A Fatal Freedom Read online

  Dedicated to

  Hannah Strong

  and in memeory of her parents,

  Jeanie and Michael Sayers

  Acknowledgements

  The battle for women’s suffrage had been joined long before Emmeline Pankhurst raised its level to militancy. An excellent history of the whole campaign and the ideas behind it is The Ascent of Woman by Melanie Phillips, published by Little, Brown in 2003. Concerning poison, two books I found most helpful were Poison and Poisoning by Celia Kellett, published by Accent Press Ltd in 2009, and The Poisoner’s Handbook by Deborah Blum, published by Penguin Books in 2011. Helena Rubinstein’s autobiography, My Life for Beauty, published by The Bodley Head, in 1965, inspired my creation of Maison Rose. And Larry Lamb’s story for the BBC’s series Who Do You Think You Are produced the setting for the book’s first chapter.

  I would like to thank Michael Thomas for reading and advising on the ms, my agent Jane Conway Gordon for her expert help and support, and the Mystery Press editors Matilda Richards and Emily Locke for their care and attention in the publication of this book. Finally many thanks to Shelley Bovey and Georgie Newbery, who have critiqued every stage of the writing of this book and without whom it would not have reached THE END. And to Peter Lovesey for his wonderful tag line. Any resemblance of the characters to actual persons, living or dead, can only be by coincidence, and all mistakes are mine.

  Contents

  Title

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  1903

  In the centre of London, just off the junction of busy Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street, was the jungle. A large carved screen carried images of wild animals: leaping lions, stalking ostriches, giraffes, monkeys, dancing bears, elephants. Ursula Grandison was captivated; surely no jungle could have contained all these animals? She remembered mountain lions back in the Sierra Nevada, where she’d lived in a mining camp. She’d heard one roar on a winter’s night, imagined it starving, seeking food, and had shivered in her makeshift bunk. Now she heard another lion’s roar, not coming through the silence of snow-covered mountains but rising over the crunch and clatter of traffic on a hot August afternoon in London.

  Along one side of an opening in this show-stopping screen Ursula saw the words Crystal Palace Menagerie, and along the other, Patronised by Nobility and Gentry. A white-faced clown banged a drum in front, calling in the Londoners who thronged around the fair.

  ‘Something, ain’t it?’ said Thomas Jackman. He slipped a thumb inside an armhole of his waistcoat and sounded as proud of the scene as if he owned all of it himself. ‘That’s what’s known as “the flash”.’ He waved an arm at the screen. ‘In the trade they say “It ain’t the show that brings the dough, it’s the flash what brings the cash.” That’s what’s attracting all these folk.’

  Ursula smiled at her stocky friend. When she had arrived in London, Jackman had been the only person she had contacted. A fresh start was what she needed, she told herself, after her tragic stay in the West Country. She had accepted his invitation for this afternoon with delight and met him at the fairground with real warmth.

  Now, though, she saw the way his sharp eyes surveyed the crowds that excitedly pushed towards the opening, paying their entrance fee to view the wild beasts within.

  ‘Thomas Jackman, you haven’t asked me along here as a treat, you are on a job!’

  He gave her a comradely grin. ‘I knew you were a fly one, Miss Grandison.’

  She swallowed what she told herself was unreasonable disappointment. ‘Come on, now; didn’t we agree we’d drop the formalities, that you’d call me Ursula and I’d call you Thomas? After all, I’m a Yankee, not one of your high-falutin’ society women.’

  ‘American you are, and maybe not a society woman, but you got style, Miss Grand–, Ursula.’ He stood a little back from her and appraised her cream cambric shirt with its small red buttons and brown linen skirt trimmed with a band of darker brown just up from its hem.

  ‘Don’t try and soft talk me, Thomas. How dare you invite me here on my afternoon off on false pretences.’

  ‘False pretences?’

  ‘You send me a note suggesting I might like to visit what you call “an amazing menagerie”. You do not tell me the famous detective is on a job and needs a respectable companion for cover.’

  He looked injured, ‘A suspicious mind, that’s what you got, Miss Ursula Grandison.’ Then he grinned at her again, ‘Didn’t I say you were a fly one? I should have known I couldn’t fool you for more than a minute. How did you catch on so quick?’

  Disappointment over, she felt an odd satisfaction that she had seen through his little ploy. When they had first met, it had taken her some time to feel comfortable with this sharp-minded ex-policeman. But he’d earned her respect and for a very short time they had formed something approaching a detection partnership. However, she had no wish to continue the professional association.

  ‘You should have paid more attention to your female companion and less to searching out your mark. Isn’t that what you call a person you are trying to follow?’

  ‘That’s what a conman calls his potential victim.’

  ‘Not so different, I think.’

  He gave a quick sigh and slipped his hand beneath her elbow. ‘Miss Grandison, Ursula, shall we proceed to view the menagerie?’ he said with exaggerated courtesy.

  ‘By all means, Mr Jackman, I shall be delighted. And at least I can assume that the entrance charge will be covered by your expenses.’

  As she and Jackman moved towards the gap in the beautifully decorated screen, Ursula could not help looking around to try and identify who it was that the detective was interested in.

  It was a varied crowd, all intent on seeing the wild beasts presented for their entertainment. It was too early in the afternoon for tradesmen and other workers; these were mainly wives and mothers with children. Like herself, they were dressed respectably but not in the height of fashion and from the middle to lower classes rather than the cream of society. Here and there were men as well, some accompanying women, others who looked as though they were idling away the afternoon. Ursula made sure her purse was securely fastened to her belt.

  Then she felt Jackman’s hold on her elbow tighten. She followed his gaze. A woman and a man were entering the menagerie ahead of them. They seemed rather more stylish than the other sightseers. What, she wondered, was her companion’s interest in them?

  Th
omas Jackman had once been a member of the elite detective division of the Metropolitan Police Force; now he acted in a private capacity, which could mean anything from finding a long-lost relative, through dealing with stolen goods by owners who did not want to involve the authorities, to solving a mysterious death, which had been his commission when they first met. From what Jackman had told her, however, Ursula gained the impression he was most often called upon to obtain evidence of an adulterous relationship.

  Once through the entrance, they found themselves in a huge tent supported by poles down its centre. The bright sunshine penetrated the canvas and clearly lit a variety of cages set around three sides. Lazy growls and grunts from bored animals mixed with excited comments from the visitors. Ursula’s nose twitched at the aroma of feral beasts, stained sawdust and the more familiar scent of human bodies overdressed on a hot day. By the sounds emanating from where the crowd was thickest, the most popular exhibits were lions.

  Jackman steered Ursula towards a less populated part of the tent. A young woman, a dark-haired girl wearing a floppy cream beret over a long plait, studied a somnolent hyena. Her burnt-orange linen jacket and skirt was creased in the manner of that material, giving the impression of someone who cared little about her appearance. Further along the cage stood the couple the detective seemed to be interested in.

  The woman looked to be in her late twenties and was stylishly dressed in a well-cut pale green suit trimmed with lace, her blonde hair carefully arranged beneath a graceful hat of fine straw trimmed with green flowers. Her hands, in cream kid gloves, clasped and unclasped themselves, the fingers writhing in a constant pattern of distress as the woman surveyed the trampled ground around them, her gaze moving everywhere except up at the man. He seemed to be pleading with her.

  He was tall, with a shock of dark red hair almost hidden by a large hat with a floppy brim. Ursula recognised the look, she had seen it in New York; he was a Bohemian, an artist perhaps. A loosely tailored jacket in brown and beige checks and rumpled light beige trousers reinforced this impression. She could only see a bit of his profile, a straight nose and well-shaped chin, but his shoulders looked broad as he leaned slightly forward, as though imploring the woman to look at him, to listen to his words.

  Jackman had positioned Ursula and himself before a wide gap in the three-sided arrangement of cages. Blank canvas hung over what could perhaps be an exit. Beside it was a low table covered with a cloth that reached to the ground. The cage they stood beside contained a couple of stately ostriches, their extravagantly feathered behinds looking dusty and bedraggled. Curiously small heads, held proudly above long necks, bore pop eyes that surveyed the scene with disinterest, then they bent to the floor and pecked at the straw in a desultory way.

  Ursula, though, was far more interested in the little scene being played out by the pair near the hyena. The man reached forward to take the woman’s restless hands. After the shortest of struggles, she allowed him to hold them, lying limply in his, his solid thumbs caressing their backs. All at once, the girl studying the somnolent animal glanced sharply in her and Jackman’s direction and Ursula transferred her attention to the birds.

  Where, she wondered idly, did ostriches come from? Africa? She turned to ask Jackman, but he’d moved to the table. From beneath its cloth, he fished out a Box Brownie camera. None of the happy crowds in the tent noticed, they all had their backs to him and were far too interested in the wild beasts.

  He seemed to be preparing to take a photograph of the couple. Ursula looked back at them, wondering if there was enough light for a successful photograph; the sunlight was bright but filtered through canvas.

  The woman at last turned her gaze up to the man and Ursula was struck by the beauty of her eyes. They were deep violet and had a rare radiance. She said something; her whole face lit up with joy and her hands moved to clasp the man’s tightly.

  Jackman moved stealthily to his right, trying to position the camera so he could achieve the shot he needed. Before he was ready, though, the girl with the plait abandoned the hyena, raced towards the detective and barged into him. He dropped the camera. The girl somehow scrambled up on to the table, put her fingers in her mouth and produced a stunningly loud whistle.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she shouted. ‘Your attention, please!’ People turned to stare. ‘Look at these poor animals, living their lives in cages, don’t you long to free them? Such a noble word, freedom. But it isn’t only animals who need it.’

  Ursula could not help admiring the spirit of the girl. The burnt orange outfit commanded attention, tendrils of dark hair beneath the beret had escaped the plait and softened her appearance. She had a full mouth, high cheekbones and fiery eyes that were ablaze with conviction.

  People started moving towards her. Their mood hovered between interest and condemnation. ‘Well, I never!’ ‘Extraordinary!’ ‘Who does she think she is?’ and ‘Is this part of the entertainment?’

  Thomas Jackman was cursing. He had no chance now of catching his subjects on film. Indeed, they seemed to have disappeared from the menagerie.

  ‘Freedom, ladies and gentlemen,’ the girl continued, her voice gaining intensity. ‘Freedom for us women – that is what we need. Join me now. Call Votes for Women!’

  She was shouted down. ‘Disgraceful!’, ‘Shouldn’t be allowed’ and ‘Come away, dear’ could be heard on all sides.

  Two burly men in well-worn suits appeared, obviously part of the menagerie, and headed for the table.

  Ursula hated the idea of this spirited girl being apprehended. No point in trying to stop the men. What she needed was a way of shouting ‘fire’ without actually using a torch. Looking around, she found her gaze fixed on the lock of the ostrich cage. A padlock that should have been fastened hung open in the door’s metal loops. With her back to the bars, working blind, Ursula dislodged and dropped the padlock on the ground, then gently opened the door. Making a cheeping sound such as might attract chickens, she moved towards where the girl was now struggling in the grip of the two men.

  It took no more than a few moments before a scream arose above the tent’s disjointed noise. ‘Those birds – they’re out!’

  Ursula looked behind her. The ostriches were now stalking across the floor of the tent, their curious heads turning this way and that, the feathered behinds moving with the grace of a music hall dancer, their long, long legs taking them towards some parakeets. A young girl held out a hand as though she wanted to stroke one of them.

  ‘Get away from those birds, they’re vicious,’ called someone.

  People moved hurriedly out of their way.

  The two burly men abandoned the girl and hustled after the birds. Jackman tried to catch her but, moving with the speed and slipperiness of an eel, she eluded him, as well as some half-hearted attempts by others to detain her, and ran out of the main entrance. Jackman looked frustrated and furious.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Ursula.

  ‘Damnation knows! Begging your pardon, Miss Grandison. But that’s the very end of enough.’ Holding his camera, Jackman looked around the tent hopelessly. ‘They’ve gone. She was in cahoots with them, no doubt about that.’

  Down at the other end of the tent the ostriches had been rounded up. The sightseers drifted back to look at the lions, the bears and the monkeys, all interest lost in the girl and her message, if, indeed, it had been a message.

  ‘But who were that couple? Why were you trying to photograph them? And how did you manage to hide your camera underneath that table?’

  A man hurried up. Surely, thought Ursula, he had to be the proprietor of the menagerie. His costume was magnificent, Mexican bandit crossed with Spanish grandee; black hair was slicked down, thin moustache twirled up either side of his face, dark eyes flashing with anger. ‘Tom,’ he boomed. ‘You swore to me there would be no disruption; instead you cause uproar. The animals will take hours of calming.’

  Ursula looked around. The occupants of the cages hadn’t seemed to pay
much attention to any of the disruption, but perhaps the smaller ones did seem a little more lively than before. Certainly the hyena seemed to have woken up. At that moment two lions let off mighty roars; those standing in front of their cages fell back.

  ‘You see? Now I shall have to delay my show. I’m not putting my head into one of their mouths when they’re in that state.’

  Jackman placed a hand on the man’s arm. ‘Pa, I apologise. I had no idea that girl would pull such a stunt. Don’t know who she is, where she came from. Did someone catch her?’

  The splendid showman shook his head. ‘Gone – the men were too busy catching the birds, no one was on the door. And that’s another thing, how in heaven’s name did that cage get opened?’ He strode over to where the ostriches were being persuaded to re-enter their home, picked up the open padlock and waved it at the assistants. ‘When I find who was responsible for this, he will wish he’d never been born.’

  ‘Warn’t us,’ both assistants said. ‘Dunno how those varmints could’ve opened the door,’ said one.

  ‘Been some little kid, I bet,’ said the other. ‘Thought it was fun to have us chase them all round the place.’

  ‘I’ll have ’is guts for garters, whoever it was.’ Pa inserted the padlock into its loops. ‘Wicked bite those birds got; ostriches can kill. Bert, find the key and make sure the cage is properly locked this time.’

  Ursula could not help feeling guilty. The padlock had not been her fault, but the birds could not have opened the door themselves. If she had known ostriches could be so dangerous, she wouldn’t have encouraged them. But to confess would cause even more trouble for Jackman.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ the investigator said. ‘I’m sorry about the fuss, Pa. There’s some money for your men, thanks for your help.’

  * * *

  Some fifteen minutes later Ursula and Jackman entered Regent’s Park.

  ‘Take a pew,’ said Jackman, waving at a bench.

  Ursula was happy to accept the invitation. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘I think it’s time you told me what all that was about.’