The Serpent and the Scorpion

by Langley-Hawthorne, Clare

  “Stacie, I think Miss Marlow has probably heard enough about it all for one day,” Ainsley gently chided. He was standing by the fire next to Lord Wrotham, looking decidedly crumpled, a mug of tea in one hand and a toasted tea cake in the other.

  “Did you know Arina was in danger?” Ursula asked Harrison quietly.

  “You mean, because of what happened to Katya?” Harrison asked, washing down his mouthful of tea cake with a quick swig of tea. “No, I assure you. There was nothing about Katya’s death that suggested that her sister was in danger. But as soon as we found out Arina Petrenko was Katya’s sister, I insisted that Scotland Yard assume responsibility for investigating both cases. I only returned from Egypt yesterday, and I assure you I came as soon as I could. Who knows? This may be merely an unfortunate coincidence.”

  Ursula shot him a contemptuous look, and Harrison hurriedly concluded, “Not that we aren’t paying full regard to the seriousness of the case.”

  Lord Wrotham brushed an imaginary crumb off his gray silk waistcoat as Ainsley finished his tea cake.

  “As you can see,” Lord Wrotham said to Ursula with barely disguised irritation, “the matter is now in good hands. Not before we had to endure that local circus, of course. But now, I assure you, Arina’s death will be properly investigated.”

  “Really?” Ursula responded skeptically. “And yet Chief Inspector Harrison here continues to believe that Katya’s death was the work of Egyptian nationalists. No doubt he will attribute Arina’s death to Bolsheviks, and the farce will be complete!” Ursula was finding it difficult to keep her frustration in check.

  Ainsley wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Miss Marlow, you needn’t . . . needn’t be concerned. I am fully committed to finding out the truth in this case, no matter who it may involve.”

  “See,” Eustacia said with a smile. “Ains, at least, is on your side.”

  Harrison adjusted his shirt collar, looking uncomfortable.

  “It’s certainly one of the most puzzling cases I’ve dealt with,” Ainsley Mortimer confessed.

  “Didn’t you know?” Chief Inspector Harrison said dryly. “Puzzling cases are Miss Marlow’s specialty.”

  Ursula flushed, but before she could retort, Harrison put down his plate and cup and cleared his throat. “Look, I understand how difficult this must be and how frustrating, but as I told you in Cairo, you must learn to leave these matters to those who can deal with them best.”

  “And in this case, that would be Scotland Yard,” Lord Wrotham interjected.

  “You have my assurance,” Harrison continued, “that this matter and any possible connection to what happened in Egypt will be fully investigated.” In his attempt to sound reassuring, Harrison came off as condescending. But by now, Ursula knew better than to resist either man—openly, at least. She merely nodded wearily while mentally resolving to continue her investigations. A man of Harrison’s caliber did not investigate simple murder cases anymore. No, he was Special Branch, which meant there was much more to Katya’s and Arina’s deaths than first appeared.

  After an awkward pause, Harrison turned to Ainsley and, with unusual deference, asked whether he could have copies of all the postmortem reports.

  “Sergeant Barden is sending his case notes to me at my hotel, but I think it would be best if you and I work together on this. I was particularly impressed by the thoroughness of your initial postmortem examination and your foresight in sending samples to a forensic pathologist for further examination. Many coroners would have just assumed the fire was the cause of death.”

  Ainsley Mortimer went pink.

  “I think the first thing we should do,” Harrison continued, “is bring George Aldwych down to the station for further questioning. Lord Wrotham is convinced he was lying when he gave his testimony today. I was not in the courtroom at the time—my train unfortunately was running late—but what do you think, Dr. Mortimer? How reliable a witness did George appear to you?”

  Ainsley prevaricated for a moment, looking at Ursula as if guessing the matter of whether her own factory manager could have been involved would be a delicate one.

  “It’s all right, Ainsley,” Ursula responded, noting with satisfaction that Lord Wrotham looked piqued by the familiarity with which she addressed Dr. Mortimer. “George told me before that he didn’t leave the pub until half past seven or eight that night, but on the witness stand he said he was home by seven. It’s only a minor discrepancy, I know, but it does seem strange. George is known for being a stickler for details.”

  “Yes, but I know George and I cannot believe he would have any reason to lie.” Ainsley responded.

  “People lie for a good many reasons,” Lord Wrotham said coldly. “Not all of which are readily apparent.”

  Ursula wondered if there wasn’t a double meaning to Lord Wrotham’s words. She looked at him questioningly, but after meeting her gaze for a brief instant, he looked away.

  The porcelain clock on the mantel chimed six o’clock.

  Eustacia picked up some of the plates and cups and placed them on a tray.

  “Perhaps you would care to stay for supper, Chief Inspector, then you and Ains can review the case.”

  “Why, Miss Mortimer, that would be lovely.”

  It was Eustacia’s turn to go pink. She quickly turned to Ursula.

  “Of course, if you and His Lordship wish to stay . . . ,” she began, but Ursula caught sight of Lord Wrotham’s face and shook her head.

  “Thank you all the same, but I really think I should get back to Gray House.” A weariness had descended upon her, and with all the anxiety of the inquest, Ursula hadn’t realized until now just how drained she felt.

  “I took the liberty of sending Samuels back earlier this afternoon. James is waiting in the Daimler outside,” Lord Wrotham said, and though Ursula would have thought him high-handed for making such a presumption in the past, tonight she was grateful. The car ride back to Whalley would give them a chance to talk.

  Eustacia reached over and took Ursula’s hand. “You do look a little peaky to me,” she said. “Ains, what do you think?”

  Ainsley put his mug down on the mantel and looked at Ursula with concern. “You look awfully pale. Can I get you some aspirin, perhaps?”

  Ursula stood up and pulled Lord Wrotham’s jacket closer around her. Although it was May, and the late-afternoon light would be with them till late, the coal fire had dulled to little more than a faint glow in the grate, and the room seemed chill and damp.

  “No, I think I’m fine,” Ursula assured them. “Just a little tired.”

  Ainsley and Eustacia accompanied Ursula through the parlor door and down the hallway. Ursula shook hands with Eustacia before turning to bid Chief Inspector Harrison and Ainsley Mortimer good-bye.

  Lord Wrotham picked up Ursula’s notebook and pen from the hall table. He turned the fountain pen around in his fingers and, with a faint smile, put it in his top pocket before joining them on the steps that led down to the street.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Chief Inspector Harrison said in low tones as James helped Ursula into the car. Lord Wrotham responded with a brusque nod. He then turned to Eustacia and Ainsley and extended them a cool but courteous good evening before climbing into the back of his gray Daimler.

  “That man really is a cold fish,” Eustacia said as the motorcar drew away from the curb.

  “Yes,” Ainsley replied with a wistful sigh. “But Miss Marlow doesn’t seem to mind.”

  The first part of the journey back to Whalley was spent in uneasy silence. Ursula stared out at green fields and gray clouds blurred by an early-evening mist, thankful for a respite from the day. She ran her fingers absently along the fringe of the plaid blanket James had placed around her knees. Lord Wrotham sat beside her, his arms folded and his head bowed, apparently deep in thought.

  “I went to see you yesterday,” Ursula announced, just as James turned at the Accrington Road intersection. “At your chambers.”

 
Lord Wrotham looked up and contemplated her face with guarded eyes.

  “You were busy,” Ursula said. “Returning from court with Eyres and Fenway. I didn’t like to bother you.”

  “I assume you saw Vilensky, then.”

  “Yes.”

  “His being there had nothing to do with his wife’s death—or, for that matter, Arina’s.”

  “I know.”

  Lord Wrotham frowned.

  “I trust that you would have told me if it had,” she responded simply.

  “Vilensky had been referred to me by an associate of his, to inquire as to whether the Foreign Office had any information regarding the fate of some passengers aboard a ship that sailed from Alexandria in December. I told him I would pass on his request. The ship in question was the Bregenz, carrying settlers bound for Palestine. . . . I see that this may be of interest after all,” he said frankly, as Ursula’s eyes had widened. “Can you trust me enough to tell me why?”

  “In Alexandria, I discovered that Katya Vilensky had made inquiries about this ship the Bregenz. I spoke to a shipping clerk there, and he became quite agitated when I questioned him about it. I’m not sure what happened to the Bregenz, but it may have something to do with Katya’s death.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Neither do I, but the clerk was found dead a few hours after I spoke to him, so I suspect”—Ursula inhaled deeply—“I suspect his death may have been because of me.”

  Lord Wrotham looked at her intently.

  “There was another man, someone I saw as I was leaving the customs house—his name was Ambrose Whittaker.”

  “That name isn’t familiar to me.”

  “He works in the Ministry of Interior, and there were rumors that he was possibly involved in the trade of armaments. My investigations were cut short by Arina’s death, and I returned to England without finding out anything more.”

  “I passed on Vilensky’s request to a friend at the Foreign Office. I could also make discreet inquiries about this man Whittaker.” Ursula detected the reproach in his voice. Lord Wrotham was clearly disappointed that she had not confided all this in him earlier.

  Ursula sighed. “I would have told you all this before if things had not been so . . . well, if I hadn’t made such a mess of it all the other night.” Lord Wrotham’s eyes flicked to James, but he made no comment.

  “That was why I went to see you. . . .”

  Lord Wrotham face remained inscrutable. After a moment of silence, in which Ursula felt decidedly uncomfortable, he bent over and pulled a file out from an attaché case beneath his seat.

  “Speaking of trust,” he said, tossing the file over to her. It was labeled “SIS Intelligence Report—Syndicalist-Bolshevik Relations with Trade Unions in Britain.”

  “What is it?” she asked warily.

  “Open it.”

  She opened the file carefully, trying to keep the papers together as the Daimler bounced along the rough road. She caught sight of the typewritten name at the top of the first page, and her stomach dropped.

  Ursula read the first paragraph.

  “He has been under surveillance ever since he arrived in London.”

  “I can explain,” Ursula started to say.

  “Then do so,” came Lord Wrotham’s curt reply. He reached over and, in a rare display of anger, snatched the file from her.

  Ursula caught sight of James in the rearview mirror. He made no sign of acknowledgment, but merely focused once more on the road ahead.

  “Alexei approached me on Wednesday night. Said he needed help and had nowhere else to go.”

  “Did he tell you about his relationship with Arina?”

  “He told me he had returned to England to find her. Her lover, Kolya Menkovich, was Alexei’s good friend, and he felt obliged to tell Arina that Kolya was dead.”

  “Did he tell you he was also once Arina’s lover?”

  Ursula’s knee jerked involuntarily.

  “No,” she responded. “But I wasn’t idiotic enough to believe he had told me everything. I knew he was holding something back.”

  “And yet you still protected him—”

  Ursula bit her lip. “He told me he went to the factory the night of the fire—just to see it—he never went inside.”

  “So he was the ‘dark swarthy chap’ seen lurking around.”

  “So it would seem.” She faltered. “He said that he saw nothing at the factory though and he was back in his hotel room before the fire started. He never even saw Arina.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “I thought I did . . .”

  “And still you refused to tell the authorities? ”

  Ursula fell silent.

  Lord Wrotham handed the file back to her.

  “I can’t let you have everything, as it may compromise the investigation, but you may as well see who you’re dealing with. SIS, that’s the Secret Intelligence Service, was alerted to his arrival by an Okhrana agent. As you no doubt remember from your time with Alexei, Okhrana, the tsar’s imperial police, have long been interested in the activities of the Bolsheviks.”

  “I remember,” Ursula said somberly.

  “Well, it seems that Alexei’s mission in England wasn’t just to find Arina. While in Poland, he has been helping to establish an armed clandestine group within the Russian Social Democratic Labour Party to undertake targeted assassinations. They hope to not only disrupt the tsarist regime but also encourage workers to mobilize for a global revolution. Russia is in an uproar at the moment—there are strikes and protests across the country after the Lena gold mine incident. It has provided a catalyst that men like Alexei are hoping to exploit. The SIS believes he has come to England to meet with trade unionists and set up a similar armed group here in the UK. The last thing the British government wants is for militant trade unionists here to consider a similar form of campaign to that in Russia.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Ursula demanded. “If you’ve had him under surveillance, I assume you know where he is. Why not just tell Scotland Yard and have him picked up and questioned?”

  Lord Wrotham rubbed his eyes. “At this stage, the government would prefer to keep him under observation. It’s more important that we find out who he’s dealing with in England. If there are militant trade unionists who are considering similar action, we want to know.”

  “I won’t turn informer, if that’s what you’re asking,” Ursula said defiantly.

  Lord Wrotham sighed. “You really think that’s why I showed you the file?”

  Ursula fell silent.

  “What I’ve told you is extremely sensitive—the possibility of an assassination campaign in Britain could undermine the very fabric of our society. It could be worse than the Fenian threat. I have to trust you won’t alert Alexei to what we suspect. No matter where your politics lie, Ursula, you cannot sanction murder. For all we know, if there was a campaign in England, it could very well target employers just like yourself.”

  “A clandestine group proposing a systematic campaign of assassination? Sounds like an Erskine Childers novel!” Ursula replied, but her skepticism was muted by a real sense of unease. Lord Wrotham was hardly the sort of man who bandied about words like assassination and murder without real foundation.

  “My contacts in the government don’t think so. You are only seeing this file because I convinced them that you would tread carefully.”

  There was a sudden bang and a jolt as the Daimler skidded into the hedgerow, tossing them both back against the seat.

  “Sorry, my lord,” James said, and Ursula envied his calm. “I believe we may have punctured a tire.”

  They had stopped along the narrow roadway that led across the moors to Clitheroe. Lord Wrotham got out of the car and joined James in inspecting the front wheel.

  Ursula waited for a moment and then, seeing James take off his chauffeur jacket and roll up his shirtsleeves, she too alighted from the motorcar. She grabbed the plaid bl
anket and swung it around her shoulders. While James fixed the wheel, Ursula wandered over to the stone wall, climbed the stile, and looked out over the valley.

  Lord Wrotham joined her, and they both stood watching the sun make its slow descent behind the misty outline of trees at the edge of the field. A couple of sheep startled and scattered, bleating their indignation.

  “So why did you really show me the file.” she asked.

  He continued to gaze ahead. “I very nearly didn’t. I wasn’t sure how you would react to Alexei’s return.”

  “You can’t really think—” Ursula halted. Lord Wrotham’s face had become inscrutable once more. She wasn’t sure what to say, so instead she leaned on her elbows, gazed out at the sunset, and tried to clear her mind.

  “What of Arina—do you think Alexei was involved in her death?” Ursula’s voice was little more than a whisper.

  “I don’t know the man,” was all Lord Wrotham would say.

  “No.” Ursula paused. “I guess from what you’ve just told me, neither do I.”

  They both stood, lost in their own thoughts.

  “You know what’s so hard about being back up here?” Ursula said suddenly. “It’s that I feel a total stranger here. I may have grown up here as a child, but now it’s as foreign to me as it is to you. These people who work in my father’s mills and factories, they don’t know me, they don’t trust me as they did him. I’m nothing more than a London society girl trying to fill her father’s shoes. And yet in London . . .”

  Lord Wrotham turned to her. “Yes?” he prompted.

  Ursula dropped her head. “God,” she sighed. “I just seem to be making a mess of it all. Don’t you see I need to stand on my own for a while? Prove that I can do it.”

  “With or without me?”

  Ursula stared at him bleakly. This was not how she had intended the conversation to end.

  “I don’t know,” she answered hoarsely. As she looked up, she caught sight of his eyes. They smoldered with barely restrained anger.

  “My lord!” James called out, and his voice jolted them both. “The wheel is repaired. Shall I start the engine?”