The Hourglass Factory Read Online Free

clothing out of the way, swung open the door of the shop, making the bell jerk, and slammed it shut.
    So that was Ebony Diamond, Frankie thought. The Notorious Madame Suffragette. Striking face, somewhat tempestuous, but then Stark’s boy had said not to pick a fight with her.
    Suddenly Frankie remembered the camera still slung across her back.
    ‘Wait!’ She reached round her shoulder, unclipping the latch on the box. The brass tracks slipped out so fast she nearly dropped it. She wriggled the strap over her head and let the
case fall to the floor. ‘I need a photograph.’ Tripping over the spilled clothing she raced towards the door.
    Frankie could see Ebony Diamond moving quickly along the street, her black hourglass figure melting into the fog. She yanked open the door, letting in a rush of cool damp air.
‘Wait!’ she cried. ‘I’m a journalist! Wait! Miss Diamond!’
    Ebony began picking up speed, her swift walk becoming a jog, then a run, her skirts skating out behind her like raven wings. Frankie gritted her teeth and ran after her, feeling the tightness of
her trousers catching, regretting the amount of ale she had drunk over the past few weeks.
    Up ahead at the crossroads with Brook Street, Ebony had to stop as a chain of trams went sliding past tinkling their bells. A Fenwick’s shopwoman in an apron approached Frankie brandishing
a bottle of the latest Guerlain Eau de Parfum. ‘Musk!’ she barked. ‘Musk direct from the Musk Ox!’ Frankie dodged her spraying hand and dipped round in front of Ebony
Diamond.
    ‘Miss Diamond.’
    It took a second for Ebony’s black eyes to latch onto her. Her face was white as the moon with a short upturned nose and a wide scarlet mouth. ‘Are you following me?’ she
spat.
    Frankie was out of breath but managed to pant, ‘I just want to ask you a few quick questions. About Holloway prison. For the portrait page. The newspaper. How does that sound?’ She
stuck her hand into her pocket and pulled out one of her calling cards.
    Miss Diamond looked startled for a second, then took the card and ran her finger absently over the embossed surface. She studied the letters slowly. ‘Francesca George, Contributor,
London Evening Gazette
.’ The lines on her face straightened out; she looked like she might have something on the tip of her tongue. ‘A journalist, you say?’
    ‘That’s right,’ Frankie was beginning to line up the camera. If she could just keep her in one place for a few seconds. Truth be told, she could probably make the rest up.
Facts were fairly sticky at the
London Evening Gazette
. And that tiff at the shop was a winner whether it was about tax or pink knickerbockers.
    Suddenly Ebony rammed the card back towards her, sending the camera stabbing into Frankie’s face. ‘You’ve got some nerve, giving this to me.’
    Frankie stumbled backwards. ‘I don’t know what you mean. I just need to ask you a few questions. About the force-feeding.’
    ‘Force-feeding my eye.’ She jabbed the corner of the card at Frankie. ‘You’re the one drew that cartoon for
Punch
, aren’t you – “Take it up the
nose Maud I will, pass the tea”.’
    Frankie’s stomach sank. She had known this was going to happen as soon as Teddy Hawkins mentioned the word ‘suffragette’. It was why they had chosen her, she was certain.
They’d all be in the Cheshire Cheese by now, knocking back pints of porter, sharing pork scratchings and smirking.
    The cartoon in question had been drawn by Frankie several months ago, and had been intended for
Punch
. Frankie had been trying for years to have a piece printed there and was always told
that her drawings weren’t satirical enough, except this one which the boy on the
Punch
reception desk, who didn’t look old enough to be in long trousers, had coughed at before
handing back. After
Punch
rejected it, it had floated down the murky Fleet Street food chain, before landing at the door of the
London Evening Gazette
,