Cat and Mouse Read Online Free PDF Page B

two suffragettes against a male householder? Where would that lead? There was no proof that he had done anything wrong, and in fact very few men were seen going into that building, no more than any other house. So perhaps the girls worked elsewhere and were just brought to that place on the way. We need evidence before we can move, evidence that will stand up in a court of law.’
    ‘Evidence of what, exactly? You say they saw these children come out.’
    ‘Yes, but where did they go? There is no crime in dressing a child in gaudy clothes. We need evidence that the children are actually under age and being exploited; we need to know who is procuring them and how; and then, if we are lucky, we need the names of the men who go to these places, as well as evidence against the madams who run them. If we knew all that, we would have a scandal to shake the streets of London!’
    ‘But what about the little girls? Surely they should be rescued, if possible. What about their parents?’
    Mrs Watson shrugged. ‘Probably most of them are orphans, or the children of criminals. Maybe some of the parents even profit by it. We think the little girls are taken from house to house, to meet the needs of men who are attracted to that sort of thing. I agree it is . . . not pleasant.’
    Not pleasant. It most certainly was not, especially when you had just received an anonymous letter suggesting your own husband was connected with a scandal like this. And Mrs Watson's story seemed to parallel the letter so closely. But there was one vital detail missing from what Mrs Watson seemed to know. And that, Sarah thought grimly, is perhaps what I have received in a letter. Only it names my husband as an accessory to this crime.
    She felt sick. Perhaps Christabel Pankhurst was right, all men are diseased in their minds. Could Jonathan really . . .?
    ‘Are you all right, Mrs Beckett?’
    ‘What?’ She must have swayed, looked pale for a moment. If I go feeble now she'll start nursing me again and I don't want that. I’m tired of that, Sarah thought. She sat up straight on the sofa and smiled brightly. Whatever happens, whatever Jonathan has done, this woman must never know. No one must know, it is too foul, too shameful! Anyway, it may not be true. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘I’m fine. But we’ve talked too much. Let us finish our correspondence, shall we?’
    Now, alone in the police cell, her hand pressed against the cold grimy stone of the wall, she thought: that was the hardest moment of all, to get up and go back to ordinary letters and work through them as though nothing had happened, with the foul secret eating away inside me like a tapeworm all that time, and say nothing at all . . .
    When Mrs Watson left, Sarah went into Jonathan's study and there they were, quite openly marked in his diary. Appointments with Dr Martin Armstrong. About once a week, regularly, sometimes more. For nearly a year now, usually on Tuesday or Saturday evenings. If it was for his stomach it clearly had not done much good — she had never thought of this before. She leafed her way back through the pages, appalled. Dr Armstrong's address was, 40, Roland Gardens, Kensington.
    And Jonathan had an appointment for tomorrow afternoon . . .
    As the night wore on, the drunk in the cell down the corridor stopped singing and only made the occasional loud, querulous complaint which ended with a kick against his door. More women had been brought in — prostitutes possibly, Sarah thought, for they cursed the constables with a cheerful, raucous obscenity, and mocked them noisily from within their cells. Sarah didn't know a lot about prostitutes and she didn't want to. No doubt they were exploited by men, but it was the class of women she found it hardest to feel sympathy for. Especially when they were assertive, and proud of what they were.
    First her father, and now Jonathan . . . She didn't want to remember but now, in the lonely middle of the night, there was