“Go on,” Ursula prompted him.
“I smuggled myself aboard a steamer bound for Liverpool from Antwerp. But by the time I arrived, it was too late. A worse fate had befallen poor Arina.”
“Arina?” Ursula said sharply. “You don’t mean to say this man’s lover was Arina Petrenko?”
“Yes.”
Ursula looked at Alexei sharply. The incredible coincidence immediately raised her suspicions.
“So then you know that she died in a fire in one of my factories.”
“Yes, I know. But please, listen. Before you jump to any conclusions, let me try to explain it to you.”
Ursula opened her mouth to interrupt him, but stopped as she caught sight of his face.
“I arrived in Oldham the night of the fire. I took the tramway and went to Arina’s lodgings on the outskirts of town. But she did not return home. No one did. So I returned to town and booked into the railway hotel. I was at a loose end and decided to see the factory that you had established. Anna had, of course, written and told me what you had done.”
Ursula raised her eyebrows. Anna’s antipathy toward Ursula was well known. She was surprised she had told her son anything about the factory.
“So I went there, and by now it was close to eight o’clock. The factory was of course locked. I walked around the streets for a while and then returned to the hotel. When I awoke the next morning, I heard about the fire and the rumors of a young girl being pulled from the ashes. I had no idea it was Arina until I returned to her house the next morning. Her roommate, Natasha, was in a terrible state. She told me Arina was missing, but she refused to go to the police. You know how it is, lapushka, for those of us who have endured brutal treatment at the hands of the tsarist police in Russia. While I was at the house, a policeman arrived. I had to hide upstairs, but when I came down, Natasha’s face was white . . . she told me it was Arina who had perished in the fire.”
Ursula rubbed her nose. Alexei’s taste for the dramatic had certainly not diminished over time.
“Natasha told me the police were looking for witnesses who may have seen a ‘foreign’-looking gentleman outside the factory earlier that evening. The description they gave was of me.”
“So someone saw you outside the factory?”
“Yes. I had to leave Oldham as quickly as I could. I couldn’t risk being taken in for questioning. And as you can see I had nowhere else to go.”
“Did Natasha go with you?” Ursula asked.
Alexei shook his head. “I don’t know where she went.”
Ursula sighed. “You really should go to the police and clear things up. Tell them you had nothing to do with what happened. Otherwise they’ll be spending countless hours on a wild goose chase looking for you.”
Alexei looked at her intently. “You know that I cannot risk being found by the police.”
Ursula bit her lip. She wasn’t sure what to do. She knew that when he left England four years ago, Alexei had been under investigation for inciting “agitation” among workers across the country.
“I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. So I came to you. It took a while. I had to accept rides from strangers or walk most of the way, but I had to find somewhere safe. . . .”
Ursula didn’t doubt his fears were real. There were a number of influential people in the government and at Scotland Yard who would like nothing better than to see Alexei Prosnitz silenced in jail.
“But you say you saw nothing suspicious at the factory that night?”
“I saw nothing.”
“You didn’t see anybody there? No sign of a break in perhaps? Or a light on?”
Alexei shook his head. “My mother told me you were quite the detective.”
Ursula scowled at his flippancy. It was difficult for her to gauge whether what he said was true. So many years had passed since she had last been around him. She found her judgment clouded by the uncertain emotions his return had aroused. Alexei always did have a way of embellishing the truth till it was little more than fiction.
“I am in England to achieve a great many things. Fulfilling my duty to Kolya was one of these, but there are others,” Alexei said carefully. “Things that are vital for the future of the Bolsheviks and for the global class struggle. Things that cannot be brought to the attention of the Metropolitan Police.”
Ursula sat in silence, weighing up his story. He stared down at his hands, his dark curls spilling over his forehead. The minutes ticked away on the mantel clock.
“What can I do?” Ursula finally asked quietly.
Ursula left Alexei in the front parlor thumbing through the latest copy of the Strand Magazine. Closing the door carefully behind her, she went into the study and lifted the telephone receiver. She hesitated for a moment and stared down at the desk, trying to collect her thoughts. The operator answered, and with a deep breath she asked to be connected to Miss Stanford-Jones.
“Freddie,” Ursula said. “I have another favor to ask, one that may make things a bit tricky. . . .”
“Sully, you know better than to even ask. Fire away, old bean. Whatever you need!” came Winifred’s swift response.
“It concerns Alexei.”
Winifred went silent.
“He’s back in England,”
“Ah . . .”
“And he needs help.”
“Now there’s a surprise,” Winifred responded with sarcasm.
“And to make matters worse, he may be involved in what happened at Oldham. I can’t say anything more at the moment, but he needs somewhere to stay. Somewhere the police won’t find him. It’s a lot to ask, I know . . . but Freddie, I need your help.”
Ursula waited, knowing that what she was asking was of immense personal risk. Winifred had already been to Holloway Prison for her suffragette activities and falsely accused of Laura Radcliffe’s murder; Ursula could well imagine that Winifred wanted to avoid any unnecessary police entanglements.
“There’s no one else I can turn to,” Ursula said, and she could hear the desperation in her voice.
“Of course, Sully,” Winifred replied quickly. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”
“Freddie, I owe you a huge debt of gratitude. . . . I know I ask far too much of you—”
“Sully, it is I who you owe you a debt!” Winifred responded. “But I do have just one question,” she said, dropping her voice. “Do you really think he may be involved in the death of that girl in Oldham?”
Ursula watched as the rain pounded against the window. Two years ago she had faced a similar dilemma when Winifred had telephoned her in the middle of the night, asking for her help. That time Winifred had been accused of murdering her female lover, and Ursula had been determined to clear her name.
“With you,” Ursula replied slowly, “I was so sure. I knew you were innocent.”
“And with Alexei?” Winifred prompted.
“With Alexei, I don’t know. Deep down I know he couldn’t have been involved, not in the death of a girl, not in a fire in my own factory . . . and yet . . .”
“And yet?”
“I know he is holding something back.”
Winifred was quiet for a moment. “Sully,” she said, “trust your instincts. Bring him to my place. Whatever happened, whatever Alexei’s involvement, I know you can work this out.”
Ursula made Alexei leave by the servants’ stairs and had Samuels wait in the rear lane in Bertie. She and Alexei climbed in the back, and Ursula instructed Samuels to fasten the top down securely to obscure them from the neighbors’ prying eyes.
Samuels drove them up Grosvenor Place and Park Lane before turning onto Oxford Street, where they continued until they reached Tottenham Court Road. He then weaved through the streets and squares of Bloomsbury before stopping outside Winifred’s new abode in Woburn Square. The memories associated with Laura Radcliffe, Winifred’s murdered lover, had been too great, and Winifred had moved a month after her acquittal. Her aunt had helped her lease a ground-floor flat c
omplete with basement kitchen and laundry room, small garden, and two bedrooms. Insisting on her own independence, Winifred refused her aunt’s offer to provide additional funds for a live-in maid, but used her own meager earnings to support a local girl, Mary, to come in a couple of mornings a week to help. The result was that Winifred had been forced to become quite domesticated, much to Ursula’s amusement (and her dismay, after tasting some of Freddie’s baking efforts).
Winifred was waiting for them, and as soon as Bertie drew up outside she opened the front door and ushered them in quickly.
“Freddie!” Alexei hailed her with a smile.
“Alexei.” Winifred’s face was impassive.
“Now, now,” Ursula chided gently. “Let’s put the past behind us, Freddie.” Ursula knew that Winifred had never forgiven Alexei for leaving as he did. Nor would she forgive him for the heartbreak he had inflicted on Ursula. Ever the staunch defender, Winifred seemed determined to make her censure felt.
“Of course,” Winifred responded coolly.
Ursula led Alexei into the front parlor and threw her hat and gloves down onto one of the armchairs. Books and papers were strewn all over the room.
“Sorry about the mess,” Winifred said lightly, removing a pile of pamphlets from one of the chairs and motioning for Alexei to sit. Ursula seated herself beneath the window while Winifred perched on the piano stool.
“So, I’ve set up a camp bed downstairs. You’re next to the kitchen, I’m afraid, but if we are to keep you secreted away it’s best you aren’t seen upstairs. As you know, we’re right in the middle of our suffrage campaign, so there’ll be heaps of women coming in and out. . . . So if you are to stay, you’ll have to abide by three conditions.”
“And they are?” Alexei sat back in the chair with a smirk.
Winifred leaned forward. “First, you must remain downstairs at all times. If you need anything, let Mary know, and she’ll come to me. Mary’s a good sort and won’t breathe a word of you being here. She’s used to all our cloak-and-dagger stuff.”
“So I gather you, like my dear mother, are still involved with the Pankhursts.”
“Of course!”
“You can’t really believe that your current tactics will achieve anything, can you? I mean, you’re never going to win the vote for women by throwing stones in a few West End shops, or setting fire to pillar-boxes—”
“And this coming from a man who once tried to dynamite the tsar’s yacht at Cowes and ended up with fried fish instead,” was Winifred’s sarcastic reply.
Alexei flushed darkly. “I just think that if you are dedicated to action, to militancy, to achieve your goals, you need to operate like an army,” he retorted. “You need discipline and experience. Look at you. Three of your leaders are in jail. Christabel has fled to France and seems to spend her time shopping along the Champs-Elysées or sipping wine in Montmartre. From what I’ve heard, half your committees have no idea how to throw a stone so it will actually hit a target. Face it, Freddie you’re losing the fight.”
“And what do you suggest?”
“Rise up. Organize. Demand universal suffrage for all men and women and redistribution of wealth from the rich to the poor. The issues are broader than just votes for women. We could be on the verge of a worldwide revolution. Female suffrage is meaningless when weighed against the global class struggle!”
“Can we leave this discussion for later? Please!” Ursula interrupted sharply. “We have a dead girl in Oldham. We have police sniffing around for proof that Alexei was involved. Let’s focus on what needs to be done here and now. Once this is all over, we can have the luxury of debate—but not now!”
“Sorry,” Winifred said with a rueful smile, and Ursula felt a pang of nostalgia. There was a time when all three of them could be found sitting in Anna’s parlor, arguing over suffrage and socialism. Those days seemed glorious, innocent, almost naive now. Ursula closed her eyes for a moment, trying to expel the memories from her mind.
“So what is the second condition?” Alexei crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair.
“The second condition is, no visitors.” Alexei raised one eyebrow. “No, I mean it,” Winifred continued. “Nothing will give the game away more than if my house suddenly becomes the focal point for the entire London Bolshevik population.”
Alexei shrugged. “And the third?”
“The third condition is that you will ensure that nothing is done that will harm Sully in any way. And by that I mean, nothing that will injure her business, nothing that will injure her reputation, and nothing, absolutely nothing, that will make her regret all that she has done for you. Let me be clear. You are here because of Sully. Because she asked me. Cross her, injure her, and I will march into Scotland Yard myself and tell them who you are. . . . Do I make myself clear?”
Alexei reddened again. “Yes, and believe me, I will do nothing to harm either of you. I am in both your debt.”
There was an awkward pause. The room seemed to darken as the clouds grew heavy and the rain started once more. Winifred reached over and turned on the standard lamp beside the piano.
Ursula got up to leave. “I really must be heading off. I have a meeting with Anderson in half an hour, and then I have to get ready to return to the North tomorrow.”
Winifred bent over and readjusted the cuffs of her trousers. They were coming loose from her ankle-high boots. “I’ll see you out.” Her voice was muffled. She straightened up. “You,” she instructed Alexei, “stay here.”
Alexei raised an eyebrow. As Ursula passed him, he tried to reach out and kiss her hand. Ursula pulled her hand away sharply and without another word left the room.
As they approached the front door, Ursula pulled Winifred aside and gave her the handkerchief containing the letter fragments.
“Here are the pieces. Why don’t you call me later, once you’ve found a translator? Until we find out more, I don’t want Alexei to know anything about the letter.”
Winifred placed the handkerchief in her jacket pocket and nodded. “I’ll call you tonight when I get the chance and am sure Alexei isn’t around. Let’s hope it gives you some clue as to what happened to that poor girl.”
“Let’s hope,” Ursula responded grimly. All she wanted was time alone to think things through and initiate further inquiries. She still hadn’t found any answers to the mystery surrounding Katya’s death in Egypt. The frustration of the two unsolved murders was weighing heavy on her mind.
Samuels was waiting outside, leaning against Bertie and engrossed in the latest London Illustrated News.
As he spied her walking toward him, Samuels shoved the paper under his arm and came round to open the rear door of the motorcar.
Ursula responded with a smile as she tucked in her skirt, sat down, and swung her legs inside.
Samuels closed the door, cranked the engine vigorously a few times to get Bertie’s engine going, and then climbed into the driver’s seat.
“Straight to the city, then, Miss?” The offices of Anderson & Stowe were on Threadneedle Street.
“Yes,” Ursula replied and settled back into the leather seat as Samuels maneuvered Bertie out and onto the street.
Gerard Anderson was on the telephone when Ursula arrived, and she bided her time in the large wood-paneled meeting room, staring out of the window and tapping her gloves on her skirt to a nervous rhythm. She watched as the red and black omnibuses, horse-drawn carriages, and tan and green motorcars all vied for the road as pedestrians, men in their bowler hats, women in their straw hats, and flower sellers with their baskets all weaved and ducked as they tried to cross the busy street. Ursula was so intent on her own thoughts and watching the scene below that she never noticed the knock on the door. It wasn’t until she turned round, with a preoccupied sigh, that she saw Lord Wrotham entering the room, followed by Gerard Anderson.
“Ursula, my dear!” Anderson called out as he approached her. “I saw you last night at Topper’s but we really didn’t get
a chance to chat. Take a seat, take a seat. I heard about Egypt. Good news about the supply, but I was sorry to hear about your friend. When Elizabeth and I visited in ’96 such an incident would have been unheard of—what is the world coming to, eh?!”
“What indeed.” Ursula sat down across the table from Lord Wrotham. She was not deceived by Anderson’s tone—he was nervous, which could only mean he had bad news to impart.
“I didn’t realize Lord Wrotham was going to be here,” Ursula began.
“As trustee, Anderson felt it was necessary for me to attend,” Lord Wrotham interjected before she could finish. “I received his note just this afternoon. If I had known earlier, I would, of course, have told you.”
You mean, if I hadn’t walked out on you this morning, Ursula thought despondently.
“But of course,” she replied smoothly, keeping a close rein on her emotions. “So then”—she turned her attention to Anderson—“tell me the bad news.”
Anderson set down a manila folder and tapped it thoughtfully.
“Not bad news at all, my dear—more what I would call ‘an interesting development.’ One that could prove most advantageous to you.”
“Go on.” Ursula remained unconvinced.
“This morning I received a formal offer for your father’s entire estate. All the companies, mills, and factories. The offer is to purchase everything outright.”
Ursula’s face remained rigid.
“Given our recent industrial concerns, it is a very generous offer indeed. I have the details in front of me.”
“Who, pray tell, is the interested buyer?”
“Christopher Dobbs.”
Ursula’s head jerked back.
“Now, then,” Anderson said hurriedly, “before you fly off the handle, let me remind you that this is, after all, business. None of us should let personal animosity toward Obadiah cloud our judgment.”
The Serpent and the Scorpion Page 13