nine

  2 November 1912

  Frankie slept restlessly through the night. The window pane in her bedroom had a crack near the bottom that sent cold gusts wheezing in every now and then. There had been no coal in the scuttle when she arrived home and the measly fire Mrs Gibbons had lit was barely more than embers. With the blankets curled round her body she tossed and turned, half-dreaming about Ebony Diamond, snakes and coal boxes. When she awoke, light was cutting a shard across the dusty floor, illuminating her desk with its scattered papers, the Blickensderfer typewriter part-hidden under newspapers and notebooks. The room was otherwise empty apart from a washstand, a rusty mirror, a stiff-backed chair covered with shirts, trousers and braces from the day before, a pile of books on a small shelf, and a tin of Colman’s mustard – invaluable ammunition for her landlady Mrs Gibbons’s cooking.

  As she prised her head up from under the covers, a little wash of gin crept up her throat. She reached down for the jug of water she kept on the floor by the bed but it was empty.

  While she fumbled for a glass there was a knock at the door. Before she could cry, ‘Who is it?’ it swung open and Mrs Gibbons appeared,
a bucket of lightly steaming water braced against her hip. She marched across the room and sloshed it into the washstand, slopping great drips onto the floor.

  ‘My mother always said there were only two reasons for being in bed beyond eleven o’clock,’ she said briskly. ‘The one’s childbirth.’

  Frankie nodded, letting her eyes focus. Mrs Gibbons now stood with both hands on her hips, the pail dangling off her wrist. She was stiff as ever in a brown tweed skirt that skimmed the floor, and a starched but grimy white blouse. Frothy brown hair framed her crooked face.

  ‘What’s the other?’ Frankie rubbed her eyes.

  ‘Bone idleness.’ She marched out of the room slamming the door.

  ‘I was working last night . . .’ Frankie trailed off as the footsteps echoed down the stairs. She could hear shuffling from along the corridor. If Piggot was up it must indeed be late. Mr Piggot was a sub-editor who worked afternoons and nights. She reached across the floor for her waistcoat and extracted her pocket-watch, but she had forgotten to wind it again and it said three o’clock. Feeling heavy in the belly at the thought of having to pick her Blickensderfer out from the messy desk and write up the Twinkle column, she heaved herself out of bed, washed quickly in the water, which was only just warmer than the air in the room, and put on the same clothes as yesterday. Her comb was nowhere to be seen so she smoothed her hair down with her fingers and made her way downstairs.

  On the parlour table sat a rack of toast, slowly curling in on itself. Alongside it was a pot of Mrs Gibbons’s famously tart marmalade that she boasted could both kill a rat and bring a dead man back to life. Frankie heaped a spoonful of it onto a piece of soggy toast and reached for the coffee pot. It was cold and empty. Mrs Gibbons bustled through, shunting open the door with her rump, and made a show of surprise at seeing Frankie up. ‘Miss George, breakfasting before noon, what will the other citizens say?’ She called all her lodgers ‘citizens’ as if she was the despot of some boarding-house empire.