Unlikely Traitors (12 page)

Ursula regarded him with a look she hoped conveyed withering contempt but, like many things, it was lost on Sir Buckley. She saw Harrison though, his eyes thoughtful, regarding her with an expression she had never seen before—at least not for her.

Pity.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Despite Lord Wrotham’s warnings, Ursula returned to Brixton prison on Monday to visit him. The newspapers by now had already reported Admiral Smythe’s death but Ursula was intrigued to note how few details were reported. There was no mention of cyanide or the possibility of murder. The cause of death as far as the press was concerned was drowning. Ursula surmised that Chief Inspector Harrison was keeping a very tight rein now on any information relating to the case and she was relieved, for it also meant at least one less reason for speculation and scandal. She had been involved in enough murder cases by now to know the insatiable public appetite for gruesome details.

Ursula bought with her to Brixton a basket of food that Cook had prepared—untried prisoners were allowed to supply their own food as well as wear their own clothes as they awaited trial. Despite this, the deterioration in Lord Wrotham’s appearance was shocking. He had clearly not been allowed to shave and his blue-grey eyes seemed edged with weariness. On his forehead was a bandage through which the stitches were clearly visible.

“Whatever have they done to you?” she exclaimed.

“It seems some of my fellow prisoners aren’t too keen on having a traitor in their midst,” Lord Wrotham replied, wincing as he eased himself into the chair. “And I thought I told you not to visit.”

“We have to file a formal complaint,” Ursula said, ignoring his last comment. “Whatever happened to being innocent until proven guilty?”

“I’m starting to believe that Hobbes was right,” Lord Wrotham said. “Life really is just nasty, brutish and short.”

Ursula stared at him in dismay. “Don’t say that…” she responded hoarsely. “There is always hope.”

“Is there?” he answered and the weariness in his tone concerned her almost as much as his physical deterioration. Ursula reached out her hand but he remained slumped in his chair, refusing to accept her comfort.

“Sir Buckley and Chief inspector Harrison interviewed me yesterday,” Ursula said, hoping to provoke him into irritation at least.

“That must have been most unsatisfying,” Lord Wrotham said.

“Yes,” Ursula answered, “for all concerned.”

Lord Wrotham raised an eyebrow.

“Why have you never told me about your days at Balliol?” Ursula demanded. “Were you afraid that I would find out that your politics were originally not so dissimilar to mine?”

“Is that what you think?” he asked.

“That’s no answer.” Ursula replied flushing.

Lord Wrotham ran his fingers through his dark hair. She detected the old sense of trespass—the old sense that she was treading close to old wounds. In the past she found the prospect of unnerving him electrifying. Now it prompted only anguish.

“I am not the same man I was at Balliol,” Lord Wrotham replied. “Perhaps I didn’t want to deceive you into thinking that I was.”

“Not the answer that I wanted…” Ursula admitted. “But it was honestly given and I cannot fault you for that. Honest answers seem few and far between at the moment.”

Lord Wrotham registered her reply in silence. The strain between them was almost unbearable. She wanted, no needed, to see the man beneath and yet still he ignored her pain. Ursula felt a spasm of grief convulse through her. Lord Wrotham sat across the table from her, his face as immutable and hard as a gravestone.

“In the interview, Sir Buckley showed me a black bound notebook,” Ursula finally said. “He told me it belonged to Admiral Smythe but he seemed to think you also carried something similar. The notebook was filled with some kind of numeric code, though I’m guessing you already know that.”

Lord Wrotham still said nothing.

“You know Sir Buckley sent Chief Inspector Harrison to my house a few nights ago, trying to draw me out,” she said. “He thought I might be persuaded to testify against you. That would, of course, presuppose that I knew anything of value”—Ursula bit her lip, getting angry was not going to achieve anything and she exhaled slowly before continuing—“Why did you not at least tell me that Bromley Hall was in danger of foreclosing?”

“Is that what Sir Buckley told you?” Lord Wrotham asked.

Ursula nodded, her eyes not leaving his.

Lord Wrotham looked away and signaled to the guard. “Do you have a cigarette, by any chance?” he asked him.

Ursula drew a silver case from her skirt pocket and pushed it across the table. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she chided, “take one of mine.”

She knew, however, that he was just stalling for time.

“Well?” she prompted.

He struck a match and lit his cigarette. “Is it true about the debts?” he finished the question for her and then paused. “Yes,” he said.

“You should have told me,” Ursula insisted. “I could have—”

“Could have what? Given me money?”

Ursula’s hands clenched in her lap.

“You need to stop feeling guilty,” Lord Wrotham said. “You are not, nor ever can be, my savior.”

“Why does my halo not match my dress?” Ursula snapped.

“Ursula, you need to be serious…”

“That’s what I have been—perfectly serious—why do you insist on avoiding discussion on the very things that matter?! Why, if you are bound by some kind of obligation to Admiral Smythe, do you not tell me how I might decipher his notes? Why hinder me from finding evidence that may exonerate you?!”

“Deciphering Admiral Smythe’s notes may not be in anyone’s best interests,” Lord Wrotham replied.

Ursula bit her lip again as she tried to hold back her frustration.

“Tell me about Guyana then, at least,” she said.

“Why would you want to know about that?” Lord Wrotham said and the cigarette in his mouth dangled precariously from his lips. His surprise seemed genuine.

“What happened to the woman who died?”

“The woman who?” Lord Wrotham stopped. “Oh, you mean the woman who was pulled from the river.”

“Yes, the one who died of cyanide poisoning, just as they suspect Admiral Smythe did.”

Lord Wrotham rubbed his temples with his fingers. “There’s no connection so don’t start thinking that there is…” He stubbed his cigarette out in the small ceramic ashtray. “What has James been telling you?” he demanded.

“James?” Ursula queried. “Surely you must know that James has not been sighted since your arrest? It was Harrison who mentioned Guyana to me.”

The muscles around Lord Wrotham’s mouth visibly tightened. “Why would Harrison be speaking to you about Guyana?”

“He showed me an old file that was found in Admiral Smythe’s office,” Ursula said. “I want to understand what happened back then…”

“What happened in Guyana has no bearing on my case,” Lord Wrotham replied swiftly. “I will not be drawn out on it any further. As far as I’m concerned the matter is closed.”

Just like a lawyer, Ursula thought angrily, to treat the past as if it were little more than a case to be closed. She knew him better, though, than to continue this line of questioning and risk further friction between them. She also suspected that James’ continued absence troubled him more than he wanted her to know.

“You very conveniently skipped over the fact that I said that James is missing,” Ursula said.

“Did I?” Lord Wrotham replied.

“You’re not worried about him?”

Lord Wrotham’s eyelids flickered. “No.”

“Yet the afternoon of your arrest, you distinctly wanted me to ask him to drive me to Bromley Hall,” she probed further.

“Did I?”

“Yes,” she said. “And it’s made all the more intriguing by the fact that you are trying to pretend his disappearance doesn’t bother you…when it does, more than you like to admit.”

Lord Wrotham shrugged. “I’m sure he’ll turn up, he always does.”

Ursula was not to be appeased but as she opened her mouth to question him further, she caught his gaze and it stopped her cold. Once again she found him and his past an impenetrable fortress.

“What about your own notes or notebook? Won’t these explain what really happened in Germany?” Ursula asked. “If I could show these to Chief Inspector Harrison at least…”

“As I’ve said, without Admiral Smythe alive I cannot clear my name,” Lord Wrotham answered.

“But surely there must be others in the government that knew what you and he were doing?” Ursula protested.

“Given the circumstances they will most certainly disavow any knowledge of our mission.”

“But why?” she asked.

“Covert intelligence missions are hardly considered the ‘done thing’, my dear, least of all for a gentleman like me. There are many in the government who cannot stand to think of the British sullying our hands with anything as sordid as espionage. The thought that I may have used my business contacts abroad to gather enemy intelligence in one thing—but that I may have been masquerading as a traitor to draw out a treasonous conspiracy—well, that’s almost as bad as having been a part of it for real.”

“But”—Ursula started to object. Lord Wrotham reached out and held her hand for a moment. The gesture silenced her immediately.

“We just have to wait and see how the game plays itself out,” Lord Wrotham said with deliberate emphasis.

“Game?” Ursula retorted, but she kept hold of his hand. “I’d hardly call this a game!”

“In many respects that is exactly what it is,” Lord Wrotham replied, “and even I don’t know who all the players are as yet—which is why we must wait—Admiral Smythe was murdered for a reason, by someone whose motivations aren’t yet clear to me, so I need you to be patient, for your own safety.”

“Patience is
not
one of my virtues,” Ursula interjected.

“No—but patience may well reveal the truth.”

“About who is really behind all this?” Ursula said.

Lord Wrotham nodded, his gaze suddenly intense, as his hand gripped hers.

“Exactly.”

CHAPTER NINE

LORD WROTHAM’S BROOK STREET HOME, MAYFAIR

The afternoon shadows were already looming, dark and cold, in the recesses of the buildings along Brook Street when Ursula unlocked the front door to Lord Wrotham’s Mayfair home using the key he had given her less than a month ago. She was a stranger still to this place and, as she opened the door and stepped inside, she felt a strange thrill of excitement—as a child might feel intruding on forbidden territory.

She closed the door quickly and flicked on the electric hall light. The black and white flooring seemed stark but it was the presence of his coat and hat still hanging on the mahogany coat stand that caused a sudden pang of anguish. She reached over and let her hand travel across the smooth cashmere of his coat sleeve. No doubt the police had already examined the pockets when they searched the premises, but despite this Ursula still felt compelled to check the pockets herself. There was nothing but an old theatre ticket stub which, for Ursula, provided an agonizing reminder of how easily the normalcy of life could be snatched from her grasp. Less than ten days ago Lord Wrotham had accompanied her to the St. James Theatre to see
Turandot
, without any thought of what madness was to come. Ursula withdrew from the narrow entranceway abruptly—Such maudlin thoughts were ridiculous, she admonished herself. Lord Wrotham knew very well what was to come—of that she was now sure. Feeling a sudden twinge of resentment she passed through the high-ceilinged front hall and stood at the foot of the ornate carved staircase, tapping her lace up oxford shoes against the dark green carpet runner.

“Come on,” she whispered to herself. “Surely there’s something here that can help him.” Although Chief Inspector Harrison and Sir Buckley had already supervised a thorough and exhaustive search of the house, Ursula felt duty-bound to come here. Perhaps it was Lord Wrotham’s refusal to provide her with the satisfaction of any sort of answer that drew her here. Whatever it was it she was determined to keep looking.

She made her way up the stairs, fortified by a renewed sense of purpose, before pausing outside the door to Lord Wrotham’s bedroom. A quiver of wistfulness ran through her as she pushed open the door. She stood hesitantly on the threshold for a moment and then turned away (telling herself not to let emotions get the better of her) to walk along the landing. She reached the front room that overlooked the street and peered inside. She had only been in this room once before but knew it was the small library and study that Lord Wrotham used when he was in London.

It was hard to believe, Ursula thought, as she walked over to turn on the lamp on the desk, that the room had been disturbed. Everything was neatly arranged and perfectly positioned—from the fountain pen that lay at a perfect right angle, to the orderly stack of paper on the desktop, to the cushions set out in a row on the bench seat beneath the window. The books on the bookshelf were similarly neat—only the lack of dust betrayed that they had recently been removed, examined and replaced.

Ursula used her finger to glide along the spines of the books as she took note of the familiar titles: Arnold Bennett’s
Clayhanger
. Joseph Conrad’s
The Secret Agent
.
Anthony Trollope’s Eye for an Eye
. She hesitated when she reached the bottom shelf—for there were two books—that surprised her and she smiled, despite herself. Zane Grey indeed.

Ursula peered in each of the desk drawers, even getting down on her hands and knees to look for hidden recesses. As expected, there was nothing. Lord Wrotham was as skillful at hiding his past as he was able to twist a legal argument. There would be no photographs or journals, no long lost letters or accidental receipts. The house appeared to have been sanitized to the point that she almost believed Lord Wrotham had expected the place to be searched at one time or other. Drumming her fingers impatiently along the wallpapered walls, Ursula returned once more to the landing. The stairwell was silent and cool—like the interior of a medieval church. Ursula stood for a moment mulling her options, but, even as she decided which room to look in next, there was still the nagging question of what had happened to Lord Wrotham’s chauffeur, Archibald James.