She picked one up and ran her hand along the edge, then dropped down and fumbled through the rest. The corners of the hearts and diamonds cards had been gouged, leaving ragged gaps in their place. The black suits, the spades and clubs, had been left alone.
‘What are the holes for?’ she wondered quietly.
‘That’s what I don’t know. Although they would have been where the red suits are. Hearts, Diamonds.’
‘Diamonds,’ Frankie muttered gently.
Milly looked down at her.
‘Did Ebony have a pack of these?’ Frankie asked.
‘Not that I knew of.’
Frankie thumbed the hole carefully.
‘What did you mean, “diamonds”, Frankie?’
‘Nothing. Just that it’s Ebony’s name and it’s a coincidence that the Diamonds were—’ Her throat went tight. She could feel her eyes jam in her head.
‘What?’
A memory stirred. Harry Tripe out in the communal yard at the back. Bonfire night. Throwing playing cards onto the blaze. Guy Fawkes night. Tonight.
‘Oh Milly, Lordy.’ Frankie scraped her hair off her forehead as she began to sweat. She moved her arms around in front of her, scattering the cards about, trying to divine what she was looking for.
‘What?’ Milly snapped. ‘What have you thought of? I wish you would share what goes on in that head of yours.’
‘We have to find them.’ She scrambled to her feet and climbed back up the ladder, scrabbled at boxes of cotton and linen, tipping over rolls of silk, sending bobbins tumbling onto the floor.
‘Frankie, tell me what you are looking for.’ Milly climbed to her feet, stepping out of the way as Frankie toppled a ream of cotton.
She stopped for a second, biting her lip. ‘Gunpowder.’
‘What?’
‘The red dye on packs of cards is – it’s gunpowder, it’s got gunpowder in it. Nitro-something or other. You add liquid and a spark to it and it will blow up. What night is it tonight?’
‘Monday?’
Frankie shook her head, irritated. ‘Guy Fawkes night.’ She stared with hollow eyes at Milly. ‘They’re building a bomb.’
Even in the swampy half-light Frankie could see the blood drain from Milly’s face.
‘Playing cards with me on them.’
‘Doesn’t matter who’s on them, it will be whatever was lying around.’ Frankie was back on her hands and knees now, pulling up another floorboard. Outside in the distance she could vaguely hear Tommy’s distinctive voice shouting ‘Oi’ at someone in the street and then the slapping of hands on backs. She wondered again where the devil Liam had got to.
She lifted the floorboard but there was nothing there. The other room, she thought, it will be in the other room, across the hall. Sitting back on her haunches she leaned against one of the sewing machines. It rattled as her weight fell on it.
Milly snapped her head up with frightened eyes. She wobbled the sewing machine behind Frankie’s back with her hand. It rattled again.
Carefully they eased off the painted wooden lid. It was heavy, the metal machine underneath giving off a rich smell of oil and polish. The base of the machine was three inches thick, like a small table. Frankie knocked it with her fingers. It was hollow and something light rattled inside.
‘Check the others.’
Milly ran her hand quickly across the two machines within her reach while Frankie did the same on the other side. All had hollow tables underneath them. All rattled when they were knocked.
‘How to get inside,’ Frankie murmured. She tapped her fingers against the smooth metal, feeling for loose screws or sections that could be pulled off. At last, on the base under the needle she found a penny-sized circle of metal that popped away when she tugged it. She heaved the whole table to a tilt and a scroll of paper slipped out. Frankie hesitated as she bent to pick it up. Was that a creak on the stair?
Milly craned towards her as she flattened out the paper, her neck so close Frankie could smell the spice on her again. It was a newspaper article, more than twenty years old.
‘It’s from an archive. British Museum. Do you see the faint stamp?’
The headline ran ‘Walsall Anarchists: What They Planned’. Beneath it was a thin line diagram, shaped like a pear. The diagram showed arrows pointing to the stalk and text pointing out a detonator, two soft metal cogs that would spark when the protrusion was pressed against them, while the cup was filled with gunpowder.
‘Who prints this? A guide to bomb-making. I mean they worry about the Irish throwing bombs, but look at this.’
They both looked at the title running along the top. In familiar circus style lettering, alongside the date, 1892, were the words ‘London Evening Gazette’.
Turning back to the machine, Frankie stuffed her finger further into the hollow cavity, retrieving more pieces of paper. The first was an instruction manual to a student chemistry set from Gamages, then there were a couple more rogue cards with the suits cut out and finally two tightly rolled sheets of paper, gnarled so small they could have been wads of chewed tobacco cast away.
Her head shot up as there came another creak outside the door. She thought it could just be the building settling as the temperature changed from cold to hot and back, and looked anxiously towards the window. The sun had dipped behind a cloud. But there were no more sounds. Milly tapped a finger to her lips and slowly fumbled along the floor until she found the gun.
They unravelled the papers carefully, trying not to tear the delicate sheets. They were line drawings, the edges torn; both wore the stamp of the British Museum.
‘Did Ebony Diamond have a reader’s ticket for the Museum?’ Frankie whispered. ‘I don’t even have a reader’s ticket.’
Milly’s head was shaking to and fro over the diagrams. One was long and thin and rectangular with boxes branching out from other boxes, architectural patterns filling in the details. The other was a closer diagram of a large chamber, with benches running down two sides and a gallery above. Distances had been measured and recorded in pencil and arrows drawn. It looked almost like a dressmaker’s pattern, neat, calm and dainty. Frankie flicked between them and looked at the titles. One was a general diagram of the Houses of Parliament Westminster complex. The other was the House of Commons. Her heart suddenly plunged. Images flickered and reeled through her head. She tried to picture what had been in Ebony’s mind, go back, probe through what she had been thinking when she started that fight with Frankie in the street. Had she really stood there, blurting out her heart about the suffragettes, chastising Frankie, fearlessly igniting a camera in public while all the while knowing that bombs were going to be set off inside the Houses of Parliament?
Frankie’s face was scanning the room, stricken. Milly was holding up a bony finger. ‘You don’t know anything for certain.’
‘I’ve got a damned good idea.’
Frankie had her hand inside her breast pocket, reaching for her notebook when the door swung back with a bang.
Both hands flew onto the gun but Milly’s reactions were quicker and she caught it, raised it to shoulder height, and whether she intended it to or not, a deafening round cracked out of it scorching the air with hot smoke. Someone in dark clothing ducked, there was a man’s cry and two pink hands covered the face and dark hat of the intruder. Frankie couldn’t help a stiff yelp escape her mouth.
The bullet sent a waterfall of plaster cascading down the wall.
‘You said it wasn’t loaded,’ Frankie cried.
‘I was lying. I didn’t want you to panic.’
The man stood up and a second entered behind. It took Frankie a second to clock their identical dress.
‘Police. Stay absolutely still. Put the pistol where I can see it.’
The first constable blew his whistle and a shrill unbearable noise filled the small room. Only when it stopped did Frankie hear the noise below of Tommy’s spitting tongue. ‘Frankie, you still up there? There’s coppers on their way in.’
Thirty-Five
Primrose leaned his head a little too harshly against the cold wall of the officer’s room at Bow Street, enjoying the ache that spread out between his brows. He heard the door open and hurriedly rolled down his sleeves.
‘Possible breakthrough.’ He was dismayed to hear Wilson’s voice, animated and buoyant and clearly relishing the case. Primrose could see it in him every time they passed in the corridor, the flush in the sergeant’s cheeks, the perky twitch of his huge nose and ears. He had begun to imagine the team whispering about his leadership qualities, that they had no purpose or direction, that they didn’t know what they were looking for. Certainly Jenkins was starting to get impatient about how long he would be required to maintain his ‘surveillance’. He’d had little guidance on his role since the night raid, and that morning’s messages from Lincoln’s Inn showed he was starting to wonder what exactly he should be doing there. Primrose felt his large head very heavy on his shoulders for a moment, then nodded at Wilson to go on.
‘We’ve pulled in a couple of cats from that corset shop on Bond Street, where the bloke . . .’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘A shopgirl on Bond Street told one of the beat constables that she thought she saw two women with a gun breaking into the locked-up shop. I recognise one of them, think she’s a reporter.’
‘Sorry, Wilson, I might be lost but I don’t understand the breakthrough.’
Wilson cast his eyes deferentially at the inspector’s chin, but there was a sly contempt underlying the look. ‘Annie Evans used to work as a seamstress in that shop. Now the girls are kicking and screaming blue murder something about bombs being found in there, or plans for bombs or something. I think we might have our foiled plot. If Ebony and Annie both knew about it. Boom.’
Primrose tugged the hair at his browline. ‘Right! Get down there as quick as you can. Take Mathers. Telephone the Yard and get fingerprints to come. I’m sure they can spare someone. Where are the two girls?’
‘In the cells. That cross-dresser’s got some tongue on her. The driver said he’d never heard such language, not even from a sailor.’
‘Where did they get the gun?’
Wilson screwed up his face. ‘One of them’s a bit of a set type, says she borrowed it from the family home. It tallies. We checked.’
Primrose fixed his lips. ‘All right.’
‘Oh, Inspector, one other thing.’ Wilson had one hand round the doorframe so his head was craning diagonally now, giving him an irritating jaunty appearance. ‘There was a telephone call from your house. Seems your wife wants to speak to you. She’s had a bit of a turn or something.’ He waited for the words to sink in and was gratified as Primrose glared at him with renewed seriousness.
‘What sort of turn?’
Wilson shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Funny turn?’
‘Did they say if it was serious?’
‘A faint, I think. I’ve already asked Chief Stuttlegate to take over those interviews . . .’
‘That won’t be necessary. Prioritise getting a team down to that shop.’
‘What about Jenkins?’
Primrose shook his head, irritated. ‘What about him?’
‘If it’s bombs, then shouldn’t we have a sapper?’
‘Fine, take Jenkins.’
‘But he’s on surveillance.’
‘Pull him off.’
‘That will take a while.’
‘Dammit, isn’t there another bomb expert you can use then?’
Primrose reached across to the chair where his jacket was slung and picked it up. It had the smell of coal on it. He tried to battle the sickness growing in him. The thought of a telephone call from Clara was filling him with an ugly combination of guilt and anxiety.
‘And if the Chief’s looking for you?’
He held the door open deferentially for Primrose to pass.
‘Tell him . . . Tell him I’ll be here in the station. In here or in the interview room with those girls.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The corridor seemed to stretch past Primrose, as if it was spreading longer the further he walked down it. Time stretched too; his feet wouldn’t move at an adequate pace to reach the telephone. When he did get there he was irritated to find the desk sergeant glued to the earpiece, taking orders like a military man. Primrose waited impatiently, conjuring up all manner of scenarios in his head. She had taken laudanum, she had fainted in loneliness, his mind ran morbid. And then another thought struck him, deep and terrifying and warm at the same time. Could it be possible? A faint was no sure sign of – he didn’t dare think it aloud – but Clara wasn’t a woman to take unwell despite the shopping and the weather and the smells inside the butcher’s shop. She had been so lonely for two years. If it was – no, he would not think the word aloud in his head – if she was to have company in the house from now on . . . A person to nurture. He let the thought run its course for a few minutes. Sherry would be broken out at the farm, topsides would be roasted. His father would play the tin whistle. And would he in some way vindicate himself from this guilt, this sense that he was keeping a woman prisoner in his life?
At last the desk sergeant handed him the receiver, still warm from his hand. Thoughts of interviews fell away as Primrose steadied himself to lift the earpiece. Just before he did, the telephone rang shrill; he jumped and flinched out of the way as the sergeant reached for it again. After a few seconds the man snapped his fingers at Primrose and handed back the phone.
‘Clara?’
The voice was distant and crackling. ‘No, this is Dr Windermere, Medical Officer at Colney Hatch Asylum.’
Primrose felt a wave of embarrassment and waited for the man to go on.
‘We have a patient in our care whom I believe you visited last night.’
‘I did.’ He braced himself, he wasn’t quite sure why.
‘You are in charge of the investigation into the death of a suffragette and any connected . . .’ a small pause, ‘incidents?’
‘Yes.’
‘This man claims he knows something. I don’t know whether he’s off his chump or on the straight but he’s been making quite a racket about some bomb plot or other and the Medical Officer in charge of him seems to think I should pass it on. There’s a name keeps cropping up. Annie Evans.’ He let it dangle.
Primrose was already beckoning one of the constables from the reception desk over with his fingers. ‘Give him whatever he wants. Put him up at the Savoy and give him caviar if necessary. And keep him off those damned drugs. I’ll be over in a car as soon as I can.’ He shoved the receiver back in place and snapped his fingers at the approaching constable. ‘I need a motor car and I need someone who can drive it. Straight away.’
‘Right, sir, where’s it headed?’
‘Colney Hatch. On the double.’
‘No, you don’t.’ The voice came momentarily before the hand, clutching Primrose from behind, round his collarbone, the way he himself used to collar unruly calves if they tried to shy. He didn’t need to see or smell his superior to know it was him.
‘Freddie, interviews! Wilson was lucky to catch me before I left.’
‘Those girls will have to wait. There’s a . . .’
‘Oh no no, Inspector, I’m not leaving this for you to mulch up later. I heard about your shenanigans with old Mother Pankhurst. Now those two girls are hot out of the wagon. You’re coming with me.’
‘But Colney Hatch. I just had a telephone call about that man there, the . . .’
‘He can wait. Freddie, I know you’re third rank up the ladder but there’s a few things I’ve not been happy with on this case. I don’t care how things were in your last squad. You work for me now.’
‘But . . .’
‘No arguments.’ Stuttlegate flexed his shoulders, curled his finger and beckoned Primrose. ‘It’s time for you to watch and learn how a proper interview is done.’
Thirty-Six
Frankie stared at the porri
dge that had been placed in front of her. Porridge was too grand a word; it was more like sloppy gruel. Her cell-mate, an old woman who reeked of wine and eggs, saw she was not going to eat it and pointed.
‘Can I have that?’ she crackled.
Frankie pushed it towards her. The woman, who had been singing ballads about London cats since she arrived, slurped at the filthy brown liquor until she began to choke and splutter.
Frankie banged the back of her head gently against the wall of the cell and tried not to breathe in too deeply. The air was rancid with mushroom spores. Her arms were bruised where the constable had frog-marched her and Milly into the van and stowed them each in a compartment, an upright coffin, caged with wire on all sides. They had rattled like cargo over the cobbles towards Bow Street. It was the most miserable and undignified way to travel and she thought with a sting of shame about the women who had made their journey to Holloway in the back of those vans.
The police hadn’t cared a jot about their protestations, the pieces of paper they brandished with the bomb diagram or the floor plans. Both peelers had a look in their eye, casual but determined, practical and practised. They had seen it all before. Strange vagrants pillaging a locked shop’s contents, high as two kites on mescal or Limehouse opium, squawking about the end of the world or the end of something-or-other. Frankie was exhausted from the pleading and the protests; her mouth was too tired to force any more words out, her brain too tired to form them.
Still a ball of dread bounced around inside her.
She had questions. How did the bombers plan on getting into Parliament? Since the Fenian Brotherhood had set off dynamite in the Crypt, there were legions of guards at every entrance. The suffragettes had made it in a few times, once in a tradesman’s van armed with paint and pamphlets; another time, during the census, inside Big Ben. But on both occasions they had broken in before nightfall, either during regular traffic or as tourists, and hidden in the vaults and crannies, or taken their chances and used brazenness as disguise. A horrible thought struck her. What if the Hourglass Factory women were in there already? What if that was where Ebony was now?
The Hourglass Factory Page 29