“Yes, well, I see your manners haven’t improved,” Ursula responded archly, and Dobbs flushed darkly.
“Ursula, we were just discussing a venture that your father had decided against pursuing,” Lord Wrotham explained calmly. He lit himself a cigarette and tossed the match into the fireplace. “I was just informing Dobbs that I could provide no further funds from the trust.”
“And what was this venture?” Ursula asked.
Lord Wrotham shrugged. “Merely the importation of goods from South America.”
Ursula’s eyes narrowed, and Anderson spoke up. “Obadiah here has some contacts in South America that are interested in a joint development project. New chemical processes, dyes, medicinal elixirs—that sort of thing. Not something your father wanted to go into and, as we were just saying, not something Daniel or I feel is worth further investment. So there you have it—all very mundane and uninteresting, I’m sure, to a young woman such as yourself.”
Ursula remained skeptical. She suspected she was being told only part of the story, just enough to sate her curiosity. She decided it was time to take matters into her own hands.
“Gentlemen, I’d prefer to talk about what’s really going on.” She steadied her voice. “I know all about the diary and the threat that’s been made against your children. I can only assume you all believe that Bates is still alive and is responsible for the murder of Laura Radcliffe and my father. Now, since the bullet was clearly meant for me, I think I have a right to know what my father was involved in. Since my friend is about to stand trial for a murder she didn’t commit, I think I also owe it to her to find out why you have all chosen to remain silent.”
“Ursula…” Lord Wrotham warned, but her expression seemed to silence him.
“What are you all hiding?” she demanded. “What really happened on the Radcliffe expedition?”
Nobody spoke. Anderson drummed his fingers on top of the table. Abbott slumped back in his chair. The cigarette in his hand dropped ash onto the carpet. Dobbs stared at his boots, stony-faced.
“It was your father who first told me the story,” Lord Wrotham said calmly. “On our way back from New York aboard the Lusitania in 1905. He told me of an expedition to Venezuela that ended in the tragic death of a young botanist named Ronald Henry Bates. Your father was concerned that he and his business associates might be held accountable for what happened.”
“Why would they be held accountable?” Ursula asked as Lord Wrotham paused. “It was supposedly an uprising by the native Indians.”
“Indeed,” Lord Wrotham replied. “But there seems to have been more to it than that. The expedition was supposed to find and bring back a variety of specimens of plants and wildlife but Colonel Radcliffe came to suspect Bates of unscrupulous dealings. Black market trading, that sort of thing. The journey seemed to have taken its toll on both men. Bates grew increasingly unstable while Radcliffe became paranoid that Bates was going to steal all that they discovered on the expedition. When the natives attacked, Bates was severely wounded. Radcliffe, injured himself, escaped with one of the Indian guides. No one ever went back to rescue Bates.
“Radcliffe was a superstitious man. He always believed that Bates had survived. Then, soon after the massacre, Bates’s own wife and two sons fell ill, and all three succumbed to yellow fever in Trinidad. This weighed heavily on Radcliffe’s conscience. In his later years, Radcliffe was convinced that Bates had not died and feared that one day he would resurface and exact his revenge.
“When Bates’s diary arrived, we were then certain that he was alive and that Radcliffe’s worst nightmares had indeed come to pass.”
Ursula looked skeptical. “It strikes me that to be provoked to murder he must feel betrayed by you all.”
Dobbs shifted his feet and coughed.
Ursula turned back to Lord Wrotham. “Why would my father confide all this in you?”
Lord Wrotham walked over to the table and stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. “He wanted me to use my sources in the Foreign Office to find out whether Bates was alive.”
“And?” Ursula demanded
“At the time my sources couldn’t confirm or deny it. There were rumors, but nothing more. We had no real evidence that Bates had survived until the diary appeared.”
“And who knows who sent that…” Abbott interjected.
“My Foreign Office contacts have located Bates in Venezuela. They have no record of him arriving in England, but no one knows for sure. I’ve asked for more information, but in the current climate I doubt they will be of any assistance. The German menace is ever on their minds. Maintaining the Triple Entente is a tricky business. I’m not certain how much more help they will give us.”
“So we don’t even know if Bates is in England?” Ursula asked quietly.
“No,” Abbott answered.
“But surely the diary is enough to prove foul play—to absolve Freddie for the murder and to link Laura’s death to my father’s.”
“Unfortunately, no,” said Lord Wrotham. “Harrison is convinced that these two terrible instances are in no way related. I’ve made him aware of the journal, but since anyone could have sent it or fabricated it, and since Bates is legally dead and cannot be accused of the crime, Scotland Yard has decided to rule out this theory.”
There was a soft knock at the door.
“Yes,” Lord Wrotham called out, and Ursula flinched. She wasn’t even mistress in her own home.
Biggs peered around the door. “My lord, you asked me to let you know…”
“Is it two o’clock already?” Lord Wrotham asked. Biggs merely nodded. “My apologies, gentlemen, but I have a telephone call I must make. In my absence a colleague of mine has had to take over part of my caseload.”
Anderson and Abbott rose to their feet. “We’d better be off,” Anderson said, and Ursula detected some relief in his tone. He picked up the ledger and gave Dobbs a pointed look. “I think this matter is closed.”
Dobbs picked up the papers from the table and stuffed them under his arm, muttering something inaudible.
Ursula got up from her chair and absently tucked a strand of hair back behind her ear.
“We really had best be going,” Daniel Abbott said, and placed a hand on her arm. “All I ask is that you trust us. We have told Inspector Harrison everything we know. If only you would accept Lady Ashton’s offer…You really would be safer out of England.”
Lord Wrotham led Anderson and Abbott from the room, and Ursula thought she heard him lower his voice and murmur, “You need not fear, I will keep her safe.”
“So headstrong…” Abbott sighed and turned back to look at Ursula. “She’s as bad as my dear Cissy.”
Anderson clutched the ledger books to his chest. “I would have trusted your father with my life,” he said to her from the doorway, and then seemed unable to continue. Ursula felt a lump form in her throat.
Lord Wrotham, Abbott, and Anderson were halfway down the corridor by the time Obadiah Dobbs shuffled out of the drawing room. He and Ursula met face-to-face in the doorway. Ursula held open the door for him politely. He scowled as he passed her.
“You’d do well to accept young Cumberland’s proposal,” he said sourly. “For I doubt you’ll receive another.”
It took all of Ursula’s self-control not to slam the door in his face.
Eleven
“Mrs. Stewart, please make the necessary arrangements with Biggs to get the access ladder up into the attic.”
It was two days after her father’s funeral and Ursula was determined that her mother’s effects, which had remained stored in the attic of Gray House since her death, would finally be sorted through. There was little time left, for Ursula was due to leave with Lord Wrotham the following day.
“Oh, Miss Ursula,” Mrs. Stewart replied, “you won’t be wanting to do that. Your father, God rest his soul, he didn’t let no one go up there. Perhaps if Mr. Biggs made arrangements…”
“Mrs. Stewart, are you
questioning my instructions?” Ursula asked imperiously, and instantly regretted her tone. Mrs. Stewart was like a mother to her; she had known her all her life, since before the move to London when Ursula was only twelve.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Stewart, I didn’t mean to be short with you.” Ursula looked anxiously at Mrs. Stewart and was rewarded for her apology by a motherly smile.
“Now then, no doubt you’re feeling tired after the funeral. You look pale. Why don’t I ask Cook to make one of her lemon curd tarts. You did so love those as a child. And I’ll get you a nice cuppa tea.”
Ursula smiled. Mrs. Stewart was a strong believer in food as a cure for most ailments. “After I go through the chests in the attic, that would be lovely.”
Mrs. Stewart nodded reluctantly and walked back along the hallway to the rear stairs. Ursula’s father had never allowed anyone up in the attic to go through her mother’s possessions, but now it was time, she thought, that the past was brought to rest.
Ursula was left standing alone on the landing. Julia was busy organizing the linen closet, which meant Ursula had a moment at least to be alone in her childhood bedroom. She had noticed how since the funeral she was never left alone—there was always Mrs. Stewart bustling about or Julia running in to ask her questions. Only Biggs seemed to keep his distance. Secretly she wondered if he didn’t blame her for her father’s death. After all, she blamed herself.
The pale green bedroom was bathed in a soft morning halo of light. It looked rather like a Vermeer interior, a play of light and reflections. The slant of sunshine through the window made Ursula look hazy and incomplete in the mirror above her old white dressing table. She was like a luminous breath, insubstantial and faint, making its way into the room.
A polite cough from behind her caused Ursula to spin around. Biggs was standing in the doorway.
“I have instructed Samuels to pull out the access ladder to the attic. It shouldn’t take long. If you would like me to assist you…?” Biggs left the question hanging, and as Ursula made no response, he continued, by way of explanation. “I was responsible for storage of your mother’s effects. I have an inventory which I can use if there is something in particular…?” Again the question was left open.
Ursula shook her head. “I shall see to this alone if you won’t mind, Biggs. But thank you anyway, Biggs…for everything.”
Biggs inclined his head stiffly, but his eyes looked troubled nevertheless.
Within the hour Ursula had put on one of Julia’s aprons and climbed up the narrow ladder into the attic. She found herself crouching beneath the low ceiling staring at a pile of trunks and boxes that had lain there since her mother’s death and remained untouched since. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, even the attic window, which as a result allowed only a feeble half-light to penetrate the shadows.
Ursula opened the largest trunk first. It still bore her mother’s initials: IMM. Isabella Meara MacGregor. Her mother’s maiden name. Ursula could hardly remember her mother—she was a faded photograph on the bedroom dresser, an image captured in her father’s mind and passed on to her through stories and recollections. Ursula had few of her own memories to rely upon. Those that she had were misty and strange. Dark blue eyes gazing down upon her, a smile rising to a laugh, the smell of orange blossoms.
This first trunk contained only clothes—damask, silks, and linens—all hand-pressed and lovingly folded in tissue paper. Mrs. Stewart, undoubtedly. Biggs always said she was devoted to Ursula’s mother. The next trunk was considerably smaller, bound with a brown leather strap and buckle. Inside, there were photographs, a bundle of letters tied with pink satin ribbon, and a series of books. Ursula opened with interest the leather wallet that contained the photographs. They seemed to comprise mainly portraits done of her mother’s family in Scotland. Ursula recognized her grandmother, whom she had seen barely a handful of times since her mother’s death, and her two aunts sitting beside her. It was a studio photograph, as were most of the other photographs in the wallet, all stilted and stiff, with high-collared men and primly dressed women. Only one of the photographs included her mother. She was kneeling in the front and couldn’t have been much older than Ursula was now—which meant that this photograph must have been taken just before she met Ursula’s father. Her mother’s thick, dark curls were wound up and around the crown of her head, leaving ringlets cascading down her back and shoulders. She had on a white lace dress, white gloves, and black lace-up boots. Her eyes were candid and round, and in the hesitation of the moment her lips appeared partly open, as if on the verge a smile.
Ursula wasn’t sure whether she should look at any of the letters—it seemed such an invasion of privacy that she hesitated to untie the ribbon that held the bundle together. But it was really too late for such sensibilities. She put the packet in the front apron pocket and walked over to the window. Stooping beneath the narrow angle of the roof, she rubbed the windowpane with a corner of her apron to remove the dust and allow more light. She then knelt down, careful not to get any splinters through her stockings from the rough-hewn floorboards beneath, and took the bundle from her pocket, untied it, and opened the first letter gingerly. It was dated March 1885.
My dearest Robert.
How I miss you when you are away. The house seems so very empty and cold without you here. When will your business in Liverpool be complete, do you think? I am trying very hard, but our neighbors seem wary of strangers, especially me, it seems. Could we not invite my sister Alice down for Easter? I would like so much to have company, especially if you must travel to Portsmouth next month. Young Mrs. Stewart, bless her, is taking care of the household beautifully, but I am feeling a little at a loss. Do not think that I complain, my love. I just want to make sure this house lives up to all your expectations. It is so large and the estate so new, perhaps you could send word of your instructions?
The next in the pile was not her father’s reply but rather another letter, this one dated a month later.
My dearest,
It seems ages since I heard from you, although I know how busy you must be with preparations for the expedition. I do hope your visit to Godalming and Colonel Radcliffe has proved a great success. Elizabeth Anderson came to visit yesterday. She is en route to Liverpool to join Gerard. She brought Charlotte with her, who is an absolutely adorable baby. Very saintly and quiet for such a young bairn. No doubt Fanny and Laura are growing up just as fast.
I am thinking of walking over to visit poor Mrs. Samuels tomorrow, as the rector’s wife informs me that she is not much long for this world. Her son continues to cause mischief—why, Cook caught him just yesterday morning trying to steal one of her pies that was cooling on the window ledge. When we are finally blessed with a child, pray we will be spared such a demon! But I shall bother you no further with idle chatter.
I miss you and love you as dearly as ever. Let us hope that your business concludes successfully soon, for we all wish to see you home as quickly as can be.
Your loving wife, Isabella
Her father’s reply to this was enclosed. His hand was rougher than her mother’s, and the note was considerably shorter, indicative of her father’s lack of comfort with writing letters of any kind.
Isabella, my love, you’re an angel for tolerating my absence for so long. Look for my carriage on the evening of the sixth.
Your loving husband
Ursula flicked through the next few letters, which all seemed to concern similar absences from home.
There was something in the tone of all these letters that made Ursula frown. Perhaps it was that they revealed a wistful loneliness she had never attributed to her mother.
Ursula gently bundled all the letters and retied the ribbon that had held them together. It was then she noticed a small wooden box that lay at the very bottom of one of the trunks. Upon closer inspection she realized that it was a jewelry box, inlaid with an intricate rose pattern. She lifted the lid and picked up a delicate strand of pearls. It s
eemed puzzling that her mother’s jewels had remained up here and not been placed in the safe or at the bank with her more valuable effects. There was a delicate rose gold knot pin, a blue enamel locket, a garnet necklace, and a small moon-stone ring. Her mother must have had tiny hands just like Ursula, for when she placed the ring carefully on her middle finger, it fit perfectly. The final piece she found was a vermeil rose pendant. She fingered the pendant closely, but there was no sign of any opening.
Ursula picked up the enamel locket and pried it open instead. Inside, to her satisfaction, was a painted photograph of her father. He looked young and handsome in his somber gray suit and wing-collar shirt and striped tie. Ursula gazed at it, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, and then placed it in her pocket. This she would have to keep close to her from now on.
She was about to return to the other trunks when she decided that she might as well take the whole jewelry box with her, and so she carefully placed it down next to the ladder before she set to opening the remaining trunks. The first trunk she pulled out had her father’s name on the inside lid and was crammed with books. Ursula picked up a few of the volumes with interest. It puzzled her to think that her father would have left such books behind, given his keen interest in reading. One of the volumes was entitled Natural Inheritance, by Francis Galton, which Ursula briefly opened and then discarded. The next volume was a copy of Humboldt’s A Personal Narrative, which sat side by side with Darwin’s Origin of Species. There was also a glass case containing insect specimens of some kind, each mounted and labeled in her father’s handwriting. Ursula placed the case and the books back in the trunk, having little time to contemplate these any further. It was her mother who consumed her thoughts.
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