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She beamed. ‘Splendid! And just in time.’ She held out her hands. ‘Tell me all about your travails, Stephen. Did you spot anything of note while you were outside?’

I nodded. ‘There’s going to be a suffragette march today, Miss Decima. A big one, ending right at the Hall.’

‘It’s not a “suffragette march”,’ she replied brusquely, untying the hatbox. ‘The Women’s Coronation Procession will unite forty-eight female suffrage societies from all across the crown colonies and protectorates. The WSPU will, naturally, be included among their number, but they are not in charge, despite what Mrs Pankhurst and her affiliates might like to believe. I have no doubt that they’ll take a choice spot near the front of the march – showboating egocentrics that they are – and they have assured us that they will suspend militant action in support of the march. We shall find that out for ourselves, once we join them.’

My heart had started sinking some time ago. ‘Join them,’ I repeated quietly.

‘Naturally!’ she snapped. ‘If I am attending the march, Stephen, it goes without saying that you are, too. Unless you think I’m going to miraculously leap out of this bath chair and start performing a fucking cakewalk.’

My stomach lurched. It played havoc with my digestive system, this job. ‘With all due respect, Miss Decima, I don’t think that’s a good idea. The suffragettes always cause trouble on those marches –’

‘Worry not, Stephen,’ she said, sighing impatiently. ‘We shan’t be going anywhere near the WSPU. We shall wait outside the Royal Albert Hall for the procession to arrive, and then I will join my fellow campaigners in the NUWSS, who have been tirelessly, sensibly petitioning on behalf of the cause for over thirteen years, and of which I have been a card-carrying member ever since its formation.’ She placed the hat on her head and started studying herself in the mirror. ‘The timing of this demonstration could not be more critical. In less than a week’s time, all the eyes of the world will be on London for the coronation ceremony: this is our opportunity, as half of the King’s loyal subjects, to raise our voices and demand the rights which are owed to us. We have been assured by the Prime Minister himself that the upcoming Conciliation Bill will include an amendment on votes for women who possess a householder qualification …’

I blinked.

‘If you have a house, you get to vote,’ she explained. ‘Granted, that will exclude female lodgers, and wives, and almost all working-class women … but it’s an important step, and one which has been long fought for. Which is why the societies have agreed to put aside their differences to march together this afternoon, as one, and prove that the women of this country want a vote, without the need for any of the Pankhurstian histrionics that are currently en vogue.’ She made a final tweak to her hat. ‘I am a citizen of this country: I pay taxes, I bear all a man’s burdens and responsibilities, and yet I possess not a single shred of his privilege or means of self-defence. This march is the culmination of two generations of hard-won progress, the single most important political matter of my lifetime, and I would not miss it for the world. Which means, Stephen, neither would you.’

I shuffled my feet. ‘It’s supposed to be my evening off, Miss Decima.’

‘And they say gallantry is dead,’ she muttered. ‘Don’t worry, Galahad, you shall be recompensed for your time.’

I perked up. My hat was one step closer – now was my chance to ask. ‘On that subject, Miss Decima, I was wondering if …’

Miss Decima wasn’t listening – she chucked her hat on the desk. ‘Well! It shall do for this evening, but, I must say, the standards at Ponting’s have slipped considerably. Have you seen the ridiculous specimen that they currently have in their window display? A crimson bowler!’ She howled. ‘Honestly, the horseshit people will wear nowadays. If I ever catch sight of someone wearing that, Stephen, remind me to drink lithium so that I can have a swift and painless death, if I haven’t already died laughing. Now – what was it that you wanted?’

I was already halfway out of the study. ‘Never mind,’ I grumbled.

7

Saturday, 17 June, 7.22 p.m.

We stood opposite the Hall, in the shadow of the golden monument. By now the worst of the day’s heat had faded, but the pavements around us still thrummed like a griddle pan. I was sweating like a ham under my tailcoat. How Miss Decima could suffer it in her bonnet and gloves and evening gown, I’d never know.

I glanced around nervously. We weren’t the only people waiting for the procession to arrive – far from it. The stairs to the Albert Memorial were packed with bystanders. A crowd was slowly gathering at the entrance to the Hall, too, made up of women of all ages holding placards. I also noticed that there were police officers. Lots of them.

‘Stephen,’ said Miss Decima wearily, ‘please can you try to calm yourself. I feel as if I’m standing next to a shitting dog.’

‘I fear for my life, Miss Decima.’

‘It is a procession, Stephen, not a death march. Try to keep some perspective.’

I couldn’t help it. There was an electricity in the air; a sense of danger. I felt like there were eyes needling into me on every side.

‘Can we at least wait somewhere a little more … hidden?’ I pointed to some men setting up a tripod camera behind a clump of bushes. ‘Somewhere those journalists won’t take our photograph, maybe?’

Miss Decima snorted. ‘They’re not journalists. They’re undercover police officers.’

I nearly jumped out of my skin. ‘I … what?’

She smiled archly. ‘The WSPU have something of an … illustrious and historic relationship with the Metropolitan Police Force. They’ll be on the lookout for known troublemakers.’

I couldn’t believe it. The men with the camera were dressed just like anyone else – you’d never have guessed they were police officers. How many more of them were on the street right now, watching our every move? It was all well and good, Miss Decima pursuing her political beliefs – she wasn’t the one who was going to get locked up if it all turned nasty. But a young man like me, with a criminal record … those officers would be walloping me with a truncheon the first chance they got. Once you’ve been walloped once, you don’t rush for seconds. ‘Say, here’s a thought. Maybe we could support the march better from the comfort of your apartment –’

‘Nice try, Stephen. They’ve arrived.’

She pointed ahead. Sure enough, through the last shimmers of heat, something was approaching from the end of the road. It took me a moment to work out what it was: a woman on horseback, clad in black. Behind her stretched a long train of women in white, dazzling in the diminishing sunlight, five abreast and for as far as you could make out. Behind them came the rest of the march, decorated with placards and banners and pennants and floats and paper streamers. I could hear them all the way from where I stood: singing, chanting, beating drums. No wonder they were stopping traffic.

They reached the Hall and spread in all directions; some pooling around the entrance, some heading into the park, some trickling down the back roads of the Gore. Before long the steps in front of us were packed, and still they kept coming. There was a group carrying banners with Welsh dragons, and another with shamrocks, and another dressed in saris. There were women dressed in historical costumes, too: I could make out Queen Elizabeth, Joan of Arc, even Boudicca, on a horse-drawn chariot. It certainly made an impression, I’ll give you that. All along the main road, I could see people leaning out of their windows to point at the floats and banners.