Baruh nodded wearily.
Ursula moved closer, her compassion stirred by his frailty and despair.
“Tell me,” she urged. “What happened?”
“We found out. The cargo. On the Bregenz. Machine guns and rifles. Bayonets and grenades. All bound for Smyrna and the Ottoman Turks,” he began in broken English.
“The Bregenz was carrying armaments?”
“Yes. To be used one day against us. Bulgarians like us.”
“So what did you do?”
“We tried to take the ship. Tell the British what we knew.”
The man stopped speaking as a racking cough took hold of his body and shook him. Ursula stared around anxiously. She needed to get him out quickly, but was afraid she might never learn the truth.
“And?” she prompted gently.
“We were too few.”
Ursula remembered Katya’s letter—I have seen the grave—and shivered.
Baruh fell back against the wall. “We spent three days in the ship’s hold. No sun. No food. No water. The heat . . .” His voice trailed off as Ursula looked on in horror. “Then they took us to shore. We were on a train. Then in the darkness they lined us up. Women, children, as well as men. I was shot in the leg. The body of another man, Avraam, fell on top of me. That is how I lived.”
Ursula thought she heard a sound from the top of the stairs, and she held up a warning hand. Baruh looked terrified. Ursula stood up and made her way to the bottom of the cellar stairs. With a final glance at Baruh, she placed her fingers to her lips and turned off the flashlight.
Slowly, feeling her way along the wall, she climbed the stairs and opened the door.
It took a while for her eyes to adjust to the darkness after being guided by the flashlight, but by the time she reached the kitchen, she could make out some of the familiar shapes and shadows. Ursula hesitated in the doorway. There was no further sound, and she began to wonder if she had been mistaken. She was turning to descend the stairway once more when she was grabbed from behind. A hand was quickly and firmly placed over her mouth.
“Quiet!” It was Chief Inspector Harrison’s harsh whisper in her ear. He held on to her tight as he dragged her away from the stairs. Ursula struggled. “Wait!” she tried to say. Harrison ignored her. “No!” She struggled against him. “He’s down there!” But the words could not escape.
Harrison forced Ursula out of the house and dragged her up the outside stairs to the street. He then threw her into the backseat of a motorcar without explanation. Harrison hopped into the car beside her and commanded the driver, “Go!”
Ursula struggled and tried to open the car door.
“He’s still in there!” she cried out.
“I know!” Harrison hissed.
The driver pulled out quickly, and with a squeal the wheels skimmed the pavement, headed down Abbotsbury Street.
“What on earth?” Ursula cried out. Harrison craned his neck to see if anyone was behind them. The car spun round the corner and onto Kensington High Street.
“Are you totally mad?” Harrison turned to her and exclaimed.
“Do you have any idea what you have just done?”
Ursula took the letter out of her pocket and threw it at him. “I’ve just uncovered the truth.”
“You’ve just ruined months of investigation—that’s what you’ve done.”
They drove out of London, continuing west through Ealing before turning south to cross the river Thames. Ursula’s throat was hoarse from insisting that Harrison stop the car. All her demands for explanation had been ignored; even as they passed through Richmond and Shepperton, Harrison refused to tell her anything more. He communicated with the driver in short, swift commands in between bouts of sullen rumination. Ursula became more and more uneasy—even at his most surly during the investigation into her father’s murder, Harrison had never before seemed this concerned.
She observed him as he read Katya’s and Arina’s letters and then told him, her voice choking with emotion, all that Baruh had said in the cellar.
Harrison handed her the letters back without comment.
“Promise me,” Ursula urged. “No matter what it is that you’ve been investigating. Promise me you’ll take care of that poor man.”
Harrison remained silent.
Everything started to blur and pitch in the night as the motorcar made its furious way along the rudimentary roads of Surrey, past tiny towns that comprised little more than a stone church and a couple of farms. Finally, after nearly two hours, the motorcar bumped along a small lane cut through the hedgerows and stopped at the entrance of a narrow driveway. The moon peeked out from behind the clouds, and she caught sight of a dilapidated two-story stone farmhouse nestled behind a copse of tall oak trees. Harrison got out of the car and opened the wooden gate, and the driver edged the car through the opening and up to the house.
Ursula got out and stretched her legs. She felt stiff from being huddled in the seat for so long. “Where are we?” she demanded.
“Somewhere remote enough, I hope, at least for the time being,” Harrison replied.
Ursula rubbed her hands together to try and keep warm. “Don’t you think we’ve had enough drama for one evening? I need to get back. I need to free that man. You can hardly expect Dobbs to come leaping out from behind any bushes. Do you really think all this is necessary?”
“I do,” Harrison responded tersely, silencing Ursula.
“Do you think we were followed?” Ursula asked hesitantly. Suddenly the situation didn’t seem absurd as much as terrifying.
“No, but I had two of my men trailing us, just to be sure. There should be here shortly . . . yes, here they are.” Harrison reached into the rear seat of the car and grabbed his flashlight, which he then used to signal, with three short bursts of light, the motorcar that came to a halt at the gates at the end of the lane. The car headlamps flashed on and off before the engine was turned off and the country-side was suddenly quiet. Two men got out of the car and walked over to join Harrison. They barely acknowledged Ursula except with a short nod and a mumbled “Miss” as they passed her.
Harrison drew out a key from his trouser pocket and opened the farmhouse door.
Ursula checked to see if Katya’s letter was still safely tucked in her skirt pocket before following Harrison into the farmhouse. She gingerly stepped over the threshold and into a large old stone kitchen. It was clear no one had been in the house for many months. It was cold and musty.
The two men spoke to Harrison in low tones before taking up position outside the front and back doors to the farmhouse.
“I’d rather not risk lighting a fire, so here—” Harrison threw her a thick, scratchy woolen blanket. “You’ll have to make do with this. In the morning I’ll make arrangements for some provisions to be dropped off.” He turned on the flashlight and hunted round in one of the kitchen cabinets. “Last time I was here, I believe there were some crackers and anchovy paste.” Harrison handed her a tin of stale crackers and a small earthenware jar. “Here, have this, potted shrimp, I think. I’m afraid mice got to the anchovy paste. I can’t risk lighting a fire to heat a kettle. So no tea . . . but here’s a glass, if you need some water.”
Ursula nodded, her eyes now accustomed to the darkness from the drive down. She took the glass, went over to the wide sink, and filled it with water, using the wooden-handled pump. It made a terrible grating sound, but after a few minutes of vigorous pumping a gush of ice-cold water cascaded out and into the ceramic sink. Ursula drank quickly and replaced the glass on the stone windowsill.
Harrison instructed her to sit down, and Ursula hugged the blanket around her as she perched on a rocking chair next to the empty fireplace. She shook her head when he again proffered the food. She had no appetite.
“Now,” Harrison commanded, “show me the letter again.”
Ursula handed it to him and, using the flashlight, Harrison crouched down on the stone floor and started to read. Ursula said noth
ing until he had finished.
Harrison stood up abruptly and began pacing the room.
“Now we know why Katya died,” Ursula said.
“I have to return to London and speak to my superiors,” Harrison replied.
“Did you know about the Bregenz?” Ursula demanded.
“We suspected about Dobbs trading in armaments aboard the Bregenz, but nothing about the passengers.”
“Is that what your investigation has been about? His involvement in arms trading?” Ursula asked.
“We’re been watching Dobbs for the last six months—ever since he started using his father’s shipping business to transport arms. In the current climate we obviously need to watch that kind of thing carefully—check that British armaments don’t end up in the wrong hands—”
“Like Egyptian nationalists?”
“Yes, or Indian independence seekers. . . . But more important at the moment, we don’t want our armaments ending up in our enemies’ hands. Everyone is mobilizing for a possible war. We need to know who is building or buying what.”
“Do you think Dobbs is supplying arms to our enemies?”
“That’s what we’ve been trying to ascertain. He certainly is selling to the Turks—who knows where the arms end up after that? As you can see from this letter, this is a sensitive matter.”
“One worth killing for to keep quiet?”
“So it would appear.”
“I saw Whittaker two days ago at Dobbs’s house. He was accompanied by one of the men I saw in the Khan el-Khalili the day Katya was killed.” Harrison’s eyes flickered.
“Lord Wrotham told me that Whittaker was present at the customs house in Alexandria. I alerted officials in Egypt, but by then Whittaker was already en route to England.”
“I should have told you earlier, but I didn’t think you would believe me without further evidence.”
Harrison face was shrouded in shadows. He made no reply.
“I think Dobbs’s men stole this letter the night Arina’s house was broken into. I think that’s why she died.”
“Maybe.” Harrison was noncommittal.
“As I said, I must return to London and speak to my superiors. My men will keep an eye out here. You really are very reckless, Miss Marlow. You realize that anyone who has the slightest knowledge of the matters contained in this letter is dead? Katya, Hugh Carmichael’s copilot, the shipping clerk, Arina. Even her roommate.”
“Arina’s roommate has been killed?” Ursula cried out.
“They fished her body out of the Thames on Friday night.”
Ursula went pale. That was the night she, Alexei, and Winifred had spoken to Natasha at the Rose and Anchor. Had they led Dobbs’s men to her?
“And still you insist on playing detective!” Harrison retorted. “I hope you realize you could have been killed tonight. Dobbs has a man there—he checks on Baruh every two hours. If he had found you there . . .”
Ursula nodded mutely. Her mind was still trying to process everything she had heard and read.
“You should try and sleep, at least,” Harrison said brusquely. “While I try and figure out what the next step will be.”
“Wouldn’t that be arresting Christopher Dobbs and Whittaker in connection with the murder of Katya Vilensky?” Ursula demanded.
“If only it was that simple. No, Ursula, I’m not in the mood to discuss this. It’s nearly three o’clock in the morning. Anything further will have to wait till daylight. I must leave London but should be back here by late morning—and please, Miss Marlow, don’t do anything rash until then.”
Despite all the anxiety and excitement of the evening, Ursula eventually found herself drifting into an uneasy sleep. Her head nodded forward, her eyes stung, and a heavy, dreamless sleep consumed her. She had decided to try and make herself comfortable next to the far side of the fireplace, propping her feet up on a second wooden chair. Here, she was protected from the draft coming from under the front door and hallway and from the windows, which rattled in the night breeze.
She must have been asleep an hour or so when she awoke suddenly, her nerves prickling with the certainty that something was terribly wrong. There was no moonlight visible, and the house was pitch-black and quiet. Sensing danger, Ursula silently unfurled her legs and gently placed the blanket on the floor as she rose to her feet. There was still no sound at all, not even the shuffle of feet or the strike of a match. She knew Harrison had posted two policemen as guards, and it seemed strange that there should be absolutely no sound from either of them. She unlaced her shoes and held them in her hands as she crept in her stockinged feet across the stone kitchen floor and peered through the doorway that led to the hallway. The moon slid out from behind the clouds, and a shaft of silvery light revealed the body of one of Harrison’s guards, sprawled across the foot of the stairs. Another was propped up against the wall and from the awkward and unnatural angle of his body, Ursula knew he was already dead. There was a murmur of voices above, and Ursula’s heart began to race.
Ursula lifted up her skirt so she wouldn’t alert anyone to the sound of it rustling along the floor. The clouds moved across the moon once more, plunging the house into darkness. Ursula felt her way to the front door, and found it ajar. She opened it further, and took a tentative step outside. The moon slid back out behind the clouds, casting an eerie sliver light across the farmhouse grounds. She could see no one, but above she spotted the thin beam of flashlights and knew she didn’t have much time. Carefully she closed the door behind her, keeping it slightly ajar so as not to make any sound. She placed one shoe on and then the second, lacing them up with trembling fingers. A fine drizzle, the threat of rain, hung in the air. She heard one man shout above, and without waiting to hear anything further, she gathered up her skirts and started to run.
Twenty-one
Ursula had no idea where she was. In the haphazard moonlight, the fields and fences seemed to be little more than pools of dark and light, and obstacles of rough wood and wire. All she knew was that she had to keep running.
She kept to the fields, too scared to travel by road. She reached a small farmhouse about a mile away and was greeted by two barking dogs. Terrified lest they give away her position to anyone following her, Ursula bypassed the main farmhouse altogether. Instead she crept along the back of the large barn at the rear at the property. The dogs continued to bark, knowing she was still close. Ursula nearly tripped over an old bicycle propped up against the barn. As quietly as she could, she wheeled it away, then carried it as far as she could before exhaustion nearly caused her knees to give way. Winded, she rested beneath a large oak tree, laying the bicycle down beside her. She caught her breath for a moment, trying to decide the best course of action. Now she had the bicycle, it would probably be best to travel by road, though at this time in the morning a young woman on a bicycle would hardly be inconspicuous. Still, she knew she couldn’t continue running through the fields. It was too exposed, and she was growing tired. She needed a plan. She needed somewhere to go.
Suddenly she heard the dogs barking furiously again, and she jumped to her feet. She took the bicycle and heaved it over the hedgerow, then swung herself over indecorously, jumping the final three feet to land beside the bicycle on a mud-splattered lane. She awkwardly tucked her dress between her legs and climbed on. It creaked and groaned under her weight as she began to pedal. She hadn’t been on a bicycle since she was fifteen years old, and it felt cumbersome and uncouth to be trying to ride again now. The bicycle’s threadbare seat was hard and uncomfortable and the wheels wobbled precariously, but as she pedaled, she felt a slow grinding progress was finally being made.
After another mile or so, making slow headway along the rutted and muddy road in the darkness and misty fog, she came to a T junction and halted to catch her breath. She squinted hard, trying to make out the signage in the darkness. One sign pointed to Guildford, the other to Godalming. Ursula took a deep breath, tossed a mental coin, and decided to head for Guildf
ord.
This road was much smoother here, and she started feeling as if, finally, she might be widening the distance between herself and her pursuers. She came to the outskirts of Guildford and felt some measure of relief. By now her legs were aching, and her hands chafed from gripping the bicycle’s metal handles. She followed the signs to the railway station, craning her neck now and again to see if there was anyone following, but the town was deserted and quiet.
Once at the station, Ursula dismounted, hid the bicycle behind the luggage cart, and turned out her pockets. The decision to travel by taxicab and underground to Christopher Dobbs’s house had been a fortuitous one—it had forced her to carry change in her pocket for the return fare. She counted out the coins, hoping she would have enough for the train fare to London. Katya’s letter was still stuffed into the pocket of her skirt, but she knew that this might be her only opportunity to protect the secrets it contained. Ursula spied the night porter strolling along the platform, whistling in the early-morning fog.
“Excuse me, when’s the first train to London?” Ursula asked. The night porter looked at her curiously and answered, “Blimey, the first train that will get you to London ain’t till five. There’s a local coming through in about ten minutes or so that has a couple of passenger carriages. No first-class coach, though, Miss. But it would take you to Woking, and you could connect to the four-thirty train to Waterloo.”
Ursula wriggled her nose. She rarely traveled by train these days, and only when traveling to the North. “I’m sure this must look very odd indeed, but I really must get to London as soon as I can. . . . Do I have to change platforms at Woking to catch the London train?”
“Aye, but it’s just the opposite platform, so you’ll have no trouble at all, Miss.”
He looked at her with a fatherly smile.
“Thank you,” Ursula replied, still feeling embarrassed. “I’m sure this is going to sound a little strange, too, but is there a pillar-box near here?”
“Why, yes, Miss. Just round the corner on Coronation Street.”
The Serpent and the Scorpion Page 24
