But she knew that already. They were going to head along the corridor to the room at the end, with its views across the lake and to the arboretum beyond.
Cecil paused at the door, listening, then he slowly turned the handle and the door swung open noiselessly. He stood back and ushered her inside. ‘Here we are. Mr Wild’s bedroom.’
The fabric of the room—the walls, the window and the floor—corresponded with her memories, only the furnishings had changed.
‘Come on, let’s get on with it,’ Cecil said.
Grace nodded, placed the bag on the floor and opened it up. Warily, she removed one of the large yellow tins of Keen’s Genuine Imperial Mustard and placed it in the centre of the room. Deeds not words, she thought, as she took out a canister of petrol and poured from the tin a trail out of the room and along the corridor to the top of the stairs.
Cecil picked up the bag and moved towards the door. ‘Come on, let’s get the other one ready and get out of here.’
‘Calm down,’ Grace snapped, spotting something on the far side of the bedroom. A dresser. Hurrying over to it, she pulled open the drawers. ‘Come over here with that light.’
‘No—it’s too dangerous. One spark from this and they’ll be finding us in pieces,’ he protested. ‘What are you doing? Stealing?’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ Grace retorted, snatching the candlestick from him. She thumped it down on the dresser and used the weak amber light to search among the jewellery. Necklaces, brooches and rings.
‘I didn’t think you were like that, Grace,’ Cecil commented.
‘Like what?’ she demanded, her eyes fiery. ‘A lowly criminal from the workhouse? Have you forgotten my time in prison?’
‘That was different—it was for the cause,’ he answered. ‘This isn’t.’
She went to reply but she had found what she was looking for: a simple gold locket. A great deal of time had elapsed but she recognised it with certitude. Unlatching the clasp, she opened it up and received the final confirmation.
Her heart suddenly felt heavy, and her memories began to unspool inside her mind.
She faltered as she stared at the images encased in the locket. Was she really about to do the right thing? Legally, clearly not. But morally? Her previous resolve faltered.
‘Grace?’ Cecil uttered.
She held the locket up to the candlelight. ‘These are my parents,’ she murmured.
‘What? Why’s it here, then?’ he begged.
The reason for the locket’s being there was inextricably linked to her reason for being there. ‘I’ll tell you another time,’ she replied, picking up the candlestick. ‘Let’s get another tin ready.’
Grace limped along the corridor behind Cecil, the stench of petrol guiding their way. He pushed the door open and they entered the room. She placed the second tin of nitro-glycerine on a plush rug and unscrewed the cap of the petrol canister.
‘Wait!’ he shouted, hurrying over to the window. ‘Oh, God!’
‘What is it?’ Grace asked, rushing over to him. Then she saw it: two synchronised yellow lights, moving towards the house, probing the dark night sky.
‘It’s Mr Wild’s Wolseley,’ Cecil gasped, blowing out the candle. ‘He’s home.’
The car came to a stop below them and the lights extinguished.
‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ Cecil yelled. ‘Come on.’
Grace ran into the hallway and pulled out the box of matches.
‘There’s no time for that,’ Cecil exclaimed. ‘We’ve got to get out.’
‘I’m not leaving until I’ve seen his bedroom blown apart,’ Grace rebutted, fumbling with the matches.
The first refused to strike.
‘Come on, come on,’ she said urgently.
The second refused to strike.
A loud bang of a door closing downstairs reverberated through the still house, making her jump.
‘He’s here!’ Cecil called. ‘Inside!’
The third match caught light and, without hesitation, Grace dropped it to the floor, watching briefly as it ignited the snaking line of petrol along the corridor. ‘Run!’ she yelled.
Her injured leg hampered her progress; they had managed just five stairs before the explosion came.
For one tin of nitro-glycerine, the effect was remarkable. The blast punched out of the room and along the corridor, ripping Grace and Cecil from their feet and shoving them down the stairs in what sounded to Grace like the collision of several steam trains running at one another at full pelt.
She was on her back, her feet angled up the stairs. Her senses were overwhelmed. She could hear nothing but a metallic ringing which drowned everything else out that was surely making noise around her. She could see nothing but light-grey smoke and tiny pieces of debris falling around her like snow.
Cecil! Where was he?
She turned awkwardly and saw him, a few stairs below her, folded over, extricating his limbs from underneath himself like a new-born foal.
Grace ran her tongue over her dry lips and tasted blood.
Their eyes met and, despite their stunned looks, she could see that they would be alright. But they needed to move. The heat and smoke behind them was increasing dramatically. It could only be a matter of moments until the other tin would also be ignited.
She sat up and shook off a rind of dust and attempted to stand. Her legs gave way and she buckled down next to Cecil. As she righted herself, she saw Francis Wild, running up the stairs towards them. He was shouting something but Grace couldn’t hear. Then he was standing over her and his look of shock changed to something else. Anger. She tried to read his lips: ‘…you at the march…’ was all she could comprehend.
He had recognised her from the anti-suffrage march, which spoke volumes to Grace and confirmed in her mind that yes, she was morally right to have done what she had.
Mr Wild slapped her hard around the face, kicked Cecil in the back and then raced
