Authors: Clare Langley-Hawthorne
On Harrison’s signal, the three police constables started making their way up the stairs to begin their search.
“What is it that you hope to find?” she asked, surfacing from the daze for a moment. “A pair of wings?”
“Don’t act as if you don’t know exactly what happened?!” Harrison said. “Who did you pay to do this?”
Ursula inhaled deeply, her head was still spinning and she felt dangerous close to collapse. Summoning all her powers of self-possession beneath his onslaught, she said: “You overestimate my sphere of influence if you think I could have had anything to do with his disappearance.”
“Don’t be a bloody fool, Harrison,” James’ voice called out from the doorway, “or did you lose all your brains when you joined Special Branch?!”
Harrison spun around.
“Archie, what the hell are you doing here?!”
“Good morning to you too, Chief Inspector,” James replied. He glanced at the clock on the mantel as he entered the room. “Seems a little early, don’t you think, for such histrionics?”
“I am merely surprised to see you Archie,” Harrison said, using James’ first name. “I was under the impression that you had gone to ground. Otherwise, I would have had you arrested by now.”
“What, on conspiracy to abduct a Lord?” James responded. “That seems a little excessive don’t you think? Even for you.”
Harrison’s jaw clenched.
“What are you doing here Archie?”
“While I’ve been away, you seem to have forgotten your manners as well as your common sense,” he said, ignoring Harrison’s question. “Miss Marlow is quite clearly in shock. What did you hope to achieve barging in here with a search warrant?!”
Harrison’s face was still white with rage.
“What are you going to say if they discover his body?” James asked, approaching Harrison with maddening calmness. “How are you going to explain that to the District Commissioner when Miss Marlow files a complaint about your harassment? You’re an ambitious man, Harrison, think like one!”
James turned his attention to Ursula. “Miss Marlow,” he said gently. “Perhaps you should sit for a moment—”
Ursula lowered herself into the chair before her knees gave way.
“Do these men have any idea what they are even looking for?” asked James, gesturing to one of the constables who was opening the drawers of Ursula’s desk, “or is this all just show to make your point?”
“And what point would that be?” Harrison asked, his mouth drawn to a thin line beneath his moustache.
“That you and the rest of Special Branch really have no idea what is at stake here.”
“I know that one man is dead and another conspired to murder the King and use German arms to foment a war in Ireland,” Harrison said bitterly. “I also know that two of
my
men, my bloody men Archie, were murdered last night.”
“Is that so?” James replied coolly. “Well, you should have taken greater precautions.”
Harrison’s jaw twitched dangerously. “And you should stick to driving motorcars,” he snarled.
“You always did underestimate me didn’t you, Ian?” James replied. Ursula was startled out of her thoughts by the unexpected use of Harrison’s first name.
Harrison turned to Ursula. “Miss Marlow,” he said. “I need you to get dressed and accompany me to the police station for questioning in relation to the disappearance of your fiancé while in police custody.”
It was pure defiance that brought Ursula to her senses. “Lord Wrotham is not my fiancé,” Ursula said, trying to keep her voice level and calm. “As you would know that if you read the newspapers.” With shaking hands Ursula pulled her robe in tight around her. It was a relief to feel it the fabric between her finger tips, especially as she faced Harrison’s hostility.
“Whatever your relationship to Lord Wrotham is,” Harrison said, “we need to question you further. When was the last time you saw him?”
“Two weeks ago—before I left for Germany with his mother.”
“Did he tell you he might be moved to another prison?”
Ursula shook her head.
“Then what did you speak to him about?” Harrison demanded.
“Byron mainly,” Ursula replied. “Though perhaps we progressed to Tennyson too—I can’t say I really remember.”
“Do you think this is some kind of joke?” Harrison demanded.
“On the contrary,” Ursula replied and a spark of anger flared. “The only thing I regard as a joke is your behavior. Do you honestly think I had anything to do with his disappearance? That I am standing here sick with worry because I don’t know whether he is alive or dead—enduring this farce of a search—all because you and your department failed to do their job properly? You know the man—Lord Wrotham is the last person to shirk his duty just as he’s the last person to be a traitor. If you weren’t so caught up in your own petty ambitions you would see that—and you would know that what happened last night was a dreadful, dangerous thing. Has it failed to occur to you that the same people who murdered Admiral Smythe, who shot Count von Bernstorff-Hollweg in Prague, now have Lord Wrotham?”
After two hours of questioning in an unventilated interview room at Scotland Yard, Ursula was finally released. James was waiting for her outside. He too had been subjected to an intensive bout of questioning. Samuels was nervously waiting for them on the corner in Ursula’s Silver Rolls Royce, ‘Bertie.’
“Did they find it?” Ursula murmured quickly as she joined James, bypassing all preliminaries in her anxiety to know the fate of Lord Wrotham’s field book.
James shook his head. “Samuels and I managed to hide it before they searched our room. It’s safe.”
Ursula visibly relaxed. “Where is it?”
“Hidden behind the skirting board in Samuel’s room.” James opened the passenger door of the motorcar for her as Samuels cranked the engine.
“Do you think Harrison finally believes you had nothing to do with Lord Wrotham’s disappearance?” James asked.
“God only knows,” Ursula replied, scrubbing her weary eyes. “He’s calmed down at least.”
“They’ll no doubt have you and me under detailed observation now—so we must be careful,” James warned. He slipped into the rear seat beside Ursula as Samuels started to drive off from the curb
“I’m not unfamiliar with their tactics,” Ursula responded. “They’ve used them on fellow members of the WSPU, besides I don’t have anything to hide.”
“Well, I for one would rather not have Harrison nipping at my heels,” James said. “I plan to leave for Manchester this evening—and then, depending upon what I discover—on to Dublin.”
Ursula bit her lip. “Do you think…” she could not bring herself to ask the question.
“You mustn’t give up hope yet,” James replied but his eyes belied any hope of finding Lord Wrotham alive. “You should stay in London for the moment—until I know more.”
Ursula, usually one to chafe under such pronouncements, merely nodded. She stared pensively out of the car window as they drove through Piccadilly Circus. The crowds and the noise were deafening to her ears. Ursula closed her eyes.
“You must focus on deciphering the field book now,” James said.
Ursula opened her eyes quickly.
“Lord Wrotham’s disappearance has convinced me that we should find out what it contains—this ‘game,’ whatever it may, be is playing out in ways I don’t understand. Since you may be the best chance of deciphering it—I’m leaving it with you.”
Ursula nodded, buoyed by the prospect of tackling an issue she had some hope of actually resolving.
“We can only hope it offers us some information we can use,” James said with an air of despondency that deflated Ursula’s hopes. “I’ll contact you from Dublin if and when I have any news. You can join me there when I have found out where McTiernay has taken Lord Wrotham.” This glimmer of optimism seemed forced, as if he was trying too hard to convince himself that things were not so desperate after all.
After a pause, Ursula looked away. “I think we all have to accept that the only thing I am likely to find in Ireland,” she said, “is Lord Wrotham’s grave.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Ursula spent the next three days holed up in her study trying permutation after permutation of possibly cipher keys to no avail. She started on the assumption that each number used was a substitute for the initial letter of a word in a particular text—but after many hours of using (what she considered) the most obvious books, she was no closer to discerning the code used. Ursula resorted to trying a frequency analysis on the first three pages of the field book, but, again this revealed nothing intelligible. It only confirmed her belief that a complicated substitution cipher must have been used.
She felt sure that the men at Naval Intelligence would have already sifted through the most likely texts in Lord Wrotham’s library, but even they would have been unable to comb through the sheer number of possibilities. No, she reasoned there must be something specific that she alone was likely to guess—why else would Lord Wrotham tell James that she was the person most likely to work out the code he had used?
A telegram arrived from James on the third day which only served to increase her frustration. It read:
Trail from Manchester gone cold. STOP Possible he was taken alive. STOP
“Damn it all,” Ursula sighed. The papers on her desk slid off and scattered on the floor as she tossed her fountain pen down in disgust. “Why can’t I work out this damn code?!”
Later that night, Ursula sat at the same desk, her head between her hands. The mantel clock struck midnight but still she remained motionless. She did not want to admit defeat. Stacked around her were all of the books she owned which she knew Lord Wrotham had in his collection. She also included all the books he had given her as gifts—but where to start? The possibilities for the code were virtually endless. She had never felt as useless or as stupid as she did now.
Biggs entered, silent and stealthy. He placed the letter beside her before she even heard him enter. She looked up with a start.
“What is it, Biggs?” she asked groggily.
“I found this slipped under the front door, Miss,” he replied.
Ursula took the letter and, recognizing the handwriting, drew a sharp breath before opening it.
Who knows how much time you have left, if any? My offer still stands
.
“Biggs,” Ursula said slowly.
“Yes, Miss,” he replied, turning around.
“Throw this in the fire and burn it,” she said bitterly. Christopher Dobbs may think what he like, but she would be damned if she would give him the satisfaction of asking for his help—not at the price he wanted her to pay.
Another telegram from James arrived the following day, just as Ursula returned from an appointment with Doctor Unger of Harley Street.
Have arrived in Dublin. STOP Conflicting reports from contacts here STOP Will advise further. STOP Prepare yourself for the worst. STOP
Ursula read the telegram in silence before dismissing both Biggs and Julia from her presence. She was still no closer to deciphering the text in Lord Wrotham’s field book.
“Tell everyone that I do not wish to be disturbed,” she instructed Biggs, before shutting herself up in her study. She spent the afternoon sitting in the armchair by the dying coal fire, insensitive to the failing light or the growing chill in the room.
At six o’clock, Julia brought in a dinner tray, the contents of which remained untouched.
Just before nine, Ursula emerged from the study and walked upstairs. Julia undressed her in anxious silence, but for once Ursula would not be drawn into any discussion. She remained uncharacteristically taciturn and reserved. Finally, as she eased herself between the cool cotton sheets of her four poster bed, Ursula lay very still, hoping for some relief from her many worries and a dreamless sleep. Instead, exhaustion dragged her down deep into a cavern of dark and ominous dreams.
She had a vision of her mother lying ill in a dimly room. She saw her father’s eyes as he looked up at her as he died. Her memories were fragile and glassy. She could still see their faces, still feel the sensation of loss smooth and cold against her heart—yet the feeling that she might easily clasp too tight, shatter those memories with the mere pressure of her fingers alone, remained. Ursula woke up to find her pillow wet with tears.
Ask me no more
, she heard Lord Wrotham’s voice,
thy fate and mine are sealed
. Ursula squeezed her eyes shut, remembering him reading that poem to her aloud. His words had been like a stream that carried her gently along, but her sweet reminiscence now offered no comfort. She opened her eyes and gazed up and the ceiling. She thought of the rest of the stanza—
I strove against the stream and all in vain
Surely it was not as easy as that?
Let the river take me to the main:
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;
Ask me no more.
Ask me no more. How could she of all people been so blind?
Ursula jumped out of bed and, pulling on her silk robe and slippers, hastened out of the bedroom and down the stairs to her study.
The book code was not based on anything in Lord Wrotham’s library. It was based on the first book of Tennyson’s poems he had ever given her. That she should have failed to realize until now that she had never seen that particular edition on his bookshelf seemed dull-witted in the extreme. She grabbed the book from the shelf and opened up its soft burgundy leather cover. From the teal and gold leaf pattern front-piece to the pages edged with gold, the 1899 edition was a beautiful book that included plates from Gustave Dore’s famous drawings. Ursula hunted for the poem
The Princess
and then, on page 210, she found the passage she was looking for. Sitting at the desk she then counted the words, and after a few minutes of trying different permutations—first line number then word number, the first lines of Lord Wrotham’s field book were finally clear.
“My orders require the re-opening of old wounds. Possibly it is my own despair that allows such reckless disregard for the pain that will no doubt be inflicted as a result. Betrayal is never something to be taken lightly. McTiernay may believe himself to be the penitent thief but the Count will always play the true role of Judas. A man’s conscience and his judgment is the same thing; and as the judgment, so also the conscience, may be erroneous.”