Ursula stood up and pulled Lord Wrotham’s jacket closer around her. Although it was May, and the late-afternoon light would be with them till late, the coal fire had dulled to little more than a faint glow in the grate, and the room seemed chill and damp.
“No, I think I’m fine,” Ursula assured them. “Just a little tired.”
Ainsley and Eustacia accompanied Ursula through the parlor door and down the hallway. Ursula shook hands with Eustacia before turning to bid Chief Inspector Harrison and Ainsley Mortimer good-bye.
Lord Wrotham picked up Ursula’s notebook and pen from the hall table. He turned the fountain pen around in his fingers and, with a faint smile, put it in his top pocket before joining them on the steps that led down to the street.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Chief Inspector Harrison said in low tones as James helped Ursula into the car. Lord Wrotham responded with a brusque nod. He then turned to Eustacia and Ainsley and extended them a cool but courteous good evening before climbing into the back of his gray Daimler.
“That man really is a cold fish,” Eustacia said as the motorcar drew away from the curb.
“Yes,” Ainsley replied with a wistful sigh. “But Miss Marlow doesn’t seem to mind.”
The first part of the journey back to Whalley was spent in uneasy silence. Ursula stared out at green fields and gray clouds blurred by an early-evening mist, thankful for a respite from the day. She ran her fingers absently along the fringe of the plaid blanket James had placed around her knees. Lord Wrotham sat beside her, his arms folded and his head bowed, apparently deep in thought.
“I went to see you yesterday,” Ursula announced, just as James turned at the Accrington Road intersection. “At your chambers.”
Lord Wrotham looked up and contemplated her face with guarded eyes.
“You were busy,” Ursula said. “Returning from court with Eyres and Fenway. I didn’t like to bother you.”
“I assume you saw Vilensky, then.”
“Yes.”
“His being there had nothing to do with his wife’s death—or, for that matter, Arina’s.”
“I know.”
Lord Wrotham frowned.
“I trust that you would have told me if it had,” she responded simply.
“Vilensky had been referred to me by an associate of his, to inquire as to whether the Foreign Office had any information regarding the fate of some passengers aboard a ship that sailed from Alexandria in December. I told him I would pass on his request. The ship in question was the
Bregenz,
carrying settlers bound for Palestine. . . . I see that this may be of interest after all,” he said frankly, as Ursula’s eyes had widened. “Can you trust me enough to tell me why?”
“In Alexandria, I discovered that Katya Vilensky had made inquiries about this ship the
Bregenz.
I spoke to a shipping clerk there, and he became quite agitated when I questioned him about it. I’m not sure what happened to the
Bregenz,
but it may have something to do with Katya’s death.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Neither do I, but the clerk was found dead a few hours after I spoke to him, so I suspect”—Ursula inhaled deeply—“I suspect his death may have been because of me.”
Lord Wrotham looked at her intently.
“There was another man, someone I saw as I was leaving the customs house—his name was Ambrose Whittaker.”
“That name isn’t familiar to me.”
“He works in the Ministry of Interior, and there were rumors that he was possibly involved in the trade of armaments. My investigations were cut short by Arina’s death, and I returned to England without finding out anything more.”
“I passed on Vilensky’s request to a friend at the Foreign Office. I could also make discreet inquiries about this man Whittaker.” Ursula detected the reproach in his voice. Lord Wrotham was clearly disappointed that she had not confided all this in him earlier.
Ursula sighed. “I would have told you all this before if things had not been so . . . well, if I hadn’t made such a mess of it all the other night.” Lord Wrotham’s eyes flicked to James, but he made no comment.
“That was why I went to see you. . . .”
Lord Wrotham face remained inscrutable. After a moment of silence, in which Ursula felt decidedly uncomfortable, he bent over and pulled a file out from an attaché case beneath his seat.
“Speaking of trust,” he said, tossing the file over to her. It was labeled “SIS Intelligence Report—Syndicalist-Bolshevik Relations with Trade Unions in Britain.”
“What is it?” she asked warily.
“Open it.”
She opened the file carefully, trying to keep the papers together as the Daimler bounced along the rough road. She caught sight of the typewritten name at the top of the first page, and her stomach dropped.
Ursula read the first paragraph.
“He has been under surveillance ever since he arrived in London.”
“I can explain,” Ursula started to say.
“Then do so,” came Lord Wrotham’s curt reply. He reached over and, in a rare display of anger, snatched the file from her.
Ursula caught sight of James in the rearview mirror. He made no sign of acknowledgment, but merely focused once more on the road ahead.
“Alexei approached me on Wednesday night. Said he needed help and had nowhere else to go.”
“Did he tell you about his relationship with Arina?”
“He told me he had returned to England to find her. Her lover, Kolya Menkovich, was Alexei’s good friend, and he felt obliged to tell Arina that Kolya was dead.”
“Did he tell you he was also once Arina’s lover?”
Ursula’s knee jerked involuntarily.
“No,” she responded. “But I wasn’t idiotic enough to believe he had told me everything. I knew he was holding something back.”
“And yet you still protected him—”
Ursula bit her lip. “He told me he went to the factory the night of the fire—just to see it—he never went inside.”
“So he was the ‘dark swarthy chap’ seen lurking around.”
“So it would seem.” She faltered. “He said that he saw nothing at the factory though and he was back in his hotel room before the fire started. He never even saw Arina.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I thought I did . . .”
“And still you refused to tell the authorities? ”
Ursula fell silent.
Lord Wrotham handed the file back to her.
“I can’t let you have everything, as it may compromise the investigation, but you may as well see who you’re dealing with. SIS, that’s the Secret Intelligence Service, was alerted to his arrival by an Okhrana agent. As you no doubt remember from your time with Alexei, Okhrana, the tsar’s imperial police, have long been interested in the activities of the Bolsheviks.”
“I remember,” Ursula said somberly.
“Well, it seems that Alexei’s mission in England wasn’t just to find Arina. While in Poland, he has been helping to establish an armed clandestine group within the Russian Social Democratic Labour Party to undertake targeted assassinations. They hope to not only disrupt the tsarist regime but also encourage workers to mobilize for a global revolution. Russia is in an uproar at the moment—there are strikes and protests across the country after the Lena gold mine incident. It has provided a catalyst that men like Alexei are hoping to exploit. The SIS believes he has come to England to meet with trade unionists and set up a similar armed group here in the UK. The last thing the British government wants is for militant trade unionists here to consider a similar form of campaign to that in Russia.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Ursula demanded. “If you’ve had him under surveillance, I assume you know where he is. Why not just tell Scotland Yard and have him picked up and questioned?”
Lord Wrotham rubbed his eyes. “At this stage, the government would prefer to keep him under observation. It’s more important that we find out who he’s dealing with in England. If there are militant trade unionists who are considering similar action, we want to know.”
“I won’t turn informer, if that’s what you’re asking,” Ursula said defiantly.
Lord Wrotham sighed. “You really think that’s why I showed you the file?”
Ursula fell silent.
“What I’ve told you is extremely sensitive—the possibility of an assassination campaign in Britain could undermine the very fabric of our society. It could be worse than the Fenian threat. I have to trust you won’t alert Alexei to what we suspect. No matter where your politics lie, Ursula, you cannot sanction murder. For all we know, if there was a campaign in England, it could very well target employers just like yourself.”
“A clandestine group proposing a systematic campaign of assassination? Sounds like an Erskine Childers novel!” Ursula replied, but her skepticism was muted by a real sense of unease. Lord Wrotham was hardly the sort of man who bandied about words like
assassination
and
murder
without real foundation.
“My contacts in the government don’t think so. You are only seeing this file because I convinced them that you would tread carefully.”
There was a sudden bang and a jolt as the Daimler skidded into the hedgerow, tossing them both back against the seat.
“Sorry, my lord,” James said, and Ursula envied his calm. “I believe we may have punctured a tire.”
They had stopped along the narrow roadway that led across the moors to Clitheroe. Lord Wrotham got out of the car and joined James in inspecting the front wheel.
Ursula waited for a moment and then, seeing James take off his chauffeur jacket and roll up his shirtsleeves, she too alighted from the motorcar. She grabbed the plaid blanket and swung it around her shoulders. While James fixed the wheel, Ursula wandered over to the stone wall, climbed the stile, and looked out over the valley.
Lord Wrotham joined her, and they both stood watching the sun make its slow descent behind the misty outline of trees at the edge of the field. A couple of sheep startled and scattered, bleating their indignation.
“So why did you really show me the file.” she asked.
He continued to gaze ahead. “I very nearly didn’t. I wasn’t sure how you would react to Alexei’s return.”
“You can’t really think—” Ursula halted. Lord Wrotham’s face had become inscrutable once more. She wasn’t sure what to say, so instead she leaned on her elbows, gazed out at the sunset, and tried to clear her mind.
“What of Arina—do you think Alexei was involved in her death?” Ursula’s voice was little more than a whisper.
“I don’t know the man,” was all Lord Wrotham would say.
“No.” Ursula paused. “I guess from what you’ve just told me, neither do I.”
They both stood, lost in their own thoughts.
“You know what’s so hard about being back up here?” Ursula said suddenly. “It’s that I feel a total stranger here. I may have grown up here as a child, but now it’s as foreign to me as it is to you. These people who work in my father’s mills and factories, they don’t know me, they don’t trust me as they did him. I’m nothing more than a London society girl trying to fill her father’s shoes. And yet in London . . .”
Lord Wrotham turned to her. “Yes?” he prompted.
Ursula dropped her head. “God,” she sighed. “I just seem to be making a mess of it all. Don’t you see I need to stand on my own for a while? Prove that I can do it.”
“With or without me?”
Ursula stared at him bleakly. This was not how she had intended the conversation to end.
“I don’t know,” she answered hoarsely. As she looked up, she caught sight of his eyes. They smoldered with barely restrained anger.
“My lord!” James called out, and his voice jolted them both. “The wheel is repaired. Shall I start the engine?”
Ursula pulled her hand away and drew the blanket around her tight. Lord Wrotham was all cold officiousness once more.
“Thank you, James. Yes. We should probably get Miss Marlow back to Gray House as soon as possible.”
Lord Wrotham opened the passenger door and helped Ursula in before seating himself. Ursula leaned her head against the small rear window and closed her eyes. She felt sapped of all her strength, small and insignificant compared to the worries that weighed upon her. Lord Wrotham stared ahead angrily. She wanted to turn, she wanted to face him and give him the answer he needed, but she couldn’t. The struggle was too great within her. She had to master the effect he had on her, tame the emotions that only became confused and tangled when she was around him.
An hour later it was dark as James drew up outside the stone wall that surrounded Gray House. Ursula leaned forward in her seat, blinking as she grew accustomed to the glare of the streetlamps after the darkness of the country roads. Lurking about the gates were two reporters, who, as soon as they saw the Daimler approach, ran up, clamoring questions. Ursula shielded her eyes. Biggs and Samuels opened the tall wrought-iron gates and tried to fend off the reporters. They had seen Lord Wrotham, however, and, sensing the possibility of scandal, refused to hold back. Ursula was bundled out of the motorcar unceremoniously and escorted inside by Biggs as quickly as possible. It wasn’t until she was inside the entrance hall of Gray House and Bridget was fussing around her with a knitted shawl and a cup of hot cocoa that she realized that Lord Wrotham had not accompanied her inside. She walked to the window to see the Daimler’s headlamps retreating through the gates. With a with a pang of regret, she realized he was gone.
Fourteen
Rising early the next morning, Ursula sat at the bureau in her bedroom, still clad in her batiste nightgown and silk dressing gown, gazing down at a blank sheet of writing paper. A china cup of tea and a plate of thin arrowroot biscuits lay untouched on the side table beside her bed. Her mind was still reeling from the events of yesterday—the coroner’s inquest, the connection between Arina and Katya, the whole vexatious question of Alexei. She needed to get more answers not questions. Perhaps Hugh Carmichael would now be more forthcoming—he might even provide her with a possible clue that could link Katya’s and Arina’s deaths. There was also the issue of Dobbs and his offer for Marlow Industries to contend with. Ursula wasted no time in formulating a letter to Hugh Carmichael. Ursula was planning to be in Newcastle on Thursday to meet Julia, who was returning with the Lawrences at last from Egypt. She finished her letter with a suggestion that they meet for lunch in Newcastle and then tapped the end of her fountain pen against her lips, trying to decide what else needed to be addressed.