Free Shadows & Lies by Marjorie Eccles Page A

of a sense of homecoming here than he did at Belmonde.
    The door was opened, almost before he’d lifted the knocker, by Louisa, who had strategically placed herself in her father’s study, where she had a good view of anyone coming round the bend in the road. He saw at once by her flushed face and bright eyes that something was up, but before he could enquire, Gus had called a greeting to him from behind his open door.
    The old man looked up with a smile when he saw Sebastian in the doorway. His manuscript was on the desk; Louisa had evidently been writing down notes for her father, at his dictation, a task all his girls were roped in to do from time to time, since his deteriorating eyesight was not up to the manuscript pages of his ‘Lepidoptera’. He was wearing, as he invariably did, a black jacket and pepper-and-salt tweed trousers of exactly the same pattern as always. Whether it was the same outfit, or whether he’d taken a liking to the style and simply gave his tailor a repeat order when necessary, Sebastian had never had the temerity to ask. Or why he chose to wear such a formal jacket when its line was invariably spoiled by bulging pockets which were the receptacle for a magnifying glass, pencils and India rubber, a small sketchpad and a bag of the striped humbugs of which he was inordinately fond.
    They exchanged small talk, and after a few minutes the paper bag came out. The sweets having been offered and declined, Gus popped one into his own mouth. “Well, Louisa,” he said indistinctly, “You’ve been very helpful, as usual. Run along now. You’re like a cat on hot bricks. I can see there are things you want to talk to Sebastian about.”
    She led the way to a seat in the inglenook in the big main room, where the fire was still a heap of warm pink ash from the
previous day, and threw on another huge log. Today didn’t have the same chill of a damp summer’s day as yesterday, but it was a big, draughty room that demanded a fire, and except in the deepest heat of summer, one was usually kept lit. The scent of woodsmoke and beeswax was one Sebastian always felt was inseparable from this house. He took the bellows from her and gave the embers a go. When the log had caught flame he sat down, and only then did he ask her whether anything was wrong.
    â€œThis letter came this morning.” Louisa picked up the sheet of thick, inlaid cream paper lying on the settle beside her and handed it to Sebastian. On it was written a declaration in a forceful but unmistakably feminine hand: “Freed, this morning! Mary, at 11 a.m!” It was signed with a single initial: A.
    He handed it back. “Who is Mary? And who’s A?” Though he had little doubt they were more of the brave, foolish women who were always getting themselves locked up on one pretext or another in order to bring their grievances to the attention of the public.
    â€œFriends in the movement. Mary Leigh – oh, Seb, she’s been so brave —”
    â€œWhat has she done?”
    Climbed on to a roof in Birmingham, apparently, and bombarded the police protecting the Prime Minister with tiles and slates. Then been taken to Winson Green prison. As must have been her intention, thought Sebastian.
    â€œThen she went on hunger strike and those monsters fed her by force. But it’s all right, she’s out now, she’ll be looked after.”
    â€œForce feeding. Good God.” He couldn’t begin to understand the depth of passion and feeling that could drive a woman so far. “But – what is it – is that why you wanted to see me so urgently?” he asked, though he couldn’t see that it could be.
    â€œNo, it wasn’t that – at least, not entirely.” She looked confused, and flushed slightly. “Oh, I don’t know …I had a little spat with Meg that upset me, and – well, I just felt I wanted to see you. There’s no one else I