Unlikely Traitors (5 page)

“I’m here,” she said, “because Lady Wrotham wants me to make sure that the valuable books are being properly handled.” Ursula ignored Harrison, who would know she was lying (the last thing Lady Wrotham would ever concern herself with was the state of Lord Wrotham’s books).

Buckley’s eyes narrowed. “Not one of those bookish women are you?”

“’Fraid so!” Ursula replied. “Went to Oxford and everything.”

“Well, I can assure you”—Sir Buckley thrust out his chest, but rather than impress his point upon her, it merely added to the ridiculousness of his pomposity—“that all necessary precautions are being taken to ensure the books are properly dealt with!”

“Then you won’t mind if I reassure myself by double-checking,” Ursula said. “Don’t worry, Sir Buckley, you can watch over me as I do so.”

Sir Reginald Buckley heaved a phlegmatic harrumph and shot Harrison a malevolent look for not having got rid of Ursula sooner. Eventually, however, he seemed to deflate, realizing, perhaps, that there was no way Ursula was leaving the library unless he agreed to her demands. Ursula set off to investigate some of the boxes and Sir Buckley reluctantly followed.

The first packing crate contained the complete series of
Clarendon’s History of the Rebellion and Civil Wars in England
. Ursula bent over and rearranged them so that the spines would not be damaged. She made more of a show of it than was necessary and Buckley’s face darkened with irritation.

“I believe you knew Lord Wrotham at Balliol,” Ursula asked with feigned innocence. She stood up and dusted off her tweed skirt. Sir Buckley could barely hide his contempt. “Yes, His Lordship and I had the same tutor for moral philosophy, Professor Prendergast.”

“I studied political history at Somerville,” Ursula said with one of what she called her ‘helpful’ smiles. “I believe that was Admiral Smythe’s subject, or so Lord Wrotham once told me.” She picked a book from the top of one of the piles. It was a slightly moldy copy of Sir Robert Herman Schomburgk’s
Twelve Views of the Interior of Guyana
. The inscription inside was dated 1903 and signed by Aubrey St John Smythe.

“Yes,” Buckley’s face grew blacker still as he tried to restrain his exasperation. Ursula opened the book and idly flipped through the first few pages. “I only ask as I wondered if you were not all friends at college,” she said. She noticed with interest that the next book in the stack was an early version of Alfred lord Tennyson’s
Idylls of the King
. She opened it, saw a dedication on the front piece in German by Count Friedrich von Bernstorff-Hollweg, and closed the book quickly.

“No,” Buckley answered, spittle forming on his lower lip. “His Lordship and I were not close friends. He was too busy consorting with the college rabble, upstarts like Smythe and Fenians like McTiernay.”

Ursula took note of Buckley’s resentment towards Lord Wrotham behind the flicker of her eyelashes.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she replied. “I didn’t realize I was speaking to a man with such high scruples. You must feel quite put out conversing with the daughter of a Lancashire mill owner”—Ursula was losing self-control now—“My apologies if I have offended your sensibilities, but now, if you please, I had better go and console Lady Wrotham. This whole matter has been a terrible shock. I will return later this afternoon and ensure the remaining books are in order. I confess my time at Oxford spoiled me somewhat—the one thing I cannot abide is a narrow mind!”

Ursula walked away, inwardly cursing her impetuous tongue. She knew that, despite Harrison’s warning, she had just made an enemy out of Sir Reginald Buckley.

Ursula returned to Chester Square just before nightfall, having endured an arduous road journey that required her to change a tire that blew out near Dunstable and refill the gas tank on the outskirts of London. Luckily Ursula was familiar enough with the vagaries of road travel to carry both spare rubber tire rings and petrol cans but still she arrived, grimy and oil-streaked, vowing that next time, press or no press, she would take the ever reliable ‘Bertie’ instead.

Outside the front of her home, a bevy of journalists and news boys had already massed, laughing and talking with an easy camaraderie that no doubt came with the shared anticipation of exposing an ongoing scandal. Cigarettes were being tossed and lit, vacuum flasks of hot tea and coffee unscrewed and poured, and an enterprising young barrow boy was even selling hot pies and pastries. As Ursula applied the car brakes, the throng turned and spotted her in an instant. There was no use even attempting to drive around to the back of the row of houses that lined this part of Chester Square. Instead, Ursula merely pulled up to the pavement, ducked her head under the brim of her hat and drew a length of scarf around her face. Buttoning up her duster, she climbed out of the Bugatti, ignored all calls for comment, and hastened to the front door. Biggs, ever vigilant, opened it as soon as she reached the top step, and she hurried inside. He closed the front door behind her with a resounding bang.

Ursula threw off her long coat and hat and ran upstairs. Julia was waiting in the bedroom and a fresh set of clothes was already laid out on the four poster bed. The headache that had begun during the long drive home was now making Ursula feel nauseous. She was thankful that Julia had the foresight to have started running a hot bath for her.

When she had been forced off the road by the blown tire, Ursula had vented her anger by shrieking at the motor car. In the narrow, deserted country lane, there had been no one to hear her screams. Now, surrounded by journalists outside and servants inside, she knew she could not make a sound. She had to keep it all bottled up inside and that only made her feel all the worse. At this moment she hated Lord Wrotham. Hated him for letting her be lured by the illusion of having somebody she could rely on. Over the last two years she had found the independence she had sought and then, just as she had begun to believe in herself, feel comfortable in her own skin, he had torn up the foundations she had struggled so hard to build.

CHAPTER THREE

BRIXTON PRISON, LONDON

The following morning Ursula visited Lord Wrotham in Brixton prison on the south west outskirts of London. Infamous for having some of the worst prison conditions in England, Brixton was the place where untried prisoners were sent while they awaited trial. Ursula’s vision of Lord Wrotham’s cell was of a dank, dark, rat-infested place and, as she entered the foreboding prison entrance, she saw nothing to assuage her fears. Samuels stopped the motorcar and, as she stepped out, Ursula shuddered. If she failed and Lord Wrotham was found guilty of treason, he would be taken from here to Pentonville prison and hanged, his life as expendable and deplorable as all the other murderers and traitors. The idea sickened her for a moment and, holding on to the car door to steady herself, she tried to banish her morbid thoughts. With a deep breath she lifted the narrow woolen skirt beneath her pannier and ascended the wide stone staircase that led to the main prison door. Her sturdy Oxford shoes echoed as she walked across the entrance hall to the visitors’ desk.

Deep in her thoughts, she almost walked into Sir Robert Pemberton KC, who was striding forth from one of the corridors, top-coat flapping behind him. He pulled up once he saw her and regarded her intently with his shrewd brown eyes.

“I see you decided to ignore Lord Wrotham’s advice and visit after all,” he said.

“Yes,” Ursula replied, refusing to be intimidated.

“Well, while you’re here you may as well try and drive some sense into the man!”

Pemberton’s mood darkened.

“Pardon?”

“Get him to tell you something, anything, that I can use by way of a defense! At the moment he refuses to disclose anything. At this rate, he may just as well plead guilty. Bloody fool!”

Ursula looked startled.

“Pardon my language,” Pemberton apologized, misinterpreting her reaction. “But he is really being most infuriating. I’ve practiced law alongside him at Temple Chambers for nigh on ten years now and I’ve never known him be like this.”

“Not being a lawyer,” Ursula said. “I really don’t know all the issues that have to be addressed in a treason case…” She looked at him expectantly. Perhaps he could tell her something to steer her way to finding the evidence she needed to clear Lord Wrotham’s name.

“It is most unusual, I admit, for a charge of high treason to be made during peacetime. I fear Lord Wrotham must have many enemies in Whitehall, if this is the path that they have chosen. Though planning an assassination of a member of the Royal family—I hardly feel that even merits a response, it is so plainly ludicrous! No, it is the question of Ireland…and the Germans…that worries me the most. I only wish he would tell me what else I am to make of his meeting with McTiernay and Count von Bernstorff-Hollweg—if not to foment rebellion then for what?”

“Are you saying the charges against Lord Wrotham relate to some meeting he had with Fergus McTiernay and Friedrich von Bernstorff-Hollweg?!” Ursula was surprised to hear the names of the two men Lady Wrotham had mentioned repeated here.

“Yes, most of the crown’s evidence hinges on details related to a meeting held at the Count’s castle in December 1911. Indeed, the Count, himself, is the main witness in this case.”

“He is?”

“Yes, though I have only just received the preliminary papers in the case. That much, at least, is clear.”

“And what of Mr. McTiernay’s role in the case?” Ursula asked.

Pemberton shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Only information I have is that he is an Irish Nationalist hell-bent on the idea of an Irish Free State. He’s listed as a co-conspirator but, as far as I’m aware, he has not been found or arrested, as yet.”

Ursula had to bite her tongue—the corridors of Brixton were hardly the place to interrogate Pemberton on the intricacies of Lord Wrotham’s case but, nonetheless, she needed both his assistance and his advice to know what further investigations needed to be undertaken.

“If I am going to help ‘drive some sense’ into Lord Wrotham,” Ursula started, “I should know what you think is required. Would you be able to write me up a summary of the law pertaining to treason, perhaps?”

Pemberton’s eyebrows disappeared into hair. “Good Lord,” he exclaimed. “I’ve never had the future wife of a defendant ask for that. I’d be happy to provide a summary of the law as it pertains to treason but, my dear, who is going to read and explain it to you?”

“Well,” Ursula replied, failing to restrain her sarcasm. “I was rather hoping I’d be able to do that all by myself.”

Pemberton looked at her incredulously but, before he could make any further comment, he caught sight of the clock mounted on the wall. “Is it really quarter to ten?! Good Lord!” He pulled his fob watch from his waistcoat pocket and confirmed the time. “I’m going to be late for court, if I don’t leave now.” Pemberton fussed with pulling on his leather gloves. “You should also know,” he said, “that I’ve had no luck getting bail issued, I’m afraid. Judge won’t budge. I’m filing a motion this afternoon though, trying to suppress the newspapers from printing anything prejudicial Lord Wrotham’s trial—Although after reading the scare-mongering in the
Daily Mail
this morning, I’m not holding out much hope. Now if you will excuse me”—Pemberton tipped his top hat—“I’ll telephone you tonight if I hear anything further. Good luck with Wrotham. Tell him to stop being an idiot.”

He turned and walked swiftly away. Ursula walked down the bleak central corridor and gave her name at the visitors’ desk. After being subjected to a rough search by one of the female prison wardens, she was escorted to one of the small, airless, visiting rooms. She sat down on one of the wooden chairs provided and, after nearly fifteen minutes, Lord Wrotham was finally brought in to see her. He was still wearing the same suit he was arrested in and, unable to shave, already had a dark shadow of stubble. There were circles beneath his eyes, and haggard lines had begun to form at the corners of his mouth.

“What the hell are you doing here?!” he demanded.

“Lovely to see you too,” Ursula responded, placing her hands demurely in her lap.

“Didn’t you get my note? I asked Pemberton to make sure you got it as soon as possible.”

“I got your note,” she confirmed.

“Then why did you come?! It will be in every newspaper by this evening.” Lord Wrotham’s tone was sharp and Ursula flushed.

“You think I don’t know that?” she snapped. “But I had to see you all the same.”

Lord Wrotham sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. Ursula felt the old tension rise between them—the way it had been during Freddie’s incarceration—when she would rail against his admonitions. Had so little changed? She clenched her fists, reminding herself that things were different now. She was different now.

“Don’t worry,” Ursula said, in measured tones. “I plan to issue a statement from the prison steps as I leave here today. I’m sure a swarm of reporters is already gathering outside. I thought if I told them I felt it was my Christian duty to visit you, they might look favorably upon me. It may appeal to their readers’ nobler instincts.”

“I doubt the readers of the
Daily Mail
have much in the way of noble instincts,” Lord Wrotham retorted.

“That may be, but I cannot simply let you rot in here without trying to help.”

“There’s nothing you can do, Ursula, so please don’t interfere.”

Ursula rolled her eyes. Were they going to argue about this once again? Surely he knew her better than that by now.

“Can they hear us in here?” Ursula asked, ignoring his reply. She tilted her head enquiringly towards the prison guard who was waiting outside.

“No,” Lord Wrotham looked around him. “I don’t believe so.”

“Then I need to tell you that there’s a chap from the War Office, Sir Reginald Buckley, who appears to be heading up the investigation. I met him yesterday—the police were turning the library at Bromley Hall inside out. Buckley thinks he’s going to stumble upon the key to unlocking some kind of book code.”

Lord Wrotham eyes glinted for a moment. “Go on…” he said.