‘Don’t bring her back, officer. She’s got a tongue like cow-hide. Needs a good spanking.’
Brandied steam curled up from the cup in Milly’s hands as she lifted her head. Her eyes took a second to focus and for a moment Frankie, standing in the doorway, thought she might be one of those people who become lost forever, for whom something just disconnects in their head like a jigsaw piece fallen out of place and down the back of the table never to be found again. Then all of a sudden her pale eyes were lucid.
‘Nerves steadier?’ Frankie nodded at the cup. It smelled metallic: black tea and brandy.
Milly looked patiently towards the officer at the door as he cast his eyes between her and Frankie. ‘Five minutes,’ he murmured and retreated back into the corridor, locking the door behind him. When the clink of his keys had faded, Milly dropped her voice.
‘We have to break out of here.’
Frankie crossed to the hard little bed and sat down next to her, looking at Milly’s bone-white wrists holding the hot cup. She thought for a second she might touch her, but a heaviness kept her own hands in her lap.
‘The police are looking after it now. You’re in shock, you’re not in a state to—’
‘I’m not the one who was in a state, from what I heard. Could have heard you in Covent Garden, so they said. Sailors with cleaner tongues.’ She stiffened and took another little sip of the spiked tea. ‘How did you know?’
‘That card. Queen of Swords reversed. What you said before, about malice and bigotry. Deceit. Annie wasn’t deceiving anyone. So why would Ebony have meant her? Then there was that brooch, your family brooch. But most of all,’ she breathed out and looked at the cup’s pool instead of Milly’s face, ‘it was those bombs.’ Milly looked down at the cup too, paying attention to the ribbons of steam that rose and vanished. ‘No one would be stupid enough to think that would do their cause any good. What would violence like that bring? People declare war on you. They fight against you. And then I knew we weren’t looking for someone who wanted change, but someone who wanted to preserve things the way they are. Someone who wants the authorities to turn on their supposed cause. Someone who believes that even theatre is a vice that opens people’s minds too far.’
‘Silly Ebony,’ Milly said quietly. ‘Why didn’t she just say?’
‘Would you have believed her? She might not even have known who Lady Thorne was. She just had that brooch to go on.’
Milly looked at her lap for a long time, rubbing her fingers over the silk threads of her gown. ‘So you have your scoop,’ she said after a while. ‘All neatly bundled.’
‘I’d say the only thing that matters is that they’re stopped.’
Milly shook with a bitter laugh. ‘Well, that wouldn’t be such a good story, would it?’ She raised her hand to her face and pinched the skin above her brows. Then she turned and looked Frankie in the eye and Frankie was struck the same way she was the first time she saw her, by the absolute clarity of her gaze. Like blue quartz. She put the cup down on the hard ground and began re-fixing the pins in her hair. ‘When I was a little girl, she told me I must grow up to marry the king. Or a prince, at least. I think a duke was the worst-case scenario. That was what she pinned her hopes on, her only hope because I had no brothers or sisters. She took a dislike to my father, and that was that.’
Milly took a high gulp of air and Frankie’s hand went to steady her, to make its way round her back or onto her leg. Milly saw the movement from the corner of her eye and flinched away, then looked up at the tiny window cut into the wall of the cell.
‘I dreamed of the boys that came to the house. Not the greasy little fops her friends would bring round who never knew how to play properly. How to make nests in the wood, or carve a spoon out of a branch, and smelled of wood or car oil or earth. I would like to say I fell in love but there were too many of them. A valet, a gardener’s boy, a delivery boy. She only caught me once and only because the silly woman wanted to pick her own raspberries. Can you imagine! Lady Thorne lifting a finger! I was at the very bottom of the garden, completely out of sight. And I had my hand . . .’ She shook her head and looked down through the tangled lace of her long eyelashes at her skirt. ‘I’m so ashamed, Frankie. I wasn’t then but I am now.’
Frankie felt her lips clamp up. She longed to say something but the words wouldn’t make the short journey between her brain and her mouth. After a silence she managed, ‘There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Boys get away with those things, why shouldn’t we?’
‘Giving birth to a hussy, with an appetite, who runs away to Cairo?’ The poison on Milly’s voice took her by surprise. ‘You don’t know what she is capable of. Nobody does, except those seamstress girls she has lied to.’
‘So what are we going to do?’
Milly put her cup down on the stone floor and reaching out, smothered the palms of Frankie’s hands with her own, still warm from the cup. ‘You’re going to do what you set out to.’
‘But . . .’
‘If my mother can find a way to dupe vulnerable women into dynamiting parliament, we can find a way out of here.’
‘But we don’t have to be there. I know enough now to write about it. The police can take over. You don’t have to be there.’
‘I do.’ Her blue eyes had softened now; the resolve in them was perfect, alarmingly calm. ‘I’m the only one who can bargain with my mother in the dark.’
The high window in the wall of the cell hung open like a question mark, moving back and forth in the slow breeze. There was no way either of them were going to fit through. Even if Milly’s slim hips had managed to wedge through, there were bars on the other side, and there was no chance Frankie would even make it that far.
Milly had tried with her hairgrips in the keyhole but it was a more sophisticated bar system than household locks and she couldn’t even get the wedge placed well enough to click it. Frankie was pacing the square cell, aware that their time was fast draining from them.
‘What about when the guard comes back? I could punch him – he won’t expect that.’
Milly raised a sluggish eyebrow at Frankie. ‘They’ll raise the alarm within seconds. Besides, did you see the size of him?’
‘Faint? They’ll have to take you to hospital.’
‘With my hand cuffed to a stretcher. And what about you? They won’t fall for that one twice.’
Frankie chewed her lip. Her stomach was beginning to grumble and she half wished she hadn’t given away her gruel. Milly pressed her hands back through her knotted hair.
‘Just tell them the truth,’ Frankie said. ‘Tell them we need out so we can help them.’
‘They’ll let a reporter come along for the fun of it? A female one? That horror of a man who interviewed me wouldn’t even trust a woman to button his collar.’ She wrinkled her mouth.
Frankie sat back down on the bed, pulling up her trousers from the ankles. Her bottom had no sooner sunk into the coarse grain of the mattress than they heard the rattle of the key in the lock. They looked at each other. Frankie saw in Milly’s face what she felt in her own chest: it was over. Five minutes were up. They had failed.
The door juddered across the hard stone floor, catching the uneven texture with a horrible scrape. Frankie breathed in and sighed. She looked up, and she squinted.
The silhouette in the doorway was much larger than the man who had shown her in, with shadows of lace spouting in stiff arcs from the neck and wrists. A raised hand dangled a set of prison keys insouciantly. Frankie’s eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the light coming in from the corridor when the familiar voice emerged.
‘Tut. Tut. Tut.’ The enormous hatted head shook slowly. ‘The shame. Oh, Puss, the shame. Dragging a respectable woman down to the Bow Street clink to fish you out. I can barely look at you. And yet to my credit, benevolence has always been a part of my soul that will not shake, no matter how hard it is pushed.’ On the last word, the two steel tips of her eyes focused on Frankie.
‘T
winkle!’ Milly cried.
‘Well,’ Twinkle replied drily, ‘are you both enjoying the thrill of underbelly life so much you’re just going to just sit there like the knaves who stole the jam tarts? Or are you going to say thank you and come with me?’
‘How did you . . . ?’ Frankie began.
Twinkle held up a palm that crunched with thick metal jewellery. ‘Hush, Puss. Questions later. Suffice to say that a certain Police Commissioner is an old acquaintance of mine who may – or may not, as the official line is – have needed a little companionship in his youth.’ She put the hand with the dangling keys to her lips. ‘Now just shut up and follow me, it’s embarrassing enough being seen with you in public anyway, never mind down here.’
Frankie knew better than to answer back and for once was grateful to do as she was told.
They kept their heads bowed as they moved, casually efficient, through the corridors of the police station. Twinkle winked at the police sergeant holding the main gate to the cells and fuddled a crumpled pound note into his breast pocket, patting it for good measure as he swung open the door. The corridors sprawled out like channels in a labyrinth, each one coloured pale green by a fine coat of shiny new paint that had left its smell lingering in the air.
‘Now,’ said Twinkle, as they ascended a set of stairs, ‘that Sergeant has given us three minutes before he’s going to ring the cell bell. So you’d all better run like the three little blind mice as soon as we get out of here.’
‘What do you mean three?’ Frankie said. ‘Who’s the third?’
Twinkle held a finger to her lips. They passed interview rooms and offices with closed doors, and several times courted sly looks from uniformed constables. Frankie found herself pondering once more upon the dark web of Twinkle’s client list. As they pushed open a set of double doors into reception she saw a young boy’s back, loitering over by the reception fireplace, picking at a stain on his jacket. He looked up as they entered and tipped his hat with a sour wink at Frankie. ‘You’re very welcome.’
‘Liam! You went and fetched her?’ Frankie asked.
Twinkle pinched her in the back. ‘Don’t speak to him. They might think we’re associated.’ It was too late. The duty sergeant, who had been watching Liam like a buzzard from behind his desk, now hopped out to greet them. ‘This young man with you, madam?’
‘Oh, bravo Puss,’ Twinkle hissed. ‘Yes, officer,’ she smiled. ‘Indeedio.’
The man ran his eyes across the winking gemstones slung about Twinkle’s throat, then looked suspiciously down at Liam’s threadbare cap.
Twinkle hesitated. ‘I’ve adopted an urchin. You see, benevolence has always been a part of my—’
He interrupted. ‘What about those two?’
‘Oh, bailing out my wayward . . . um . . . daughters. Again. Well, girls will be what they are, Sergeant. Anyway, must dash. Keep up the sterling work.’ She grabbed Liam’s wrist like he was a fur that had fallen off her shoulder and made for the front double doors.
As Milly reached to open them, they swung back and she almost collided with the wiry, large-eared detective who had booked them in when they first arrived. Sergeant Wilson stumbled in from the cold, coming to a halt, an icy layer of air on his coat. Somewhere behind them, down in the cells, a bell had begun ringing. Wilson looked at Frankie with a creased brow, as if he knew he had seen her somewhere before, perhaps behind a bread cart or serving coffee from a stall earlier that day.
Learning quickly from Twinkle’s exchange with the duty officer, Frankie fixed a jolly smile on her face as she said, ‘Afternoon, sir. Ooh, there’s a chill out there, that’s for certain. Remember, remember the fifth of November. Glad we could be of use and thank you for releasing us back to our mother so quickly. Come on Milly, Liam, there’s a bonfire up Hampstead Heath. Be warm as toast, I’ll bet you.’
They held their heads high as bridled horses as they stepped out into the pebble grey fog, leaving Sergeant Wilson agog at the strangest family he had ever seen.
Then they ran.
Wilson, who was still puzzled as to why the two prisoners had been set free, and who that woman and boy with them were, couldn’t be certain if it was the cell bell he was hearing over the noise of the reception. He was startled out of his thoughts by Stuttlegate who appeared, twitching his neck and rubbing his hands like a limbering boxer.
‘What did you find at the corset shop?’
Wilson tried to peer past him. ‘Primrose about?’
‘Never mind Freddie, he’s off chasing a madman. What did you find?’
Wilson pursed his lips and shrugged wearily. ‘Either they were lying or the place was frisked before we got near it. Not a sausage. Definitely no gunpowder. Plenty of chopped up playing cards, and a Gamages student chemistry set. Very strange.’
Stuttlegate growled and slapped a hand up to his chin. Those whiskers, thought Wilson, must itch him something awful the way he always picked and worried at them.
‘Right. Let’s get to Lincoln’s Inn.’
‘But you did hear the girls? The ones you let go. Said it wasn’t suffragettes, it was a separate cell.’
Stuttlegate worked the flesh of his lower lip with his teeth. ‘Until Freddie comes back from his gallivanting I’m not taking any chances. You want to be the one who leaves that stone unturned? The one with all the lice wriggling about under it?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well come on, get your togs together. Chop chop.’ Stuttlegate was passing back towards the double doors when he stopped. ‘What did you say about those girls being let go?’
‘I passed them just now in reception, sir. Burlington Bertie and the flash one. They were with their mother.’
‘Their mother?’
‘That’s what she said. A woman wearing rather a lot of jewellery, and a boy, a ginger boy of about fifteen.’
They stared at each other plain. And now Wilson heard it. It was the cell bell ringing. Slow and steady, like a death knell. Like someone’s hand was weary from ringing it for so long.
‘Oh Christ.’ Stuttlegate suddenly looked like he might crush his fist into the doorway. His face crumpled, his fingers clenched. With some effort he gathered his wits and snapped his fingers at the two constables by the door. ‘You two, on the double, after those two cats that just went out. Don’t stand on it, go!’ He roared into the air and ran in the direction of the cell bell.
Wilson waited for the chaos to pass before he crossed behind the desk to the telephone. The duty sergeant had his neck craned over a ledger; the rest of the reception had emptied.
He picked up the receiver and quietly requested a private number. The operator was new and she took two attempts to connect him. Then a voice came over the line.
Wilson cleared his throat. ‘Mr Hawkins, please. Newsroom.’
He waited for a few seconds for another voice to crackle into the earpiece. ‘Teddy? Yes I know, good to speak to you too. Listen Teddy, I think you’ll want to be outside the Houses of Parliament tonight. Don’t ask, just be there.’
Thirty-Eight
Frankie and Liam skidded to a halt inside Covent Garden Jubilee Market, dodging a donkey cart laden down with pears. The stall owner swiped at Liam’s ear, but he ducked. The sun was already sinking and desperate flower girls were beginning to harass anyone within ten yards for cut-price damask roses and boxes of Pugsby’s garden fireworks. Frankie thought she could smell bonfire smoke on the wet fog. In the far corner of the market, sellers were cracking empty crates over their knees and chucking them into a heap for firewood.
They looked back in the direction they had run from, waiting for Milly and Twinkle to catch up. After a few seconds Twinkle appeared round the corner, clutching the swinging mass of her jewellery in one hand and the froth of her underskirts in the other as she hurried along.
‘She’s gone into a soapmaker’s with a telephone kiosk to place a call to Belgravia,’ she puffed, coming to a halt. Moments later Milly’s silken shape appeared in the c
rowd, striding towards them, her cheeks a pallid mushroom colour.
‘She wasn’t there.’
‘What about your father?’ Frankie asked.
Milly shook her head. ‘He goes to his club most afternoons.’
Frankie sat down on an empty apple barrel and bowed her head. Twinkle gazed round her with a frown at the quantity of aproned workers within touching distance of her, clearing up their pitches. She scratched underneath her hat. ‘Would somebody care to illuminate me on what exactly you pair are up to? It’s that missing trapeze girl, isn’t it? You’re obsessed. I told you she was a bad apple.’
Milly was about to open her mouth when Frankie interrupted. ‘I think if all goes to plan, Twinkle, you might read about it in tomorrow’s early edition.’
Twinkle puckered up her mouth. Frankie could see the tentacles of gossip-detection itching to reach out from her, doing battle with her desire to remain irritated at being called to their rescue.
At length she gave a little grunt. ‘Very well. If you can manage not to go for any more jollies with the constables, I might be able to make my Harley Street doctor’s appointment after all.’ She extracted a watch from the valley of her bosom and looked at it. She gave a little nod of satisfaction and began looking around for cabs. ‘Now whatever you do,’ she raised a finger, ‘I was never at the police station. Understand?’
‘Harley Street,’ Frankie said. ‘You’re not unwell are you, Twinkle?’
‘No, no, the very opposite. I am in rude health, as they say. But the doctors on Harley Street give such excellent pelvic massages. Preventative for all sorts of ailments.’
Before Frankie could cotton on to her meaning she was air-kissing Milly goodbye and waggling her finger at Frankie, muttering warnings about journalists and criminal records, then tottering back into the crowd, waving manically at a motor cab driver who had stopped outside the flower market. ‘Thank you,’ Frankie yelled. Twinkle raised her arm without looking back. They watched her bundle herself into the rear of the car and instruct the driver as he rumbled off into the traffic.
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