The Serpent and the Scorpion

by Langley-Hawthorne, Clare

  Julia pulled out an envelope from the apron pocket and handed it to Ursula.

  Ursula opened it quickly.

  The police came soon after you left this afternoon, and I was told in no uncertain terms to desist from making any further inquiries about Katya or Peter Vilensky. As you know, my husband cannot risk any further police scrutiny, and so, ma chérie, it may be some time before I can find out anything more. In the meantime, please be careful. My husband sends you a warning: Do not focus so much on the serpent lest you miss the scorpion.

  Part Three

  England

  Eight

  Yorkshire, England

  APRIL 1912

  The monoplane landed in a field of grass on the Earl of Hattersley’s estate in Yorkshire. A friend of Hugh Car michael and fellow airplane enthusiast, the earl was quite prepared to set aside a section of his vast estate to provide an airstrip for local pilots and aviation aficionados. It was supposedly spring, but Ursula could see little sign of winter ending. There were no new buds on the hedgerows or blossoms in the trees. Even the daffodils, usually the first signal of spring approaching, were absent. Ursula climbed out of the plane, clad in a pair of overalls and a long, hooded cloak. She threw back the hood and took off the goggles, grateful finally to be able to remove the wretched things.

  In her quest to return to England as soon as possible, she had been forced to leave Julia in Alexandria. The day after Lord Wrotham’s telegram arrived, the morning they were due to sail, Julia had awoken feverish and ill. Ursula, concerned about Julia’s condition worsening on the sea voyage home, with mixed feelings accepted Mrs. Millicent Lawrence’s offer for Julia to accompany her and Misses Norton and Stanley home the following week. Hugh Carmichael reorganized his business plans so he could join Ursula aboard the Austrian Lloyd steamer ship the Marienbad, leaving for Brindisi that morning. From there they traveled by train to Calais. Originally headed to France to undertake a series of test flights with his friend Louis Blériot, he offered instead to pick the plane up in Calais and fly Ursula across the English Channel. She was back in England in less than a week.

  Cold, grimy, and exhausted, Ursula was beginning to question the wisdom of that decision. Twilight was approaching, and the dull gray light of England oppressed her already. Unwittingly she found herself searching for Lord Wrotham’s familiar face, but there was only Samuels, Ursula’s chauffeur, standing dutifully by “Bertie,” the silver Rolls-Royce, waiting for her return. In the half-light, with Samuels’s solemn garb and the motorcar standing silent, Ursula was suddenly reminded of her father’s funeral.

  Hugh tapped her on the arm and bid her a hasty good-bye. He wanted to make it to Newcastle before the light faded entirely. With the assistance of three of the earl’s footmen, Hugh climbed into the airplane; the propellers rotated, and the engine engaged. After bumping along the makeshift airstrip, the plane was soon airborne once more.

  “Miss Marlow,” Samuels said, “it is good to have you back with us.”

  “It is good to be back, despite the circumstances,” Ursula replied, mustering a smile. She slipped into Bertie’s backseat. The leather was cold and uninviting.

  Ursula had heard the news of the tragedy of the Titanic while aboard the Marienbad and having known a number of those who had perished, she was glad to be safely home. She shivered when she thought of the men who had considered it unnecessary to provide enough lifeboats for all their passengers, irrespective of their class. Had she, too, become complacent in her wealth, arrogant enough to think nothing could sink her?

  “Any messages for me?” Ursula asked, unable to conceal the wistfulness in her voice.

  Samuels turned round and handed her a sheaf of papers.

  “We didn’t have time to inform anyone, Miss, since we received your telegram only this morning, but his lordship dropped this off for you a couple of days ago. It’s his notes on the incident in Oldham.”

  Samuels read her face and answered before she could even ask the question. “Lord Wrotham hasn’t been by Chester Square or Gray House, and Mrs. Stewart said we should wait and ask you first before we sent word of your arrival. . . .” Samuels’s voice dropped off uncertainly.

  Ursula mustered a weak smile. “No matter.”

  “Mrs. Norris is taking care of the arrangements at Gray House, and Bridget came up by train this morning,” Samuels continued. Mrs. Norris, Ursula’s old nanny, had remained on as caretaker of her old home in Lancashire, Gray House, after the Marlow family moved to London.

  “No need for you to worry. I’m sure everything will be fine. Drive on. It’ll be a few hours before we’ll be at Gray House. I’ll read Lord Wrotham’s notes in the car.” It didn’t take her long to become acquainted with what had happened at the Oldham factory. As always, Lord Wrotham was brief and to the point but even his stoic, matter-of-fact report could not dispel her anguish.

  Ursula slumped back into her seat, the notes crumbling in her lap as she gazed out, preoccupied, at the gray-green landscape.

  That night, after arriving late at Gray House, Ursula slept in the green bedroom that had been hers as a child. Bridget, one of the parlor-maids, had already lit the coal fire in the room and placed an earthenware hot water bottle between the sheets. With the warmth of the room and the familiarity of her childhood furniture surrounding her, Ursula fell into a deep and languid state that hovered on the verge of sleep but never quite crossed over. She kept thinking about Lord Wrotham’s notes and his concern (written as a terse postscript) that the fire was further evidence of possible industrial espionage. Her body was heavy and her senses dulled, but she could not rest. The clock on the mantel struck one, then two in the morning, and still she was held suspended. Her mind refused to quiet, and all the while, as her worries intensified and her languorousness became an oppressive torpor, she kept seeing a pair of cool blue-gray eyes, in a face masked by shadows, watching and waiting as if expecting her to speak.

  Ursula stepped gingerly over the fallen beam. The air grew thick with the acrid smell of smoke as her leather boots trod heavily on the piles of ashes beneath her feet. So this was all that remained, she thought bitterly, of her much cherished project. Ursula’s ambition had been to provide employment to those women whom society had discarded. Now her dreams had been reduced to nothing more than soot and ash.

  George Aldwych, previously the foreman of the nearby Oldham mill, had been in charge of overseeing the Oldham Garment Factory. Ursula saw him now, bent over a charred piece of machinery, trying to see if anything was salvageable. He looked pensive and tired. His beard, normally ginger, was streaked with black. George’s habit of stroking his beard when he was thinking had clearly taken its toll.

  “I’m sorry you had to return under these circumstances,” George called out.

  “So am I, though it is good to see you again, George. So much has happened, it seems like I’ve been away years, rather than six weeks.”

  “Aye, it certainly seems longer than that,” George agreed as he sifted through the ashes.

  “Where did they find the girl?” Ursula asked.

  George rose from his knees. “They found the body over there in the back,” he replied.

  “Can you show me?”

  “If you insist, Miss, but there ain’t much to see now. They took the body away over a week ago.”

  “Still, I’d like to see where she was found. She was my responsibility. I need to know what happened to her.”

  “Aye. Poor lass . . . well, follow me, then. She was found through ’ere.”

  Ursula followed George through the open doorway and into a room that had once served as the cafeteria.

  He pointed to a clearing in the ashes and debris. “That’s where she was, all curled up like she was just sleepin’.”

  Ursula walked over and crouched down near the spot.

  “Who was she?”

  “Arina Petrenko. She was one of the girls hired to help train the others.”

  “I vaguely rememb
er her. She was Russian, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, though you’d not know it. Said she moved here when she were a lass and she were almost as English as you and I. Not sure she even spoke Russian anymore.”

  “Do we know why she was here that late at night?”

  “No. We’re still waitin’ to hear what the police think. At first I just thought it was a ragamuffin or summat like that, but now we know it was Arina. Poor girl chose the wrong time to be in here, that’s for sure.” George’s mouth twisted.

  “What time did the fire start?” Ursula asked.

  “Oh, they reckon it musta started around half past ten. The fire brigade were called then, anyways, but by the time they arrived they couldn’t save the place.”

  “Who called the fire brigade?” Ursula asked as she stood up.

  George poked around in the pocket of his jacket. “Mrs. Entwistle . . . lives round the corner on Henry Street.” George pulled out a scrap of paper. “Yes, here we are. She said she phoned at quarter to eleven.”

  Ursula gazed up into the sky through what was left of the factory roof. “Run through the day again for me. You were the one who closed up as usual, right?”

  “That’s right. The whistle blew at five thirty. Same as usual. All the girls clocked off—I was there, so I would ’ave seen if anyone was skiving off in the back. Anyway, I did my usual rounds—checking on the machinery and such. Then I locked up around six. Same as I always do.”

  “And there was no one in the factory then?”

  “No, as I said, all the girls had clocked off their shift.”

  “After you locked up, what did you do?”

  “Same as always. Went to the Dog and Duck for a pint or two, then went home—it’d be around half past seven by then or eight—and had my tea.”

  “And you had the keys with you?”

  “I always have ’em. Keep ’em in the drawer in the kitchen.”

  Ursula put her hands on her hips. “No one else has access to the keys?”

  “No—except you, of course, Miss.”

  “Well, I know I didn’t let the poor girl in—what about other people? Had the keys gone missing recently?”

  “No.”

  “So she must have broken in.”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Hmm . . .” Ursula frowned. “It all seems very strange. Why would Arina break into the factory at night? Why did she not escape after the fire broke out? Had she set the fire? Was she disgruntled with working here?” Ursula reeled off the questions, knowing that George had few, if any, answers.

  “I guess we just ’ave to wait until the coroner’s inquest . . . though Arina were a good worker. She had no complaints that I heard.”

  Ursula remained thoughtful. “I think I should pay the coroner a visit. I need to find out as much as I can about what happened here.”

  “Right you are, Miss. I can take you to Dr. Mortimer’s if you’d like.”

  “No need. Samuels is waiting outside. Just tell me where I can find this Dr. Mortimer.”

  “Barrow Street. Number fourteen. He lives with his sister above the consulting rooms.”

  “In the meantime, why don’t you ask around a bit? See if anyone knows why Arina was here. I can’t believe it’s been over a week, and no one’s come forward with any more information. As you said, there’s nothing here at all that would explain what happened.”

  “None. She had no papers. No money. Nothin’. Her roommate nicked off just after the police came to tell her about Arina. No one knows where she’s gone.”

  “Well, we can only hope that the police have found something out by now—really, you wonder how a girl can simply vanish without anyone knowing how or why. But first, to the coroner—let’s see what he has to say.”

  Ursula carefully climbed over the debris and made her way out of the factory. She called out to Samuels, who was waiting beside Bertie, chatting with some of the locals. He hastily grabbed his cap, opened the rear door for her, and nodded as she told him where he needed to take her next.

  “Dr. Ainsley Mortimer.” He spoke with a slight hesitation before holding out his hand to shake hers. “I assume you are . . . Miss . . . Miss Marlow.” Ursula noticed he paused carefully over his words, as if quieting a stutter.

  “Please just call me Ursula. I’m here to ask you some questions about the girl that was brought in about a week ago—the one who died in the fire at my Oldham factory, I mean.”

  Ainsley Mortimer nodded his head and looked grave. “Perhaps you should come inside and sit down. I’m not sure I can say much—I’m awaiting the pathologist’s report for the inquest—but I’d be happy to tell you as much as I’m able.” He gestured to her to enter the room and followed her into his study, closing the glass-paneled door behind him.

  “Please take a seat.” He hesitated once more. “The surroundings aren’t quite what you are used to, I’m sure . . . but we like to think it’s comfortable enough.”

  “I’m sure this will be fine,” Ursula said, embarrassed that she should have prompted such a comment. Her voice drifted off as she looked about the room, which was filled with almost every conceivable scientific instrument, along with piles of papers and books that lined not only the bookshelves but also the floor and the top of the large wooden desk in the middle of the room. A skeleton hung from a post in the corner of the room, the bones of the feet and toes resting on a large pile of leather-bound books with macabre titles such as A Hand-Book of Post-Mortem Examinations and of Morbid Anatomy and A Popular Treatise on the Remedies to Be Employed in Cases of Poisoning and Apparent Death.

  Ursula went to sit down in a high-backed chair that appeared to be available for guests—and whose upholstery was clean, if a little threadbare.

  “I don’t usually have to share my seat with a skull, though, I must admit,” she said with a rueful smile, picking up the offending item and placing it on the desk.

  “Sorry about that,” Dr. Mortimer said, and then, eyeing the specimen jar containing a dissected heart that was serving as a paperweight, he began to apologize further, insisting that they had best discuss the case in his sister’s office instead.

  “You must think me a frightful mess. . . . My sister is forever telling me off for leaving this room in such a state. She doesn’t see patients up here, of course; the consultation rooms are down the hall,” Dr. Mortimer finished lamely, a curl of brown hair springing over his left eye despite his efforts to smooth it back.

  “Here is perfectly fine,” Ursula reassured him, barely suppressing a smile. “So your sister works with you—is she a nurse, then?” Ursula asked as she sat down on the chair. Dr. Mortimer picked over a pile of papers to make his way over to his desk.

  “She’s a physician, actually.” He sat down. “First of us to follow my father into the profession. She graduated from the University of Manchester in 1905. She was one of the first women to do so. I graduated the following year.” Ursula noticed how his gaze never left hers. Clearly he was waiting to gauge her reaction.

  “Impressive,” Ursula replied. “I’m looking forward to meeting her.”

  “As she is, too—she is a great admirer of yours.”

  Ursula’s eyebrows rose in surprise. Dr. Mortimer’s eyes crinkled as he smiled.

  “We are not so backward as to be entirely ignorant of your goings-on, Miss Marlow.” Ursula flushed, confused as to his true meaning. She was wary now, having met many people who relished the opportunity to dig up scandal and innuendo where she was concerned.

  Seeming to sense her confusion, he frowned. “I didn’t mean . . . ,” he started, but before he could complete his sentence, the office door was flung open by a tall, lanky woman in a pale green pinafore. The sleeves of her white shirt were rolled up to the elbows, and her hair, which was the same light brown color as Dr. Mortimer’s, was coming loose from the chignon at the nape of her neck. There was no mistaking them for anything other than brother and sister.

  “I thought I would find you
here. . . . Really, Ains, you are the limit! Fancy inflicting this pigsty on Miss Marlow. Now, then, I want you to both come along with me. Nancy’s popped the tea on, and we have a nice fire going in the lounge. I just saw our last patient—batty old Mrs. McCaffey, worst luck! But I managed to send her on her way with a tincture of valerian. We should be quite comfy and private in there, and Ains can give you all the information you need about that poor girl.”

  Ursula sat stunned by the onslaught of words.

  “Well?” Dr. Mortimer’s sister asked, with an impatient gesture at her brother. Ainsley rose from his seat.

  “Miss Marlow, my sister Eustacia.”

  Ursula got up and, still dazed, shook her hand. Eustacia grabbed her arm with a smile. “Come along, then,” she said. “Let’s get you out of this mess and into somewhere more salubrious. Ains, why don’t you ask Nancy to bring out some jam roll as well. I’m famished.”

  Ainsley chuckled. “As you can see, Miss Marlow, both of us must fall into line. I’ll be with you shortly. In the meantime, Stacie—maybe you could take this file with you? It has all my notes from the postmortem.”

  “Right-oh!” Eustacia took the file from him and started to lead Ursula out of the room and down the hallway. “Our father was coroner, you know. . . . It was his dying wish that Ainsley follow in his footsteps. It took him a few years to decide, but now he’s one of the few coroners in the country with medical and legal experience. Didn’t he tell you he also studied law? Typical! Anyway, better him than me, as coroner, I mean. I’d rather be taking care of the living any day of the week!”

  Ursula followed Dr. Eustacia Mortimer into the lounge and sat down.

  Eustacia looked at her squarely as she perched herself on the edge of the other armchair. “So,” she said abruptly, “why do you think these things are happening to your business? I’ve been keeping an eye out in the local newspapers, and it seems like this must be the fifth or sixth incident in as many months. Is it because you’re a woman, do you think?”