One
Sunday 4th May 1913 London
Margaret’s short speech outside Marylebone police court was nearly over, but the drivers, cabbies and pedestrians whose progress had been halted by the procession were not in the mood to listen in silence, even if it might speed things up.
‘Get back in the kitchen where you belong, you hoyden! Get off the bleeding road.’
‘Women ask only what monied men take for granted,’ Margaret stated. ‘The right to a voice, to choose for themselves. We call on those men who cannot vote to join us. Aren’t you angry that richer men with no idea of your lives control you?’
‘Someone oughta be controlling you. Here, you coppers, why ain’t yer nabbing them for blocking the traffic?’
‘Let every voice be heard. Let—’
‘I’ve had enough o’ your voice. Shut yer trap!’
‘Stow the potato pie! Your old man oughta be ashamed!’
‘Old man?’ bellowed a wagon driver. ‘What sort of flaming maniac would marry one of this lot and not drown her?’
‘Women could bring so many qualities to parliament: compassion, nurture—’
‘Get home and nurture your baby, you nagging bint!’
‘That hinchinharfer’s ole man probably can’t give her one. That’s the trouble. Come down here, missus. I’ll give you something worth squeaking about!’
Loud guffaws and jeers. A policeman next to Margaret sniggered and shifted position. She wasn’t sure if he had made a crude gesture, or whether he intended to ‘accidentally’ let the hecklers drag her off the stool and see what happened next.
She took a deep breath. ‘They demand taxes from every adult, yet some of you men cannot cast a vote to choose the government which takes their money! Support us! Women demanding your rights as well as their own are being imprisoned—’
‘Because they keep bloody smashing windows and setting fires.’
‘Yeah, and trying to blow up Piccadilly tube station on Friday! Did one o’ you do that?’
Margaret had prepared for that question. ‘No one has claimed responsibility for that incident. Nothing suggests anyone here was behind it.’ She looked into the faces of the suffragettes before her: militant and non-militant alike, they smiled up in support.
‘Have they got a permit for this?’ demanded the cabbie.
The constable didn’t answer, and Margaret risked a glance. Phoebe would have obtained a permit, but it might have been revoked after the incident on the tube. The constable had turned aside to talk to another policeman.
‘What you need is a smacked backside!’ Someone gave Margaret a swift, hard punch in the kidneys. She wobbled on the stool, feeling every muscle tense, and her heart raced.
‘Steady now, sir!’ said the constable, paying attention again. ‘If you break her ankle, she’ll be slower moving off. Hurry up, missus. We can’t hold them back much longer.’
‘Just let me at her! I’ll bleeding well lock her up myself!’
‘What’s the point?’ snapped another man. ‘Soon as she went off her rocker they’d let her out, which is more’n I would!’
‘Off her rocker? She’s starving herself! Let ‘er sodding starve. Save the taxpayer a bob or two.’
Margaret forced herself not to look at Maude. ‘The Cat and Mouse Act shows the true mettle of this government: bullying and sneaking. But we will not be overcome. Justice will prevail. We will have universal suffrage! Support us, help us, speak out for justice! Votes for Women! Votes for All! Ladies, about turn!’
Margaret stepped down from the stool, which was snatched up by a supporter. The suffragettes turned and began to sing ‘The March of the Women’. She took her place alongside Maude, heart thudding and stomach clenching. She kept looking forward, but at the edges of her vision were the faces of hecklers, now above her rather than below, their fingers jabbing and gesticulating, their words forming an obscene chant.
Home-breaker, fishwife, henpecker, hag, shameful, barmy, witch.
Vandal, bitch, hoyden, drab.
Regardless, one hundred women, bright and feminine in the spring sunshine, marched down the centre of the road. Their neat white dresses were crossed with sashes of green and purple, their white hats adorned with lavender. Heads were high, backs straight, faces determined. The traffic steered round them, most drivers yelling curses as they passed.
Margaret quavered inwardly, and she suspected others did too, but like them, she refused to show it. Even timid Miss Tabor managed to convey indifference and detachment – if one ignored her tight grip on the banner’s pole and looked only at her face.
They marched as equals: women of independent means, university women, professional women, shop-women and maids on their half day, housewives, mothers, spinsters. Grouped by locality, profession or friendship, they marched in blocks. Within each block, one woman bore a standard, or two shared a banner:
Votes For Women
We Will Fight The Good Fight
Deeds Not Words
Senior officers and marshals flanked them, protecting their members from being jostled by the line of police who marched alongside, themselves jostled by irritated drivers and pedestrians.
On the way to the police court, Margaret and Maude had borne the banner that Mrs Nutford and Miss Tabor now bore. Margaret’s arm and shoulder muscles still throbbed from her earlier effort to keep the pole from tipping or twisting.
‘Did that man hurt you?’ said Maude, as the song ended and another began.
‘A little. I’ll be all right. He didn’t have enough space to put much power into it.’
‘You should have dropped the script and used all the bad language you learned in the East End.’
‘Waste of breath, and it wouldn’t help the cause.’
‘Sadly true.’ Maude’s voice faded into a cough.
Margaret turned as much as she could without losing rhythm and regarded her friend. In the harsh sunshine, the hollowness of Maude’s cheeks appeared unhealthy rather than elegant, her wrists were thin and her outfit seemed loose. The white strands streaking her dark hair had not been noticeable the night before. She looked older than forty.
The sun caught on the Holloway badge pinned to Maude’s sash. ‘I could kill for a drink,’ she said.
‘There’ll be tea soon.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of tea.’
‘You shouldn’t be doing this,’ said Margaret.
‘What’s the point of marching to the police court and making speeches if the women it imprisoned aren’t with you?’
‘You’re—’
‘Get these harpies off the street!’ yelled a man to their right. ‘I don’t pay my taxes for coppers to nursemaid a load of harridans. I’ve got fares to pick up. Whose side you on?’ He shoved the policeman, who stumbled into the marshal, who knocked against Miss Tabor. She broke her stride, trying to manage her tipping pole, and Maude and Margaret marched into her and Mrs Nutford before they could stop themselves. The policeman broke ranks to remonstrate with the cabbie while the banner carriers regained control and resumed their march.
‘Are you all right, Miss Tabor?’ called Maude. ‘Have you hurt your wrist?’
Margaret heard the pain in her answer. ‘I shall be fine. If you can go on, Mrs Holbourne, so can I.’
In the moments when they’d been pushed together, Margaret had felt the trembling in Maude’s frame, seen her falter, then swear, her clenched hands pressing her stomach before breaking free to swing again. ‘You’re not well enough to march, Maude.’
‘Stop fussing, Demeray.’
‘I’m not. You’re on licence. If a policeman recognises you and sees you apparently fit and healthy, he’ll put you back in prison to serve another six months of your sentence, and—’
‘Not without a fight, he won’t.’
‘Oh, Maude.’
‘Do shut up, Margaret. I’m in the mood for blacking someone’s eye. Stop nannying me, or it’ll be yours.’
‘I don’t know why you’re annoyed. I was the one trying to talk over all that yelling.’
‘You should be taller.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind for next time.’
They had nearly reached the church rooms where the rally would continue. The blocks were breaking up into individual women, most of the police backing off to let the traffic move. Phoebe was waiting at the door.
‘I don’t suppose there’s brandy,’ said Maude, wistfully.
‘Only if you show signs of fainting,’ said Phoebe. ‘But we were a little behind schedule, so no doubt the tea will be stronger than normal.’
‘If it’s not as thick and strong as paint, it won’t help,’ said Maude, gloomily. ‘And Margaret could do with something to drag her out of self-pity. Look at her. Since when did any of us care what men shouted at us? Chin up, Demeray. Motherhood has made you soft.’
‘No it hasn’t,’ said Phoebe. ‘It was a good speech. You always say that we only need to persuade one person. I’m sure she persuaded more than one today.’
Inside the hall, Margaret refreshed herself with tea and settled to listen to the speeches. The police were keeping hecklers out and evicting any who started up within, so the audience was at least interested in what was being said.
All the speakers were passionate, but none more so than Maude. For a woman who ought to be recovering in bed from hunger strike and forcible feeding, she gave an impression of mesmerising power. Even the most genteel women were on the edge of their seats as she described what she’d endured as an active member of the Women’s Social and Political Union.
As her voice grew louder and her words more forceful, the atmosphere began to change. Maude left no doubt that the government couldn’t be trusted and militancy within the WSPU was utterly justified. Miss Tabor had a look of near-rapture on her face and her hair was coming down and tangling in the old-fashioned ruby earrings she always wore. She readjusted a tortoiseshell comb, then snatched at Margaret’s hand. Margaret shifted sideways: the level of passion made her deeply uncomfortable. She felt as unnerved by Maude as she had been by the hecklers, detached from the rising emotion, threatened by it and desperate to leave.
‘We desire peace,’ concluded Maude. ‘We want to protect those whom the police disregard. Without the vote we cannot act, therefore we demand the vote. The government, in its constant deceit, is responsible for every act of ours which they choose to call an outrage. If they kept their promises, if they gave us that to which we have a right, all militant action would cease. Our opponents will stop at nothing. One of our supporters, Jeremiah Stokes, was murdered just the other day. They say it was a burglar, but how can one be sure? Be on your guard, but do what must be done! Make no mistake – if you do not take direct action, if you shirk your responsibility, then not only do you prolong the campaign, but you side with Mr Lloyd George and his minions. You betray your sisters as they suffer in prison! Women – know your duty and do it!’
‘Oh yes,’ breathed Miss Tabor. ‘Oh yes.’
***
Outside, Phoebe drew Margaret aside. ‘Maude shouldn’t have mentioned Jeremiah Stokes,’ she said. ‘It’s got people’s blood up. I didn’t think his death and his support of universal suffrage were connected. Wasn’t the autopsy done at Dorcas Free? Does Fox—’
‘It’s nothing to do with Fox,’ said Margaret. ‘But yes, Dr Naylor and I undertook the post-mortem. Dr Gesner was away. Stokes was shot at close range, but it wasn’t suicide. The reputable papers all reported that.’
‘Yes, and that it was almost certainly a disturbed burglary. I don’t know why Maude is referring to what the sensational press say.’
Margaret turned to see if Maude had emerged and gasped as a jolt of pain went through her. ‘Did that ruffian really hurt you?’ asked Phoebe.
‘Sitting on a folding chair for an hour hasn’t helped.’ Margaret rubbed the small of her back. Miss Tabor, grey-faced, was standing by the gate, nursing her wrist. ‘I’m more worried about Miss Tabor. I’ll take her to the first-aid position.’
The policeman on the gate reached Miss Tabor first, his disdain replaced by concern. ‘Here, madam, don’t faint. Let me—’
Miss Tabor recoiled, horror on her face. ‘Don’t touch me, you beast!’ She stumbled and let out a squeak. ‘Look what you’ve done! My ankle!’
The constable’s sneer returned. ‘Suit yourself. Get the coven to help you.’
Supported by Margaret, Miss Tabor turned towards the hall. ‘Please don’t fuss, doctor,’ she bleated. ‘I shall be all right. That awful man…’ She peered over her shoulder and stiffened. ‘Oh no!’ She buried her face in Margaret’s shoulder.
‘Once you’re bandaged up you’ll feel better,’ said Margaret.
‘I need to go home. I’ve just seen Mother’s friend. She and Mother were supposed to be in Town till late, but she’s here, staring! That means Mother might be on the way home. She mustn’t know I’m doing this!’
Margaret looked past the police, suffragettes, supporters and detractors milling about. People stared as they drove slowly past in their vehicles, including an elderly lady glaring through her pince-nez.
‘I must go,’ whined Miss Tabor, her face still buried. ‘Could Miss Pendleberry take me?’
Margaret glanced towards the hall. Phoebe was going inside. At that moment, though, she saw what she’d been hoping for all afternoon: the familiar sight of Fox’s driver, Bert, pulling up in the car. She waved discreetly and Bert touched his cap, which meant she could approach. ‘No, but my husband’s driver has arrived. He can take us.’
Miss Tabor peeked under the brim of her hat. ‘But Mother doesn’t know you. She only knows Miss Pendleberry. What will the neighbours say when I turn up in a strange car with a strange man?’
Margaret counted to ten under her breath. ‘Then let me escort you to the hall. Phoebe will be free in an hour or so.’
‘I have to go home now.’
‘Is everything all right?’ asked Miss Stevens, a younger suffragette wearing an undergraduate gown.
Miss Tabor pointed. ‘We have to move from here to there without being seen.’
‘You need a distraction?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good-oh,’ said Miss Stevens. She moved towards the gate, snatched the constable’s helmet from his head, threw it over a wall, then ran in the opposite direction. Everyone turned to watch the policeman as he stood swearing and looking about him in confusion.
Under cover of shouts and laughter, Margaret grabbed Miss Tabor by her uninjured arm and marched her to the car.
Two
Miss Tabor insisted throughout the journey that while some people said her home was in refined Tyburnia, it was unquestionably in even more refined Marylebone.
The house was, in fact, in Paddington. The confusion added ten minutes to the journey.
By the time they arrived, Miss Tabor had given her WSPU sash to Margaret, to pass to Phoebe for safekeeping, and buried her hat’s suffragette decoration in her handbag. She now appeared to be simply a woman of nearly fifty in a white summer outfit.
The Tabors’ home was one of several large, stone-faced terraced houses surrounding a small park. When they were new, each would have been creamy and fresh, containing just one family and its staff, every visible window dressed with care and cohesion. But over the sixty years since, London soot had streaked all of them with grey. Several had been turned into flats with a mishmash of curtains and window-boxes, and varying levels of effort were put into outer cleanliness, giving them rather a slatternly look.
From the outside, however, the Tabor household was as pristine as possible, and Miss Tabor was proud to relate that she, her brother and her mother had a staff of five, four slept in the attics and the boot boy slept in a room off the kitchen, below street level.
‘I hope the boot boy’s room is dry, warm and well-ventilated,’ said Margaret.
Miss Tabor stared. ‘You really needn’t worry. The working classes are very robust.’
Bert handed Miss Tabor out of the car and Margaret made to follow, but Miss Tabor shook her head. ‘No need, Dr Demeray. If Mother’s home, I shall explain that I tripped while I was out, visiting the shops in Marylebone. You were passing, saw to my injuries and had your chauffeur bring me home, but are unable to stay.’
‘Absolutely none of that is true,’ said Margaret, frowning.
Miss Tabor pursed her lips in disapproval. ‘I do not tell falsehoods. I did visit a shop earlier and I did trip, because I was assaulted by a police officer. You’ve passed me several times today, your chauffeur has brought me home and you must be keen to return and speak with Mrs Holbourne. She is an utter inspiration. I so wish I could have stayed.’ A startling glow of adoration crossed Miss Tabor’s face, then disappeared as the shining black front door of her house opened.
A man in his forties whom Margaret vaguely recognised stepped out.
‘Oh!’ Miss Tabor breathed, in evident relief. ‘It’s my brother, Hedley. You may have seen him collecting me from Miss Pendleberry’s meetings. Mrs Holbourne has kindly invited him to dinner on Saturday, to encourage him to support the cause.’
‘Has she?’ said Margaret, as Mr Tabor made his way down the steps. ‘I’ll be there too. As, presumably, will you.’
‘Oh no, I couldn’t leave Mother. Men are so much freer, aren’t they?’
Margaret restrained a sigh of relief that she wouldn’t have to endure Miss Tabor’s chatter and nodded in greeting to Mr Tabor. His face, a male version of his sister’s, was unremarkable: mousy hair, small dark-blue eyes, podgy cheeks, a fuller than average beard. He put out an arm for his sister. ‘I wasn’t expecting you back so soon, Rhoda.’
‘I’ve hurt my ankle, Hedley. Dr Demeray here has been of assistance, but if you’ll help me up the steps I’ll have Sarah bandage it. Is Mother back?’
‘Not yet. I believe I’ll see you next Saturday at Mrs Holbourne’s, Dr Demeray. I look forward to making your acquaintance properly.’
‘That’ll be lovely,’ said Margaret. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to—’
‘No, thank you,’ said Miss Tabor. She turned, took her brother’s arm, climbed the steps and with the tiniest wave, slipped inside.
‘Cor blimey, what a street,’ said Bert. ‘I’ve never seen so many curtains twitching at once. It was like being surrounded by an entire chorus line doing the can-can, only with nothing under the frilly lace that anyone would want to see. I only came to see you were all right. The anti-suffragette crowds are getting uglier.’
‘I’ll survive,’ said Margaret. ‘It takes my mind off things.’
‘Are your father and sister still in Madeira?’
‘Yes. My stepmother’s funeral took place last week, but I don’t think Father wants to leave her behind.’ Margaret felt tears well up and once again wasn’t sure if it was grief, guilt that she hadn’t been able to help, or both.
‘We’re all ever so sorry, Mrs F,’ said Bert. ‘There was nothing you could have done differently. The climate there’s a million times better than London, but…’
‘But she had one bout of pneumonia too many,’ said Margaret. ‘I know. And maybe even Madeira was too wet, though they loved it so. I still wish I could have been there, but it was all over before I could even arrange leave and book my passage. I probably wouldn’t have got there in time and as you say, there was nothing I could do that the local doctors couldn’t. Only … I was so fond of her, and she made Father so happy.’
‘One day you’ll find an effective cure for those sorts of infections.’
‘Maybe not me. But by God, someone must.’ Margaret cleared her throat. ‘Is all well with Fox?’
‘He’ll finish eating scouse and be back on Thursday.’
‘I don’t believe for one moment he’s in Liverpool,’ said Margaret. ‘But I’ll be glad to have him home.’ She paused. ‘Do you think the war in the Balkans can definitely be stopped?’
‘You’re getting the Danube muddled with the Mersey,’ said Bert. ‘But if negotiations here in London go well I don’t see why not, provided no one mucks things up. Not that it’s anything to do with Fox.’
‘Of course not,’ said Margaret. ‘I’ve told everyone he’s in Liverpool as instructed.’
Bert chuckled. ‘Good girl. Where to next?’
‘I can take a cab. Haven’t you something more important to do?’
‘You’re important.’
Margaret checked her watch. There was no point in returning to the hall now. ‘Do you know anything about the death of Jeremiah Stokes?
Bert blew out his cheeks and considered. ‘Sing me the first line and I’ll join in if I know the chorus.’
‘He was shot in lodgings in St John’s Wood.’
‘Oh, him. One of the illustrated papers had a sketch of him hunched over explosives looking sneaky, then lying dead with a pistol beside him. Not our concern.’
‘I’d have thought you’d be interested in people with explosives.’
‘Someone checked and it was nothing to do with us. Why? Does it make a difference to where you want to go now?’
‘Could you take me to Dorcas Free? I’d like to collect his file before taking the tube home.’
‘I’ll you there and home,’ said Bert. ‘Do you fancy driving?’
Margaret glanced up at the house. A worried face peeped round a lace curtain and a dainty hand flapped. ‘Let’s get away from here first,’ she said. 'If the curtains twitch any more, they’ll disintegrate.’
***
Margaret went to her office in the deserted mortuary wing.
She was surprised to find Dr Ruth Naylor sitting at her desk, reading Jeremiah Stokes’s file. Dr Naylor was a Quaker and as much as she could, kept Sunday as a day of spiritual contemplation and charity work.
The older woman looked up and grinned. ‘I thought you’d come the moment the rally disbanded.’
‘I didn’t see you there!’
‘Matron and I were observing two off-duty nurses to make sure they conducted themselves with the dignity Matron demands. Which they did.’ She grinned. ‘My parasol, however, inexplicably jabbed anyone employing bad language. I enjoyed your speech: it was passionate but rational, which is more than can be said for Mrs Holbourne’s.’ Dr Naylor closed the file and handed it over. ‘I gather she was recently released from prison, three months into a term of imprisonment for criminal damage. Hunger strike, I presume.’
‘They force-fed her and it’s taking her time to recover. She’s angry. I’m angry. If they’d listen to what we want, the militants among us wouldn’t act with so much force.’
‘I take it you’re not a militant,’ said Dr Naylor.
‘I did my share of throwing bricks at windows when I was younger.’
‘But no longer? Don’t you keep a hammer in your bag, as Mrs Pankhurst says you must?’
‘I’m not convinced about recent tactics,’ said Margaret. ‘I just wish the government would listen. What threat do they honestly think women pose as voters?’
‘Letting women leave their natural realm and mire themselves in politics would destroy society, my dear,’ said Dr Naylor, impersonating a stuffy male voice. ‘You should rely on your menfolk.’
‘What if my menfolk are fools?’ said Margaret. ‘It’s a ridiculous argument.’
‘I know,’ said Dr Naylor. ‘But things are changing. I’m glad you decided to leave St Julia’s and join us at Dorcas Free. We can prove that more women on the medical staff does not mean less clinical excellence. Dr Gesner is very glad that you’re working with him.’
‘He’s never said so.’
‘It’s not in his nature to gush – but he’s left you in charge till Thursday, hasn’t he? That would never have happened a few years ago in a hospital with male and female staff. This is my way to fight for women, Margaret,’ said Dr Naylor. ‘Not with hammers or bricks, but gentle persistence. And I’ve wanted to work with you ever since you were an argumentative student back in the nineties. Let’s fight the good fight together. You needn’t follow Mrs Holbourne’s example.’
Margaret sighed. ‘She and I have been friends more than half our lives. I trust her to be...’ She stopped, feeling treacherous.
‘Wise?’ suggested Dr Naylor. ‘Then why mention the death of Jeremiah Stokes? It roused her audience in an alarming manner.’
‘He was a suffrage supporter with the means for making bombs.’
‘What has that to do with anything?’
‘Some speculate that his killer wanted to punish him for his views.’
‘Some? Who?
‘The sensational press.’
‘Surely a respectable journalist like Mrs Holbourne wouldn’t use that sort of misinformation to drive an argument. And surely her audience is in the main too well educated to read the sensational press – or believe it if they did!’
‘People read what’s interesting and believe what they want, in the face of duller accuracy,’ said Margaret. ‘But Maude using his case in her speech makes no sense. Unless…’
‘Unless the police are wrong.’
‘If so, how does Maude know?’
‘Maybe she doesn’t. I taught you to go to the facts.’
Margaret shifted in her seat and perused the file. ‘Mr Stokes was shot at close quarters, but not close enough for him to have shot himself. Suicide was initially suspected because the oven in his room had been turned on but not ignited. The room was full of gas.’ She pointed at a paragraph. ‘Yet there was no evidence that he’d inhaled any of it before death. And the police photographs show his body just inside his doorway. That suggests he’d been disturbed while lighting the oven, gone to the door and was then shot. The burglar left the scene without turning the gas off, since why would he?’
Dr Naylor sat back. ‘I suppose that doesn’t preclude a deliberate murder.’
‘No,’ said Margaret. ‘But Stokes was an obscure clerk living in a flat. At the inquest, it appeared that neither his colleagues nor family knew of his views, and he had no particular friends.’ She closed the file, rubbed the small of her back and winced.
‘You know what to look out for in the event of kidney damage,’ said Dr Naylor.
‘Yes, doctor.’
‘Make sure you do. I can’t have you being sick.’
‘No, doctor.’
‘Now, take the file if you must – but go home.’
‘I generally spend Sundays at my sister’s with my father and stepmother. It doesn’t seem the same now.’
‘I know,’ said Dr Naylor. ‘And I understand your grief. But now you must make your own traditions for your own family, and enable your stepmother to live on through them somehow. Let us both enjoy what remains of the Sabbath.’
***
After rereading the Stokes file that evening, Margaret telephoned Maude to discuss the rally and asked, as nonchalantly as she could, why his murder had been brought up.
‘Because there’s something very odd about his death,’ said Maude. ‘Why burgle those flats? They’re rented by people like Stokes. What would any of them have worth stealing?’
‘Most people have something. The burglar just has to want it.’
‘You may be right,’ said Maude. ‘But I know someone who was in the same small suffrage group as Stokes and she’s convinced it was more than just bad luck. Besides, he’s a loss to the cause, and deserves to be remembered for what he wanted to achieve.’
It was tempting to say ‘Bombing things?’, but Margaret knew that wasn’t what Maude meant. ‘You should tell the police or hire a private detective.’
‘No evidence yet,’ said Maude. ‘Phoebe said you had to take Miss Tabor home. Have your ears recovered from all that dreary twittering?’
‘More or less. I met her brother. He said he would be at your dinner party on Saturday.’
‘Oh yes, I meant to tell you. You weren’t at Phoebe’s meeting on Friday, but he came to collect his sister a little early and Phoebe’s maid admitted him. It appears that he and I have a mutual acquaintance, a Mrs Philbrook, in the movement, which he broadly supports. So I decided to invite both of them, if only in case Fox couldn’t come and you needed help to dilute the Bryces.’
‘The who?’
‘Geoff’s guests. Theatricals. Anyway, Miss Tabor kept butting in, saying that her brother’s a war hero like their dear father. Hedley was embarrassed, and said that while their father died in the Afghan campaign, he was invalided out as a cadet before he could serve. He’ll be interesting to Fox, I hope, given the military connection.’
‘The what?’
Maude made an exasperated noise. ‘Oh honestly, Margaret. I haven’t forgotten that Fox was in South Africa in ‘02. The army is common ground, surely. Will he be back from Liverpool?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Well, I’ll see you next Saturday, Demeray. Goodbye.’