The Serpent and the Scorpion

by Langley-Hawthorne, Clare

  Lady Winterton looked surprised, but appeared to accept Ursula’s explanation.

  Ursula drew the curtains in the study as Winifred moved a chair for Lady Winterton up against the mahogany desk. Ursula laid out the copy of the letter fragments that Winifred had drawn up.

  Lady Winterton drew out a pair of pince-nez glasses from a beaded bag that hung from her skirt and peered over it.

  “I’ve been reading some very interesting texts,” she said as she drew out her notebook and fountain pen and proceeded to start writing. “One, Le Cryptographie militaire, was most enlightening. I’ve also been reading Kasiski’s famous treatise on solving the Vigenère cipher, of course, Die Geheimschiffer und Die Dechiffir Kunst.” Lady Winterton looked up expectantly. “I have you to thank, Ursula, for that; your mention of the Vigenère cipher was very helpful.” Both Ursula and Winifred regarded her blankly. Lady Winterton laughed, took off her glasses, and sat back in her chair. She then proceeded to explain the various forms of codes and ciphers she had discovered in her research. Both Ursula and Winifred listened closely.

  “I don’t think that this is a substitution cipher,” Lady Winterton concluded. “The Cyrillic letters used don’t follow any pattern likely for that. I also doubt that a really elaborate cipher would have been used for something like a love letter. I mean, you wouldn’t expect someone to have the necessary skill to develop or unscramble such an effort.”

  Ursula and Winifred exchanged glances, but Lady Winterton didn’t seem to notice. She merely instructed them to remain quiet while she tried some alternative methods of deciphering what was written. Ursula waited anxiously, but in the end, after nearly two hours, Lady Winterton sat back on her chair with a resigned sigh. “It’s no good,” she said. “I can’t get anything to work. Nothing translates into anything that even resembles actual Russian words. I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I can help you.”

  Ursula unhooked her collar and sat back in her chair. She felt stiff and uncomfortably hot from being in the overheated study for so long.

  “I must confess,” Lady Winterton continued, “it seems strange that such an elaborate cipher, whatever it may be, was used for a love letter. But I guess I’m just a novice at this after all.”

  Winifred got to her feet, stretched, and yawned loudly.

  “I’ll at least leave you my Russian dictionary, just in case you can use it,” Lady Winterton said. “And I’ll send over some of my books in case you want to do some research yourselves.”

  “Thank you,” Ursula replied before Winifred exclaimed, “Crikey! It’s nearly midnight.”

  “Time obviously ran away with us,” Lady Winterton responded with a smile as she too got to her feet. She looked unruffled as always.

  “I expect I will be seeing you at the Empire Day ball tomorrow night, Ursula,” Lady Winterton said.

  “Yes,” Ursula replied, rising and ringing the bell for Biggs.

  “I assume you and Lord Wrotham will be arriving together.”

  “No,” Ursula replied. “I will be going alone.”

  “Lord Wrotham is out of town?”

  “No, I don’t believe so.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that you and Lord Wrotham were . . .” Lady Winterton left the question hanging in the air.

  “It’s late, and I’m sure everyone’s very tired!” Winifred interrupted, sparing Ursula the need to reply.

  Biggs entered bearing Lady Winterton’s hat, coat, and gloves. He calmly informed her that Samuels was already waiting outside to drive her home. Ursula gave Biggs a grateful smile. Even in the dead of night, he could be relied upon to behave impeccably.

  “I hope to see you tomorrow evening,” Lady Winterton said. “I’m only sorry I could not help you more.”

  The next morning, bleary-eyed and pensive, Ursula sat in the front parlor, trying to decide on her next steps. She resisted the temptation to call Lord Wrotham, knowing that to do so was likely to raise only further confusion as to the nature of their relationship. Lady Winterton had unsettled her enough in this regard.

  Tapping her fingers lightly, she gazed out over Chester Square. Presently she rang the bell for Biggs.

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “I’d like you to telephone Christopher Dobbs’s residence. Tell his butler or whomever it is that answers that I’d like to set up a meeting with him. Preferably today.”

  “Of course, Miss.” Biggs replied and exited the room. Ursula sat on the Mackmurdo sofa and stared out the window.

  A few minutes later Biggs returned.

  “I’m afraid Jeffries informs me that Mr. Dobbs is otherwise engaged this morning. He is expecting visitors apparently. I inquired whether Mr. Dobbs would be available by Monday or Tuesday, but Jeffries was decidedly noncommittal.”

  “Never mind, Biggs,” Ursula replied, but she was intrigued by the reference to visitors. It was too enticing to ignore. “Actually,” Ursula called out as Biggs was about to leave, “ask Samuels to bring Bertie round right away. I need to go out for a few hours.”

  “Shall I tell Cook to expect you back in time for luncheon?”

  “Yes,” Ursula answered distractedly. “Oh, and tell Julia not to worry. I promise to leave plenty of time to get ready for tonight’s ball.”

  “Very well,” Biggs responded, and left to find Samuels.

  Ursula jumped to her feet and grabbed her notebook and pencil. As she opened the door to the hallway, Julia approached, carrying her suit jacket, hat, and gloves.

  “I heard you were going out, Miss.”

  “One step ahead of me, as always,” Ursula replied with a smile. “Thank you.”

  Julia helped Ursula put on the navy and white jacket, the matching straw hat, and her white gloves.

  Ursula heard the familiar sound of Samuels driving Bertie to the front door and bid Julia good-bye. Once inside the motorcar, she leaned forward and said, in a tone that broached no argument, “Forty-five Bletchley Avenue, Holland Park.”

  Samuels cast a glance in the rearview mirror but made no comment.

  Ursula had Samuels drive Bertie round the block and come to a halt on the periphery of Holland Park, keeping Dobbs’s house just in sight.

  “Just wait here,” she told Samuels. He looked at her quizzically, but she gave no explanation. They waited nearly an hour, during which time Ursula nervously fidgeted with her gloves and hat. She was just about to tell Samuels to return to Chester Square when she saw a motorcar pull up outside Christopher’s house.

  Ursula watched closely. The first man to alight from the car was tall, muscular, and dark-haired. He filled out his frock coat to the point where it looked tight and uncomfortable. He stood with his back to Ursula, holding open the car door as another man alighted. This man Ursula recognized immediately. From the florid countenance, the portly figure, and the thinning hair, there was no mistaking Mr. Ambrose Whittaker. Whittaker quickly pulled on his hat, gazing at the sky for a brief moment as if he half expected rain. The first man brushed his mustache with his fingers and, mimicking Whittaker, tilted his head back to look up as well. Whittaker made some comment, and the man laughed, his face now clearly visible to Ursula. A tremor of recognition shook her entire body. The way he laughed, the cut of his tall muscular figure—all he needed was a monkey on his shoulder. At first her mind rebelled against the possibility, but her body had viscerally betrayed the truth. This was the same man she had seen in the Khan el-Khalili the day Katya Vilensky was killed.

  Eighteen

  That night, Samuels pulled up at the rear of a long line of motorcars outside Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith’s Mayfair residence as guests arrived. There was a red carpet laid out to the pavement, and a striped awning framed by two footmen waiting in attendance. This ball was one of the highlights of the London season and began, fashionably, at ten in the evening.

  Ursula, with more pressing concerns, found it difficult to remain patient as she waited for the footman to take her coat and gloves. She was apprehensive and anxious to
know whether Christopher Dobbs was going to attend, and if so, how she was going to approach finding out the nature of his relationship with Whittaker and the man who had been in the Cairo bazaar. She was so preoccupied by these concerns, she hardly noticed the other guests as she entered.

  “Ursula!” Elizabeth Anderson tugged at the kimono sleeve of Ursula’s dark blue chinchilla-trimmed gown. She spun around. “Mrs. Anderson,” she exclaimed. “I’m sorry—I was quite lost in my thoughts.”

  “Gerard told me you were in the North—but I felt sure you wouldn’t miss out on all the season! My girls are here tonight. See, there’s Emily over in the corner there, near the punch bowl. And where is my Marianne?—oh, there she is! Did you see the engagement notice in the Times? She got engaged just last week. Such a wonderful match, even if he is an American. From North Carolina—made his fortune in tobacco.”

  “That must be very . . . nice . . . for her. My congratulations,” Ursula responded with a tense smile. Elizabeth Anderson fiddled with her necklace.

  “How are you doing?” she asked.

  “Mmm?” Ursula responded, preoccupied, as she watched Christopher Dobbs enter the room, accompanied by a dark, exotic-looking lady. Her eyes followed Dobbs as he walked across the room. Much to her irritation, he noticed and flashed her a smile.

  “Miss Marlow.” A voice made her jump. Ursula turned to find herself face to face with Lady Winterton. Elizabeth Anderson drifted away with a faint look of alarm, as if suffragism was a disease she was in danger of catching if she stood too close.

  “Don’t mind Mrs. Anderson,” Ursula explained. “After what happened with Freddie, she thinks all members of the WSPU are either insane or dangerous.”

  Lady Winterton laughed. “That explains a great deal.” She was wearing an elegant sapphire blue dress that set off the delicate paleness of her skin and accentuated her eyes. “I am sorry I couldn’t be of more assistance last night.”

  Ursula, mulling over what she had seen this afternoon, regarded her blankly.

  “I hope your friend discovers whether her fiancé has remained true to her,” Lady Winterton then ventured.

  “What? Oh, yes,” Ursula replied. “I’m sure she’ll work it out.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. One should know within, I mean deep inside, whether a man is true. If she does not, then I’m afraid she might be right to suspect him.”

  Ursula rubbed her nose. “I suppose so,” was all she could think of by way of reply.

  Lady Winterton laughed again. “Sully, you are always so serious! No wonder you find the concept of marriage so baffling!”

  Ursula regained her equanimity. “I just think society has created marriage to ensure that women remain subjugated all their lives,” she replied.

  “You can’t really believe that, can you?” Lady Winterton replied. “Surely we women aren’t as weak-willed as all that,”

  “I’m not saying that we are. I just wish marriage could be about an equal partnership—which it isn’t, yet.”

  “My dear, with your wealth and independent nature, I find it startling that you have such little confidence in yourself.”

  Ursula flushed. This conversation was straying too close to her relationship with Lord Wrotham for comfort. Lady Winterton, with consummate tact, immediately moved the conversation into less controversial waters and onto the subject of Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith’s new French chef, Monsieur Decassé. Ursula and Lady Winterton were soon joined by Daniel Abbott and Gerard Anderson, and as Ursula caught Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith’s eye, she knew she had to start the pretense of enjoying the charade that was a society ball. Reluctantly she excused herself, saying, “I’d better go and pay my respects to our hostess.”

  Christopher Dobbs was regaling a group of guests, including Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith, with his adventures in the West Indies aboard the steamer the Ulysses in the summer of ’07. Ursula took the opportunity to walk up to the group, thanking Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith for “as fine an Empire Day ball as ever I did attend.”

  Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith flushed with pleasure. “Ursula, it is so good to see you here! I was beginning to fear you would be spending the entire season in the North—which wouldn’t be the done thing at all. Your father would have wanted me to keep an eye on you.” Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith squeezed Ursula’s arm. “Which I have every intention of doing.”

  Ursula forced a smile.

  “I didn’t know Miss Marlow needed keeping an eye on,” Christopher Dobbs interjected.

  “Oh you know me, Topper,” Ursula replied with a sanguine smile. “Always getting myself into trouble.”

  Ursula pulled Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith aside on the pretext of seeking her guidance with respect to some upcoming charity events. After she had satisfied Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith’s urge to provide advice on all things related to “polite society,” she began the real questioning. “I was wondering, Dolly . . .” She cast her eye back to Dobbs, who was now dancing with Anderson’s youngest daughter, Emily.

  “Yes, dear?” Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith replied distractedly; she had caught sight of herself in one of the mirrored doors, and was checking the position of an ostrich feather in her hair.

  “Does Dobbs happen to know a man by the name of Ambrose Whittaker? I thought I saw him this morning and remembered him from Egypt. I’d really like to get in touch with him while he’s in London, as he gave me some terrific advice on collecting Alexandrian art. Now, I know you’re the best person to ask about connections. So have you heard anything? Is he a close friend of Christopher’s?”

  “You say his name’s Whittaker . . . hmm, let me think. I seem to recall that name from India. Could that be him? Obadiah would have known him—although come to think of it, Topper probably did as well. I don’t know for sure, but I can easily find out.”

  “No need to go to any trouble.” Ursula said hurriedly. “But if you could find out where Whittaker is staying while he’s in London, I’d be most grateful. I don’t like to bother Christopher—not with all the unpleasantness surrounding his offer for Marlow Industries.”

  “I quite understand. And I support you one hundred percent, my dear!” Ursula raised her eyebrows. “Your father would never have sold his business, no matter how tough things got, and besides, Topper should know you’ll soon be married—”

  “Ah.” Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith was still deluding herself that Ursula’s marriage prospects were best served with Marlow Industries intact. “Thank you anyway, I appreciate all your help. I know how close you are to Christopher and his family.”

  “They have been very good to me, since your father died. Oh, look, my dear, Lord Wrotham has arrived—and he’s brought his mother with him. How absolutely splendid!”

  Despite her murmured protests, Ursula soon found herself accompanying Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith to the far side of the room, past a group of guests gaily dancing to the quartet.

  “Adela!” Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith descended upon them in a cloud of ruffled chiffon.

  “Dolly, what a pleasure to be here!” Dowager Lady Adela Wrotham replied. “I was beginning to think my son would keep me trapped in the country for the entire season. Oh, and Miss Marlow, too,” the dowager continued, her tone cooling. “But how delightful.” She said the word delightful as if she had just tasted spoiled food. Despite Ursula’s fortune, the dowager still regarded her as nothing more than a “chit of an upstart.” If she had her way, Lord Wrotham would have been married off by now to a pliable American railway heiress, not brooding about the daughter of a coal miner’s son.

  “Lady Wrotham,” Ursula replied, determined to remain courteous in her presence. “What a pleasure it is to see you again. It’s been far too long.”

  “Well, since my son insists that I see out my days at beastly Bromley Hall, it’s hardly surprising. Dolly, you really must come and visit me again soon. I fear I shall die of boredom if you don’t! Oliver has only let me come to London for the week because I begged and pleaded.”

  “Mother, please.”

  Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith tucked her ar
m inside the dowager’s, eager to placate her as always. “Come with me, Adela. I’ve got so many people I want you to meet! Brigadier Galbraith is here; y’know, his wife died last month . . . oh, and do you remember how I told you last summer that I’d made the acquaintance of the renowned psychoanalyst Herr Hubert? Well, he is here too—and he’s brought one of his patients with him, no less!” Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith led the dowager off through the crowd, leaving Lord Wrotham and Ursula standing near the doorway.

  Lord Wrotham grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing footman and handed Ursula a glass. “With any luck, by the time this ball’s over, she’ll either be married off to the brigadier or committed to an asylum.”

  Ursula took a sip. “The asylum sounds good to me.”

  For the remainder of the ball Lord Wrotham and Ursula kept their distance. He busied himself talking with friends and colleagues from the Carlton Club, while Ursula tried to pretend that she was enjoying herself. She caught sight of Lady Winterton talking to Lord Wrotham and felt a surge of jealousy. Lady Winterton seemed so at ease in her surroundings, so much a part of her class, that Ursula could not help but envy her. With her easy laugh and exemplary manners, she demonstrated all the self-restraint and assurance that Ursula so often failed to display. Lord Wrotham, his head bowed, seemed to be listening intently, and after a few moments Ursula saw him give one of his rare, sweet smiles. He then raised his eyes, and Ursula quickly averted her gaze, lest he notice her watching him.

  Amid all the chatter, music, and dancing, it was hard for her to relax and enjoy herself after what she had witnessed that morning. She spent the next hour walking around in a daze, tossing around all the clues she had amassed so far in her mind, failing to create any sort of discernible pattern. She was just about to bid Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith good night when she caught sight of Lord Wrotham, this time alone, standing in the corner of the room. In his well-tailored evening dress, smoothed-back hair, and polished black shoes, he reminded her of a sleek black panther in a Gauguin painting, watching her from behind the palm.