Red Hand: Secret of the Suffragette Derby

By Michael Tanner

Britons watched the opening months of 1913 unfold with a sense of foreboding.

On the continent, they saw a brutal conflict in the Balkans increase the prospect of a war engulfing the whole of Europe.

On their doorstep, they observed the thorny issue of Irish home rule edge the island toward civil war as Ulsters Protestant Loyalists, led by Sir Edward Carson, vow they will fight to remain part of the United Kingdom rather than be subservient to a Catholic Republic governed from Dublin.

And at home, they watched militant suffragettes, such as Emily Wilding Davison, challenge the rule of law in their crusade for the vote.

The fiction that follows is set against this turbulent backcloth and constructed around certain historical events and individuals.

Yet who is to say the story doesnt chime with a faint ring of truth?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524633820

Michael Tanner

Michael Tanner is Dean of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, where he lectures on philosophy. He is the author of Nietzsche and reviews regularly for Classic CD and the Times Literary Supplement.

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The Major: The Biography of Dick Hern

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The Champion Hurdle: From Blaris to Istabraq

Troubled Epic: On Location With Ryan’s Daughter

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The Suffragette Derby

The Spotted Wonder

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‘Fittingly listed for the William Hill Sports Book of the Year.’ The Independent

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‘The writing is sharp, the story well told; a gripping book.’ Irish Field

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RED HAND

Secret of the Suffragette Derby

MICHAEL TANNER

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AuthorHouse™ UK

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403 USA

www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: [phone]

© 2016 Michael Tanner. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/18/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5246-3381-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-3382-0 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

per la mia bella Ginetta

Contents

Preface

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Post Script

PREFACE

Britons watched the opening months of 1913 unfold with a sense of foreboding.

On the continent they saw a brutal conflict in the Balkans increase the prospect of a war engulfing the whole of Europe.

On their doorstep they observed the thorny issue of Irish Home Rule edge the island toward Civil War as Ulster’s Protestant Loyalists, led by Sir Edward Carson, vow they will fight to remain part of the United Kingdom rather than be subservient to a Catholic Republic governed from Dublin.

And at home they watched militant suffragettes, such as Emily Wilding Davison, challenge the rule of law in their crusade for the Vote.

The fiction that follows is set against this turbulent backcloth and constructed around certain historical events and individuals.

Yet who is to say the story doesn’t chime with a faint ring of truth?

Michael Tanner

Summer, 2016

ONE

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Haymer rued the day he cracked open that second bottle of port with Tirrel.

Look where it had landed him. Parliament Square was shrouded in fog thick enough to spread on toast. The stygian gloom was in keeping with his mood. The neuralgia in his jaw was playing up; he’d been obliged to abandon plans for dinner at the Turf Club followed by a seat at the Tivoli; and he might be on a wild goose chase.

He pulled up the collar of his beloved Cording trench coat against January elements that would test an igloo; gravediggers, he fancied, would have a problem tomorrow. Visions of a roaring fire and a marrow-thawing hot toddy warmed his mind, but his extremities had to make do with stamping feet and blowing into gloves. And still he felt the freezing ground creeping up through the soles of his Grensons. He peered through the half-light in search of his quarry. A plume of exasperation left his lips. Nothing. He stole another glance at the photograph Tirrel had given him and read again the description on the reverse.

Then he heard it. The noise could warm anyone’s heart, especially if it were female. It began as a low hum and grew in volume as the column of suffragettes filed into the square from the direction of Elverton Street, where they’d mustered in the Horticultural Hall. They were singing to the tune of John Brown’s Body. Haymer strained to catch the words. ‘Rise up women for the fight is hard and long! Rise in thousands, singing loud a battle song! Right is Might and in its strength we shall be strong! And the cause goes marching on!’

The women jigged their placards up and down in time with their singing. Haymer read the slogans, ‘Go Forth And Conquer’ and ‘Fight On And God Will Give The Victory’. He smiled broadly at the women’s exuberance – if not their musicality. But it didn’t escape his notice that he was not alone in following the progress of this toothless crocodile. Police, he expected. But not the gangs of louts and drunkards.

The column saluted the statue of Oliver Cromwell on its way into Old Palace Yard where a phalanx of police - which included mounted officers - barred its passage. Haymer could just make out above the hubbub the voice of someone reading aloud a letter from Lloyd George stating the Chancellor had refused to receive any deputation. The women were ordered to disperse quietly or face arrest.

The mob surrounding them became more raucous. ‘Give ‘em a duckin’ in the river! That’ll cool ‘em off!’; ‘Throw ‘er over ‘ere, copper! I’ll soon give ‘er what fer!’

Soon small groups of agitators began breaking through the police cordon to close-in on the women. Haymer sensed matters were about to turn ugly. The suffragettes also knew what was in store. Those who’d not done so already began securing their hats on their heads with their scarves.

Haymer detected no order above the bedlam, but he saw the mounted policemen urge their horses forward, iron shoes sparking off the cobbles. Shrill female voices accompanied the thwack of cardboard placards beating against the animals’ flanks. Suffragettes were buffeted and bundled to the ground, hats and placards scattered. Some still managed to draw garden secateurs in an effort to cut bridles. Then batons started clubbing. Policemen dismounted, the better to strike, and were reinforced by a string of constables on foot who charged along the pavement lashing out indiscriminately. He saw one woman being dragged by her hair across Victoria Tower Gardens by a faceless hooligan. He squinted through the gloom. It looked to him as if she might be auburn-haired. This might be the woman he sought.

Haymer sprinted across the square, sidestepping bodies and dodging the odd flailing fist. He saw the suffragette’s attacker thrust a hand up her skirts and then shove her to the ground. The drunk’s hands went for his belt-buckle. A primeval roar sprang from deep in Haymer’s chest. He accelerated and threw himself through the air like a lance, the point of his leading shoulder spearing the thug’s sternum and knocking him clean off his feet. Straddling him, he smashed his right forearm into the man’s mouth. The lout never felt his head lifted by the ears and slammed back into the ground.

The woman moaned. Haymer could see she was in no condition to walk. Her Burberry overcoat was torn, she’d lost her hat and one boot; her torso, he calculated, couldn’t be in much better shape. He dropped to his knees and wiped away the strands of golden hair to reveal cheeks the colour of a Siberian winter; and just as cold.

She was in a daze; quite unable to move, as if hoping to save herself through immobility. Her breath came in snatches. She sensed herself being offered something to drink, and smelt brandy.

He got no further than saying ‘Miss Davison’ before realizing the face he was staring at bore no resemblance to that in Tirrel’s photograph. It was a face he knew more intimately. It was the face of Connie Swynford.

He was gripped by a trance of astonishment. ‘Connie?’ he whispered. It was all he could do to articulate a name that brought to mind all manner of pain and pleasure.

She thought she heard a familiar voice. A long lost voice. They only voice she knew with the resonance of waves sifting pebbles. Had she died and gone to heaven?

‘Algy, is it you?’ she murmured.

‘Yes’

‘I’m not dreaming? Should I pinch myself?’

‘No, you’re not dreaming.’

She opened her eyes and shivered in a prolonged ecstasy of excitement. She began to weep, softly at first and then in gulping sobs. She was a lovesick teenager once more.

‘We must get out of here,’ he said. ‘Put your arms around my neck.’

Gently, he scooped her up into his arms. She felt as light as a cloud. And Connie felt as if she was on a cloud. He walked deeper into the gardens in search of a quieter spot where he could take stock of the situation.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘My glorious knight in shining…’

‘Be quiet, Dotty. This is neither time nor place for any of your childish reminiscence.’

‘Look who’s acting childishly!’ she said, now seemingly risen from the dead by the second coming of Algy Haymer. ‘How often have I told you not to address me with that stupid children’s nickname!’

‘Well…the damned freckles are still present and correct, aren’t they?’

Plus, he noted, other features that once enslaved a young man’s libido. They were the sort of looks often painted but seldom seen in reality. This was an inopportune moment to dally, yet Algy couldn’t help but indulge himself. The green eyes of a feral cat; cheekbones capable of slicing a baron of beef; the plump bottom lip still demanding to be sucked as if it were a ripe peach; and the curves to make Botticelli drool and his Venus redundant.

The years had done nothing to adulterate Connie’s charms. Nor was the mixture of rain, sweat, tears and the lingering hint of Jicky on her neck doing anything to dilute her natural musk. The intoxicating scent she’d always given off and which he’d eagerly inhaled. There was no mistake. Connie smelt of sex. She always did. Still did. And probably always would. Algy devoured every sensation at the rate of a dust devil.

‘Can you stand?’ he said.

She nodded. Gingerly he placed her feet on the ground. She stood shakily, swaying and clutching his arm, while he replaced her lost boot. Removing his coat, he spread it on the wet grass at her feet. ‘Here, sit down on this for a second and let’s tidy you up.’

Algy stroked the matted hair from her eyes and dabbed the blood from her cheeks with his handkerchief. ‘Take a sip of this.’

She waved him away.

‘It’s brandy, the very best!’ he said. ‘Vine Leaf.’

‘Then why didn’t you say so!’

Connie cupped her hands round the hip flask and tipped it 45 degrees.

‘Steady!’

‘Not likely!’

Algy was on the verge of admonishing her before he remembered whom he was talking to. Some people never change. And it was already clear that Connie Swynford was one feline whose spots had not faded. The realization came as no surprise.

‘Now we really must go,’ he said. ‘Put your arm through mine and lean on me, and we’ll be as right as nine pence.’

Connie rose unsteadily to her feet. ‘I always knew Algy Haymer could be trusted never to disappoint a girl…’

‘Connie,’ he said, ‘do shut up or I shall be forced to leave you here to take your chances with any lout who happens by.’

‘You wouldn’t dare…’

‘Really?’

Algy made to loosen his grip. She squealed and hugged him ever tighter.

‘You’re going nowhere. Not without me. It’s been too long…’

‘Connie, don’t play the fool! Life’s moved on. We’ve not seen each other for…’

‘Fourteen years! Not since Flying Fox’s Derby. You went to South Africa! Again! What is it about South Africa?’

‘The country likes people like me.’

‘You left me in the lurch! What had those Boers got that I hadn’t?’

‘Explanations must wait.’

‘There, we’ve not been back together for more than ten minutes and we’re bickering already! Just like the old days! We really are made for each other…’

Algy silenced her by once more sweeping her up into his arms.

‘Ooooh!’ she cried, ‘I’m glad to see you’ve still some snap in your celery! Those biceps are in tip-top order!’

And, she noticed, his cornflower blue eyes could still melt an iceberg. They were those rarest of eyes. When she looked into them she could tell exactly what he was thinking. At this moment they told her how pleased he felt at having this exquisite package unexpectedly dropped in his lap. Her eyes wandered to the straw that doubled as hair. It was still as untidy as a wind-blown haystack and, though a mite thinner nowadays, still offered plenty for a woman to run her hands through at the height of ecstasy. All in all, she decided, Algy Haymer has aged pretty damn well.

Algy broke into a trot, a wreath of breath about his head.

‘What’s the hurry!’ she said.

‘The sooner I get you somewhere safe,’ he panted, ‘the sooner I’m rid of you!’

‘Don’t be a spoilsport…’

‘This is no joke! I wasn’t here to act as your personal mode of transport. I had a job to do. An important one!’

The ensuing silence made him switch his gaze from potential dangers ahead to what he knew from experience was the even greater danger lurking behind Connie’s eyes. But realization came too late. Connie had sprung the trap. And, as always, ever since that day out hunting with the Belvoir, Algy walked, almost ran, straight into it like a man sprinting for the last train. Her lips met his just as he turned his head. They refused to pull away. His legs refused to move another yard.

‘You…incorrigible minx! You, a married woman…’

‘I am not!’

‘A Venetian banker, I heard…’

‘He died.’

‘’I’m sorry to hear…’

‘Dear Michele left me well catered for…’

‘No further visits to Denton, cap in hand to your father…’

‘Certainly not!’

She snuggled her head against the warmth of his neck. ‘Algy, I’m positive I must be dreaming all this. And I don’t want it to stop.’

Algy knew he had to stop, however. He seized a moment’s respite on a low wall and felt the wisp of breath blow across his cheek. ‘No, Connie! Stay awake!’

She feigned sleep.

‘Where are you staying? I’ll see you home safely, but I must get back to Parliament Square!’

‘Why?’

Algy moved on, albeit employing a more leisurely gait now they’d put sufficient distance between themselves and the Parliament Square thugs. His mind wandered. This chance encounter with an old flame - spitfire more like - might just be providential. He’d done Connie a service; perhaps she might return the compliment.

‘Have you heard of Emily Davison?’ he said.

‘Everyone in the suffragette movement knows Emily!’

‘Well, it was her I thought I was rescuing…’

‘You jest!’

‘It was the reddish hair, you see,’ Algy said.

‘How dare you mistake me for Emily!’

‘But your hair was short the last time I saw it…’

‘Yes! But that was years ago! And Emily is…so much older looking than me!’

‘In fact, she’s younger than you…’

‘And she’s been imprisoned more times than me!’

Connie was gratified to notice Algy’s shocked expression. ‘You’ve been to prison?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she said, looking rather proud. ‘That’s where I met Davison.’

Algy stopped for a second, and shifted his grip. ‘Prison, eh? About bloody time!’

‘Algy! If you must know, I threw eggs at Mr Asquith, refused to pay the fine, and got five days in Holloway.’

He snorted. ‘Connie Swynford. A suffragette. And a militant one to boot. I knew a life of crime would catch up with you in the end!’

Connie’s limp form had stiffened before Algy finished the sentence. He watched her freckles darken as he knew they did whenever she was aroused. The words spat forth like machine-gun bullets.

‘Holloway is no joking matter! Strip search on arrival. Bathing in filthy used water. Horribly rough green serge dress daubed with white arrows. A cell no bigger than a rabbit hutch. A bed made of planks that a dog would reject. An open lavatory in the corner. Food not meriting the word. Cold cocoa. Brown bread. Gruel of oatmeal and water. We called it skilly. No better than pig swill. And lights-out at eight.’

Algy frowned. ‘You’ve made your point.’

‘I can assure you there are no circumstances that would make me risk a second visit to Holloway.’

‘Were you forcibly fed?’ Algy awaited her answer with interest.

‘No. I hunger struck but my sentence was so short they didn’t bother with forcibly feeding me.’

‘It does sound a barbaric process.’

‘Absolutely abominable! I could hear them inflicting it upon other occupants of ‘D’ Wing – that’s where all the suffragettes are housed. They went from one cell after another. These awful shrieks getting nearer and nearer as I waited for my turn. Are you aware of the torture they refer to as a procedure?’

‘More or less.’

‘They hold you down. Prise your mouth open. Insert a tube. Or else stick it up a nostril and down your throat. Then they pour this eggy-milky liquid through a funnel into the tube. And, I’m telling you, the staff seem to enjoy the process.’

‘Surely not…’

She smacked the back of his head. ‘Who’s been in Holloway? You or me? Believe what I say!’

Algy regrouped. ‘And Miss Davsion’s suffered this indignity on how many occasions?’

‘Forty-nine.’

‘And been sentenced to eight terms of imprisonment in the last 3½ years?’

‘That’s right. Something like six months in total, I think…’

‘Nearly eight, more like.’

‘Connie pursed her lips, causing a spot of blood to seep between them. ‘You’re very well informed!’

‘I take an interest.’

‘Clearly, enough interest to rescue her from the clutches of a ner-do-well. Why, pray, might that be?’

‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

She took his ear lobe between her lips. ‘Algy…’

‘Stop that!’

‘In any event, Emily wasn’t on this deputation. She’s at home, I believe.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Some village in Northumberland.’

‘Aah…’

‘So you’ve wasted your energy.’ A sense of minor victory washed over her and she fell silent. A lengthy hiatus ensued interrupted only by Algy’s laboured breathing.

‘What on earth transformed you into a suffragette?’ he said, after some minutes. ‘That’s hardly the natural habitat of an Earl’s daughter, a pampered child of privilege?’

‘I’ll have you know the movement has many an aristocratic member in its ranks. There’s Constance Lytton for one!’

‘Ah, another Connie! This militancy trait must come with the Christian name…’

‘Frankly, we’re all tired of being pushed around by men in a man’s world!’ said Connie, voice rising an octave between first word and last.

Algy hadn’t the inclination, to argue. ‘By all accounts Miss Davison is a feisty lady. You must’ve seen her in some tight spots?’

‘Plenty!’

‘Does nothing frighten her?’

‘During the many deputations and meetings we’ve shared I’ve never seen her flinch once in the face of danger, whether it was the police or ruffians.’

‘To what lengths will she go for the cause?’

‘Emily believes that God is on our side, her side. She’ll stop at nothing. She is the most determined and tenacious women I’ve ever met. She’ll not rest until this battle of ours is finally won. Until women have the Vote. Until we woman can influence society. Make it a better place for all. Men and women. Rich and poor.’

‘Really? Sounds a tall order to me…’

‘You see! That’s just the kind of male smugness we’re determined to eradicate!’

‘And that’s Miss Davison’s objective? That’s the aim of her crusade?’

‘Yes, it certainly is. I just hope the crusade won’t drive her too far.’

Algy sucked in a breath full of contemplation for the information he’d just gathered.

‘Where exactly do you live?’ he said.

‘Buckingham Palace Road, number twenty-four.’

‘Not too far then. Thank the Lord! Either you’ve acquired a few pounds or I’m losing my strength!’

‘Algernon Haymer! How could you be so un-gallant!’

Connie’s lips puckered. ‘I suppose you’ll want to lie down to recover?’

Algy ignored her brazen innuendo and trudged onward. The fog was now little more than fuzz. The moon had been lit and was hung in the branches of an oak on the opposite side of the road. Houses sprang up from nowhere like so many woodland fungi; and the black form of a passing omnibus briefly resumed its natural crimson under the glare of a street lamp. The rushing yellow of a developing day was still some way off as the liquid stillness of the night gradually enveloped them and stifled conversation.

They reached Victoria Street and followed it to the junction with Buckingham Palace Road, by which time Connie was fast asleep. Algy took the weight off his feet by leaning back against a handy poplar and used the tip of his little finger to rub the blood from her bottom lip. In truth, he wanted to kiss the scarlet away as if it were the juice of a blood orange. Her eyelids fluttered; the length of them had always captivated him. He couldn’t help himself. Propinquity would not be denied. His lips descended on hers. And, as he walked onward, he noticed his neuralgia had vanished.

The moon was reduced to a wafer thin excuse of its former self by the time they reached their destination. A soft breeze caressed her cheeks and she stirred. Algy slowly placed her feet on the ground. He shook the cramp from his arms. She put a hand to her forehead, and he saw her totter. ‘Are you still feeling a little faint?’

‘Perhaps you’d come in and see me safely upstairs,’ she said. ‘It’s been just like the old days. It’s as if we’d never been apart. Or should I say, parted? And there’s so much more for us to talk about?’

Her time in Italy ensured Connie was perfectly conversant with the term carpe diem. She extracted a surefire winner from her box of feminine wiles: she looked down and allowed her lowered lids to rise ever so slowly. ‘Isn’t that right?’

Algy knew any fly with an iota of sense would’ve flown past this web. Yet he stayed to watch her unlock the door. Then he helped her climb the stairs to her bedroom. He sat her on the bed, lit the lamp and went across to the dresser, where he poured some water into the basin. This was his first opportunity to assess the true extent of the cuts and bruises on her face; imperfections totally out of place on a woman such as this. He gently lifted her chin and bathed the scratches and the bumps one by one. She flinched as he applied the cold cloth to the angry welt beneath her left eye. He kissed it.

Her smile told him she was more pleased than shocked. His hand brushed her shoulder as he turned to dampen the cloth once again, causing her to yelp.

‘Are you hurt badly? Let me see?’

Connie answered with a shake of the head. In her mind she saw herself as Guinevere to his Lancelot. ‘Algy, could you undress me?’

She sensed the apprehension in his eyes. ‘Please…’

Algy shook his head. And then began unbuttoning her dress.

Connie lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. She felt him undress her. She longed for him to caress each part of her body; to feel his kiss on each red weal; for him to soothe every square inch of skin he uncovered until she could withstand his attentions no longer. Then she would give herself to him.

Instead, she sat up with a start. She was alone. And she was fully dressed. No trace of Algy Haymer. She thumped the sheets with balled fists and wailed like a toddler denied its treat.

TWO

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Emily Davison had spent Christmas at her mother’s corner shop and bakery in the small Northumberland village of Longhorsley, just outside Morpeth on the road to Scotland. She’d celebrated the festive season in her customary fashion. Services had been attended - she was seldom far from a bible - and carols and hymns sung. Her fine soprano voice had excelled on her favourites, Fight the Good Fight with All of thy Might and Thy Way, Not Mine, O Lord.

Her looks she did not celebrate, for her mirror provided daily confirmation that at the age of 40 she was no longer a young man’s fancy. She was possessed of a strong nose and brow and a straight wide mouth set in a rather square face which lent her the stern expression of the schoolteacher she once was. Her thick mop of ruddy-brown hair, once