Cat and Mouse (25 page)

She sipped her cocoa thoughtfully, gazing into the rosy firelight. ‘Just memory. Wondering if we can bring back the past.’

‘Explain.’

She sighed. ‘Just that — what you wrote in your letters about Sarah doing something wild. Well, now she has done it. I heard what you said in the Commons, and I understand what you said about trying to please the Home Secretary, but . . . you're angry with Sarah, aren't you?’

‘Always the deep questions. Yes, I suppose I am.’

‘Will you forgive her?’

There was a silence. Abruptly, he jabbed the cigar down into the ashtray, and stood up. He tapped his fist nervously against the mantelpiece. She waited.

‘I don't know, Deborah. Truly I don't. Of course it is the Christian thing to do, and I don't want her in that damn prison, but . . . when I get her out, I don't know. Things can go so far, sometimes, between a man and a wife, and then they reach a point — where it is very painful, Deborah.’

She sighed, and said: ‘I know, Johnny. I know that only too well.’

He looked down at her. ‘You too, then? I had guessed something of the sort from what you say in your letters. And what you don't say. Things are not so well between you and Charles, either, are they?’

‘No.’

He sat down on a stool beside her and took her hand.

It was the comfort she wanted, that she had come all this way to get. She put down the cocoa and took his hand in hers, silently, and she thought, it is so sad, to marry with all that ceremony and commit your lives together and have it all go wrong. But, if there is no love, it is all wasted. Perhaps I should tell Jonathan what I have done now, and ask his advice.

But she dared not. Her dream had brought into her mind what she knew she had to do. Rankin was here in London somewhere; she had to find him. He is the only man I love, she thought, no matter what the law says, and it is his baby. When I find him and tell him I have come all this way, and why, he will take me in. Then I will write to Charles and explain. If I am very lucky, he'll let me see Tom sometimes, and try to understand.

Jonathan said: ‘Sometimes I think I chose the wrong sister.’

‘What?’ It had been a thought that she had had too, long ago, but it was irrelevant now. Anyway, it was one thing to think such thoughts and entirely another to hear them said. She looked into Jonathan's eyes and saw something she did not entirely like. She tried to withdraw her hand but he was stroking it, gently.

‘I don't understand you, Jonathan.’

‘Don't you? Oh come, my dear, I'm sure you do. When I married Sarah I was in love with her but I always knew . . . that you and I could be, well . . . friends, too. As has been proved over the years, in our correspondence. And things do not always work out as one expects, over the years. There are things that should be in every marriage which Sarah — does not like any more. And I am a man like other men, just as you are a beautiful woman . . .’

‘Jonathan, don't!’ She snatched her hand away quite forcefully now, and stood up, not knowing quite where to go. She turned to face him. ‘Please, don't talk to me like that. It's not decent . . .’

‘No, of course it's not. But we are grown people, you and I. I doubt if Charles values you as he should, and anyway he will never know.’ He took a step towards her, put his arms on her shoulders, with that charming, insincere smile.

‘No!’
She took two steps back, banged her knees against the arm of a chair, sat down, stood up again immediately, and walked towards the door like a flustered girl. ‘Please, Jonathan, stop it at once!’

‘I'm sorry.’ He hurried after her so that she had to turn and face him before she could reach the door. ‘I see I have frightened you and that is unforgiveable. Please . . .’ He stood before her, just blocking the easy way to the door, serious, polite, making no attempt to touch her any more. Again the charming smile ‘. . . forgive me, if you can. It is only that I have admired you for so long, and sometimes the life we are given can be so disappointing. I really did not mean to offend you. Take it as a compliment, if you can.' He reached out a hand, tentatively, to touch her face. ‘Debbie? Are we friends?’

She put the hand away, softly, with her own. ‘I am very tired, Jonathan, and I have come a long way. Please let me go to bed now. In the morning I will try to forget everything that was said — and you would be wise to forget it too, if you can.’

‘If I can.’

He made no effort to prevent her going but instead stood by the door, watching her, as she climbed the stairs. When she got to her room she hunted about for a key to the door but there was none, so she thought about jamming a chair against the door then told herself she was being absurd. Hysterical. After all, the house was full of servants and there was a thick, blue bell-pull hanging next to the bedhead if she needed to summon anyone.

Which of course she would not.

He's just a little drunk and upset because of what happened to Sarah and what he had to do in the Commons today. No gentleman would dare to break into my room in the night, surely? After all, I have stayed in this house dozens of times.

When Sarah was here . . .

Oh, poor Sarah! You tried to tell me that men could not be trusted when father died and I wouldn't listen, I didn't want to believe you. And now when you're starving in prison your charming, handsome husband does this!

To me, your pregnant little sister.

Why did he choose me? Perhaps it is because I wanted more satisfaction from a man than any woman has a right to have, and actually dared to have it, too, with Rankin. Perhaps that's changed me too, and this is what I'll inspire in men from now on.

Or perhaps it's something I inherited from Papa.

A while later she heard Jonathan's footsteps go upstairs to his own room, with only the slightest pause outside her door. But long after that she lay awake, listening to the unfamiliar night sounds of the city, and thinking about Rankin, and his baby growing inside her.

And her sister, alone and starving in her cold stone cell.

F
OOTSTEPS IN the corridor. The jangle of keys. Sarah shrank back into the furthest corner of her cell, her knees hunched up to her chin. Was there the sound of wheels, the rattle of the trolley? Surely it wasn't the right time! They weren't varying the time, were they?

Perhaps the young doctor had to go off duty early to visit the theatre. So he would force-feed his patients earlier,
oh please God let it not be that not now it's too early in the day I'm not ready I . . .

The door crashed open. A wardress came in and a man. Not the young doctor. An older man not in a white coat. This man was big, burly, in a respectable suit. His bulk filled the doorway. A heavy, fleshy man, with a solid, portentous face, heavy jowls, slightly receding brown wavy hair, cold grey piercing eyes.

There was no trolley behind him.
Thank God!

The man watched her, mocking, eyebrows raised. Thick sensual lips slightly redder than most men's, smiling. Look at me, woman, I am important, his pose said. He stood just inside the doorway, posed, pompous, watching for the effect of his presence.

She looked and thought,
oh my God I know him!

Martin Armstrong.

The man she had last seen striding briskly away from his consulting rooms in Kensington. Her husband's pimp.

‘What are you doing here?’ Her voice a whisper, faint, like an old lady's. His flesh, all that pompous self-assured bulk of it, made her squirm. The smile, his teeth between the thick lips, was worse. As though she could not fail to be delighted to see him.

He said: ‘I should ask
you
that, perhaps, if it were not in all the newspapers. But I have an appointment as Assistant Medical Officer to this prison, and when the Senior Medical Officer is away on holiday as he is now I replace him entirely. Didn't you know?’

‘Know? Of course not, how should I?’

‘I thought perhaps your husband might have said.’ The smile was still there, enjoying her discomfiture. A hand — thick spatulate fingers — strayed to his waistcoat pocket, unconsciously patting his belly.

My husband? Does the man think I know, and don't care?
A fog began to swirl in Sarah's head, and she thought, I'm too weak, I can't cope with this. ‘Why should my husband speak of you?’

‘He and I were at college together, you know that. You surely remember the night I came to dinner with you, last autumn? We spoke of the work I do amongst the destitute families of prisoners? The hostels I work in — for orphans and the children of prisoners? They have been most favourably spoken of in Liberal circles. Your husband has even visited a few, and praised them most kindly. It is charitable work, that brings its own rewards.’

She thought: so Jonathan actively helps this man! Praises him for work he does with young children. Oh God — what if those hostels are where the girls came from! The woman in the collecting cell said something about that, didn't she? It's too dreadful.

‘And so when I read of your case in the papers I was interested, and when your husband asked me to visit you I was happy to do so.’

‘My husband asked
you
to . . .’

‘To visit you, Mrs Becket, yes. In my official capacity, of course. Though I hope I may be of some help to you if I can, for old acquaintanceship's sake.’ He sat down, on the foot of the bed, his heavy trousers an inch from her feet. Smiling, as though enjoying the power he had over her. She shrank away from him, her hands pressed flat against the hard surface of the bed beside her, to still their trembling.
Did Jonathan send this monster here?

‘May I feel your pulse?’

‘Why?’ She kept her arms where they were.

‘I am a doctor, Mrs Becket. I have come to examine you.’

‘Why do I need to be examined?’

‘You have refused food and my colleague has prescribed treatment for that. Your husband is very concerned. Naturally, I need to know what the results of that treatment are, and if you are capable of withstanding some more.’

‘
Treatment!
Is that what you call it?’ She had meant to scream, but her throat was so dry with shame and fear it came out as a croak.

‘Treatment, yes. Give me your wrist.’ He took it. She snatched it back. ‘Really, Mrs Becket, I cannot act as your medical adviser if . . .’

‘Don't you dare touch me!’

The smile faded, the thick lips pursed together disapprovingly in the round fleshy face.

‘Really, Mrs Becket, I assure you . . .’

‘Save your assurances for the wretched little girls you molest in the house where you have your consulting rooms!’

‘I — I beg your pardon ?’

‘You heard.’

To her surprise, he had gone quite white. If she had not been so afraid she would have noticed it more, but even in her rage she saw that his normally ruddy face had gone sickly white, as though he were suddenly afflicted with nausea. The wardress saw it too. It was the young one — the one built like a coalheaver, Miss Harkness. Sarah saw her glance at him with horror. She took a deep breath, drawing in courage.

‘You know what I mean! You're not a doctor at all., Martin Armstrong, you're a sham! I know about the brothel you keep above your consulting rooms in Kensington, the high-class prostitutes and whores you keep there for men like my husband! And you take little children in there, too, don't you — girls of fourteen and fifteen! Where do you get them from — your brothels in Hackney? Or those charitable hostels you talk about? You introduce them to prostitution, don't you? Or do you abuse them yourself first?’

He gazed at her, appalled. Sarah was aware of the watching eyes of the wardress, over his shoulder.

‘That — is a monstrous allegation, Mrs Becket!’

‘Is it? I don't care, it's true! You are a liar and a procurer and a hater of women. It is
you
who should be locked up, not me! When I get out of here I shall make it my business to bring round a party of suffragettes to your consulting rooms and we shall see for ourselves! We shall rescue those poor girls there and the children you torment, and print the story in our newspaper. I shall destroy your reputation altogether, even if I ruin my own husband's in the process! Tell him that, when you see him, will you?’

Martin Armstrong sat quite still. A little of the colour had come back into his face, but his big fleshy hands were opening and closing unconsciously on his lap, as though they wanted to squeeze something. He glanced briefly at the wardress, as though for support. Then he said: ‘That is the most ridiculous outburst I have heard in my life. I can only think you are affected by a form of collective insanity, like most suffragettes. It is a form of hysteria to which the female mind is uniquely susceptible.’

‘Nonsense!’ Sarah suddenly felt how trapped she was, helpless, quite unable to walk out and slam the door or call her servants and ask him to leave as she would at home. She had to listen to everything he said until he decided to leave. She was utterly in his power.

‘It is not nonsense. I am a medical man and I know. Your wild accusations prove it. I also know that if you continue to refuse to eat, you will suffer serious physical damage. Your brain will be starved of nourishment and may deteriorate further. It is my duty to ensure that your treatment continues while you remain in my care. So I must continue my examination. Give me your wrist.’

‘No!’

Every vestige of his ingratiating smile had gone now. Instead, there was a frown, dark brows scowling together, a slight flush on the heavy jowls. Why did men have to be so
big
! she thought. It's because of that, as much as anything else, that they bully us.

He beckoned to the wardress. For a moment Sarah thought the girl would take her side, but after a slight hesitation she obeyed. She stepped forward, sat on Sarah's legs and gripped her arms so tight Sarah thought they would bruise. The man felt her pulse.

‘A trifle fast, but normal in the circumstances. Let me listen to your heart.’

Oh God, Sarah thought, Jonathan sent this man and now he is going to force feed me. How could any husband treat his wife like this?