The Hourglass Factory

by Lucy Ribchester

  ‘I’m sure I will.’

  ‘Wake me if I’m not through.’

  Frankie tugged her jacket off and laid it across her. She dragged the blanket to her chin.

  Milly paused in the doorway, her hands carrying a tin bowl full of coal, the red shawl hanging off her shoulders. ‘I don’t give up on people. I want you to know that, Frankie. I’m not just dogging you because I told Jojo I would. I left Frederic because I had to.’

  Frankie nodded quickly, perhaps, she thought to herself afterwards, a little too quickly. She hunkered down into the blanket, already starting to gather a layer of her own cosy body warmth. Underneath it, clutched close to her chest, her thumbs still worked away curiously at the pattern she had spotted on the handle of the spoon.

  Thirty-One

  5 November 1912

  Kingsway’s wide thoroughfare was scattered with carelessly parked vehicles, police wagons and press cars. Some had beetled up onto the kerb, others were discarded diagonally to the oncoming traffic, causing swerves and hoots. A crowd of newspapermen moved in an uneven throng along the street, cat-calling, shoving, pausing only to load up flash tubes. The air was smoked with magnesium, the pops came blinding fast.

  ‘Freddie!’ A hand stuck out from the grand door of Lincoln’s Inn House, beckoning Primrose through the police line. As he squeezed past he noticed the uniformed officers had shotguns slung idle across their forearms. It was like the Sidney Street siege all over again.

  The stout hand grabbed his collar just as a knot of reporters tried to force their way through the line in his wake. Stuttlegate pulled him inside, slamming the door on a journalist’s fingers.

  ‘Freddie, glad you could come. Red hot out there, isn’t it?’

  ‘Actually, sir, I wasn’t thrilled at finding out through the newspapers. I was under the impression this was my investiga—’

  ‘Never mind, you’re here now.’ He slapped him between the shoulder blades.

  ‘Chief, if you don’t mind my asking, what brought this about? I read a headline or two, but I know what rot these men come up with.’ He looked around. The atrium of the building was packed with policemen, cuffing and searching women, leaning against the Greek columns scribbling in notebooks, tossing piles of paperwork into heaps on the floor. He swallowed, and found he could still taste the decaying pork pie he had grabbed outside Colney Hatch Station and sank on the underground.

  Stuttlegate’s response was to shove into his hand a brown file with a mass of papers haphazardly piled in it. Some of the notes were Wilson’s writing; some were labelled at the top of the flimsy with Robert Jenkins’s name. Pinned to the top was a typed copy of a cable that had been intercepted earlier in the day, a simple message from Christabel Pankhurst to Suffragette HQ: ‘Please burn down Nottingham Castle.’ Primrose understood the symbolism; Nottingham Castle had been scorched to the ground at the time of the men’s suffrage uprising. He had seen the telegram already, late in the afternoon before leaving for Pentonville and dismissed it as a hoax, too bald, too convenient. And that word ‘please’. It reminded him of the decoys of herself she sent leading them a dance all over London when the fancy took her.

  Underneath were some more notes on Ebony Diamond and a conclusive ‘report’ from Wilson based on Jenkins’s information that both ‘Diamond’ and ‘Evans’ had been about to spill the beans on a mastermind suffragette plan.

  ‘Forgive me, sir, but this seems like scant evidence for . . .’ He looked at the hallway drawers being tumbled out, the furniture tossed over. ‘If it’s top secret that they’re planning to torch Nottingham Castle, why send an uncoded message from Paris? Jenkins heard nothing this afternoon to corroborate that’s what they’re up to.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter why we ordered it. Point is, Freddie, now’s the chance to wrap it up. Get her for double murder and you’ll sink ’em all.’

  ‘Get who for murder?’

  Stuttlegate’s eyes danced. ‘How’d you like your name to be up in the hall of fame? The man who broke the suffragettes.’

  ‘But you can’t be suggesting—’

  ‘Annie Evans, Ebony Diamond. Look it’s all in there.’

  Primrose looked down at the file, noting how big his hands were against its slim brown card. Big and useless and clumsy. He squeezed the bridge of his nose. ‘Get who exactly for what murder?’

  Stuttlegate came close. ‘I’ve got Mrs Pankhurst in one of the rooms up there.’ He pointed to the top of the stairs where a policeman was trying to wrestle a safe box from a woman. His eyes were alight. He waited, anticipating admiration, but it wasn’t forthcoming so he went on. ‘Now madam’s not under arrest. Yet. But you can have a crack at her. If you want. First jipper.’

  ‘What am I supposed to say to her?’

  Stuttlegate brought his face devilishly close. ‘I don’t care, Freddie. I really don’t care what you say. So long as you leave the wheels off her bath chair this time.’ Before Primrose had cottoned on to what Stuttlegate had said, the Chief was wading out into the lobby, sticking his fat hands out again, directing the black insectile forms of the uniformed officers as they burrowed about their growing evidence piles.

  Primrose felt his teeth clenching together. Bath chair indeed? So it was Stuttlegate who had left that article on his desk the other day, the one about May Billinghurst and her bath chair with the love heart round it. It had to have been. The whole point of giving him the investigation, while continuing to meddle in it from afar seemed to become suddenly clear. It was a test; the gloves were off and he was being tested right here, right this minute, as a suffragette sympathiser.

  He flinched as he turned to see Wilson’s lanky shadow on the column beside him.

  ‘Sorry, sir. Didn’t mean to startle you.’ He paused. ‘Did he mention who was upstairs?’

  ‘Yes. Is she being held against her will?’

  ‘Not yet. Becoming ratty though. Saying she might not cooperate without a solicitor, so if we’re going to get anything out of her . . .’

  Primrose disliked that ‘we’ but was too tired to argue. ‘Do you know which room she’s in?’

  Wilson gallantly held out his arm to usher the Inspector forward. Primrose, as he mounted the stairs, felt a growing sense of dread. If indeed he was standing on the cusp of a landmark moment in the fight against the women’s movement, why hadn’t his superior elected to take the interview? At the back of his mind, alongside sleep and indigestion, was the groggy hope that he wasn’t right now being led into some kind of professional trap.

  Tussles were breaking out on the stairs. One woman had managed to get a young blond constable into a ju jitsu lock, but released him when Primrose and Wilson passed. On a side table in the upper landing, Primrose noticed a small shiny pistol tossed into a police evidence box, along with a packet of blanks and a brace of scratched wooden Indian clubs. The whine of the electric lift, sending box after box of seized goods down to the lobby, blended into the background.

  They continued along the corridor until they came to a gallery with a door leading off to the left. Above them a domed skylight let in the bleary violet night.

  Wilson didn’t bother to knock but cranked the handle open to let Primrose pass. Inside a woman sat with her back to them, facing the windowless wall, still wearing her outdoor hat: a white creation tied with a wisp of silk under her chin. She was perched upright and proper on the near side of an oak table covered with ledgers, pamphlets for rallies and copies of the day’s newspapers. Strewn carelessly atop them and labelled with an orange police evidence tag lay a dog-whip; a hard black handle stiffly tapering into a tongue of yellow leather.

  Mrs Pankhurst didn’t turn around. Primrose headed behind the desk for the second chair, then thought better of it and pulled it around to her side. Wilson closed the door and leant against it. Primrose introduced them both and muttered a weak thank you to her for agreeing to help.

  She took a moment to look at him. Her eyes carefully roamed his features, taking in his t
hroat and shoulders as if she might be assessing a cow at market. ‘I didn’t have much choice, Inspector. Your men don’t respond well to reasoning when handcuffs and rubber bats do the job so nicely.’

  ‘They’re just doing what we have asked them to do.’

  ‘Look at this place. Did you see, on the way up? They’ve taken records, lost the order for filed documents. Nothing we are doing, right now, in here is illegal.’

  Primrose’s eye fell upon the dog-whip. Her gaze followed.

  ‘How can I assist you?’ she asked. Her face, he noticed, was drawn, much more so than the photographs made out. She had high cheekbones and large round hooded eyes that cast down to her lap every so often. Her skin was so fragile that fine blue veins were visible beneath its surface, mirroring the flat sea-blue of her eyes. She made him feel like a boy, like she had seen better and more terrifying men than him countless times before.

  ‘Your daughter Christabel—’ he cleared his throat.

  ‘It is hard enough,’ she interrupted, ‘keeping tabs on my daughter for my own purposes without having to worry about keeping track of her for yours.’

  Primrose shifted. The upholstery on the seat was uneven, sloping on one side. He wondered if this one was reserved for unwelcome visitors. ‘Are you proud of her?’

  ‘I’m proud of all of my children, alive and with God. If you’re asking if I approve of her evading conspiracy charges while the rest of us went to prison, I approve of her cause. Sometimes that’s enough to justify the methods.’

  ‘Methods. That is why we are here after all.’

  ‘Your tone doesn’t become you. It makes you seem even more nervous than you are.’

  Primrose took a sharp breath, steadying his hands. ‘Violence is a WSPU method.’

  ‘We prefer militancy. Militancy means war. And this,’ she jabbed a finger towards the ground, indicating downstairs, ‘is a war, Inspector. We didn’t mean it to be but it has become one.’

  ‘And in war people get hurt. Murdered.’

  ‘In your wars perhaps but not in ours. The only recklessness the suffragettes have ever shown has been about their own lives, not the lives of others. You obviously haven’t been put on surveillance duties at enough of our rallies.’ She nodded at the dog whip. ‘See who is violent to whom then. It has never been, and will never be, the policy of the Women’s Social and Political Union to endanger human life. We leave that to the enemy. We leave that to the men in their warfare.’

  Primrose caught Wilson’s eye but the sergeant’s expression was unreadable. He put the brown file on the table and opened it. Mrs Pankhurst watched his hands carefully.

  ‘I want to ask you about a woman called Ebony Diamond. Know her?’

  She didn’t blink. ‘Of course.’

  ‘When did you meet her?’

  ‘I think she came to us almost a year ago. She had met some pamphleteers at a country fair. That’s what our ladies do. Go to country fairs, spread the word. You wouldn’t like to believe most of the things we do are peaceful.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter what I’d like to believe. Violence speaks for itself.’

  She waited until he looked at her again. ‘Violence frequently attaches itself to reform. Without it no law would be passed. We would still be waiting for the corn laws, or common man’s suffrage. You, I dare say, Inspector,’ she looked him up and down, resting her eyes on his broad labourer’s shoulders, ‘would likely not be allowed to vote.’

  It was too much. Primrose felt his exposed neck beginning to boil. Being yanked in here, disorientated, unprepared, dumped in chaos on his own investigation. He would not be humiliated in front of an inferior by this cool-throated woman. He thought of Stuttlegate waiting in the lobby rubbing his ginger chops, and felt suddenly helpless, as if to punish the woman in front of him would be to play right into the Chief’s hands. But to let her goad him would be something worse. ‘Violence is one thing, but murder is quite another. What if I told you that all this, all this here tonight had nothing to do with your pamphlets and your rallies and your silly hammers. What if I told you that you and your daughter weren’t wanted for conspiracy any more, you’re wanted for murder. Would you still fob me off with nonsense riddles about the past?’

  ‘I still wouldn’t tell you where Christabel is. That’s a mother speaking, Inspector.’

  ‘Then you’re more stupid than I took you for.’

  ‘What are you driving at? I’m getting very close to not cooperating until I see a solicitor.’ Her voice finally tightened. ‘Arrest me or release me.’

  ‘Annie Evans.’ He watched for a reaction but she gave none. ‘Found with her throat cut last Thursday night, the night of your window smash. Tempers were high that night.’

  ‘Tempers against the government.’

  ‘And any dissenters who didn’t want to toe the line on your plans?’

  She said nothing. He tried a different tack. ‘Christabel was in town. Miss Evans was found with a portcullis suffragette badge on her.’ Still no reaction. ‘Ebony Diamond. Would you care to comment on where she might be?’

  ‘I have no idea, Inspector. They both left the WSPU weeks ago. We can’t keep track of every girl who comes and goes.’

  ‘There’s been no black drapes in the window for Annie, no mention of her in your newspaper. No talk of her in here.’

  She opened her mouth in shock then closed it quickly, as if chastising herself for her own surprise at being under their surveillance.

  ‘What did you think of Ebony?’ Primrose asked. ‘Did you like her?’

  ‘Like most women who come to us, we find comfort in each other. We find hope in the thought that we are doing something to change the world.’ She chewed her lower lip. ‘The truth is I was very sorry when Miss Diamond and Miss Evans stopped coming to meetings. But we don’t have time to dwell on the whys. Perhaps she couldn’t afford to be associated with us once she was engaged at the Coliseum.’

  ‘What about Miss Evans?’

  ‘Annie and Ebony were very close.’

  ‘So you think Miss Diamond left because of her career? And Annie followed.’

  ‘I would like to think,’ she said slowly, ‘that if it came to it, Ebony Diamond would rather use herself to gain publicity for the movement than the other way round. But then I am an optimist, Inspector. Suffragettes can’t really afford not to be.’

  Primrose scratched his head. The uneven cushion was bothering him. He stood up to stretch his legs, and Mrs Pankhurst looked quietly aghast at such ungentlemanly behaviour. Her husky-dog eyes followed him as he paced. He could feel Stuttlegate’s shadow hanging in the corner of the room, waiting for him to make the stab, the kill, slurp up first jippers or whatever he had said. Defeat knotted in his stomach as he stretched out his back and realised Mrs Pankhurst was still watching him.

  ‘Was there anyone who might have been afraid that Ebony Diamond was about to ruin some grand plan of theirs? That out of spite, because her ideas had been rejected, that she might threaten to leak some great event, sabotage some piece of destruction, like burning down Nottingham Castle?’

  Mrs Pankhurst didn’t flinch but she scraped back her chair, then put her hands on the table, inches from the dog-whip. ‘Inspector, I’ll forgive you if you’re confused. Perhaps you weren’t listening earlier. But the suffragettes do not put people’s lives in danger. When the men burned Nottingham Castle two people died. Two people were murdered so you could have the franchise. That telegram my daughter sent was destined for your eyes. She wanted to make a point. And by God,’ she gestured at the door where the beating of footsteps and thump of papers hitting floorboards filtered in, ‘she’s had you busy.’

  He opened his mouth but she hadn’t finished.

  ‘It’s the militancy of men, Inspector, that has drenched the world with blood, and for these deeds of horror men have been rewarded with monuments, songs, epics. The militancy of women will continue to harm no human life save the lives of those who want to fight the battle in
their own way. Time will reveal what is rewarded to them. I would suggest, Inspector,’ she said, letting her gaze settle back on the dog-whip, ‘that if you are looking for those with blood on their hands I would try looking a little further towards the government.’

  It was only in the lobby, warmed by the bodies of men at work, that Primrose realised how cold the interview room had been. He pumped the blood back into his fingers, while Wilson stood staring at him. Behind them at a distance Mrs Pankhurst leant over the gallery rail, looking down at the ransacked office.

  ‘You’re letting her go?’ Wilson said softly.

  ‘You don’t believe what she said?’

  Wilson shrugged. ‘You can’t trust them. Look what happened with her daughter.’

  Primrose pushed his hand up through the greased parting of his hair and let his breath out.

  ‘She makes you uneasy.’ There was a goading smile on Wilson’s face.

  Primrose felt the chill in him curdle quickly into a hot anger and began walking towards the stairs. ‘What makes me uneasy is that there’s a murderer on the loose and all we seem to be concerned about is using it as an excuse to spy on suffragettes. Suffragettes here, suffragettes there, the only place we’re bloody looking is suffragettes. It wouldn’t make such a damned difference if it wasn’t murder. It’s that girl’s funeral tomorrow.’

  The smile faded from Wilson’s eyes.

  ‘She’s right. We’re looking in the wrong place.’

  ‘If you want to go doing this palaver inside government offices you’re going to have to—’

  ‘To hell with government.’ Primrose waved a hand. ‘Ebony Diamond left the suffragettes after her last bout in Holloway, didn’t she?’ Wilson nodded his big-eared head cautiously.

  ‘There must be a reason for that. Take a car to Embankment. Not tomorrow, now. Have Bain brought in to look out prison shots of everyone she was in Holloway with. If any of them are matched to suffragettes, discard them. It’s the ones who aren’t we want.’

  Thirty-Two