The Serpent and the Scorpion (31 page)

“Is that what your investigation has been about? His involvement in arms trading?” Ursula asked.

“We’re been watching Dobbs for the last six months—ever since he started using his father’s shipping business to transport arms. In the current climate we obviously need to watch that kind of thing carefully—check that British armaments don’t end up in the wrong hands—”

“Like Egyptian nationalists?”

“Yes, or Indian independence seekers. . . . But more important at the moment, we don’t want our armaments ending up in our enemies’ hands. Everyone is mobilizing for a possible war. We need to know who is building or buying what.”

“Do you think Dobbs is supplying arms to our enemies?”

“That’s what we’ve been trying to ascertain. He certainly is selling to the Turks—who knows where the arms end up after that? As you can see from this letter, this is a sensitive matter.”

“One worth killing for to keep quiet?”

“So it would appear.”

“I saw Whittaker two days ago at Dobbs’s house. He was accompanied by one of the men I saw in the Khan el-Khalili the day Katya was killed.” Harrison’s eyes flickered.

“Lord Wrotham told me that Whittaker was present at the customs house in Alexandria. I alerted officials in Egypt, but by then Whittaker was already en route to England.”

“I should have told you earlier, but I didn’t think you would believe me without further evidence.”

Harrison face was shrouded in shadows. He made no reply.

“I think Dobbs’s men stole this letter the night Arina’s house was broken into. I think that’s why she died.”

“Maybe.” Harrison was noncommittal.

“As I said, I must return to London and speak to my superiors. My men will keep an eye out here. You really are very reckless, Miss Marlow. You realize that anyone who has the slightest knowledge of the matters contained in this letter is dead? Katya, Hugh Carmichael’s copilot, the shipping clerk, Arina. Even her roommate.”

“Arina’s roommate has been killed?” Ursula cried out.

“They fished her body out of the Thames on Friday night.”

Ursula went pale. That was the night she, Alexei, and Winifred had spoken to Natasha at the Rose and Anchor. Had they led Dobbs’s men to her?

“And still you insist on playing detective!” Harrison retorted. “I hope you realize you could have been killed tonight. Dobbs has a man there—he checks on Baruh every two hours. If he had found you there . . .”

Ursula nodded mutely. Her mind was still trying to process everything she had heard and read.

“You should try and sleep, at least,” Harrison said brusquely. “While I try and figure out what the next step will be.”

“Wouldn’t that be arresting Christopher Dobbs and Whittaker in connection with the murder of Katya Vilensky?” Ursula demanded.

“If only it was that simple. No, Ursula, I’m not in the mood to discuss this. It’s nearly three o’clock in the morning. Anything further will have to wait till daylight. I must leave London but should be back here by late morning—and please, Miss Marlow, don’t do anything rash until then.”

 
Despite all the anxiety and excitement of the evening, Ursula eventually found herself drifting into an uneasy sleep. Her head nodded forward, her eyes stung, and a heavy, dreamless sleep consumed her. She had decided to try and make herself comfortable next to the far side of the fireplace, propping her feet up on a second wooden chair. Here, she was protected from the draft coming from under the front door and hallway and from the windows, which rattled in the night breeze.

She must have been asleep an hour or so when she awoke suddenly, her nerves prickling with the certainty that something was terribly wrong. There was no moonlight visible, and the house was pitch-black and quiet. Sensing danger, Ursula silently unfurled her legs and gently placed the blanket on the floor as she rose to her feet. There was still no sound at all, not even the shuffle of feet or the strike of a match. She knew Harrison had posted two policemen as guards, and it seemed strange that there should be absolutely no sound from either of them. She unlaced her shoes and held them in her hands as she crept in her stockinged feet across the stone kitchen floor and peered through the doorway that led to the hallway. The moon slid out from behind the clouds, and a shaft of silvery light revealed the body of one of Harrison’s guards, sprawled across the foot of the stairs. Another was propped up against the wall and from the awkward and unnatural angle of his body, Ursula knew he was already dead. There was a murmur of voices above, and Ursula’s heart began to race.

Ursula lifted up her skirt so she wouldn’t alert anyone to the sound of it rustling along the floor. The clouds moved across the moon once more, plunging the house into darkness. Ursula felt her way to the front door, and found it ajar. She opened it further, and took a tentative step outside. The moon slid back out behind the clouds, casting an eerie sliver light across the farmhouse grounds. She could see no one, but above she spotted the thin beam of flashlights and knew she didn’t have much time. Carefully she closed the door behind her, keeping it slightly ajar so as not to make any sound. She placed one shoe on and then the second, lacing them up with trembling fingers. A fine drizzle, the threat of rain, hung in the air. She heard one man shout above, and without waiting to hear anything further, she gathered up her skirts and started to run.

Twenty-one

Ursula had no idea where she was. In the haphazard moonlight, the fields and fences seemed to be little more than pools of dark and light, and obstacles of rough wood and wire. All she knew was that she had to keep running.

She kept to the fields, too scared to travel by road. She reached a small farmhouse about a mile away and was greeted by two barking dogs. Terrified lest they give away her position to anyone following her, Ursula bypassed the main farmhouse altogether. Instead she crept along the back of the large barn at the rear at the property. The dogs continued to bark, knowing she was still close. Ursula nearly tripped over an old bicycle propped up against the barn. As quietly as she could, she wheeled it away, then carried it as far as she could before exhaustion nearly caused her knees to give way. Winded, she rested beneath a large oak tree, laying the bicycle down beside her. She caught her breath for a moment, trying to decide the best course of action. Now she had the bicycle, it would probably be best to travel by road, though at this time in the morning a young woman on a bicycle would hardly be inconspicuous. Still, she knew she couldn’t continue running through the fields. It was too exposed, and she was growing tired. She needed a plan. She needed somewhere to go.

Suddenly she heard the dogs barking furiously again, and she jumped to her feet. She took the bicycle and heaved it over the hedgerow, then swung herself over indecorously, jumping the final three feet to land beside the bicycle on a mud-splattered lane. She awkwardly tucked her dress between her legs and climbed on. It creaked and groaned under her weight as she began to pedal. She hadn’t been on a bicycle since she was fifteen years old, and it felt cumbersome and uncouth to be trying to ride again now. The bicycle’s threadbare seat was hard and uncomfortable and the wheels wobbled precariously, but as she pedaled, she felt a slow grinding progress was finally being made.

After another mile or so, making slow headway along the rutted and muddy road in the darkness and misty fog, she came to a T junction and halted to catch her breath. She squinted hard, trying to make out the signage in the darkness. One sign pointed to Guildford, the other to Godalming. Ursula took a deep breath, tossed a mental coin, and decided to head for Guildford.

This road was much smoother here, and she started feeling as if, finally, she might be widening the distance between herself and her pursuers. She came to the outskirts of Guildford and felt some measure of relief. By now her legs were aching, and her hands chafed from gripping the bicycle’s metal handles. She followed the signs to the railway station, craning her neck now and again to see if there was anyone following, but the town was deserted and quiet.

Once at the station, Ursula dismounted, hid the bicycle behind the luggage cart, and turned out her pockets. The decision to travel by taxicab and underground to Christopher Dobbs’s house had been a fortuitous one—it had forced her to carry change in her pocket for the return fare. She counted out the coins, hoping she would have enough for the train fare to London. Katya’s letter was still stuffed into the pocket of her skirt, but she knew that this might be her only opportunity to protect the secrets it contained. Ursula spied the night porter strolling along the platform, whistling in the early-morning fog.

“Excuse me, when’s the first train to London?” Ursula asked. The night porter looked at her curiously and answered, “Blimey, the first train that will get you to London ain’t till five. There’s a local coming through in about ten minutes or so that has a couple of passenger carriages. No first-class coach, though, Miss. But it would take you to Woking, and you could connect to the four-thirty train to Waterloo.”

Ursula wriggled her nose. She rarely traveled by train these days, and only when traveling to the North. “I’m sure this must look very odd indeed, but I really must get to London as soon as I can. . . . Do I have to change platforms at Woking to catch the London train?”

“Aye, but it’s just the opposite platform, so you’ll have no trouble at all, Miss.”

He looked at her with a fatherly smile.

“Thank you,” Ursula replied, still feeling embarrassed. “I’m sure this is going to sound a little strange, too, but is there a pillar-box near here?”

“Why, yes, Miss. Just round the corner on Coronation Street.”

Ursula looked down and realized she had no stamp.

“I need this to get to someone urgently . . . ,” she began.

The night porter hunted around in his jacket pocket. “Hang on a minute,” he said, pulling our some keys. “Let me ’ave a quick look in the stationmaster’s desk.”

“Would you really?” Ursula asked.

“Of course, just hold on there, luv, and let’s see what we can do.” The night porter disappeared into the stationmaster’s office. Ursula shifted from foot to foot, hugging her arms around her.

“You’re in luck!” the night porter cried. “ ’Ere’s a half-penny stamp—there, that should do the trick.”

“I don’t suppose the stationmaster has an envelope in there, does he? I’d pay you for it, of course—”

“Oh, don’t be daft—’ere take it. Looks like you’re in need of some ’elp.”

“Thank you, I really am most grateful.”

Ursula leaned over one of the benches and scrawled the address on the envelope, leaning it against one of the wooden slats. Once she had finished, she affixed the stamp and then looked at the night porter urgently. “Do I have time?”

He flipped open his fob watch. “I reckon you’ve got a good five minutes. You should be able to do it. I can put it in the pillar-box for you if you’d like.”

“No, I think I should make sure. It really is most urgent.”

Ursula, half expecting to see the men from the farmhouse leap out of the shadows, hastened across the bridge over the platform, and down and along Coronation Street. She held the letter for just a moment, gazing at the address before depositing it in the pillar-box and hurrying back toward the station. She could hear the train approaching. She ascended the stairs and was halfway across the bridge when she noticed two men speaking with the night porter. Ursula froze. Their voices carried easily in the thin early-morning air.

“Excuse me, have you seen a young woman round here?”

“A young woman, eh?” the night porter replied. “Can’t say as I have. . . . No.”

Ursula didn’t know which way to turn. She stood rooted to the spot.

“Although,” the night porter continued, “I did see a young lass on a bicycle maybe ten minutes ago, heading back along Hanlon Street. Looked like she was heading for the Southampton road.”

The two men barely even nodded before they hurried out of the station.

The night porter looked up at Ursula, the whistle poised in his mouth. Giving a gesture to the engine driver to hold the train for a moment, he signaled her to come down. Ursula, having little choice but to trust him, hastened down the stairs.

The night porter inclined his head toward the train. “Best be gettin’ on this, Miss.”

“Those men—,” Ursula started to say.

The night porter opened the carriage door. “Didn’t like the look of ’em meself. Best get on to London as soon as you can.”

“I can’t thank you enough,” Ursula said gratefully as she closed the door. The porter blew his whistle, and the train lurched to a start. Ursula quickly bent down to pretend to fix her shoe, terrified lest she be seen by the very men she had just managed to avoid.

Her heart thumping wildly, she finally allowed herself to exhale slowly once the train reached Woking and she was on her way to London.

 
Ursula alighted from the train at Waterloo station just as the sun was starting to rise, sending slivers of light across the vault of the station hall. She joined the early commuters making their way down to the London Underground and took the Bakerloo line to the Russell Square station.

She sat down in the carriage, feeling immeasurably exhausted. Her brain didn’t seem to be able to function properly anymore. Lack of sleep had taken its toll, and she felt sure she must look a fright beneath the strong electric lights of the underground. Ursula stifled a yawn, fussed with her hair for a moment, and then gave up, slumping back in her seat until the train reached the Russell Square station and she got off, eager to walk to Woburn Place and find Winifred.

Ursula arrived at Winifred’s house and knocked on the front door. She looked around nervously, expecting the worst, but Woburn Square remained quiet, with only the sounds of the milkman with his horse and cart breaking the eerie early-morning quiet. The fog hung low and thick, muffling the sounds of the waking city.