The Tunnel Builder Ch. 02

"It is not unimaginable that by, in effect, lying about causes of death or disease he helped the company to avoid responsibility and, even in those days when a lack of concern among owners for staff welfare was common, avoid opprobrium."

So, Martin was, reading between the lines, a crap doctor, bought by Gurnard.

I stayed there for the next two days and had to go home, but Ruth assured me nothing would be disturbed and I could return when convenient. I got in touch with a friend who said I could stay with her for a week and so, the following week, I returned on the Monday to try to work through the material in one big push.

Another extract.

"When Martin first met Isabella it seems to have been social. He records in his meticulously maintained journal in July 1841, that she was a 'fine, beautiful woman, childless and rather sad.' There is no explanation of that sadness except, by intimation, the fact she was childless. However, in January 1845, he records that 'Isabella has, according to Henry been showing signs of erratic behaviour and delusional thoughts (note the use of Gurnard's Christian name). I prescribed laudanum.' Later, in February, he reports that Henry has become increasingly concerned and fears she may be a risk to him and to herself. 'Henry is a devoted husband and will not countenance the thought of consigning her to an institution, preferring to hire a nurse to look after her.'

"By the summer of 1845 it is felt necessary to restrain Isabella and confine her in 'comfortable, secure quarters in the house cellar.' Astonishingly he notes, 'She begged me to help her escape, confirming my worst suspicions as to the extent of her mental decline.'

"This would not be as sinister had I not discovered something else amongst a group of papers that were, I suspect, in Gurnard's own hand. 'I have discovered letters among her belongings, letters which are unsigned and with no address to reveal her correspondent but it appears she was and still would be in an intimate, adulterous relationship. I confide this in you as a friend and aware of your sterling work with the company which will, no doubt, continue for a long time. I know I can rely on your absolute discretion.'

"it is my belief that Isabella was of sound mind but that the discovery of her adultery was so potentially shaming for Gurnard, that he took steps effectively to imprison her with the collusion of the good Dr Martin and with the latter seeking not to kill the goose that laid his golden egg."

Dynamite.

By the end of the week I had written all this up, copied the relevant entries and supporting documents and, with the continuing assurance of access should i need it, returned to Somerset.

It was Jonathan Porter who found the next link.

"Hi Cass, it's Jonathan, Jonathan Porter." I said hi. "I've found something that I think might interest you. How would you like to come over in time for coffee tomorrow morning?" I could tell from his tone, he'd got something that would be a surprise and wasn't going to spill the beans over the phone.

I got to the station archive at 10.45 the next morning. Before leaving, I'd called Erin, my publisher to tell her that the research was going well and that, in all probability, I was uncovering a Victorian scandal that would probably take this book from the mundane to the spectacular. I'd already emailed her a synopsis and said, I thought she might consider asking the board for a bit more money. Nothing sells like scandal. She promised to read what I had sent.

Porter was waiting for me. His twinkly eyes suggested he had something really rather good to tell me.

"Welcome, welcome. Coffee is ready, let me take your coat." He fussed about, hanging my coat, pouring coffee and, I was sure, deliberately keeping me on tenterhooks. "Your visit roused my curiosity, so I decided to see if there was any other material relating to your Henry. I found another box, an old tea chest. House removers used to use them back in the day. I noticed, by chance, that this one had Gurnard's name written on it. It wasn't facing out from the other junk in their but I had moved a few things and there it was. Anyway, I went through it. Naturally you can too because you'll know if anything is important but," here he pushed a large folder across the table to me, "I think, I hope that you'll be excited by this."

'This' turned out to be another file of letters. The first one included this passage.

"Isabella

I hope this finds you well. We have often discussed how egregious it is that women cannot participate in politics. Well, we have decided to do something about it. We have formed a small association of women and we meet under the guise of a literary circle. It is wonderful. There are about twelve of us to date and you will know how much I wish you were here in London and could join us. It is, after all, as much your idea as anyone else's. Our dear friend, Alexandra, is our chairwoman. She was democratically elected of course since our association operates according to the principles that we all espouse. She is formidable; chairing our meetings with a firm but measured hand. She has assigned tasks to all of us, the first of which is to recruit as many other women as possible. This is with the caveat that they must be known to us and to be like-minded and discreet. We all believe that, no matter how just our cause, were it to become known that we were acting in this subversive manner, our husbands might forbid further activity. We want to move onto the public stage only when we are strong enough not to be silenced.

I enclose a note for you. I seem to have become a sort of postal service and it is a pleasure to be so.

I wish you well, my dear, and will keep you advised of the progress of our movement, firm in the hope and conviction that you will join us when you return to the capital.

With fondest regards

Sylvia."

'S'! Surely this couldn't be coincidence. The anonymous correspondent said he was grateful to 'S' for assisting them to communicate, and here was Sylvia enclosing a note and admitting to becoming a postal service. Equally dramatically, Sylvia had identified herself and I now had had her full name, Sylvia Grafton, and an address in Belgravia, close to Isabella's London address.

I looked up at Jonathan who could barely suppress his glee. "I'm sure," he said, "there will be more but I remembered that letter you found last time and felt sure this might be a revelation for you."

I kissed him, lost for words.

"Goodness me. Be careful, I'm not a young man and the attentions of a beautiful young woman could well be bad for my heart."

"You dear, dear man. I want you to come to dinner with me and Polly at Gurnard's house. I want her to meet you and thank you too. You will come, wont you?"

"I'd be honoured. Let me know when it's convenient. Thank you."

Despite my protests, he carried the box to my car and, as I drove off, he promised to keep searching for more.

The women's suffrage movement wasn't something i knew a lot about but I was fortunate that a former girlfriend, with whom I had remained close, was an expert. A zealous feminist herself, she'd made it the subject of her PhD. Who better to contact?

May and I had split up simply because she got a job at Edinburgh University and I, at the time, was working as an archivist at an engineering company in Bristol. We both knew the distance was far too great for our relationship to continue, so with a few tears after a night of drunken debauchery (which she proclaimed the best sex we'd ever had) I waved her goodbye at the station and promised, truthfully to keep in touch.

I sent her an email, telling her I had a job that was probably going to interest her as much as it did me and gave her a brief outline.

Her reply was prompt. "I know quite a lot about Sylvie Grafton. She was one of the very first suffragettes although they weren't called that then. Her literary society was one of a number of similar associations which began forming in the early to mid 19th C and gradually merged to form the movement we all know about. I'm fascinated to know what you've got and I'll be happy to help in any way I can."

She went on to tell me that she was engaged to a Scot called Morag ('How traditional a name is that?') and she hoped I'd come to their wedding. I love a good wedding. Never miss a chance to dress up a bit.

Talking of which, I dressed up a bit that evening because Polly was taking me out to dinner. She'd never visited my flat and, since the restaurant was close to my home, I suggested she stay over. She arrived with a small, leather bag and wearing a crisp, pale grey shirt and dark blue trousers and, consequently looking gorgeous. I shoved her bag in my bedroom, we had a quick snog, a gin and tonic and went to eat.

As we were leaving, she said, "Leave your knickers." I lifted my long, dark green skirt. "Oh. Slut!"