Dangerous Destiny Read online

  DANGEROUS DESTINY

  A Suffragette Mystery

  Chris Longmuir

  Copyright Chris Longmuir, 2020

  http://www.chrislongmuir.co.uk

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical or photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  Dangerous Destiny is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or living persons, is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Cathy Helms www.avalongraphics.org

  Edited by Rachel Natanson

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the memory of Dundee suffragists.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Beginning – Chapter One

  Historical Note

  About the Author

  Chris Longmuir’s Books

  CHAPTER ONE

  Tuesday, 23rd June 1908

  Victoria bent forward over the table, pretending to be busy.

  ‘You go on ahead,’ she said to Martha, who stood in the doorway. ‘They’ll be waiting for the news-sheets.’

  The heap of papers in Martha’s arms slipped, and she clutched them with a firmer grasp.

  ‘I suppose I should. The crowds will be gathering, and Christabel will arrive soon.’

  ‘Go on,’ Victoria said. ‘I won’t be long.’

  The door slammed. Victoria waited a few minutes to make sure Martha would be out of sight before she left the office. She couldn’t risk her finding out about the rendezvous to collect what she needed to carry out her plan.

  Excitement rippled through her as she peered into the street before leaving, locking the door behind her. The sound of her footsteps on the pavement beat a staccato rhythm in time with her heartbeat, while her blue, green and gold sash, signifying the Women’s Freedom League, fluttered in the breeze. Soon, if her plan was successful, she would exchange it for a purple, white and green one. But she needed to prove her worth first, and that would depend on the success of what she had been working on. If it happened as she hoped, they would hail her as the suffragette who brought militancy to the streets of Dundee.

  Barrack Street was quiet. She’d hoped to enter the Howff graveyard by that entrance, but she was out of luck; the gate was padlocked. The clank of a tram rattling along Meadowbank reminded her how close she was to Albert Square, where suffragettes were gathering to welcome Christabel Pankhurst. She hadn’t wanted to use the main entrance to the Howff – it was so close to the square it posed a risk someone would see her; she wanted to avoid any awkward questions. But it was too late to turn back now.

  Despite an increase in the numbers walking along Meadowbank, no one paid her any attention apart from a group of boys who sniggered and pointed their fingers at her. All eyes were focused on the crowded square ahead and she joined the flow of people heading in that direction. When she came to the main entrance to the Howff, she slipped through the ornate, iron gates into the graveyard. Once inside, she followed the path to her left which led to a secluded area, populated by older gravestones. There was less chance of anyone tending a grave here.

  He was there already, lounging on a flat-topped gravestone.

  ‘The preparations,’ she began, ‘did you get what I need?’

  ‘Everything you require is under here.’ He pointed to the hollow space beneath the stone and she bent to look.

  It only took a moment for the blade to slice into her and for her to topple forward with the smallest of gasps.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, a short distance away, excitement mounted. The buzz of voices increased, rippling through the crowd gathered in front of a ribbon-bedecked cart. They had been gathering in Albert Square from early morning, jostling and pushing to find the best view; ladies in their finery rubbing shoulders with shop assistants and mill girls, along with a scattering of men, some of whom appeared embarrassed and some belligerent.

  Martha Fairweather adjusted the sash across her body to make the words, Votes for Women, stand out against the background of blue, green and gold. She had opted out of her membership of the Women’s Social and Political Union when Emmeline Pankhurst demanded their motto, ‘Deeds not words’, meant members should use more violent tactics. But today, the WFL was out to support the cause alongside their more militant colleagues adorned in the purple, white and green of the WSPU.

  Christabel Pankhurst’s visit to Dundee in September 1906 had resulted in many more women joining the movement; she would be expecting the same result today. Martha had to admit that, even though she had no great love for the woman, Christabel was a talented speaker and audiences loved her.

  Martha stared out over the crowd from her vantage point on the steps of the Albert Institute. Where was Victoria? When Martha raced out of the office, clutching the news-sheets, Victoria had said she had something to finish and she would be right behind her. That was half an hour ago. She should have been here by this time. Martha tutted with annoyance.

  She looked around the square, but the other WFL members were either busy or nowhere to be seen. It would be difficult to cover the whole area herself and she needed help to hand out the news-sheets.

  ‘Ethel,’ she called to one of the girls standing beside the cart. Most of the women hung back at the rear of the crowd, allowing the men to take up spaces nearer the front, but the working-class girls had no such inhibitions.

  ‘I’ve noticed your enthusiasm for women’s suffrage,’ she said as Ethel approached her, ‘and I wondered if you’d like to help, distributing our literature.’ She gestured to the stack of news-sheets.

  The girl nodded, her cheeks pink with pleasure.

  ‘I’d love to help.’

  Martha handed her a bundle of papers.

  ‘I’ll do this side of the square. You can start at that side.’ She nodded to the left. ‘That would really help, thank you.’

  Ethel grasped the news-sheets. Her obvious delight charmed Martha, who wished other young working girls shared her enthusiasm.

  Ever since she’d first met Ethel, the girl had attended meetings and even gone out chalking pavements one evening. With encouragement, maybe she could be used to generate interest in the cause among her fellow workers. It would add vigour to their campaign if they involved more of the working class.

  Ethel turned to start her task, but Martha laid a hand on the girl’s arm before she walked away.

  ‘Some men might be rude to you but pay them no heed. Smile and pass on to the next person.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about me, Miss Fairweather. I get plenty of lip from the men in the mill. I know how to handle them.’

  ‘I’m sure you do.’ Martha watched the girl elbow through the gathering throng. Her enthusiasm showed in the way she held her head and smiled as she handed out the news-sheets.

  The WFL could do with more younger girls like Ethel. But was she too young? Supporting the cause wasn’t an easy task. It came with many obstructions and difficulties, including letters like the one that nestled in her pocket. She hadn’t shown it to any of the other women who manned the Women’s Freedom League office because this one went beyond the usual bile and hatred – it contained a death threat aimed at all those who supported women’s suffrage. The crudity of the message alarmed her, and she wondered if she was doing the right thing by hiding it from the others. More than likely, they would have insisted she take it to the police. But what good would that do? As far as the police were concerned, the suffragettes were a nuisance, women who didn’t know their place in society. They would pat her on
the head and tell her there was nothing for her to worry about.

  A contingent of suffragettes arrived, heralding Christabel Pankhurst’s approach, breaking Martha’s train of thought. Two women from the WSPU climbed on to the cart and held their hands out in an attempt to calm the spectators. But it was only when Christabel’s entourage entered the square and she mounted the makeshift stage to speak that a hush descended. People strained to listen, afraid to miss a single word.

  Martha’s eyes focused on Christabel’s upright form and she pushed the death threat to the back of her mind to focus on Christabel’s speech.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ethel Stewart had taken a day off work to attend the rally and if her da found out, he’d likely kill her. She shivered. The memories of her da’s fists in her ribs were as painful as the blows he dished out. But she didn’t regret tempting his wrath, because Martha Fairweather had acknowledged her and trusted her to hand out the WFL news-sheets.

  ‘A copy of our news-sheet, sir.’ Ethel thrust a newspaper into the hand of the nearest man.

  He snorted and thrust it back at her.

  ‘You should find something better to do with your time than hand out this propaganda.’

  ‘Don’t worry, lass. I’ll have one of your news-sheets.’ The man standing next to him grinned at her. ‘It might come in handy for hanging in the lavatory.’

  Ethel shook her head. She’d had worse responses from men who delighted in goading suffragettes. Not that Ethel counted herself a proper suffragette, but she had hopes of becoming one. She carried on moving through the crowd of people, handing out news-sheets to anyone who would take them. The babble of voices quietened, and Ethel stopped what she was doing to push to the front of the spectators where she would be nearer the stage.

  Christabel exuded confidence. As she clambered on to the cart, the crowd roared their approval, drowning out the disparaging remarks of a group of men nearby. Removing her hat, she threw it to a woman standing beside the cart.

  Martha Fairweather sidled up to Ethel.

  ‘I’m pleased you’re here today,’ she said in an undertone. ‘I’ll be nominating you for full membership at our next meeting.’

  Ethel’s cheeks tingled with warmth. She hadn’t been sure of her acceptance within the group because she was working class. Everyone else appeared to be her betters – posh women who wore fancy dresses and feather-covered hats which swayed in the breeze. Feathers cost a lot of money and Ethel could only dream that someday she might wear them. Women like that rarely welcomed a mill girl to their circles. But Ethel had made a point of working hard over the past few weeks and sought out tasks, no matter how onerous, to prove her worth.

  ‘Ta,’ she murmured, hoping her face wasn’t flushed.

  Miss Fairweather smiled at her.

  ‘No need to thank me. You’re a hard worker and I’ve noticed how committed you are.’

  Ethel sneaked a glance at Miss Fairweather who, despite being a toff, didn’t seem to have any airs and graces. She must know that Ethel was of a lower order, but it made no apparent difference to her. She had been kind and encouraging towards Ethel.

  Christabel’s voice rang out, demanding the crowd’s attention. They stirred and looked towards the speaker. Ethel found herself caught up in the enthusiasm and she, too, turned to listen. The suffragette’s eyes glowed with fervour and her voice had a hypnotic effect as she spoke about women’s suffrage and why they should be allowed to vote when men stood for election as members of parliament. Several suffragettes, in their purple, white and green sashes, clustered around the cart, looking at their leader with adoration in their eyes. But the one standing nearest to her looked different. Her dress was not so ornate, nor did she wear a fancy hat. She aroused Ethel’s curiosity.

  She turned to Martha.

  ‘Who’s the woman holding Christabel’s hat?’

  Martha smiled before she answered. It was as if she found the question amusing.

  ‘That’s Annie Kenney. She comes from Manchester and she’s a mill girl, the same as you.’

  Ethel gasped. It had never crossed her mind that a mill girl could aspire to anything other than a lowly position in the suffrage societies. But Annie Kenney had arrived with Christabel Pankhurst, so she must have some standing in the organisation.

  Perhaps, she thought, with Miss Fairweather’s help, she could emulate Annie Kenney’s success.

  * * *

  In a house overlooking Albert Square, Kirsty Campbell, drawn by the noise, pressed her forehead to the window glass and watched the crowds congregating. It wasn’t the first time she had watched rallies and public meetings from her aunt’s window, but this one appeared different because pockets of women were gathering as well as the usual men. Unable to see faces from her viewpoint above them, Kirsty studied the hats of the people gathered in the square. Ladies’ bonnets of all shapes and sizes mingled with the headscarves of mill girls. Homburg hats, like the ones her father wore, prevailed among the men, although she spotted a few panama hats and a lot of bowlers. Men wearing flat caps – or bunnets, as they called them in Dundee – congregated closer to the cart. These would be the working men, interspersed with some layabouts whose main sport was to heckle the speaker.

  The High School of Dundee, with its impressive pillars, formed a backdrop to the gathering crowds, while the grandeur of the Albert Institute, off to the right, made the people congregating appear insignificant. At the centre of the square, positioned between these two imposing buildings, a cart had been rolled into place to act as a stage.

  Suddenly, the noise abated and a hush descended. The crowd surged and parted to form a path for a group of women approaching the cart. The tallest one, assisted by the others, clambered on to the makeshift stage and held out her hands to the crowd. She was greeted with a roar of approval. She waved her hands to quieten them and started to speak.

  Kirsty fidgeted, trying in vain to hear the speech.

  ‘Come away from the window, Kirsty.’ Her mother’s voice broke her concentration.

  Kirsty frowned. She wanted to ask if she could join the rally in the square but knew her mother would never agree. Frustration overwhelmed her. She gritted her teeth and clenched her fists – why should she have to ask permission? She was eighteen, soon to be nineteen; that was old enough to decide for herself. Her shoulders slumped. As long as she depended on her parents, she could never be free to lead her own life.

  Kirsty’s aunt, Bea Hunter, ignored the noise drifting up from the square below and concentrated on pouring tea from the silver teapot into the three cups on the table in front of her.

  ‘Sit down, Kirsty. Your tea is poured.’

  It sounded like a reprimand. Something an adult might say to a child. But Kirsty wasn’t a child. Heat surged through her body, up through her neck, flooding her face.

  ‘I’m going out,’ she said, clattering quickly out of the door and down the stairs before she could change her mind.

  Three women stood on the doorstep outside, craning their necks to get a better view of Christabel Pankhurst. They didn’t move when Kirsty left the building and she had to push past them. One woman muttered and glared at her, but Kirsty didn’t care. She was outside! She was free, even if it was only for a short time.

  Kirsty squeezed and wriggled through the crowd to get as near to the makeshift stage as she could. Her mother would have been horrified, but she pushed thoughts of her mother and Aunt Bea to the back of her mind. Being part of the crowd was exhilarating.

  The voice of the young woman standing on the cart soared above the city noises. It was filled with energy and vitality, enthusing the women around her and the audience she was addressing. These women were alive. So different from her own sterile existence. Their enthusiasm for the cause they promoted affected Kirsty, and she felt her spirits rising in a way they hadn’t done for several years.

  Enthralled by the speaker’s voice, Kirsty edged nearer the cart and craned her neck for a closer look.

>   ‘Do you think we’ll ever get the vote?’ The question came from the girl standing beside her.

  ‘It’s something I’ve never thought about.’

  ‘But you’re here.’

  ‘Yes, I was watching from the window.’ Kirsty pointed to where her aunt’s house bordered the square. ‘I felt compelled to come outside to listen.’

  The girl thrust a leaflet into Kirsty’s hand.

  ‘This’ll give you information on why women need to be able to vote.’

  Kirsty frowned. Members of parliament were a mystery to her and being able to vote for them seemed pointless. As if sensing her doubts, the girl continued to speak.

  ‘The vote’s important for us if we ever want to be independent and make our own decisions. If we continue the way we are, men will continue to decide how we live our lives and we’ll never gain freedom from their restrictions.’

  Impressed by the passion in the girl’s voice, Kirsty folded the leaflet and placed it in her pocket.

  ‘I’ll take it home and read it,’ she promised.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It stood forlorn and deserted in the middle of Albert Square. No longer a stage, but a cart that had seen better days. Ethel closed her eyes and saw, once again, Christabel Pankhurst standing on its flat surface to court the crowd with her vision of a world where women could vote for their parliamentary members. Her voice had wooed even the most disruptive amongst the audience; the spell broken now she was gone. No doubt, many of those she’d held spellbound might think differently by tomorrow and return to their original state of scepticism or opposition.

  ‘How does she do it?’ Ethel turned to Martha, who was gathering the leftover news-sheets. ‘I could have sworn the men would give her grief.’

  ‘Who? Christabel? She’s a talented speaker. Men like her because she’s young and doesn’t resemble the pictures they have in their mind of the old harridans you see on anti-suffrage posters. But she’s a Pankhurst, and she advocates more violence than I’m prepared to undertake.’