Chapter Two #2
was another detail, too, part of a geometric shape containing a sort of pattern. It was positioned between the two roundels
but ripped so badly it was impossible to tell anything from it.
“What do you think?” Lillian asked.
“It’s much more impressive than in the photographs I saw online. It has life in it. What a shame it got ruined.”
“I agree.” Lillian folded her hands on her lap. Was it Clio’s imagination, or were they shaking? She looked away, uncomfortable
witnessing vulnerability in someone she looked up to so much.
“I need to tell you a story,” Lillian said. “And everything I’m about to say is true.”
Clio thought that was a strange thing to say. Lillian’s hands were clasped so tightly now that the knuckles were white. She
exhaled, nerves on her breath, before she spoke.
“There are two very different, very powerful groups of women that exist today, in almost total secrecy. They are hiding in
plain sight, embedded in our society. Both are fighting for the same goal, which is to improve the right of women to live
free from violence and discrimination, but they can’t agree on how to achieve it. Their methods and ideologies don’t align.”
“How so? And whatever happened to women supporting women?”
“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.
“Maybe. Though her husband, who died a few years ago, was undistinguished. But she could have been a sleeper asset, someone
they waited to use until they needed her. This is why I want to know more about her. Eight months before her death, she left
her family home very abruptly and went to live alone on this remote island. Her son and daughter-in-law were living with her,
and the move shocked them because it was very out of character. They’d recently had a baby, her first grandchild, who she
loved. But more important than any of that, and the reason I wanted to meet you here, is that shortly before she left for
Scotland, a much-loved but incomplete piece of embroidery disappeared from the home of a woman Eleanor had befriended and
cared for in the last weeks of her life. It was about the size and shape of the missing piece from the Everly embroidery.”
The security guard appeared again, pacing in the other direction, giving them a long glance as she passed.
“We should leave,” Lillian whispered. “They have eyes and ears everywhere.” She stood abruptly and left the gallery. The museum
was busier now. Clio followed her downstairs and outside.
They emerged beneath the shelter of the stately columns holding up the museum’s grand portico. Clio noted Lillian scanning
the crowds outside. It was raining hard and umbrellas and hoods were up everywhere, making it hard to see people’s faces.
In the gloomy daylight, Lillian looked more troubled than Clio had ever seen her. “Don’t underestimate these women. I lost
a colleague to them; she was also a dear friend. And don’t mention this to anyone on the team. You must be very careful.”
Clio had to stand close to hear Lillian over the rain. She found herself staring at her mentor, trying to figure out whether
she really knew her at all. The Lillian she’d been used to was measured and calm; she rarely showed fear, never got dramatic.
This felt far from normal.
The rain intensified, coming down so hard that the black cabs on Great Russell Street slowed to a crawl, and even so, their tires sent up arcs of water and their brake lights strobed brightly; red light refracted into fragments in the spray, and was reflected in the pooled water on the road.
“I’ll be in touch,” Lillian said.
Clio’s phone rang. “Wait,” she said. She needed to see who was calling because she was supposed to be in the office, but she
wanted to ask one more thing. Lillian didn’t hear or didn’t care. She hurried down the steps as Clio took the call. As she
spoke to a colleague, Clio watched Lillian run through the rain across the area in front of the museum and out through the
wrought-iron gates. A few seconds later she heard the squeal of brakes, a thud, a scream, raised voices. The world seemed
to stop. Clio instinctively held her breath, unable to move until her body forced out a lungful of air, then she ran after
Lillian.
A black cab was parked at an angle across the street. Bystanders were gathering. Lillian lay in the middle of the road, unmoving,
eyes wide open, staring at the sky. Blood seeped from a wound at the back of her head. A channel of rushing rainwater swept
it away. Time slowed for Clio.
She knelt beside her friend. A drop of rain landed on Lillian’s eyeball and rolled away, sliding down her temple, just like
a tear, but Lillian didn’t blink or flinch. Clio choked back a sob as she tried her best to staunch the head wound, but even
before she heard sirens, she knew there was no saving her. Lillian was dead, and Clio couldn’t help wondering if it was something
to do with what she’d just been told.
Anya