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hunger strike would begin again. Mrs Pankhurst had been re-arrested six times like that, and she was so weak she could hardly stand.
    About halfway through the morning, the second post arrived. Sarah began to open it. Among the standard letters to 'The Organiser, Women's Social and Political Union' and 'The Women's Suffrage Movement' was one addressed to her personally. The writing on the envelope was bold, black, confident: Mrs Sarah Becket, 30 Belgrave Square, London W2 . It was a hand she did not know. She opened it curiously.
    Inside was a single sheet of expensive, creamy paper, covered with the same bold black handwriting. Oddly, there was no address at the top. It began:
    Dear Mrs Becket,
    I suppose you know that your friends in the WSPU have recently been poking their noses into things which concern them even less than the vote. They have been troubling several of us young ladies and asking for the names of our gentlemen friends, which is none of their business at all, especially when they stand outside the house where we live and work and try to put men off, so we have to move house. This does no one any good and makes us all poorer. In particular, they have been troubling Dr Armstrong too, who is a decent man and a good help to us.
    Well, all this has got to stop. Tell your friends to stay away from our houses and Dr Armstrong or you will be sorry. Your husband gets the same treatment other men get, and whose fault is that? If you don't want to read about him in all the newspapers tell your friends to STAY AWAY. That's all.
    There was no signature.
    What did it mean? She read the letter a second time and this time a rushing noise roared in her ears as the meaning of the letter began to sink in. Young ladies with gentlemen friends . . . the house where we live and work . . . these could only be prostitutes, surely — but what had that to do with her or the WSPU or Jonathan? It was absurd to think that Jonathan had anything to do with women like that! But then, how did they know about Dr Armstrong? For there was a Dr Armstrong — Martin Armstrong. Jonathan had known Martin for years; he went to consult him sometimes for a stomach complaint he had. What had treatment for a stomach complaint to do with prostitutes?
    Sarah's hand had begun to shake, and for a moment she had thought she was going to faint, but she recovered and held herself icy still. She looked across the table at Mrs Watson. Amazingly, despite the fanfare of shock and alarm in Sarah's head, Mrs Watson had noticed nothing. She was diligently writing, looking down, her head bent. For a moment Sarah had wanted to scream and thrust the letter under the woman's nose, but as Mrs Watson's pen scratched slowly across the paper, she changed her mind.
    If what this letter said was true, no one must ever know.
    Very quietly, she stood up, walked across the room, and stuffed it casually into the back of her writing desk.
    Mrs Watson looked up. She was a good-looking woman of about fifty, with greying hair tied back severely into a bun, and round spectacles that made her look like a governess. Sarah was fond of her and they confided about most things, but this! What had the letter said? Your husband gets the same treatment other men get and whose fault is that? Her face flushed with anger at the thought of what it might mean and she felt a pain deep inside which almost deprived her of breath. But at the same time she felt an enormous sense of shame for Jonathan which said: no one shall ever know about this even if it is true. It is his shame and I shall never betray him.
    It is my shame too . . .
    It was an effort even to stand upright. Very carefully, keeping her poise one step at a time, she pulled the bellrope by the fire, and when her butler came, ordered tea. Then, as she and Mrs Watson sat drinking it, she forced herself to discuss the ordinary business of the day — subscriptions, replies to letters, arrangements for a demonstration next Thursday. The