The Serpent and the Scorpion

by Langley-Hawthorne, Clare

  Later that afternoon, Ursula decided to pay Mrs. Aldwych a visit. George and his family lived in a modest stone house that Ursula’s father had provided when George was foreman of the Oldham mill. When she appointed him manager of the factory, Ursula had maintained this arrangement. The house lay on the corner of Linney and Beal Lanes, close to the mill and the factory, but a few streets away from the rows of workers’ cottages that lined Victoria and Spring Streets.

  Ursula knocked on the black-painted door. The door opened, and Mrs. Aldwych stood, feet apart, her wide frame filling the doorway. She wore a plain dove-gray dress with a striped wraparound pinafore tied across the middle. “Miss Marlow!” she exclaimed. “Well, I never!” She glanced quickly down the street. “Please come in.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Aldwych. I thought I’d come by and see how you were managing.”

  Mrs. Aldwych fiddled with the ties of her apron. “Well, we’re doin’ the best we can,” she replied. “Will you not take a seat, Miss Marlow?”

  “Thank you.” Ursula chose the armchair beneath the window and sat down. She looked about the room curiously. There was a surfeit of ornaments littered across every conceivable surface. From the porcelain shepherdess and row of diminutive brass carriages on the mantelshelf to the row of miniature cups and saucers across the window sill and the cheap figurines on the small table next to Ursula, everything felt claustrophobic and overcrowded. There were lace doilies on the backs of the chairs and settee, florid pink wallpaper, and a faded framed photograph of the North Promenade in Blackpool. The gas lamp on the wall hissed, while the coal fire smoked in the grate.

  “Bessie,” Mrs. Aldwych called out as she caught sight of a young girl in a grubby pinafore peering round the doorway, “make us some tea, there’s a pet. And change out of that filthy smock—you look a right ragamuffin.”

  The girl nodded, and with a flick of her plaits she disappeared into the back room that Ursula assumed was the kitchen.

  Mrs. Aldwych perched herself on the edge of the sofa, as if ready to get up at any moment. Her hands hovered above her lap but never quite came to rest.

  Ursula took off her gloves and, with a tug, pulled out her hat pin and removed her hat. “No, this is quite all right,” she responded as Mrs. Aldwych motioned to take her hat and gloves, instead placing them on the wide arm of the chair.

  “I know this must be very awkward, Mrs. Aldwych,” Ursula began.

  “No, no,” Mrs. Aldwych interceded.

  “I still can’t quite believe that George would have done such a thing,” Ursula continued.

  Mrs. Aldwych dropped her eyes.

  “He woulda never done it in your father’s day.”

  “Then why would he have done it now?” Ursula asked.

  Mrs. Aldwych didn’t respond for a minute or two before replying, in measured tones. “I canna say . . .”

  “You can’t say what, Mrs. Aldwych?” Ursula asked more gently.

  “I think ’e were just a bit disappointed,” Mrs. Aldwych replied.

  “Disappointed?” Ursula exclaimed involuntarily. “Whatever do you mean?”

  Mrs. Aldwych mumbled something inaudible in reply before getting up and making an excuse that she had to go “and see about that tea.”

  Ursula remained seated, trying to understand why George Aldwych would have felt disappointed. George had been luckier than many. He had started in one of Robert Marlow’s mills as a piecer at the age of fourteen. By sixteen he was a mule spinner, and by eighteen an overlooker. As a reward for his diligence and dedication, Robert Marlow had made George the manager of the Oldham mill in 1900, when George was just thirty years old. Many men would have counted themselves fortunate to be in his position, particularly with a young family to provide for.

  Mrs. Aldwych returned with Bessie carrying a tray with teacups and saucers and a plate of Eccles cakes. The formality was not lost on Ursula. She knew she was being given the very best china.

  “This looks lovely,” she said, forcing a smile.

  Mrs. Aldwych’s face twisted.

  “Run along, Bessie,” she said to the little girl. “Leave Miss Marlow and me to talk.”

  “I’ll not beat about the bush,” Mrs. Aldwych began. “It’s not me way. And I’m not excusin’ what he did neither, but George did find it difficult, what with your father’s death and you takin’ over and all. He thought he may have been promoted, to proper management like. He’s looked after your father’s mills here and in Rochdale . . . and so the position of foreman at this newfangled factory of yours, well, he viewed it as a bit of a comedown. . . .”

  “A bit of a comedown! But, Mrs. Aldwych, I was entrusting him with one of my most valued projects.”

  “Aye, and he knew it. That’s why he stuck it out. But he found it hard—there’s that many local women, good women who need jobs, and there you were lookin’ after, well, lookin’ after girls who didn’t have the decency to get married, or to turn to their families for ’elp.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. I really wish I’d known. It need never have come to this.”

  Mrs. Aldwych reddened. “Mind you,” she said, “I’m not condoning what he did. I’m just sayin’ this was preyin’ on his mind, and when he was three parts cut—well, it may have all come out.”

  “May have?” Ursula said softly. “You mean, you didn’t know what he was going to do?”

  “Of course I didn’t,” Mrs. Aldwych answered, her agitation growing. “For if I had, I would have told him not to be so daft. Even if they hadn’t worked out it were him, I mean, what good would it ’ave done him?”

  “He could have found another position elsewhere without having to burn down the factory. What I don’t understand is why he would risk it—with a family and all.”

  Mrs. Aldwych looked bleakly. “As I said, when he were drunk . . .”

  “I didn’t realize he had a drinking problem,” Ursula ventured.

  “Until the last few months or so I wouldn’t have said he did—but the last few months he’s been down at the Dog and Duck more times than not in the evening. Wasn’t like him. Wasn’t like him at all.”

  “So George had changed recently?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Aldwych admitted reluctantly. “And I don’t know who it was at the pub fillin’ his head with stuff, but I’m sure that’s where the idea musta come from. Why, he hadn’t mentioned anything about the factory for months—not since December last year. Then all of a sudden, the last month ’e was broodin’ about summat.”

  Mrs. Aldwych noticed Ursula hadn’t finished her tea. Not wishing to offend her, Ursula gulped downed the last dregs. She sensed her time here was drawing to a close.

  “Well,” Ursula said, putting down her cup and saucer on the side table, “I just wanted to say how shocked and sorry I am that things turned out this way. Thank you so much for the tea, and for taking the time to talk to me. I’d best be leaving.”

  Mrs. Aldwych stood up.

  “Did you know Arina Petrenko?” Ursula asked as she gathered up her hat and gloves.

  “Aye, she came round ’ere a few times with that Nellie Ackroyd. Always askin’ for money, made me right angry, it did.”

  “What did George think?”

  “He felt sorry for ’em first off, and then he were right mad an’ all.”

  There was another awkward pause as Mrs. Aldwych walked Ursula to the door.

  Now came the worst part of all. “You know I can’t let you stay here,” Ursula said sadly.

  Mrs. Aldwych looked at her squarely. “I know.”

  “But I will give you a month.”

  Mrs. Aldwych tugged at her apron, clearly trying to rein in her emotions. A month’s notice was more than generous in the circumstances, and Mrs. Aldwych knew it.

  “Where will you go?” Ursula asked softly.

  “To me mam’s.”

  “And how will you manage?”

  “Well, I’ve got my position at Kirby’s Bakery, and our Stan’s down t’mill. Tomm
y has taken an apprenticeship at the brick works, and Irene can start making herself useful at last. She’s sixteen, you know, and it’s time she left her books and helped support her family.”

  “Oh, please don’t pull her out of school!” Ursula exclaimed. She remembered Irene, and was dismayed that such an obviously intelligent and eager student would be denied the chance for a proper education.

  “She’ll muck in with the rest of us,” Mrs. Aldwych responded firmly. “As George always said, what’s the point in filling her head with books and the like? She’s been mollycoddled enough. Education is a luxury girls like her can nay afford.”

  Ursula opened her mouth to speak. She dearly wanted to intervene—to offer Mrs. Aldwych something to stop her from ruining Irene’s chance of escaping this life, of making something of herself. But it was hopeless—she could see that in Mrs. Aldwych’s eyes. They were like cold, hard cobblestones. Ursula was reminded of a story her father often told her, how when he bought his first barrow and was trying to sell firewood in the back streets of Blackburn, his own father had turned to him and said with a bitter tongue, “No use trying to rise above your station, lad. It’ll only bring you grief.”

  The Oldham Union Workhouse fronted onto Sheepfoot Lane, and Ursula had to be escorted through the imbecile wards by the matron as they made their way to the main building. There she was met by Nellie Ackroyd, who had been assigned to the kitchens that day.

  Matron agreed to let Nellie speak with Ursula for a few minutes in one of the female dormitories, away from the poor ventilation and sickening smell of the kitchen.

  Nellie sat on the edge of one of the narrow beds, head bent, fiddling with her apron string.

  “Nellie,” Ursula began. “I wanted to let you know that we’re planning to rebuild the factory as soon as we can. In the meantime, I have a position at the mill, cleaning the spindles.”

  Nellie coughed loudly. “I used t’work a’mills, but me lungs gave out.”

  “Oh . . .” Ursula wasn’t sure what to else to say. She put aside the question of finding another opportunity to get Nellie out of the workhouse and reunited with her children, and proceeded to ask Nellie about Arina.

  “I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about Arina,” Ursula said.

  Nellie nodded her head and sniffed.

  “You told the coroner’s court that she was very kind to you.”

  “That she were. . . .”

  “Did she ever speak of her childhood in Russia?”

  “Nay. She didn’t like to talk about it. Said it were that long ago, she didn’t remember much anyway. I never ’eard her even speak Russian. Told me a bit about Paris, though. That’s where she learned ’ow to sew.”

  “Yes.” Ursula remembered Katya telling her about the garment factory in the Marais district of Paris.

  “Did she speak about her sister, Katya?”

  “Yes.” Nellie hesitated. “She said she were really rich.”

  “You heard in the court, though, didn’t you, that Katya, Arina’s sister, was dead?”

  Nellie nodded.

  “She died in Egypt, and my worry—which is why I’ve come to see you,” Ursula said gently, “is that Arina’s and her sister’s deaths were related in some way. So that’s why I’m asking you some questions. You see, I was a good friend of Katya’s, and as I’m sure you know, it’s hard to lose a friend.”

  Nellie’s eyes swam with tears.

  “Did Arina ever say anything about Katya? Anything that sounded strange or which upset her?”

  Nellie shook her head.

  “Are you sure there was nothing? She didn’t receive a letter, maybe?”

  Nellie looked thoughtful.

  “Just take a moment and see if you can remember,” Ursula urged her.

  “Well, she did seem a bit upset—teary, like—a few months back . . . but we all thought it were because she hadn’t heard from her feller. The Russian—”

  “Kolya?”

  “Summat like that. Arina weren’t one to say much about that sorta thing. None of us did. We’d all had it wi’ men.”

  Ursula, sensing Nellie was thinking about her own unfortunate love life, reached over and took Nellie’s hand.

  “I’m sure it’s been hard for you.”

  Nellie snatched her hand away and wiped the tears off her cheek with the back of her hand. “I aint ’ere to ask for no pity o’ yours.”

  “No, of course not,” Ursula said hurriedly. “Can you remember anything else? Any other letter Arina may have mentioned from her sister?”

  “No . . . only a note from ’er brother-in-law tellin’ her about her sister. She were right upset about that, of course.”

  “Nothing else? Nothing strange or odd about Arina’s behavior? No mention of any other letters?”

  “Well, she did tell me she thought a few of her letters ’ad gone missing, after the break-in. She seemed right cut up about it, but she didn’t want the police around about it.”

  “But she seemed upset—about the letters going missing?”

  Nellie screwed up her nose. “Not upset . . . more . . .”

  “More what?”

  “Scared.”

  Seventeen

  Ursula reluctantly returned to London the following Thursday to attend Friday’s Empire Day ball at Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith’s. As she sat on the train, she composed a list of all the information she had gathered thus far, and the key questions that remained regarding Katya’s and Arina’s deaths. She leaned back on the red leather seat and propped her leather-bound notebook on her lap. Tapping the end of the pencil on her chin, she stared at the blank white page and was soon lost in thought. By the time the guard knocked on the carriage door to tell her that luncheon was being served in the first-class dining car, she had compiled a long list of items, almost all questions that still needed to be addressed.

  “I’m convinced,” Ursula later told Winifred as they sat together in the front parlor in Chester Square, “that the letter we found was sent to Arina in the last few days before her death. It wasn’t one of the letters she spoke of to Nellie Ackroyd—not one of the ones that went missing. I believe that those are likely to be letters from Katya. I’m not sure what they contained, but what if Katya wrote to Arina telling her of her investigations into the Bregenz? What if that’s why Katya was murdered? What if she told Arina, and that was why Arina was killed?”

  “That’s a lot of what-ifs, Sully. Are you sure there’s a connection between Katya’s and Arina’s deaths?”

  “If there wasn’t a connection, why would Chief Inspector Harrison be involved?”

  “True,” Winifred admitted.

  “So,” Ursula continued, “if the fragments we found are from the killer—most likely they are his or her instructions to Arina to meet her at the factory that night—then we need to focus on decoding these. That could be our strongest chance of discovering the connection between Arina’s and Katya’s deaths.”

  “And what about Chief Inspector Harrison?”

  “He’s not about to help me. In his mind, I’m just an interfering girl sticking my nose in where it’s not wanted.”

  “And Alexei?” Winifred asked. “What’s his role in all this?”

  “Maybe the letter will tell us,” Ursula answered.

  “Perhaps,” Winifred mused. “It’s certainly a place to start. Perhaps it will help us understand George Aldwych’s role in all this. From all you’ve told me, I still think there’s more to his so-called confession than meets the eye.”

  “You may be right, Freddie, but I also need to work out why Katya was so interested in this ship, the Bregenz, and what that damned man Whittaker was up to in Egypt. I simply don’t understand what the significance of that ship could possibly be. Was it something to do with the cargo, the passengers?”

  Winifred eyed her friend closely. “What about Lord Wrotham? Could his Foreign Office contacts help?”

  “I can’t ask him anything more,” Ursula interrupted swif
tly. “Things are too . . . too muddled between us. I can’t think straight when he’s around. And besides,” she ended, “I think I need to work this out for myself.”

  “I’m sure if he learns anything further about the Bregenz or Whittaker, he’ll let you know,” Winifred replied.

  Ursula shrugged. “Perhaps,”

  “What about Dobbs?” Winifred ventured.

  “Oh, I haven’t forgotten about him, or what I saw that day. I just don’t know what I can do about it or his offer. If I’m to stop his destroying Hugh Carmichael’s business, I’d better have darn good evidence. Telling Harrison, or Lord Wrotham, that I think Dobbs is holding some poor man prisoner in his basement is more likely to get me sent to the nearest asylum.”

  “Well,” Winifred said sensibly, “we just have to focus on the evidence we do have, and I really think if we’re to have any chance of deciphering this letter, we need Lady Winterton. She’s the one who has spent the most time researching all this code stuff. I really think she’s become quite the expert. Besides, neither of us know enough Russian. How are we to even know if we’ve succeeded in decoding it?”

  Ursula still looked unconvinced.

  “We wouldn’t have to tell her anything except the bare details. And, Sully, she’s one of us. I think we can trust her.”

  An hour later Lady Winterton entered Ursula’s study and sat down with an expectant smile.

  “So,” she said, “why all the cloak and dagger? I’m assuming this is not WSPU business.”

  “No, it’s of a more personal nature,” Winifred began before Ursula cut in.

  “We have some pieces of a letter. Written in Russian, and written, we suspect, in code.”

  “Can I ask what the letter is about?”

  “It’s a love letter,” Ursula blurted out, ignoring Winifred’s raised eyebrows. “At least, that’s what a mutual friend of ours is worried about. She wants to know if her fiancé is involved in an improper liaison, and she came to us for help.”