The Suffragette's Secret

the Government were prepared to give next session to the Women’s Suffrage Bill, raised the wrath of the militants. A meeting of suffragettes was being held in Caxton Hall when the terms of the Prime Minister’s announcement were made known. The meeting refused to accept them as satisfactory and Mrs Pankhurst announced that she would go herself to Downing Street, and the whole body of women, armed with banners on bamboo pole, set out to march to the Premier’s House. On arrival there they found only three or four policemen on duty, and thinking they had at last outwitted the powers of Cannon Row, they raised a cheer. Their victory, however, appeared to be more apparent than real. The constables on duty at once did their best to check the invading women, and in response to their whistles, a special force was despatched from Cannon Row. This force marched along Charles Street and through the Foreign Office quadrangle, emerging right opposite to the residence of the First Lord of the Treasury. The suffragettes threw themselves upon the police. For some minutes a bitter struggle prevailed, and then the police were forced back, and a shrieking, hysterical mass of men and women poured into Downing Street. For some moments a scene of pandemonium reigned. Policemen’s helmets were knocked off with bamboo poles, and suffragettes kicked their legs. Mr Asquith was crossing Parliament Square, apparently on his way to Downing Street, when he stumbled right into the midst of the deputation. He was quickly surrounded by the women, and one of them, Miss Grace Emmerson, approached him and struck him, saying, ‘You tax women as heavily as men, and yet not one woman is represented.’ Half a dozen policemen surrounded Mr Asquith, whistles were blown, a taxi-cab was driven up, and the Premier was hustled into it. As the cab was driven away Miss Emmerson shouted ‘Traitor, coward,’ and then put her fist through the small pane of glass at the back of the cab. Arrest after arrest was made and soon Downing Street was cleared.’

Morton sat back and rubbed his tired temples. ‘Wow,’ he said. What a feisty woman, accosting the Prime Minister like that. Amazing. Having read the report once more and printed it out, he cross-referenced the date of the account with the information on Ancestry’s Suffragettes Arrested register. Bow Street 22/2/11 – 200.455. The same incident. Clearly, a visit to The National Archives would be in order.

Having exhausted the newspaper articles on Grace, Morton turned his attention back to her childhood and to trying to understand the reason for her decade-long incarceration in Brighton Union Workhouse.

He typed the names of Grace’s mother, Eliza Emmerson, into the 1881 census, followed by that of her father, Ebenezer. Although he didn’t know enough about Grace’s parents to be absolutely certain, he was fairly sure that they did not show up in the results. There were several possibilities for this, but the most likely being that they had died soon after Grace’s birth in 1876.

He switched to the 1871 census and quickly found Ebenezer, an unmarried solicitor’s clerk living in Brighton. He also found twenty-six-year-old spinster Eliza—under her maiden name of Hodgson—living with her solicitor father and mother in a house on the outskirts of Brighton. But what, then, had happened in the intervening decade? Ebenezer and Eliza had met—most likely under circumstances concerned with her father’s and Ebenezer’s shared legal work; they had married in 1875 in the Brighton district and, one year later, Grace had been born. According to the birth indexes on the General Register Office website, there had been no further children to the marriage.

Morton ran a search between 1871 and 1881 for their deaths and found them. Ebenezer had died in the Brighton district in 1877 and Eliza in the same district in 1880.

Poor girl, Morton thought, an orphan before the age of four. It certainly explained the extended incarceration in the workhouse.

‘I can’t sleep,’ Juliette announced, suddenly appearing at the door. ‘I think I’m hungry. When did we last eat anything healthy?’

Morton had no idea. Most of their meals had either been takeaways, something quick from the freezer or else skipped entirely. He shrugged. ‘Before Miss Farrier made an appearance, I guess. I’ll make us something. What do you fancy?’

‘Surprise me.’

‘Okay,’ Morton agreed, opening the fridge door. ‘Right. Let me think what I can make with milk, strawberry jam, three limp carrots, two out-of-date eggs and some red nail varnish. I think I’d better get down to Jempson’s.’ Morton kissed her on the lips and headed for the door. ‘Oh, carry on with this list.’ He handed Juliette the baby name book and the names which he had liked.

‘Beatrice, Burgundy and Catherine. Is that it?’

‘So far.’

Juliette huffed and glanced down at the book. ‘Chinadoll? Really! Chickadee? Christmas? I don’t think I’m of sound-enough mind to do this—I’ll end up picking a name at random and scarring the poor girl for life.’

Morton laughed, pulled on his shoes and opened the front door.

‘Cinderella—there you go!’ Juliette shouted. ‘Done.’

Cinderella Farrier: his little princess. It certainly had a ring to it.

Chapter Six

The traffic had been horrendous. It was kind of his own fault for driving to Kew, on the outskirts of London, during rush-hour. What had he expected? Under a mackerel sky, he parked up and switched off the engine. He yawned, stretched and sighed, then grabbed his bag from the passenger seat and strode towards The National Archives. The building—ostensibly a monstrous block of uninspiring concrete—was reflected in a lake over which it presided, like an aloof monarch. A flock of Canada Geese flew low overhead, landing noisily in the still waters beside him.

Morton entered the building and, having had a security guard rifle through his bag, removed his notepad and pencil and placed his bag in a locker, before bounding up the stairs to the first