Miss Deacon Investigates: Edwardian Lady series, #2

By Susan Leona Fisher

Two love stories for the price of one! In 1918 Lily Deacon is surprised to be asked to join a commission investigating the morals of young Englishwomen serving at the Western front in the First World War, an interruption to her ordered life and her work as a factory inspector. Whilst in France, by chance she hears the reminiscences of a wounded soldier and promises to try and find out what happened to the young doctor Edward Hamilton and nurse Lucy Smith, who saved his life on their voyage to South Africa in 1900 but were listed as missing at the end of the war. Within a matter of weeks she has fallen in love with an army surgeon, become a courier for secret information and uncovered the full story of what happened to Lucy and Edward all those years ago. She suspects her life will never be quite the same again…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Fisher
• Release date: Feb 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201379773

Susan Leona Fisher

Susan Leona Fisher began writing fiction on her retirement, having been a technical/academic writer in her former working life. She was born in London and now lives in the Yorkshire Dales, having lived in various places in between, due to  her clergyman husband’s various postings. Her route to publication was via the New Writers’ Scheme run by the Romantic Novelists’ Association, of which she is a member. She has written 20 historical romances in settings ranging from the ever-popular Regency period to the Second World War. One of them, A Master of Litigation, made the final for historical romance in the Romantic Novel Awards 2018. She has also written several contemporary romances and one non-fiction biography.

Book preview

1: A commission undertaken

The WAACs in France

The Commission of representative women to investigate allegations about the conduct of Englishwomen serving in the Women’s Auxiliary Army Corps in France has been appointed by the Ministry of Labour. They include trades union representative...

(Daily Express, Friday 1st March 1918)

Tuesday 5th March 1918, Calais to Boulogne, evening

We are shepherded into a dreary room to await boarding. Everything is so grey, the now darkening sky, the dockside, our troop ship waiting beside it, the choppy sea beyond the harbour and, as if in unspoken agreement at this unlooked for departure, each of us appears to have chosen our drabbest outfit in which to travel. We will sail after dark and have been assured that the Channel is well patrolled. I last set foot in France sixteen years ago, on my way home from a war front; now I return to go rather too near another, but not so close as the soldiers now marching past our window up the gangplank, with their pinched, white faces and permanently creased brows, older men now, a lot of them.

Despite the official assurances, I sense anxiety amongst us and there is little conversation. One of the women smiles at me and I wonder why, till I realise I must have been smiling myself, remembering that journey, all those years ago, when my dear sister accompanied me. We were quite light-hearted and care-free then, she thankful to find me on schedule at Naples, I relieved to reach Europe and have her company on the last leg of my long route home, and glad to be journeying overland after all the sea travel, which ill-suits me.

I nod in acknowledgement and glance round our small group. How little I know any of them, with the exception of Mrs Manningham, with whom I’ve worked before. The three other members of our little committee I’ve not previously encountered, but I do know something of them by repute and anticipate controversial discussions about conditions faced by women in employment and the growing role of women in trades unions. The two women clerks, who are to administer the committee, stand a little apart from the rest of us, guarding the precious type-writer which Mrs Manningham insisted must be kept with the party. I recognise one of them from the Department of Labour typing section. It takes me back to my own role in nineteen hundred and one, when my much younger self, a junior civil servant, stood awaiting embarkation at another quayside. On that occasion I was fulfilling Mrs Manningham’s present role as Honorary Secretary. It occurs to me that these two young clerical officers could work their way up the ranks of the civil service and eventually might in turn become members of an investigative committee for the army, when the next war comes round in another twenty years—begin and cease and then again begin. It seems we never learn.

It is Rose Manningham who has put this committee together in a matter of weeks. She catches my eye now, her lips pursed in what might be resignation, or perhaps the hint of a smile. I imagine she may be recalling the conversation we had last evening, after we’d all dined together at the London hotel where the various members of our committee had gathered ready for our early start this morning. The others had retired, leaving Rose and me sipping our coffee, able to be less formal in our address to each other than we are required to be in the presence of the rest of the committee.

At least it’s only for a week, Lily, she’d remarked. They wanted us to spend just three or four days, but I couldn’t see us accomplishing a proper investigation in so short a time.

Perhaps they imagined we’d simply have a few choice conversations and dismiss the allegations, I’d suggested.

You’re probably right, but you and I both know a more robust exercise is required.

Yes, I’d agreed, and I must congratulate you on arranging it so thoroughly at such short notice.

I’m only glad you were available. We needed someone of your common sense and experience to steer the process.

Thank you, Rose, though my common sense tells me the whole thing is an unfounded overreaction to unsubstantiated rumours.

I couldn’t agree more. It’s like asking us to do a concertina turn while England is burning. At least I may see my husband. He’s somewhere at the Western Front now.

I know this, and that they have been married but a few years, a late flowering relationship for both of them. At forty-two, Rose is four years my senior, but despite now being a married woman, she still pursues a very active role in public affairs. I wonder if she is thinking of him now, as a slight frown creases her brow; a uniformed man’s just entered the room.

Time to get on board, ladies. Follow me, please.

There is a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as I take my first steps onto the soil which has buried so many of my countrymen and our foes. Perhaps it is merely a symptom of the rough crossing we’ve just endured and the fact that I’ve not eaten anything since breakfast; or it may simply be due to my considerable reluctance to be here at all. This trip has required the inconvenience of rescheduling my next regular assignment at short notice, for Rose only called upon me a fortnight ago to ask me to be part of the commission, after apparently turning down a number of other possible members proposed by that woman at the Labour Department. Miss Durham has not seen eye to eye with Rose on a number of things. As she commented to me last night, I’m sure you’ll appreciate the humour of my finding myself again in this situation. Lord Derby particularly requested my presence on the committee, a bitter pill for my friend Miss Durham. At the time I smiled but made no comment, and none was expected, for she knows I cannot criticise a senior member of staff in the department which employs me. Besides which, Lord Derby is Minister for War, so we must all accept his edicts, including Miss Durham.

Rose is very efficient and quite likes exercising authority herself, I suspect, but she has a warm and diplomatic manner and I both respect and enjoy working with her. Nevertheless I was unsure whether to be flattered by her trust in my ability to play this short-term role, or offended at the last minute nature of her thinking of me at all. My seniors had no choice in the matter for the Department of Labour must bow to the commands of the War Office, and in this instance we are here at the behest of a joint endeavour between them, the timing of which has apparently been dictated by the particular week during which the army can spare the cars to ferry us around; hence the rush to put it all together.

What, really, are we doing in the midst of this awful conflict, with a task that pales into insignificance in proportion to everything else? But officialdom will have its way, so here we are with the responsibility of what lies ahead, and our delicate mission must be accomplished in just eight days.

The knock rouses me and squeaking hinges reinforce my morning call. Reluctantly I open my eyes. A slender shaft of sun filters through a gap in the curtains and I hear the distant clatter of kitchen staff at work and somewhere on the roof above a seagull screeches its greeting to the new day. I’m surprised I didn’t wake earlier, but I was very tired last night. A small figure is silhouetted in the open doorway.

Miss Deacon, ma’am, sorry to disturb you. I’ve been asked to bring you some breakfast.

Why thank you. I sit up and she places the tray on the bed beside me. A glance tells me it’s quite frugal war-time fare, but is welcome nonetheless. I could manage little last evening. Perhaps you could pull back the curtains?

I watch the girl step to the window and throw back the heavy drapes. She looks young, and is slightly built, fairly swimming in the unmistakable and unflattering uniform. So you’re a WAAC? I comment.

Yes, ma’am. She turns and stands demurely by the window, hands clasped together in front of her.

Have you been in post long?

Almost a year now, ma’am.

And what is your particular job?

I’m mostly a general assistant in the kitchens, usually in this house, for visitors like yourself and new arrivals before they’ve been billeted. She looks down as she speaks, smoothing her khaki skirt, whose hem is the regulation twelve inches above the floor. Then she looks at me directly, brow furrowed in a question. Scuse me for asking, ma’am, but I wondered...

Yes? I offer, encouragingly. Her arms are by her side now, but I can see her hands against the folds of her skirt. They are clenched into fists. Clearly she’s summoned up considerable courage to address me.

They say as you an’ the other ladies is...I mean are here to ask about us WAACs. They say there’s been rumours...

Yes, I confirm. We are making an official visit. I must be really careful what I say to this girl. She’s looking at me with such concentration, probably memorising every word I say to tell her friends later. I smile at her. It’s better to have the truth established than for people to spread rumours, don’t you think?

I can tell she’s not going to engage me further. Yes ma’am, she says, as her hands relax, and she gives a brief nod before leaving the room, not quietly; those heavy brown shoes echo on the boarded floor like a horse in a stable yard. I’m quite surprised at her boldness in questioning me like that, but I’m also rather flattered that she should find me approachable, perhaps because I’m almost the youngest of the party, apart from a rather formidable Scots lady rumoured to be a rising star in the civil service north of the border. I catch my reflection in the dressing table mirror; my hair is still brown, though not quite the rich chestnut it once was, and I’m pleased with this new short style. My sister tells me I look quite young for my age, a judgment no doubt influenced by the fact that she is ten years my senior. If it is true, then it’s probably not a little to do with my circumstances. I have a job I love, except when it sends me to the Western front, I meet many interesting people, enjoy my independence and have been spared the care-worn responsibility of family, which also makes me available at short notice. Apart from Mrs Manningham, we are all single ladies. I glance at the small clock on the mantle shelf; time to rise and dress, for our first planning meeting is in half an hour.

Later, on my way back upstairs after our briefing, I overhear the same young woman speaking in the kitchen, to a colleague presumably. Bet they’ll just talk to all the big-wigs. What do they know? They should speak to us. Why should we all be tarred with the same brush? And what about when the war’s over? My mum wrote and said I should never have volunteered. They’re saying such bad things about us...you’ll never get a job back home now she says, and you know what Sheila was telling me... I move away before I hear what enlightenment Sheila had to throw on the matter.

The demanding schedule of interviews can only be accomplished by sharing out the load, mostly working in pairs. I spend the next half hour checking through my list and ensuring I have clear in my mind the questions we are to ask at each of our appointments. The girl’s remarks keep coming back to me. It would hardly be possible to keep our visit quiet; memoranda have been exchanged and most of the army’s clerical positions are filled by WAACs, besides which I’m sure I spotted a paragraph about it in the newspaper last week. One of the things I’ve just warned the committee about is to take care to identify exactly who they are speaking to and the names and roles of anyone else in the room who might overhear. There are quite a few journalists at large on the Western front, attracted by the scent of scandal and the hope of an exclusive story.

I pick up the official brief, supplied to each member of the Commission, and trace the letters W.A.A.C. on the front. As a child I played many word games devised by my sister, keen to play the teacher to her very young sibling, one of these diversions being to give well-known initials a different meaning. Women Are Always Culpable, I say in my mind, as I consider again the bias of our task. Beneath the title, the word CONFIDENTIAL is stamped in large red letters. I open the folder and read again the statement on the first page, which sets down our terms of reference unequivocally: To enquire into and report upon any specific cases of alleged immoral conduct in the Woman’s Auxiliary Army Corps that may be brought to their note...

I sigh. This is one of the hardest assignments I have undertaken, but either Rose Manningham is unaware of my history, or has forgotten yesterday’s gossip, almost twenty years ago now, more than half my lifetime ago. I was naïve, rather than culpable, but consequences happen regardless of causes and I became ineligible for the society marriage for which my mother had yearned. I was not to follow in my elder sister’s well-connected footsteps, for such an event could not be kept private when the perpetrator boasted of it to all his friends. My sister blamed herself, for she was my chaperone that hot summer’s afternoon, but had gone to sleep in a deck chair freeing me to take my innocent walk by the river with my handsome escort. It was little comfort that I was not his only victim that season, and at least I didn’t actually bear the possible and obvious consequence, as one of my poor contemporaries had. She disappeared off the scene long ago. I sometimes wonder what became of her and the poor child. As for me, I’ve long passed the point of considering myself a victim or a failure; I’m proud of what I’ve achieved as a single woman. It is perhaps just as well we are not to interview any specific cases ourselves, for my sympathies would be obvious.

Ahead of us lies a week of tightly scheduled visits to twenty-nine camps and hostels in the northern and southern areas occupied by the British Expeditionary Force in France. I count the names of those we will be consulting, there are over eighty. And how right the girl was; each name is prefaced with a title; there are Area Controllers and Unit Administrators, Adjutant Generals, Base Commanders, Official Censors, Senior Medical Officers and so on. Only a week, I tell myself, and I will be gratefully on my way home to my cosy mews cottage in north London, to get on with my normal routine. But at this point I had not reckoned on my own curiosity and an unexpected opportunity I could not refuse. The young pioneer who travelled fearlessly to Africa so long ago has not completely deserted me. Thus, half way through this dull official visit, I find myself tempted into an unscheduled diversion which is to change my life forever.

2 : A brief diversion

Friday 8th March 1918, Boulogne to Abbeville, late afternoon

Day three of our schedule has been completed. We spent it chiefly in Calais, where we covered seven camps and other units and interviewed twelve officials. I think we were all glad when the transport was announced, our luggage stowed, and we set out from Boulogne on the drive south to our second base at Abbeville. We are well back from the Western Front here and the road is better than I’d been led to expect. I share the first car with Mrs Manningham and one other committee member, whilst the other two travel in the car behind with the two administrators and their paraphernalia of paper, typewriter and files. We each nod off at points, too tired for much conversation. Contrary to my expectations there have been few interesting discussions with our trades union colleagues, for there has been no time but to conduct interviews, move from one appointment to the next, rarely all together, and eat and sleep.

By now, though it is unspoken among us, I believe the other three women are of a similar opinion to that already held by Rose and myself before we set out on our thankless task. We all recognise what a fool’s errand we’ve been given. Out of more than six thousand women serving in the WAAC in France there are bound to be some whose behaviour might be called into question. The Controller of Medical Services reported a mere handful of pregnancies and even fewer of venereal disease, which she suggested was almost certainly acquired before coming to France. I share the view of the young woman who served me breakfast on the first morning; a few cases do not imply that immoral conduct is endemic within the Corps. The strict regime of military discipline under which things are run here makes it unlikely that the young women could misbehave without detection. Inspecting the daily records kept by each Area Controller only goes to show the handful of minor misdemeanours that are being picked up and punished with loss of privileges. Missing roll call, smoking a cigarette or arriving back after hours does not necessarily equate to immoral activity. Far more likely, as Mrs Manningham commented to me, is that the WAACs serving back in England could potentially get away with such liberties much more easily.

Here we are ladies. The Private who has been our escort leaps from the front passenger seat and busies himself opening our doors and helping us out. I believe Miss Vaughan’s expecting you for tea, if you’d like to follow me. The driver’ll see to your luggage.

Rose meets my eye and I have to control my expression. The commandant of the WAACs in France is another forceful personality with whom Rose has a contentious history. Already there have been hints at Miss Vaughan’s style of dealing with disputes. In a private word last evening Rose expressed her frustration with the lady. Someone could usefully advise her that labour difficulties, when they arise, are best handled with tact and not in the despotic spirit of the professor turned militarist. She’d better have remained at her university post.

Our driver begins to pile up the cases and to my astonishment I see a young woman with curly blond hair peeping out of a military cap of uncertain provenance, American I suspect, a dimpled smile and rosy cheeks above a leather jacket that covers a distinctly un-WAAC-like uniform, trousers no less. She’s also a mind reader. I’m V.A.D. not WAAC, Voluntary Aid Detachment? she informs me, clearly suspecting I’ve never heard of V.A.D.s, as she continues unloading our cases with consummate ease. It is hard to keep up with all the different initiatives. There’s a proliferation of women’s war organisations which, as Rose suggested in our conversation last night, could usefully be rationalised into a more cohesive structure.

I see, I respond. Is there much of a difference in what you do?

"Very little, as it happens, and we’re each paid as little as the other, but I do get to drive posh cars, and the uniform’s not so ...’

The Private interrupts her. Here, you can’t spend your day gossiping girl. Haven’t you other duties to go to?

With a wink at me, the young woman places the last case on the pile by the door and climbs back into the driver’s seat; the engine coughs to life and the vehicle moves off. I think no more about her as we busy ourselves with introductions and preparations for the very full day planned for tomorrow. Abbeville appears to be a very large centre where many of my young maid’s big-wigs are based, including Mrs Leach, the overall head of the WAAC, who has come over from England specially to be present during our visit. On meeting this formidable lady, I understand why Rose insisted she not be present at any of our interviews, a condition the Minister of Labour had to accede to before Rose agreed to form the committee. Nor would I want her to read my mind concerning my earlier thoughts as to what the WAACs back in England might be getting away with.

We’re all grateful to have a quiet evening off before the next day’s onslaught and to be accommodated in a proper house rather than one of the Nissan huts that are everywhere.

Following an early supper, I take the opportunity for a walk, as it’s a calm, warm evening with early hints of spring in the air. I pay my respects at the British cemetery, where a couple of WAACs are just leaving, each carrying some gardening tools. What a sad duty to be given. Further on, my path leads me beside a river; where a small wood begins. The trees are just breaking into leaf and I crouch down for a moment to check...sure enough there are some clumps of miniature wild cyclamen bearing a few tiny buds.

Hard to believe a million men killed each other just up river isn’t it?...a woman’s voice, which sounds familiar...our rather outspoken driver from this afternoon. I stand up again and glimpse a shadowy figure a few yards away among the trees.

I beg your pardon? Her cigarette glows red and tobacco smoke wafts towards me; not a habit I care for.

This is the River Somme.

Of course; I had known this for I studied a map before our departure from England. Perhaps I blotted it out. Certainly I had deliberately