“Is there anyone who can confirm that you were indeed at home on the night in question?” Dr. Mortimer asked as George concluded.
George tugged his beard. “Me wife was visitin’ her mam with the kids—but you can ask anyone in the pub, and they’ll tell you I left before seven.”
“Please, Mr. Aldwych, no one here is suggesting otherwise,” Dr. Mortimer responded. “It is merely for the jury’s benefit that I ask this question.”
Ursula experienced a strange pricking sensation on the skin of her arm, as if a draught of cold air had suddenly entered the courtroom. She shivered involuntarily, and Lord Wrotham looked at her sharply. Ursula had always been particularly susceptible to influenza, and since her mother had died of tuberculosis, there was always anxiety she too might succumb to the disease.
“I’m fine,” she assured him in low tones. Lord Wrotham removed his jacket and placed it over her shoulders. Ursula caught sight of one of the reporters nudging his neighbor. This would definitely be in all the newspapers tomorrow.
Ursula turned her head to look at the public gallery. Mrs. Aldwych was sitting in the middle of one of the rows, one of her little redheaded children in her lap. Ursula tried to catch her eye, but Mrs. Aldwych studiously ignored her.
Dr. Mortimer pulled the fob watch from his waistcoat pocket and called for a fifteen-minute recess. As a measure of formality, everyone stood in the courtroom as he left, but as soon as he had closed the door behind him, the public galleries began to ring with chatter. Lord Wrotham got to his feet abruptly. “I must see if I can have a word with the coroner.”
“Why, are you planning on cross-examining someone?” Ursula asked with a note of sarcasm. Looking distracted, he ignored her comment and walked over to the constable officiating over the proceedings. They spoke at length, and then Lord Wrotham left the courtroom, returning some five minutes later without explanation.
He returned to the table, still thoughtful.
“What is it?” she asked, this time seriously.
“George Aldwych is lying.”
Ursula had opened her mouth to speak when a knock at the rear door signaled that the coroner was returning. Lord Wrotham took his seat.
It was now Eustacia Mortimer’s opportunity to take the stand. Her nose twitched as her brother asked her with all formality, “You were Arina Petrenko’s personal physician, were you not?”
“I was,” she answered.
“And can you give the jury an assessment of her physical condition—was she a well woman?”
“She was a normal, healthy twenty-three-year-old woman. I saw her no more than three times since she moved to Oldham, each time for a merely routine matter. In my view there was no physical ailment or preexisting medical condition that could account for Arina’s death.”
“What about her mental state?”
“I have no reason to believe Arina’s mental state was anything but completely normal. I certainly saw no sign of a neurological condition that may have indicated suicidal tendencies.”
“Thank you, Dr. Mortimer that will be all.”
Sergeant Barden was recalled to the witness stand to provide further details of the police investigation. With a nod of his head, the constable brought out and placed on a wooden table some of the belongings collected from Arina’s house the day after her death. These items included the letter fragments that Ursula had found and taken to the police, but to Ursula’s dismay, they were just laid out alongside the most trivial of other items. There were two day dresses, a pinafore, a gray knitted shawl, a sets of underclothes and stockings, and one pair of tan walking shoes. Otherwise, Arina’s life could be measured in small details: An ivory-handled hairbrush. A photograph of a young man (whom Ursula assumed was Kolya) in front of Brighton pier. A book of Pushkin’s poetry with an inscription in Cyrillic. Some jewelry in a small velvet box. There was one photograph, in a silver frame, that caught Ursula’s attention. Dr. Mortimer held it up for the jurors to see. The photograph was of two young girls posing for a formal studio portrait. By the look of their white pinafore dresses and dark stockings, they could have only been about twelve at the time the photograph was taken. Ursula stared at the girls’ faces in shocked recognition. The girl on the right was unmistakably Katya Vilensky.
“Good God!” Ursula cried out involuntarily.
Lord Wrotham placed a hand on hers. “Don’t . . . ,” he said under his breath. Ursula shot him a furious look and got to her feet.
“I’m sorry, Miss Marlow?” Dr. Mortimer asked, bemused.
“Do you know who that other woman is?” she asked hoarsely. The jurors leaned forward. Ainsley pulled out his spectacles from a pocket and put them on.
“Yes, Sergeant Barden said it was thought it was her sister. But we haven’t had anyone come forward who knows her full name. Nellie Ackroyd seems to believe she is traveling on the Continent, but so far we’ve been unable to contact her. Once again, jurors, that is not something that you should take into consideration in any negative way. People travel all the time, and it is often difficult to make contact.”
Ursula sat down on the wooden chair with a thud. Arina Petrenko and Katya Vilensky were sisters. The coincidence was startling enough. But what on earth, Ursula wondered, was the link between the death of the wife of a rich London banker in Cairo and the death of a poor factory worker in Oldham?
“Miss Marlow, are you sure you’re all right?” Dr. Mortimer asked.
The courtroom door opened, and a man in a gray overcoat entered. Ursula spun around to see Chief Inspector Harrison take a seat in the last row of the public benches. She turned back and replied, with some confusion, “Yes, it’s just that I recognized the other girl. The sister in the photograph.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“And so where is she, Arina’s sister?”
“She’s . . . she’s dead.”
Thirteen
Eustacia Mortimer hurried in with a cup of tea, while Ainsley fussed around Ursula in his flannels and brown cardigan, like an anxious dog.
“I’m fine, truly,” Ursula said, accepting the cup from Eustacia. “Thank you.”
The inquest had ended in an uproar. Not only had Ursula’s dramatic pronouncement sent the jury into disarray and reporters scurrying off to telephone their editors, but Chief Inspector Harrison had then calmly announced that Scotland Yard was now in charge of the investigation, and the inquest was temporarily suspended. After this the courtroom lost any semblance of order. Ainsley Mortimer shouted himself hoarse trying to restore calm, but to no avail, and the young police constable officiating the proceedings almost came to blows with two young weavers who decided to use the occasion to shout their support for Ursula and the “votes for women” campaign.
“What a complete debacle,” Lord Wrotham commented once he, Ursula, and the chief inspector were safely ensconced in the Mortimers’ parlor. Ursula still had Lord Wrotham’s jacket tucked about her shoulders, and Lord Wrotham was standing in his shirtsleeves beside the coal fire. Eustacia bustled past, bringing in a plate of toasted tea cakes.
“Those look good,” Chief Inspector Harrison said, reaching over to grab one. He bit in, and butter dripped down his hand. Eustacia handed him a napkin with a grin.
Lord Wrotham flipped open his fob watch with disdain.
“Five o’clock already,” he muttered. Ursula suspected he had been planning to return to London that evening.
Eustacia perched next to Ursula on the sofa.
“The coincidence, Ains, you must admit, is startling. And shocking, of course.” Eustacia patted Ursula’s hand. “You poor thing. To have witnessed that poor woman’s death. And now to find out that it was her sister who died in your factory. It’s too awful for words!”
“Stacie, I think Miss Marlow has probably heard enough about it all for one day,” Ainsley gently chided. He was standing by the fire next to Lord Wrotham, looking decidedly crumpled, a mug of tea in one hand and a toasted tea cake in the other.
“Did you know Arina was in danger?” Ursula asked Harrison quietly.
“You mean, because of what happened to Katya?” Harrison asked, washing down his mouthful of tea cake with a quick swig of tea. “No, I assure you. There was nothing about Katya’s death that suggested that her sister was in danger. But as soon as we found out Arina Petrenko was Katya’s sister, I insisted that Scotland Yard assume responsibility for investigating both cases. I only returned from Egypt yesterday, and I assure you I came as soon as I could. Who knows? This may be merely an unfortunate coincidence.”
Ursula shot him a contemptuous look, and Harrison hurriedly concluded, “Not that we aren’t paying full regard to the seriousness of the case.”
Lord Wrotham brushed an imaginary crumb off his gray silk waistcoat as Ainsley finished his tea cake.
“As you can see,” Lord Wrotham said to Ursula with barely disguised irritation, “the matter is now in good hands. Not before we had to endure that local circus, of course. But now, I assure you, Arina’s death will be properly investigated.”
“Really?” Ursula responded skeptically. “And yet Chief Inspector Harrison here continues to believe that Katya’s death was the work of Egyptian nationalists. No doubt he will attribute Arina’s death to Bolsheviks, and the farce will be complete!” Ursula was finding it difficult to keep her frustration in check.
Ainsley wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Miss Marlow, you needn’t . . . needn’t be concerned. I am fully committed to finding out the truth in this case, no matter who it may involve.”
“See,” Eustacia said with a smile. “Ains, at least, is on your side.”
Harrison adjusted his shirt collar, looking uncomfortable.
“It’s certainly one of the most puzzling cases I’ve dealt with,” Ainsley Mortimer confessed.
“Didn’t you know?” Chief Inspector Harrison said dryly. “Puzzling cases are Miss Marlow’s specialty.”
Ursula flushed, but before she could retort, Harrison put down his plate and cup and cleared his throat. “Look, I understand how difficult this must be and how frustrating, but as I told you in Cairo, you must learn to leave these matters to those who can deal with them best.”
“And in this case, that would be Scotland Yard,” Lord Wrotham interjected.
“You have my assurance,” Harrison continued, “that this matter and any possible connection to what happened in Egypt will be fully investigated.” In his attempt to sound reassuring, Harrison came off as condescending. But by now, Ursula knew better than to resist either man—openly, at least. She merely nodded wearily while mentally resolving to continue her investigations. A man of Harrison’s caliber did not investigate simple murder cases anymore. No, he was Special Branch, which meant there was much more to Katya’s and Arina’s deaths than first appeared.
After an awkward pause, Harrison turned to Ainsley and, with unusual deference, asked whether he could have copies of all the postmortem reports.
“Sergeant Barden is sending his case notes to me at my hotel, but I think it would be best if you and I work together on this. I was particularly impressed by the thoroughness of your initial postmortem examination and your foresight in sending samples to a forensic pathologist for further examination. Many coroners would have just assumed the fire was the cause of death.”
Ainsley Mortimer went pink.
“I think the first thing we should do,” Harrison continued, “is bring George Aldwych down to the station for further questioning. Lord Wrotham is convinced he was lying when he gave his testimony today. I was not in the courtroom at the time—my train unfortunately was running late—but what do you think, Dr. Mortimer? How reliable a witness did George appear to you?”
Ainsley prevaricated for a moment, looking at Ursula as if guessing the matter of whether her own factory manager could have been involved would be a delicate one.
“It’s all right, Ainsley,” Ursula responded, noting with satisfaction that Lord Wrotham looked piqued by the familiarity with which she addressed Dr. Mortimer. “George told me before that he didn’t leave the pub until half past seven or eight that night, but on the witness stand he said he was home by seven. It’s only a minor discrepancy, I know, but it does seem strange. George is known for being a stickler for details.”
“Yes, but I know George and I cannot believe he would have any reason to lie.” Ainsley responded.
“People lie for a good many reasons,” Lord Wrotham said coldly. “Not all of which are readily apparent.”
Ursula wondered if there wasn’t a double meaning to Lord Wrotham’s words. She looked at him questioningly, but after meeting her gaze for a brief instant, he looked away.
The porcelain clock on the mantel chimed six o’clock.
Eustacia picked up some of the plates and cups and placed them on a tray.
“Perhaps you would care to stay for supper, Chief Inspector, then you and Ains can review the case.”
“Why, Miss Mortimer, that would be lovely.”
It was Eustacia’s turn to go pink. She quickly turned to Ursula.
“Of course, if you and His Lordship wish to stay . . . ,” she began, but Ursula caught sight of Lord Wrotham’s face and shook her head.
“Thank you all the same, but I really think I should get back to Gray House.” A weariness had descended upon her, and with all the anxiety of the inquest, Ursula hadn’t realized until now just how drained she felt.
“I took the liberty of sending Samuels back earlier this afternoon. James is waiting in the Daimler outside,” Lord Wrotham said, and though Ursula would have thought him high-handed for making such a presumption in the past, tonight she was grateful. The car ride back to Whalley would give them a chance to talk.
Eustacia reached over and took Ursula’s hand. “You do look a little peaky to me,” she said. “Ains, what do you think?”
Ainsley put his mug down on the mantel and looked at Ursula with concern. “You look awfully pale. Can I get you some aspirin, perhaps?”