“And you had the keys with you?”
“I always have ’em. Keep ’em in the drawer in the kitchen.”
Ursula put her hands on her hips. “No one else has access to the keys?”
“No—except you, of course, Miss.”
“Well, I know I didn’t let the poor girl in—what about other people? Had the keys gone missing recently?”
“No.”
“So she must have broken in.”
“Looks that way.”
“Hmm . . .” Ursula frowned. “It all seems very strange. Why would Arina break into the factory at night? Why did she not escape after the fire broke out? Had she set the fire? Was she disgruntled with working here?” Ursula reeled off the questions, knowing that George had few, if any, answers.
“I guess we just ’ave to wait until the coroner’s inquest . . . though Arina were a good worker. She had no complaints that I heard.”
Ursula remained thoughtful. “I think I should pay the coroner a visit. I need to find out as much as I can about what happened here.”
“Right you are, Miss. I can take you to Dr. Mortimer’s if you’d like.”
“No need. Samuels is waiting outside. Just tell me where I can find this Dr. Mortimer.”
“Barrow Street. Number fourteen. He lives with his sister above the consulting rooms.”
“In the meantime, why don’t you ask around a bit? See if anyone knows why Arina was here. I can’t believe it’s been over a week, and no one’s come forward with any more information. As you said, there’s nothing here at all that would explain what happened.”
“None. She had no papers. No money. Nothin’. Her roommate nicked off just after the police came to tell her about Arina. No one knows where she’s gone.”
“Well, we can only hope that the police have found something out by now—really, you wonder how a girl can simply vanish without anyone knowing how or why. But first, to the coroner—let’s see what he has to say.”
Ursula carefully climbed over the debris and made her way out of the factory. She called out to Samuels, who was waiting beside Bertie, chatting with some of the locals. He hastily grabbed his cap, opened the rear door for her, and nodded as she told him where he needed to take her next.
“Dr. Ainsley Mortimer.” He spoke with a slight hesitation before holding out his hand to shake hers. “I assume you are . . . Miss . . . Miss Marlow.” Ursula noticed he paused carefully over his words, as if quieting a stutter.
“Please just call me Ursula. I’m here to ask you some questions about the girl that was brought in about a week ago—the one who died in the fire at my Oldham factory, I mean.”
Ainsley Mortimer nodded his head and looked grave. “Perhaps you should come inside and sit down. I’m not sure I can say much—I’m awaiting the pathologist’s report for the inquest—but I’d be happy to tell you as much as I’m able.” He gestured to her to enter the room and followed her into his study, closing the glass-paneled door behind him.
“Please take a seat.” He hesitated once more. “The surroundings aren’t quite what you are used to, I’m sure . . . but we like to think it’s comfortable enough.”
“I’m sure this will be fine,” Ursula said, embarrassed that she should have prompted such a comment. Her voice drifted off as she looked about the room, which was filled with almost every conceivable scientific instrument, along with piles of papers and books that lined not only the bookshelves but also the floor and the top of the large wooden desk in the middle of the room. A skeleton hung from a post in the corner of the room, the bones of the feet and toes resting on a large pile of leather-bound books with macabre titles such as
A Hand-Book of Post-Mortem Examinations and of Morbid Anatomy
and
A Popular Treatise on the Remedies to Be Employed in Cases of Poisoning and Apparent Death
.
Ursula went to sit down in a high-backed chair that appeared to be available for guests—and whose upholstery was clean, if a little threadbare.
“I don’t usually have to share my seat with a skull, though, I must admit,” she said with a rueful smile, picking up the offending item and placing it on the desk.
“Sorry about that,” Dr. Mortimer said, and then, eyeing the specimen jar containing a dissected heart that was serving as a paperweight, he began to apologize further, insisting that they had best discuss the case in his sister’s office instead.
“You must think me a frightful mess. . . . My sister is forever telling me off for leaving this room in such a state. She doesn’t see patients up here, of course; the consultation rooms are down the hall,” Dr. Mortimer finished lamely, a curl of brown hair springing over his left eye despite his efforts to smooth it back.
“Here is perfectly fine,” Ursula reassured him, barely suppressing a smile. “So your sister works with you—is she a nurse, then?” Ursula asked as she sat down on the chair. Dr. Mortimer picked over a pile of papers to make his way over to his desk.
“She’s a physician, actually.” He sat down. “First of us to follow my father into the profession. She graduated from the University of Manchester in 1905. She was one of the first women to do so. I graduated the following year.” Ursula noticed how his gaze never left hers. Clearly he was waiting to gauge her reaction.
“Impressive,” Ursula replied. “I’m looking forward to meeting her.”
“As she is, too—she is a great admirer of yours.”
Ursula’s eyebrows rose in surprise. Dr. Mortimer’s eyes crinkled as he smiled.
“We are not so backward as to be entirely ignorant of your goings-on, Miss Marlow.” Ursula flushed, confused as to his true meaning. She was wary now, having met many people who relished the opportunity to dig up scandal and innuendo where she was concerned.
Seeming to sense her confusion, he frowned. “I didn’t mean . . . ,” he started, but before he could complete his sentence, the office door was flung open by a tall, lanky woman in a pale green pinafore. The sleeves of her white shirt were rolled up to the elbows, and her hair, which was the same light brown color as Dr. Mortimer’s, was coming loose from the chignon at the nape of her neck. There was no mistaking them for anything other than brother and sister.
“I thought I would find you here. . . . Really, Ains, you are the limit! Fancy inflicting this pigsty on Miss Marlow. Now, then, I want you to both come along with me. Nancy’s popped the tea on, and we have a nice fire going in the lounge. I just saw our last patient—batty old Mrs. McCaffey, worst luck! But I managed to send her on her way with a tincture of valerian. We should be quite comfy and private in there, and Ains can give you all the information you need about that poor girl.”
Ursula sat stunned by the onslaught of words.
“Well?” Dr. Mortimer’s sister asked, with an impatient gesture at her brother. Ainsley rose from his seat.
“Miss Marlow, my sister Eustacia.”
Ursula got up and, still dazed, shook her hand. Eustacia grabbed her arm with a smile. “Come along, then,” she said. “Let’s get you out of this mess and into somewhere more salubrious. Ains, why don’t you ask Nancy to bring out some jam roll as well. I’m famished.”
Ainsley chuckled. “As you can see, Miss Marlow, both of us must fall into line. I’ll be with you shortly. In the meantime, Stacie—maybe you could take this file with you? It has all my notes from the postmortem.”
“Right-oh!” Eustacia took the file from him and started to lead Ursula out of the room and down the hallway. “Our father was coroner, you know. . . . It was his dying wish that Ainsley follow in his footsteps. It took him a few years to decide, but now he’s one of the few coroners in the country with medical and legal experience. Didn’t he tell you he also studied law? Typical! Anyway, better him than me, as coroner, I mean. I’d rather be taking care of the living any day of the week!”
Ursula followed Dr. Eustacia Mortimer into the lounge and sat down.
Eustacia looked at her squarely as she perched herself on the edge of the other armchair. “So,” she said abruptly, “why do you think these things are happening to your business? I’ve been keeping an eye out in the local newspapers, and it seems like this must be the fifth or sixth incident in as many months. Is it because you’re a woman, do you think?”
Ursula was taken aback by her directness, but she answered in kind.
“I think that probably has something to do with it, but there’s no evidence of a concerted attack on my business, so we may never know for sure.”
Eustacia rubbed her nose thoughtfully. “I think men are threatened by a successful, educated, and beautiful woman like yourself. No one could call me attractive, so at least I have that in my favor.”
Ursula wasn’t sure how to react, but Eustacia’s mouth quivered and broke into a wide grin. They both laughed, just as Ainsley Mortimer walked in bearing a tray with teacups, a brown teapot, and a plate of jam roll.
He frowned. “I’m not sure there was anything in the file that was amusing.”
“No, of course not.” Eustacia straightened her face quickly.
Ainsley took the file as Eustacia poured the tea and, with a hesitant cough, put on his glasses and began to read.
“The deceased, whom the police have formally identified as Arina Petrenko of 1 Back Gladstone Street, was a twenty-three-year-old female of Russian Jewish descent. She was found on the premises of the Oldham Garment Factory at . . . well I’m sure you know the address, Miss Marlow. I’m not really sure how much information you want.”
“Ains, do get on with it!” Eustacia interrupted him.
“Right, yes. Well . . . in my report I note that due to the condition of her bodily remains, I could not provide any reliable estimate of the time of death, though it seems from what we know of her movements to have occurred sometime between six and ten o’clock that night. Nor could I definitively identify the cause of death. That being said, I did infer from the lack of suppuration of some of the remaining injured surfaces and lack of evidence of smoke inhalation in the (admittedly poor condition) bronchial passages that Arina Petrenko was already dead at the time of the fire. Though scant evidentiary remains preclude me from making any final pronouncement, it would appear, from the medical evidence available, that the fire may be eliminated as a proximate cause of death. I have sent tissue samples and other evidence to the pathologist for more detailed examination. Without further evidence, however, I can make no determination whether her death was accidental, self-inflicted, or a result of a deliberate and malicious act. I therefore recommend a full coronial inquiry to address the issues identified.”
Ainsley snapped the file closed and looked up at Ursula. “I’m still waiting to hear more from the pathologist and the local police to see if they have any further evidence that could assist us. Of course I’ve had the dickens’ own job trying to hurry things along. The local rabbi has been quite distressed by the delay in getting the poor girl buried.”
“Thank you, Dr. Mortimer, for being so forthcoming. But can I just clarify one point? If I heard you correctly, you believe Arina was dead before the fire broke out?”
“Yes—yes, I do.”
“Was there anything else at all—off the record, of course—that could explain how or why she died?”
“Well, I’ve spared you all the minute medical details—they can be pretty gruesome—but in short, no. As I said, I’m still waiting on information from the pathologist. It’s a pity we couldn’t get Spillsbury—he’s the chap who helped on the Crippen case.” Ainsley sighed. “Anyhow, the inquest is currently scheduled for next Friday.”
“Any idea what sort of fire it was?”
Ainsley looked thoughtful. “A petrol fire, most likely. Generates a tremendous amount of heat, which would account for the condition of the body. Oh, I’m sorry, Miss Marlow. . . .”
Ursula’s face was white.
“Oh, Ains, really! Now, Miss Marlow just you have another cuppa.” Eustacia reached over and poured Ursula another cup of tea. “You’ll feel much better.”
Ursula sipped her tea gratefully. “Anything else?” she asked hoarsely.
“Well, we have to wait for the inquest, obviously, but I reckon that unless your girls were sewing petrol-soaked dresses, this fire was no accident.”
As she clambered into Bertie’s backseat, Ursula asked Samuels to drive her to the Oldham police station. George had told her the name of the sergeant assigned to the case, but Ursula wasn’t sure what kind of reception she would get. In her experience, most policemen weren’t too keen on having a woman “poking her nose” into their investigations.
They arrived at the small redbrick police station on Barn Street just as the afternoon sun was dipping behind the rows of terraced houses. Ursula quickly checked the watch she carried on a gold chain about her neck. It was nearly four o’clock.
Once out of the car, Ursula straightened her skirt and adjusted her hat before entering the police station. A young redheaded constable stood behind the desk, and he greeted her with a faint look of both recognition and bemusement.
“I’d like to see Sergeant Barden, please,” Ursula announced, placing her gloves on the desk.
“And you are?”
She regarded this disingenuous request with arched eyebrows.
“Miss Ursula Marlow.”
The constable exchanged glances with an older policeman walking out the swing doors by the main desk.
“Why d’yer want to speak to Barden?” the older man queried.
“I own the factory on Beasdale Street where that poor young girl died. In the fire. I have just arrived and would very much like to assist as best I can on this case. Is Sergeant Barden around?”
“No, he’s not. Been called down to London.” The man gestured toward the constable behind the desk. “You can leave a message, if you’d like.”
“Thank you,” Ursula murmured. She had a sense that the death of a factory girl was not one of the top priorities for the Oldham police. As if reading her thoughts the older man swiveled his head and with a baleful stare said, “We’ve got two in t’cells from last night drunk and disorderly and four robberies in the last week. We’re short staffed as is.” Ursula’s hands twitched—surely the death of a young woman, even one as lowly as Arina, merited more compassion and attention than this.