Deep Dive
Shownotes Transcript
Right, you look absolutely furious. What's up? Producer Chica's really annoyed me this week. What's going on? I keep pitching all these great ideas for scandals. She just keeps fobbing me off. Not cool. You've got to talk to her. Talk to her about it? It's the last thing I want to do. I think I'm just going to teach her a lesson. OK. What are you thinking? Well, I think I'll go to the coffee shop. I'll get us two a coffee, but I'll leave her out. Yeah. I mean, I think she just probably brings one from home, so she won't really notice. Right, good point.
I'll just give her the cold shoulder. I'll just sit here in a mood all day. That'll teach her. I think she'll probably just think you're concentrating on the job you're paid to do. Good point, yeah. Might as well cut the brake leads on a bike. Okay, well that sort of skipped a step, hasn't it? Because that's jumped to quite violent and extreme. Good point. Makes a point. Yeah, it does. Do you think we try the coffee one and see how we get on? Yeah, because I've always got the bike one up my sleeve. Whereas if I start with the bike one, I mean, that's just the end, isn't it?
19th February 1913. 3am, Walton-on-the-Hill, Surrey. Emily Davison's hands tremble as she clasps them round the metal milk jug. She lifts it from the back of the Ford Model T car. Her breath makes clouds in the cold air. The jug is heavier than she remembers. The nails and broken glass rattle inside. Emily pulls it close to her, trying to stifle the noise.
She glances up at her companion, who gestures urgently at her watch. They set off cautiously up the icy driveway. Emily's feet are unsteady. She tries to look where she's putting them but struggles to see in the pitch darkness. Emily takes in the looming shadow of the grand house, the slight shine of the reflection from the French doors. A light in a first-floor window flicks on, illuminating the room inside. Both women stop walking. Emily feels her companion hiss in her ear.
You said he wasn't home. Top hissing. Not my first time. Emily shakes her head. He wasn't supposed to be. Emily feels the woman step back. Listen, wait here. I'll be five minutes, then we go. She can feel her whole body shaking now. She doesn't want to hurt anyone. But she reminds herself she came here to do a job. She takes a breath, then continues up to the house. She presses down on the handle of the French door.
It's open, just as she was told it would be. Emily steps inside. She takes in the grand interior in the darkness. A chandelier, velvet curtains, huge paintings in gilt frames. Lawrence Llewellyn Bowen's been there. It used to be just really simple, a nice suburban house.
And now it's, you know, shag pile, leopard print sofa. And he's a diva. He demands his milk is delivered at 3am on the dot. And here we are. There's movement upstairs. She needs to hurry. She places the jug in the corner of the room, then with shaking hands, repeats the procedure she's practised so many times. Laying out the wires, she attaches them to the watch mechanism with hairpins.
She jumps as she hears voices at the top of the stairs. Looking at the timer in her hands, Emily takes a breath and sets it. She's got ten minutes. She runs out of the room, closing the French doors silently behind her. She rushes, sliding down the icy driveway and yanking open the car door. Let's go! That's when she can see the illuminated horror on her friend's face. You're going to kill someone! Emily gets in and starts the engine.
The car races through the sleepy midnight village. As they turn out onto country roads, Emily hears an explosion. She's done it. She's blown up. The chancellor of the exchequer.
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As an Audible member, you choose one title a month to keep from their entire catalog. New members can try Audible free for 30 days. Visit audible.com slash WonderyPod or text WonderyPod to 500-500. That's audible.com slash WonderyPod or text WonderyPod to 500-500. From Wondery, I'm Alice Levine. And I'm Matt Ford, and this is British Scandal. ♪
Just based on some of the comments you've made, some of the observations you've made, Matt, I feel compelled to ask you, what do you do to get prepared for a series like this? You know those kids' books about famous people? I've just got a set of those. I've got one on Harry Kane, one on Jude Bellingham, one on Gandhi, one on Emmeline Pankhurst.
So that's your fundamentals covered? Yeah, it covered the broad brushstrokes with lovely pictures of women getting together,
They funded a vote. They marched with great sashes. They sang songs. And then, bang, there's your democratic rights and a place in the illustrated history books. Yeah. It does feel like maybe some of the naughtier, more complicated details have been omitted there. Like, yes to the marches, yes to the meetings. They've maybe skimmed slightly over the naughtier issues of the kind of dabbling in terrorism.
But largely, tick, tick, tick. So, based on the fact we ended the last episode with the Downing Street windows being smashed, where do you think we're going next? That's a tough question for me because the book didn't really cover what happens next. But based on what happened in the last episode of our series, where you've still got a lot of the suffragettes going on hunger strike, where they're being force-fed in the most brutal way, families are being ripped apart...
And Emmeline is immensely frustrated, and that's putting it lightly, that the government is just not taking them seriously. So based on that, actually, you know what? I'm going to go left field. I think things might escalate. Well, I think you could be right, Matt. And I also think you should look at the sources that we cite at the end of every episode. They'd be really helpful to you. This is episode three, Cat and Mouse. Eleven months earlier, March 1912. Early evening, central London.
Emeline Pankhurst strides down Oxford Street, glances back at the crowd of shoppers, ducks into a side alley. Christabel? She looks up as Christabel appears. Her daughter is surrounded by nearly 50 women, their faces all set with the same steely resolve. Ready. Emeline feels the chill of the evening air on her neck. She crouches on the damp pavement, removes her homemade mittens, checks the hidden compartment and then slips her hand in.
Standing up, she tightens the straps around her wrists. She gives Christabel a small nod and the women disperse into the night. Emmeline adjusts her hat, pats her dress, creeps back out onto Oxford Street, then slips discreetly into the crowds of shoppers. She takes in the illuminated window displays.
Mannequins in dresses, a counter of gold jewellery, a shelf of smiling dolls. An American candy store that seems to be a front for a money laundering operation. She pulls her mittens tighter. She starts to feel her heartbeat quicken as the other women begin to reappear at her side along the length of the street. She settles in front of a shop window containing rows of perfectly formed red, yellow and cream pastries.
An impressive five-tier cake stands proudly at its centre. Emmeline watches as a shop girl leans into the display and places a beaming bride and groom on top. She catches the girl's eye. Emmeline's stomach drops as the girl gives her a proud smile. Emmeline glances at the other suffragettes in ready formation along the street, all waiting for her order. Her chest tightens as her thumb catches the cold hard steel in her mitten.
She doesn't think she can go through with it when she hears a newspaper hawker in the distance.
OK, so the conciliation bill was the piece of legislation that would have given the vote to some women. Yes, exactly. And she's getting really frustrated now because there's a great swell of support from MPs. In fact, at the last vote, it was 222 to 208. So it was so close. And Asquith is just really, really anti. And he wants to focus on other things. He's focusing on Ireland and industrial unrest. So they just don't have his support.
Emeline closes her eyes and inhales the cold evening air, her focus returning. She looks back at the girl in front of her. She needs the vote too. Emeline glances in both directions, checks everybody's position, calmly removes her mitten. She opens the hidden compartment, pulls out the weapon and brings the hammer, smashing down against the window. It shatters in an instant.
A high-pitched scream comes from the woman in the shop. Shards of glass fall all over the cakes and catch in the streetlight. OK, I can accept vandalism. I can accept public unrest. But that is food going to waste. In fact, if I was passing by, I'd be like, I will still eat that. Are they going cheap? Blood dribbling from your mouth. I'm just sucking around the shards. But that allows the cream to enter your bloodstream faster. There's actually benefits to this.
Emily turns as a cacophony of screams fills the air. Glass glitters on the pavement for as far as she can see. She gathers up her skirt and runs as fast as she can. She finally rests behind a stairwell, calms her breathing. She tucks her hammer back into her mitten and heads out into the night. Because tonight, she's going to bring London to its knees. A week later, MI5, London.
Prime Minister Asquith storms into the dimly lit headquarters of MI5. His black brogues echo against the cold stone floor. He taps his fingers anxiously as he glances up at the clock on the wall, the second hand ticking, then takes his seat at the small cramped metal table at the far end of the room, tries to make sense of the object in front of him. Prime Minister, this is the Ross telecentric camera lens.
Asquith has ordered a secret task force to be set up to tackle the increased militarism of Mrs Pankhurst. He picks up the object, looks at it in confusion. It's a precision optical device, Prime Minister, designed to achieve highly accurate and distortion-free... Asquith snaps back. Yes, yes, but how is it going to bloody help?
He's sick of hearing about smashed windows, chaos on Britain's streets. And now Mrs Pankhurst is declaring war on private businesses with hammers. It's a prototype, Prime Minister, from America. Asquith listens as the stern-faced man pauses. With some investment, it will considerably enhance our surveillance capabilities.
This is basically the birth of CCTV. Yes, the idea now that long lens photography wasn't at their disposal is sort of absurd, isn't it? Well, that's it. When you watch 24 Hours in Police Custody and they show a suspect clearly on CCTV in very high quality camera and they just sit there and go, that's not me. Imagine what the suffragettes would have been able to get away with. There's no way these cameras would be anywhere near as good as the ones we have now. It's just a woman in a skirt. You can't have me for it. No comment, copper.
He examines the equipment with renewed interest. His right eye stares back at him in the lens. "I want them all locked up." He feels his aide shuffle next to him. Asquith tries to temper his anger, to sound more prime ministerial, but he can't help himself. "The entire bloody bunch. I want them behind bars." He taps his fingers against the polished metal casing of the lens. "Indefinitely." He turns to his aide, who leans forward.
Is this really our most pressing need, Prime Minister? Asquith's government is already under scrutiny. State pensions, welfare reform, various social programmes that are yet to be completed. How much will this cost us? He fixes his eyes on the MI5 officer. Prime Minister, we already risk losing control of our streets, which could lead to even greater expenses in terms of public safety and security.
He pushes his chair back, ignores the concerned looks from his aide. I want heads on sticks. Start with that wretched Pankhurst family. Caxton Hall. I want it shut down. He stomps across the room. If there's one thing he's remembered for as Prime Minister, it will be ridding the streets of these damn Pankhursts. One week later, Fair Home Road Post Office, London.
39-year-old Emily Davison tucks her copy of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Poems Before Congress into her skirt pocket, clips back her dark hair, stands on her tiptoes, reaches for the handle of the public telephone. She needs to call the printer, check that Emmeline Pankhurst's latest pamphlet is ready for distribution. She doesn't like to disappoint her mentor.
Emily never met anyone as inspiring or dedicated as the founder of the WSPU. Emily's even left her teaching job to work for her full time. She starts to dial the number when she spots a copy of today's Daily Mail discarded on the shelf beneath the phone. On the cover is an image of Emmeline in handcuffs. Suffragette headquarters raided. Emily lets the phone receiver drop from her chin as her eyes scan the page.
She can't understand how this is the first she's hearing of this. A special task force has driven Christabel into hiding and Emmeline back into Holloway. Not again. I mean, this is the problem, is that she's not learning from her time in prison. She fails to be rehabilitated. She slams the paper down, ignores the muffled voice of the operator on the line as her vision narrows.
She feels blood fill her head as adrenaline starts to course through her body. She's about to smash the telephone against the wall. When she pauses, she doesn't want to just smash a telephone. She wants to smash up the entire post office. Her eyes dart around the room. Emily smiles. She has an idea.
Twenty minutes later, she's hiding in a nearby doorway as she watches a young boy being lifted up by his mother to post a package into a red Royal Mail postbox. She squats down and opens her bag. She takes out a can of kerosene, cotton rags and matches, carefully removes the stopper and soaks the rags. Emily's hands shake as she strikes a match that doesn't catch. She tries again.
Oi! Stop her! She's surprised by the heat and for a second she panics. Scared she'll set herself on fire, she forces the flaming cotton mass into the hole.
hitches her skirt and clutching her bag, races off down the street. If only Lycra had been invented by this point, things would have been so much easier. Why do you want them wearing Lycra? Is it Lycra that you're running? What does Gymshark make their stuff out of? What you're saying is you've got a lovely body under there, show it off. Yeah, don't hide it under a bushel. But also, it will help you escape is my main point, Alice. Hashtag not all men.
She speeds past the young boy, his face screwed up in fear, glances back as flames start to consume the postbox. Thick black smoke billows above. Acrid smell fills the air. She dives down a side street, feet and chest pounding, peers into her bag, stares at the kerosene sloshing in the can.
The suffragettes have never committed arson. Emily hopes they will approve because she intends to hit every postbox she can in London, bring the entire postal service to a standstill and earn her place as Emmeline Pankhurst's most loyal foot soldier.
What's great about this is it's not just the shock of guerrilla tactics. This is like the old-fashioned version of hacking a government email server. You are paralysing the means of communication and not just letters, but cheques, finance. This will impact everybody.
Absolutely. And it's emblematic of the state, of the government, of the establishment. So in destroying that, you're saying we don't revere you, we don't respect you and we don't recognise you as the power that leads us. April 1912, Caxton Hall, London. Emmeline widens her eyes, blinks as she tries to shake the white spots plaguing her vision. She was released from Holloway this morning after 10 days of hunger strike.
She keeps her hand on the wall as she makes her way through to the main hall. "You should sit down, Mrs Pankhurst." Emmeline takes in the carnage. Chairs thrown, banners ripped, posters pulled down. Every drawer and shelf emptied. She lowers herself into a chair amongst the wreckage. She's about to pull herself upright when Mrs Pethick-Lawrence storms into the room. Pethick-Lawrence has been a suffragette leader since the very beginning.
Her and Emmeline go back years. Her face is usually soft, but now it's hard, etched with concern. You need to bring Emily Davison in line. Emmeline sighs, flinches as Mrs. Pethick-Lawrence throws a bundle of newspapers onto the table. She's making us look like terrorists. Other women are copying her. Emmeline takes a deep breath. In truth, she likes Emily, and she's not so sure she agrees with Mrs. Pethick-Lawrence.
What do you suggest we do? We've tried everything and nothing seems to work. Christabel has had to flee the country. Mrs Pethick-Lawrence leans in. We cannot put people's lives at risk. Emmeline narrows her eyes. But we can cause chaos. Affect the smooth running of the state. Mrs Pethick-Lawrence shakes her head. I intend to put a motion forward to stop this violence. Emmeline bristles.
She snaps back. I'm not sure we should be wasting time with motions when we've got women risking their lives on hunger strike. She is the leader of this organisation. She alone is the person to steer it. She closes her eyes and when she opens them again, feels a sudden moment of absolute clarity. Very well, I'm revoking all voting rights. Emmeline pulls herself to her feet.
We'll have a committee instead, led and chosen by me. Mrs Pethick-Lawrence stares at her in disbelief. Emeline, this is supposed to be a democratic movement. I'll be forced to leave. Take half the union with me. I'm not alone.
It's ironic that a movement founded in order to spread democracy is in danger of becoming anti-democratic at its very top. Isn't it just? I mean, equally, I see Emmeline's point, is if organisations get bogged down, this is a single-issue campaign group and it needs absolute clarity and focus. People start distracting it by passing motions and bogging it down in bureaucracy, then you're not going to get what you want. Emmeline holds her gaze.
Is that all? Emily knows she will lose a huge number of members, but perhaps they won't need them. Emily Davison's escalation of violence might just be the tactic that forces the government's hand. She turns to the remaining women, fixes a smile. Right, let's get started. She's going to call Emily for a meeting. Together, they'll devise a new plan of attack. And they won't stop at arson.
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19th February, 1913. Corrie Hall, Cardiff. Emmeline picks up the cardboard body armour. It's been specially moulded to fit snugly under her fitted bodice, but as she tightens the straps, it still pinches her sides. Is it just me, or, body armour-wise, I'm not really going anything below metal? I don't think it'd be much use against a normal gun if it could easily be eroded by a water pistol. LAUGHTER
Or light drizzle. One naughty boy could bring this whole organisation tumbling down. She wishes she didn't have to wear it, but in recent weeks, suffragettes have had stones and even dead rats thrown at them. And Emily knows that the speech she's about to give is the biggest gamble of her life. She takes one last look at herself in the mirror before she makes her way towards the stage. She holds out her arms in welcome.
Friends, thank you for being here today. I have something to tell you. She takes in the grand room, the huge arches, the crowd of expectant women, the uniformed police hovering at the entrance. In the early hours of this morning, we blew up the Chancellor of the Exchequer's house. Emmeline pauses as the room takes a collective gasp. She continues...
I have advised, I have incited and I have conspired. Emmeline wants to send a jolt of fear through the country. She knows that by claiming responsibility, she's likely to be arrested, possibly even charged with attempted murder. She could face the death penalty. She glances again at the police, whose hands visibly tighten around their batons. Emmeline raises her palms.
Nobody was hurt. Murder was never our intention. But we will continue to use the full force of our union to demand that this government give women the vote. A lone policeman starts to climb the steps to the stage. Emmeline smiles as one of the women in the front row crouches low, narrowing her eyes. Emmeline knows the room is about to erupt.
She looks on in awe as the woman lunges at the policeman and in a single fluid, practised motion, grabs the officer's outstretched arm and sweeps her leg behind his, bringing him crashing down to the floor. If you have siblings, you will know this as a kind of classic move, kind of WWE inspired. Do you think she sort of bounced herself off the ropes a few times just to whip the crowd up?
Did that Hulk Hogan thing where he puts the hand to his ear. And just sort of like pushed out her barrel chest. Emmeline starts to make her way to the steps at the other side of the stage. She'd been sceptical when a suffragette with a martial arts school offered to train her army. But she's pleased she listened.
OK, so this is less WWE and more UFC. Yeah, it really is. So she's referring to Edith Garrett and her husband who ran a jiu-jitsu school. She's a WSPU member. So as the suffragettes were having more run-ins with the authorities, she said, why don't I show you a few things? And she trained up the bodyguards, as they called them, to protect the leaders. This is mind-blowing. I didn't think jiu-jitsu would come to this country without...
until maybe the early noughties. Edith's all over it. Emmeline races down the aisle towards the side exit as other women peel off from the audience to form a protective shield around her. She recoils as an officer approaches and tries to push his way through, but he's thrown to the floor. Then a second policeman is slammed against a wall.
Emmeline is transported out into the sunlight and into the back of a waiting car by a mass of women in white dresses and green ribbons. The press has recently dubbed her suffragette suit. She watches the cityscape of Cardiff turn into countryside as the car races back towards London.
Emmeline vows that she will make whatever sacrifice she needs to for the sake of women across the country. Because it's only a matter of time before the police catch up with her. And her bodyguards can't protect her forever from what's coming. April 1913. The Old Bailey, London. Assistant Director of Public Prosecutions... Sir Keir Starmer. In fact, Archibald Bodkin-Casey.
Bounds up the steps of the old Bailey. His sharp eyes scan the hallway as he makes his way over to the reception desk. He checks his pocket watch, but is immediately accosted by a scrum of journalists. Mr Bodkin, is the Prime Minister's prosecution of Mrs Pankhurst politically motivated? Bodkin starts to answer. Prime Minister Asquith is not the prosecutor. It is the Crown. Does the Prime Minister consider Mrs Pankhurst a terrorist?
Bodkin raises himself to his full six foot, but is hit by a third question before he can answer. Is it true that your own wife is sympathetic to Mrs Pankhurst's case? Bodkin pushes past the imbeciles. He's worked hard to become one of the Crown's most senior prosecutors. He has no intention of indulging such absurd questions. Inside the courtroom, he takes his place at the bar. It's the first time he's set eyes on Mrs Pankhurst in person.
Prison has clearly taken its toll. She looks more like his mother than the bomb-plotting mastermind behind a terrorist organisation. He adjusts his white wig. He stands as the judge enters the room. Mrs Pankhurst, I believe you are representing yourself. Bodkin can't hide his surprise as she replies. That's correct. He feels a tension leave his body. Perhaps today will be easier than he imagined.
He listens as the judge reads her charges. You are charged with wickedly, maliciously and feloniously procuring and inciting a person or persons unknown to commit felony and certain misdemeanours. How do you plead? Not guilty. Bodkin glances down at his papers. He takes a sheath out, carefully places it on his desk.
Mrs Pankhurst, am I correct that you claimed responsibility for the bombing of Cabinet Minister Lloyd George's house in a speech you gave in Cardiff in February? Emmeline gives him the smallest of smiles. So how is it, Mrs Pankhurst, that you're pleading not guilty to these charges now? Emmeline's calm eyes bear into him.
The indictment accused me of having wickedly and maliciously incited women to crime. What I did was not wicked or malicious, quite the opposite. So I cannot plead guilty. Oh, she's smashing it. Bodkin turns and stares at the jury. He recomposes himself, prepares his next question. But Mrs Pankhurst speaks first.
Let me ask you, Mr Bodkin. I believe you have a wife and daughters. He can't understand why everyone keeps bringing up his bloody wife. She's as adamant as he is that Mrs Pankhurst's a threat to society. I do. Mrs Pankhurst smiles. Imagine if your wife worked as a barrister, brought home all the money, your daughter in jobs more highly paid than you could ever imagine being.
Whilst you're at home cooking, cleaning and running the house, but unable to participate in the democracy of your own country. Entirely locked out of having any voice at all. She pauses. How might that feel? Bodkin glances at the judge a second time. Mrs Pankhurst, I'm afraid I'm not here to debate the merits of gender politics. I'm here to enforce the current law.
But Mrs Pankhurst continues. "How hard would you fight for it, Mr Bodkin?" Bodkin feels himself bristle as the court's eyes fall on him. He purses his lips, snaps back. "I certainly wouldn't think terrorism the answer." "Is that a legal argument, Mr Bodkin?" Bodkin feels his heart hammering in his chest. He's underestimated this woman.
he reminds himself that Emmeline Pankhurst has planted a bomb, a goddamn bomb, in the Chancellor of the Exchequer's home. She is dangerous and he isn't going to be made to look a fool. This courtroom is his playground and he has no intention of letting her off the hook. He's going to make sure this woman is locked up. The following day, the Old Bailey, London. Emmeline climbs the three steps to the dock.
She rests her hands on her stomach. She's been suffering chronic pain since her last hunger strike. She's even noticed that in the past week, her hair is starting to fall out. She tries to push any doubt and fear from her mind, but she can sense that the court's mood is different today. And she knows what she's about to say could well backfire. But this is her moment, her moment to strike at the very heart of the establishment. All rise.
Emmeline stands as the judge and jury file in. She looks at the faces of the men that will decide her future. Of course, because all the jury are men. Oh, yeah, baby cakes. Tough crowd. Mrs Pankhurst, do you have any closing comments? Emmeline straightens her spine. She takes a breath and directs her gaze towards the judge. If you convict me, if you find me guilty...
I tell you quite honestly and quite frankly that I shall not submit to it. She thinks she sees a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes before she turns her attention in turn to each of the 12 men that make up the jury. Have you the right as human beings to condemn another human being to death? Because that is what it amounts to. She forces herself to hold the space as the courtroom falls deathly silent.
"'You have not the right to judge me, because you are not my peers. Every one of you knows that I should not be standing here, that I would not break one single law if I had the right that you possess.' She places her palm on her chest. "'I break the law from no selfish motive. I have no personal end to serve. Neither have any of the other women who have gone through this court, like sheep to the slaughter.'
She's determined to remain calm and composed. Every set of eyes is fixed on her. There is only one way to put a stop to this agitation. She pauses. It is not by deporting us. It is not by putting us in jail. It is by doing us justice. She lets the words hang in the air. One, two, three seconds. Glitter cannon. LAUGHTER
Gosh, I'm watching Coldplay. Surely pyros. That's their forte. Oh, Bailey, you've been a great crowd. Good night. And so I appeal to you, gentlemen, to give a verdict not only on my case, but upon the whole of this agitation. She stares back at the judge, gives him the smallest of nods as the court takes a collective intake of breath.
One hour later, Emmeline grips the edge of the dock as the foreman steps forward to deliver the jury's verdict. She closes her eyes as he starts to speak. On the charge of wickedly, maliciously and feloniously procuring and inciting a person or persons unknown to commit felony and certain misdemeanours, we find the defendant guilty. After that speech...
Order! Order! Mrs Pankhurst, you are sentenced to three years penal servitude.
She knows that penal servitude means three years of hard labour. She glances up at the gallery as her women break into song. The Marseillaise, a song about freedom, liberation. She fixes what she hopes is a stoic expression on her face, but then she feels the rough hands of two guards on her waist and her body slackens. She glances at a statue of Lady Justice and almost laughs at the irony.
as she starts to wonder whether she has any fight left in her body to endure what the state will now throw at her. Two months later, the Surrey countryside. Emily Davison's hands clench the frayed edges of her worn coat. She glances around the carriage. Perfume and cigar smoke fill the air. She stares at a woman's broad-brimmed hat, steadies herself as the carriage lurches to the left and a man next to her spills champagne into his lap.
She turns her attention to the passing countryside, fixes her eyes on a dark rain cloud as her mind turns to Emmeline and her latest hunger strike in Holloway Prison. At this rate, she may not come out alive. It seems that's exactly what this government wants. Next stop, Epsom. Next stop, Epsom. Oh, I think I know where we're going. Well, Epsom, yeah. Yeah, but not just to Epsom. There's a famous race course there. There is indeed, Matt. Nothing gets past you.
Following the flow of people spilling out onto the platform, Emily thinks about all the marches, protests, window smashing, arson and even bombing she's been involved in. But nothing works. Nothing shifts the dial. She pushes through the barriers and immediately spots two of her fellow suffragettes, hands cuffed behind their backs. Placards snapped in two.
passes by ignoring them as a crowd of policemen bundle them into the back of a van. She's struck by how trivial and hopeless it all feels. She's about to throw her own banners on the ground when she's bumped into by a group of drunk men. An idea starts to form. Five minutes later, she's firmly ensconced at the front of a crowd, her stomach pressed up against the railing.
What colours will the king's horse be wearing? I have the same bet. Five to one to finish first or second. She looks at him in confusion. Sorry, I thought... Scarlet and purple. Emily peers down the track, tries to steady her nerves. She takes in the vast green field and white painted lines. She's struck at first by the sound, a low vibration and then a thunder. She grips the shaking rail.
She can't believe the size and power of the beasts. She's never been to the races before. She chews her lip as she feels fear rise in her throat. She starts to have second thoughts. She knows in a few moments the horses will circle back around. She tries to swallow down her nerves. She tells herself she can do this. She's blown up post boxes. She's laid bombs. She feels the railing start to vibrate again.
She grips it as she hears the thunder of the hooves a second time. She peers down the track. Her heart feels like it's going to explode. She tells herself that she's doing this for generations of women ahead of her. She carefully unfurls her flags, keeps her eyes firmly fixed on the scarlet and purple colouring of the king's horse. It seems to be picking up speed. Faster and faster. She knows she's got seconds.
Panic grips her body. She counts to three, closes her eyes, tells herself to stop being a coward. She ducks under the barrier. Someone behind her screams. Emily feels herself floundering and becoming disorientated. Her foot slips. She panics as the horses come towards her. She looks up.
wrestles with her flag. She can't tell which horse. She reaches up, and then... This season, Instacart has your back-to-school. As in, they've got your back-to-school lunch favorites, like snack packs and fresh fruit. And they've got your back-to-school supplies, like backpacks, binders, and pencils. And they've got your back when your kid casually tells you they have a huge school project due tomorrow.
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Four days later, the Thames, Westminster.
Emmeline pulls her cloak around her as she stares at the murky river water. She clutches a small, worn book to her chest. Emily's favorite volume of poetry. She tries to clear her head. She's supposed to be on her way to Parliament Square, where she's promised journalists she'll address Emily's death. But with every step, doubt gnaws at her. She feels unsure about going through with it, but she knows her time is marked.
Emmeline has only just been released from prison after hunger striking. She'll be locked back up as soon as her strength returns. Asquith's latest inhumane policy.
So was he enforcing an existing law or had he passed a new one? So this is referring to the Cat and Mouse Act or the less pithily named Prisoners Temporary Discharge for Ill Health Act. So this was a response to hunger strikes, which were a real problem optically for the government. So what they decided to do was create this act so that they could allow them to hunger strike, get weak, but before it became fatal, release them.
allow them to gain some strength and then arrest them again. So they didn't die in prison and they didn't have the terrible PR of that on their hands, but also the suffragettes couldn't use hunger strikes as a political tool. She starts to make her way along the wet pavement, lamplights casting long shadows across the path. She can't believe Emily is gone. She stops, opens Emily's book again and runs her fingers over her handwritten notes in the margin, then steps back in surprise.
"Christabel?" Emmeline steps forward to embrace her, but as she does, a gust of wind catches a tree and the shadow she thought was her daughter disappears. She blinks twice, stares again at the empty pavement, tells herself to get a grip, then collapses onto a wooden bench. She stares at Parliament lit up across the river. She misses her daughter so much. Tears start spilling down her cheeks.
Emeline casts her eyes downward as a passerby stares at her in concern. Perhaps Asquith was right all along. Perhaps she is a madwoman. She's lost her disciple, crushed to death by horse's hooves. She's lost her daughter, hiding in some squalid Parisian squat. And she is set to return to Holloway. For what? She's no closer to securing her goal of women's suffrage today than she was ten years ago.
She screams into the night, exhausted. She flicks absently through Emily's poetry book until her eyes catch on a scribbled comment she's made in the end notes. "In the face of adversity, our voices must ring louder." Emmeline looks up at the Houses of Parliament. She takes a deep breath, lets the cold, sharp air fill her lungs. Narrowing her eyes, she snaps the book shut.
Emily's death cannot be in vain. She may be on borrowed time, but she must honour Emily's sacrifice. She feels a surge of energy as she knows exactly what must be done. She turns on her heels and starts making her way toward Caxton Hall. She refuses to let Emily be remembered as anything other than a hero. Emily obviously is remembered as a hero in the moment that she died and she became a martyr...
She also left her mark in Parliament, and there's a fantastic part of her legacy there. If you go on a tour of the Houses of Parliament, just off Westminster Hall, there's a big grand corridor that for a while was the House of Commons. And one of the statues has like a fracture on it.
where it's a statue of a man with a sword. I can't remember whose statue it is. But you can see the fracture on the sword, and that's where one of the suffragettes handcuffed herself to that statue, and they had to break the sword to get her off. And then instead of replace the whole thing, they've stuck it back together and left that mark so that when you do a tour, you can see the marks that the suffragettes left. June 1913, Holland Park, London. Emmeline looks at the newspaper spread across the table.
She reads what they've written about her friend Emily, a well-known malignant suffragette, a miserable woman. Emmeline's heart lurches. She feels her eyes brim with tears, but it only serves to bolster her conviction that she has made the right decision. She pats down her full suffragette regalia, white dress, green and purple ribbons, rosette and sash. An hour later, Emmeline is marching down Whitehall.
Behind her are thousands, maybe tens of thousands of women, all marching. She stops, then looks to her left and right. It's a signal to unfurl the banner they're holding. She lets it out in the breeze. Votes for women. 20 women carry horns and trumpets in the sea of white, green and purple. The huge black carriage holding Emily's coffin slowly rolls into the procession.
It's led by a white horse, sitting upon which is one of the suffragette women dressed as Joan of Arc. The martyr's last words hang from its side. Fight on and God will give the victory. Immediately behind, tens of hunger strikers march alongside in solidarity. Emmeline hears a commotion behind her. Two officers burst through the line of women. Emmeline Pankhurst, we're arresting you under the Prisoners Act of 1913.
Emmeline sees her army tense, but she raises her hand. "It's okay, I'll go. Today's not about me." She lets the officers march her through the crowds. As they push through the line of mourners, Emmeline sees the prison van waiting on the other side. She's thrown inside. As the van pulls away, Emmeline readies herself for what's to come. More hunger, more pain, more thoughts of death and decay.
She always asks herself, what is this for? Why? She thinks of Asquith's smirking face, of the countless police officers who have hit her with their batons, locked her up, their grins etched into her memory. And then her mind shifts. The image of Emily comes swimming into view. Emily making her way under that barrier at Epsom. Emily faced with 30 thundering hooves. Emily making her choice.
And she realises that whatever happens, whatever misery she endures, she's on the right side of the fight. That she's standing up for the most fundamental of rights, the right to be a human being. And someday, maybe, history will be on her side. So fascinating viewing this from our perspective over 100 years later.
Because to our generation, it's self-evident that they're on the right side of the debate. And yet they faced incredible resistance and physical violence for this. And you just wonder about how history will judge some of the things we're doing in the time in which we live and what things will be glaringly obvious to podcasters in 110 years that perhaps we were resistant to.
The suffragettes continued to fight for women to have the vote up until the outbreak of the First World War, when the government released all suffragette prisoners on an amnesty. Emmeline Pankhurst ended all militant activities and turned the WSPU into a union which supported the war effort. In 1918, the Representation of the People Act gave women homeowners over 30 the vote.
Christabel Pankhurst stood as a women's party candidate in the 1918 general election in Smethwick, and her mother campaigned tirelessly for her. She was narrowly defeated by 775 votes. In 1921, Christabel moved to California, where she became an evangelist and a prominent member of the Second Adventist movement.
In 1928, Emmeline Pankhurst joined the Conservative Party and two years later was selected as a candidate for the Whitechapel constituency, but died before the election on the 14th of June, 1928. Wow, what a story. And just to finish off this series, Matt, I just want to tell you about the last episode we're going to do. We've got a pretty big name on, someone who's intimately related to the main character in our series. Oh man, Asquith. Get him in here. I've got questions for him.
It's a bad guess, but I respect that you went for it. We have the great granddaughter of Emmeline Pankhurst. It's Professor Helen Pankhurst, CBE, who is an international development and women's rights activist, of course, and writer. And we're very lucky to have her on. Welcome to The Offensive Line. You guys, on this podcast, we're going to make some picks, talk some s**t, and hopefully make you some money in the process. I'm your host, Annie Hagar.
So here's how this show's going to work, okay? We're going to run through the weekly slate of NFL and college football matchups, breaking them down into very serious categories like No offense. No offense, Travis Kelsey, but you've got to step up your game if Pat Mahomes is saying the Chiefs need to have more fun this year. We're also handing out a series of awards and making picks for the top storylines surrounding the world of football. Awards like the He May Have a Point Award for the wide receiver that's most justifiably bitter.
Is it Brandon Ayuk, Tee Higgins, or Devontae Adams? Plus, on Thursdays, we're doing an exclusive bonus episode on Wondery Plus, where I share my fantasy football picks ahead of Thursday night football and the weekend's matchups. Your fantasy league is as good as locked in. Follow the offensive line on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can access bonus episodes and listen ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus.
Scammers are best known for living the high life until they're forced to trade it all in for handcuffs and an orange jumpsuit once they're finally caught. I'm Sachi Cole. And I'm Sarah Hagee. And we're the host of Scamfluencers, a weekly podcast from Wondery that takes you along the twists and turns of some of the most infamous scams of all time, the impact on victims, and what's left once the facade falls away.
We've covered stories like a Shark Tank certified entrepreneur who left the show with an investment but soon faced mounting bills, an active lawsuit filed by Larry King, and no real product to push. He then began to prey on vulnerable women instead, selling the idea of a future together while stealing from them behind their backs.
To the infamous scams of Real Housewives stars like Teresa Giudice, what should have proven to be a major downfall only seemed to solidify her place in the Real Housewives Hall of Fame. Follow Scamfluencers on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to Scamfluencers early and ad-free right now on Wondery+.
From Wondery and Sammersdat Audio, this is the third episode in our series, The Pankhursts. A quick note about our dialogue. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but all our dramatisations are based on historical research. If you'd like to know more about this story, you can read The Suffragette, a history of the women's militant suffrage movement by Sylvia Pankhurst. Suffragettes, the fight for votes for women by Joy Marlowe.
Working Class Suffragette by C.M. Talbot and The Remarkable Lives of the Suffragettes by Diane Atkinson. British Scandal is hosted by me, Alice Levine. And me, Matt Ford. Written by Jess Green. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford. Our story editor is James Maniac. Sound design by Louis Blatherwick. For Samizdat, our producer is Chika Ayres. Our senior producer is Joe Sykes.
For Wondery, our series producer is Theodora Leloudis and our managing producer is Rachel Sibley. Executive producers for Wondery are Estelle Doyle, Chris Bourne, Morgan Jones and Marshall Louis. She struck him with her motor vehicle. She had been under the influence and then she left him there.
In January 2022, local woman Karen Reed was implicated in the mysterious death of her boyfriend, Boston police officer John O'Keefe. It was alleged that after an innocent night out for drinks with friends, Karen and John got into a lover's quarrel en route to the next location. What happens next depends on who you ask.
Was it a crime of passion? If you believe the prosecution, it's because the evidence was so compelling. This was clearly an intentional act. And his cause of death was blunt force trauma with hypothermia. Or a corrupt police cover-up. If you believe the defense theory, however, this was all a cover-up to prevent one of their own from going down. Everyone had an opinion.
And after the 10-week trial, the jury could not come to a unanimous decision. To end in a mistrial, it's just a confirmation of just how complicated this case is. Law and Crime presents the most in-depth analysis to date of the sensational case in Karen. ♪
You can listen to Karen exclusively with Wondery Plus. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify. Hey, I'm Mike Corey, the host of Wondery's podcast, Against the Odds. In each episode, we share thrilling true stories of survival, putting you in the shoes of the people who live to tell the tale.
In our next season, it's July 6th, 1988, and workers are settling into the night shift aboard Piper Alpha, the world's largest offshore oil rig. Home to 226 men, the rig is stationed in the stormy North Sea off the coast of Scotland.
At around 10 p.m., workers accidentally trigger a gas leak that leads to an explosion and a fire. As they wait to be rescued, the workers soon realize that Piper Alpha has transformed into a death trap. Follow Against the Odds wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen ad-free on Amazon Music or the Wondery app.