Unlikely Traitors (8 page)

“The Count spends most of the year on the continent, but in the past we’ve had no reason to suspect he was a German agent. Perhaps Lord Wrotham mentioned meeting with the Count whilst he was been in Europe?”

“No, as I said Lord Wrotham has never mentioned the Count at all.”

“Supposedly the Count was Lord Wrotham and McTiernay’s contact in Germany,” Harrison continued. “The deal was made to sell the information on the basis that Germany would supply arms to the Irish Republican Brotherhood and provide further military support should there be an uprising in Ireland or a war with Germany.”

“That part still doesn’t make any sense to me, given Lord Wrotham’s politics.”

Harrison exhaled loudly. “I know, but Admiral Smythe seemed to think—at least in the files we found—that Lord Wrotham had been drawn to the nationalist cause in his youth and, since working with the Admiral on a number of missions, had become disillusioned with the British government. Given his family ties with Germany, financial problems with his estate, and conflicted loyalties from his days at Balliol, Lord Wrotham apparently chose to ally himself with McTiernay. Lord Wrotham’s business ties and influence made him a valuable asset in securing contacts in Germany.”

“I don’t really see Wrotham being the disillusioned diplomat turned German spy, do you?” Ursula said. “Even if, which I entirely doubt, he was involved in any kind of radicalism in his youth”—she leaned forward once more in her chair—“he would hardly need the money after becoming engaged to me.”

“You forget,” Harrison reminded her. “The meeting was at the end of 1911. I believe at that time you had rejected his Lordship’s offer of marriage.”

Ursula flushed.

“But I admit,” Harrison conceded. “The picture that Admiral Smythe paints in his files is not one that entirely fits with the Lord Wrotham that I know.”

“And what of McTiernay then—what has he got to say? Does he corroborate the Count’s story?”

“McTiernay has disappeared,” Harrison said bitterly. “Special Branch no longer has the network of informers or friends within the Nationalists that we used to have, so he’s going to be hard to find. We suspect he’s gone to ground somewhere in Ireland.”

“Is McTiernay married? Does he have family that you can contact?” Ursula asked.

“McTiernay’s wife’s Fenian political views are well known—she is also a member of the Irish Women’s Franchise League.” Ursula was well aware of the Irish women’s group dedicated to securing votes for women and of Harrison’s animosity towards the suffrage issue.

Ursula felt her hackles rise. “I suppose you think because of that I am somehow in league with her?”

It was Harrison’s turn to flush. “We’re more concerned about finding Lord Wrotham’s chauffeur, Archibald James,” he said, changing the topic. “As I recall, his Lordship told you to ask James to drive you to Bromley Hall.”

“I have been unable to contact Lord Wrotham’s chauffeur,” Ursula replied. “And I’m not sure what he’s got to do with any of this, anyway.” Her right foot tapped the upholstered skirt of her chair.

“You haven’t seen or heard from him then?” Harrison asked.

“No, of course I haven’t,” Ursula replied.

Ursula’s cup of tea went untouched beside her.

“Surely Lord Wrotham must have mentioned his meeting in Germany in December 1911…” Harrison probed. “Or perhaps he discussed McTiernay with you? He’s more likely to have been candid with you about his dealings with the Count and McTiernay given your well-known political support for Irish Home Rule.”

“Lord Wrotham never saw fit to tell me anything about this meeting,” Ursula answered, stiffly. “Or about his friendships from Balliol.”

“What about any of his other visits abroad? Perhaps he confided in you about these, but you never understood the implications—until now? Maybe if you think hard you’ll recall something—it may be trivial—but it might be enough to help Lord Wrotham…”

By now Ursula was sure his presence here was a ruse and nothing more. It was clear Harrison had only given her information to make her believe that he thought Lord Wrotham was innocent—when, all along, he was only trying to draw her out and discover what information Wrotham may have shared with her.

“I never realized,” Ursula said, leaning forward and pinning him with an icy stare. “How stupid you really thought I was.”

After Chief Inspector Harrison left, Ursula tried desperately to sleep but she found herself tossing and turning in agitation. Harrison’s duplicity sickened her. Her thoughts awhirl she kept coming back to the names of the men: Smythe. McTiernay. Wrotham. Count von Bernstorff-Hollweg. All four of them Balliol men. All four of them now somehow involved in a plot to sell Britain’s military secrets. Sleep eventually gained a foothold and, as she slipped off the precipice into the dark, deep chasm, her final thought was of Oxford. It was the first door to Lord Wrotham’s past that she needed to unlock.

CHAPTER FIVE

BALLIOL COLLEGE, OXFORD

Ursula decided to let Samuels drive her up to Oxford in ‘Bertie’ rather than risk breaking-down en-route in the Bugatti. Although she managed to leave via the servants’ entrance to her Chester Square home without undue harassment, the journey took longer than anticipated after Samuels spotted a reporter following them just as they approached High Wycombe. It took a lengthy detour and some ingenuity on Samuels’ part to evade their follower and resume their course towards Abingdon and Oxford.

It was with some trepidation that Ursula left for the journey to Oxford. She felt tainted by the scandals that had dogged her since she left Somerville College and unworthy of returning. Although the main aim of her visit was to investigate the relationship between Wrotham, Smythe, McTiernay and Balliol college, she could not help but be wistful on her own account—for what might have been. She had taken her finals in the end of Trinity Term in 1908. Back then the world held such promise. Her father was alive and she still believed she could convince him to let her make her own way in the world as a political journalist. Sitting in the back seat of Bertie she heaved a sigh as she remembered cramming one night for her finals, a cup of hot cocoa steaming in one hand, a torch in the other and a copy of Homer’s
Iliad
propped up on her knees. Seated on the narrow bed in the airless room that had been her home for the past three years, she had been was content to switch off her torch and watch the moonlight inch its way across the page as the night drew on. She had felt so restful at that moment, held in the eternal spell of stone and mortar, that she had felt as if, were she to close her eyes for even a moment, she would drift into an infinite, book-filled sleep, never to awaken.

Now, as they drove up Headington Hill and caught the first glimpses of Oxford’s shimmering spires, those memories seemed little more than a cruel illusion, sent to taunt her with images of all that the world could have been. A vision of innocence, in which she had all the promise of a future career and love, untouched by scandal, untouched by death.

Samuels with a quick glance round, slowed the motor car. “Would you like me to stop, Miss?” he asked.

“No,” Ursula replied, falling back against the leather seat. “Not this time.”

For the first two years, Ursula had arrived in Oxford by train, lugging her trunk along the platform and joining the chattering hordes of other young men and women calling for porters and embracing their fellow students who were also returning. In her final year, however, Samuels would drive her to Somerville, and pull over, just about now, so Ursula could jump out, climb the stile on the fence by an old farmhouse and take in her first glimpse of Oxford.

Now she contented herself with the view from the car window, slumped in her seat, feeling the cool winter air seeping in through her shoes and stockings. There were still traces of frost on the hedgerows after a cold night but the recent spell of milder weather had beckoned a few hardy spring flowers to venture forth, pushing up through the hard ground along the edge of the rutted road. They passed St. Stephen’s House and headed over Magdalen Bridge before turning down Longwall Street. Ursula noticed that nothing seemed to have changed since her last day at Somerville; the students still weaved their way along Holywell Street on their bicycles, and the gates of Balliol were as graceful and imposing as ever.

She asked the porter at the lodge if she could to be shown to Professor Prendergast’s rooms at the college. As a Senior Fellow of the college he had rooms at the back of the old quadrangle looking out over the Fellows’ garden. The head porter escorted her as they passed beneath the two archways that led through the small front quadrangle to the large quadrangle behind it, where they stopped at a door marked VI, leading to one of the wooden staircases to the rooms above.

“Up the stairs and first room on your left, Miss. He’s expecting you.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you like me to provide your chauffeur with some refreshment?”

“Oh, I’m sure a cup of tea would go down a treat. Samuels has been driving for hours.”

The head porter tipped his cap and walked back across the quadrangle. Ursula opened the wooden door and sniffed the familiar musty smell she had come to love at Somerville: the smell of centuries of dust on wood and stone, and the permeation of damp rainwater from winters past. She closed her eyes for a moment before ascending the narrow winding wood staircase.

She came upon the door marked with a white card in a metal nameplate on the door, Professor Evan Prendergast, M. Phil, Professor of Moral Philosophy and Law, Senior Fellow of Jurisprudence. She took in a deep breath and knocked.

The door opened almost immediately and Ursula was startled to find herself face to face with the antithesis of the professor she had been expecting. On the telephone, he had sounded like a frail and doddering old academic, full of stutters and hesitations. But now, as she viewed the sprightly looking man with wild white hair and bushy white eyebrows, she was taken aback. He was clearly well into his seventies but despite this his eyes were full of remarkable clarity and intelligence. He held out an eager hand, crying: “Come on in, my dear! I hope the journey down was suitably uncomfortable…I always find that any journey worth taking is always uncomfortable!”

Ursula stammered out an incoherent response as she entered the room. She took off her brown velvet hat and leather gloves and placed them gingerly on the top of a stack of books piled up next to what must have once been a coat stand, but which now teetered in the corner, looking as though it could no longer sustain either coat or hat.

“Take a seat, take a seat. I have tea if you wish, or perhaps a drop of sherry?”

“Tea, please. That would be lovely.”

Ursula sat down and as Professor Prendergast hummed around pouring the tea, took the opportunity to take in the room. Again, everything was different from what she had expected. She had anticipated a room that looked like ones the tutors and fellows at Somerville maintained—muddled and cluttered with the feel of a prefect’s study like those she grown up with at the Skipton Ladies Academy. This room looked like hurricane strength winds had torn the place apart, scattering papers and books over every conceivable surface. There was a narrow pathway leading from the door to the large desk and two filing cabinets in the corner, one armchair for visitors of well scuffed and fading brown leather, and a series of massive bookcases lining the walls, jammed with books. Beside the armchair was a tall stack of books—all new leather and crisp cut paper. Ursula glanced down and picked up a copy. It was a book by Professor Prendergast on
Moral Thinking and Rationality
.

“Er, thank you for agreeing to see me, Professor Prendergast.” Ursula began, picking a stack of pamphlets off the chair. The top one was entitled
Hobbes’ Leviathan and the Justification of Regicide
.

“But of course, though I suspect that you are not here to seek philosophical guidance with respect to Lord Wrotham,” he smiled and took the pamphlets from Ursula. “Especially not this sort of guidance”—he said with a grin.

“Hardly,” Ursula responded. “The last thing I want right now is an affirmation of a Hobbesian view of the world!”

Professor Prendergast looked at her curiously. “You’ve read the
Leviathan
?”

“Not all of it, I must confess. We touched upon it in a class I took on political philosophy.”

“Where did you study?”

“Somerville,” she replied with a smile.

“An Oxford educated fiancée?! Excellent!!” Professor Prendergast clapped his hands together. “Of course, I should have expected nothing less of Lord Wrotham.”

Ursula blinked. “You’re the first person ever to make that comment. Most people seem to think I’m the very last sort of person he would marry.”

“Ah, yes. But they did not know Lord Wrotham when he was young,” he replied, clasping his fingers together as he rocked forward on his chair.

“Well, Professor Prendergast, I can see I’m going to have to work hard to find out more after that tantalizing glimpse,” she admitted. “To be honest, my wish in coming here was to discover more about Lord Wrotham and Admiral Smythe’s time here at Balliol. I’m trying to understand how they both came to be mixed up in this unfortunate state of affairs and whether that has any connection to Oxford.”

“I can’t imagine that it does—but you seem a sensible woman and you certainly impressed upon me the urgency of your enquiries on the telephone yesterday,” Prendergast responded. “Even though I doubt I can shed any light on recent events, I’m happy to oblige and answer your questions. Lord Wrotham was one of my most promising students. He was a natural leader and a keen scholar with a strong sense of loyalty to the college. I cannot think of anyone less likely to betray their country.” Once he got going Prendergast had a beautiful Welsh lilt to his voice.

“Can you imagine any reason Admiral Smythe might have had in betraying Lord Wrotham?”

“None whatsoever. Admiral Smythe was another of Lord Wrotham’s tutors and as far as I could tell they had a close and cordial relationship. I’ve seen both men reasonably regularly even after they left here, at college dinners in London and the like. I know they remained friends and I’ve never heard of any rift between them.”