The Furies (8 page)

Another hot summer's day, but by early evening the streets of Paddington were beginning to cool as Elspeth left her lodgings to join Sylvia, Vera and Anya on the short walk to catch a tram for Holland Park. More than a month had passed since the Abbey bombing and it now seemed unlikely the police would charge anyone with the crime. Although Elspeth had decided not to participate in further acts of militancy, she still wanted to support the WSPU, and in spite of her previous misgivings she was now looking forward to the public meeting that evening.

The quartet of friends arrived at Lancaster Gate where Elspeth saw a large group of women already waiting at the tram stop. Drawn from all ages, some held placards or furled banners, while others carried flags in the suffragette colours; purple, white and green. A few were wearing a white WSPU sash across their blouses, or, like Elspeth, had the WSPU badge pinned to their chests; a metallic green-and-red shield overlaid with a white chevron engraved with the words “Votes for Women”. There were even two women holding large silver-painted wooden arrows, a sign that these militants had previously suffered imprisonment for their suffrage beliefs. It did not surprise Elspeth to see that Vera seemed to know them both, and gave both a nod of recognition.

A tram drew up at the kerb and Elspeth joined the other women as they pushed to get inside. The carriage was full of evening commuters and Elspeth had to stand in the central gangway holding onto the leather strap above her head as the carriage swayed on its route through west London, the overhead wires humming with electricity, the crackle of sparks flying from the tracks. After a short ride they arrived at Holland Park and dismounted to join a crowd of smartly dressed middle-aged ladies, working women still in their uniforms, and a number of older women, all walking towards the skating rink.

The skating rink was located in a narrow street full of shops and restaurants, and Elspeth could see the wide pavement in front of the entrance was already packed with supporters of the Pankhursts, many of them spilling into the street. Placards had been raised, banners unfurled, and everywhere that Elspeth looked she saw the words ‘WSPU' and ‘Deeds not Words' sway above the heads of the crowd. On the pavement on the opposite side of the street, a detachment of constables stood with folded arms and patronising grins. In the middle of the street, four mounted police officers leant on their saddles, watching the crowd with interest. Since the interrogation outside the Abbey, the mere sight of a police uniform sent a spark of apprehension through Elspeth. So she turned her face away and with Sylvia by her side followed Vera and Anya into the crowd, trying to blend anonymously in the sea of bodies.

And it was just as she was worming her way into the thicket of women, that Elspeth heard an excited shout of “she's here”. She turned and saw an ambulance pulling up at the kerb. As the vehicle came to a stop, the women on the pavement surged towards it and Elspeth had to hold onto Vera as she was almost swept off her feet by the pressure of the crowd. In spite of a group of women stewards – each wearing a white WSPU sash – who tried to hold the crowd back, the ambulance was quickly surrounded. Two men in white uniforms stepped out of the cab and pushed their way to the rear of the vehicle; the back door of the ambulance was opened and the men climbed inside. A moment later one of the men reappeared holding the handles of a stretcher, and a joyous cry erupted from the crowd when they realised the figure on the stretcher was Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst.

In spite of the warm evening Mrs Pankhurst was dressed in a red velvet robe and hat, her gaunt face clear testimony to the effects of her hunger strike. The men carefully manoeuvred the stretcher between two rows of stewards who had linked arms to create a corridor in the crowd, and carried Mrs Pankhurst towards the rink entrance.

Followed by Sylvia and Anya, Elspeth stayed close behind Vera as she used her height and strength to force a way through the crowd to the edge of the cordon. The stretcher passed directly in front of Elspeth and she looked over Vera's shoulder to see Mrs Pankhurst waving feebly at her supporters as she was carried by.

And then, quite suddenly, Elspeth heard the piercing shriek of a police whistle from behind her: she looked across the street and saw that the policemen on the opposite pavement had begun to move towards the crowd of women.

‘Bastards,' Vera cried out, the muscles in her jaw tight, her shoulders taut with anger. ‘She's only just go out and they're already going to re-arrest her!'

Cries of anger and shouts of frustration replaced the cheers of the women, and Elspeth steadied herself, holding onto Vera as she tried to keep her feet in the surging crowd. She heard the stamp of hobnail boots and turned to see a wedge of blue uniforms forcing their way into the throng. The police constables at the front of this spearhead – determined looks on their moustached faces and truncheons raised – broke through the stewards' linked arms. The crowd became a mob, booing and hissing as the police surrounded the stretcher, the stretcher-bearers looking uncertain as they lowered Mrs Pankhurst to the pavement. Another police officer elbowed his way past Elspeth and slipped through the ring of constables surrounding Mrs Pankhurst, and the noise of the crowd faded as he held a piece of paper up in front of his face.

‘Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst,' he read. ‘Under the terms of the Temporary Discharge for Ill Health Act, I am re-arresting you…'

But he was unable to finish his words as the women resumed their baying. Elspeth saw that Sylvia and Anya were caught up in the crowd's rage, both yelling at the police, both red-faced with fury. A slightly built woman a few paces away from Elspeth tried to pull one of the policemen away, and was immediately struck with a truncheon and forced to the pavement. Elspeth clutched her throat and gasped with shock and anger at the disproportionate violence of the constable's response.

And then, quite abruptly, her anger disappeared and was replaced by an uncomfortable feeling of danger, a feeling that someone was watching her. She turned her head to scan the crowds ahead: and beyond the broken cordon of stewards on the far side of the road she locked eyes with someone she knew; a tall man, with ginger sideburns, and a black bowler hat.

There was a smile of recognition on the inspector's lips as he spoke to a uniformed police sergeant standing by his side. Then both men began to push through the crowd towards her.

Sylvia suddenly spun around. ‘Oh my giddy aunt Ellie, it's the inspector from the Abbey.'

Anya was looking at Sylvia with a puzzled frown, but Vera appeared to have grasped the situation because she turned her back towards the inspector and pulled Elspeth and Sylvia in front of her, shielding them from his view.

‘That policeman – he saw you at the Abbey?' Vera shouted above the noise of the mob, and Elspeth nodded her head. ‘Right, you and Sylvia need to split up. I'll delay him as long as I can. Anya, you can't risk being caught so leave this to me. We'll all meet at Ellie's in an hour. Now go, all of you, quickly,' she said, turning to face the inspector.

Elspeth turned away and tried to force a passage through the wall of women straining to reach Mrs Pankhurst. Her arms ached and her ribs were bruised and battered as she pushed against them. But eventually, like a swimmer wading into the sea against a breaking wave, she managed to find a way between them. As she neared the edge of the crowd she turned to take a final look behind her. She could just see the back of Vera's head, and beyond her distinct brown curls the approaching bowler hat of the inspector. Then she saw Vera lurch towards him and suddenly both disappeared from view. Good Lord, Elspeth thought, what has Vera done? But she had no time to think, because the police sergeant was still coming and so she turned round and pushed forward once more, until she finally found herself free of the crowd, standing on the pavement outside a greengrocers' shop.

Two mounted policemen were standing nearby. The sight of them – big-shouldered men on powerful-looking animals – filled her with fear, but she avoided looking at them as she walked along the street. Elspeth tried to act casually, trying not to run, nonchalantly turning around every few steps or so to check for signs of pursuit. Fifty yards along the street she turned once more, and this time saw two police constables break through the edge of the crowd. One of them was the sergeant and he looked towards her and then let out a sudden yell. ‘You there, stop!'

Her heart sank. She hurried forward and reached an intersection and quickly turned left into a row of terraced houses. With the shrill noise of a police whistle behind her, she lengthened her stride as much as the hem of her skirt would allow, and scurried along the pavement, all the time aware of the curious glances from pedestrians walking towards her.

More shouts and another blast from a police whistle followed – both louder, both nearer – and she realised she could not outpace the police. Dear Lord, they would soon catch her, or some diligent citizen might stop her. What should she do?

There was only one option: hide.

She saw an alleyway between the houses and slipped into it – she had no idea where it went – and blindly hurried to the bottom; it turned right into a brick-walled passage, which ran parallel to the main street. Wooden doors were built into the passage wall, presumably leading into the back yards of the houses, Elspeth thought, as she tried the handle to the first and found it locked. There were footsteps in the alleyway behind her and she quickly tried several more doors before finding a handle that responded: with a click the door swung open. She slid through and hurriedly closed it behind her, her heart hammering in her throat as she looked up to see a bolt and quietly slid it across. Then she turned round and leant back against the doorframe, trying to catch her breath and slow her racing heart.

It took her a moment before she realised that sitting on a chair outside the open back door of the house was a young woman with a small boy on her lap. The child – he looked about five years old – was dressed in pyjamas, with a book propped on his lap. Both looked frightened as the woman pulled him close to her chest.

A clatter of hobnailed boots, the rattle of handles, the thump of passage doors being shoulder-barged. The woman slowly lowered the boy to the ground, then took his hand, and, keeping her eyes fixed on Elspeth, began to back towards the open door of the house.

Elspeth saw her fear and took a measured step forward, holding her hands out in a gesture of supplication. ‘Please, ma'am,' she whispered. ‘I mean no harm to you or your child.'

As the woman watched her, Elspeth heard footsteps in the alleyway and turned to see the handle to the passage door rotate and then shudder as one of the policemen leant against it. Elspeth paused, holding her breath, waiting to see if his weight might force it open. But it held, and his footsteps faded as he walked further along the alleyway. She turned back to the woman, who was staring intently at the red-and-green WSPU brooch Elspeth had pinned to her blouse. After a moment the woman looked up, put a finger to her lips, and silently motioned for Elspeth to go towards her.

Elspeth quietly followed her into the house, stepping aside as the woman closed the door and turned a key in the lock.

Inside the small scullery kitchen Elspeth smiled at the boy, who was hiding behind his mother's leg, clinging to her skirt out of shyness or fear. The woman leant back against a small kitchen table, her arms crossed, her eyes wary. ‘What's a smart woman like you doing running from the police?' she said. ‘Is it something to do with the suffrage meeting at the rink?'

‘Yes.'

‘Why are you running away?'

‘Mrs Pankhurst was there – they released her from prison two days ago under the cat and mouse rule.'

The woman nodded.

‘Well, the police were waiting and re-arrested her before she could enter the meeting. She's a sick woman and the women in the crowd were upset about it. They were – we were – protesting, which is our legal right. Then the police began to arrest us and I had to make a run for it.'

The woman thought for a moment. ‘Well, I don't approve of law-breaking,' she said. Then she stared at the WSPU brooch again. ‘But the way some women protesters are treated by the police is a scandal.' She smiled and looked down at the boy. ‘What do you think, Tom? Shall we let her stay for a while?'

Seeing his mother smile, the boy looked up at Elspeth and, with a grin, came out from behind his mother's leg.

‘Thank you so much,' Elspeth replied. ‘If I could wait here for half an hour or so until the commotion has died down, and then I'll slip away without causing you any more trouble.'

‘My husband won't be back until later, so it's no trouble. There's even a cup of tea if you like.'

‘Really, there's no need to go to any bother—'

‘It's no bother.' The woman turned away and took a kettle from the table behind her. She held it under the tap, and as it filled she turned back to Elspeth. ‘And for what it's worth, I support you girls. If I didn't have this little one to look after, I'd probably be at that meeting, booing the police with the rest of you.'

Gabriel, dressed in his field grey service uniform, sat inside the cool of the Café Kaiserhof in the Ringstrasse, a cup of iced coffee on the table before him, that day's edition of
Neue Frei Presse
resting on his lap. It was a swelteringly hot afternoon, yet looking through the window he could see the pavement was packed with an enthusiastic throng of Viennese citizens, some waving Austrian flags, while others held placards which read ‘Death to Serbia'. Inside the café the noise was intense: laughter, singing, and animated conversations, all of which told him that the people of Vienna were thrilled to be at war. You could almost touch the patriotic fervour, Gabriel thought, as he watched anybody in uniform being praised as a hero, clapped on the back, their hands vigorously shaken. This included himself, and as the café was crowded with patrons, Gabriel was finding it almost impossible to read the newspaper without interruption.

And some of these people were so idiotic! Even though he was wearing a Red Cross armband, one buffoon had shouted across the café: ‘Kill a Serb for me, Officer.' Gabriel was finding it all rather tedious, this sudden jingoistic flag-waving more than a little embarrassing. Although initially excited at the prospect of using the combat surgery skills he had so carefully acquired, over the past few weeks Gabriel had become increasingly uneasy about the idea of going to war: several of Gabriel's friends and clinical colleagues in Sarajevo were Serbian, and many of them had now returned to Serbia to join their army medical services. It seemed more than a little strange to consider that they would now be labelled as his enemy. He tried to push these doubts aside: it was the price to pay for the scholarship that had allowed him to qualify as a doctor. And it was his duty to care for the men in his regiment.

He tapped his fingers on the table and rechecked his pocket watch: ten past two, and the train for Sarajevo left the Ostbahnhof at three. Where was the chief? He should have been here ten minutes ago. Gabriel picked up the newspaper. Below the stark headline ‘War with Serbia' was an article that described how yesterday was the first time in history that a telegram had been used to notify a country that war had been declared on it. The news had come as a surprise to everybody – including Gabriel.

In the first three weeks following the assassination there was no response from the Austro-Hungarian government and life had carried on as normal. Gabriel, who only needed to make one final visit to Roth's factory in order to finish his research, travelled up to Vienna with the chief, who had been summoned to a three-day conference at the Army Medical Board. They had arrived in Vienna two days ago, but yesterday evening the chief had received a telegram stating that the Austrian army was being mobilised and they would have to return to Sarajevo the following day. And this morning the newspapers broke the news that Austria had formally declared war on Serbia.

Another loud cheer erupted near the front of the café, and Gabriel looked up to see Chief Fischer standing in the doorway, swamped by a small crowd of civilian well-wishers clapping him on the back and trying to shake his hand. There was a look of flustered irritation on the older man's face as he tried to escape this unwanted attention, glancing desperately around the room for sight of Gabriel. Gabriel waved a hand to catch the chief's eye, and then saw his mentor extricate himself from the mob and make his way between the tables to sink into the chair opposite.

‘Unbelievable,' the chief said, his forehead shiny with perspiration as he loosened his collar. ‘I've never seen anything like it.'

‘Isn't it amazing how war can inspire a nation?' Gabriel replied.

The chief scowled. ‘Only three months ago everybody in Vienna was complaining about unemployment and poor wages. Now all they want to do is enlist and take revenge for the Archduke.' He shook his head. ‘People. Really.'

Gabriel laughed. ‘Do you have time for a coffee?'

The chief pulled out his pocket watch. ‘I think we have fifteen minutes or so but then we'll have to try and find a cab in this mob.' With a deft hand movement he caught the eye of a waiter, who arrived at the table and took an order for two iced coffees. After the waiter had gone, the chief looked across at Gabriel. ‘Well, how did it go?'

‘Very well I think,' Gabriel replied. ‘I managed to tie up a few loose ends from the ballistic testing, so now I can finish writing the research paper—'

‘No, no,' the chief interrupted in an exasperated voice. ‘Not your research…did you speak to Georg?'

Gabriel hesitated before answering. ‘No…' He hesitated again. ‘I…I decided not to.'

‘Ah. I see.' Disappointment flickered across the older man's face. ‘Well I hope you don't regret this, Gabriel. A wife and family bring great comfort to a man and Dorothea is a fine young woman. With Georg's Viennese connections you could have had a large private practice in Vienna, a big house with a maid and cook, a holiday chalet in the mountains—'

‘I know, I know.' Gabriel sighed and then smiled apologetically. ‘Look, I can't say exactly why, but it just doesn't feel like the right thing—'

‘Feel? That's interesting coming from you, Gabriel, a man of science.'

‘I
do
have feelings,' Gabriel protested. ‘And I do understand why you think Dorothea would be a good match for me, but…' He shrugged and fell silent, finding it difficult to express the instinct that told him that proposing to Roth's daughter would be wrong. He glanced at the other patrons in the café: at a nearby table he saw a young couple, an army reservist in his grey field uniform sitting with a young woman, probably his bride or sweetheart, Gabriel thought. They sat there with hands entwined and eyes locked on each other, utterly oblivious of their surroundings, clearly very much in love. The heat rose to Gabriel's cheeks as he watched them, feeling as if he was intruding into something private, something alien: he had never experienced a moment like that – with Dorothea or any other woman. He turned back to the chief, who had a resigned expression on his face.

‘Well, maybe you're right,' said the chief as the waiter arrived and placed two glasses of iced coffee on the table. ‘With war declared, perhaps getting married now isn't such a good idea after all. These are uncertain times.'

Gabriel – relieved his mentor understood his position, and now wanting to change the topic – slid the newspaper across the table. ‘There's something you need to read.' he said, pointing to a column at the bottom of the front page. ‘It's about General Potiorek.'

The chief picked up the paper. His eyebrows rose slightly as he read the article. ‘So: he's been promoted to Field Marshall.'

‘Yes. Isn't it astonishing?'

‘Hm.' A wry smile now passed across the older man's face as he put the paper down and picked up his coffee. ‘Well, maybe not,' he said with an indifferent shrug.

‘What?' Gabriel felt bemused. ‘Potiorek's carelessness contributed to the Archduke's death. Far from being promoted, he ought to have been sacked, court-martialled even.'

The chief took a drink of coffee; then leant forward and rested his elbows on the table. ‘Actually, I think many people feel Potiorek has done the country a favour.' The chief motioned Gabriel closer. ‘Look, it's quite simple,' he continued. ‘Vienna now has the perfect excuse, and moral justification, for declaring war on Serbia. And let's be honest here.' He leant even closer and lowered his voice. ‘The Archduke wasn't much liked. He had a venomous temper on him and no sense of humour. He wasn't popular with the average Austrian and there are no real signs of grief over his death, only anger at the boldness of the Serbs.'

‘Still, it just seems wrong.'

‘Well there are other, more practical reasons for Potiorek's promotion. It seems certain Russia will come to Serbia's aid, which means we face a war on two fronts. As Serbia is the smaller issue, it would be good if we could steal a quick victory over them, so our troops can be transferred to the Russian front. I suspect Vienna believes they don't have enough time to bring a new man into the job. Potiorek commands the 6
^th
Army and knows the Serbian region well. I can see how Vienna probably thinks it's better to leave him in charge: better the devil you know, and all that.'

‘So…he's been given an opportunity to redeem himself.' Gabriel mused aloud, trying to understand the politics that underlay such a seemingly perverse decision. ‘A second chance. It's just so…so surprising.'

‘And concerning.' The chief said, his voice now a whisper. ‘Potiorek's mental state has worried me for a while. He appeared almost suicidal in the days after the Archduke's death, but last week he was telling people that it's his divine mission to beat the Serbs.'

Gabriel remembered the look in Potiorek's eyes during the attempt to save the Archduke. ‘Well, if he's leading us into war, let's hope the decisions he makes on the battlefield are better than those he made during the Archduke's visit.'

The chief drained the last of the coffee and then pulled out his pocket watch. ‘Anyway, we'd better try and find a cab—'

But he was interuppted by another loud cheer, followed by prolonged round of applause. Gabriel looked across the café and saw that a crowd had gathered around the army reservist and his sweetheart. The couple looked embarrassed as the well-wishers – some waving hats and handkerchiefs – surrounded the pair, the girl hiding her face in her hands. The soldier rose from his seat and saluted the crowd, opening his mouth as if he wanted to say something. At first he made no sound, appearing to struggle for words: but then suddenly, as if by inspiration, his face lit up and he began to sing.

‘Land of mountains, land of streams,

Land of fields and land of spires,'

To his surprise, Gabriel saw everybody in the café stand up and begin to sing the Austrian national anthem; men removing their caps as they sang, women holding their hands over their chests. Gabriel threw a cynical glance at the chief, but then saw the older man shrug his shoulders as if to say they had no choice, and so they both stood and joined the refrain.

Through the front window, Gabriel saw pedestrians who had stopped on the pavement outside the cafe to sing the anthem: in the street beyond, he could see that the traffic on the Ringstrasse had come to a standstill. The café door opened and a wave of sound rolled towards Gabriel as the singing from outside merged with the voices from inside the café. Through the open door, Gabriel could see that an omnibus had stopped in the street right outside the cafe, and all the passengers and even the omnibus conductor were singing with gusto.

The anthem finished and a thunder of applause began. After more than half a minute of continuous clapping and with no end in sight, the chief stood and dipped his hand in his pocket. He pulled out some coins and dropped them on the table, then turned to Gabriel. ‘Come on,' he said. ‘We'd better go if we're to catch that train.'

***

After a badly delayed journey, caused by military transport trains taking priority on the railway, Gabriel and Chief Fischer arrived in Sarajevo the following morning and took a taxi straight to 6
^th
Army HQ in the centre of the city. On arrival at the old Islamic palace being used as 6
^th
Army headquarters, they were informed that Field Marshall Potiorek was about to begin a briefing and told to go straight up to the meeting room on the first floor. Inside the high-ceilinged chamber, which had previously housed a Sultan's harem, they found fifty or so senior officers sitting in rows before a raised podium. Standing on the podium was Colonel Merizzi, his right arm still in a sling, his good arm slowly unveiling a large chart supported on two easels. Across the top of the chart, written in heavy black capitals, were the words “INVASION OF SERBIA, AUGUST 1914”.

Gabriel took a seat near the back of the room and gazed over the rows of epauletted shoulders in front of him. As well as his fellow senior officers from the 6
^th
Army, he noticed several new faces, the insignia on their uniforms showing him they were soldiers from the 2
^nd
and 5
^th
Austrian Armies. Everybody was staring up at the map Merizzi had unveiled, which showed the positions of Bosnia and Serbia, with the river Drina as the natural border between the two. Thick black arrows marked the direction each army was expected to take during the invasion, and there was a murmur of anticipation as the officers in the room craned their heads, trying to get a closer look at the detail. Potiorek, dressed in the pale blue uniform and gold ribbon of a Field Marshall, stood motionless to one side of the easels, an aura of calm around him, like a teacher giving a class of not-so-bright children time to read a blackboard. As the hum of voices gradually diminished and the room fell silent, Potiorek began to speak, his voice quiet, the men in the room straining to listen; Gabriel sensed that some were holding their breath in case the sound of their breathing might mask his words.

‘Fellow officers of the 2
^nd
, 5
^th
and 6
^th
Armies: the emperor has charged me with leading you into battle against the war-mongering Serbs. My strategy will be to defeat the opposition in one week with a lightning attack of overwhelming force.'

He paused. ‘I would emphasise that the essence of my strategy is speed. I therefore expect that all three armies will be battle-ready within three days. The attack will begin four days later, on the 7
^th
August, which is one week from today.'