Unlikely Traitors (3 page)

After fifteen minutes of expressing his disbelief and outlining all the worst case scenarios possible for Marlow Industries, Anderson finally said, “I’m proud of you, Ursula. Your telephoning me shows you’ve finally learned to think with your head rather than your heart.” His words left her feeling cold and empty.
Was this the woman she had really become? The sort of woman who called her business colleagues ahead of her friends?

This dreadful thought depressed her still further until she found, to her astonishment, she was lifting the receiver once more to call Mrs. Eudora Pomfrey-Smith. Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith had been her father’s paramour and, ever since his death, she had attempted to act as Ursula’s guide through the intricacies of London society. For the past three years Ursula had rebuffed most of her offers for ‘societal assistance,’ but tonight she felt she had no one else to turn to.

“My dear!” Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith cried as Ursula broke the news. “You shall be ruined!” Ursula nearly hung up the receiver then and there, but Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith, with what Ursula could only imagine was an ingrained sense of loyalty to her father, immediately offered her unbridled support. Motherless since she was a child, Ursula had always spurned Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith’s kindness in the past, feeling somehow that it would be an affront to her mother’s memory. The lone voice of maternal kindness now reduced her to sobs. Ursula agreed to let Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith place the notice in
The Times
calling off her engagement. It was a task too terrible for her to bear.

After the drama of the afternoon, the restless pacing and the telephone calls, the mantel clock finally struck eleven and the house fell eerily quiet. Ursula dismissed Biggs and ignored her maid Julia’s entreaties to come upstairs and get some sleep. Instead, she sat, alone and weary, amid the books and papers that once belonged to her father. Inside her head a thousand questions screamed, but she had exhausted her tears. She wasn’t the same woman she was three years ago when her father had been taken from her. She had defied society’s dire predictions and proven herself to be a successful businesswoman. She had built a life of her own, in which she remained true to her principles as best she could. Yet without Lord Wrotham it felt as if a piece of her soul had already been carved away and she was bleeding internally. The lack of him, the absence of him, was palpable in the room.

Ursula was in danger of sinking into a deep depression when she reminded herself that Lord Wrotham was innocent. He had assured her of that. And despite all his protestations and stiff upper lip, he needed her help. It was this need that revived her. It helped her focus the questions in her mind. She got up and walked across the room to the window, clearing her head with each step and reaffirming her determination to remain undaunted. Courage, she told herself, courage and conscience. That was all she needed to defy them all.

LONDON SOCIETY COLUMN OF THE DAILY TATTLER

FRIDAY JANUARY 17
^TH
1913

The fortunes of Miss Ursula Marlow took another ominous turn last night with the shocking arrest of her fiancé, Lord Oliver Wrotham, Seventh Baron of Wrotham, of Bromley Hall, Northamptonshire, on charges of high treason. While lurid details of Lord Wrotham’s arrest are no doubt being plastered across the daily newspapers, we at the Society Column, feel obliged to express our strong suspicion that Lord Wrotham’s current predicament arises directly out of his unfortunate association with Miss Marlow
.

As readers will no doubt recall Miss Marlow’s own father was murdered two years ago as part of a ghastly spree of killings that included two children of Robert Marlow’s long-time business associates, Misses Laura Radcliffe and Cecilia Abbott. Miss Marlow’s own involvement in the investigation raised a number of eyebrows not least because of her foolhardy defense of the woman initially accused of Miss Radcliffe’s murder—Miss Winifred-Stanford Jones (who is currently on a lecture tour of the United States speaking on the merits of radical action to achieve universal suffrage). Dear readers we need hardly remind you of last year’s calumny in which Miss Marlow was a witness to yet another death—Mrs. Katya Vilensky, while on an excursion to Cairo, Egypt. The death of Mrs. Vilensky’s sister in one of Miss Marlow’s factories merely served to compound the whole sorry state of affairs at Marlow industries (and which was no mere coincidence, no matter what Scotland Yard would lead us to believe). After the events of recent years we must surely start to wonder whether Miss Marlow’s own radical political views at the heart of all her troubles. Is she really fit to be handling the large inheritance and business interests left to her by her father?

CHAPTER TWO

BROMLEY HALL, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE

“Nonsense!” The Dowager Lady Adela Wrotham got to her feet with a sniff of disdain. “I just need to make two calls and I’ll get this whole situation sorted out once and for all. I have a cousin at the Admiralty and another with the Foreign Office, not to mention that I know the Prime Minister personally. Scotland Yard indeed. Pack of imbeciles if you ask me. Wait here Miss Marlow and let me handle this—and when I return we can talk all about my plans for renovating the East Wing.”

Ursula looked at the dowager, unsure whether she should be amazed at her powers of self-delusion or shocked at her blithe assumption that this little ‘misunderstanding’ could be sorted out by a couple of telephone calls. Uncertain of what to say, Ursula lay back on the pale green chaise longue and absently stroked the ears of one of Wrotham’s two collies sprawled out next to her. The dowager had already redecorated the Green Room at Bromley Hall in anticipation of access to Ursula’s substantial wealth and Ursula feared she was about to endure yet another recital of Lady Wrotham’s ‘splendid’ renovation plans for the estate. Lady Wrotham’s recent redecorating stint had converted what was once the epitome of late Victorian opulence into a Japanese inspired drawing room. Although the dowager had professed to seek Ursula’s opinion, in reality she had gone off and chosen the silk-screened wallpaper, Japanese inspired imitation-bamboo chairs and ebonized table by herself. Ursula suspected Lady Wrotham needed the reassurance that she was still the preeminent ‘lady’ of Bromley Hall and left well alone. She had learned, by now, to choose her battles.

Now she wasn’t sure how to approach the upcoming skirmish at all. She had expected Lady Wrotham to dissolve into hysterics, but instead she had surprised Ursula with an initial resilience, even if it was coated in self-delusion. Surely Lady Wrotham had to be aware of the seriousness of the situation. The police constables and motorcars lined up outside could hardly have gone unnoticed, yet Lady Wrotham seemed to be in total denial. Ursula dreaded what was likely to happen when the truth finally sank in.

Ursula had driven up to Lord Wrotham’s estate in Northamptonshire that morning in the new two-seater Bugatti (or the ‘deathtrap’ as her housekeeper, Mrs. Stewart called it) she had bought herself for Christmas. Having seen the newspaper headlines in the early morning editions, Ursula knew she would have to resort to clandestine methods if she was to have any hope of reaching Northamptonshire without attracting undue attention. Accordingly she instructed her own chauffeur, Samuels, to play decoy in ‘Bertie’, the silver ghost Rolls Royce Ursula had inherited from her father. He was probably still driving about London with Julia, Ursula’s lady’s maid, in the back seat, attempting to confuse ‘the enemy’ as Ursula now called the press.

Despite Lord Wrotham’s request that she ask James to drive her, all her telephone calls and letters to him (directed to Lord Wrotham’s Mayfair home) had, so far, gone unanswered. Lord Wrotham’s part-time the housekeeper could only advise that James had left the morning of Lord Wrotham’s arrest. No one, it seemed, had seen James since.

Ursula nervously chewed her lip as she waited for Lady Wrotham. Originally she had planned to visit Lord Wrotham before driving up to Bromley Hall, but a messenger had delivered a note from him (via Pemberton) first thing that morning. The note was characteristically brief:
On no account visit me
. There were no endearments or protestations of innocence. No information that could be useful to her at all. He was too aware of the risk of interception by either the police or the press to risk that, but the note had still left Ursula feeling disconsolate. She had been hoping that Lord Wrotham would have reconsidered his silence. Nevertheless, she maintained her vow that, once she returned from Bromley Hall, she would initiate her own investigation.

Lady Wrotham was taking so long that Ursula began to wonder if she was going to make it back to London at all that day. She didn’t fancy her chances driving the Bugatti in the dark. Eventually, however, Lady Wrotham did return, ashen faced and trembling. She stumbled unevenly through the door to the Green Room and headed straight for the whiskey decanter sitting on the sideboard. She poured a large glass and sat down heavily on one of the inlaid chairs opposite Ursula. Fearing an attack was imminent, Ursula reached down and rummaged in her skirt pocket for the bottle of smelling salts she had the forethought to bring in case of just this situation.

“Don’t bother my gal,” Lady Wrotham said sharply, downing the whiskey in one long gulp. “Salts are useless. All I need is a good stiff drink.”

“Lady Wrotham, I’m so terribly sorry,” Ursula stammered, unsure of what else to say.

The dowager snorted in disgust. “Don’t you apologize! You’re not the idiot who got himself into this mess. Really, I can hardly believe Oliver. As if poor Gerard didn’t cause me enough grief! Now I have to contend with another son who brings me nothing but shame and disgrace.” The folds of skin around her mouth started to crumple. “What am I expected to say at the Empress Club? How can I ever show my face at royal functions after this?!”

Ursula hastily got to her feet and caught the empty glass as it dropped from Lady Wrotham’s hands. The collie, irritated by her fidgeting, got off the chaise lounge, shook his sable and white coat, and padded off in disgust.

“I’m not sure my nerves can take it!” Lady Wrotham collapsed back in the chair and Ursula thought it best if she poured her another glass of whiskey.

“But you know Oliver is innocent.” Ursula said walking over to the sideboard. “He would never do what they have accused him of.”

Lady Wrotham closed her eyes. “I don’t know what to think. Oliver was always a complete mystery to me. Gerard, I understood. He had his foibles, yes. But he lived life to the full. Oliver was like a closed book. He could have been the right hand man of the Kaiser himself for all I knew. What with his comings and goings ever since Oxford. Oh, I knew it was some sort of government nonsense—but little did I guess…”

Ursula hastily poured Lady Wrotham the glass of whiskey and handed it to her.

“It’s not even the principle of the thing. My mother was German. For God’s sake half our family is German or Russian—but how could Oliver have been stupid enough to get caught?! What a fiasco.” Lady Wrotham took a swig from the glass and licked her lips. “Once of a day, a gentleman would go outside and shoot himself in the head rather than dishonor his family.”

Ursula opened her mouth to speak, but the dowager refused to broach any interruption. She merely glared at her and continued apace. “Nowadays they just don’t have the courage for it! Nor for that matter do they have the decency to warn a gentleman ahead of time. I know Admiral Smythe and his family—he was one of Oliver’s tutors at Balliol—and yet I hear Smythe actually had the gall to implicate Oliver in this mess. A fine state of affairs!”

“Admiral Smythe is missing,” Ursula reminded her as she sat back down, smoothing out her navy serge wool skirt, “and Oliver is very concerned about what may have happened to him.”

“Poppycock!” Lady Wrotham insisted. “Smythe was the traitor—he just left his mess behind so Oliver would take the blame. He’s probably swanning around on the French Riviera by now. I can’t say I’m surprised. I never did approve of their friendship. The Smythes are of common stock don’t you know. Naval men as may be—but still, good breeding always wins out!”

Ursula curbed her tongue. She need not remind Lady Wrotham that, as the daughter of a Northern mill owner and granddaughter of a coal miner, she too was of ‘common stock’.

“Of course, you know who’s really to blame don’t you?” Lady Wrotham’s eyes bore down on Ursula and she steeled herself for the expected tirade, but Lady Wrotham did not rail against her, instead the main target of her vitriol was a man called Fergus McTiernay, a friend of Lord Wrotham’s from his days at Balliol College. Ursula regarded Lady Wrotham blankly. She had never heard Lord Wrotham mention anyone by that name.

“He was a friend of Oliver’s at university. The ‘inseparables’ they called them,” Lady Wrotham finally explained. “A ‘radical thinker’ Oliver used to say—a Fenian rabble-rouser more like—but when did my opinion ever make the slightest difference to Oliver?”

“So this man McTiernay…you think he may have something to do with Oliver’s arrest?” Ursula asked, doubtfully.

“How should I know?!” Lady Wrotham exclaimed in ill-humor. “It just stands to reason that Oliver’s ill-advised friendships would land him in trouble one day. I thought he was done with him and Friedrich, that damnable cousin of ours, but no—Oliver would insist on reviving old friendships that were better left dead and buried.”

“I’m sorry, but Oliver has never mentioned Fergus McTiernay or his cousin, Friedrich, was it?”

“Count Friedrich von Bernstorff-Hollweg,” the dowager responded imperiously, “Oliver’s second cousin, on my mother’s side. Although,” she admitted, “there are many on that side of the family who would rather disown him. I, for one, was never fooled by his charms, and I never approved of him latching on to Oliver like he did.” Lady Wrotham gave a dramatic shudder.

“I still don’t see…”

“You wouldn’t would you?” came Lady Wrotham’s caustic reply. “Given the friendships you seem to insist on cultivating…”

Ursula flushed at the insinuation but she knew better than to inflame the situation by getting into an argument with Lady Wrotham. Instead she got to her feet and murmured a hasty excuse that she had “best see how the police are progressing in the library.” She had seen the police vehicles lined up in the driveway the moment she arrived and was in no doubt as to their mission. She was also sure that observing their investigations was more likely to yield useful information than any long-winded (and no doubt offensive) discussion with Lady Wrotham over Lord Wrotham’s ‘imprudent’ choice of university chums.