Unlikely Traitors

by Clare Langley-Hawthorne

  The head porter tipped his cap and walked back across the quadrangle. Ursula opened the wooden door and sniffed the familiar musty smell she had come to love at Somerville: the smell of centuries of dust on wood and stone, and the permeation of damp rainwater from winters past. She closed her eyes for a moment before ascending the narrow winding wood staircase.

  She came upon the door marked with a white card in a metal nameplate on the door, Professor Evan Prendergast, M. Phil, Professor of Moral Philosophy and Law, Senior Fellow of Jurisprudence. She took in a deep breath and knocked.

  The door opened almost immediately and Ursula was startled to find herself face to face with the antithesis of the professor she had been expecting. On the telephone, he had sounded like a frail and doddering old academic, full of stutters and hesitations. But now, as she viewed the sprightly looking man with wild white hair and bushy white eyebrows, she was taken aback. He was clearly well into his seventies but despite this his eyes were full of remarkable clarity and intelligence. He held out an eager hand, crying: “Come on in, my dear! I hope the journey down was suitably uncomfortable…I always find that any journey worth taking is always uncomfortable!”

  Ursula stammered out an incoherent response as she entered the room. She took off her brown velvet hat and leather gloves and placed them gingerly on the top of a stack of books piled up next to what must have once been a coat stand, but which now teetered in the corner, looking as though it could no longer sustain either coat or hat.

  “Take a seat, take a seat. I have tea if you wish, or perhaps a drop of sherry?”

  “Tea, please. That would be lovely.”

  Ursula sat down and as Professor Prendergast hummed around pouring the tea, took the opportunity to take in the room. Again, everything was different from what she had expected. She had anticipated a room that looked like ones the tutors and fellows at Somerville maintained—muddled and cluttered with the feel of a prefect’s study like those she grown up with at the Skipton Ladies Academy. This room looked like hurricane strength winds had torn the place apart, scattering papers and books over every conceivable surface. There was a narrow pathway leading from the door to the large desk and two filing cabinets in the corner, one armchair for visitors of well scuffed and fading brown leather, and a series of massive bookcases lining the walls, jammed with books. Beside the armchair was a tall stack of books—all new leather and crisp cut paper. Ursula glanced down and picked up a copy. It was a book by Professor Prendergast on Moral Thinking and Rationality.

  “Er, thank you for agreeing to see me, Professor Prendergast.” Ursula began, picking a stack of pamphlets off the chair. The top one was entitled Hobbes’ Leviathan and the Justification of Regicide.

  “But of course, though I suspect that you are not here to seek philosophical guidance with respect to Lord Wrotham,” he smiled and took the pamphlets from Ursula. “Especially not this sort of guidance”—he said with a grin.

  “Hardly,” Ursula responded. “The last thing I want right now is an affirmation of a Hobbesian view of the world!”

  Professor Prendergast looked at her curiously. “You’ve read the Leviathan?”

  “Not all of it, I must confess. We touched upon it in a class I took on political philosophy.”

  “Where did you study?”

  “Somerville,” she replied with a smile.

  “An Oxford educated fiancée?! Excellent!!” Professor Prendergast clapped his hands together. “Of course, I should have expected nothing less of Lord Wrotham.”

  Ursula blinked. “You’re the first person ever to make that comment. Most people seem to think I’m the very last sort of person he would marry.”

  “Ah, yes. But they did not know Lord Wrotham when he was young,” he replied, clasping his fingers together as he rocked forward on his chair.

  “Well, Professor Prendergast, I can see I’m going to have to work hard to find out more after that tantalizing glimpse,” she admitted. “To be honest, my wish in coming here was to discover more about Lord Wrotham and Admiral Smythe’s time here at Balliol. I’m trying to understand how they both came to be mixed up in this unfortunate state of affairs and whether that has any connection to Oxford.”

  “I can’t imagine that it does—but you seem a sensible woman and you certainly impressed upon me the urgency of your enquiries on the telephone yesterday,” Prendergast responded. “Even though I doubt I can shed any light on recent events, I’m happy to oblige and answer your questions. Lord Wrotham was one of my most promising students. He was a natural leader and a keen scholar with a strong sense of loyalty to the college. I cannot think of anyone less likely to betray their country.” Once he got going Prendergast had a beautiful Welsh lilt to his voice.

  “Can you imagine any reason Admiral Smythe might have had in betraying Lord Wrotham?”

  “None whatsoever. Admiral Smythe was another of Lord Wrotham’s tutors and as far as I could tell they had a close and cordial relationship. I’ve seen both men reasonably regularly even after they left here, at college dinners in London and the like. I know they remained friends and I’ve never heard of any rift between them.”

  “What about Lord Wrotham’s friend, Mr. McTiernay?”

  “What about him my dear? He and Wrotham were terrific chums. We called them ‘the inseparables’ even though they spent most of their time in heated political debates.”

  “McTiernay is supposed to be quite the Irish firebrand,” Ursula said.

  Professor Prendergast smiled indulgently. “He made no attempt to hide his radical politics but he was charming with it—and he was the only man I ever saw, apart from myself of course, who managed to best Lord Wrotham in a debate. He was also one of the finest batsmen on the Balliol cricket team.”

  Ursula rubbed her nose. She hoped this interview was going to yield a little more than misty-eyed reminiscences.

  “It seems strange to me,” Ursula said, “that Lord Wrotham and McTiernay should have been friends at all given Lord Wrotham’s pro-unionist views.”

  Prendergast broke into another wide smile. “My dear, there are many gentlemen to whom politics are no bar to friendship. Why the two of them even formed their own private debating society. I think it was something rather like ‘The Other Club’ in London.” Ursula had heard of ‘The Other Club,’ co-founded by liberal politician and First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill, and conservative ‘Tory’ parliamentarian, Frederick Edwin Smith. The purpose of this club was ostensibly to offer a venue in which personal friendships could form (over wine and dinner), despite the rancor of political divisions.

  “They encouraged,” Prendergast continued, “fierce debate between members across the political spectrum. At the end of the debate however they all had dinner, drank copious amounts of wine and spirits, and toasted the ability of high minded men to put their differences aside and enjoy each other’s company.”

  “May I ask for the names of those in this private debating society?” Ursula asked, digging out her pencil and notebook.

  Prendergast raised a white bushy eyebrow. “My dear, the whole point was that it was private. Names were not bandied about and, as far as I was aware, it was an invitation only affair.”

  “Were you or Admiral Smythe members?”

  “At an undergraduate society meeting?!” Prendergast replied in mock horror, refusing to answer her question directly.

  “But Lord Wrotham and McTiernay were definitely members.”

  “Yes. Along with Lord Wrotham’s cousin—Count Hollweg something or other. Oh, and young Winterton too, I expect, though he was a hopeless debater. I think he was in it for a while before he was sent down.”

  Ursula knew from Lady Winterton that her now-deceased husband had spent two terms at Balliol before being sent down for lack of academic progress. As if reading her thoughts Prendergast said, “Winterton never was much of a scholar. Terrific fun of course. He and McTiernay could drink most men under the table, but Winterton was the sort who c
ould never knuckle down. I think it was at the end of his second year that he was sent down. Didn’t seem to bother him though—enjoyed the London and Dublin society scene much more than these moldy old halls.”

  Ursula had a sudden vision of a young Lord Winterton, charming and roguish. She could well imagine Lady Winterton’s attraction. She was then reminded of another Balliol man—one certainly far less appealing.

  “Was Sir Reginald Buckley a member of this debating society by any chance?” Ursula asked, trying unsuccessfully to maintain an air of impartiality.

  “Who?” Prendergast asked blankly.

  “Sir Reginald Buckley—I believe you were also his tutor—He’s with the War Office now…” Ursula racked her brains to try and think of any other distinguishing trait that was not insulting to Sir Reginald Buckley.

  “Buckley…hmmn…name’s not ringing a bell,” Prendergast rocked back in his chair. “Oh,” he said after a moment. “You mean old ‘Buckles’!”

  Ursula raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh yes, ‘Buckles’ or should I say Sir Buckley now. Son of some minor cousin of the royal family. Totally undistinguished academic record if I recall. Probably left with a third class degree.” Prendergast screwed up his eyes as if remembering something particularly distasteful. “I do recall he wrote dreadful essays! Nothing more than rehashed, unverified facts, muddled up with other people’s opinions.” The professor finished with a sniff.

  “Can you remember anything else about him?” Ursula prompted.

  “Apart from his inordinate love of fine food and wine?…No.”

  “Do you know why there may be animosity between him and Lord Wrotham?”

  “Good Lord, no! Wrotham wouldn’t have given him the time of day. Probably just professional jealousy. You know the sort of thing—Wrotham, the precocious younger son, full of ambition and intelligence, and there was old ‘Buckles’, the eminently forgettable son of sir nobody in particular.”

  Ursula wasn’t sure how to respond so she moved on to the question of Count Friedrich von Bernstorff-Hollweg. When asked, Professor Prendergast had nothing to say, only that he had not been the Count’s tutor and had therefore very little occasion to know him. Ursula stifled a sigh. This interview wasn’t being as helpful as she had hoped.

  Ursula took the opportunity to look about the room and her gaze took in the jumble of photographs perched on top of the tall wooden filing cabinet behind Prendergast’s desk.

  “I like to keep a memento of all my top students over the years,” Prendergast said. Sure enough, each photograph included the professor standing beside two or three young men in academic caps and gowns. Her eyes lighted upon one particular photograph in an ornate silver frame. She squinted, not quite ready to believe the image.

  “Yes, it is him.” Professor Prendergast got to his feet and pulled down the photo frame, wiping the dust off the glass with the sleeve of his tweed jacket.

  He handed it to Ursula. “That’s young Wrotham on the right there with McTiernay and I do believe that’s Admiral Smythe walking across the quadrangle behind them. It must have been taken at the end of their final term. Before they all headed off to Guyana.”

  Ursula looked inquiringly.

  “McTiernay and Lord Wrotham’s cousin were headed there on some fool scheme to discover gold or diamonds and Lord Wrotham joined them. Apparently he and Admiral Smythe were to assist with the dispute over the border between Guyana and Venezuela. Sounded terribly dull to me, but I always suspected it was the first of many special…er…diplomatic trips the two of them undertook—I mean a naval man is hardly interested in a boundary dispute now is he?”

  “Did they ever speak of these “missions”?” Ursula asked with barely restrained eagerness.

  “Of course not,” Professor Prendergast looked at her intently. “You’re barking up the wrong tree if you think I know anything about that sort of thing, my dear!”

  Ursula shoulders sagged.

  “I haven’t been much help have I?” Professor Prendergast’s voice was suddenly gentle. “I think you were hoping that there was some sordid underbelly to their time here at Balliol, am I right?”

  Ursula sighed. “I was hoping for more,” she admitted. “But I’m really only just beginning my investigations. All I have at the moment are unanswered questions.”

  “Ah—well, it could be worse.” Prendergast replied, pulling his pipe from the pocket of his tweed jacket. “They could be unanswerable questions!”

  Professor Prendergast lit his pipe and started coughing as soon as he started drawing on it. Ursula waited for the coughing fit to finish before carefully placing the photograph back on the desk.

  “Keep it,” he urged. “Something to remind you of the bright summer of youth in these troubling times.”

  Ursula stammered out her thanks and then couldn’t resist asking, “what was Lord Wrotham like while he was here?”

  Professor Prendergast laughed. “Do you think he has changed that much?!”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, things were different I must admit before that terrible accident”—he paused—“Now what was her name?”

  “Lizzie Wexcombe,” Ursula replied softly. Lizzie Wexcombe was Lord Wrotham’s first love who died in a riding accident when he was only nineteen. The real tragedy for him, however, was the discovery, after her death, that she never really loved him but had been ‘spreading her favors’ among many men. Ursula was not convinced he had ever recovered from that shock.

  “Yes. Before that all happened he was like many other young men of Oxford—all bluster and ambition. Though he had more brains than most. But the accident knocked the stuffing out of him. Happened at the end of his second year I think. Anyway, that final year he was different. More secretive. Closed off from the world.”

  “And McTiernay?” Ursula asked.

  “Oh, a charming lad!” Professor Prendergast exclaimed. “One of the few Catholic students we had.1 I still remember his paper on Thomas Aquinas. Inspired.”

  Ursula opened her mouth but Professor Prendergast answered before she even got the question out.

  “Admiral Smythe—or rather Captain Smythe, as he then was, came from a long line of naval men so it was obvious where he was going to end up. But he was forcibly retired on the grounds of ill-health. That’s when he decided to come and teach here. I think he became quite the mentor to young Lord Wrotham, especially after the incident with Miss Wexcombe—you see Admiral Smythe never married, but I always wondered if there wasn’t some tragedy in his past too—but he never spoke of it. I just felt there must have been something and that was what drew the two men together”—He exhaled loudly—“It’s awful to think he is now missing.”

  “Yes,” Ursula agreed. “Unfortunately, no one seems to have any clues as to his possible whereabouts either. If he was—I don’t know—in difficulties, who do you think he’d turn to?”

  “Aside from Lord Wrotham you mean? No idea.”

  “There’s never been any hint of a possible marriage for him?”

  “Good Lord, no!”

  “But there’s never been any insinuation of…” Ursula let her question languish.

  “No, no…Nothing of that sort either! And believe me, we knew that when we saw it. No, as I said, I just suspected there’d been some heartbreak of some sort when he was a lad from which he’d never quite recovered. Wary of women don’t you know—but then so was Wrotham.”

  “Sounds like you knew them both pretty well,” Ursula said. More than you’re admitting to me, she thought.

  “Oh not really,” Professor Prendergast responded. He fiddled with the fountain pen on his desk absentmindedly.

  “But both Admiral Smythe and Lord Wrotham would come to you if they were in any sort of difficulty, wouldn’t they?” Ursula surprised herself with this question. Some instinct had taken hold of her and demanded she pay attention.

  Professor Prendergast looked at her with a queer sort of smile. “Oh my dear, wha
tever makes you think that?”

  And although she laughed lightly in return as he expected, she sensed that for the first time in their interview, Professor Prendergast was lying.

  Ursula and Samuels returned from Oxford well after nightfall. As Samuels pulled up in ‘Bertie’, Ursula peered out the window and relaxed in the reassurance that came from being home at last. After her mother’s death when she was young, Ursula and her father had grown up together, insulated in their own world. Though his textile empire stretched across the country, he had always made her feel that she was the center of that world. Now that he was gone, Ursula had endeavored to create her own cocoon, here in Chester Square. She drew upon the strength that it brought her now. She walked up the familiar stone steps, pass the place where her father had died in her arms, to the front door. Biggs greeted her with a solemn nod as he opened the door, and Julia took her coat, gloves and hat in silence.

  Ursula proceeded down the hallway to what had once been her father’s study. The house, however, seemed quiet without Mrs. Stewart bustling about as usual. Ursula even missed hearing Bridget singing as she polished the banister upstairs. She wandered into the study with growing despondency, her hopes for reassuring home comforts rapidly fading. With a sigh she sank down onto the leather chair, warming her legs in front of the fire. Biggs entered bearing a steaming mug of cocoa. There was comfort in that at least.

  Biggs returned with a tray bearing this afternoon’s post and placed it on the mahogany desk. Ursula put down her cocoa and walked over.

  “Thank-you Biggs, is that all for today?” She asked, glancing at the paltry pile that awaited her.

  “Yes Miss, the last post was delivered an hour ago. But this came by messenger boy. I thought you would want to see this first.”

  “Oh yes,” Ursula looked up and took the letter from the tray quickly.

  It was from Chief Inspector Harrison. She slid open the envelope with an ivory-handled letter opener.

  Admiral Smythe’s body washed up on the banks of the Thames a couple of hours ago. Coroner investigating cause of death. Looks like murder. Perhaps now you will be willing to talk.