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We both turned. There was someone standing in the doorway, staring at us: a man in a suit, with a black eye, a nasty limp and a face covered in scratches.

‘You,’ snarled the porter, glaring at me. ‘What the hell are you doing with my keys?’

25

Monday, 19 June, 11.09 a.m.

Mrs Ripley was fixing me and Miss Decima with a look of such barely contained rage that I thought she might shatter.

‘How dare you,’ she said, her voice seething like an iron. ‘Enter this building under false pretences, steal a set of keys, break into a student’s room – a student currently under investigation for murder, no less! Frankly, the only reason that I haven’t alerted the constabulary is because of the disgrace that this whole mess has already caused us.’

I was in Mrs Ripley’s office; Miss Decima and I were sitting on the other side of her desk. We were both in trouble – a whole ton of it – but, as usual, Miss Decima didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned.

‘People have threatened to remove their daughters – did you know that?’ Mrs Ripley continued, her voice reaching an even higher pitch. ‘I’ve been accused of allowing students to take part in illegal activities. Encouraged them! People have even suggested that I had a hand in abetting that stupid girl to take part in that disgraceful march in the first place –’

‘I gather,’ said Miss Decima drily, ‘that you are not a supporter of female suffrage.’

The sarcasm was lost on Mrs Ripley. ‘Supporter? If I’d had the slightest notion that Lavinia was fraternizing with the WSPU, I would have informed her parents at once. I even wrote to the Hall and insisted they stop allowing those wretched women to use the auditorium for their meetings, but of course I was ignored. And look where their complacency has got them!’ She waved a hand towards the window. ‘An officer of the law, murdered on the street! Three killers still at large! A mob on our doorstep and their leader in hiding, hell-bent on disgracing our sex!’

The words rang out in the office. Miss Decima leant forward in her chair, gazing at Mrs Ripley with something like affection.

‘I thought I recognized your name,’ she said. ‘Mrs Euphemia Ripley: Under-Secretary for the London Division of the National League for Opposing Women’s Suffrage. A regular contributor to the Anti-Suffrage Review as well, if I’m not mistaken? I seem to remember a section of one of your last letters – Issue 24, I believe – employing similar rhetoric to describe the effects of the WSPU on the minds of a new generation of impressionable young women … “Tainted by the venomous legacy of a screaming sisterhood” were your exact words, were they not?’

There she was with that memory of hers again. I was used to it, but Mrs Ripley was knocked for six. ‘I – I was not aware that you were sympathetic to our cause.’

‘I am not,’ said Miss Decima curtly. ‘Quite the contrary. But one should always keep a close eye on one’s enemies.’ She settled back in her chair. ‘Ah, it all begins to make sense now. I imagine that on Saturday evening, you were one of those ladies spouting a similar invective on a soapbox outside the Hall. Perhaps that is why you were unable to keep a closer eye on the girls supposedly in your care, and why you’ve been so keen to avoid any further police intrusion. Am I correct?’

Mrs Ripley’s face was turning murderous. ‘I fail to understand how this is relevant –’

‘I fail to see how it is anything but,’ Miss Decima replied instantly, ‘given that we currently find ourselves at the centre of a murder investigation surrounding the topic of – in your own words, Issue 17, I believe it was – “the weaponized indulgence of female hysteria”. Any light you can shed on your inflexible position on this matter, Mrs Ripley, would greatly help my own understanding of how this murder might have happened in the first place.’

She sat, waiting for a response, while Mrs Ripley glared at her. She didn’t have to say anything, of course: she could simply have us thrown out without another word. But Miss Decima has a way of drawing things out of you, like a leech.

‘You speak, Miss Decima, as if the women of this country have no political voice,’ Mrs Ripley began. ‘Nothing could be further from the truth. They are perfectly well represented by their fathers, brothers and husbands. Such is the nature of a family unit: one in which everyone has a place of worth and value; one which Mrs Pankhurst and her followers seem determined to destroy at any cost. If the vote is extended to women – property-owning or not – it stands to reason that they will expect further representation. And then what? I’ll tell you what: an unravelling of society that will begin at home and end at Downing Street –’

‘Despite the fact that women have had the vote in local elections for decades,’ said Miss Decima abruptly. ‘A miracle we haven’t resorted to eating each other to survive.’

That’s Miss Decima for you. Only a day ago, she was arguing with Mrs Pankhurst, calling the WSPU hooligans and saying that they’d ruined the cause for a generation. Now here she was, arguing the opposite.

Mrs Ripley wasn’t having it. ‘It is perfectly appropriate for women to vote in local elections. They deal with social issues – public health, education, matters pertaining to children. National governments are an entirely different matter. Women do not possess the required balance of mind to exercise suitable judgement in matters of defence, industry or diplomacy …’ She folded her hands. ‘And then we have the responsibilities over our colonies and dominions to consider. The Indians will not accept it if we give British women the vote.’

‘How magnanimous,’ said Miss Decima thinly.

Mrs Ripley was beginning to lose patience. ‘Your delusion would be laughable, Miss Decima, were it not so dangerous. How can you argue with me, when the truth is clearly laid out before you? Look at what has happened right on our doorstep! A young girl from a perfectly respectable family has been driven to an act of rank barbarism!’ She swung the focus of her anger towards me. ‘Young man, seeing as you had the temerity to break into Miss Welford’s room and rifle through her personal effects, perhaps you can tell me the piece that she was setting to music?’

I really didn’t want to speak, but I had to. ‘Er … I believe it was called The Batcha.’

‘The Bacchae,’ said Mrs Ripley, her eyes glinting with derision. ‘A Euripidean tragedy. I trust you’re familiar with the story, if not the pronunciation?’

She was mocking me. I wanted to say something witty in response, like Miss Decima would have done, but to be honest I was starting to get the collywobbles.

‘Dionysus, the god of wine and insanity, is insulted by Pentheus, the King of Thebes,’ Mrs Ripley began. ‘As revenge, Dionysus drives the women of Thebes into ecstatic frenzies. They sneak into the forests at night. They steal babies. They devour animals and bathe in their blood and let snakes lick them clean.’

The room felt like it was tilting to one side. My hands were starting to feel clammy.

‘King Pentheus is tricked by Dionysus into spying on the crazed women,’ Mrs Ripley continued, ‘and discovers, to his horror, that his mother and two aunts are among their number – three women, you see? When they see Pentheus spying on them, they mistake him for an animal and, in their frenzy, tear him limb from limb. They cut off his head and nail it dripping above the door.’

It was all I could do to hold on to my chair. I had to get out of here. I could not open my mouth, under any circumstances.