“What happened to the woman who died?”
“The woman who?” Lord Wrotham stopped. “Oh, you mean the woman who was pulled from the river.”
“Yes, the one who died of cyanide poisoning, just as they suspect Admiral Smythe did.”
Lord Wrotham rubbed his temples with his fingers. “There’s no connection so don’t start thinking that there is…” He stubbed his cigarette out in the small ceramic ashtray. “What has James been telling you?” he demanded.
“James?” Ursula queried. “Surely you must know that James has not been sighted since your arrest? It was Harrison who mentioned Guyana to me.”
The muscles around Lord Wrotham’s mouth visibly tightened. “Why would Harrison be speaking to you about Guyana?”
“He showed me an old file that was found in Admiral Smythe’s office,” Ursula said. “I want to understand what happened back then…”
“What happened in Guyana has no bearing on my case,” Lord Wrotham replied swiftly. “I will not be drawn out on it any further. As far as I’m concerned the matter is closed.”
Just like a lawyer, Ursula thought angrily, to treat the past as if it were little more than a case to be closed. She knew him better, though, than to continue this line of questioning and risk further friction between them. She also suspected that James’ continued absence troubled him more than he wanted her to know.
“You very conveniently skipped over the fact that I said that James is missing,” Ursula said.
“Did I?” Lord Wrotham replied.
“You’re not worried about him?”
Lord Wrotham’s eyelids flickered. “No.”
“Yet the afternoon of your arrest, you distinctly wanted me to ask him to drive me to Bromley Hall,” she probed further.
“Did I?”
“Yes,” she said. “And it’s made all the more intriguing by the fact that you are trying to pretend his disappearance doesn’t bother you…when it does, more than you like to admit.”
Lord Wrotham shrugged. “I’m sure he’ll turn up, he always does.”
Ursula was not to be appeased but as she opened her mouth to question him further, she caught his gaze and it stopped her cold. Once again she found him and his past an impenetrable fortress.
“What about your own notes or notebook? Won’t these explain what really happened in Germany?” Ursula asked. “If I could show these to Chief Inspector Harrison at least…”
“As I’ve said, without Admiral Smythe alive I cannot clear my name,” Lord Wrotham answered.
“But surely there must be others in the government that knew what you and he were doing?” Ursula protested.
“Given the circumstances they will most certainly disavow any knowledge of our mission.”
“But why?” she asked.
“Covert intelligence missions are hardly considered the ‘done thing’, my dear, least of all for a gentleman like me. There are many in the government who cannot stand to think of the British sullying our hands with anything as sordid as espionage. The thought that I may have used my business contacts abroad to gather enemy intelligence in one thing—but that I may have been masquerading as a traitor to draw out a treasonous conspiracy—well, that’s almost as bad as having been a part of it for real.”
“But”—Ursula started to object. Lord Wrotham reached out and held her hand for a moment. The gesture silenced her immediately.
“We just have to wait and see how the game plays itself out,” Lord Wrotham said with deliberate emphasis.
“Game?” Ursula retorted, but she kept hold of his hand. “I’d hardly call this a game!”
“In many respects that is exactly what it is,” Lord Wrotham replied, “and even I don’t know who all the players are as yet—which is why we must wait—Admiral Smythe was murdered for a reason, by someone whose motivations aren’t yet clear to me, so I need you to be patient, for your own safety.”
“Patience is not one of my virtues,” Ursula interjected.
“No—but patience may well reveal the truth.”
“About who is really behind all this?” Ursula said.
Lord Wrotham nodded, his gaze suddenly intense, as his hand gripped hers.
“Exactly.”
CHAPTER NINE
LORD WROTHAM’S BROOK STREET HOME, MAYFAIR
The afternoon shadows were already looming, dark and cold, in the recesses of the buildings along Brook Street when Ursula unlocked the front door to Lord Wrotham’s Mayfair home using the key he had given her less than a month ago. She was a stranger still to this place and, as she opened the door and stepped inside, she felt a strange thrill of excitement—as a child might feel intruding on forbidden territory.
She closed the door quickly and flicked on the electric hall light. The black and white flooring seemed stark but it was the presence of his coat and hat still hanging on the mahogany coat stand that caused a sudden pang of anguish. She reached over and let her hand travel across the smooth cashmere of his coat sleeve. No doubt the police had already examined the pockets when they searched the premises, but despite this Ursula still felt compelled to check the pockets herself. There was nothing but an old theatre ticket stub which, for Ursula, provided an agonizing reminder of how easily the normalcy of life could be snatched from her grasp. Less than ten days ago Lord Wrotham had accompanied her to the St. James Theatre to see Turandot, without any thought of what madness was to come. Ursula withdrew from the narrow entranceway abruptly—Such maudlin thoughts were ridiculous, she admonished herself. Lord Wrotham knew very well what was to come—of that she was now sure. Feeling a sudden twinge of resentment she passed through the high-ceilinged front hall and stood at the foot of the ornate carved staircase, tapping her lace up oxford shoes against the dark green carpet runner.
“Come on,” she whispered to herself. “Surely there’s something here that can help him.” Although Chief Inspector Harrison and Sir Buckley had already supervised a thorough and exhaustive search of the house, Ursula felt duty-bound to come here. Perhaps it was Lord Wrotham’s refusal to provide her with the satisfaction of any sort of answer that drew her here. Whatever it was it she was determined to keep looking.
She made her way up the stairs, fortified by a renewed sense of purpose, before pausing outside the door to Lord Wrotham’s bedroom. A quiver of wistfulness ran through her as she pushed open the door. She stood hesitantly on the threshold for a moment and then turned away (telling herself not to let emotions get the better of her) to walk along the landing. She reached the front room that overlooked the street and peered inside. She had only been in this room once before but knew it was the small library and study that Lord Wrotham used when he was in London.
It was hard to believe, Ursula thought, as she walked over to turn on the lamp on the desk, that the room had been disturbed. Everything was neatly arranged and perfectly positioned—from the fountain pen that lay at a perfect right angle, to the orderly stack of paper on the desktop, to the cushions set out in a row on the bench seat beneath the window. The books on the bookshelf were similarly neat—only the lack of dust betrayed that they had recently been removed, examined and replaced.
Ursula used her finger to glide along the spines of the books as she took note of the familiar titles: Arnold Bennett’s Clayhanger. Joseph Conrad’s The Secret Agent. Anthony Trollope’s Eye for an Eye. She hesitated when she reached the bottom shelf—for there were two books—that surprised her and she smiled, despite herself. Zane Grey indeed.
Ursula peered in each of the desk drawers, even getting down on her hands and knees to look for hidden recesses. As expected, there was nothing. Lord Wrotham was as skillful at hiding his past as he was able to twist a legal argument. There would be no photographs or journals, no long lost letters or accidental receipts. The house appeared to have been sanitized to the point that she almost believed Lord Wrotham had expected the place to be searched at one time or other. Drumming her fingers impatiently along the wallpapered wall
s, Ursula returned once more to the landing. The stairwell was silent and cool—like the interior of a medieval church. Ursula stood for a moment mulling her options, but, even as she decided which room to look in next, there was still the nagging question of what had happened to Lord Wrotham’s chauffeur, Archibald James.
Ursula mounted the rear servant staircase and slowly climbed her way to the top floor rooms. Lord Wrotham only brought James with him from Bromley Hall and employed a part-time housekeeper to maintain his London home. Accordingly, there was need for only one servant’s bedroom and this, Ursula soon discovered, was deserted. It certainly looked as though James had packed his affairs and left permanently for there was no indication, except for the folded linens at the base of the single bed, to indicate that anyone had ever occupied this room. There were no personal effects, no clothes or other mementos—nothing save a photograph hanging on the wall near a narrow attic window. Ursula walked over and examined the photograph. It was of a rifle regiment in full regimental uniform. She recognized James standing at the back, even though he must have been no more that eighteen when the photograph was taken. The caption read Kings Royal Rifle Corps. (21st Finsbury Rifles), 1902.
After a search of the small austerely furnished room revealed nothing further, Ursula went back down the servants’ stairs and crossed the landing once more, to enter Lord Wrotham’s bedroom. Like the study it was immaculately tidy, and yet Ursula was sure that this too had been thoroughly searched.
She opened the tall mahogany wardrobe and gathered up the black and grey frock coats in her arms, just to feel the texture of his clothes against her cheek. The smell of his cologne—a mixture of bergamot and lime leaves—lingered still. Although she double checked she knew she would find nothing in any of the pockets. Lord Wrotham was too fastidious to have left anything, though, no doubt it would have amused him to think of Chief Inspector Harrison and Sir Buckley poring over every scrap, list or receipt in search of clues. Ursula sat on the bed and sighed, chiding herself for being naïve enough to think that she could have found anything of value here. She went over to the chest of drawers and drew out two fresh white shirts. The top drawer contained collars and cuffs and she took some of these too. She reasoned that if she could find nothing of use here for her own investigation, she may as well get him a fresh change of clothes. In the inlaid wooden box in which he kept his cufflinks and tie pins, Ursula found a small prayer card such as those one may expect to find at a Catholic mission. It depicted Saint Dismas, with the words for a Prayer for the Penitent Thief written underneath the garishly colored picture.
Lord Jesus, help us to be merciful as you are merciful.
O Sacred Heart of Jesus, make us love thee more and more!
Let us see that all are your children and remember that we are not to judge.
St. Dismas, the Good Thief, pray for us!
Strange, Ursula thought, for Lord Wrotham was not Catholic—nor was he even particularly religious. She turned the card over in her fingers. Why would Lord Wrotham keep such a thing? She took it and placed it on the stack of shirts, collar and cuffs and walked back into the study. Beneath the lamp light she studied the prayer card a little more closely. In the top drawer of Lord Wrotham’s desk she found a small ivory-handled magnifying glass and looked at the small print at the bottom of the card. It read St Ignatius Mission, Guyana. She could well imagine Sir Buckley and Chief Inspector Harrison dismissing this as little more than a religious trinket but if Lord Wrotham kept this, and this alone, from his time in Guyana—then it must have some special significance thought Ursula. She felt sure that finding this prayer card, in a place where Lord Wrotham clearly wanted it to be found, was important. Lord Wrotham may not be Catholic, but Fergus McTiernay most certainly was.
Ursula looked up, startled to hear the slam of a motorcar door being closed. She parted the curtains and looked out to see Chief inspector Harrison emerge from a black taxi-cab below. Another man crossed the street to speak with him and Harrison looked up. Ursula, knowing it would irritate Harrison all the more, waved to him from the window.
Gathering up the shirts and collars in her arms, Ursula quickly turned off the lamp and made her way out of the study. She replaced the prayer card in the inlaid box—Harrison would undoubtedly notice and wonder about its significance should she have it with her. Hearing the front door open and close, Ursula she walked down the staircase to greet Harrison.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” Harrison demanded. “You must have known we would be watching the place.”
Ursula held up the pile of clothes in her arm. “I thought Lord Wrotham could do with a fresh set of clothes,” she said.
Harrison regarded her skeptically. “You’re hardly the sort of woman who needs to worry about another man’s laundry.”
“Why, did you think I came here to extract some vital evidence that you and your men had failed to uncover?” Ursula asked.
“I know you’re not the sort to sit idly by while we conduct our investigation…Did Lord Wrotham tell you to come here?”
“Since he spends almost every day at Scotland Yard being interrogated by you and Sir Buckley, I doubt he has the time. Besides, do you really believe Lord Wrotham wouldn’t have guessed his house was under surveillance?”
“I’d hardly call it that,” Harrison replied, “but I still want to know what you’re doing here.”
“Yes, yes…I know, you and Sir Buckley don’t want me undertaking my own inquiries.”
“Poking your nose around in this case could be dangerous—or didn’t you read the case file I gave you?”
“I read it,” Ursula said.
“But it didn’t change anything did it?” Harrison’s voice was quiet.
“No,” Ursula replied, equally quiet. “I’m afraid it didn’t.”
Harrison shook his head. “I’m going to have to ask you to accompany me to Scotland Yard. You will have to be searched by one of our police matrons.”
“What are you expecting to find on me—a cache of Irish armaments? A secret written confession by Lord Wrotham perhaps? Really Harrison, sometimes you treat me as if I’m a total imbecile…”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Harrison said under his breath. “I’ve been trying to help you as best I can—but my actions must be above any form of reproach. When Sir Buckley hears you’ve been here he will demand to know why. I simply cannot afford to fall into Sir Buckley’s disfavor.”
“Your promotion—of course,” Ursula replied. She shot him a sideways glance. “So tell me, Chief Inspector, how is that all working out for you?”
Harrison’s baleful glare spoke volumes.
It was late into the night when Ursula was finally released from Scotland Yard to return to Chester Square. Sir Buckley had insisted the police matron conduct a thorough and ignominious search of Ursula’s person so that by the time Ursula arrived home she was indignant, frustrated and in a thoroughly rotten temper.
As Julia helped undress her (for the second time that day) Ursula vented her frustration in a series of tirades against the idiots of the Metropolitan Police, Scotland Yard and the War Office as well as the arrogance of small-minded, pompous bureaucrats like Sir Reginald Buckley.
“And they think civilization will collapse if women get the vote!” Ursula cried as she plunked down on the upholstered satin stool in front of her bureau. “The Empire is already doomed if men like Sir Buckley can not only vote but hold high office!”
Julia made appropriately soothing sounds as she pulled the hairpins from Ursula’s dark auburn hair.
Ursula leaned back and found some comfort in the rhythmic strokes as Julia brushed her hair.
“Julia?” Ursula said, yanking her head back up abruptly. “You grew up Catholic, didn’t you?”
“Yes, Miss…why do you ask?” Julia said and she continued brushing with calm, even strokes.
“What do you know about Saint Dismas?”
“Why, he was the good thief crucified
with Christ on Calvary,” Julia replied. “He repented of his sins and Jesus promised he would go to heaven.”
Ursula studied her reflection in the mirror. “What kind of person, do you think, would pray to him?” she asked.
Julia screwed up her nose in thought. “Perhaps someone who had been dishonest in his life who wants forgiveness before death…I’ve heard of those in prison praying to him, seeking restitution for the sins they have committed,” Julia paused,. “for Saint Dismas is the patron saint of those condemned to death.”
Ursula fell silent. The prayer card seemed so incongruous, yet she could not ignore the sense that it offered an insight into the past—into the men that had gone to Guyana and whose friendship had been irrevocably altered by what had occurred there. All that she had read in Admiral Smythe’s file suggested that there had been some kind of fraud involving The Imperial Gold and Diamond Mining Company, something unscrupulous enough to compel Lord Wrotham to suppress evidence regarding the murder of Bernice Baldeo. Could McTiernay have been both murderer and thief? Was it he who had given Lord Wrotham the prayer card?
The specter of McTiernay’s involvement could also not be ignored. A Catholic and fiercely patriotic Irish man, he had been Lord Wrotham’s best friend until the events in Guyana fractured their friendship. Yet now Lord Wrotham was accused of colluding with him once more. What really happened back in Guyana, Ursula thought, as she studied her reflection once more. If McTiernay was the one who gave Lord Wrotham this prayer card, was it offered as some kind of apology? A plea for absolution? Or had Lord Wrotham brought it out more recently as a reminder that there remains hope even for those condemned to death?
CHAPTER TEN
The following evening, Ursula was once again forced to rely on Julia’s good opinion. This time, however, it was on the necessity of fulfilling a social engagement.
“Julia, I hardly think attending a charity function is good idea at the moment.” Ursula looked down at the sequined gown Julia had laid out for her on the bed in dismay.
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