‘You stay here and enjoy the tea and cake—I insist.’ She shook his hand and turned to leave.
‘Can we go out again sometime?’ Cecil called.
‘Maybe,’ she replied, without turning around.
Chapter Five
Morton was in the land of the living dead. He had no concept of what time it was, nor what day it was. Every muscle in his body begged him for sleep. It had been, what, five days now since they had brought the baby home and, since that moment, he and Juliette could count the number of hours’ sleep that they had had on two hands. Yesterday, after they had both inadvertently fallen asleep at the kitchen table, they had decided to devise a sleep rota. Now, it was supposed to be his turn to sleep. Except that the banshee wail, emanating from his daughter’s lungs downstairs, penetrated the closed bedroom door, through the pillow placed over his head, before finally breaching the set of ear plugs that he had rushed into town this morning to buy.
Dragging the duvet and pillow off the bed, Morton left the bedroom, climbed the stairs to his study and shut the door. Collapsing into a heap on the floor, he listened carefully. Nope, he could still hear her. In fact, the whole of Rye must be able to hear her, he decided.
With a sigh, he closed his eyes and tried to settle his mind. He needed to imagine that he was somewhere else, lying on a deserted beach. Isn’t that what people did to try and relax? The beach that popped into his mind was Chatham Lighthouse Beach on Cape Cod—one of the places that they had visited on their honeymoon last summer. Warm, perfect sand. Gentle waves breaking on the shoreline. He was almost there. His breathing was beginning to slow and the extraneous sounds were subsiding. He was back there, Juliette sunbathing beside him. As sleep lured him in, so his thoughts began to tear and fact became tangled with fantasy until he slipped into the enveloping darkness.
The sound woke him instantly. He tried to sit up but struggled to raise his forehead from the damp pillow. He was hot, sweating and his pulse was racing faster than if he had just completed a marathon. His eyes flicked open to try and determine the source of the noise. It was the house phone, he realised, disorientation messing with his mind. He was in his study and the phone was ringing.
Grappling up to his desk, Morton knocked the phone to the floor, then picked it up to answer. He spoke: ‘Hello?’ but nothing except a croak came out.
‘Is that you, Morton?’
He cleared his throat, then tried again. ‘Hi, yes.’
‘It’s Margot here.’
Oh, joy, Morton thought. Juliette’s mother, the living embodiment of the interfering mother-in-law. ‘Hi, Margot. How are you?’ he asked, trying to pull his splintered thoughts back together.
‘I’m okay,’ she answered. ‘How’s my daughter and granddaughter? Have you got a name for her, yet? Everyone’s asking.’
‘They’re good, thanks. We’ve chosen Ethel. Like it?’
There was a short pause on the other end of the line. ‘Are you joking?’
‘Yes,’ Morton replied.
‘Right,’ she said flatly. ‘I take it that’s a no, then. Listen, is there anything I need to bring tomorrow?’
Morton outwardly groaned when he realised that she was coming to stay for a few days, then quickly turned it into a cough. ‘Excuse me, Margot. Erm, no I don’t think you need to bring anything…unless you can supply sleep in pill form?’
‘Right, only I’ve got…’ She continued blithering on about gifts from neighbours and cousins, but his addled brain had stopped listening. His eyes settled on Margot’s name on the pedigree chart on the wall in front of him. He traced the line of ascendancy up through her mother, then on to Grace Emmerson.
‘Actually,’ he said, interrupting her mid-flow. ‘Do you have anything at home about your grandmother, Grace?’
‘What?’ Margot stammered.
Morton repeated his request.
Margot blew out a puff of air. ‘I’ll have to have a look. I know I’ve got some photos and maybe some jewellery somewhere. I’ll have a think. So, what about Sue’s fruit scones, then?’
He had no idea to what she was referring. ‘Yes, lovely—thanks.’
‘What?’ Margot demanded.
‘Sorry—got to go—Albert’s crying.’
‘Who’s Albert?’
Morton ended the call, placed the phone back into its cradle and rubbed his face. How long had he been asleep? It could have been minutes, hours, days or weeks for all he knew. One thing was certain, though, and that was that he felt no better for it. And now, thanks to Margot’s call, he was wide awake. He glanced at the clock. Seventeen minutes he’d been asleep. Seventeen. Brilliant. He craved coffee—desperately—but considered the veritable orchestra of creaks and groans that would inevitably accompany his journey downstairs. No, he needed to stay put for the time being.
His thoughts turned back to Grace Emmerson. He had achieved absolutely nothing more on his research into her life and, in fact, couldn’t now recall where he had even got up to. He opened his laptop lid and was presented with the newspaper report which he had found but not yet read, entitled Suffragette’s Violent Speeches. Now he remembered.
‘Miss Grace Emmerson, a prominent local suffragette, was yesterday afternoon arrested outside the Brighton branch of the Women’s Social and Political Union building. She was taken to Brighton Magistrate’s Court, where she was remanded until this morning. The warrant on which she was arrested, and which was granted yesterday afternoon set forth: ‘For that she is a disturber of the peace and is an inciter to others to commit diverse crimes and misdemeanours. In consequence of inflammatory speeches made by Miss Grace Emmerson, a vast amount of damage to property had been done within the last two months in and around Brighton.’
Morton couldn’t help but grin at
