The older policeman turned back to the young constable. “Tell Henry I need him to go out to Legget’s farm; they’ve reported some missing sheep. Looks like the Ramsbottom twins are up to no good again.”
“Yes, sir,” the young constable answered, avoiding Ursula’s gaze.
The older man left the station, and Ursula took out her card to write a note to Sergeant Barden. It seemed ridiculous that she should have traveled all the way to Gray House, only to find the sergeant had been summoned to London. She quelled her frustration, however, and wrote a polite message reiterating her commitment to providing whatever assistance she could to the police investigation.
“I knew your father when I was but a lad,” the constable said, taking the note from her. He bit his lip. “God bless ’im. It were terrible, wot happened.”
“Yes, it was,” Ursula responded sadly. Her father’s death was never far from her thoughts.
With her visit to the Oldham police station cut short, Ursula decided to visit the address Dr. Mortimer had given for Arina Petrenko. Back Gladstone Street lay on the edge of Oldham, and apart from recalling that there were several disused coal pits near there, Ursula was unfamiliar with the area.
As Samuels drew up alongside a dilapidated cottage, Ursula soon realized that “home” this most certainly was not. She hadn’t seen such rural poverty since she was a child. She felt the mud thick beneath her feet as she stepped out of the motorcar, and had to put on her long navy blue cardigan to ward off the chill wind that swept across the moorland from the Pennines, rattling the windows and doors.
As she approached the front door of the cottage, a lady in an apron appeared from round the back, a wailing child in one arm and a laundry basket in the other. From the farmhouse on the hillock above, a border collie came running out, barking furiously.
“Oh, shut yer gob, Shep!! I said shut it!!”
The dog stopped barking and slunk off with its tail between its legs. The woman glared at Ursula.
“There’s no use knockin’!” she called out. “They ain’t there no more. All cleared off, more like, when they heard about the girl.”
“You mean Arina?” Ursula replied.
“Can’t say I knows wot ’er name was. But she weren’t from round ’ere, that’s for sure. None of ’em were.”
“I’m Ursula Marlow,” Ursula said, approaching her.
“Don’t know that I care who you are!” the lady responded. The baby in her arms stopped crying and glared at Ursula mutinously.
“I own the factory that was destroyed in the fire.”
“So?” The lady looked Ursula up and down, as she stood there in her white apron and brown shawl. Ursula reflected she probably could have said she was the queen of England and gotten just the same response.
“I wondered if you knew where Arina’s roommate may have gone.”
“She left sudden like, middle o’t’other night. No idea where she went. But she were foreign like t’other girl.”
“Did she work in town?”
The woman eyed her suspiciously before answering. “I reckon she worked at the colliery. My son Len works there. He’d know more.”
“And where is Len?”
“He’s workin’. Gets off at half six.”
“I’d like to come by and speak with him. I’m trying to find out as much as I can about the girl who died in the fire. Arina Petrenko was her name. Do you mind if I go inside and take a look?”
The lady sniffed disdainfully. “I guess so. We never had much to do wi’ them. But they paid their rent regular, so we didn’t ask any questions.”
“You live in the farmhouse up there?” Ursula pointed to the stone cottage on the hill.
The woman narrowed her eyes. “Aye, we do an’all.”
“Then if you don’t mind, I’d like to take a look inside their cottage and then come up and speak to your son. Would that be all right?”
“I reckon so.” The lady didn’t wait for Ursula to reply before turning and hoisting the child into her arms. She pushed open the door to the cottage and let Ursula in.
The baby in her arms started to cry again, and without another word the lady left, hauling the laundry basket up the muddy embankment that led to the farmhouse.
Ursula peered inside the doorway. The cottage smelled musty and damp. There was still the faint aroma of singed embers in the air. Without lights, the front room was dim and dank, even though the walls were wallpapered in a gaudy rose-and-leaf pattern. The room was bare, except for an iron-grated fireplace and a single wooden chair left in the middle of the room. Carefully Ursula made her way through and up the narrow stairs to the bedrooms above. The ceiling was low, and Ursula had to bend over as she reached the top of the stairs. There were two bedrooms upstairs. One had two single beds, each made of wrought iron that had been painted white and was now peeling. Ursula lit the gas lamp on the wall beside the bedroom door. The light hissed before emitting a smoky yellow glow. Ursula entered the room and looked around. Given the distinct lack of interest conveyed by the Oldham police, she doubted that their examination of Arina’s room had been very thorough, so she scanned the room to see what might have been missed.
Some scattered pamphlets lay on the floor beneath the window, and she walked over to give them a closer look. She recognized them immediately as recent editions of the English socialist journal the
People,
as well as a number of pamphlets written by Lenin. Alexei had introduced her to journals and pamphlets just like these back in 1908.
Alexei Prosnitz had come to England after the failure of the St. Petersburg revolution of 1905. The son of one of Winifred’s tutors at Oxford, he was a fervent member of the Russian Social Democratic Party and follower of Lenin. He had also been Ursula’s lover—a fact she would rather not be reminded of, even after the passage of nearly four years.
Ursula’s eyes soon adjusted to the jaundiced light, and she began to scan the room for any clues to why Arina might have been killed. She thumbed through the pamphlets, but they appeared to be nothing out of the ordinary. She tapped on the floorboards and walls, but likewise there was no evidence of any secret hiding place.
Ursula rubbed her chin. It was damp in the room and she knew from growing up in the north that most working-class families could not afford to light the fires in the bedrooms except when someone was ill. It was more than likely that Arina and her housemate spent their winter evenings huddled around the fireplace in the front room rather than upstairs in the cold, so Ursula made her way back downstairs. She discovered that both fireplaces, in the front room and the kitchen, had been swept clean. “Damn and blast,” she muttered, standing in the kitchen with her arms firmly crossed. Her mind clicked over as she gazed around the bare, flagstone kitchen. There were rickety wooden shelves (all empty), a cracked ceramic sink, and the shallow grated fireplace; a heavy, cast-iron stove squatted against the rear wall. Taking her ivory-handled comb out of her cardigan pocket, Ursula opened the door of the stove and peered inside. A cloud of soot and ash rose as she poked around. Beneath the charred wood and ashes, she discovered what appeared to be fragments of paper that had not completely burned.
Gingerly Ursula tried to lift these using the tapered handle of the comb. She pulled out a handkerchief from her pocket with her other hand and awkwardly spread it out on the floor. She then placed the fragments carefully on the crisp white linen and leaned over to see if she could make out anything from them. They appeared to be the remnants of a handwritten letter, but it was hard to decipher much besides the fact that the letter was in Cyrillic script and was almost totally destroyed. Ursula peered over to see if there were any further fragments in the stove, but none remained. Carefully folding the handkerchief with the letter fragments inside, she placed it in her skirt pocket, got to her feet, and tried to dust off the ash, instead leaving a long streak of black across her skirt.
“Arina fell in with a bad lot.” The sound of a man’s voice behind her made her jump. Ursula spun round to come face to face with a short, stocky man dressed in threadbare brown pants and open-necked shirt. “Them Bolsheviks or whatever they’re called. She and her friends were always talking to the union representatives at t’collieries and t’mills.” Ursula presumed this must be the son of the landlady.
“It’s Len, right?”
He nodded.
“And you called her Arina, so you knew her?”
He nodded again. “Talked wi’her a few times. Parents died when she were but a lass. She told me she’d been in England about ten year now.”
“And did you know her roommate?”
“Didn’t have much to do wi’er. Name was Natasha or summat like that. Worked in the colliery office. Then there were a couple o’ lads who I saw come by. Not for a few months though, now. Don’t know who they was but I reckon they were Bolshies too—”
“Do you know if they left anything behind that would help explain why Arina was in the factory the night of the fire?”
“Police came and took stuff the day after the fire. Then Natasha cleared off that night. Think she was terrified of the police.”
“Why was she afraid of the police?” Ursula queried.
Len’s face became guarded. “How should I know? Only a few days before the fire, they complained that someone had broken in and messed the place about a bit. I told ’em they should go to the police, but they refused. Said they didn’t trust ’em.”
“After meeting some of your local constabulary, I can’t say I blame them.”
Len shrugged. “Arina’s lot gave us no trouble, so I didn’t worry about it at the time.”
“Now, of course, one has to wonder whether the break-in had anything to do with the fire or Arina’s death,” Ursula murmured thoughtfully. “Did they tell you if anything had been taken?”
Len shook his head. “No one said nothing about anything being taken.”
“Pity. Do you have any idea where Arina’s roommate may be now?”
“I’ve heard nowt about ’er.”
Ursula suppressed a sigh.
“Did you happen to see Arina the night of the fire?”
“Me mam said she saw her come home same as usual. Didn’t notice anything else, but then we’re not ones for pryin’, and at night, with all the bairns to feed and get ready for bed, none of us would have been watchin’ for anyone.”
“No, of course not,” Ursula replied before digging out a card and pen from her jacket pocket. “But if you do think of anything that may be useful, please let me know.” She wrote the address for Gray House on the card. “I feel it is my responsibility to find out as much as I can about this poor girl’s death.”
“Me mam said you owned the factory,” Len said tentatively.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Bloody funny thing for a woman to do,” he said with a sniff, and walked out of the room.
Nine
London
APRIL 1912
The following evening, after a day spent with the local factory inspector and union representative, Ursula traveled back to London by train. Samuels arranged for her motorcar Bertie to be placed on a special train car to accompany their return. Christopher Dobbs was holding a cocktail party, and Ursula felt compelled to accept the invitation, despite Arina Petrenko’s death in Oldham. Her attendance was intended to reassure all London society that Marlow Industries was in no way threatened by what had occurred.
She carefully placed the letter fragments she had found in a silver box, planning to get the Cyrillic script translated while back in London. When she was with Alexei she had known many Russians, but since that time she had fallen out of contact with all his comrades. She would now have to depend on Winifred to try to find a translator for her, one who they could rely on to be both trustworthy and discreet.
She greeted Biggs and Mrs. Stewart with relief—at least they remained, as always, stalwart in the face of all adversity. A stack of business correspondence awaited her in the study but once she had dealt with the worst of it, Ursula finally found a moment to call Winifred. Sitting at her father’s desk, her finger beating out a nervous rhythm on the lid of the silver box, Ursula bent over the receiver and waited for Winifred’s deep, masculine voice to answer.
“Freddie,” Ursula began.
“Sully! When did you get back from Egypt?!”
“Late last week, but things . . . things have been rather awkward.”
“I read about what happened to the Oldham factory. I’ve left messages for you all over the place!”
“Sorry, Freddie, but it’s been an absolute nightmare.” Ursula hesitated.
Winifred, as if sensing her discomfit, answered somberly, “I know. What can I do?”
Ursula exhaled. At least Winifred could be relied upon to help.
“The coroner says that the girl, Arina Petrenko, was already dead before the fire—so we’re looking at a murder investigation.”
“And if I know you, Sully, you’re already undertaking your own inquiries.”
“Well, I’m hardly going to place my faith in the Oldham police, now, am I? Not when it’s my father’s business that’s at stake.”
“Your business now,” Winifred gently reminded her.
“Of course,” Ursula answered, too preoccupied to notice the reproach.
“What do you need me to do?” Winifred asked.
“I found a fragment of paper, possibly a letter, in Russian, which I need translated. There’s not much, maybe a couple of sentences, but it may be important. I don’t know anyone anymore. Could you find someone? Someone we can trust?”
“As good as done. I’ve still got contacts. You want me to come round now and get it?”
“No, I’ve got to get ready—Dobbs is holding a cocktail party this evening, worse luck. But I can’t afford to miss it. I have to hold my head up tonight and prove I’ve not been broken by this. Christopher Dobbs may be a thundering bore, but I don’t trust him as far as I can spit. I intend to keep an eye on him.”
“Like father, like son, eh?”