A Fatal Freedom (20 page)

Mrs Bruton murmured something incomprehensible.

Ursula, thinking that this did not sound an unreasonable request, handed over the file saying, ‘I believe you require this, sir.’

‘Ah, yes. Let us see how my step-mama,’ said in a voice that made little attempt to disguise dislike, ‘has been guarding my inheritance.’ He opened the file and Ursula felt waves of nervousness emanate from Mrs Bruton as she adjusted the set of her collar.

The cold brown eyes looked up at Ursula. ‘You may go.’

Ursula gave a nod of acknowledgement and left the room.

‘She is such a support to me,’ she heard Mrs Bruton say, followed by Mr Bruton’s toneless voice, saying, ‘Is she. All Americans are impertinent and have to be kept in their place.’

Quietly seething, Ursula returned to the study. A little while later she was required to produce the household accounts.

Mrs Bruton’s stepson left shortly after three o’clock. Two quick buzzes summoned Ursula to the drawing room.

Her employer had unbuttoned her jacket and sat in an exhausted slump, fanning her face with a woman’s periodical. She waved Ursula to a chair.

‘That man! Even dear Edward found him soulless. He told me once he admired Arthur’s rectitude but could not love him. I think when Arthur’s mama died, she took with her his ability to feel human kindness. How his poor wife could bring herself to marry such a frozen specimen of humanity, I cannot conceive.’

‘Did he question you very closely, Madam?’

A gleam of satisfaction lit Mrs Bruton’s face and she straightened her back. ‘He grew tired of my flutterings, my inconsequentialities, accused me of a mind like a magpie’s nest!’

Ursula was surprised the man could produce such an almost poetic image.

‘He has never forgiven his father for marrying me and postponing his inheritance.’

‘The property portfolio is still on my desk.’

Mrs Bruton smiled delightedly. ‘He is so contemptuous of me, he assumed I was frittering away the Trust’s income on fripperies, as he called them. Now, ring the bell and let us have some tea. I am glad you have brought your notebook, we must write some letters about various of the properties.’

* * *

At the end of the day Ursula emerged from the basement steps to find Rachel waiting for her.

‘I need to be doing something,’ the girl said abruptly. ‘I can’t just sit around waiting for your Mr Jackman to produce results.’

Ursula gave her a small smile. She wanted to repudiate the suggestion that Thomas Jackman was ‘hers’, but such a move would be ridiculous. ‘He has not been in contact with you, then?’

Rachel gave an angry shake of her head. ‘And Aunt accused me of hiring a mountebank and claimed he had upset the entire household.’

It sounded very unlike what Ursula knew of Jackman. ‘You did not go with him to the Peters’ house?’

‘I thought as Alice’s sister it was my right but, no, I wasn’t allowed.’ Frustration snapped in her voice. ‘She should trust me to know what to do, I’m not a juvenile.’

‘I am sure Mr Jackman will be reporting to you.’

‘I can’t sit around waiting and the Movement needs action.’ Rachel tugged at a holder that hung from her shoulder and produced one of a large number of leaflets. ‘I’m going to hand these out and thought you might like to help.’ Rachel sounded fired up.

The leaflet had a large headline:
Votes for Women
, and underneath a smaller one:
No Taxation Without Representation
.

‘I’m surprised these weren’t being handed around at Mrs Bruton’s tea party,’ Ursula said as she quickly scanned the trenchant phrases which put forward the case for women’s suffrage.

‘I’ve just had them printed. We need to be more militant. It’s what Mrs Pankhurst is saying. She’s going to organise a proper association in Manchester, the Women’s Social and Political Union. And she’s going to get action going, militant action. Well, are you coming?’

Ursula had nothing better to do, no one to share her evenings with. She had tried to ignore the gap Alice had left when she returned to her husband but she couldn’t help missing their times together.

‘Where are we to hand out your leaflets?’ she asked as they walked briskly towards the main road.

‘Harrods. Good class of shoppers there; if they aren’t aware of the cause, they should be. It’s not far, just along Knightsbridge.’

Ursula was used to walking everywhere. She liked getting to know the various parts of London that could so dramatically change their identity, from the elegance of Knightsbridge and Mayfair to the busy bustle of Soho and Charing Cross, to the ancient charm of Fleet Street and the City of London. Everywhere the life of London pulsed around her: sober businessmen, fashionable women stepping out of carriages and cabs, not-so-fashionable women walking and using the public transport, street traders touting for business, urchins desperate for any task that would earn them a penny or two.

‘Have you been able to visit your sister?’ Ursula matched Rachel’s brisk strides as they reached the main Knightsbridge road.

Rachel’s look of concentration wavered. ‘This morning. After I failed to convince Aunt I should take Mr Jackman to Montagu Place.’ She came to a sudden stop, causing a muffin man to ring his bell as he almost knocked her down. She faced Ursula. ‘Alice says she deserves to be in prison. That if she hadn’t left Joshua, he would still be alive. How can she say that?’

‘Does she say why she thinks that?’ There could be one very obvious reason but Ursula couldn’t bring herself to believe it.

Rachel shook her head and resumed walking. ‘But I think she fears Daniel killed him.’

‘Do you think that?’

Ursula expected a vigorous denial. Instead, Rachel gave a hopeless shrug. ‘Someone must have – and I know it wasn’t Alice.’

‘But Daniel is your friend, don’t you have some idea as to whether he could do such a dreadful act?’

For a few moments Rachel was silent as they made their way through busy shoppers. ‘Daniel has Irish blood, he swears he will join with the militants over there, fight for their independence. They stop at nothing, bombing, raids, whatever will advance the cause. Maybe he saw getting rid of Joshua Peters as clearing the way for Alice and he to live together?’

‘And that’s what you hope Mr Jackman will prove?’

Rachel’s face tightened. ‘I hate to think that Daniel could have been driven to such an act. But Alice has to be got out of prison.’

A moment or two later they reached Harrods, the elegant red-brick emporium stretching a whole block, its graceful windows marching down Knightsbridge. Ursula thought that compared with the New York stores their displays were not at all stylish, merely pedestrian arrangements of goods available inside.

There was an entrance to the store in a side road. ‘We’ll stand here, catch customers as they go in and out,’ said Rachel, handing Ursula a batch of leaflets.

‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ A smartly dressed doorman advanced on them. ‘Move off or I’ll have you for obstructing the pavement.’

‘Then we’ll stand in the road.’ Rachel stepped off the sidewalk, and was nearly knocked down by a motor vehicle urgently sounding its horn. Leaflets fluttered through the air and littered the road. People shouted, either in warning or exasperation at such stupidity. The doorman caught her by the arm. ‘Go on, get off with you or I’ll summon the law.’

‘I’ve done nothing illegal.’

‘That’s as maybe but you’ll leave here now. Can’t have innocent shoppers disturbed by your like. Or littering the highway.’

He was a big man and appeared to believe he was in the right.

‘There must be a more suitable place for leaflet handing out,’ Ursula suggested. No one seemed interested in the one she was offering.

‘Now you got the right idea.’ He loomed over them with his height, broad shoulders and expensive uniform.

‘Rachel, we won’t get anywhere by causing trouble.’

‘I’m beginning to think it’s the only way we can get anywhere.’ But Rachel marched across the momentarily clear road. Ursula wondered if she’d even looked.

‘Do you know where we’re going now?’ she asked as the girl retraced their steps towards Hyde Park Corner with its lethal traffic fighting its way round the complicated junction.

‘I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.’ Rachel straightened the beret that had slipped to the side of her head.

‘Think of where?’ Ursula had to quicken her steps to keep up.

‘Shepherd’s Market.’

The market was just off Piccadilly, a jumble of narrow streets and small shops selling a vast variety of comestibles and other goods. Ursula looked at displays of fresh fruit and vegetables on open stalls. Away from the frantic traffic snarls of the main streets, she could almost imagine they were in a small market town.

Rachel immediately started handing out her leaflets. Some were taken automatically, Ursula hoped at least one or two would be read before being discarded, more were refused or immediately dropped in the road. ‘Votes for Women,’ she called out persuasively, moving over to the other side of the narrow road.

It seemed a hopeless activity until a couple of well-dressed women actually took one each and wished them well in the campaign. Maybe they were doing some good.

Then her attention was caught by a couple of men emerging from a quaint-looking public house. One, sporting a natty striped waistcoat, seemed to be pulling at the arm of a tall, distinguished gentleman in a top hat and suit of impeccable cut. With a jolt of surprise, Ursula recognised the count. As she watched, he freed his arm and, turning a glacial face on the other man, said a few words that seemed to her to have much the cutting effect of the Harrods doorman.

Rachel was suddenly at her side. ‘That’s Albert!’ she exclaimed. ‘What can he be doing here?’

Thomas Jackman was shown out of the front door by Mrs Trenchard.

‘You will investigate the activities of Mr Peters outside his home.’ Her tone allowed no argument. ‘And you will report on your findings to me. You will not enter this house again without prior permission. Should you do so, your commission will be withdrawn. Do you understand?’

Thomas replaced his bowler and tipped it to her. ‘Perfectly. I shall do my best, Madam.’

He walked quickly away from the house. Once out of sight, he stopped and considered his position. Mrs Trenchard had been more than angry, she had been frightened. From what he had seen of her, Jackman rated the woman as intelligent, certainly educated. Surely she must realise how important it was he eliminated the Peters’ servants from his enquiry? Or had he, in his examination of the maid Sarah, come too close to uncovering something Mrs Trenchard would prefer was left alone?

He had to talk to Millie Rudge. The ‘Joe Banks’ business had to be cleared up. He felt in his pocket and brought out a realistic-looking moustache carefully packed in tissue paper. In a small envelope was a tube of glue such as was used by actors. Could she be persuaded that Joe, with his moustache and centre hair parting, was a different person from Thomas Jackman?

He scribbled a message on a page of his notebook, tore it out, then walked back to the house, took the stairs to the basement entrance and listened for a few moments. He could hear the cook shouting at someone. It was hardly likely to be Mrs Trenchard; either she was upstairs or had left. Thomas slipped his bowler to the back of his head and knocked on the door.

It was answered by young Sam. Thomas handed over the folded page, Millie’s name on the front. ‘Can you see Miss Rudge gets this?’ With the note went a sixpence.

The boy’s face lit up. ‘You bet, mister.’

‘I’ll be waiting outside.’

‘I’ll tell ’er.’

As Thomas reached the pavement, he heard the front door open and quickly slipped down several steps. Sure enough, it was Mrs Trenchard who emerged and set off down the street without so much as a glance to right or left.

Thomas leant against the railings. The sun shone with a gentle warmth that warned summer’s heat was giving way to autumnal chill. For the moment, though, the temperature was pleasant enough. While he waited, Thomas reviewed what he had gained from the one interview he’d been allowed to conduct. It was little enough but there were a couple of points that might guide his investigation. Then, as time went by, he wondered if Millie was going to ignore his note, make him suffer? He thought it more likely that her inquisitive nature would bring her to meet him. But she would no doubt need to give her appearance a certain amount of attention.

It was a good half hour before the girl eventually emerged. Then it was through the front door, her head held high, her long blonde hair worn in a complicated arrangement more suited to a lady than her maid, and wearing a pretty silk dress with a neat cape round her shoulders. She stood on the top step and looked around, her expression haughty.

Thomas stepped forward. ‘Well, Miss Rudge, don’t you look a picture!’

For a moment she preened, then gave him a look full of suspicion. ‘Joe Banks, you’ve grown a moustache again. And combed your hair. What are you doing, pretending to be I don’t know what?’

He offered her his arm. ‘Shall we walk?’

‘You needn’t try to fool me. You got some explaining to do.’

‘You’re too bright for me to fool you.’

She placed her hand on his arm. He smiled at her, gave the hand a little pat. ‘Shall we go to the park?’

He started walking. With a sniff and a little toss of her head, she kept pace with him.

For several minutes Thomas said nothing. At first he could sense her stealing little sideways looks at him, then tension began to rise in her. As they stood waiting to cross the main road, her elegantly shod foot tapped the pavement. They negotiated the busy traffic and Millie’s breath quickened, like steam rising in a kettle. The moment they entered Regent’s Park, she stopped. With her hands on her hips she faced him.

Thomas expected anger but her wide eyes looked full of hurt, and seemed as innocent and clear as a child’s. For a moment guilt filled him. What right had he to deceive and manipulate this young woman? He took off his bowler hat and ruffled the centre parting of his hair. Dropping the cockney accent, he said, ‘Millie, you’re right, I haven’t acted like a gentleman.’