Murder in Trafalgar Square: A Fairbanks and Flynn Mystery, page 1
MURDER IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE
A FAIRBANKS AND FLYNN MYSTERY
MICHELLE SALTER
CONTENTS
Character List
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Author’s note
Thank you!
More From Michelle Salter
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Michelle Salter
Poison & Pens
About Boldwood Books
CHARACTER LIST
The Suffragettes
Mrs Coral Fairbanks – 36, receptionist at the Stanmore Gallery, actress, artist’s model, widow.
Countess Minerva Stanmore – 50, owner of the Stanmore Gallery of Fine Art. Partner of Harriet Walker.
Miss Harriet Walker – 38, business partner and girlfriend of Countess Stanmore.
Miss Lavender Lacey – 27, actress, singer, lodges with Coral at 5 Adelphi Terrace.
Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst – 52, founder of the Women’s Social and Political Union (WSPU). Members known as the suffragettes.
Miss Christabel Pankhurst – 30, co-founder of the WSPU, daughter of Emmeline Pankhurst.
Miss Penelope Bright – 30, daughter of mill workers, moved from Manchester to London to work for the WSPU.
Miss Irene Grayson – 21, artist, estranged from prominent London family, lives in basement flat in Camden.
Miss Marian Dean – 20, daughter of a mill owner, moved from family home in Bradford to live with her grandmother in London.
The Police
Detective Inspector Guy Flynn – 40, artist, widower. Has a sixteen-year-old daughter, Teresa.
Detective Sergeant Evan Goodspeed – 30, Flynn’s sergeant, boxer with legendary right hook.
Detective Constable Jack Hall – 26, constable to Flynn and Goodspeed at Scotland Yard.
Chief Superintendent Ballantyne-Smythe (Bally) – 53, Flynn’s commanding officer at Scotland Yard.
The Politicians
Mr Herbert Asquith – 58, Prime Minister.
Mr Winston Churchill – 36, Home Secretary.
Mr David Lloyd George – 47, Chancellor of the Exchequer.
Lord Ronald Carstairs – 50, Secretary of State for the Colonies, married to Lady Violet Carstairs.
Mr Nathan Jennings – 35, Member of Parliament.
Mr Charles Dean – 25, Private Secretary to Nathan Jennings, MP.
The Press
Sidney Watson – 41, reporter for the Daily Mirror.
Luke Chaplin – 28, photographer for the Daily Mirror.
1
FRIDAY 18TH NOVEMBER 1910
‘Coral, run!’ Marian screamed.
Coral ran. But not far. She found herself lifted off her feet. Dangling in the air, she desperately tried to jerk her elbow into the ribs of the policeman who’d caught hold of her.
She saw another policeman throw Marian into a group of jeering male bystanders. The young woman’s hat was trampled on the ground, and her blonde hair had come unpinned and was falling around her shoulders.
Coral struggled to get free, her flailing hand smacking the face of the officer who clasped her by the waist. His jaw tightened, and he began to drag her towards the line of police carriages.
‘Coral!’ Marian called again as one of the men took her by the hand and tried to pull her away from the crowds. She was shouting, but her words were drowned out by the sounds of women screaming, horses whinnying, and the clatter of their hooves on the paving. All around was chaos.
Coral couldn’t understand what was happening. The suffragettes were used to being heckled by onlookers who’d come along to marches and rallies to enjoy the spectacle. While some supported a woman’s right to vote, most were indifferent to the cause. Coral would generally exchange friendly banter with them, no matter what their views.
Today, the mood had been different from the outset.
The procession, led by Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst of the Women’s Social and Political Union; Dr Elizabeth Garrett Anderson, the first woman in Britain to qualify as a physician and surgeon; and Princess Sophia Duleep Singh, the Indian goddaughter of Queen Victoria, had started peacefully enough from nearby Caxton Hall.
Three hundred women had arrived at the Houses of Parliament just after one o’clock, carrying banners in the suffragette colours of green, white and purple. Four hours later, their banners were as tattered as their dresses. They’d walked into a full-scale attack, and Parliament Square had turned into a battlefield.
Mrs Pankhurst was still attempting to deliver a petition to the prime minister via the St Stephen’s entrance to parliament, despite being repeatedly forced back. Coral saw Dr Garrett Anderson swing her handbag into the midriff of the policeman who had hold of Mrs Pankhurst, showing surprising strength for a woman of seventy-four. It was enough for the officer who was dragging Coral to release his grip and rush over to help his fallen colleague.
‘Let her go,’ Coral yelled, running towards the group who were trying to pull Marian away through a gap in the crowd.
But what had started as a light drizzle had grown heavier, and the paving was slick with rain. Coral’s feet went from under her, and she landed on her backside, provoking shouts of laughter from onlookers.
Winded, she was grateful for the thickness of her long skirts and petticoats for cushioning the fall a little. With ragged breaths, she tried to push herself up, wary of her hands being crushed underfoot, or hoof. An earthy smell warned her of the potential danger of running into one of the steaming piles of horse dung that now decorated Parliament Square.
Coral managed to scramble towards Marian but was stopped by a man, who deliberately held out his hands and placed them on her breasts. She staggered backwards, repulsed by his touch.
‘Your husband’s a lucky fella. He shouldn’t let you out with tits like that.’
Fury rising, Coral wanted to punch the smirk from his thin lips. To her surprise, a large fist loomed into view and did it for her.
She turned to see the familiar and welcome face of Daily Mirror reporter, Sid Watson. Beside him was Luke Chaplin, a tall, skinny lad rarely seen without his camera, who was happy to accompany Sid into whatever trouble they could find. Luke appeared to be in a world of his own as he photographed the violent scenes surrounding him, shielded from attack by Sid’s bulky frame.
‘Coral,’ Sid yelled. ‘Get out of here.’
She did as she was told and ran back towards Parliament Square, looking for Marian, but bowled straight into the arms of a young police constable.
Instead of struggling, she turned to him. ‘Why are you doing this?’
He blinked at her, seeming dazed by what was unfolding. ‘Orders. I don’t have a choice.’
‘You always have a choice,’ she replied. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong. Nor have any of these women.’
He nodded slowly, his frightened eyes taking in the mayhem all around them.
‘I know,’ he whispered and loosened his hold.
Coral didn’t hesitate. She sprinted away, seeing Marian being dragged by three young men past the bronze statue of Benjamin Disraeli and into a side road. She pushed through the throngs of people, pulling away from outstretched hands trying to grab at her.
Seeing a discarded bamboo pole that had long since lost its pennant, she picked it up and ran across to Little George Street, where she’d seen the men taking Marian.
When she reached them, a young man was attempting to rip open Marian’s blouse while another was lifting her skirt.
Coral took a deep breath and charged at them with the pole. ‘Let her go. Or I’ll batter each one of you to within an inch of your life.’ Even if they did release Marian, she was tempted to thrash them anyway.
The men hesitated, seeming unsure whether to take the threat seriously. Coral drew close enough to smell their sweat, then swung the pole inches from the head of one. The look on her face must have convinced them she wasn’t bluffing as they exchanged panicked glances before darting off in the opposite direction.
Coral lowered the pole and grabbed Marian by the hand, urging her to run. She led her out of Little George Street, and they sprinted down Victoria Street and Caxton Street until they were safely inside Caxton Hall.
The room where the suffragettes had gathered that morning now resembled a field hospital. Doctors and nurses were dealing with black ey
A nurse took one look at Marian’s ripped blouse and bleeding face and led her to an area that had been screened from view by a blanket hanging from string tied between two busts.
Someone handed Coral a cup of tea, and she flopped onto one of the wooden benches that lined the hall. A short time later, Sid appeared and sank down next to her, breathing heavily.
‘It’s calming down out there now,’ he panted, gesturing for Luke to ask one of the wounded women if he could photograph her.
Coral had first met Sid at the start of his career when he was writing theatre reviews, and she was an up-and-coming actress. Fifteen years later, he was the Daily Mirror’s top reporter – famous on Fleet Street for throwing his hefty frame into the midst of any hostile situation and walking out unscathed. Today’s events were bread and butter to him.
In recent years, he’d commandeered Luke Chaplin as his dedicated photographer, and the pair were well known on Fleet Street, as much for their contrasting body shapes as for their fearless approach.
‘I don’t understand.’ Coral’s heart was still racing. ‘How could they do that? It was supposed to be a peaceful protest. Those policemen – how could they act like that?’
‘Because they were ordered to,’ Sid growled.
‘Ordered to? By whom?’
Sid moved closer and said in an undertone. ‘The home secretary.’
‘Winston Churchill?’ Coral whispered. ‘That can’t be true.’
‘It’s what I’ve heard. Some of those police officers were from Whitechapel. They’re not used to dealing with suffragette protests but were drafted in on purpose. With orders to use their fists.’
‘There were so many of them. And it wasn’t just the police. The men in the crowd, the bystanders, they joined in.’
‘Some were plain-clothes police officers. I recognised a few faces. They were there to stir up trouble; try to incite the rabble-rousers to get rough.’
‘The police kept throwing us into the mob. Marian was nearly…’ Coral trailed off. ‘They grabbed our breasts, lifted our skirts.’
‘I know. Luke’s got pictures, though I’m not sure our editor will print them.’ Even Sid, who’d witnessed every type of violence London’s backstreets had to offer, seemed staggered by the Metropolitan Police’s response.
‘I don’t understand why the government would do this. It’s madness.’ Coral’s hands shook as she lifted the mug of tea to her lips.
‘To scare you. Churchill was afraid of the suffragettes’ reaction to the prime minister scrapping the Conciliation Bill.’
Earlier that year, Prime Minister Herbert Asquith had pledged to introduce a bill that would give around a million women, mostly wealthy property owners, the right to vote. It was hardly adequate, yet it had been enough for Mrs Pankhurst to suspend militant action. But she’d been betrayed.
Despite Members of Parliament backing the bill, the prime minister had reneged on his promises and dissolved parliament before it could be passed into law.
‘Churchill knew you’d march on Westminster. And he knows Mrs Pankhurst will give orders to resume militant action. It was his idea to get in first – kick you hard enough to give you second thoughts about retaliating.’
‘Then he’s a fool.’ Coral’s eyes travelled around the hall, seeing the camaraderie of the injured women. ‘This will escalate into war.’
2
‘One hundred and fifteen women arrested. Only four men,’ Marian whispered.
‘One of those was Hugh Franklin.’ Coral shifted her weight, feeling damp rising from the ground and into her aching bones. Hugh was a ‘suffragent’, one of a growing number of men who supported their cause. ‘And they only arrested him for obstruction because he was trying to shield some of the women from attack.’
She shivered as a drop of water fell from the leaves above and trickled down her neck. The sycamore tree didn’t offer much protection from the rain, but it allowed them to spy on the nearby clubhouse without being seen. As nearly half an hour had passed since the last light had gone out, Coral decided it was safe to get to work.
‘May Billinghurst got thrown out of her wheelchair.’ Marian picked up her metal stake and began to drag it towards the polo field. Wearily, Coral grabbed her own stake and trailed after her.
In the week since Black Friday, as it had been dubbed by the press, talk had been of little else but the atrocities of that day. Stories circulated of indecent assaults by the police and bystanders – of skirts being ripped apart and pieces of fabric distributed amongst the crowd as some kind of trophy.
The following morning, the front page of the Daily Mirror had shown a photograph of fifty-year-old Ada Wright, sprawled face down on the pavement outside the Houses of Parliament, surrounded by the men who’d beaten her to the ground. The headline shouted: 119 arrested after violent scenes at Westminster.
Yet the charges against all those arrested were dropped the following day on home secretary Winston Churchill’s orders. The government was playing a strange game.
Whatever that game was, it had led to a surge of civil disobedience by the suffragettes, involving protests that were becoming more deadly by the day. Coral drew the line at doing anything that might hurt someone, but she wasn’t above leaving her mark on the grounds of the Hurlingham Club in an act of petty vandalism. Churchill loved to play polo, and the country club was a favourite of his and other Liberal MPs, including the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Lloyd George, and Secretary of State for the Colonies, Lord Carstairs. Of course, the club excluded ladies from becoming members or setting foot in the gentlemen-only clubhouse.
‘This is a bloody big space just to knock a small ball around.’ Coral had never visited this part of Fulham before and was amazed at the size of the private sports fields. She was beginning to wonder just how much damage they could do to such a vast expanse of green. It seemed sensible to concentrate on a section of the grounds that could be seen from the windows of the clubhouse.
‘Have you never been to a polo match?’ Marian panted as she dragged her metal stake through the neatly mown grass. She came from a well-off family in Yorkshire and was more accustomed to attending society events than Coral. ‘It’s an exciting game.’
‘I have no desire to watch grown men riding around on horses trying to hit a small ball with a big hammer,’ Coral retorted, digging her metal stake into the earth.
‘They’re called mallets.’ Marian paused. ‘What are you doing? I thought we were supposed to write Deeds Not Words, so they know it’s us?’
Coral laughed. ‘They’ll know it’s us.’
As it was ten o’clock on a cold November night, and she was reliant on the light of a small electric torch, she’d opted to carve the more succinct BALLS in five-foot-high letters into the hallowed turf of the Hurlingham Club.
Despite the cold wind, she was sweating by the time she completed the last curve of the letter S with a drag of sharp metal through soft mud.
‘Shall I add an exclamation mark?’ Marian was already stabbing the soil with vigour.
‘If you’ve got the strength.’ Coral was bent double with exertion, leaning on her stake for support.
‘I’ve never felt stronger.’ Marian’s ordeal on Black Friday had only intensified her enthusiasm for their criminal activities, and she radiated defiant energy as she drove the jagged metal into the field and ploughed it through the grass. With a flourish, she dug the final dot into the green.
