SIXTY
Watson waited until the policeman finished explaining the case and the coverage of it by the newspapers and periodicals. ‘I remember it, vaguely. Bad business. Did the women’s cause no good at all.’
‘Georgina, or the Red She-Devil as the lower papers liked to call her, had a hard time of it in Holloway. You have to bear that in mind when she is being . . . prickly. The force-feeding, the humiliating searches, the attacks, they took their toll.’
‘Attacks?’
‘A policeman’s wife in prison? It was one of the reasons I divorced her. She could deny being a copper’s missus then. Of course, too stubborn to change her name.’
‘Only one of the reasons?’ Watson asked gently.
‘Don’t judge me too harshly, Major.’ From the depths of his wallet he produced a small newspaper cutting. ‘You might not have seen this.’
It was two paragraphs long. It described how ‘new evidence’ had come to light that suggested that Mrs Gregson had been wrongly convicted. She was freed on appeal. In a statement she said she was glad justice had been done and swore to promote the cause of women’s rights through peaceful means. What was she looking forward to most? A bath in private and a ride on a very fast motor cycle.
‘The trials and the convictions get all the fanfare,’ said Gregson, ‘the aftermath very little. I still meet people who remember the Red She-Devil, but not that she was acquitted. It’s why I carry this around.’
‘I must confess this second act of the drama passed me by completely,’ said Watson. ‘But if she didn’t . . . ?’
‘It was to frame her, Major. The Women’s Freedom League, which Georgina supported, believed in civil unrest and disobedience, but not some of the extreme anarchist acts that the Women’s Social and Political union and others indulged in. Nor the harrying and physical assaults on politicians that were commonplace.’
Watson nodded. He recalled that Churchill had been laid into with a riding crop by the suffragette Theresa Garnett. He had not pressed charges, merely saying that he had sworn to treat his horse more humanely in future after feeling the bite of a whip.
‘Well, the guerillists of the WSPU were losing influence to the WFL, and they decided to tar them with the same brush. They planted the bomb, having lured Georgina to a false meeting, and left materials that implicated her in our cellar. It took me a long time to prove that she had gone to the deserted hall for a fictitious meeting and could not have planted the bomb.’
‘You continued the investigation?’
‘She was my wife,’ Gregson said softly.
But you did divorce her, Watson thought. Still, the man at least had the decency to carry on trying to clear her name. He should be given credit for his tenacity. ‘And relations now with Mrs Gregson?’
‘Cordial,’ he said with regret. ‘Little more than cordial. After her release she moved from London, to where she enjoyed rather less notoriety.’
‘But still didn’t change her name?’
‘No. She was an innocent woman, she said. With nothing to hide.’ Except a husband, it seemed. ‘Still, interesting. That a militant suffragette should be part and parcel of the events here.’
Gregson looked as if he had been slapped. ‘You’re not suggesting—’
‘No.’ Watson shook his head vigorously. ‘No. Not unless Mrs Gregson was in Egypt within the past year.’
‘Not that I am aware of.’
‘There is something here that is making me uncomfortable. Something not quite right.’ Watson slumped back on his pillow, drained by the effort of thinking, and of groping in the dark for tenuous connections. ‘I’m not quite on top form, Inspector—’
‘Lieutenant,’ Gregson corrected.
‘Sorry. I can see your father in you now, you know. We were a little cruel to the policemen. Not just your father. Poor Lestrade. And to Inspector Gregory. I’m sorry. It was just a little game.’
‘Major Watson, let me tell you, he used to huff and puff, but secretly he was pleased as Punch to be included in your stories. Proud, even. I should let you rest now. I will be back to continue our discussion.’
‘Thank you. Can you send Miss Pippery back in? If she feels up to it?’
Watson’s eyes were closed when Miss Pippery returned to the tent and she was about to tiptoe out when he spoke. ‘Don’t think too badly of her.’
Miss Pippery fingered the cross on the chain she had taken out from her collar. ‘I’ll try not to, but divorce.’ She said it in the way she might have said ‘cockroaches’ or ‘spiders’, and with an accompanying shudder. ‘Perhaps I should have guessed. My parents never liked her, you know.’
‘Well, forgive me, Miss Pippery, but I do. Like her, I mean.’
Her face was a picture of distaste. ‘But—’
‘Thirty years ago, I might have thought like you. I hope not, but I had views then at odds with those I hold now. But there are also mitigating circumstances at play here. Powerful ones. I suggest you write and ask her to explain herself.’
‘I couldn’t.’
‘Write to her at the hospital.’
‘I already have. I have told her that we can never be friends again.’
‘So soon? You haven’t posted it?’
‘There was a messenger leaving for Bailleul. I scribbled a note—’
‘No!’ the vehemence with which he pronounced the word brought on a coughing fit. He groped for the water and took a gulp. ‘You foolish girl. Trust me on this one thing if no other. You let that stand, from the other end of your life you’ll look back with nothing but regret. She’s your friend, and that is not something to be tossed away lightly. You get in touch with her.’ He found himself wagging a finger. ‘God, if He is anything like the God we think we know, will forgive you.’
‘And her? You think He will forgive her?’
‘Yes. God will forgive her. But will He forgive you if you drive a schism between two friends?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘We are born alone and die alone. In between we have the chance to make precious few connections to other men and women. It is a human imperative to find someone, be it friend or lover, that we can take succour from and offer it in return. Look at those men in the trenches. To them, the comradeship forged out there might turn out to be the most important bond they will ever know. Because, one day, only someone who has been through this at their side will understand, really understand them.’
He took another drink of water. ‘It’s a messy business sometimes. Husbands and wives divorce, friends become enemies, love cools. But we are driven to try again. And again. You are wounded because Mrs Gregson lied to you. So am I. You feel deceived, betrayed. Put those feelings aside for a moment. Tell me about Mrs Gregson.’
Miss Pippery began to fiddle with her cross again. ‘Well, let me see . . .’
‘Put the cross away. Not the divorcee. The Mrs Gregson you love.’
‘Love?’ she repeated, as if it was the first time she had heard the word.
‘Don’t you?’
‘I . . .’ She squeezed the cross and tucked it down her neckline. ‘I love that she has this, this skin that seems thicker than everybody else’s. That she is always ready to try something new. That she isn’t cowed by authority. I love that she defends me.’
‘You love that you can call her your friend. You love that she chose you to be her friend. It makes you proud,’ he said, remembering what Gregson had said about his father. ‘Doesn’t it?’
Miss Pippery nodded, suddenly feeling foolish and naked before this man. ‘It does. I’ll never be her, but she certainly made me appreciate what I am. What I could be. But how do you know—’
‘I just do. Call it the wisdom of years. But don’t try to count how many years. Now go. Write to your friend again. Tell her you have reconsidered and that you now know this changes nothing.’
She gave a smile and left at a half-run. ‘Thank you, Dr Watson.’
Major, he corrected. Although it was nice to hear the old honorific in front of his name. Dr Watson. It still had a good, solid ring to it. Just like old times.
He closed those lids again, felt himself slide away, reaching out to embrace sleep, but the growing, comforting darkness was rudely penetrated by the shrill whistle of a falling bomb.