The Serpent and the Scorpion (35 page)

Ursula couldn’t resist. She went in, the bell on the top of the door tinkling as she entered.

A young woman was sitting at the front desk in front of a typewriter, typing madly.

“Can I help you, Miss?” the receptionist asked with a smile.

“Oh—” Ursula hesitated. “I must confess I just came in on a whim. I spent the winter in Egypt, and I guess I just felt drawn in by your posters.”

“Why, is it really you, Miss Marlow?!” A corpulent man approached from the back of the store.

Ursula frowned but answered politely, “I’m sorry, but do I know you?”

“No, no . . . I merely recognized your face from the society pages. Though I did meet your father a couple of times at the Blackburn Mechanics’ Institute lecture series.”

“Well, I’m sorry to have troubled you, Mr. . . . ?” Ursula looked at him inquiringly.

“Edel . . . Mr. Maurice Edel. And please feel free to ask us any questions at all. We are an authorized Thomas Cook & Sons representative—though a woman of your standing could afford to have her own private Egyptian tour, of course.”

“I was thinking of Palestine, actually,” Ursula responded. “A close friend of mine spoke very highly of her visit to the Holy Land.”

“Why, of course—it is the dream of so many of us.”

“Yes,” Ursula said sadly. “I guess it is.”

Ursula was thinking about the memorial to the settlers that she and Peter Vilensky planned to build on the road to Jerusalem. She fiddled absently with her white gloves.

“I read in the newspapers about the recent unpleasantness in Oldham,” Mr. Edel leaned in and confided, as if it were a secret. “We don’t go in for gossip, of course, not in these parts. Still, it’s a terrible thing to hear about.”

“Yes, yes, it was. We’re rebuilding the factory, though.”

“Mavis here went along to the arson trial. Shocking to think that one’s own manager—entrusted with so much—could have done such a thing!”

“Yes.” Ursula wasn’t sure what else to say.

Mavis looked up at her expectantly. “I didn’t see you at the trial, Miss.”

“I was sitting at the back,” Ursula replied simply. It was hard for her not to feel angry that George Aldwych was now serving a prison term while Christopher Dobbs and Alexei were free. The trial had not taken long, for George’s confession led to a plea of guilty, and the jury only had to consider evidence as it related to sentencing. The lawyer for George’s defense had asked Ursula if she would testify on his behalf to demonstrate his previous good character, but she had refused. Her compassion could not extend to forgiveness for his betrayal. Nevertheless, she could not help but shed a tear in court that day as she heard the details of the fire that fateful night. How George had left the Dog and Duck, gone home, and consumed a third of a bottle of Scotch to steady his nerves, before meeting Harsha at the factory at nine o’clock. Silently and systematically they had doused the cotton rags in petrol and lit the blaze. George maintained that he had no idea that the body of Arina Petrenko lay within the factory, and seeing his body physically shudder at the recollection of what happened that night, Ursula was inclined to believe him

“It’s his family I feel sorry for.” Mavis’s voice brought Ursula back to the present.

“Yes,” Ursula agreed. “It’s probably hardest on the children.”

“Well, especially when all that came out about ’im and that trollop Nellie Ackroyd.”

“Language, Mavis!” Mr. Edel interjected. Mavis reddened.

“We should be thinkin’ about the poor girl that died,” Mr. Edel admonished. “Not that we knew her, of course, but Mavis reckoned she seen her a few times, wandering up and down the street.”

“She liked lookin’ in,” Mavis said. “At the posters and such. I would see her when I was closing up some nights, just standing, like she were in a dream.”

“Well, those posters are certainly enticing,” Ursula replied sadly, reflecting upon the dreams that were lost for both Katya and Arina. “I suppose she never came in to ask?” she ventured.

Mr. Edel shook his head.

“Now, that’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Edel,” Mavis announced proudly. “She did come in, just the once—oh, it must have been in February. All excited she were. Said she was expecting to get some money soon—and that she’d be back in to arrange her tickets. Poor thing. I expect she died before she ever saw hide or hair of that money.”

It was then that Ursula realized that Arina had been hoping to join Kolya in Palestine—that was why Katya had initially investigated the
Bregenz
—only Kolya had died in Poland and had never even made it to the ship.

 
When Ursula returned to Gray House, Chief Inspector Harrison was waiting for her in the front parlor, standing by the window with his hat still in his hands.

“Chief Inspector,” Ursula called from the door as she approached him. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“No, don’t expect you were,” Harrison replied. “But I just thought I should drop by, since I was on my way to visit the Mortimers, and tell you”—he took a deep breath—“Harsha was hanged today. I wanted you to know before you saw tomorrow’s newspapers.”

Ursula drew back, and her hand rose to her throat.

“I . . . ,” Ursula began, stumbling to take a seat. “Gosh, I didn’t think I would feel this way when I heard the news.”

“What way is that, Miss Marlow?”

“I’m not sure. I expected to feel relief, but instead, I just feel slightly sick, really.”

Harrison shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking uncomfortable.

“I’m fine,” Ursula reassured him. “I think it’s just the shock of everything that’s happened—it’s really just hit me now.”

Ursula motioned him to take a seat and rang for Biggs to bring them some tea.

“Well, at least one good thing has come of it all,” Harrison said after a pause. He pointed to the newspaper lying on the side table, folded to reveal the headline “Carmichael Shipyards and Marlow Industries in Historic Deal to Build Oil Tankers.”

“Yes, Peter Vilensky was certainly eager to withdraw all his financial support from Dobbs and provide us with the money necessary to ward off any future takeover attempts. Now at least his late wife’s legacy remains secure, and I—”

“I believe the
Times
said that Miss Marlow has finally demonstrated some of the business acumen her father was famous for,” Eustacia Mortimer interrupted as she walked into the parlor.

“Miss Mortimer.” Harrison jumped to his feet.

“I told Biggs not to worry about seeing me in, just can’t get used to all that palaver, but I had to come and congratulate you when I saw the article in the
Times.
”

Eustacia clasped Ursula’s hand warmly.

Neither Dr. Ainsley Mortimer nor Eustacia knew the part Christopher Dobbs had played in Arina’s death. They received the same story that was told to the public at George Aldwych’s trial—that Arina was lured to the factory by an Indian national who murdered her on account of her sister’s political activities in Egypt. Just as Ursula had feared, the newspapers blamed a band of nationalist infiltrators, hell-bent on destroying the British Empire (and not above blackmailing a poor factory manager who had had an “indiscretion” with a local girl). But Ursula was under a strict obligation of confidence now that Christopher Dobbs was assisting Scotland Yard’s Special Branch—and, she suspected, the newly formed Secret Intelligence Service.

Ursula was roused from these thoughts by the image of Eustacia Mortimer crossing the room to greet Harrison with a wide smile. “Chief Inspector,” she said, holding out her hand to shake his. “And remember, it’s Doctor—not Miss.”

 
A week later, Ursula met Hugh Carmichael at an airfield set up by local enthusiasts just outside Preston. Hugh flew down from Newcastle and executed a near-perfect landing along the wide strip of grass, which Ursula captured on her Brownie camera. Hugh was preparing to enter the Chicago air show later in the year, and was undertaking a series of flights designed to test the speed limits of his new experimental aircraft.

Ursula was standing among a group of onlookers, clapping, as Hugh alighted from the plane and threw his fist into the air. He had just made the journey from Newcastle to Preston in under an hour.

“Well, you’ve certainly inspired all the young men round here,” Ursula said as she and Hugh walked along the landing site. About ten young men were busily inspecting his aircraft. Hugh accepted a steaming mug of tea from a lady standing next to a kerosene stove by a low stone wall.

“I hope so, sweetheart, I hope so!” Hugh replied with a grin.

“So when do you leave for Chicago?” Ursula asked.

“In about a week. Now that the deal with Vilensky is finalized, I can afford to take a little time off before the shipyards go into full production. I’ll just leave everything in your capable hands.”

“I’ll try not to break anything,” Ursula reassured him with a smile.

“Have you seen him yet? Dobbs, I mean,” Hugh asked.

Hugh Carmichael, like Peter Vilensky, was one of the few people who knew the truth.

“Yes,” Ursula replied coolly. “At a garden party in London.”

“Sounds nice,” Hugh responded with sarcasm.

“It was, except for his presence.”

“I’ll bet. Was your lord there too?”

Ursula’s smile dropped. “No,” she responded quickly. “He’s still at Bromley Hall, recovering, I believe, from his injuries.”

“You’ve not visited him, then?” Hugh asked lightly, but Ursula was not deceived.

“You know I haven’t,” she answered brusquely.

Hugh raised an eyebrow. “It’s still like that, is it?”

Ursula stared out across the airstrip. She merely nodded.

Hugh seemed to know better than to pursue any further questioning. Instead it was Ursula’s turn to ask him one last lingering question regarding Katya and Arina.

“Depends what it is,” was Hugh’s wary reply when she asked.

“I wanted to know what Katya told you in confidence in Egypt—the secret you refused to divulge to me.”

Hugh ran his fingers through his graying hair. “Oh, that.”

“I have to assume it was something other than the fate of those poor settlers in Palestine—for one thing, Dobbs never tried to have you killed.”

“No, I guess he didn’t.” Hugh still seemed reluctant to say much more.

“Surely the danger to me has now passed.”

“Yes, it’s passed.”

“So why can’t you tell me?”

Hugh sighed. “All right, then.” He hesitated before continuing, “Katya told me the night of the khedive’s cocktail party that Vilensky had found out that she had forged his signature on some loan documents. One loan was to a small Egyptian nationalist group, another to a group of Bolshevik sympathizers in Poland, and the final one was to . . .”

“Arina?”

Hugh nodded.

“I’m also guessing the loan to the Bolsheviks was probably for Kolya Menkovich.”

“Yes.”

“And Vilensky found out?” Ursula prompted him again.

“Yes, and of course he saw it as yet another instance of Arina’s influence over her sister. It also helped fuel his obsession that Katya was lying to him—not just about the loans, but also about her feelings. I think Vilensky sensed that Katya had confided in me, and it incensed him—just helped convince him that Katya and I were—”

“Lovers?”

“Yes—of course, that couldn’t have been further from the truth. I felt more like her father confessor.”

“Why did she tell you?”

“I think at first I was just someone she could tell to ease her own conscience, but the more I thought of it, the more I wondered if she wasn’t trying to gain my sympathy so that should anything happen to her, I would help support and protect Arina.”

“But she still didn’t tell you what she had discovered in Palestine?”

Hugh shook his head. “She hinted at something, and when—when she was killed, I feared that it had something to do with the loans she had made. I couldn’t work out whether it was the nationalists or the government—or even if it was Peter Vilensky himself. All I knew was that whatever Katya had been involved in was dangerous, and it likely as not got her killed.”

“Why did you not—,” Ursula started to ask.

“Not tell you?” Hugh interrupted. “I didn’t tell you because I could see the fire in your eyes, the same fire I saw in my dear wife’s, the fire of determination to find out the truth. I couldn’t risk fueling that any further.”

He looked at her sadly. “I lost my wife and sweetheart. I know how consuming the search for the truth can be.”

Hugh gazed out over the field. A group of boys, with their fresh little faces and flat caps, were peering over the stone fence, staring in awe at the Blériot plane. “Would you look at that!” he said with a smile, breaking the awkward silence between them. Ursula knew better than to say anything further. She just patted his arm.

As they walked back across the field to the plane, Ursula couldn’t help but muse, as much to herself as to anyone else, “I wonder who got the money? Arina certainly never used it to buy a ticket to Palestine, that’s for sure.”

Hugh didn’t hear her, and as soon as Ursula spoke the words, she knew with certainty who that someone must be. Alexei. No doubt he would justify stealing Arina’s money as he had justified everything else. All done in the name of the greater good—the workers’ global struggle.

“Miss Marlow, are you feeling all right?” Hugh asked

“Yes,” she replied slowly. “Just another reason for me to declare, once and for all, that I shall die a spinster.”

“That bad, huh?” was all he said. Ursula shrugged. “Want some advice from an old romantic?” Hugh lit a cigar with a grin.

Ursula sighed. “Not really.”

“Well, I’m giving it to you, whether you like it or not. When you’ve found true love, hold on to it. I found Iris, and she was taken away from me all too soon, so don’t you dare waste the time you have. Go to him. You’ve shown the world you can stand on your own—now show the world you can stand next to him.”