He was like the proverbial child in a sweetshop; but he needed to focus. He had just a few hours here to find out as much as he could about Juliette’s great grandmother, Grace Emmerson. He had escaped the house this morning just before the anticipated arrival of Juliette’s highly-strung mother, Margot. She would undoubtedly arrive in a whirlwind of Mary Poppins’ good intentions: cooking, cleaning and reorganising their home. The first thing, about which she would complain, would undoubtedly be the baby’s not yet having a name. They had reached ‘F’ in the book, so technically they were almost a quarter of the way there. Cleo, Dakota, Eden, Eve, Felicity and Flora had made the shortlist. Just at least another 24,000 names to sift through and they should have a decent shortlist.
Having abandoned the baby name book late last night, Morton had pre-ordered six documents to be ready for his arrival this morning, and so he headed directly to a bank of lockers with translucent orange doors. On each door was a number etched in white which corresponded to a designated seat number. 10B, that was Morton’s seat of choice and habit. Pulling open the locker door, he selected the first document: MEPO 3/203—Suffragettes’ Complaints against Police.
He carried the thick file into the main search room and sat down at seat 10B. The room was vast, containing thirty-six tables, each offering eight places, plus a run of ten camera tables close to the windows, again each with eight spaces. Today, the room was around half-full.
Morton unbound the file and turned to the first page. It was headed ‘Metropolitan Police, Bow Street, E Division’ and was an account from the side of the police about the incident at Downing Street: ‘I, with three sergeants and thirty constables proceeded to Cannon Row Police Station for reserve duty. Shortly after arrival we were sent to Downing Street where we found a large crowd of people, chiefly women, endeavouring to force their way into the Premier’s residence. By threading our way through the people close to the building we were able to get in front of the crowd and assist in clearing the street. The women were very excited and time and again made concerted rushes at police, but after great difficulty they were driven back into Parliament Street. Two cordons of police were then drawn across Downing Street to prevent the crowd from reforming. The women, however, repeatedly hurled themselves at police and endeavoured to break through the lines until overcome by sheer exhaustion. During the whole time I saw no undue violence used by police of any kind. Neither was any complaint made to me by any person and had such conduct occurred as alleged by complainants, I could not have failed to observe it. Respectfully Chief Inspector John Millings.’
Morton photographed the police’s version of events, which was supported by several pages of junior ranking officers, all of whom strenuously denied any wrong-doing. The subsequent pages—more than equal in number—were filled with complaint after complaint from men and women accusing the police of using undue and severe violence. Morton took time to read and photograph each account. A bleak picture of viciousness on the part of the police was forming. Among the statements was one from G. Emmerson: ‘On Wednesday 22nd February 1911, I was repeatedly thumped in the back. My arms were twisted and also my fingers. The police purposely trod on my feet while trying to take my hands off the railings. The policeman held me by the breast and I told him to take his hands off me. For an answer, he struck me in the mouth, making my lips bleed. I was then dragged along the pavement by three policemen who had torn off my hat and thrown away my hatpins. One of the policemen took off his helmet and hit me in the leg with it three times in a most violent manner. Some of the terrible injuries inflicted upon me that day have yet still to improve. I now walk with a cane—a situation my doctor informs me may never change.’
After more than an hour of reading, Morton reached the end of the file and exhaled noisily. The countless suffragette complaints, identifying specific officers by their numbered epaulettes, were dismissed; hard labour custodial sentences of varying degrees were metered out by an unsympathetic Magistrate. Morton closed the folder, rebound it and handed it in to the Document Returns desk. He then selected another file from the locker: HO 144/1106/200455—the first of the three Home Office records referred to on the Ancestry Suffragette register.
He carried the grey cardboard file, wrapped in a white cord, back to his desk. He sat down, carefully untied it and opened it up. It contained a collection of loosely bound papers, aged and discoloured by time. The first page comprised the criminal case of one Nellie Godfrey, arrested for throwing a missile into Winston Churchill’s motor-car. The next pertained to the case details of Sarah Carwin, convicted of breaking windows at the Board of Trade. Her file also included a petition to be classified as a political prisoner, a theme which Morton found continued throughout the documents of the convicted suffragettes. He was almost half-way through the file when he first encountered Grace’s name. It was an off-blue sheet, date stamped by the Home Office 4th March 1911 and entitled: PETITION.
Name: Grace Emmerson
Age on conviction: 35
Conduct in prison: Bad
Offence: Assault, damage to property
Prison: H.M. Holloway
‘To the Right Honourable His Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State for the Home
