“Roger? Thank you for speaking to me. I’m sorry to disturb you, but this can’t wait. I need you to sort out a problem for me. Today.”
“Of course. What is the nature of the problem?”
“I need you to get someone out of jail. Probably.”
The solicitor’s tone never wavered. “I see. Might I know the identity of this person, please?”
“Clarissa. My cousin.”
“Oh.” Now the worldly-wise lawyer did pause. “I see. You said ‘probably’.”
“Yes. The information I have is from Victorine. I would not put it past her to fabricate the entire thing.”
“Quite.” Still the solicitor displayed not a hint of surprise. “What has Miss Smallwood told you?”
“That Clarissa is in Holloway,” James clarified. “That she’s been sentenced to fourteen weeks. I gather she’s become a suffragette…”
“Do you know on what charge she is supposed to have been convicted?”
“Not exactly, I expect it would have been affray. Or possibly arson.” His heart sank as he uttered the words out loud. These were not minor matters. “I need you to first ascertain whether there is indeed truth in any of this. Once we have that established, we shall go from there.”
“Leave it with me. I shall telephone you as soon as I have news. Are you at home?”
“I am. I’ll wait for your call.”
James did not have long to wait. Roger Roundhill’s sources were swift and accurate. His telephone call came within the hour.
“Miss Bellamy was arrested two weeks ago and charged with arson and affray as you suspected. She appeared at the Old Bailey a few days later along with five other women. All were sentenced to between four and thirty weeks in prison. Miss Bellamy herself is serving fourteen weeks, just as your sister indicated.”
“So. Victorine was right, for once.” James could scarcely believe what he was hearing.
Oh, Clarissa, what have you done?
“I need you to get her out of there.”
“Yes, my lord. Of course. And I suggest we move with all possible haste. Miss Bellamy has been incarcerated for over a week already. Holloway employs a regime of force-feeding convicted members of the Women’s Social and Political Union. Not a pleasant business, not at all.”
James felt sick. He’d heard of the practice which involved strapping the unfortunate woman down and pushing a tube up her nose or down her throat in order to pour liquid food into her stomach. It was done under the guise of not allowing convicted suffragettes who went on hunger strike—and he gathered the majority of them did exactly that—to die in prison. Despite the so-called justification, the brutal practice was widely regarded as another means of discouraging the ever more strident demands for votes for women. The thought of his delicate, helpless cousin being treated in such a barbaric manner churned his stomach..
“Pay what you must, bribe whoever needs it, threaten as necessary. I will present myself at the office of the governor of Holloway prison at five o’clock this afternoon, and I expect Clarissa to be delivered into my custody. Make it happen, Roger.”
“Of course.” The solicitor sounded supremely confident. “I shall meet you at the prison at five.”
It was late morning by the time James strode across the polished tiles of his hallway. Mr Thompson, his butler, awaited him at the front door.
“Your coat, my lord.” The man handed him his things.
“Thank you.” He shrugged into his jacket. “Has my car been brought round?”
“Of course, my lord. I understand you will not be back for dinner.”
“That’s right.”
Mr Thompson opened the door and bowed when James strode past him, out into the thin, grey daylight. He paused on the top step. “On second thoughts, I will be at home this evening, but a light meal served in my room will be fine. Oh, and could you have someone make Miss Bellamy’s room ready for her. I have good reason to suppose my cousin will be returning with me.”
The butler’s dour features split into a smile. “I am delighted to hear that, my lord. I shall instruct Trudy to put out fresh linens and light the fire.”
“Do that. And if you could manage to make the preparations without my sister becoming aware, I suspect that will be preferable for all of us.”
“Quite, my lord. Leave it with me.” The elderly butler had ruled Smallwood Manor since before James was born. If Victorine chose to delude herself with the notion that she ran the household, James knew better. Not a mouse stirred in the Smallwood wine cellars that Mr Thompson did not know about.
Satisfied that there would be a suitable welcome waiting for his cousin, James sprinted down the short flight of steps at the front of the house. His Rolls Royce Silver Ghost, acquired just months before and his absolute pride and joy, waited for him at the foot. The uniformed driver stood beside the gleaming vehicle and hurried to open the rear door at James’ approach.
“Thank you, William.” James slid into the rear seat, inhaling deeply as the scent of polished leather filled his senses. “Drive me into Town, if you please. My office first, then later I will require you to drive me to Parkhurst Road.”
“Parkhurst Road, sir?”
“Yes,” James muttered. “The prison.”
His driver made no further comment, and soon they were gliding along the wide drive which led to the main road.
Smallwood Manor occupied an enviable location in Hertfordshire, just a short hop from St Albans and less than two hours’ drive from the centre of London where his offices were situated. The journey time had been halved with the advent of the motor car, but still James preferred to limit his visits to the capital to just once or twice a week. The telephone meant he could remain in touch with his staff from the comfort of his study. It was an admirable arrangement.
He owned a profitable weekly magazine, The Citizen, which enjoyed a healthy circulation among the upper and middle classes. The Citizen mainly carried political articles but with a strong flavour of social reform. The magazine tended to be outspoken, and some would describe it as radical. Certainly, he often found himself in conflict with his more conservative colleagues in the House of Lords, but James could live with that. They needed shaking up a little, and business was good.
But it was not the intricacies of the publishing industry which occupied his thoughts as the sleek car ate up the miles between his home and the city.
Holloway Prison was situated in north London, an imposing castellated structure. Built in the reign of the late queen, it now housed only female prisoners, in six wings. James shuddered when he exited the car and gazed up at the two griffins with keys in their claws who graced the front gates.
“Do you need me to come in with you, sir?” William enquired. “I was thinking perhaps I should stay with the car. There are some odd folks about here…” The driver removed his hat and cast a suspicious gaze up and down the rutted road as though daring any to approach.
“Yes, please stay here. I should not be long.” James strode up to the huge oak door and pulled on the rope attached to a bell. After several minutes, and two more determined tugs on the bell rope, a small window beside the door clanged open and a ruddy face peered out at him.
“What do ye want? There be nae visitin’ today.”
“I am here to see the governor. Let me in at once.”
“No one told me,” the man grumbled. “What d’ye want wi the guv’nor?”
“Mind your own business and open this bloody door. I am Viscount Smallwood of Rotherdene, and you have kept me waiting long enough. If you value your employment, man, you will not obstruct me any further.”
The doorkeeper muttered something unintelligible, but the clanking and banging on the other side of the solid portal suggested that James’ threats had had the desired effect. Sure enough, the door opened, and the man stuck his head out.
“The guv’nor, ye say?”
“Yes. You will take me to his office and be quick about it.” James ga
ve the door a sharp shove, and the man staggered backwards. James took advantage of the opportunity to step inside the forbidding building and almost immediately regretted it.
The stench was appalling. Did they never clean this place? He grimaced, swallowed hard, and gathered his resolve.
“Come on. I do not have all day. Unlock this gate and show me the way to the governor’s office.”
Grumbling the entire way, his reluctant escort led him through a maze of corridors and passageways, each one beginning and ending with a locked iron gate. James lost count of the number of times he had to stand and wait while the jailer fiddled with the huge bunch of keys attached to his belt by a chain, making several selections before finally arriving at the correct one. At last, though, they emerged into a slightly wider hallway where the smell of stale food, grime and, James suspected, urine, was less pronounced.
“Guv’nor’s office is at the end,” his companion announced, then he turned and marched back the way they had come leaving James to locate the room for himself.
It was not difficult. He heard Roger Roundhill’s voice as he approached.
“Five hundred guineas now, and a further five hundred when you produce Miss Bellamy and hand her over to us.”
“This is most irregular.”
James assumed the second voice was that of the governor, a most inappropriately named Mr Jolly, he understood.
“Really?” Disbelief dripped from Roger’s clipped tone. “I somehow doubt that. Are we agreed, then?”
James had to assume that an agreement had indeed been arrived at, because when he opened the door to the office without bothering to knock, it was to witness his solicitor shaking hands with a small, grey-haired man of middle years in a shabby business suit and distinctly off-white shirt.
“Ah, James. Just in time. Mr Jolly here was just about to send for Miss Bellamy. Is that not right, sir?”
“What? Eh? Who are you?” The governor peered at James.
“Viscount Smallwood of Rotherdene. And you were just about to release my cousin, Miss Clarissa Bellamy, into my custody, I gather. Please do not let us detain you. I appreciate how busy you must be.”
“Eh? Right. Yes… Miss Bellamy. One o’ them suffragette women, is she?”
“I believe you know perfectly well who she is, and I will thank you to have her brought here without delay,” James snapped. He settled himself on the edge of one of the two seats in the room. “Well, get on with it, man.”
Mr Jolly scurried to the door and poked his head out. “You. Yes, you,” he called. “Go to B wing and bring number seven-three-seven here.”
Number seven-three-seven? They even stripped her of her name.
James exchanged a look with Roger, but neither of the men spoke during the fifteen minutes or so it took for Clarissa to be brought up from her cell. At last, footsteps padded in the corridor outside, followed by a sharp rap on the door.
“Come,” Mr Jolly called.
The door opened, and three women entered. James barely recognised his cousin, flanked by the two burly warders.
Clarissa had lost weight. A lot of weight. Her hair was lank, dirty, the usual nut-brown dulled to a mousy shade of mud grey. Her skin was sallow, a fading bruise on her forehead, and a smear of dried blood ran from the corner of her mouth to her chin. Still, though, she struggled with the guards, who were none too gentle in their handling of the much smaller woman.
“Quit yer moitherin’ or ye’ll ’ave much worse to worry about,” one of them threatened, shoving Clarissa forward into the room.
James was off his chair in a moment and caught his cousin as she stumbled.
“My God, Carrie, what have they done to you?” He stared at her, horrified despite his attempts to prepare himself for this moment. He had known his cousin would be unkempt, dirty, probably since Holloway was not known for its hygiene facilities, but this was far worse than his imaginings. He stepped back, cradled her face in his hands. “What happened? This bruise? And, you’ve been bleeding…”
“Ah, that’ll be from the tube,” Mr Jolly offered. “The stubborn ones tend to end up with a few cuts and bruises.”
The tube. The tube used to force-feed the women.
Horror, revulsion, and raw fury warred within him. Fury won. James turned and seized Mr Jolly by the lapels of his shabby jacket and propelled the man backwards over his own desk. His fist was raised, ready to knock the supercilious sneer off those cruel features when Roger grabbed his arm and hauled him back.
“No, not now. Leave it. Let’s just go.”
“This bastard—”
“—will have to wait. We have Miss Bellamy. That’s what we came for. Now, we need to leave.”
The red mist dissipated, just enough for James to once more think straight. He released Mr Jolly and straightened.
“You’re right.” He took off his jacket and wrapped it around his cousin’s thin shoulders. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
Chapter 2
“It’s so cold.” Mary-Belle’s teeth actually chattered as she pulled the thin blanket up over her shoulders. “My throat hurts, and my stomach. It feels as though the tube is still inside me…”
“I know, I know. Here. Have my blanket.” Clarissa tugged the rough cover from her own bunk and laid it over her friend.
“I can’t. You need it…”
“Not as much as you do. Now, lie still and try not to swallow if you can help it. Or talk. Your throat is still bruised…”
Although not compelled to endure the humiliation and terror of forcibly feeding herself that day, Clarissa had nevertheless had no choice but to bear witness to the torture and suffering of the woman who shared her dormitory. She could look forward to a similar ordeal herself tomorrow when the warders and so-called medical staff made their vicious round of the cells. Five times so far she had endured the horrible process of being strapped onto a chair, struggling and fighting, choking, whilst the rubber tube was shoved up her nose then down her throat and the mixture of eggs, milk, and soup poured directly into her stomach. She had been incarcerated for two weeks so far. The remaining twelve weeks of her sentence stretched before her. She swallowed her own sobs in order to offer what comfort she could to her friend.
The other woman let out a piteous moan. “It took so long. Much longer this time. The tube wouldn’t go in, and I was so agitated…”
“I know, Please, Mary-Belle, it’s over now. Try to sleep.”
“Over until tomorrow. Or the day after. It’s worse every time. I’ve lost count of how many times now. I don’t know if I can endure it again.”
“You must. We all must. We swore…”
Her companion nodded. “I know. And I will. Together, we are strong. It’s just… I’m so scared.”
“You’ll be released next week, and you’ll have your breakfast reception with Mrs Pankhurst and receive your medal. It will be worth it.
“I know. I know that, but sometimes it’s just so hard…” Mary-Belle closed her eyes, and Clarissa thought, hoped, that she was asleep. A few hours of respite would bring a measure of relief, however small.
The cell door opened with a resounding clang, and Mary-Belle let out a startled shriek. Two warders marched in.
“You.” The larger of the two, a woman Clarissa had seen often during the force-feeding episodes, pointed straight at her. “You, come with us.”
“Why?” Clarissa got to her feet and backed away.
“Governor wants you. Come on. Now.”
“No. Leave me alone. I don’t want—”
“Shut up,” the other snarled and made a grab for Clarissa.
She tried to evade them, but her protest was futile and short-lived. Within moments, Clarissa found herself facedown on the floor of the cell, her arm jammed up her back. Mary-Belle protested as loudly as she was able before collapsing in a fit of coughing. Clarissa went still.
“Right, get up and come quiet, like.”
She was dragged to her feet as M
ary-Belle rasped her protests from her bunk. None of it made any difference. Clarissa was marched out into the corridor toward God only knew what fate.
She tried to bank down her terror. There was nothing, surely, that they could do to her that would be worse than the force-feeding. She had committed no other offenses apart from the hunger strike.
“What is this about? Why am I—?”
“Be quiet.” The wardress delivered a sharp punch to her kidney, and Clarissa fell silent.
They stopped at the door to the governor’s office, and one of the wardresses knocked. On the command to enter, she flung the door open and propelled Clarissa inside.
Clarissa was sure she had finally lost her mind. She was hallucinating, seeing visions.
James. Her cousin. Beautiful, dependable, brave and safe. Here, in this hellish place. The one shining star, the one she dreamed about, longed for, conjured up by her own desperate imaginings. She closed her eyes, opened them again. He would be gone.
He was not. Scared, confused, she tried to free herself from the cruel grip of the two women who flanked her, only to be shoved hard between her shoulder blades. Her knees buckled, and she stumbled forward, into the arms of her cousin.
His hands were on her, framing her jaw. He felt so real, so solid. His voice sounded so exactly as she remembered. His lips moved; the vision was speaking to her, though his words came from far away. She could not understand him, had no answers…
Shouting; there was a scuffle. Another man was there, also familiar, though she could not recall his name. Clarissa shivered, let out a terrified whimper, and the commotion was over as quickly as it had begun. The man she did not quite recognise was handing something to the prison governor. Cash. A lot of cash. At the same time, the vision which was her cousin wrapped his jacket around her. It smelled of him, spicy, woodsy, and uniquely male. At last, Clarissa dared to believe.
James is here. Actually here. But why? How? And what does he mean to do?
In a daze, Clarissa did not resist as she was led along the corridor by James and the man with him. One of the hated wardresses, on instructions from the governor, scurried along in front of them, unlocking gates. On they marched, corridor after corridor, so fast that Clarissa had to almost run to keep up. Then, suddenly, they were outside, in the sweet, fresh air. She blinked, looked up into the grey, cloudy December sky, and had never seen anything more beautiful, except, perhaps, for James’ face when she’d entered the governor’s office.
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