Then, the man himself came running out again, this time carrying a chest of some kind.
‘Let’s not just sit around and wait for the police to get here. Come on,’ Cecil said, offering her his hand.
Leaving the remaining tin of nitro-glycerine behind, she stood up, took one final glance at Linden Grove, then hobbled hand-in-hand with Cecil back towards the woods from where she had entered the estate.
From behind them, another explosion ripped through the house, as the second tin of nitro-glycerine ignited.
By the morning, Linden Grove would be nothing more than a pile of smouldering rubble.
Chapter Nine
‘Here you go,’ Juliette said, placing a mug of coffee down beside him.
He knew that it was a coffee by the smell but he couldn’t actually open his eyes to see. He tried to mumble an acknowledgement but his mouth wouldn’t work, either. In this other-world existence that he now occupied there was no amount of coffee that could get him ever to speak again. Less than two hours’ sleep he had had last night.
‘What are your plans today?’ Juliette asked, sitting down on the bed beside him. ‘Mum and I are going to take Matil…the baby to visit my uncle. Do you want to come?’
He tried to speak but a low grunt came out of his mouth instead.
‘Morton,’ Juliette said, impatience woven through the two syllables.
He opened his eyes, surely enough of an achievement for the day.
‘Do you want to come with us because we’ll be leaving in about twenty minutes.’
He shook his head. Visiting Juliette’s mad uncle was about as appealing to him right now as having his legs amputated without anaesthetic.
‘Well…do something constructive with your day,’ she pleaded. ‘Don’t just stay in bed.’
Finding his way back to the land of the living surely had to be considered constructive.
With a slight huff of annoyance, Juliette kissed him on the forehead and left the room.
His eyes shut instantly and his mind went black.
He jolted upright, hearing a baby crying. His daughter. It was time for a feed and nappy change. He swung his legs out of bed, took a deep breath and stood up. He padded across the room, pulled open the bedroom door and listened. Silence. Then, he remembered that Juliette and Margot had taken the baby to see her uncle. Had they not gone? Or were they back?
‘Hello?’ he called down.
Nothing.
Either the cry had come from outside the house, or his mind was playing a cruel trick on him. Either way, he was wide awake now.
He picked up the coffee that Juliette had made for him: cold and undrinkable.
He looked around the room, not enjoying this perpetual state of bewildered disorientation. Focus, he told himself. What was the time? Just gone eleven. He needed to be productive, to take advantage of this time. A shower and some breakfast and he would be fine. But first, coffee. And lots of it. Maybe then he could continue working on Grace Emmerson.
In his heart Morton cried. On the document collection and returns desk in the Reference Room of The Keep—the name for the building housing all of the archives for East Sussex—was his nemesis, Miss Deidre Latimer. She was dressed in a hideous tartan skirt and some kind of loose-fitting blue blouse. They had never got on and yet, Morton had no real idea why. He was never in the mood for interaction with her. Today, however, he was in the kind of mood where he might well kill her.
He drew a deep breath and approached the counter.
A thin smile cracked her wrinkled veneer. Never a good sign. It usually indicated that a barrage of sarcasm was heading his way.
‘Good morning,’ she said brightly, removing her glasses.
‘Morning,’ he replied curtly. ‘I’ve got some documents pre-ordered. I don’t mind which first.’
She smiled again, unnerving him. ‘I hear from our mutual friend, Jenny Greenwood, that you’ve a new addition to your household.’
‘That’s right,’ he said, unsure where this was leading. She stood with her arms folded, making absolutely no attempt to go to the room behind the counter for his documents.
‘Well, come on, show me a picture,’ Miss Latimer said.
Now Morton was completely knocked sideways. ‘Er…’ he muttered, fumbling for his mobile. He unlocked the phone and looked up at her, waiting for her to say that she was joking and of course she didn’t want to see a picture of his baby. But she didn’t. She just waited. He scrolled past the photos taken yesterday at The National Archives to the abundance of pictures of his daughter. He selected a good one and passed the phone across the counter.
Her smile widened to a point that Morton had never seen before. What had happened to the miserable old hag that had blighted his life for the past goodness knows how many years?
‘Oh, he’s just adorable. Look at him!’
‘Her actually,’ Morton corrected. ‘Long story as to why she’s head-to-toe in blue, but she’s definitely a girl.’
Miss Latimer nodded uncertainly. ‘Well, she’s adorable. Have you got a name yet?’
Morton went to say ‘Matilda’ but then he remembered back to first thing this morning. Juliette had faltered when she had gone to say it. Perhaps she wasn’t overly struck on it, either. ‘No, not yet. We’re still making lists at the moment.’
‘You’ve only got forty-two days legally,’ she said, returning his phone to him. ‘Right, let’s go and get your documents, then.’
She disappeared into the back room, leaving Morton astounded. Miss Deidre Latimer might actually be human.
‘Here we go,’ she said, presenting him with a file. ‘I’m afraid that some of the documents you ordered are unavailable, although they have been scanned and can be viewed on the computers in the Reading Room.’ Another warm smile.
‘Thank you,’ he said, wondering if his sleep-deprived brain was misrepresenting reality, sparing him the pain of his usual exchanges with her.
Unnerved, Morton took a seat at one of the long tables. Today, there were half-a-dozen researchers quietly poring over the documents which were in front of them.
He opened his laptop and accessed his user account. The records that were unavailable, but which had been digitised, were photographs pertaining to one of the prominent members of the Brighton WSPU: Minnie Turner. According to the online index, the photos included her residence, Sea View in Brighton, where Grace had been living at the time of the 1911 census. In front of him now was a thinly bound packet containing Minnie Turner’s correspondence.
The first item inside it was a letter, dated 12th April 1910, the writer expressing their condolences for the loss of Minnie’s mother. The next four letters, from different authors continued this theme. Then he read a letter from 1947—an invite from the Suffragette Fellowship in London, inviting Minnie to visit their new museum. Next was a short undated notelet from a lady thanking her for a ‘most wonderful seaside holiday in the company of like-minded women’.
Morton turned the page to see the final piece of correspondence: a discoloured pencil-written note that immediately aroused his interest, as, from a short way down the page, the words Linden Grove jumped out at him. He returned to the top and read: ‘8th October 1911. Dear Minnie, It is done. I have destroyed Linden Grove. Given what has happened, I shall not be returning for the immediate future. With love & warm wishes.’
Morton studied the words for some time, something niggling inside him about the letter. I have destroyed Linden Grove. The letter was unsigned, the anonymous author evidently known to Minnie. Was it a coincidence that this was where Cecil Barwise had been employed as a groom, just months prior to its apparent destruction?
He typed ‘Linden Grove’ into The Keep’s search form. Zero results. Perhaps it had made the local papers, he wondered, making a note on his pad to check.
But there was something else about the letter that was bothering him. The handwriting. The elegance and precision of the descenders and ascenders were vaguely famil
iar. He studied the lettering carefully; the closer he looked at the grey pencil words, the more convinced he became that they had been written by Grace. Pulling out his mobile phone, he scrolled through his camera roll to the letter that Grace had written to Herbert Gladstone, complaining of her treatment in Holloway Prison. Identical.
Morton photographed the short letter, wildly curious about what had happened at Linden Grove. First, though, he needed to finish looking through the other document that he had pre-ordered.
He closed the file and carried it over to the desk.
Miss Latimer smiled. ‘Ready for the next one?’
‘Ye…yes,’ he stammered.
Briefly heading out the back, she returned holding a tan-coloured file, entitled Militant Suffragettes 1913. ‘Here we are.’
‘Thank you,’ he responded, returning to his seat, wondering if he had entered a parallel universe. He wasn’t sure which version of Miss Latimer he preferred; this one unsettled him tremendously.
Turning the first page, Morton was greeted with a typed preface from the Criminal Investigation Department of New Scotland Yard: ‘In view of the large number of disturbances and outrages committed by suffragettes in the Provinces, the Assistant Commissioner thinks it desirable to furnish Forces with portraits and descriptions of persons connected with the movement who may be likely at any time to engage in militancy. They should be kept entirely confidential.’
Morton couldn’t help but grin, completely certain that he would find Grace among the subsequent pages, which were filled with dozens of names and photos of ordinary women who took part in suffragette militancy.
Mary Richardson, age 31, height 5ft 5in, complexion pale, hair and eyes brown, nose rather long and hooked. Calls herself a journalist. This woman has been convicted several times of wilfully damaging the windows of public buildings, etc. Her last conviction was for damaging, with a chopper, the ‘Rokeby Venus’ at the National Gallery.
Catherine Wilson, age 31, height 5ft 1in, complexion fair, hair brown, eyes grey. Has been twice convicted of wilfully damaging plate glass windows and once being found on enclosed premises for an unlawful purpose, i.e. she was found in the House of Commons in male attire with a riding whip in her coat pocket.
Mary Lindsay, age about 24, height 5ft 6in, complexion pale, hair brown, eyes blue. Has been convicted of assault; she assaulted Lord Weardale with a dog-whip. Rides as Joan of Arc in suffragette processions.
Freda Graham, age about 26, height 5ft 6in, complexion fresh, hair and eyes brown. Has been convicted of assault and was concerned in the outrage at the National Gallery when she damaged five pictures. She has also thrown a bag of flour over a Cabinet Minister. During her last imprisonment she is believed to have taken drugs to cause sickness and so procure her release, and her health is now suffering from the results of an overdose.
Batten Poole, age about 23, height 5ft 5in, complexion fair, hair dark, eyes grey, slim build. In close touch with the leaders of the Movement and took a leading part in the Deputation to Buckingham Palace. She has undergone a course of Ju-Jitsu and teaches it to members of Mrs Pankhurst’s ‘bodyguard’.
And then she appeared.
Grace Emmerson, age about 37, height 5ft 4in, complexion fresh, hair light brown, eyes brown. Lived with the leaders of the Brighton WSPU and was active locally. Convicted of assaulting the Prime Minister during the 1911 incursion on Downing Street. Has not been seen actively since February 1911.
The photograph which accompanied her description was not a particularly flattering one. She looked thin and pasty and was being supported by the arm of an unseen woman to her left. The brick wall behind her, and the fact that she seemed unaware that she was being photographed, led Morton to believe that it had been taken surreptitiously during her time in Holloway.
He re-read the entry, curious again as to why she seemed to have suddenly ceased her militant activity in 1911. Could it have been connected to whatever happened at Linden Grove? he wondered.
Morton photographed the page then continued flicking through to the end.
He returned the document to Miss Latimer’s outstretched hand.
‘Thank you,’ he said, making his way quickly towards the glass door.
‘See you again soon,’ Miss Latimer called after him. ‘Good luck with the baby. You could always call her Deidre.’
He turned and nodded nervously. ‘Bye.’
Never ever, ever, ever would he blight his daughter with the cursed named of Deidre. Never.
He was definitely suffering from some sleep-related problem, he decided, as he took a seat at one of the computer terminals, of which at least fifty were in the room. He navigated his way through to the digitised photographs of Minnie Turner.
The first picture—a posed black-and-white image—was of Minnie facing to the side as she tended to a vase of flowers. She appeared to be around thirty years of age, with a smart white shirt and dark dress. Her face, looking down at the flowers, was mournful, sad.
The next image was a sepia head-and-shoulder shot, taken several years later with Minnie gazing sternly into the camera. She reminded Morton of a tough Victorian school mistress. Zooming more closely into the image, he spotted that she was wearing the portcullis brooch which signified that she had been imprisoned for the cause.
Another sepia image followed. It was taken outside of Sea View, with the house name clearly visible on the two pillars and between which stood Minnie Turner. She looked to be in her mid-forties.
Clicking on to the next photo, Morton saw the front of the house in its entirety. In the bottom right-hand corner was written in black ink, ‘Miss Turner WSPU’. In the bottom left was written ‘Sea View, Brighton, 1911’, the very time when Grace had been living with her.
Morton smiled as he photographed the image. In his mind he could clearly see Grace walking up the short flight of steps inside the tall Victorian property—a house bubbling with the rhetoric and ideals of suffragettes, both permanent and transitory. He imagined the excited conversations, plotting and planning that must have occurred within those walls.
The final two images were of Minnie Turner’s Votes for Women sash and a close-up colour photograph of her portcullis brooch, beside which was a piece of card with the words: ‘Spent four months in prison for throwing a brick through a window at the Home Office.’
Morton closed the folder down, gathered up his things and moved to one of the four digital microfilm readers. Walking the short distance to the run of metal filing cabinets, he selected Film 47: Brighton Argus 1911 and carried it back to the reader. He threaded it through the machine, then fast-forwarded to October, the month during which Linden Grove had been destroyed.
He found the story quickly under the headline, ‘Palatial Mansion House Burned to the Ground.’ Splaying his fingers on the screen, he magnified the story, then began to read with great interest: ‘The mansion of Mr Francis Wild was burned out during the early hours of this morning. The mansion was a beautiful residence, situated in the best part of the town, and was fitted out at great cost by Mr Wild, a well-known local factory owner. The Fire Brigade was called about three o’clock but the firemen were still at work six hours later, by which time the mansion was completely destroyed. The damage is estimated at many thousands of pounds. It is stated that the fire is the work of suffragettes, and the matter is being investigated. The family were away at the time and Mr Wild could not be reached for comment on the matter. No doubt this outrage will have the effect of alienating a large number of local people from sympathy with the movement. This seems to be the common result of militancy, and it is amazing that suffragists do not recognise the fact, and in consequence adopt a policy less likely to put off the day when the vote will be given to women. But whether the militant suffragists take this course or continue to pursue their mad career of crime, they will, in any case, soon be made to realise that the general public are disgusted with the present state of affairs and it will not tolerate it much longer.’
Grace had burned down Linden Grove. But why? Morton wondered, photographing the newspaper entry. What had Francis Wild done? He pushed on to the following week, to see if the story had been followed up. And it had. ‘Mr Francis Wild killed in Linden Grove arson’, shouted the headline. ‘It has been confirmed by the Fire Brigade that local businessman, Mr Francis Wild was killed in the devastating fire at his home of Linden Grove last week, which destroyed the ancient mansion. Mr Wild’s body was discovered in the wreckage of the building several days after the fire. It is believed that he had been attempting to rescue precious items from the house and became trapped inside. The incident is still being investigated as an arson attack caused by suffragettes. It is reported that two tins of explosives were detonated inside the house. A third tin of Keen’s Genuine Imperial Mustard was removed from the scene by P.S. Lenehan, Special Branch, and taken to the Bomb-Proof House, Duck Island in St James’ Park. Upon analysis, the tin was proved to contain pure nitro-glycerine. The funeral arrangements for Mr Wild will be announced shortly.’
So many thoughts were suddenly bouncing around Morton’s brain, each vying for attention. A tin of Keen’s Genuine Imperial Mustard? Wasn’t that the same tin that Margot had handed Morton containing the portcullis brooch? Francis Wild killed in the attack? It was little wonder that Grace had ceased her activism if a man had died, albeit partially his own fault for trying to save his possessions. But still the main question persisted: why target him? He hoped that the ensuing pages of the newspaper might hold the answer.
Forwarding the newspaper on to the following week, Morton began to search for any mention of the incident or Francis Wild. Two weeks after the fire, the details of his funeral were printed: a lavish affair involving half the town and several motorcars. The report recapped the details of the fire, only adding that ‘no arrests had been made’ and that Mr Wild was ‘staunchly anti-suffragist’. Was that the reason that Grace had burned down his house? Morton pondered. It seemed pretty thin, given that so many members of the public were against the cause. Could it have been something to do with his factory? Little had been mentioned of it in the newspapers.
The Suffragette's Secret: A Morton Farrier Short Story (The Forensic Genealogist Series) Page 8