The Suffragette's Secret: A Morton Farrier Short Story (The Forensic Genealogist Series)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘Perfectly,’ Grace said, shaking off his grip.

  Cecil rolled his eyes at her then whispered, ‘Behave, Grace, or you’ll get us thrown out.’

  ‘Women—since the days of Adam and Eve—have had special duties to perform as wife and mother; duties that no man could ever assume, however much women may encroach upon the special tasks and duties of men.’

  ‘What about working women?’ a lady shouted from the other side of the room. ‘Our derisory pay is set by the men!’

  Mrs Wild shook her head impatiently, as if the person asking the question were an imbecile. ‘Economic conditions govern wages, my dear,’ she enunciated. ‘Do you really think a group of men sit in a room deciding the pay of laundresses, then house keepers, then domestic maids? It’s absurd. All the improvements that have been made in the treatment of women and in their education have been made by men, without women having the vote. Women have gained today what the suffragists said sixty years ago could not be gained without the vote. Ladies and gentlemen, it really comes down to this: England and our Empire governed by women cannot hold her own against states governed by men, and must surely decay. If the Empire is not to decay, we must insist upon the sex distinction in the parliamentary sphere, upon the absolute necessity that the supreme executive power shall rest upon the physical force and political experience of men.’

  ‘You’ve not met my wife, then,’ one man jested, receiving a reply of laughter, predominantly from the men in the room.

  Grace looked at the policeman, who was chuckling at the heckler’s apparent wit. She stood up. ‘What utter nonsense! There are few—if indeed any—jobs that a woman can’t do equally as well as a man. I’m sure if women were running the country, our beloved Empire might be viewed much more favourably by the rest of the world.’

  Two women stood up and clapped.

  ‘Yes!’ one of them called.

  ‘And less war!’ the other added.

  ‘Right, that’s enough,’ the policeman said, reaching in and grabbing Grace by the arm. ‘Time to go back to your fantasy land. Out.’

  ‘Ouch, you’re hurting me,’ Grace protested, trying to prise off his fingers, as he dragged her towards the door.

  ‘Let go of her!’ Cecil shouted. ‘Everyone—you’re witness to this—officer 503 is manhandling my friend and hurting her.’

  The pressure on Grace’s arm continued, as she was dragged unceremoniously towards the door.

  ‘Out!’ the policeman repeated. ‘If I see you at any more of these meetings, I’ll have you arrested.

  Grace smiled sweetly and curtseyed, before taking Cecil by the arm and limping to the pavement.

  ‘That went well,’ Cecil commented.

  ‘God, I hate those two people,’ Grace seethed, rubbing the sore underside of her arm.

  ‘Which two?’

  ‘Who do you think? Mr and Mrs Wild!’

  Cecil positioned himself in front of Grace and met her fiery stare. ‘What is it about them that affects you so much? Of all the people in this country, in this county, in this town, who are set against the cause, why do you get so bothered by them? What are you hiding, Grace?’

  Grace could sense his desire to understand, but now was not the right time. Now was the time for action. ‘I know you no longer work there but do you think you could get me inside Linden Grove?’

  His eyes narrowed and took a moment before nodding his head. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘Revenge.’

  Chapter Eight

  8th October 1911, Brighton, East Sussex

  Nothing. She could see nothing at all. Grace stopped, cursing her right leg, weakened significantly by the police attack eight months ago. She reached down and rubbed her calf, discovering as she did an abundance of fresh scratches. The tips of her fingers met with the syrupy wetness of fresh blood. Her long coat and dress had been torn and ruined by the indomitable knots and tendrils of bramble that reached across to block the path in front of her. But there was no path, that was the trouble: she was fighting her way through dense woodland; private woodland.

  She looked up again and inwardly cursed, failing to locate any trace of the moon through the oak canopy above. A solid ceiling of elephant-grey cloud had wrapped and concealed what should have been a full moon. It was a truly imprudent night to undertake what she was about to do, but what choice did she have, now? Having already been postponed for the past two nights owing to biblical proportions of rain saturating the county, the family would be arriving back from their week’s pheasant-shooting trip tomorrow. It was tonight or not at all.

  She picked the bag up very carefully. Mrs Paine, the chemist’s wife who had supplied the nitro-glycerine, had warned that the oily liquid slushing around in the three tins was liable to explode from exposure to heat, flame or shock. She continued picking a path through the almost-impenetrable ground foliage until, after what seemed an age, she finally reached the low stone wall that demarcated the boundary of Linden Grove. She climbed it and was relieved to finally step down onto a well-kept lawn. As she did so, the clouds tore apart and the moon illuminated the house, like the opening scene of a stage play.

  She gasped as she took in the enormity of the place, and an uncontrollable shudder nipped down the length of her spine. It was bigger than she recalled. So much bigger.

  As expected, the dozen windows on this western side of the building were in darkness. The rooms were empty, the curtains drawn.

  Grace swallowed hard against the peculiar sensation that seemed to be rising from the pit of her stomach and stinging the back of her throat. It was, she realised, as she began towards the house, an uncomfortable fusion of past and present. Traces of a forgotten life flashed like a photographer’s bulb into her mind—images so short and nebulous as to defy firm definition.

  The house was close now.

  She stepped onto the gravel path that edged the house.

  ‘You took your time,’ a voice whispered from the shadows.

  Grace flinched but quickly calmed when Cecil stepped forward. Behind him was the open door to the kitchens, scantly lit by a lone candle.

  ‘Come in, quickly,’ he said in an unnecessarily low voice.

  ‘There’s nobody home, is there?’ Grace asked, following his instruction.

  ‘Just me, but even so,’ he replied. He closed the door then reached for Grace’s hand. ‘Listen, are you sure about this?’

  ‘Very,’ Grace answered, holding up the bag. She caught the reluctance in his eyes. ‘Listen, you don’t have to do this, Cecil. I do. I know I haven’t told you everything but believe me, I need to go through with this. I’m being sincere when I say that you can leave now—I’ll think no less of you—truthfully. It won’t affect our…closeness.’

  Cecil gazed at the door through which she had just entered, as if deliberating his options. He looked back at Grace. ‘But what if you get caught?’

  Grace shrugged. ‘Back to prison.’

  ‘It means that much to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I’m with you,’ he assured her. ‘I believe you must have your reasons and I want to help you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, touching his hand.

  ‘Have you got everything you need?’ Cecil asked.

  ‘Yes. Mrs Paine has given me three tins’ worth—enough to take down the Brighton Dome, she said.’

  ‘My goodness. Where are you going to put them?’

  ‘Mr Wild’s bedroom,’ she declared. ‘Let’s go.’

  Cecil picked up the candlestick and led them out of the room, along a dark low-ceilinged servants’ corridor to a narrow circular staircase.

  The groaning echo of the wooden steps, coupled with the ethereal dance of the shadows created by the candlelight, gave rise to a rash of goosebumps on Grace’s limbs. The air was stale and damp-smelling. She suddenly felt cold and pulled her coat more tightly around herself. She would have done it alone, without Cecil’s help, but the truth of the matter was that she was
glad that he was there.

  They reached the top of the stairs. Grace stretched out for Cecil’s free hand, as she took in the magnificence of the hallway. A vaulted, ornately decorated ceiling rose a good forty feet above them, the centre of which was dominated by an opulent chandelier. On the walls lavish Turkish rugs were interspersed with oil portraits of Linden Grove’s long-dead residents.

  Another lightbulb flash of recognition, as vagueness became replaced by certainty when she turned to see the staircase. It was stunning, mahogany, winding its way elegantly to the first floor. She recalled with clarity descending those very stairs. Voices from behind her, encouraging her down, praising her.

  The memory was amorphous and its haziness left Grace feeling hollow and empty, as she placed her right foot down on the first step.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Cecil asked, squeezing her hand.

  Grace nodded, taking another step in the shadow of her past.

  They crept up the stairs, as though they were trying not to wake the entire house.

  ‘It’s this way,’ Cecil breathed.

  But she knew that already. They were going to head along the corridor to the room at the end, with its views across the lake and to the arboretum beyond.

  Cecil paused at the door, listening, then he slowly turned the handle and the door swung open noiselessly. He stood back and ushered her inside. ‘Here we are. Mr Wild’s bedroom.’

  The fabric of the room—the walls, the window and the floor—corresponded with her memories, only the furnishings had changed.

  ‘Come on, let’s get on with it,’ Cecil said.

  Grace nodded, placed the bag on the floor and opened it up. Warily, she removed one of the large yellow tins of Keen’s Genuine Imperial Mustard and placed it in the centre of the room. Deeds not words, she thought, as she took out a canister of petrol and poured from the tin a trail out of the room and along the corridor to the top of the stairs.

  Cecil picked up the bag and moved towards the door. ‘Come on, let’s get the other one ready and get out of here.’

  ‘Calm down,’ Grace snapped, spotting something on the far side of the bedroom. A dresser. Hurrying over to it, she pulled open the drawers. ‘Come over here with that light.’

  ‘No—it’s too dangerous. One spark from this and they’ll be finding us in pieces,’ he protested. ‘What are you doing? Stealing?’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ Grace retorted, snatching the candlestick from him. She thumped it down on the dresser and used the weak amber light to search among the jewellery. Necklaces, brooches and rings.

  ‘I didn’t think you were like that, Grace,’ Cecil commented.

  ‘Like what?’ she demanded, her eyes fiery. ‘A lowly criminal from the workhouse? Have you forgotten my time in prison?’

  ‘That was different—it was for the cause,’ he answered. ‘This isn’t.’

  She went to reply but she had found what she was looking for: a simple gold locket. A great deal of time had elapsed but she recognised it with certitude. Unlatching the clasp, she opened it up and received the final confirmation.

  Her heart suddenly felt heavy, and her memories began to unspool inside her mind.

  She faltered as she stared at the images encased in the locket. Was she really about to do the right thing? Legally, clearly not. But morally? Her previous resolve faltered.

  ‘Grace?’ Cecil uttered.

  She held the locket up to the candlelight. ‘These are my parents,’ she murmured.

  ‘What? Why’s it here, then?’ he begged.

  The reason for the locket’s being there was inextricably linked to her reason for being there. ‘I’ll tell you another time,’ she replied, picking up the candlestick. ‘Let’s get another tin ready.’

  Grace limped along the corridor behind Cecil, the stench of petrol guiding their way. He pushed the door open and they entered the room. She placed the second tin of nitro-glycerine on a plush rug and unscrewed the cap of the petrol canister.

  ‘Wait!’ he shouted, hurrying over to the window. ‘Oh, God!’

  ‘What is it?’ Grace asked, rushing over to him. Then she saw it: two synchronised yellow lights, moving towards the house, probing the dark night sky.

  ‘It’s Mr Wild’s Wolseley,’ Cecil gasped, blowing out the candle. ‘He’s home.’

  The car came to a stop below them and the lights extinguished.

  ‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ Cecil yelled. ‘Come on.’

  Grace ran into the hallway and pulled out the box of matches.

  ‘There’s no time for that,’ Cecil exclaimed. ‘We’ve got to get out.’

  ‘I’m not leaving until I’ve seen his bedroom blown apart,’ Grace rebutted, fumbling with the matches.

  The first refused to strike.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ she said urgently.

  The second refused to strike.

  A loud bang of a door closing downstairs reverberated through the still house, making her jump.

  ‘He’s here!’ Cecil called. ‘Inside!’

  The third match caught light and, without hesitation, Grace dropped it to the floor, watching briefly as it ignited the snaking line of petrol along the corridor. ‘Run!’ she yelled.

  Her injured leg hampered her progress; they had managed just five stairs before the explosion came.

  For one tin of nitro-glycerine, the effect was remarkable. The blast punched out of the room and along the corridor, ripping Grace and Cecil from their feet and shoving them down the stairs in what sounded to Grace like the collision of several steam trains running at one another at full pelt.

  She was on her back, her feet angled up the stairs. Her senses were overwhelmed. She could hear nothing but a metallic ringing which drowned everything else out that was surely making noise around her. She could see nothing but light-grey smoke and tiny pieces of debris falling around her like snow.

  Cecil! Where was he?

  She turned awkwardly and saw him, a few stairs below her, folded over, extricating his limbs from underneath himself like a new-born foal.

  Grace ran her tongue over her dry lips and tasted blood.

  Their eyes met and, despite their stunned looks, she could see that they would be alright. But they needed to move. The heat and smoke behind them was increasing dramatically. It could only be a matter of moments until the other tin would also be ignited.

  She sat up and shook off a rind of dust and attempted to stand. Her legs gave way and she buckled down next to Cecil. As she righted herself, she saw Francis Wild, running up the stairs towards them. He was shouting something but Grace couldn’t hear. Then he was standing over her and his look of shock changed to something else. Anger. She tried to read his lips: ‘…you at the march…’ was all she could comprehend.

  He had recognised her from the anti-suffrage march, which spoke volumes to Grace and confirmed in her mind that yes, she was morally right to have done what she had.

  Mr Wild slapped her hard around the face, kicked Cecil in the back and then raced down the stairs out of sight.

  Cecil picked himself up again and offered her his hand.

  She took it and stood awkwardly, her body aching all over.

  He led her down the debris-strewn staircase and from there they saw Mr Wild, trying to rip a huge painting down from the wall.

  Cecil spoke but Grace couldn’t hear him. She held his hand, as he led her out through the open front door.

  Once clear of the gravel drive, they instinctively collapsed onto the lawn, breathing deeply.

  ‘Are you alright?’ he shouted.

  Her mouth was so very dry that she struggled to speak. ‘Yes, I think so,’ she managed to answer, not really certain if she was alright or not.

  Grace sat up and stared at the burning building. Giant curls of angry red and orange flames unfurled through the bedroom window and that of the two rooms adjacent. The fire was spreading quickly.

  From out of the front door suddenly burst Mr Wild, wre
stling with the over-sized portrait. She watched intently as he carefully set it down on the stone drive, then ran back inside the house.

  She smiled at the thought of him hastening through the crumbling rooms of Linden Grove, attempting to save his precious possessions. But at what cost? Mr Wild had clearly identified them. Arrest and a lengthy prison sentence for both her and Cecil was now unavoidable. Yet still she smiled, pulling out the locket and squeezing it in her hands.

  She exhaled steadily, then lent over and pulled Cecil into an embrace. ‘We did it,’ she breathed.

  ‘You did it,’ Cecil said, his hand gently caressing her back.

  Grace sat back in mock displeasure. ‘Is that what you’re going to tell the police when they catch up with us?’

  Cecil laughed. ‘Of course not—you know what I mean. I wouldn’t do that to you… I couldn’t… I think I’m…’

  Grace studied his face as his words ran dry with whatever it was that he had been about to say. She noticed then that their mouths and eyes were somehow in perfect synchronisation, wholly tuned to one another.

  ‘I think I’m in love with you,’ he finally managed.

  Grace leant towards him, their faces drawing closer to each other. ‘Me, too,’ she whispered. Their dry lips brushed lightly at first, then she pushed herself closer to him with a fervency that rose suddenly from within her, taking her by surprise. For those few seconds in his arms, the various aches and pains around her body vanished.

  Cecil shifted closer, pulling their bodies tighter, his hand tenderly stroking the length of her spine. Then, he broke away. ‘Grace Emmerson—will you marry me?’

  His words were hurried and, with the explosion continuing to ring in her ears, she failed to hear him. ‘What?’ she said, cupping her ear. ‘I can’t hear you.’

  ‘Will you marry me?’ he repeated, more loudly.

  Her heart sang with his question. ‘What?’ she teased with a smile. ‘I can’t hear you.’

  ‘I said, will you marry me?’ he shouted.

  Grace nodded. ‘Yes.’

  They kissed again for several seconds until the spell was broken by the agonising groan of part of the house collapsing. They looked over just in time to see the wing in which Mr Wild had his bedroom crumple to the ground.