Unlikely Traitors (13 page)

Ursula mounted the rear servant staircase and slowly climbed her way to the top floor rooms. Lord Wrotham only brought James with him from Bromley Hall and employed a part-time housekeeper to maintain his London home. Accordingly, there was need for only one servant’s bedroom and this, Ursula soon discovered, was deserted. It certainly looked as though James had packed his affairs and left permanently for there was no indication, except for the folded linens at the base of the single bed, to indicate that anyone had ever occupied this room. There were no personal effects, no clothes or other mementos—nothing save a photograph hanging on the wall near a narrow attic window. Ursula walked over and examined the photograph. It was of a rifle regiment in full regimental uniform. She recognized James standing at the back, even though he must have been no more that eighteen when the photograph was taken. The caption read
Kings Royal Rifle Corps. (21st Finsbury Rifles), 1902
.

After a search of the small austerely furnished room revealed nothing further, Ursula went back down the servants’ stairs and crossed the landing once more, to enter Lord Wrotham’s bedroom. Like the study it was immaculately tidy, and yet Ursula was sure that this too had been thoroughly searched.

She opened the tall mahogany wardrobe and gathered up the black and grey frock coats in her arms, just to feel the texture of his clothes against her cheek. The smell of his cologne—a mixture of bergamot and lime leaves—lingered still. Although she double checked she knew she would find nothing in any of the pockets. Lord Wrotham was too fastidious to have left anything, though, no doubt it would have amused him to think of Chief Inspector Harrison and Sir Buckley poring over every scrap, list or receipt in search of clues. Ursula sat on the bed and sighed, chiding herself for being naïve enough to think that she could have found anything of value here. She went over to the chest of drawers and drew out two fresh white shirts. The top drawer contained collars and cuffs and she took some of these too. She reasoned that if she could find nothing of use here for her own investigation, she may as well get him a fresh change of clothes. In the inlaid wooden box in which he kept his cufflinks and tie pins, Ursula found a small prayer card such as those one may expect to find at a Catholic mission. It depicted Saint Dismas, with the words for a
Prayer for the Penitent Thief
written underneath the garishly colored picture.

Lord Jesus, help us to be merciful as you are merciful
.

O Sacred Heart of Jesus, make us love thee more and more!

Let us see that all are your children and remember that we are not to judge
.

St. Dismas, the Good Thief, pray for us!

Strange, Ursula thought, for Lord Wrotham was not Catholic—nor was he even particularly religious. She turned the card over in her fingers. Why would Lord Wrotham keep such a thing? She took it and placed it on the stack of shirts, collar and cuffs and walked back into the study. Beneath the lamp light she studied the prayer card a little more closely. In the top drawer of Lord Wrotham’s desk she found a small ivory-handled magnifying glass and looked at the small print at the bottom of the card. It read
St Ignatius Mission, Guyana
. She could well imagine Sir Buckley and Chief Inspector Harrison dismissing this as little more than a religious trinket but if Lord Wrotham kept this, and this alone, from his time in Guyana—then it must have some special significance thought Ursula. She felt sure that finding this prayer card, in a place where Lord Wrotham clearly wanted it to be found, was important. Lord Wrotham may not be Catholic, but Fergus McTiernay most certainly was.

Ursula looked up, startled to hear the slam of a motorcar door being closed. She parted the curtains and looked out to see Chief inspector Harrison emerge from a black taxi-cab below. Another man crossed the street to speak with him and Harrison looked up. Ursula, knowing it would irritate Harrison all the more, waved to him from the window.

Gathering up the shirts and collars in her arms, Ursula quickly turned off the lamp and made her way out of the study. She replaced the prayer card in the inlaid box—Harrison would undoubtedly notice and wonder about its significance should she have it with her. Hearing the front door open and close, Ursula she walked down the staircase to greet Harrison.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” Harrison demanded. “You must have known we would be watching the place.”

Ursula held up the pile of clothes in her arm. “I thought Lord Wrotham could do with a fresh set of clothes,” she said.

Harrison regarded her skeptically. “You’re hardly the sort of woman who needs to worry about another man’s laundry.”

“Why, did you think I came here to extract some vital evidence that you and your men had failed to uncover?” Ursula asked.

“I know you’re not the sort to sit idly by while we conduct our investigation…Did Lord Wrotham tell you to come here?”

“Since he spends almost every day at Scotland Yard being interrogated by you and Sir Buckley, I doubt he has the time. Besides, do you really believe Lord Wrotham wouldn’t have guessed his house was under surveillance?”

“I’d hardly call it that,” Harrison replied, “but I still want to know what you’re doing here.”

“Yes, yes…I know, you and Sir Buckley don’t want me undertaking my own inquiries.”

“Poking your nose around in this case could be dangerous—or didn’t you read the case file I gave you?”

“I read it,” Ursula said.

“But it didn’t change anything did it?” Harrison’s voice was quiet.

“No,” Ursula replied, equally quiet. “I’m afraid it didn’t.”

Harrison shook his head. “I’m going to have to ask you to accompany me to Scotland Yard. You will have to be searched by one of our police matrons.”

“What are you expecting to find on me—a cache of Irish armaments? A secret written confession by Lord Wrotham perhaps? Really Harrison, sometimes you treat me as if I’m a total imbecile…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Harrison said under his breath. “I’ve been trying to help you as best I can—but my actions must be above any form of reproach. When Sir Buckley hears you’ve been here he will demand to know why. I simply cannot afford to fall into Sir Buckley’s disfavor.”

“Your promotion—of course,” Ursula replied. She shot him a sideways glance. “So tell me, Chief Inspector, how is that all working out for you?”

Harrison’s baleful glare spoke volumes.

It was late into the night when Ursula was finally released from Scotland Yard to return to Chester Square. Sir Buckley had insisted the police matron conduct a thorough and ignominious search of Ursula’s person so that by the time Ursula arrived home she was indignant, frustrated and in a thoroughly rotten temper.

As Julia helped undress her (for the second time that day) Ursula vented her frustration in a series of tirades against the idiots of the Metropolitan Police, Scotland Yard and the War Office as well as the arrogance of small-minded, pompous bureaucrats like Sir Reginald Buckley.

“And they think civilization will collapse if women get the vote!” Ursula cried as she plunked down on the upholstered satin stool in front of her bureau. “The Empire is already doomed if men like Sir Buckley can not only vote but hold high office!”

Julia made appropriately soothing sounds as she pulled the hairpins from Ursula’s dark auburn hair.

Ursula leaned back and found some comfort in the rhythmic strokes as Julia brushed her hair.

“Julia?” Ursula said, yanking her head back up abruptly. “You grew up Catholic, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Miss…why do you ask?” Julia said and she continued brushing with calm, even strokes.

“What do you know about Saint Dismas?”

“Why, he was the good thief crucified with Christ on Calvary,” Julia replied. “He repented of his sins and Jesus promised he would go to heaven.”

Ursula studied her reflection in the mirror. “What kind of person, do you think, would pray to him?” she asked.

Julia screwed up her nose in thought. “Perhaps someone who had been dishonest in his life who wants forgiveness before death…I’ve heard of those in prison praying to him, seeking restitution for the sins they have committed,” Julia paused,. “for Saint Dismas is the patron saint of those condemned to death.”

Ursula fell silent. The prayer card seemed so incongruous, yet she could not ignore the sense that it offered an insight into the past—into the men that had gone to Guyana and whose friendship had been irrevocably altered by what had occurred there. All that she had read in Admiral Smythe’s file suggested that there had been some kind of fraud involving The Imperial Gold and Diamond Mining Company, something unscrupulous enough to compel Lord Wrotham to suppress evidence regarding the murder of Bernice Baldeo. Could McTiernay have been both murderer and thief? Was it he who had given Lord Wrotham the prayer card?

The specter of McTiernay’s involvement could also not be ignored. A Catholic and fiercely patriotic Irish man, he had been Lord Wrotham’s best friend until the events in Guyana fractured their friendship. Yet now Lord Wrotham was accused of colluding with him once more. What really happened back in Guyana, Ursula thought, as she studied her reflection once more. If McTiernay was the one who gave Lord Wrotham this prayer card, was it offered as some kind of apology? A plea for absolution? Or had Lord Wrotham brought it out more recently as a reminder that there remains hope even for those condemned to death?

CHAPTER TEN

The following evening, Ursula was once again forced to rely on Julia’s good opinion. This time, however, it was on the necessity of fulfilling a social engagement.

“Julia, I hardly think attending a charity function is good idea at the moment.” Ursula looked down at the sequined gown Julia had laid out for her on the bed in dismay.

Julia handed her Lady Winterton’s invitation. “You did accept the invitation some weeks ago,” she reminded her.

“Yes, but that was before…besides, she would hardly expect or want me to attend now!” Ursula protested.

Julia studied the wallpaper.

“You think I should go, don’t you?” Ursula said as she sat down in front of the bureau with a sigh. “But why?”

“It might do you good to go out,” Julia said.

Ursula picked up her silver handled hair brush and idly ran her fingers along the bristles. “Instead of moping around here, you mean?” she asked.

“I just think you should be out in society—showing them that you are still standing strong—that’s all, Miss,” Julia replied.

“But what if they shun me?” Ursula asked, her vulnerability suddenly exposed. “What if even Lady Winterton refuses to have anything to do with me?”

“But Lady Winterton’s a friend, Miss,” Julia said

Ursula leaned on her elbows, put her head in her hands and closed her eyes.

“She’s not Miss Stanford-Jones, I know,” Julia said quietly as she started to unbutton the back of Ursula’s blouse, “but perhaps she can still help.”

Ursula’s lifted her head and glanced across to Freddie’s letter which lay open on the top of the chest of drawers. No doubt by now newspaper reports of Lord Wrotham’s arrest would have reached San Francisco but Ursula had not been able yet to find the right words to express how she felt in a letter to her friend. Freddie’s last letter was so buoyed with hope that Ursula hated the thought of her rushing back to England on Lord Wrotham’s account (especially as he and Freddie rarely saw eye to eye on any issue). Ursula believed strongly that Freddie’s place was in America promoting the ideals of universal suffrage and socialism but she also knew that Freddie was just as likely to cancel her lecture tour and return to England if she thought Ursula needed her. Although she dearly wanted to have her friend by her side, Ursula knew that there was little Freddie could do to help her.

“You’re right, as always, Julia,” Ursula said with a sigh. “I should stop my fretting and face society—I’ll have to do it sometime and I may as well do it in the home of a friend. Lady Winterton did at least acknowledge me on Oxford Street—who knows, perhaps she can even shed some light on Lord Wrotham’s past.” Ursula stared at her own reflection moodily.

The door bell rang below.

“Ah,” Julia said. “That’ll be Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith.”

“Julia?” Ursula warned. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing, Miss,” Julia replied but her dimples were starting to show. “I must’ve just forgotten to say that Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith called this afternoon, asking about tonight…”

“And you and Biggs thought that I’d have to go if Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith thought she was accompanying me…Really Julia, you’d think I was a child!”

“Mister Biggs and I just wanted to see you all dressed up with a smile for once—”

“It’s all right Julia,” Ursula’s irritation died as quickly as it had flared once she saw Julia’s earnest expression. Ursula clasped Julia’s hand. “I understand and, believe me, I appreciate the sentiment.”

Julia gathered Ursula’s auburn hair in her hands.” Let’s make sure you do Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith proud.”

After a further ten minutes of tucking and pinning, Ursula’s hair was tamed and curled into a simple psyche knot offset by a broad grey velvet headband and silver, sapphire and pearl encrusted dragonfly pin. Julia assisted Ursula into the loose fitting gown with its grey silk diaphanous silvery folds, and mother-of—pearl sequins. Finally she handed Ursula a string of grey pearls—the same ones her mother had worn when she was young. Ursula looked at them with sadness, even as she heard Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith’s voice through the floorboards. She felt a pang of wistfulness—a longing for the past and all its innocence—but instead it was the ghosts of all those that she had loved and had lost that haunted her now: her mother; her father; friends like Katya Vilenksy. All gone yet ever present. It was a burden that at times seemed too much to bear.

Lady Catherine Winterton’s Kensington home was bedecked with flowers—a testament to the abnormally mild weather for this time of year. She had blue primroses, irises and crocus, greenhouse roses and honey-scented hyacinths, all in vases or garlands used to decorate the strands of wound ivy that curved along the balustrade of the main staircase. A long buffet table had been strategically positioned in the center of the ballroom topped with canapés, plates of oysters, lamb and even quails stuffed with foie-gras. The focal point of the table was, however, a tall peacock made of marzipan and fruit. Although Ursula knew most of the guests by sight, there was no one, apart from Lady Winterton, who Ursula would call a friend. There were certainly no other members of the local branch of the Women’s Social and Political Union that Lad Catherine and Ursula attended—Lady Winterton was much too savvy to commit that kind of social blunder. She was careful not to divulge her political views among the London society set and, unlike Ursula, shunned any form of radicalism.