Authors: Tim Vicary
He strode away down the corridor, his mind full of images of Charles, and Tom, and the key he had turned in the front door of the house where he had found his father in bed with a woman. His father, whom he had loved more than any man before or since.
The flames of that burning house flickered in his eyes.
The train reached Liverpool at five in the morning, but the passengers were allowed to stay in the sleeping compartments until eight if they chose. Deborah had time to send a telegram to Charles at Glenfee, and then she and Sarah embarked on the ferry in time for breakfast. They found a quiet table in the corner of the first-class dining room, and sat eating boiled eggs and muffins as tugs whistled and hooted on the Mersey and the great grey Liver building slipped by outside the porthole.
‘I don't think he suspects us,’ Deborah said nervously, as she watched the waiter crossing the floor towards them with a fresh pot of tea.
‘Of course he doesn't. Relax,’ Sarah smiled at the man as he gave them the tea, and ordered two more muffins. ‘Anyway, the man's Italian. What would he know? Look here.’
She passed across a copy of the Daily Mail, which she had bought from the purser's office as they came on board. Deborah read:
FEMALE HOUDINI VANISHES
SET THEM ALL FREE, SAY PANKHURSTS
No clues have so far emerged as to the whereabouts of Mrs Sarah Becket, the militant suffragette who escaped from Holloway prison two days ago. Theories as to how she escaped vary. 'It is possible she was provided with a skeleton key and a disguise,' a police source said. 'But she may also have climbed a ladder over the wall, or even escaped in a laundry basket. We are keeping an open mind.'
Meanwhile the WSPU have been proclaiming the escape as a triumph. Miss Christabel Pankhurst, speaking in Paris, said: 'This brilliant escape shows that it is impossible to cage either the body or the spirit of a free, independent woman. I call upon the government yet again, in the name of decency and justice, to release all female political prisoners today, and give women the vote.'
The Liberal MP, Mr Jonathan Becket, said that he knew nothing of his wife's whereabouts, but claimed he would be seeking assurances from his friend the Home Secretary that his wife had been humanely treated while she was in prison.
‘Humanely treated!’ Deborah said. ‘He knows you were force fed!’
‘Yes, of course,’ Sarah said sadly. ‘But it would damage his reputation to say so, wouldn't it? He would have to disagree with the government, and that would lose him any chance of becoming a minister.’
‘Is that all he cares about?’
‘It seems like that to me. He's talked about it enough over the past year, at any rate.’
Deborah sighed. ‘That would explain why he won't support female suffrage in Parliament, any more.’ She told Sarah about the speech Jonathan had made, that day when she had watched him from the Ladies' Gallery in the Commons.
Sarah said nothing. She buttered her muffin carefully and then cut it into squares with quick, vicious strokes of her knife. Deborah wished she had said nothing.
‘At least he hasn't told them where you're going,’ she offered.
‘No. It seems he hasn't done that, anyway.’ Sarah pushed the muffin away irritably, then leaned forward with both elbows on the table, cradling a cup of tea in her hands. ‘You know, Debbie, it may sound awful to say this, but I truly think I could bring myself to kill him, if he did.’
‘Don't, Sarah.’ Deborah saw the tears well up in her sister's eyes. ‘You're still not strong. You'll wear yourself out with emotion if you start thinking like that. You ought to relax, and eat.’
‘Always the motherly type, weren't you, Debbie? And now you've got a real live invalid to look after.’
Deborah winced. She had suffered frequently from her sister's sarcasm in her youth and had never developed a strong defence against it.
‘I don't think of you as an invalid, Sarah. Just someone who needs help and protection for a while, that's all.’
‘Yes.’ Sarah reached out impulsively across the table and touched her sister's hand. ‘I'm sorry, I didn't need to say that. Your help's appreciated, too, don't think it's not. It's just that it's a bit of a surprise to come out of prison and find my sweet little sister included in the rabid ranks of the militant suffragettes.’
‘Sssssh!’ Deborah looked over her shoulder, alarmed. But the table nearest to them was empty and no one seemed to have heard. Sarah laughed out loud.
‘Look, Debbie! The purser's coming! He's going to have you thrown into the Mersey for making seditious remarks!’
Despite herself, Deborah looked behind her. There was no one there. She blushed. ‘Laugh if you like. You could be arrested at any time, you know.’
‘I do know – and I've no intention of letting it happen. Rather than that I'd jump into the river.’
‘You can't swim!’
Sarah stared. ‘That's true. I'd forgotten. You know me too well.’
‘Yes.’ It was Deborah's turn to smile. ‘Listen, Sarah, promise me one thing, will you?’
‘Anything. What?’
‘When we get to Glenfee, don't attack Charles.’
‘Attack him? What do you think I am? A raving Amazon with a cutlass? Look at me, I can hardly stand.’
To Deborah's eyes, Sarah was already looking a lot better. Still thin and hollow-cheeked, but there was a brightness in her eyes and a flush in her cheeks that had not been there last night. She had walked quite firmly from the train to the ship and taken a turn among the deckchairs on the promenade deck before coming in to breakfast.
She remembered how strong and energetic Sarah had been as a child. She had regularly won races at village fetes, each year. But it was not Sarah's physical strength that concerned her now.
‘I don't mean that, silly. Just don't go for him with all your suffragette propaganda. You know how he hates that sort of thing. And it won't help, you won't convert him.’
Sarah raised an eyebrow. ‘Isn't that just the reason why all men keep their outdated attitudes? Because no one ever challenges them?’
‘Perhaps . . . Oh, I don't know! Perhaps it's being challenged all the time that makes them worse.’
‘Oh, come on now, Debbie, really! That's
exactly
the government's line. If we all believed that . . .’
‘Please, Sarah.’ Deborah held up her hand. To her surprise, her sister stopped. ‘You may be right, I don't know. But in Charles's case, I . . . I've got a reason why I don't want to antagonise him right now. It's going to be hard enough to persuade him to shelter you, an escaped convict, but I'll make him do that, don't worry. But . . . things haven't been too good between us and, if you could keep him sweet in every other way, it would be a favour to me, that's all.’
Sarah looked at her quietly for a moment. Deborah's features had always seemed to her like a reflection of her own but slightly softer, somehow, less sharply defined. It was not just the fair hair and the slightly broader face, it was also a gentleness, a placidity which she did not see in her own mirror. Perhaps some of it comes from being a mother, she thought bitterly, but not all. Some of it was there as a child, too — that's why I could always dominate her.
And yet there were certain things, she knew, that Deborah felt very passionately about. Her quiet country home, her son Tom. Exactly the things I have never had.
She said: ‘Always the same old Debbie, eh? Anxious to preserve the appearance of things. Well, don't worry. My marriage may be a heaving cesspit but I haven't come to break up yours. If Charles protects me under his roof I will smile and curtsey and make demure polite remarks about his brave rebel soldiers. Nothing else.’
Deborah breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Really? You promise?’
Sarah laughed. ‘I promise. Honestly, Debbie, it will be a relief to me, too. I don't want to destroy your home. Don't you know that I've always seen Glenfee as a haven of peace and security?'’
‘Have you? Oh, good.’
Tears started suddenly into Deborah's eyes, and, to hide them, she gazed out intently through the salt-smeared porthole, to where the docks of the Mersey were fading slowly behind them.
A haven of peace and security, she thought.
Just the place for a child to be born . . .
T
HE ROYAL Ulster Hotel. Monday evening. Five minutes to six.
Werner sat comfortably in the foyer, reading the evening paper. In the Balkans, there were fears that the Serbs were about to attack the Albanian Moslems. A suffragette had been arrested for slashing the portrait of the Duke of Wellington in the Royal Academy. There was no trace yet of the other escaped suffragette, Sarah Becket. In his Budget speech the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Lloyd George, had announced a supertax of 1s 4d for those earning over £7,000 a year. The Kaiser had been present at German Army exercises in Westphalia. Bernard Shaw's play
Pygmalion
was playing to packed houses in London.
There was nothing about Sir Edward Carson visiting Ulster.
Werner looked up from time to time, to check on those coming in and out of the hotel. It was a busy time. Two groups of travellers had just arrived from the station and were checking in at the desk while the porters carried in their bags. Several others were coming in and out, waiting either for an appointment or for the restaurant to open for the evening meal. Werner wore a dark well-cut woollen suit, with shiny elastic-sided boots and a clean shirt and tie. His bowler hat and thick tweed coat hung on a hook near the door and his injured hand was concealed in a soft light brown glove. He felt comfortable, prosperous, successful, perfectly in tune with the atmosphere around him.
Only that morning he had bought a new car, courtesy of the Imperial German government. It was parked in the street behind the hotel. Some time in the next few days, if all went well, he would use it as part of his plan to kidnap and murder Sir Edward Carson.
I wonder what will be on the front page of the evening paper that day, he thought with a smile.
The long case clock in the hall started to chime. Six o'clock. A waiter drew aside the red rope at the entrance to the hotel dining room. Simon Fletcher walked into the foyer and stood in front of him.
‘Ah. So you made it.’ Werner folded up his newspaper and threw it down on the arm of his chair. ‘Have a seat.’
‘Thank you.’ Simon sat down on the edge of the armchair, leaning forward, his arms resting on his knees. He was wearing the same blazer and flannels as before and he swung a small leather briefcase between his knees. He did not look afraid, but quiet, resolute, determined.
Werner glanced at the briefcase. ‘Have you brought what I asked?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘Good.’ Werner did not ask to see what Simon had brought; that would come. Probably the young man has some further condition he wants to make, Werner thought. He has been thinking about it all night and worked out a plan. They usually do. All in good time.
‘Have you eaten?’
Surprise registered on Simon's face. ‘No, I haven't actually. But . . .’
Werner got to his feet and gestured hospitably in the direction of the hotel restaurant. ‘Well then, why don't we go in? I took the liberty of reserving a table in a discreet corner, just in case. I have had nothing since breakfast myself.’
He led the way across the vast half-empty dining room to a table by a wicker screen and some long red damask curtains. When they were settled and had ordered, Werner raised a slim glass of sherry in his good hand and said: ‘So. I hope for both our sakes you have succeeded. Was it difficult?’
‘No, not very.’
‘Good. May I see what you brought me?’
‘Yes, of course. But there are conditions, first.’
As I expected, Werner thought. He sighed, and tucked a napkin under his chin as the waiter brought the soup. When the waiter had gone he said: ‘Do you really think you are in a position to make conditions, young man? Remember, I have already written an article about you and your handsome lover. It makes a highly entertaining and scandalous read, and it will be posted to my editor if I do not return. Or if you do not co-operate.’
‘That's what I mean,’ Simon said. ‘You think you have to coerce me. That may not be necessary. I might
want
to co-operate.’
Werner put down his spoon and dabbed thoughtfully at his mouth with his napkin. This
was
a surprise. ‘How do you mean, exactly?’
‘Well, I've been thinking about what you said when we last met, and wondering why you might want this information. It isn't for your newspaper in Switzerland — you can stop pretending that, I don't believe it. I think you're a German spy and, if you are . . .’ Simon held up his hand to forestall a protest. ‘ . . . then it may be that I want to help you.’
‘Want to help me.’ Werner stared at Simon calmly for a few moments. It is a beautiful face, he thought, I can understand Charles Cavendish being attracted to it. But there is something strange there, under the skin. This is a boy strong and hard and utterly sure of himself. A few days ago he was furious with me and now he wants to co-operate. I don't think I want to know.
‘You
are
helping me by bringing those papers,’ he said mildly enough. ‘That is, if they are the details of Carson's visit as I asked. That's all I want, just now. If they are satisfactory, they may be all I need, and no one need know of your . . . affair with Colonel Cavendish. There is no need for any other involvement from you.’
Simon picked up the slim leather briefcase from below the table and flicked open the catches. His cool grey eyes never left Werner's. ‘All right, then. Maybe not. Nonetheless, when you've read them I'd like to know if they're what you wanted or not. If you need to know more, I may be able to help. But first, I'd like you to listen to what I have to say.’
Werner shrugged. It seemed a strange way of bargaining. ‘I agree, of course.’ He held out his hand.
The two sheets of paper which Simon passed across the table exceeded his expectations. In small, neat, meticulous handwriting, Simon had listed not only the dates and times of Carson's planned arrival and departure at various places on his four-day visit to Ulster, but also all the secret orders for Carson's security, including the number of companions he was expected to take with him, which unit of the UVF would be responsible for guarding him at each stage, and, where possible, the number of troops who would be involved and the officer responsible. He had also hazarded an educated guess at which roads Carson would be likely to take at each stage of his journey, and the estimated time of departure and arrival at each point. Werner read each page with interest and delight.