The Serpent and the Scorpion (16 page)

“Tell Samuels that we will need to leave early tomorrow if we are to make it to Whalley by the evening,” she said. “He may as well put the trunks in Bertie tonight. Bridget’s nearly finished packing them.”

“You have a visitor. I’ve told him to wait in the front parlor,” Biggs said abruptly.

“A visitor—who is it?” She felt a mounting sense of dread at the thought of a confrontation with Lord Wrotham. She wasn’t prepared to see him yet. She wasn’t even sure what she was going to say when she did see him at all.

“His card, Miss.” Biggs handed her the tray, his face inscrutable.

Ursula took hold of the small white printed card and turned it over. It was handwritten in a scrawl she hadn’t seen in over four years. Suppressing her astonishment, she merely nodded and continued down the stairs. Only when she reached the bottom did she grip the balustrade, revealing her disquiet.

She walked down the hall to the door leading to the front parlor. With a deep breath she turned the handle, opened the door, and entered.

“Alexei Prosnitz. You are the very last person I expected to see.”

Ten

Alexei sat hunched on the sofa, his workman’s clothes disheveled, his dark, curly hair looking wild and unkempt. He had placed his wire-rimmed glasses precariously on the dainty side table next to him and was rubbing his eyes as Ursula entered the room and saw him.

“
Lapushka,
” he cried in the deep, melancholic voice she remembered all too well. “It is good to see you.” He picked up and put on his glasses before he rose to his feet.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” Ursula replied and closed the door. She had dreamed of this moment so many times, especially in the months that followed his departure, that she was taken aback by the calm normalcy of their meeting. It was hard to believe that four years had passed since he had left, and yet here he was once more, just as she had imagined. He even called out to her using the endearment he had always used,
lapushka.
If this had been one of her old dreams, however, she would have rushed into his arms, but instead she remained rooted to the ground, unable and unwilling to move.

“I heard about your father. I am so very sorry.” Alexei approached her as he spoke.

“You could have sent a letter,” Ursula said with a deadpan expression. “It would have been faster.”

Alexei hesitated for a moment, midstep. He frowned, obviously unsure of her meaning.

“Papa died two years ago, Alexei. Don’t you think it’s a little late for condolences?”

He moved toward her. “Forgive me.” His hand touched her lightly on the cheek. “You are even more beautiful than I remember.”

Ursula brushed his hand aside.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, though not without a twinge of regret as she noted his wounded expression and the dark circles under his eyes.

“You look as if you slept in those.” She pointed to his crumpled trousers.

“I did,” Alexei confessed, and Ursula flushed. She knew she sounded cold and abrupt, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. She was angry that Alexei assumed he could simply walk back into her life. After last night, his presence just added to her inner turmoil and confusion.

Ursula pointed to the sofa. “Please,” she said, softening her tone. “Sit down before you collapse. You look terrible.” Alexei nodded and sat down on the sofa with a sigh.

Ursula settled herself in the high-backed armchair opposite him.

“So you won’t even sit beside me?”

“I’m fine where I am,” Ursula replied, crossing her arms. “Why don’t you start by telling me why you’re back in England.”

Alexei lay back on the sofa and closed his eyes. “Why I am back? Not, why I have come back to you?”

“You haven’t come back to me, Alexei . . . so don’t even try to pretend that you have.” Ursula’s voice grew sharp.

“I find you much changed,
lapushka.
”

Ursula pursed her lips but made no reply.

Alexei leaned forward. “I hear you have found yourself an aristocrat for a lover. Who would have thought? I guess it is easy to forget your principles when you are an heiress looking for marriage.”

“I am not looking for marriage, and my personal affairs are no longer any business of yours. You relinquished the right to know
anything
about me the day you walked out that door!” Ursula pointed an emphatic finger at the door leading from the parlor.

“I did not leave you. I left only to join comrade Lenin.”

Ursula jumped to her feet. “Damn it all, Alexei, what game is this? What do you want from me? You can’t just waltz back into my life after four years and expect me to drop everything for you!” She couldn’t believe how quickly being around him roused all the old confusions and turmoil.

“I can’t go back to that . . . ,” she continued, more to herself than to him.

“I am not asking you to,” Alexei said with maddening calmness. “Forgive me for intruding. I am tired, that is all, and I had no one else to turn to, so I came to you. You, who meant so much to me all those years ago. Though it now seems a lifetime ago. . . .” He patted the seat beside him on the sofa. “Please sit next to me,
lapushka.
Let me explain why I am here.”

Ursula stood for a moment, arms crossed once more. “Why didn’t you go to Anna?”

Anna Prosnitz was Alexei’s mother.

“She has her own troubles. I did not want to burden her with mine.”

Ursula knew that Anna was under intense police scrutiny for her involvement in the WSPU and suspected anarchist groups. She hesitated, but his face, which looked drawn and exhausted, stirred her compassion. She walked over and sat beside him.

Alexei took her hand in his and began to talk, his head bowed slightly as his story unfolded.

“I came back to England out of a sense of duty to a comrade. Do you remember Kolya Menkovich? You would have met him at the Rose and Anchor at our meetings. No? Well, it is of no matter. I have known him since we were at university together in St. Petersburg. He remained in England when I left for Geneva, organizing strikes in the north. In January he decided it was time to join us and arrived in Prague. Soon after the Party Congress he fell ill—pleurisy in both lungs. He died three weeks later.”

Alexei inhaled sharply, evidently remembering Kolya’s death all too clearly. He soon regained his composure and continued. “I am here because he wanted me to return and find his lover—the woman he had left behind in England. He wanted her there with him at the end, but it was too late. So what else could I do? I promised Kolya as he lay dying that I would look after her. So I returned to England. . . .” Alexei hesitated again.

“Go on,” Ursula prompted him.

“I smuggled myself aboard a steamer bound for Liverpool from Antwerp. But by the time I arrived, it was too late. A worse fate had befallen poor Arina.”

“Arina?” Ursula said sharply. “You don’t mean to say this man’s lover was Arina Petrenko?”

“Yes.”

Ursula looked at Alexei sharply. The incredible coincidence immediately raised her suspicions.

“So then you know that she died in a fire in one of my factories.”

“Yes, I know. But please, listen. Before you jump to any conclusions, let me try to explain it to you.”

Ursula opened her mouth to interrupt him, but stopped as she caught sight of his face.

“I arrived in Oldham the night of the fire. I took the tramway and went to Arina’s lodgings on the outskirts of town. But she did not return home. No one did. So I returned to town and booked into the railway hotel. I was at a loose end and decided to see the factory that you had established. Anna had, of course, written and told me what you had done.”

Ursula raised her eyebrows. Anna’s antipathy toward Ursula was well known. She was surprised she had told her son anything about the factory.

“So I went there, and by now it was close to eight o’clock. The factory was of course locked. I walked around the streets for a while and then returned to the hotel. When I awoke the next morning, I heard about the fire and the rumors of a young girl being pulled from the ashes. I had no idea it was Arina until I returned to her house the next morning. Her roommate, Natasha, was in a terrible state. She told me Arina was missing, but she refused to go to the police. You know how it is,
lapushka,
for those of us who have endured brutal treatment at the hands of the tsarist police in Russia. While I was at the house, a policeman arrived. I had to hide upstairs, but when I came down, Natasha’s face was white . . . she told me it was Arina who had perished in the fire.”

Ursula rubbed her nose. Alexei’s taste for the dramatic had certainly not diminished over time.

“Natasha told me the police were looking for witnesses who may have seen a ‘foreign’-looking gentleman outside the factory earlier that evening. The description they gave was of me.”

“So someone saw you outside the factory?”

“Yes. I had to leave Oldham as quickly as I could. I couldn’t risk being taken in for questioning. And as you can see I had nowhere else to go.”

“Did Natasha go with you?” Ursula asked.

Alexei shook his head. “I don’t know where she went.”

Ursula sighed. “You really should go to the police and clear things up. Tell them you had nothing to do with what happened. Otherwise they’ll be spending countless hours on a wild goose chase looking for you.”

Alexei looked at her intently. “You know that I cannot risk being found by the police.”

Ursula bit her lip. She wasn’t sure what to do. She knew that when he left England four years ago, Alexei had been under investigation for inciting “agitation” among workers across the country.

“I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. So I came to you. It took a while. I had to accept rides from strangers or walk most of the way, but I had to find somewhere safe. . . .”

Ursula didn’t doubt his fears were real. There were a number of influential people in the government and at Scotland Yard who would like nothing better than to see Alexei Prosnitz silenced in jail.

“But you say you saw nothing suspicious at the factory that night?”

“I saw nothing.”

“You didn’t see anybody there? No sign of a break in perhaps? Or a light on?”

Alexei shook his head. “My mother told me you were quite the detective.”

Ursula scowled at his flippancy. It was difficult for her to gauge whether what he said was true. So many years had passed since she had last been around him. She found her judgment clouded by the uncertain emotions his return had aroused. Alexei always did have a way of embellishing the truth till it was little more than fiction.

“I am in England to achieve a great many things. Fulfilling my duty to Kolya was one of these, but there are others,” Alexei said carefully. “Things that are vital for the future of the Bolsheviks and for the global class struggle. Things that cannot be brought to the attention of the Metropolitan Police.”

Ursula sat in silence, weighing up his story. He stared down at his hands, his dark curls spilling over his forehead. The minutes ticked away on the mantel clock.

“What can I do?” Ursula finally asked quietly.

 
Ursula left Alexei in the front parlor thumbing through the latest copy of the
Strand Magazine
. Closing the door carefully behind her, she went into the study and lifted the telephone receiver. She hesitated for a moment and stared down at the desk, trying to collect her thoughts. The operator answered, and with a deep breath she asked to be connected to Miss Stanford-Jones.

“Freddie,” Ursula said. “I have another favor to ask, one that may make things a bit tricky. . . .”

“Sully, you know better than to even ask. Fire away, old bean. Whatever you need!” came Winifred’s swift response.

“It concerns Alexei.”

Winifred went silent.

“He’s back in England,”

“Ah . . .”

“And he needs help.”

“Now there’s a surprise,” Winifred responded with sarcasm.

“And to make matters worse, he may be involved in what happened at Oldham. I can’t say anything more at the moment, but he needs somewhere to stay. Somewhere the police won’t find him. It’s a lot to ask, I know . . . but Freddie, I need your help.”

Ursula waited, knowing that what she was asking was of immense personal risk. Winifred had already been to Holloway Prison for her suffragette activities and falsely accused of Laura Radcliffe’s murder; Ursula could well imagine that Winifred wanted to avoid any unnecessary police entanglements.

“There’s no one else I can turn to,” Ursula said, and she could hear the desperation in her voice.

“Of course, Sully,” Winifred replied quickly. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

“Freddie, I owe you a huge debt of gratitude. . . . I know I ask far too much of you—”

“Sully, it is I who you owe you a debt!” Winifred responded. “But I do have just one question,” she said, dropping her voice. “Do you really think he may be involved in the death of that girl in Oldham?”

Ursula watched as the rain pounded against the window. Two years ago she had faced a similar dilemma when Winifred had telephoned her in the middle of the night, asking for her help. That time Winifred had been accused of murdering her female lover, and Ursula had been determined to clear her name.

“With you,” Ursula replied slowly, “I was so sure. I knew you were innocent.”

“And with Alexei?” Winifred prompted.

“With Alexei, I don’t know. Deep down I know he couldn’t have been involved, not in the death of a girl, not in a fire in my own factory . . . and yet . . .”

“And yet?”

“I know he is holding something back.”

Winifred was quiet for a moment. “Sully,” she said, “trust your instincts. Bring him to my place. Whatever happened, whatever Alexei’s involvement, I know you can work this out.”