The Serpent and the Scorpion (25 page)

“There’s something bigger at stake than just this factory.” Ursula continued. “You know what’s been happening. I have to find out if this is more widespread—whether there’s a conspiracy to set fire to any more of my mills and factories. George may be able to provide me with the information I need to find out whether I have any more traitors in my midst.”

She had to steady her hand as she lifted the coffee cup to her lips.

Ainsley’s brown eyes grew soft. “I . . . I understand. I can try to speak to the chief inspector.”

Ursula put down her cup slowly.

“Ainsley,” she started to say with a gulp, “do you think George killed Arina?”

“If George is to be believed, the cause of Arina’s death remains unknown. . . . But now of course he must be a suspect—all I can say is you should prepare yourself for the worst.”

“You can’t honestly believe George could have murdered a young girl.”

Dr. Mortimer shook his head. “I would never have believed he was capable of arson, either.”

Sixteen

Samuels drove Ursula down to the Oldham police station the following afternoon. Arraigned and waiting for trial, George Aldwych was being kept in one of the jail cells in the back of the police station. After a long debate that morning, Chief Inspector Harrison, with urging from Dr. Mortimer, had agreed that Ursula could speak to George in one of the tiny windowless interview rooms that lined the corridor leading to the rear of the station.

George sat at the table, handcuffed to the chair, his head bent low. He looked sullen and withdrawn. Ursula pulled up another chair and sat down opposite him.

“George . . . ,” she started to say, but he refused to look up.

“George, what about your family? Who’s going to provide for your wife? Your children? I can’t believe you would do such a thing. Not to them. Not to me. Not to my father.”

George kept his head down and said nothing.

Chief Inspector Harrison stood in the corner of the room with his arms folded tight across his chest. Ursula wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “I expected more from you. If you had a problem with what I was trying to achieve at Oldham, you should have spoken up. But now, now I have to ask you something I never thought I’d ever have to ask. Did you have anything to do with what happened to the other mills and factories? The accident at Great Harwood, the strikes at Victoria and Jubilee Mills? Do you know who was involved?”

George remained mute.

Ursula rubbed her temples. Chief Inspector Harrison tapped her lightly on the arm, as if asking if she wanted to leave. She shook her head furiously.

“Why?” she asked George again. “Why did you do it?”

George shrugged his shoulders, still refusing to look up.

“These were women just like Arina. They had nothing. Why would you destroy that? I would have thought you more than anyone would have had compassion for such women. All I was offering them was hope. I cannot believe that—” Ursula choked. “I cannot believe you were responsible.”

George continued to sit, head down, refusing to meet her eyes or speak with her.

“Did you hate these women enough to kill one of them?” Harrison’s voice seemed loud in the small room. “Were you angry that night? Had you been drinking?”

George made no sign that he was even listening to Harrison. “Did someone tell you to do this, George?”

“George—” Chief Inspector Harrison leaned over the desk. “If someone else forced you to do this, you have to let us know.”

Ursula was surprised by his vehemence.

“Was the man that was seen outside the factory your accomplice? Did he force you to light the fire to cover up the death of Arina Petrenko? Damn it, man! You need to speak up in your own defense. You need to tell me what happened—otherwise, by God, you
will
find yourself standing trial for murder!”

Ursula had never seen Harrison be so confrontational. He seemed genuinely angry and frustrated, but George was immune to his plea. He merely stared at his feet and continued to say nothing.

Harrison ran his fingers through his hair and exhaled noisily.

Ursula sighed and, after a weary glance at George, rose to her feet.

“I’ve seen enough,” she said, barely disguising the contempt in her voice.

Harrison held open the office door, and she walked through. As she was leaving, George muttered something under his breath. She turned and looked at him sharply, but George had fallen silent once more.

Harrison closed the door behind them and escorted her to where Ainsley Mortimer was waiting.

“I must thank you, Dr. Mortimer,” Ursula said, “for convincing the chief inspector. George wouldn’t say anything, but at least I tried.”

“It’s strange,” Ainsley said as Samuels pulled up in Bertie, “the chief inspector has been questioning him for well over a day and is even transferring him down to London for further questioning. That’s a great deal of effort. . . .” Ainsley’s voice trailed off, and Ursula sensed a slight rebuke. If Ursula wasn’t who she was, would a young factory girl’s death have ever garnered such attention? The case had certainly not been a priority until Ursula’s outburst in the coroner’s court and the chief inspector’s arrival. Ainsley Mortimer had probably seen hundreds of deaths, many of which the police simply ignored—but then, what was the value of a poor woman’s life when measured against the power and wealth of a woman like Ursula Marlow?

 
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. Tommy 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.”