“Miss Marlow.” A young police constable came forward. “The coroner wishes you to come to the table up front. That’s where all interested parties sit. Family, lawyers, and the like. We’re just waiting on the factory inspector and union representative t’come.”
Ursula eyes traveled to where the young constable was pointing. Directly in front of the coroner was a long wooden table. Ursula bit her lip; she hadn’t planned on making such a public display.
“Please, follow me,” the constable urged as he started walking down the aisle of the public gallery. Ursula followed him reluctantly, then sat down, demurely removed her gloves, and readjusted her hat. She had deliberately chosen a somber black dress, but she was hardly inconspicuous sitting at an otherwise empty table. She could just make out, through an open door that led to a small antechamber, the silhouette of the coroner, Ainsley Mortimer, standing in profile, straightening his jacket. Eustacia was standing next to him, organizing his papers.
Ursula turned round and spied a couple of men in the back of the courtroom, obviously members of the press, already scribbling notes furiously. Ursula sighed. No doubt tomorrow’s newspaper’s would be filled with inane stories about her—what she wore, what she said—rather than anything to do with the true matter at hand, the tragic death of a young girl in a factory fire. Before long Ursula was joined by Eric Duckworth, the local county factory inspector and Reg Slater, the textile workers union representative. Having already met with both men about the fire there was no need for introductions. With a curt nod and a tip of a hat they sat down at the end of the table in silence.
With a clang the main courtroom doors were closed, and the police constable who had escorted her to her place made his way toward the dais. The door to the coroner’s antechamber was closed in preparation for the coroner’s official entry into the courtroom. The public in the gallery jostled to take their seats. No one sat beside Ursula until, barely a minute before the police constable rose to officially open the inquest, a tall, dark-haired man entered with glorious solemnity and took the place next to Ursula. The room fell silent. Only Lord Wrotham, Ursula reflected drily, could make such an entrance without the slightest appearance of deliberation or theatrics.
Lord Wrotham took off his black felt derby hat and black leather gloves and placed them on the table. Ursula noticed how his long, sensitive fingers drummed a beat for just a second, betraying a flicker of emotion beneath his unruffled exterior.
“Lord Wrotham,” Ursula murmured without making eye contact.
“Miss Marlow,” he replied.
The policeman stood at the front of the court and cleared his throat.
“Oyez, oyez, oyez . . .”
The inquest began.
Ursula drew a notebook and gold-nibbed fountain pen out of the deep side pocket of her dress. As she started to write, she realized, a little wistfully, that the pen was one that Lord Wrotham had lent to her last summer, and which she had forgotten to return. She stole a sideways glance at Lord Wrotham, but he was staring straight ahead, eyes fixed, jaw set.
Dr. Mortimer began the proceedings with a calm, almost gentle description of the circumstances surrounding the death of Arina Petrenko. The jury were mesmerized as he provided in detailed medical terms the results of the postmortem examination. Ursula had to look away, however, when the young police constable brought and laid out various exhibits that illustrated to the jury the condition of the body when found. The police constable called out each exhibit in turn, and as the coroner described the items, he displayed each on a wooden tray before the jury:
Exhibit 1: Photograph of woman’s body found in situ.
Exhibit 2: Photographs of woman’s bodily remains including
head and throat and charred torso, taken during autopsy.
Exhibit 3: Fragment of dress.
Exhibit 4: Fragment of left boot.
Dr. Mortimer then read out a summary of the forensic pathologist’s report, concluding that all evidence thus far pointed to death occuring prior to the fire. The microscopic analysis suggested possible asphyxia but the lack of further examinable bodily remains precluded a definitive assessment.
The public gallery was deathly quiet as everyone strained to see and hear the gory details. Ursula’s hand trembled, but she continued taking her notes.
Dr. Mortimer called the chief of the Oldham fire brigade, Superintendent Harry Boardman, who described how the brigade had attended the fire at the Oldham Garment Factory and how, in the early hours of the morning, he had discovered the body of a young woman lying dead in the smoking ruins.
“Can you indicate on this drawing of the factory where the body was found?”
The police constable stood in front of the jury, holding up a hand-drawn plan of the garment factory. The superintendent pointed to a spot on the map beneath the doorway that linked the sewing room to the nursery annex.
“And you found the body in the doorway?”
“Yes. Or at least, what was left of her.”
A ripple went through the courtroom.
Ainsley resumed his examination of Superintendent Boardman. “Can you describe what else you found at the scene? Was there any indication of how the fire started?”
“At first we weren’t sure, but when me and the boys started siftin’ through the debris, we found evidence of what we believe was used to start the fire.”
“Which was?”
“Spilled petrol and petrol-soaked cotton rags. We found scraps in the sewing room. We think these were lit, causing a chain reaction across the factory. You know how these places are—fabric and the like everywhere. Almost as bad as a mill.”
“So in your view the fire was not an accident?”
“No—whoever did it probably thought they’d be nothin’ left to find, but he were wrong.”
“Thank you, Superintendent. Now, as the jury has heard from my postmortem results, Arina Petrenko did not die as a result of the fire, so the jury must bear in mind that evidence of arson may or may not be relevant in terms of the cause of her death.”
“Damn suspicious, mind you,” the superintendent muttered.
“That will be all, Superintendent. Remember, this is not a criminal trial. This is just an inquest to determine cause of death.”
The jury looked a little mystified by this, but Dr. Mortimer continued, calling upon Sergeant Barden to provide details of the Oldham police investigation.
Sergeant Barden took the witness stand, outlining the events of that night and the following morning. He was careful, given the nature of the inquest, not to provide any extraneous information beyond the questions asked. A short, stocky man with a bushy mustache and fluffy hair, he was taciturn on the stand, and much to Ursula’s disappointment, he provided little in the way of supposition as to what really happened that night.
He described his visit to Back Gladstone Street, where Arina’s roommate, Natasha Desislava, identified a piece of clothing (Exhibit 3) retrieved from the dead woman’s body.
“But Natasha refused to come and view the body, is that correct?”
“Yes, we ’ad to ’ave Nellie Ackroyd come t’station for that.”
“And she confirmed it was Arina?”
“As best she could; there weren’t much left of ’er—”
“Yes, I think we can spare everyone the details of that again; we heard quite enough about that earlier. . . . Oh, there is one final matter, and that is the question of Natasha Desislava. Have you any idea of her present whereabouts?”
“No. When we returned that afternoon, she had already left. Despite makin’ enquiries in London last week, we’ve been unable to locate her.” A stickler for procedure, Ainsley Mortimer asked the constable to call Natasha Desislava three times to the witness stand before recording her failure to appear in his coroner’s notes.
“Thank you, Sergeant Barden,” Dr. Mortimer said. “Please remain in the courtroom, as we will require your services again when we return to the question of the police investigation later in the inquest.”
Dr. Mortimer then called four witnesses in quick succession. There was Mr. Frank Pickersgill, the driver of the Oldham Metropolitan Tramway Corporation’s electric tram running from Hollinwood to Chadderton, who confirmed he had seen Arina board and alight from the five forty-five tram bound for Chadderton at Oldham Edge. Then there was Len Bolton, who reluctantly told the coroner’s court about the alleged break-in at Arina’s cottage. He told little else of importance, and Ursula’s mind started to wander. Was it truly possible that no one had seen Arina after she boarded the tram from the factory?
The next witness to be called, Mr. Lewis Heagney, turned out to be a red-faced sot, whose words were already slurred at barely three o’clock. He provided a disjointed and not entirely believable account of having seen what he termed “a swarthy-looking foreigner” skulking around the factory at close to nine o’clock that night.
“Can you describe him in any greater detail?” Dr. Mortimer asked in frustrated tones.
“As I told the sergeant, he was dark-like. Curly hair. Looked a right one, ’e did—” Ursula shifted in her seat uncertain over her decision to trust Alexei.
“They’ll be seeing German spies next,” she heard Lord Wrotham mutter under his breath, and indeed, when the landlord of the Imperial Railway Hotel took the stand, he did mention that he thought one of the men who booked a room that day could have met Lewis’s description. “I woulda said ’e were a German all right,” he concluded.
Lord Wrotham groaned.
Dr. Mortimer looked down and shuffled his papers before calling Nellie Ackroyd to the witness stand. Nellie, a seamstress who worked with Arina at the factory, was a woman who in her youth must have been considered quite the beauty. Now, although Ursula guessed she was barely thirty-five, she looked like a doll worn and tattered after years of misuse. Her blond hair was obviously dyed, and her rosebud mouth now seemed pinched and drawn. There were jeers from the public gallery. Someone shouted “trollop” and the resultant fracas between the girls of the Oldham factory and other locals caused at least five women to be removed from the courtroom by the young police constable. It dawned on Ursula just how fraught tensions were over her factory.
Nellie’s eyes were brimming with tears, and Ainsley allowed her a moment to compose herself before asking her his questions.
Ursula leaned forward. Up until now Arina had been little more than a tragic figure in a play, and she hoped Nellie’s testimony would help form a clearer picture of who Arina, the person, really was.
Nellie Ackroyd had three young children, and after her husband deserted her, she spent a year in the Oldham workhouse before managing to find work in Ursula’s factory. Nellie’s eyes glistened with tears as she described the impact of the factory’s closure. She was now back in the workhouse, and her children had been taken to a Dr. Barnado’s home in Rochdale. Dr. Mortimer listened with compassion before directing her to focus on the issue at hand, namely the death of Arina Petrenko.
“I’m sorry to have to put you through this once more, but it was you, was it not, who identified Arina’s body at the morgue?”
“Yeah. It were me,” Nellie mumbled.
“You’ll need to speak up so the jury can hear you. Remember, this inquest is just a formality—so we can determine how Arina died. You mustn’t feel nervous or ill at ease.”
Nellie nodded and scrubbed her eyes with her handkerchief.
“Yes,” she said loudly. “I saw the body and told Sergeant Barden I thought it was Arina.”
“Thank you, Nellie. Now can you please tell the jury what happened the day of the fire?”
“Arina and I was at the factory, same as usual. At lunch she and I sat together—then we had a bit o’ play with my Eliza and Daniel. They were in the nursery annex. Eliza’s not yet two, and Danny, well, he’s but a babby. My eldest, Ian’s his name, he’s now at school.”
“Yes, that’s very nice to know, but can you focus on Arina for a moment?”
Nellie wiped her eyes once more.
“So after lunch you and Arina . . . ,” Ainsley prompted gently.
“Me and Arina were operatin’ the sewing machines. She were acting just as she normally did. For her anyway. Quiet. We ’ad our break at two, and then the whistle sounded at half five. Same as always. We left together, and she caught the tram to Chadderton and I walked to the bus.”
“How would you describe her state of mind on the day in question?” Dr. Mortimer asked.
“You what?” Nellie replied.
Lord Wrotham’s fingertips began to drum on the table.
“How did Arina seem—was she happy? Was she sad? Did she seem preoccupied or concerned about anything that day?”
“No.”
“Can you think of any reason Arina may have been in the factory the night of the fire?”
“No.”
“Can you think of anyone who may have wished to harm Arina? Did she have a boyfriend?”
“No, she talked about a boyfriend but said ’e were in Europe. I never saw ’er with any other feller.”
“Was there anyone she may have quarreled with recently?”
“No.”
“Did Arina have many other friends at the factory?”
“No. She were quiet like. Didn’t mix with many of the other girls. But she were a good sort to me. She were kind to my little ’uns . . . givin’ them little trinkets and chocolate. . . . I can’t believe this coulda happened to her. . . .”
Dr. Mortimer looked at Nellie kindly. “You can step down now,” he said. “Unless you have any other information you’d like to tell the jury that may be of assistance.”
Nellie scrubbed her eyes with a grimy handkerchief. “No.”
Dr. Mortimer motioned for Sergeant Barden to help Nellie out of the courtroom. Lord Wrotham shifted in his seat as Ainsley Mortimer called George Aldwych to the stand. Ursula put down her pen and stretched her fingers for a moment before George proceeded to tell the jury the same information he had imparted to Ursula the previous week. Absently she jotted down some of the times he mentioned, making a mental note to ask Alexei to confirm what time he had been “lurking” about the factory, when she was suddenly struck by an inconsistency in George’s story. She was sure George had told her that he left the Dog and Duck around half past seven or eight, but now he told the jury he was definitely home before seven, after downing only one pint at the pub. Ursula circled the time in her notes and then noticed that Lord Wrotham was leaning forward in his chair, his piercing blue-gray eyes watching intently as George continued his testimony.