Unlikely Traitors (2 page)

Lord Wrotham picked up the revolver, holding it first in one hand and then the other.

“You aren’t actually thinking of going through with it?” Ursula asked.

“I see no alternative,” he said.

Despite his words, he placed the revolver back on the table.

“How can you say that?”

Lord Wrotham did not reply. There was no explanation. Only grim silence.

“You didn’t even question the charges,” Ursula said, lowering herself onto the sofa before her legs gave way altogether. The cool folds of the silken upholstery provided a welcome respite.

“No,” Lord Wrotham eventually replied, and she noticed the slight tremble in his hands as he lit and raised a cigarette to his lips. “If it has come to this then it can mean only one thing.”

Ursula closed her eyes. “And that is?”

“I shall hang.”

Ursula’s body started to shake uncontrollably. “How can you be so?—” she could speak no further.

Lord Wrotham sat down beside her on the Mackmurdo sofa. He closed his eyes for a moment and let the cigarette fall limp between his fingers. Ursula reached out and clasped his wrist. She closed her eyes and let the world, in all its senses and sounds, fade away. The rhythm of his pulse under her thumb seemed to be the only thing that stirred in the stagnant stillness of the room.

“This cannot be happening,” Ursula whispered. Lord Wrotham sat motionless beside her. “I thought we had finally found happiness…”

With a flash of anguish across his grey-blue eyes, Lord Wrotham yanked his hand away from hers and the world, in all its cacophony, came crashing back into the room. The call of the newspaper boy on the street corner, the shriek of tires as a motor car drew up next door, the muffled voices of the policemen in the hallway—all seemed deafening to Ursula’s heightened senses.

Lord Wrotham pressed the palm of his hands against his temple, the cigarette between his fingers still smoldering, unnoticed. “God, Ursula. If there was any other way…I would do anything to save you from this, but I have no choice. I will not risk exposing you to society’s utter condemnation. I cannot face a trial knowing what it will do to you and my family.”

“Even if you are innocent?” Ursula voice was hoarse. “For I cannot believe—”

The clock on the mantel struck the hour with four long, solemn chimes. Ursula stared blankly at the fireplace adorned with glazed green and blue tiles. Above the fireplace, framed against the eggshell blue walls, was a simple silver mirror, juxtaposed by two paintings by Kandinsky. Her eyes caught sight of the Liberty Tudric pewter bowl Lord Wrotham had given her, and their latest acquisition, the first piece of pottery they had ever bought together—A Ruskin high-fired, blue-vein vase.

She blinked back her tears once more.

Lord Wrotham tossed the cigarette into the fire. “What would you say if I told you the accusations were true?”

His face was inscrutable.

Ursula stared at him. “Then you may as well hand me the revolver and I will shoot you myself. Because if what Harrison said was actually true, then all that I know about you, all that I love about you, would be false.”

They faced each other squarely. Lord Wrotham’s eyelids flickered.

Ursula held her breath.

“I am no traitor,” he said slowly, “but I am bound by an obligation of secrecy which I cannot break. All I can tell you is that Admiral Smythe’s disappearance makes that obligation all the more confounding. Without him, I cannot defend myself against the charges made.”

Ursula felt a surge of adrenaline accompanying his words. At least now there was something tangible, something solid, she could grasp. He had confirmed his innocence and, amid all the uncertainty and fear, maybe this was her opportunity to prove herself worthy of his confidence. There were many locked doors in Lord Wrotham’s life. She was determined to open this one.

“Let me try and find the Admiral,” she urged.

He shook his head. “I fear it is too late,” he replied.

“I cannot believe that!” Ursula responded desperately, her sense of relief shattered. “I refuse to accept that you have no option but to shoot yourself or hang for a crime you did not commit!”

Lord Wrotham shuddered. “I’ve run through it over and over and I cannot…the alternative would be ruin for you. I will not subject you to that, no matter that I am innocent.”

“Trust in me then!” she responded vehemently. “Trust that I will uncover the truth and clear your name.”

He looked up with a faint, cynical smile. “Ursula, you cannot be expected to perform miracles.”

“Damn it! I’m serious. I’ve a brain in my head haven’t I? Need I remind you of the other cases I’ve helped with?”

“This is different,” Lord Wrotham said.

“I’m not offering you a choice,” Ursula retorted. “Why do you insist on being so utterly pig-headed?” She gathered up her breath to continue but something in the set of his jaw made her hopes sink. “Oh God, spare me from the Englishmen’s sense of honor,” she muttered, “and here I was thinking I was engaged to an intelligent”—She got no further before Lord Wrotham gathered her up in his arms and kissed her. For a moment she thought he was actually going to accept her offer, but then she felt him pull back and knew, with a stab of pain, that he was refusing her.

“I do this for you!” he said roughly. “I could not bear the pain this will inflict on you. I will not allow you to risk everything for me.”

“So you still doubt me?” she whispered.

Chief Inspector Harrison pounded on the door to the parlor. “My Lord!” he shouted.

“It is not you that I doubt,” Lord Wrotham said, ignoring Harrison. He scrutinized her with searching eyes. “I always knew there was a possibility that it would come to this.”

“I will not let you take your own life—not like this, not now,” Ursula replied, gripping his wrists once more.

“Ursula.” Lord Wrotham extricated himself from her grasp. “Don’t make this any harder than it already is. Say your goodbyes now and leave this room.”

Her heart, which had been pounding so hard and furiously that her chest felt fit to burst, gave a sudden spasm. She moved quickly and was beside the table, the revolver in her hand, before Lord Wrotham could stop her. She held the gun unsteadily with the barrel pointing at her chest. She expected Lord Wrotham to be angry but instead her actions appeared to sap the last of his strength. He stood with his arms hanging by his sides, looking gaunt and pale, like one of the ‘penitent proud’ weighed down by heavy stones in Dante’s
Purgatorio
.

“My Lord!” Chief Inspector Harrison pounded once more on the door.

“What is it to be then?” Ursula asked shakily. “Both our deaths or the possibility of reprieve if you let me try and help you?”

The parlor door burst open and Harrison entered accompanied by two uniformed policemen. “Miss Marlow,” he stammered as he saw the revolver in her hand.

Ursula took a step back, and the cliff-edge to which she had forced them both, fell away.

“As you can see, Chief Inspector, we won’t be needing this.” Ursula handed over the revolver carefully. “In the future,” she said. “You and Lord Wrotham should leave such dramatics to me.”

Harrison stared at her in astonishment.

Lord Wrotham walked over to the fireplace, took his silver cigarette case out, and opened it with steadying hands. He lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply.

After a minute of silence, Lord Wrotham spoke, this time in the smooth, even tones he used as King’s Counsel summing up a case before the High Court.

“Please advise Pemberton what has happened.” Lord Wrotham’s lips curled as he spoke. “See if he will deign to represent me. He’s the best criminal barrister I know.” The coldness of his tone was unbearable but, before she had time to respond, he started speaking again.

“I’m afraid I must also rely on you to break the news to mother.” Lord Wrotham was in full mastery of his self-control now, and his face had assumed the cold, angular aloofness that she remembered from their first meeting. “While you may not require smelling salts,” he continued, “she most certainly will.” He paused. “You’d also best let James drive you to Bromley Hall, he’s more familiar with the roads.”

Ursula looked at him blankly. She had visited Bromley Hall on numerous occasions and both she and Samuels, her own driver, knew the way there—but there was something subtle yet purposeful in his tone of voice and, though she did not think Harrison or the other police constables present detected it, she suspected there was a hidden significance to Lord Wrotham’s choice of his own chauffeur.

Ursula nodded her head, her eyes never leaving his.

“Tomorrow,” Lord Wrotham said, “you must also place a notice in
The Times
, calling off our engagement.”

Ursula’s head jerked back.

“No, Ursula, this is not a subject for negotiation,” he said calmly. “By morning this will be in all the newspapers. It will no doubt cause some measure of public hysteria and you will be the object of intense scrutiny. You should profess utter disgust and horror at the charges and, if necessary, toward me. No”—Ursula opened her mouth to protest—“it is the only way. Anything else and you expose yourself to vilification.”

Ursula shook her head. “But you are innocent! I will not abandon you. Not in private. Not in public. I will stand by you.” Even as she spoke, however, the truth of the situation started to sink in. She knew better than anyone else the power of scandal; she had been exposed to it enough by now. The magnitude of this case could overrun her entirely. No one would do business with anyone associated with an alleged traitor—not with the ever-present threat of war with Germany.

“Ursula,” Lord Wrotham said quietly. “There is no other way.”

She scrubbed her eyes fiercely with the cuffs of her tailored silk blouse. Part of her wanted to launch into an indignant tirade, but the other part of her, a quiet and insistent voice within, knew he was right. Her only means of survival was to call off their engagement and distance herself from him.

“You must pass on my regards to Admiral Smythe’s family,” Lord Wrotham continued, less evenly. “And yours too. Express our deep concern for the Admiral’s safe return. I’ve been a close friend of the family for many years and I would hate them to think”—Lord Wrotham stopped and Ursula, sensing his self control was finally faltering, automatically interjected.

“But of course.”

Harrison shifted from one foot to the other. “My apologies, my Lord,” he said. “But my orders were to bring you in immediately. I really cannot delay any further.”

“I understand, Chief Inspector,” Lord Wrotham answered as he threw the cigarette butt into the fireplace. He straightened his black cashmere frockcoat, flipped open his fob watch, checked the time with a quick glance, and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket once more. Then, presenting the very image of the composed urbane gentleman, he said, “I’m ready.”

One of the uniformed policemen, head glistening with hair oil, walked forward, struggling to undo a pair of handcuffs.

“Jackson!” Harrison exclaimed. “Those will hardly be necessary. We are dealing with a gentleman here, not your common or garden criminal!”

The young police constable turned beet red, halted, and stood in the middle of the room. “Oh, sorry…I mean, pardon…pardon me, my Lord…” he stumbled over his words.

Lord Wrotham regarded him impassively. “Please,” he replied with a shrug. “No need to apologize.” That night, Ursula sat in her study, staring at the fire. Her feet were curled up in the chair and a plate of supper lay discarded and uneaten on the floor beside her. Chief Inspector Harrison had refused to allow her to accompany Lord Wrotham to Scotland Yard, where he was to be formally charged and placed in protective custody. Instead, she had been forced to remain at home, like some domestic pet, caged and abandoned. Ursula, never one to tolerate captivity easily, had spent the next two hours restlessly pacing the room and making telephone calls.

The first call she made was to Sir Robert Pemberton KC, who sounded as though he had just returned to his Mayfair home from a long, late lunch at White’s. His response was one of bewilderment, but in slightly halting tones (he had obviously indulged in some fine wine over the course of the afternoon), he assured her he would go directly to Scotland Yard and apply for Lord Wrotham’s release on bail. Ursula knew there was little likelihood of bail being granted but regardless she clung to that hope and waited anxiously by the front parlor window. By nine o’clock it was clear Lord Wrotham was not returning and she stalked back into the study. Since making this first telephone call, Ursula had spoken to no one else except Biggs, her butler, who, upon hearing the news of Lord Wrotham’s arrest, paled but otherwise gave no outward indications of alarm. The fact that he promptly returned with a strong cup of coffee was comfortingly predictable, although Ursula had been surprised to find it was liberally laced with whiskey.

By ten o’clock Ursula was frantic. How she wished her good friend Winifred (‘Freddie’) Stanford-Jones was here rather than on an extended lecture tour of the United States. Freddie had long been missed, having left for New York almost six weeks ago, but now Ursula felt entirely bereft.

Not knowing what else to do, Ursula contemplated calling Hugh Carmichael, her business partner and friend, but knew he would only insist on rushing to London to try and help and she feared that would only fuel further rumors. London society already viewed her as an improper and unsuitable match for Lord Wrotham and she wanted to avoid any additional speculation that she was turning to another man in her ‘hour of need’. Having been the subject of many a lurid story, she knew all too well how the newspapers could manipulate the truth.

Ursula collapsed on the chair next to her father’s desk and buried her head in her hands. She felt she had to speak to someone or she would go mad. She picked up the telephone receiver, hesitated, replaced it again, and then finally placed a call to Gerard Anderson, her father’s old business colleague and her financial advisor. Ursula regretted her decision as soon as she heard his voice. Anderson, would, of course, focus on the potential business losses a scandal of this magnitude was likely to inflict. He was incapable of providing her the comfort she yearned for.
What was she thinking?