Dr. Mortimer called the chief of the Oldham fire brigade, Superintendent Harry Boardman, who described how the brigade had attended the fire at the Oldham Garment Factory and how, in the early hours of the morning, he had discovered the body of a young woman lying dead in the smoking ruins.
“Can you indicate on this drawing of the factory where the body was found?”
The police constable stood in front of the jury, holding up a hand-drawn plan of the garment factory. The superintendent pointed to a spot on the map beneath the doorway that linked the sewing room to the nursery annex.
“And you found the body in the doorway?”
“Yes. Or at least, what was left of her.”
A ripple went through the courtroom.
Ainsley resumed his examination of Superintendent Boardman. “Can you describe what else you found at the scene? Was there any indication of how the fire started?”
“At first we weren’t sure, but when me and the boys started siftin’ through the debris, we found evidence of what we believe was used to start the fire.”
“Which was?”
“Spilled petrol and petrol-soaked cotton rags. We found scraps in the sewing room. We think these were lit, causing a chain reaction across the factory. You know how these places are—fabric and the like everywhere. Almost as bad as a mill.”
“So in your view the fire was not an accident?”
“No—whoever did it probably thought they’d be nothin’ left to find, but he were wrong.”
“Thank you, Superintendent. Now, as the jury has heard from my postmortem results, Arina Petrenko did not die as a result of the fire, so the jury must bear in mind that evidence of arson may or may not be relevant in terms of the cause of her death.”
“Damn suspicious, mind you,” the superintendent muttered.
“That will be all, Superintendent. Remember, this is not a criminal trial. This is just an inquest to determine cause of death.”
The jury looked a little mystified by this, but Dr. Mortimer continued, calling upon Sergeant Barden to provide details of the Oldham police investigation.
Sergeant Barden took the witness stand, outlining the events of that night and the following morning. He was careful, given the nature of the inquest, not to provide any extraneous information beyond the questions asked. A short, stocky man with a bushy mustache and fluffy hair, he was taciturn on the stand, and much to Ursula’s disappointment, he provided little in the way of supposition as to what really happened that night.
He described his visit to Back Gladstone Street, where Arina’s roommate, Natasha Desislava, identified a piece of clothing (Exhibit 3) retrieved from the dead woman’s body.
“But Natasha refused to come and view the body, is that correct?”
“Yes, we ’ad to ’ave Nellie Ackroyd come t’station for that.”
“And she confirmed it was Arina?”
“As best she could; there weren’t much left of ’er—”
“Yes, I think we can spare everyone the details of that again; we heard quite enough about that earlier. . . . Oh, there is one final matter, and that is the question of Natasha Desislava. Have you any idea of her present whereabouts?”
“No. When we returned that afternoon, she had already left. Despite makin’ enquiries in London last week, we’ve been unable to locate her.” A stickler for procedure, Ainsley Mortimer asked the constable to call Natasha Desislava three times to the witness stand before recording her failure to appear in his coroner’s notes.
“Thank you, Sergeant Barden,” Dr. Mortimer said. “Please remain in the courtroom, as we will require your services again when we return to the question of the police investigation later in the inquest.”
Dr. Mortimer then called four witnesses in quick succession. There was Mr. Frank Pickersgill, the driver of the Oldham Metropolitan Tramway Corporation’s electric tram running from Hollinwood to Chadderton, who confirmed he had seen Arina board and alight from the five forty-five tram bound for Chadderton at Oldham Edge. Then there was Len Bolton, who reluctantly told the coroner’s court about the alleged break-in at Arina’s cottage. He told little else of importance, and Ursula’s mind started to wander. Was it truly possible that no one had seen Arina after she boarded the tram from the factory?
The next witness to be called, Mr. Lewis Heagney, turned out to be a red-faced sot, whose words were already slurred at barely three o’clock. He provided a disjointed and not entirely believable account of having seen what he termed “a swarthy-looking foreigner” skulking around the factory at close to nine o’clock that night.
“Can you describe him in any greater detail?” Dr. Mortimer asked in frustrated tones.
“As I told the sergeant, he was dark-like. Curly hair. Looked a right one, ’e did—” Ursula shifted in her seat uncertain over her decision to trust Alexei.
“They’ll be seeing German spies next,” she heard Lord Wrotham mutter under his breath, and indeed, when the landlord of the Imperial Railway Hotel took the stand, he did mention that he thought one of the men who booked a room that day could have met Lewis’s description. “I woulda said ’e were a German all right,” he concluded.
Lord Wrotham groaned.
Dr. Mortimer looked down and shuffled his papers before calling Nellie Ackroyd to the witness stand. Nellie, a seamstress who worked with Arina at the factory, was a woman who in her youth must have been considered quite the beauty. Now, although Ursula guessed she was barely thirty-five, she looked like a doll worn and tattered after years of misuse. Her blond hair was obviously dyed, and her rosebud mouth now seemed pinched and drawn. There were jeers from the public gallery. Someone shouted “trollop” and the resultant fracas between the girls of the Oldham factory and other locals caused at least five women to be removed from the courtroom by the young police constable. It dawned on Ursula just how fraught tensions were over her factory.
Nellie’s eyes were brimming with tears, and Ainsley allowed her a moment to compose herself before asking her his questions.
Ursula leaned forward. Up until now Arina had been little more than a tragic figure in a play, and she hoped Nellie’s testimony would help form a clearer picture of who Arina, the person, really was.
Nellie Ackroyd had three young children, and after her husband deserted her, she spent a year in the Oldham workhouse before managing to find work in Ursula’s factory. Nellie’s eyes glistened with tears as she described the impact of the factory’s closure. She was now back in the workhouse, and her children had been taken to a Dr. Barnado’s home in Rochdale. Dr. Mortimer listened with compassion before directing her to focus on the issue at hand, namely the death of Arina Petrenko.
“I’m sorry to have to put you through this once more, but it was you, was it not, who identified Arina’s body at the morgue?”
“Yeah. It were me,” Nellie mumbled.
“You’ll need to speak up so the jury can hear you. Remember, this inquest is just a formality—so we can determine how Arina died. You mustn’t feel nervous or ill at ease.”
Nellie nodded and scrubbed her eyes with her handkerchief.
“Yes,” she said loudly. “I saw the body and told Sergeant Barden I thought it was Arina.”
“Thank you, Nellie. Now can you please tell the jury what happened the day of the fire?”
“Arina and I was at the factory, same as usual. At lunch she and I sat together—then we had a bit o’ play with my Eliza and Daniel. They were in the nursery annex. Eliza’s not yet two, and Danny, well, he’s but a babby. My eldest, Ian’s his name, he’s now at school.”
“Yes, that’s very nice to know, but can you focus on Arina for a moment?”
Nellie wiped her eyes once more.
“So after lunch you and Arina . . . ,” Ainsley prompted gently.
“Me and Arina were operatin’ the sewing machines. She were acting just as she normally did. For her anyway. Quiet. We ’ad our break at two, and then the whistle sounded at half five. Same as a
lways. We left together, and she caught the tram to Chadderton and I walked to the bus.”
“How would you describe her state of mind on the day in question?” Dr. Mortimer asked.
“You what?” Nellie replied.
Lord Wrotham’s fingertips began to drum on the table.
“How did Arina seem—was she happy? Was she sad? Did she seem preoccupied or concerned about anything that day?”
“No.”
“Can you think of any reason Arina may have been in the factory the night of the fire?”
“No.”
“Can you think of anyone who may have wished to harm Arina? Did she have a boyfriend?”
“No, she talked about a boyfriend but said ’e were in Europe. I never saw ’er with any other feller.”
“Was there anyone she may have quarreled with recently?”
“No.”
“Did Arina have many other friends at the factory?”
“No. She were quiet like. Didn’t mix with many of the other girls. But she were a good sort to me. She were kind to my little ’uns . . . givin’ them little trinkets and chocolate. . . . I can’t believe this coulda happened to her. . . .”
Dr. Mortimer looked at Nellie kindly. “You can step down now,” he said. “Unless you have any other information you’d like to tell the jury that may be of assistance.”
Nellie scrubbed her eyes with a grimy handkerchief. “No.”
Dr. Mortimer motioned for Sergeant Barden to help Nellie out of the courtroom. Lord Wrotham shifted in his seat as Ainsley Mortimer called George Aldwych to the stand. Ursula put down her pen and stretched her fingers for a moment before George proceeded to tell the jury the same information he had imparted to Ursula the previous week. Absently she jotted down some of the times he mentioned, making a mental note to ask Alexei to confirm what time he had been “lurking” about the factory, when she was suddenly struck by an inconsistency in George’s story. She was sure George had told her that he left the Dog and Duck around half past seven or eight, but now he told the jury he was definitely home before seven, after downing only one pint at the pub. Ursula circled the time in her notes and then noticed that Lord Wrotham was leaning forward in his chair, his piercing blue-gray eyes watching intently as George continued his testimony.
“Is there anyone who can confirm that you were indeed at home on the night in question?” Dr. Mortimer asked as George concluded.
George tugged his beard. “Me wife was visitin’ her mam with the kids—but you can ask anyone in the pub, and they’ll tell you I left before seven.”
“Please, Mr. Aldwych, no one here is suggesting otherwise,” Dr. Mortimer responded. “It is merely for the jury’s benefit that I ask this question.”
Ursula experienced a strange pricking sensation on the skin of her arm, as if a draught of cold air had suddenly entered the courtroom. She shivered involuntarily, and Lord Wrotham looked at her sharply. Ursula had always been particularly susceptible to influenza, and since her mother had died of tuberculosis, there was always anxiety she too might succumb to the disease.
“I’m fine,” she assured him in low tones. Lord Wrotham removed his jacket and placed it over her shoulders. Ursula caught sight of one of the reporters nudging his neighbor. This would definitely be in all the newspapers tomorrow.
Ursula turned her head to look at the public gallery. Mrs. Aldwych was sitting in the middle of one of the rows, one of her little redheaded children in her lap. Ursula tried to catch her eye, but Mrs. Aldwych studiously ignored her.
Dr. Mortimer pulled the fob watch from his waistcoat pocket and called for a fifteen-minute recess. As a measure of formality, everyone stood in the courtroom as he left, but as soon as he had closed the door behind him, the public galleries began to ring with chatter. Lord Wrotham got to his feet abruptly. “I must see if I can have a word with the coroner.”
“Why, are you planning on cross-examining someone?” Ursula asked with a note of sarcasm. Looking distracted, he ignored her comment and walked over to the constable officiating over the proceedings. They spoke at length, and then Lord Wrotham left the courtroom, returning some five minutes later without explanation.
He returned to the table, still thoughtful.
“What is it?” she asked, this time seriously.
“George Aldwych is lying.”
Ursula had opened her mouth to speak when a knock at the rear door signaled that the coroner was returning. Lord Wrotham took his seat.
It was now Eustacia Mortimer’s opportunity to take the stand. Her nose twitched as her brother asked her with all formality, “You were Arina Petrenko’s personal physician, were you not?”
“I was,” she answered.
“And can you give the jury an assessment of her physical condition—was she a well woman?”
“She was a normal, healthy twenty-three-year-old woman. I saw her no more than three times since she moved to Oldham, each time for a merely routine matter. In my view there was no physical ailment or preexisting medical condition that could account for Arina’s death.”
“What about her mental state?”
“I have no reason to believe Arina’s mental state was anything but completely normal. I certainly saw no sign of a neurological condition that may have indicated suicidal tendencies.”
“Thank you, Dr. Mortimer that will be all.”
Sergeant Barden was recalled to the witness stand to provide further details of the police investigation. With a nod of his head, the constable brought out and placed on a wooden table some of the belongings collected from Arina’s house the day after her death. These items included the letter fragments that Ursula had found and taken to the police, but to Ursula’s dismay, they were just laid out alongside the most trivial of other items. There were two day dresses, a pinafore, a gray knitted shawl, a sets of underclothes and stockings, and one pair of tan walking shoes. Otherwise, Arina’s life could be measured in small details: An ivory-handled hairbrush. A photograph of a young man (whom Ursula assumed was Kolya) in front of Brighton pier. A book of Pushkin’s poetry with an inscription in Cyrillic. Some jewelry in a small velvet box. There was one photograph, in a silver frame, that caught Ursula’s attention. Dr. Mortimer held it up for the jurors to see. The photograph was of two young girls posing for a formal studio portrait. By the look of their white pinafore dresses and dark stockings, they could have only been about twelve at the time the photograph was taken. Ursula stared at the girls’ faces in shocked recognition. The girl on the right was unmistakably Katya Vilensky.
“Good God!” Ursula cried out involuntarily.
Lord Wrotham placed a hand on hers. “Don’t . . . ,” he said under his breath. Ursula shot him a furious look and got to her feet.
“I’m sorry, Miss Marlow?” Dr. Mortimer asked, bemused.
“Do you know who that other woman is?” she asked hoarsely. The jurors leaned forward. Ainsley pulled out his spectacles from a pocket and put them on.
“Yes, Sergeant Barden said it was thought it was her sister. But we haven’t had anyone come forward who knows her full name. Nellie Ackroyd seems to believe she is traveling on the Continent, but so far we’ve been unable to contact her. Once again, jurors, that is not something that you should take into consideration in any negative way. People travel all the time, and it is often difficult to make contact.”
Ursula sat down on the wooden chair with a thud. Arina Petrenko and Katya Vilensky were sisters. The coincidence was startling enough. But what on earth, Ursula wondered, was the link between the death of the wife of a rich London banker in Cairo and the death of a poor factory worker in Oldham?
“Miss Marlow, are you sure you’re all right?” Dr. Mortimer asked.
The courtroom door opened, and a man in a gray overcoat entered. Ursula spun around to see Chief Inspector Harrison take a seat in the last row of the public benches. She turned back and replied, with some confusion, “Yes, it’s just that I recognized the other girl. The sister in
the photograph.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“And so where is she, Arina’s sister?”
“She’s . . . she’s dead.”
Thirteen
Eustacia Mortimer hurried in with a cup of tea, while Ainsley fussed around Ursula in his flannels and brown cardigan, like an anxious dog.
“I’m fine, truly,” Ursula said, accepting the cup from Eustacia. “Thank you.”
The inquest had ended in an uproar. Not only had Ursula’s dramatic pronouncement sent the jury into disarray and reporters scurrying off to telephone their editors, but Chief Inspector Harrison had then calmly announced that Scotland Yard was now in charge of the investigation, and the inquest was temporarily suspended. After this the courtroom lost any semblance of order. Ainsley Mortimer shouted himself hoarse trying to restore calm, but to no avail, and the young police constable officiating the proceedings almost came to blows with two young weavers who decided to use the occasion to shout their support for Ursula and the “votes for women” campaign.
“What a complete debacle,” Lord Wrotham commented once he, Ursula, and the chief inspector were safely ensconced in the Mortimers’ parlor. Ursula still had Lord Wrotham’s jacket tucked about her shoulders, and Lord Wrotham was standing in his shirtsleeves beside the coal fire. Eustacia bustled past, bringing in a plate of toasted tea cakes.
“Those look good,” Chief Inspector Harrison said, reaching over to grab one. He bit in, and butter dripped down his hand. Eustacia handed him a napkin with a grin.
Lord Wrotham flipped open his fob watch with disdain.
“Five o’clock already,” he muttered. Ursula suspected he had been planning to return to London that evening.
Eustacia perched next to Ursula on the sofa.
“The coincidence, Ains, you must admit, is startling. And shocking, of course.” Eustacia patted Ursula’s hand. “You poor thing. To have witnessed that poor woman’s death. And now to find out that it was her sister who died in your factory. It’s too awful for words!”
The Serpent and the Scorpion Page 16