“Indeed,” Lillian said. “Their differences lie in how they gain and exercise power. The Larks believe women should obtain influence by shattering the glass ceiling. By contrast, the Katherinites, or Kats, as they call themselves, think it’s better to maintain traditional roles as wives and mothers, and to exercise power by manipulating, or persuading, the men in their lives to act in their interests. It’s a more softly, softly approach than the Larks’.”
“The traditional way of doing things versus feminism,” Clio said.
“Sort of. Broadly, yes. Though it’s a little more nuanced, I think.”
“Why those names?”
“Kats is after St. Katherine of Alexandria. They call themselves the Order of St. Katherine. They even have a creed. I think it’s probably quite a long document. I’ve only discovered a couple of lines from it, but they’re illuminating.” She handed her phone to Clio. On the Notes app were a few lines of text:
We will whisper in the ears of powerful men. We will be their wives and their mothers, their confidantes and advisers. We believe that in the image of the saint, we owe our fidelity to our fellow women.
“Wow,” Clio said. “So they use men to get the power they want?”
“Exactly,” Lillian said.
Clio’s eyes fell on the embroidery. She had no idea how it might fit into all this. “What’s the other group called again?” she asked.
“They call themselves Larks.”
“Because?”
“Again, guessing, but I think because larks sing in the morning—”
“A new dawn for women?” Clio interrupted, and Lillian nodded.
“Could be. That would be my best guess, too. The Kats are well hidden, often embedded in powerful families, but the Larks can be easier to identify, because they often hold influential jobs. I believe they’re well established in academic circles, and they likely have strong professional connections in all sorts of places. I suspect their network is extensive.”
“How are these groups structured? How big are they?” Clio asked.
“I don’t know how big they are. I would love to. They likely both have top-down, pyramid power structures, like the Freemasons. Both groups scout and recruit aggressively at grassroots level. The Kats are entrenched in the Women’s Institute, in church groups and volunteer organizations that are predominantly run by women. We’ve heard of both groups recruiting through book groups and PTAs. The Larks are also involved with professional organizations and guilds. Sometimes, an affiliation with one group or the other runs through the women in a family, especially the Kats. I believe both also operate small cells of women who do their dirty work for them.”
“Dirty work? Like?”
“When they clash, it can turn lethal. As Eleanor Bruton found out.”
Clio remembered the name from their talk on the bridge. She was starting to feel intrigued. “So who’s in charge?”
“That’s something else I’d love to know. I’m pretty sure I’ve identified some of the women who operate at high levels within both groups, but I haven’t got to the top.”
“And you think one of these groups murdered Eleanor Bruton?”
“I do. I believe she was working for the Kats and was a victim of the Larks.”
They fell silent. Clio tried to process what she’d heard. The room—its dark shadows and glittering contents, the reflective glass—was starting to feel oppressive. Her eyes lit on the embroidery once again. The small sign beside it estimated that it dated from the fifteenth century.
“How long have these groups been operating?” she asked.
“For hundreds of years, I believe. There are long periods of time when they go quiet, but others when they seem more active. If you look back carefully you can sometimes see the hand of one or the other of them in significant historic events, though it’s almost always impossible to prove it.”
Clio had seen Lillian excited before, and determined, but she’d never got an obsessive vibe off her the way she did now. It rang some alarm bells. As if she sensed it, Lillian said, “Look, I don’t need you to get too involved in this, or even to believe it. All I’m asking is that you get some information from the Scottish police about Eleanor Bruton’s death for me. I can’t do it myself, not now that I’m retired. It might attract too much attention. The timing is terrible.”
Clio would rather not, because of the alarm bells and the way Lillian looked: pale, edgy, stressed. She wondered if Lillian was trying to distract herself from her retirement. On the other hand, she was very aware of how much Lillian had done for her, and what harm could it do, really? “Sure. I can ask. Tell me about the case.”
Lillian paused while a security guard walked past the gallery entrance, then lowered her voice almost to a whisper.
“Eleanor Bruton died three weeks ago, on an island in Scotland. The location of her death was odd in itself, because apparently, she’d been a committed wife and mother and a pillar of the community in her village in the south of England for most of her adult life.”
“Was she a Kat?” Clio asked.
