Unlikely Traitors (18 page)

Dobbs’ strength took Ursula by surprise. She had been under his power once before, when he had threatened to kill her over her discovery of his part in the death of Katya Vilensky, and she was under no illusion that he would have any qualms about doing the same now.

“Soon,” Dobbs said, “you and I are going to have a long overdue chat about gratitude and respect—”

Ursula arched her back trying to cause him to lose his balance but all he did was press his hands against her wrists more tightly. “Although I grow impatient with our conversations,” he murmured in her ear, “I must confess I’m beginning to find the challenge…exciting…”

His tongue licked the tip of her ear and then slid down along her neck. Ursula tried to kick him in the shins but Dobbs pinned her legs down with the full weight of his body.

“Hmmm…” he said, his voice muffled by the folds of her shawl style collar. “I always knew you would smell good. I bet you taste even better.”He moved his head down to where her jacket parted and the cut of her silk shirt revealed the swell of her breasts. With the tip of his front teeth glimmering in the overhead electric light, he lightly bit at one of her nipples beneath the fabric. Ursula’s body froze with the shock of such a chillingly intimate and abhorrent act. She could not move. Could not fight him. Her body was too numb to react. A small dark patch of saliva remained on her blouse as Dobbs pulled away from her with a smile. Her senses finally awoke and she tore herself free from his grasp. But by now Dobbs was satisfied; he made no attempt to continue to hold her down. Nauseated, Ursula stumbled to her feet as Dobbs calmly walked to the door and unlocked it.

“I look forward to seeing you again, Miss Marlow,” he said. “When you return, as no doubt you will, begging me for further answers.”

As she passed him, Ursula faced him with such ire she could barely control the rage in her voice. “If I had a gun,” she said, “I would have killed you for that.”

“If you had a gun. Miss Marlow, I would have wrested it from you.” Dobbs leaned in towards her. “Then,” he said, “I really would have been able to have everything his Lordship has had.”

Ursula got into the back seat of Bertie and struggled to pull a handkerchief out from her skirt pocket. She kept her jacket buttoned tightly to hide the stain on her blouse.

“Are you all right?” Samuels asked anxiously as Ursula retched.

She nodded weakly. “Just take me home.” She could barely speak, the disgust was so great.

Samuels faithfully drove her home as quickly as possible, weaving his way through the London traffic with one eye open for any reporters who might still be hoping to catch a glimpse of her for their latest story. Thankfully there were none waiting for them outside Chester Square and Ursula was safely escorted by Samuels up the stone steps and inside before the neighbors’ curtains even parted.

Once inside, Julia bundled Ursula upstairs and stood by in stunned astonishment as Ursula tore off her jacket and shirt as soon as she entered her bedroom. Ursula threw them both to the floor before collapsing on her bed. Her breathing was still ragged and the sour taste in her mouth remained—even as she tried to drive the image of Christopher Dobbs from her mind.

“Can I get you anything, Miss?” Julia asked anxiously.

Ursula shook her head. “Just burn it,” she said, pointing to the offending silk shirt that lay crumpled on the floor.

“Burn it?” Julia echoed.

“Yes,” Ursula said as she laid her head back to contain the nausea that rose once more. “Burn it and then send Hugh Carmichael a telegram. Tell him I need to buy a lady’s gun.”

That night Biggs delivered a note from Chief Inspector Harrison. It was brief and to the point. No fingerprints could be obtained from the files found on Admiral Smythe’s desk. We are proceeding on the assumption that they are not forgeries. You should reconsider your position. Any information you provide me I can use to plead for clemency in His Lordship’s case.

Ursula tossed the note into the fireplace but as she leaned her head against the mantel she closed her eyes. She could see the photograph of the four men in her mind—captured on that idyllic summer’s day at Balliol—and was reminded of Tennyson’s words in the poem “The Princess”:
O Death in Life, the days that are no more
. It was all she could do to keep from weeping.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

BROMLEY HALL, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE

“What news do you have then?” Lady Wrotham asked, flicking the crumbs from her lap onto the floor where they were hastily licked up by one of the collies. Her tone remained petulant. No doubt, Ursula reflected, she wished to be in London where she could milk the drama of her son’s arrest for all it was worth, but Ursula was not about to install Lady Wrotham in her Chester Square home and Lord Wrotham had vowed long ago that his mother was never to step foot in his Mayfair abode. So Lady Wrotham had to be content sitting in the Green Room, but she did not have to pretend to be happy about it. Biding her time in the shadows of Bromley Hall was hardly the dowager’s style.

For her part, Ursula felt compelled out of a sense of duty to visit Lady Wrotham and relay to her what news she could of her son’s condition as well as progress in the case. Needless to say, Ursula told her nothing of her own enquiries, Christopher Dobbs, or the file on Guyana that Harrison had shown her.

“After all the grief he’s given me of late my nerves are in shreds! I tell you, if I never hear from my son again it will be too soon.”

“Lady Wrotham,” Ursula said gently. “I know you don’t mean that.”

The dowager pulled a lace handkerchief from the pocket of her chiffon blouse and dabbed her eyes. Ursula, unmoved by Lady Wrotham’s feigned sensibilities, reached out to stroke one of the collie’s ears (who were still hoping for further tidbits from Lady Wrotham’s plate).

“I’m sure it will all blow over in good time,” Ursula said as if comforting the dog. “You’ll see…It will all turn out to be a grave mistake, that’s all.”

Lady Wrotham stuffed the handkerchief up her sleeve. “From what I hear, that’s the last thing it will turn out to be,” she replied caustically. “How, pray tell, can I be expected to restore the family’s good name if I am not in London but stuck out here in the middle of Northamptonshire?! How can I disavow all knowledge of Oliver’s indiscretions—rebut the whispers and insinuations, if I…am…not…there?” The last four words were stressed with an emphatic shake of an index finger.

“It cannot be helped,” Ursula replied. “Believe me you are better off here where you cannot be hounded by the press.”

Lady Wrotham harrumphed. “I assure you, there are quite a few things I would like the press to hear…”

Ursula was not sure how much longer her irritation with Lady Wrotham could remain in check.

“Unless you have anything good to say about your son, I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself,” Ursula snapped. To her surprise Lady Wrotham actually looked abashed for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” Ursula apologized. “I shouldn’t be taking out my frustration on you. I just wish I could put the pieces together and begin to understand what’s going on.”

“When it comes to Oliver, I gave up trying to do that years ago,” Lady Wrotham responded with a sniff. “After Guyana the man was more private than ever—if that was humanly possible.”

“So he never told you anything about what happened there?” Ursula asked bleakly.

“No. Though I noticed that he no longer invited his Balliol friends to the estate—no loss, I assure you. But by then he hardly ever came up here anyway—always holed up in London with his legal work and his time in the House of Lords…Never took me to the continent did he? No—I was always stuck away here, forgotten…”

“I think I’d better go see if the library is back in order,” Ursula said, getting hastily to her feet. She had just about enough of Lady Wrotham’s selfishness for one day.

Lady Wrotham glared at Ursula as she gave the servants’ bell a short sharp tug. “At least Ayres continues to show me a little respect!” she said, drawing her head back imperiously.

Ursula hurried out of the room before she said something she would be sure to regret. In her rush, she almost bumped into Ayres in the hallway.

“Ah, Miss Marlow…was it you that rang?”

Ursula shook her head. “No, it was her Ladyship. I’m just escaping…I mean, on my way, to see how the library is holding up.”

“May I recommend that you avoid that Miss Marlow,” Ayres said. “I fear what you see there may…”

“Induce a fit of apoplexy?” Ursula supplied.

Ayres exhaled loudly “The Metropolitan Police have, I fear, failed, to respect our wishes and the place is in disarray. We are still trying to rectify the situation, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t worry, I will steel myself for what’s in store,” she reassured him. “Though, Lady Wrotham, I’m afraid, may require some fortification of her own…”

Ayres lifted up his tray. “I thought this fine sherry that you sent from Fortnum’s could be just the thing to lift her ladyship’s spirits.”

Ursula tipped an imaginary cap at Ayres with a smile and continued on her way down the hallway towards the picture gallery.

As she passed beneath the long row of pictures depicting the lineage of the Barony of Wrotham at Bromley Hall, she paused for a moment, and looked back with a frown. She turned to retrace her steps, her pace quickening as she saw Ayres returning from Lady Wrotham’s parlor.

“Ayres,” she called out as she drew near.

“Yes, Miss?”

“Where did you say sherry came from?”

“Fortnum’s Miss. Your hamper arrived this morning.”

“But I didn’t send any hamper…” Ursula started to say before her words were interrupted by a cry from the parlor.

Ursula and Ayres rushed back down the hall and threw open the door. As they entered Ursula saw Lady Wrotham admonishing one of the dogs.

“I swear,” she said turning to them. “My son is determined to drive me to an early grave—even his dogs are in on it! Just look what they made me do? Always getting in the way and tangling up my skirts…” she reached down to pick up the sherry bottle that had tipped over on its side.

“No!” Ursula cried out. “Don’t touch it!”

Lady Wrotham recoiled sharply. “What on earth is the matter with you, girl?!” she said. “It hasn’t all spilled you know!”

“I don’t think we should touch anything until we’ve called the authorities,” Ursula replied, her voice shaking.

“The authorities?! Are you completely mad?” Lady Wrotham retorted.

“Possibly,” Ursula conceded. “But I didn’t send any Fortnum’s hamper.”

“The hamper had your name on it, Miss, quite distinctly,” Ayres said, He paused as the implications of the situation sank in.

Lady Wrotham, however, ignored their concerns and shrugged. “I have many friends who may have thought to send me some sustenance in my hour of need.”

“Maybe,” Ursula responded. “But after what happened to Admiral Smythe do you really want to risk it?”

“It was most certainly laced with cyanide,” Chief Inspector Harrison said. “It’s easily disguised in liquids of this kind…and once either of you had drunk it there was nothing anyone could have done.”

Ursula was seated in one of the upholstered green and white armchairs in the Green Room while Lady Wrotham lay on the sofa, ashen faced, as Ayres placed a cold compress on her forehead. Once he had received Ursula’s urgent message, Chief Inspector Harrison had wasted no time in taking the first train from London. Though it had taken him all afternoon to reach them, he had quickly made his determination.

“The tell-tale almond scent is definitely there—you were just probably not able to smell it Lady Wrotham. Not everyone can,” Harrison said.

“But who would have done such a thing?” Lady Wrotham whispered. “I am beloved on the estate.”

Ursula kept her eyes firmly on the floor.

“Of course you are,” Harrison responded. Lady Wrotham opened one eye and fixed it upon his countenance.

“Do I know you?” she demanded.

Harrison coughed. “Your ladyship may remember my family—we lived on the estate many years ago. My father was one of your tenant farmers. We lived in the cottage at the edge of the Eastern meadows.”

“Didn’t your father move to London?”

“Yes,” Harrison replied. “After that portion of the estate was sold. My father joined his brother in the East End. They operated a couple of stalls in Spitalfields market.”

Ursula looked at Harrison curiously but she could sense his reluctance to say more. By now, Lady Wrotham closed her eyes—she had already lost interest in Harrison’s family.

Harrison folded his arms and turned his attention to Ursula.

“I’m glad you saw fit to send for me,” he said. “Whoever did this was indiscriminate—who knows how many people could have drunk that sherry. If you hadn’t acted as you did, the circumstances could have been dire.”

“The only two people likely to have drunk it,” Ursula reminded him, “were Lady Wrotham and myself. The servants would have hardly partaken.”

“Whoever it was, however, was reckless enough to risk others. What if there had been visitors?”

“Don’t you think, whoever sent it knew that we were likely to be alone? I mean given the circumstances, no one’s likely to come calling, are they?” Ursula responded, and though she tried to avoid sarcasm, some involuntarily snuck through.

“Do you think someone is targeting me because of my son’s treacherous activities,” Lady Wrotham interrupted, her voice hoarse.

“There has been a remarkable degree of publicity surrounding this case,” Chief Inspector Harrison admitted. “But no details of Admiral Smythe’s death have been reported. I know for a fact that no one in the press has been told about the cyanide. The official cause of death issued was drowning—we deliberately suppressed any mention of cyanide poisoning.”

“So it was probably Admiral Smythe’s murderer who sent us the sherry…” Ursula said. “At least this helps eliminate Lord Wrotham from your investigations into Admiral Smythe’s death.”

“Unfortunately, nothing so simple as that, Miss Marlow…Fortnum & Mason’s records state that the hamper was ordered by telephone under your account name and picked up by an unknown messenger boy yesterday morning.”