Unlikely Traitors (29 page)

Ursula had never seen him so stripped of all pretense, of all the trappings of manners or protocol that had kept him at a distance until now.

She lowered herself into a chair opposite him and bade him to sit.

“It’s all right,” Ursula continued and it seemed surreal to be reassuring him of all people. “I appreciate how shocking this must seem to you, but I thank you for your compassion. I wouldn’t have expected it.”

“What did you expect—my condemnation?” Harrison said hoarsely.

“Of course—what else would I expect from any man?”

Harrison flinched. “I’ve certainly given you little reason to think of me as any better,” he admitted.

“Well, perhaps we can now work together,” Ursula said. “James tells me you wanted to see me but that you have no news regarding Lord Wrotham.” Ursula could hear the cold blank timbre of her voice.

“It is true I have nothing further regarding his fate…I do, however, have information regarding Count von Bernstorff-Hollweg’s death. The German authorities have confirmed they are investigating the fire at his castle as arson and have identified a man matching McTiernay’s description as one of the key suspects in the incident. The police in Prague have also confirmed that they have evidence linking McTiernay to the murder of the Count at the Hotel Pariz.”

“Do the German authorities have any idea why the castle was burned?” Ursula asked.

“Their cooperation does not extend that far I’m afraid, but our theory is that he hoped the Count would perish in the blaze—but there may have been additional reasons. We may never know what incriminating evidence was destroyed by the fire.”

Ursula remained tight lipped.

“Christopher Dobbs has also supplied us with information revealing the extent to which McTiernay tried to sell him both information as well as procure armaments.”

“Has he now,” Ursula answered skeptically.

Harrison frowned.

“Don’t you think, given all that you know about Dobbs, that it’s just a little too convenient that he is helping the Crown case against Lord Wrotham?”

“I am as wary as you—believe me,” Harrison said. “But Sir Buckley trusts Dobbs implicitly.”

“Wonderful…” Ursula muttered.

“Dobbs is now a man with powerful connections,” Harrison reminded her.

“As if I could ever forget,” Ursula responded. She then struggled to her feet. “No”—she gestured to Harrison as he rose to his feet—“I am quite capable of walking across the room. I’m pregnant, not incapacitated…and besides, I have something for you.”

Harrison eyed her curiously as Ursula got up and walked over to the bureau where she had hidden Lord Wrotham’s field book as well as her notes. “I deciphered this while we were still in England, but have been waiting to put it to good use. Now seems as good a time as any to do just that.”

She pulled out the package she had wedged at the back of the bureau drawer, and turned back to Harrison.

“This contains,” she said, opening up the brown paper wrapper and pointing to the cover of Lord Wrotham’s field book, “all of Lord Wrotham’s observations from his time in Germany in 1911. It fully details his mission with respect to McTiernay and how Admiral Smythe and he hoped to discover the identity of a German spy they were convinced was operating at the very highest government levels. There are entries relating to naval exercises, ship building and conversations Lord Wrotham had with various German officials regarding a possible war with England. There are also details regarding Lord Wrotham’s mission to deceive McTiernay into thinking he was a fellow Irish patriot. I am prepared to give you the notebook and all my decryptions on one condition.”

“Which is?” Harrison asked slowly. From his face it was clear he was stunned.

“That no matter whether Lord Wrotham be discovered alive or dead, that he be publicly cleared of all charges. Nothing less than a complete exoneration will suffice. Tell Sir Buckley that if this does not occur, I will release details of Lord Wrotham’s field-book to the press. I doubt anyone in the War Office wants another wave of fear-mongering and invasion hysteria—and believe me, the
Daily Mail
will use all of Lord Wrotham’s observations to demonstrate that Germany is mobilizing for war. I also doubt that Sir Buckley will want the public to know that Admiral Smythe believed there was a German spy in his midst…”

Harrison tugged on his mustache. “Does the field book confirm that Lord Wrotham was acting on Admiral Smythe’s orders when he met with McTiernay and the Count?”

“Yes,” Ursula said. “It does and I am sure Admiral Smythe’s notebook will confirm this—you can tell Sir Buckley I know how to decipher that for him too—though not until Lord Wrotham’s good name and reputation have been restored.”
And I’ve learned whether Sir Buckley is the spy Lord Wrotham and Admiral Smythe were looking for
, Ursula thought grimly.

“If Lord Wrotham is truly innocent of all the charges laid against him then I have no problem agreeing—I cannot, however speak for Sir Buckley.”

“But you must—without his assurance, believe me I will contact Hackett at the
Daily Mail
.”

Harrison’s eyebrows raised. “You are certainly very decided in this matter…but why did you not give me this in London when you first deciphered it and learned the truth?”

“Because there are bigger things at stake here…” Ursula replied enigmatically. “I must ask you,” she continued, “to wait at least a week before you act on this.”

“Again, I find myself wondering why you are telling this to me now?”

“Because I may not be alive later to do so,” Ursula replied. “I need to make sure the field book is in good hands.”

“Ursula,” Harrison warned. “I know James and Lady Winterton are trying to help you but you must know that no good can come from confronting McTiernay. I urge you to tell me where McTiernay is and return to England.”

Ursula remained silent.

“Think about your condition!” Harrison protested.

“In my condition,” Ursula responded. “I need to know what has happened to the father of my child. I could not stand living with the uncertainty—the not knowing whether he lies in some ditch or shallow grave…” Ursula’s voice quivered.

“Oh, Ursula,” Harrison said quietly, and his informality seemed strangely poignant. “You don’t want to do this.”

“I need to see him,” Ursula insisted. “For one last time. Even if it be at his grave. I have to know what happened.”

Harrison’s rubbed his moustache. “I will wait a week before I show Sir Buckley the field book,” he finally agreed, “and you have my personal assurance that if it contains what you say it does then Lord Wrotham’s name and reputation will be restored.”

“As insurance I sent a copy of some of the more inflammatory extracts regarding Germany’s preparations for war to my good friend Miss Stanford-Jones in America. She has instructions that, should anything untoward happen to me and a full retraction of all charges against Lord Wrotham fail to be made public, then she is to send these to the
Daily Mail
.”

“I never doubted your resolve in this matter,” Harrison reminded her. “And I continue to owe Lord Wrotham a debt of honor which I intend to repay”—he gestured for her to remain silent—“despite what you may think about my ambition…It has not clouded my loyalty.”

Ursula nodded. She was satisfied, though the numbness within continued. It felt as though all joy, all happiness, had abandoned her.

Harrison leaned forward in his chair and regarded her sadly. “You must realize, Ursula, that the resolution you truly seek is not in my hands.”

“I know,” Ursula answered and her voice was hollow. She gazed out across the room, to the window and the fields beyond, her thoughts turning over the uncertainties in this case, uncertainties that meant that all her assumptions regarding the case could be wrong. She had to tread carefully now, lest all that she was about to set in motion come to naught.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

That evening James, Ursula and Lady Winterton sat in uncomfortable silence across the chipped-veneered dinner table. Ursula toyed with the food on her fork, her appetite diminished. James, finishing his plate of roast beef, placed the silver cutlery down with a clang. It seemed to awaken them all from their thoughts.

“Ursula, you really need to eat,” Lady Winterton admonished. “You’ve hardly touched anything.”

Ursula looked up from her plate and murmured. “Just not hungry I’m afraid.”

The thought of cyanide poisoning was, however, never far from her mind.

“Let us hope you’re not going to relapse,” Lady Winterton said. “Does James know of yesterday’s fever?”

James frowned and regarded Ursula with concern. She shook her head and muttered, “I’m fine…” But this did little to assuage him—or to lift the oppressive air of gloom.

Ursula chastised herself—she needed to use every opportunity to try and work out this case—not wallow in her own pity or fall prey to little more than suspicion and fear. As Grace served a meager dessert of fruit and cream, Ursula rallied her spirits.

“Catherine,” she said. “James thinks he has found McTiernay.”

She waited and watched for Lady Winterton’s reaction.

“Really?” Lady Winterton’s eyebrows rose. She cast a quizzical glance at James across. “You said nothing of it earlier.”

“Chief Inspector Harrison doesn’t know,” Ursula interjected, averting her gaze from the angry flash in James’ eyes.

“What are you planning on doing?” Lady Winterton’s question was addressed to James, but her eyes kept flickering to Ursula’s face.

“I haven’t decided,” James responded coolly. Ursula watched them both carefully but there was no evidence of collusion or of Lady Winterton’s true motives either. There was nothing but antipathy and with that Ursula had to be satisfied, for James refused to be drawn on any further aspects of the case or McTiernay. By the time coffee was being offered the room had once more descended into sullen silence.

“Is there anywhere that I can send a telegram from nearby?” Ursula asked, taking a final sip of coffee from her chipped china cup.

“Yes, there’s a post office in the village,” Lady Winterton replied. “Grace can go in the morning if you’d like.”

“James will go for me, won’t you James?” Ursula asked.

James nodded, still watchful.

“Who are you sending a telegram to?” Lady Winterton inquired, raising her cup to her lips. She paused for a moment before taking a sip.

“Why Pemberton, of course,” Ursula answered. “Chief Inspector Harrison said that Christopher Dobbs has been helping with the case and I’d like to know a little more about the evidence he’s providing them.”

“I had no idea Dobbs had become so involved in the case,” Lady Winterton’s tone was light and Ursula suspected it would take more than casual questioning to get Lady Winterton to divulge the true nature of the game she was playing. Ursula strongly believed, however, that Lady Winterton was the person who had blackmailed the Count into testifying against Lord Wrotham. Somehow Dobbs also knew this yet Ursula still had no evidence of anything more than a social acquaintanceship between Dobbs and Lady Winterton. Ursula knew she had to tread carefully lest Lady Winterton sense Ursula’s suspicions.

“Dobbs is nothing but a charlatan,” James interjected and Ursula was surprised by the bitterness in his voice. Clearly James knew all about Dobbs’ past sins.

“At least he’s a gentleman,” Lady Winterton replied acidly. “Which is more than can be said for you.”

For the first time that evening, James cracked open a smile and laughed. “Coming from you,” he said. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Lady Winterton flushed and for a moment Ursula detected once more the frisson of mistrust and wariness between them. It was like watching a cat and a dog circle one another, teeth bared, each silently waiting to see what move the other will make.

The next morning, after a fitful and hunger-panged sleep, Ursula stood in the library, watching from the library window as Lady Winterton approached across the meadow. The sun was low on the horizon behind her and framed with heavy massing clouds.

“You want me to cycle to the village to send this telegram to Anderson rather than Pemberton?” James asked.

Ursula nodded but did not turn—her attention was still focused on Lady Winterton.

James read the text of the message aloud.
Investigate Tir Tairngire on the investor list STOP Check who else knows STOP Dobbs?

“I don’t understand…” James said with obvious confusion.

“No,” Ursula replied enigmatically. “You aren’t meant to.”

James followed her gaze. By now Lady Winterton was crossing the rear courtyard as she made her way to the front door. She was holding a basket of bread in one hand and a wire milk bottle holder in the other.

“Ursula,” he said. “Is there something more you need to tell me?”

“No,” she replied as she continued to stare out of the window bleakly. The front door closed and they could hear Lady Winterton and Grace talking in the hall. “Not yet.”

James excused himself as soon as Grace and Lady Winterton entered the library. Ursula saw Grace’s cheeks grow pink as he passed her in the doorway, before Lady Winterton hastily instructed her to go and make tea. Lady Winterton turned to Ursula with a sigh. “That girl is hopeless—you’d think she’d have learned from last time!”

“I guess some of us are just perpetual romantics,” Ursula said with a wan smile.

“It could be worse I suppose,” replied Lady Winterton lightly. “She could be madly in love with a Bolshevik!” Ursula knew Lady Winterton’s levity was for her benefit but she could summon no more false good humor.

“Where’s James off to anyhow?” Lady Winterton asked.

“Just to send the telegram I mentioned last night,” Ursula replied.

“Ah,” Lady Winterton answered. “You didn’t want Grace to go…”

“It’s not that so much as I wanted James out of the house for a while,” Ursula answered. During the night she had wondered whether playing into Lady Winterton’s mistrust of James could have its advantages.

It took all of Ursula’s self-control not to ask Lady Winterton the questions she knew she would one day ask. Until Lord Wrotham’s fate was known she could risk no such disclosure. Until then, until Ursula could confront McTiernay, Ursula knew she had to play a dangerous game with Lady Winterton. A game of deception and disingenuous smiles. Of feigned friendships perhaps and, almost certainly, the bitterness of betrayal.