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Authors: Lucy Ribchester
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bull testicles for refreshment. She peered closely at the poster, still flapping against the railings. There were a few names on it: ‘Eloise, the two-headed chan-teuse’,
‘Jojo the wolf-man’, ‘The Black Diamond’. And there was the other woman tucked behind a pair of conjoined twins, ‘Salome Snake dancer, Princess of Egypt’.
Frankie stared for a second, then turned her nose up. That well-spoken girl with her hair all piled up in a Paul Poiret turban had never set a foot near Egypt, she would bet all the riches in
Mayfair on it. She began to skulk back towards the main street and was almost there when a child ran up to her, blocking her path. ‘Tuppence for a Lady Thorne doll.’ From behind his
back he thrust out a hand, full of half-inflated balloons with eyes and mouths sketched on in feathery traces. ‘Look,’ he put on a hoity-toity voice, ‘“This way to the pit
of hell!” Look at her faint in the face of the demons.’ He let the air out of the balloon and it farted to a flop.
‘Enterprising bag of little shits, aren’t you?’ She prised the boy out of the way and disappeared off down Greek Street, heading back on foot towards Clerkenwell.
Eight
Primrose was helping two junior constables book in a couple of suffragettes when his Chief appeared, brandishing a telegram. Bow Street Police Station raged with the noise of
furious women and hoarse constables. Behind the front throng, queues of prisoners were lining up waiting to be registered; conversations were breaking out between bored policemen and the
well-dressed ladies attached to them by the wrist.
Chief Inspector Stuttlegate was Primrose’s immediate superior in the suffragette branch, and had been in the role as long as the unit existed. At five foot seven he was just under the
regulation height for new recruits. Common folklore had it that his wits had got him through the training rather than his brawn, but those who knew him suspected ‘wits’ was a generous
word for brass neck. He had a pointy nose like a sniffer dog and wiry ginger hair twisting from his head in separate threads. He pulled Primrose’s elbow.
‘This,’ he held out a crumpled piece of paper, ‘just came in from Dover.’ There was a shifting of attention among the officers behind the desk. One of the constables
turned his head. ‘Did I ask you to join this conversation? Look there’s a woman there wants booking, get on with it, fingerprints.’
The woman standing before the counter fixed the Chief with a stubborn look. ‘I shan’t give fingerprints.’
‘You’ll bloody do as you’re told or it’ll be third division and no porridge.’
‘I’m not obliged to give fingerprints unless I’m convicted of a crime. We may be women, but we’re not stupid.’
The Chief’s face coloured from the neck up. ‘Now you listen to me!’
Primrose pointed to the telegram. ‘What does it say, Chief?’
Stuttlegate released his fix on the woman and gestured to Primrose to move further down the bench. ‘Out of that bitch’s hearing.’
‘What’s happened?’
He sighed tersely. ‘She’s only gone and been here, under our bloody noses, cavorting like a sparrow, probably there tonight with this lot.’
‘Who?’
‘Who do you think, the cat’s mother? Wake up, Primrose. Christabel Pankhurst.’
Primrose, in his weary state, smarted from the admonishment. His gaze drifted to the clock on the wall. He was bleary-eyed and it took a moment to focus on the time. A headache had begun brewing
behind one of his eyes.
‘She was spotted on the Paddington train, transferring to the ferry to Calais.’ He rapped his fist on the bench. ‘If they’d been a second sooner we’d have had
her.’ He gritted his teeth but didn’t sound convinced by his words.
‘She was here tonight?’
‘Yes tonight, Freddie. Suffragette leader, the one in hiding, here. Tonight. Do you have somewhere you need to be? You keep looking at that clock.’
Primrose
‘Jojo the wolf-man’, ‘The Black Diamond’. And there was the other woman tucked behind a pair of conjoined twins, ‘Salome Snake dancer, Princess of Egypt’.
Frankie stared for a second, then turned her nose up. That well-spoken girl with her hair all piled up in a Paul Poiret turban had never set a foot near Egypt, she would bet all the riches in
Mayfair on it. She began to skulk back towards the main street and was almost there when a child ran up to her, blocking her path. ‘Tuppence for a Lady Thorne doll.’ From behind his
back he thrust out a hand, full of half-inflated balloons with eyes and mouths sketched on in feathery traces. ‘Look,’ he put on a hoity-toity voice, ‘“This way to the pit
of hell!” Look at her faint in the face of the demons.’ He let the air out of the balloon and it farted to a flop.
‘Enterprising bag of little shits, aren’t you?’ She prised the boy out of the way and disappeared off down Greek Street, heading back on foot towards Clerkenwell.
Eight
Primrose was helping two junior constables book in a couple of suffragettes when his Chief appeared, brandishing a telegram. Bow Street Police Station raged with the noise of
furious women and hoarse constables. Behind the front throng, queues of prisoners were lining up waiting to be registered; conversations were breaking out between bored policemen and the
well-dressed ladies attached to them by the wrist.
Chief Inspector Stuttlegate was Primrose’s immediate superior in the suffragette branch, and had been in the role as long as the unit existed. At five foot seven he was just under the
regulation height for new recruits. Common folklore had it that his wits had got him through the training rather than his brawn, but those who knew him suspected ‘wits’ was a generous
word for brass neck. He had a pointy nose like a sniffer dog and wiry ginger hair twisting from his head in separate threads. He pulled Primrose’s elbow.
‘This,’ he held out a crumpled piece of paper, ‘just came in from Dover.’ There was a shifting of attention among the officers behind the desk. One of the constables
turned his head. ‘Did I ask you to join this conversation? Look there’s a woman there wants booking, get on with it, fingerprints.’
The woman standing before the counter fixed the Chief with a stubborn look. ‘I shan’t give fingerprints.’
‘You’ll bloody do as you’re told or it’ll be third division and no porridge.’
‘I’m not obliged to give fingerprints unless I’m convicted of a crime. We may be women, but we’re not stupid.’
The Chief’s face coloured from the neck up. ‘Now you listen to me!’
Primrose pointed to the telegram. ‘What does it say, Chief?’
Stuttlegate released his fix on the woman and gestured to Primrose to move further down the bench. ‘Out of that bitch’s hearing.’
‘What’s happened?’
He sighed tersely. ‘She’s only gone and been here, under our bloody noses, cavorting like a sparrow, probably there tonight with this lot.’
‘Who?’
‘Who do you think, the cat’s mother? Wake up, Primrose. Christabel Pankhurst.’
Primrose, in his weary state, smarted from the admonishment. His gaze drifted to the clock on the wall. He was bleary-eyed and it took a moment to focus on the time. A headache had begun brewing
behind one of his eyes.
‘She was spotted on the Paddington train, transferring to the ferry to Calais.’ He rapped his fist on the bench. ‘If they’d been a second sooner we’d have had
her.’ He gritted his teeth but didn’t sound convinced by his words.
‘She was here tonight?’
‘Yes tonight, Freddie. Suffragette leader, the one in hiding, here. Tonight. Do you have somewhere you need to be? You keep looking at that clock.’
Primrose
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