A Mad, Wicked Folly (6 page)

How could the police do this? I looked around wildly.
Would no one come to her aid? But the men in the crowd
who had been held captive by Lucy’s humor turned coat
once again, laughing and shouting out bawdy suggestions.
“Let go, you big gorilla!” Lucy twisted, trying hard
to free herself. The constable gave up on being gentle.
He jerked the placket open; the buttons pinged onto the
ground like hailstones, revealing the ends of the chain
latched into rings on a wide canvas belt.
The young constable I had been drawing arrived.
“Excuse me,” I said. And for the second time that day, I
took hold of a man’s arm.
He glanced at me, shook his head slightly, and gestured
for me to move back.
I didn’t budge. “That man is a beast!” I said. I pointed
my pencil at the burly constable. “He should be struck off
the force, handling a woman so. It’s not to be borne!”
“Please step back, miss,” he replied, firmer this time.
He put his hand on the constable’s shoulder. “Leave off,
Catchpole. No need for that. Let’s give her a chance to find
the key.”
Lucy looked relieved to see the young constable. I saw
them exchange a small look of recognition. I was right, he
was the constable I had seen that day at Parliament.
“Are you daft, Fletcher? She’s got no key.” Catchpole
shrugged off his hand. “Our orders are to move the women
along and arrest those who don’t leave. And that’s what I’m
about.”
“No need to humiliate her in the doing,” Fletcher said.
His voice remained calm, even friendly, but there was a
tinge of warning to it.
Catchpole let go, and Lucy turned away and fumbled
with the remains of her skirt. She was trembling, but her
mouth was set hard.
“We have to move them along, you know that,”
Catchpole was saying to the other constable, who looked
like he didn’t care, one way or the other. “No obstructions
to the pathway.” His face was red and he was breathing
hard. He eyed Lucy like a hungry wolf yearning to finish
his freshly caught meal.
“But not this way,” PC Fletcher said. “Look, we’ll have
the hacksaws at work soon. She’ll be loose in a trice.”
Catchpole scowled. “Always thought you was one of
them. Honorary suffragette, are you? Be wearing a skirt
next if you’re not careful.”
The insults seemed to slide over the young constable.
“Are you all right, Lucy?” I said.
She paused in her repair of her skirt and glared at me.
“This isn’t tea with the queen. I’ll tell you again, go home!”
And I don’t know who it was, but right at that moment,
someone pushed me so hard that I flung my arms out to
catch my balance. My sketchbook and pencil flew out of
my hands. At the same time PC Fletcher turned toward me.
And I swear I did not mean to—I was only trying to stop
from falling headlong—but I stumbled forward, fetched up
against his chest, and wrapped my arms around his waist.
The next thing I knew, he toppled to the ground,
with me on top of him. That would have been humiliating enough, but the force of the fall was so great that my
forehead clonked against PC Fletcher’s chin with a loud
whomp. Stars dazzled in front of my eyes.
“Uhhhh.” PC Fletcher let out a groan.
I tried to get off of him, but my skirts had whipped
round my legs, and the more I struggled, the more I
seemed to make matters worse. I had never been in such
intimate contact with a man before, and if I could have
sprouted wings and flown off of him, I would have done so
immediately.
“Will you pack it in?” he said. “I don’t wish to be rude,
but you’re jabbing me in a very painful area.”
“Well, this is no picnic for me either!”
“I feel as though a tree has fallen on me.”
“Oh, thank you very much.” I scowled.
And then he smiled. And as he did so, his whole being
lit up with good nature. It was as though having someone
dropped on top of him was simply all in a day’s work. One
hand settled on my arm, as if he were walking alongside
me in the park. I could feel the heat of his hand through
the silk sleeve of my coat and I found I liked it. I liked it
much more than was strictly proper and I felt my body
melt against him a little. His face was only inches from
mine, and up close he was even more handsome. His eyes
were an unusual shade: dark gold flecked with sage green,
encircled by a border of evergreen. They would be heaven
to paint.
At that moment, rough hands grabbed me round the
waist, jerked me off the constable, and stood me on my
feet. I stepped forward to pick up my sketchbook but I
could not. I was held fast by two of the other constables.
Without wasting any time, they began to march me toward
the van.
“Let me go!” I jammed the heels of my boots against
the ground, but they didn’t care one bit; they dragged me
along. I craned my neck and saw Police Constable Fletcher
back on his feet. My sketchbook was on the ground near
him.
“Attacking an officer of the law is bad enough, lass. I
wouldn’t add resisting arrest to it,” one of them said.
I jerked my head around. My heart began to beat in
a wild tattoo. “You’re arresting me? No! Someone pushed
me.”
“Tell it to the judge.”
“At least, please get my book. I beg you.” But they would
not hear me.
We drew closer to the back of the van and I could see
inside. It was lined with boxes, which looked like coffins
standing on their ends, with only a little barred window in
the top of each one.
“Welcome to the Black Maria, lass,” one of the constables said.

COULD NOT GO
in there. I went dotty in confined
spaces. Always had done. I could not help it.
A constable waiting inside reached out for me.
When the other two lifted me up, I pulled my legs up
and planted my boots on either side of the van door, not

Panic swelled inside me, and I was having trouble
focusing. Everything blurred in front of my eyes, skewing
objects into splotches of color, like one of Monet’s paintings.

“Lord’s sake.” The constable on my right swore. “It’s
like trying to shove a horse though a keyhole.”
“She’s a live one, I’ll give her that,” the other replied.
The constable inside the van grabbed my ankles, yanking them off the door and scraping my right calf painfully
as he pulled me in. “Makes a change from the usual thugs
we get. At least she smells good,” he said.
The men laughed.
The door to one of the coffins squeaked open and I was
shoved inside it. The door slammed shut and a key turned
in the lock. The coffin smelled of vomit and sweat, and
something soft squished underneath my boot.
There was barely enough room to turn around, not
enough to even to lift my arms up, so I leaned back and
kicked at the door. “Let me out of here!” Great heaving
sobs that started in my chest rose up into my throat, and
I thought I might be sick. I kicked the door again. “Let me
out . . . somebody!”
The van tilted as someone else stepped inside. I stood
on tiptoes and looked through the window. Catchpole was
pushing Lucy forward.
“Lucy!” I shouted. But Lucy took no notice of me. They
bundled her into the last coffin and locked it. I kicked the
door again and again. I would bloody well kick it down if
they didn’t hear me.
“You’re only making things worse for yourself.”
It was a familiar voice that spoke. A pair of familiar
eyes regarded me through the bars. It was PC Fletcher.
“Tell them I didn’t attack you,” I said, trying hard to
keep from shrieking. “Tell them someone pushed me! You
know that’s the truth.”
“We’ll sort everything when we get to Cannon Row
Police Station. I’m sure they’ll release you to your father.”
My father? Oh, no . . . no, no, no. “There’s no reason for
me to go there.” My voice rose in desperation. “Please open
the door. I can’t bear it in here.”
“Just try to calm yourself,” he said gently.
“At least tell me, did you pick up my sketchbook? I
know you saw it there.”
Someone shouted out his name, and PC Fletcher turned
to leave.
“Please get my book!” I shouted after him, with no idea
if he heard me or not. I banged the door with my fist and
slumped back against the wall.
And then the van began to move, pitching me against
the side of the coffin. The horses’ heavy hooves clopped
against the road, and the van’s wheels rattled. The bells of
Big Ben rang out the half hour.
“Well, Queenie”—Lucy finally spoke—“looks like
you’re a suffragette now.”

I DIDN’T KNOW
what was worse: the fear of being enclosed in the Black Maria, the dread of my parents’ finding
out about yet another scandal, or the loss of my precious
sketchbook. If that police constable had just let me out, it
would have all been fine. I could have found my book and
then gone on my way. No harm done. But no, he couldn’t
be a gentleman. And I certainly doubted he retrieved my
book like I asked him to.

“The next time someone tells you to scarper, I bet you’ll
listen, Queenie,” Lucy called out.
“My name is not Queenie!” I snapped outraged that she
would address me with such mockery.
A light rain began to fall; I could hear the drops against
the roof of the van. I pictured my sketchbook lying on the
pavement, pages fluttering in the wind, drops of water
plopping onto the charcoal, smearing my sketches until
they were nothing but wet ashes on blotting paper. Work
I’d been compiling for months, gone.
What would I submit to the RCA now? My childhood
drawings? Without my sketchbook, I had no chance at a
scholarship. I wouldn’t even get past the application process without work to show.
No doubt about it, the loss of the sketchbook was the
worst. I leaned my forehead against the door and tried to
work out how my life had gone so wrong in such a short
space of time.
Maybe there was a chance that my sketch pad was still
there. Whether it was ruined or not, I could not let it lie
there, abandoned, for some street sweeper to gather up
along with the horse manure and cigarette stubs. Perhaps
I could salvage something of it. As soon as the judge let me
free, I would go back.

I glanced around, and dread rose inside me. PC
Fletcher, the only one who could speak to my innocence
and be believed, was nowhere around. Certainly no one
would listen to Lucy.

Lucy and I stood in front of the police-court judge, a
hugely fat man with a doughy face that looked like it hadn’t
seen the sun in years.

“Not you again?” he said to Lucy. “Haven’t you learned
your lesson yet? Why don’t you go back to America and do
us all a favor, eh?” Then he lifted his chin at me. “And you.
Assaulting an officer can get you three years in Holloway.”

My heart began to pound alarmingly, the feeling of
panic rising again at the mere thought of being held in a
prison cell. “There seems to be a misunderstanding,” I said.
“I wasn’t even with the suffragettes. I was simply drawing
them for my own pleasure. And then someone pushed me
and I fell on the police constable.”

The judge regarded me with a dubious expression as I
protested my innocence. Then his gaze traveled down and
landed on the lapel of my coat. “You weren’t with the them,
you say?” He jabbed a finger at my lapel. “Then why are
you wearing one of their badges?”

The pin! The ruddy suffrage pin that Lucy had put on
me! My mouth opened, but I could not think of a word to
say.

She’s got nothing to do with us.”
The judge harrumphed.
“That’s a load of old pony.” Catchpole stepped up. “She

was in Fletcher’s face as soon as he arrived, then she tackled him so he wouldn’t take this un’s skirt off to get to the
chain.”

I gasped. “You lying toad! You know full well you’re the
one who tried to take her skirt off.” I turned to the judge.
“He did. He said he’d strip her naked, too. He’s a menace!”

“If you were drawing, where’s your art book?” the
judge asked.
“I dropped it. I’d hoped one of your constables picked
it up for me.”
The judge leaned forward, his chair creaking beneath
his bulk. “Listen to me carefully, miss. I very much doubt
that you were simply drawing. If you were, then why didn’t
you get out of the way when the constables arrived?”
What a stupid thing for the man to ask. “Because I
wanted to draw. As I said.” I caught sight of Lucy, who was
shaking her head.
Shut it
, she mouthed.
“You wanted to
draw
the
police
?” the judge said, glaring
at me. “That doesn’t seem innocent. Care to explain?”
“Explain?” I said, a feeling of doom settling over me.
I should have just said I couldn’t get away, that I was
trapped in the crowd. But no, once again I was my own
worst enemy. “Um . . .”
Then PC Fletcher came in, shaking raindrops off his
tunic. Just as I thought, there was no sketchbook in his
hands.
“Hell have you been?” Catchpole said.
“Witness report. I walked back.”
“She’s claiming she’s not with the suffragettes,” the
judge said. “Said she was drawing. Know anything about
that?”
PC Fletcher turned around slowly and looked at me, his
jaw set hard. Disgust flickered in his eyes. “Well, I don’t
know anything about drawing, but someone pushed her,
sir. I can vouch for that.”
I met his gaze with a cold look of my own.
Liar!
He’d
seen me drawing. He knew he had. The words to tell him
off were right there, ready to burst forth, but I caught Lucy
shaking her head again, this time vehemently, so I didn’t.
But oh, it took everything I had to hold back.
“Wouldn’t believe a word coming from him.” Catchpole
jabbed a thumb at PC Fletcher. “Always helpin’ them out.
On the take, he is.”
PC Fletcher frowned at him. “Shut it, will you?”
Catchpole shrugged.
“I’d give anything to get home to my tea on time, just
for once. I’ll tell you that for nothing.” The judge cupped
his chin in his hand. “I suppose you don’t want to pay the
fine for obstruction,” he said to Lucy.
“Not a chance.”
“I’m not surprised. Looking for a news story, are you?”
He sighed. “You lot will do anything for publicity.”
“We’re fighting for our rights, sir. Rebellion is a natural reaction to repression for any human being, male or
female. If our action makes front-page news and gains
sympathy for our cause, then that’s the icing on the cake.”
“I don’t need the lecture, miss. Two weeks in Holloway.”
He slanted his head at Catchpole. “Take her in.”
Lucy shot me one more warning look and then went off
with Catchpole. She looked so tiny and vulnerable walking
alongside the burly constable, but her back was straight
and her stride unfaltering.
The judge turned his attention back to me. “What’s
your name?”
I held my breath. If I said Darling, he’d probably ask if I
was related to Darling & Son Sanitary Company, and then,
I was sure, one thing would lead to the next and my father
would be in the know. “It’s . . . Victoria. Victoria Smith.”
Fletcher glanced at me and frowned. What in heaven’s
name was his problem?
“Well, Miss Smith,” the judge said. “Most suffragettes
are fighting to get into jail, not out of it. So I’m inclined to
believe your story. But if I see you here again, I won’t be so
generous. I’m releasing you to PC Fletcher, who will escort
you home. You’re lucky the missus has sausage plait and
plum duff on for tea, or I might not be so generous. Off you
go, then. Make sure she gets home, Fletcher.”
“Yes, governor.” PC Fletcher took my elbow and led me
out of the room.
Once we were out of the judge’s sight, I yanked my arm
out of his grasp.
He held his hands up. “Sorry.”
I strode in front of him and out into the rain. I had no
umbrella but I didn’t care.
“Wait a mo’.” PC Fletcher popped into the station and
came out with an umbrella. “No sense catching a chill.” He
snapped it up, holding it over both our heads. I stepped out
of the umbrella’s shelter. I didn’t want to stand so close to
him. I was too angry.
He sighed. “I won’t bite.”
The rain fell harder. He stepped closer; this time I did
not move away. I shivered. It was cold, and my silk coat
was not lined. I could almost feel the warmth radiating
from him. He smelled lovely, like wool and green grass.
And despite my anger, I could not help but feel pulled
toward him. I didn’t understand how I could feel angry
and attracted to him at the same time. Maybe it was
because I yearned to draw him. When the Pre-Raphaelite
artist Rossetti first laid eyes on Lizzie Siddal, he became
obsessed with painting her. Maybe this was what one felt
when one met a potential muse.
“Well, where do you live?”
I hesitated. Potential muse or not, I had to work out
what to do with PC Fletcher at the present moment. And
then I realized how I could prevent another scandal from
reaching my parents’ ears. “With my brother and his wife
in Pimlico.” The lie tripped easily from my mouth.
“Pimlico?” He sounded doubtful.
“Yes, Pimlico! What’s so odd about that?”
He looked at me with that hard expression again, as
if he couldn’t bear to be standing next to me. “Right then,
Victoria Smith from Pimlico.” He said the words with a
sharp beat. “Best be on our way.”
“If you don’t mind, I wish to go back to Parliament first.”
“I do mind, actually.”
“Fine then, I’ll go on my own.” I made to leave, but he
grabbed my arm.
“Oh, no you don’t. I have my orders to take you home,
and home is where you’re going.”
I tried to twist my arm away, but his fingers were
locked on.
“Who is to know?”
“I’ll know!”
“P.C. Bumptious.” I whispered the insult under my
breath but made sure he heard it.
“Bumptious?” he said, his voice rising. “I’d rather be
bumptious than a liar.”
Anger swelled inside me. “Who’s a liar?”
“You are.”
“Me? A liar? That’s rich. You’re the liar. You could have
told the truth right away and let me loose. But no!” The
words bubbled out of me in a stream of rage. There was
no holding back. “You’re just like that Catchpole, aren’t
you? Treating women like objects . . . things to be pulled
about from pillar to post.” I took a shaking breath.
“For your information, I couldn’t have let you go,” he
said. “That’s for the judge to decide. And believe me, you’re
not worth me getting the sack.”
“I don’t care. I’m going back to Parliament!” I pried at
his fingers, but they were like iron. “You’re hurting me!”
He loosened his grip, and it was enough to jerk my arm
away and run. I heard him swear. I had a little head start
as he dealt with the umbrella, but then he was running
behind me. I sped up. There was a crowd standing outside
a pub underneath an awning just ahead. Maybe I could
lose myself in the clutch of people and then cut away. He
wouldn’t know which way I went, and then I could return
to Parliament.
But just as I reached the pub, a hand snaked out and
wrapped around my waist, nearly jerking me off my feet.
“Who you runnin’ from, treacle?” A tall, burly man
stared down at me, a cigarette clamped between his teeth.
A strong smell of unwashed body wafted from him. He
looked down the pavement and saw PC Fletcher. “Ah, a
copper, eh? You a pickpocket?” He looked me up and down.
“Dress nicely for a thief, I’ll give you that.”
“Just let me go!” I pulled away, but I had lost my head
start. PC Fletcher caught up and grabbed my wrist.
“Try that again and I will shackle you, right here in the
street, with everyone watching, and then haul you back to
the station.”
My eyes fell upon the manacles hanging from his belt.
I swallowed.
The burly man laughed. “Need some help, lad?”
PC Fletcher scowled at him. “You can move on!” The
man leered at me once more and then returned to his
friends. Fletcher returned his attention to me. “Do I have
your word, Miss Smith, that you won’t try to escape again?”
I wanted dearly to kick him in the shins and run, but I
knew I would not get far. So I kicked a rock instead, sending it winging across the street. “Very well! You have my
word.”
PC Fletcher released me with an exasperated sigh. Rain
poured in a stream off his helmet. “You are an impossible
girl,” he said.
“So I’m told.” I could feel the rain dripping off my nose.
“What’s at Parliament that’s so important?”
“The prime minister, a bunch of MPs, quite a lot of
lords.”
“Oh, ha-ha. It’s your sketch pad, isn’t it? I saw you
drawing.”
“Yes, and I asked you to pick it up for me. In that police
van. Did you not hear me?”
“I heard you. It’s not the business of the Metropolitan
Police to look after things for doers of crimes.”
“I’m not a . . . a doer of crime, and you know it!”
“Besides, I’m sure it’s long gone now, so you can forget
about it.” He seemed to take quite a lot of pleasure in saying this.
I noticed a bruise had begun to bloom on his chin where
my forehead had struck him. Good. I hoped it gave him a
blinding headache for days.
“Besides, what’s so important about it?”
“I don’t expect you to understand the value of art. It’s
not a subject dullards and buffoons would be interested
in,” I said.
“Now see, that’s where you’d be wrong. I find the illustrations on the Guinness beer adverts most inspiring.”
“That’s very funny,” I said, not finding his sarcasm
amusing in the least. “Why can’t you just be a gentleman
and take me to Parliament so I can find it?”
“Sorry, but no.”
PC Fletcher put his umbrella up again and we walked
the rest of the way to Pimlico in silence. I dearly hoped my
brother Freddy was home. He’d go along with my story. I
was sure PC Bumptious would insist on delivering me right
inside the door, and if Freddy’s wife, Rose, received us,
she’d tell him the truth about me and then some.
My hand fell against my empty satchel, slung across my
chest. Freddy would take me back to Parliament to search
for my sketchbook.
I couldn’t help but look at PC Fletcher sideways out of
the corner of my eyes as we walked. He was handsome in a
distracting way. Too handsome for his own good. Or mine.
I caught him looking at me the same way. He grinned at me
smugly and I flicked my gaze to the front.
I decided that my artistic senses had terrible taste in
muses.