Unlikely Traitors

by Clare Langley-Hawthorne

“This is different,” Lord Wrotham said.

  “I’m not offering you a choice,” Ursula retorted. “Why do you insist on being so utterly pig-headed?” She gathered up her breath to continue but something in the set of his jaw made her hopes sink. “Oh God, spare me from the Englishmen’s sense of honor,” she muttered, “and here I was thinking I was engaged to an intelligent”—She got no further before Lord Wrotham gathered her up in his arms and kissed her. For a moment she thought he was actually going to accept her offer, but then she felt him pull back and knew, with a stab of pain, that he was refusing her.

  “I do this for you!” he said roughly. “I could not bear the pain this will inflict on you. I will not allow you to risk everything for me.”

  “So you still doubt me?” she whispered.

  Chief Inspector Harrison pounded on the door to the parlor. “My Lord!” he shouted.

  “It is not you that I doubt,” Lord Wrotham said, ignoring Harrison. He scrutinized her with searching eyes. “I always knew there was a possibility that it would come to this.”

  “I will not let you take your own life—not like this, not now,” Ursula replied, gripping his wrists once more.

  “Ursula.” Lord Wrotham extricated himself from her grasp. “Don’t make this any harder than it already is. Say your goodbyes now and leave this room.”

  Her heart, which had been pounding so hard and furiously that her chest felt fit to burst, gave a sudden spasm. She moved quickly and was beside the table, the revolver in her hand, before Lord Wrotham could stop her. She held the gun unsteadily with the barrel pointing at her chest. She expected Lord Wrotham to be angry but instead her actions appeared to sap the last of his strength. He stood with his arms hanging by his sides, looking gaunt and pale, like one of the ‘penitent proud’ weighed down by heavy stones in Dante’s Purgatorio.

  “My Lord!” Chief Inspector Harrison pounded once more on the door.

  “What is it to be then?” Ursula asked shakily. “Both our deaths or the possibility of reprieve if you let me try and help you?”

  The parlor door burst open and Harrison entered accompanied by two uniformed policemen. “Miss Marlow,” he stammered as he saw the revolver in her hand.

  Ursula took a step back, and the cliff-edge to which she had forced them both, fell away.

  “As you can see, Chief Inspector, we won’t be needing this.” Ursula handed over the revolver carefully. “In the future,” she said. “You and Lord Wrotham should leave such dramatics to me.”

  Harrison stared at her in astonishment.

  Lord Wrotham walked over to the fireplace, took his silver cigarette case out, and opened it with steadying hands. He lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply.

  After a minute of silence, Lord Wrotham spoke, this time in the smooth, even tones he used as King’s Counsel summing up a case before the High Court.

  “Please advise Pemberton what has happened.” Lord Wrotham’s lips curled as he spoke. “See if he will deign to represent me. He’s the best criminal barrister I know.” The coldness of his tone was unbearable but, before she had time to respond, he started speaking again.

  “I’m afraid I must also rely on you to break the news to mother.” Lord Wrotham was in full mastery of his self-control now, and his face had assumed the cold, angular aloofness that she remembered from their first meeting. “While you may not require smelling salts,” he continued, “she most certainly will.” He paused. “You’d also best let James drive you to Bromley Hall, he’s more familiar with the roads.”

  Ursula looked at him blankly. She had visited Bromley Hall on numerous occasions and both she and Samuels, her own driver, knew the way there—but there was something subtle yet purposeful in his tone of voice and, though she did not think Harrison or the other police constables present detected it, she suspected there was a hidden significance to Lord Wrotham’s choice of his own chauffeur.

  Ursula nodded her head, her eyes never leaving his.

  “Tomorrow,” Lord Wrotham said, “you must also place a notice in The Times, calling off our engagement.”

  Ursula’s head jerked back.

  “No, Ursula, this is not a subject for negotiation,” he said calmly. “By morning this will be in all the newspapers. It will no doubt cause some measure of public hysteria and you will be the object of intense scrutiny. You should profess utter disgust and horror at the charges and, if necessary, toward me. No”—Ursula opened her mouth to protest—“it is the only way. Anything else and you expose yourself to vilification.”

  Ursula shook her head. “But you are innocent! I will not abandon you. Not in private. Not in public. I will stand by you.” Even as she spoke, however, the truth of the situation started to sink in. She knew better than anyone else the power of scandal; she had been exposed to it enough by now. The magnitude of this case could overrun her entirely. No one would do business with anyone associated with an alleged traitor—not with the ever-present threat of war with Germany.

  “Ursula,” Lord Wrotham said quietly. “There is no other way.”

  She scrubbed her eyes fiercely with the cuffs of her tailored silk blouse. Part of her wanted to launch into an indignant tirade, but the other part of her, a quiet and insistent voice within, knew he was right. Her only means of survival was to call off their engagement and distance herself from him.

  “You must pass on my regards to Admiral Smythe’s family,” Lord Wrotham continued, less evenly. “And yours too. Express our deep concern for the Admiral’s safe return. I’ve been a close friend of the family for many years and I would hate them to think”—Lord Wrotham stopped and Ursula, sensing his self control was finally faltering, automatically interjected.

  “But of course.”

  Harrison shifted from one foot to the other. “My apologies, my Lord,” he said. “But my orders were to bring you in immediately. I really cannot delay any further.”

  “I understand, Chief Inspector,” Lord Wrotham answered as he threw the cigarette butt into the fireplace. He straightened his black cashmere frockcoat, flipped open his fob watch, checked the time with a quick glance, and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket once more. Then, presenting the very image of the composed urbane gentleman, he said, “I’m ready.”

  One of the uniformed policemen, head glistening with hair oil, walked forward, struggling to undo a pair of handcuffs.

  “Jackson!” Harrison exclaimed. “Those will hardly be necessary. We are dealing with a gentleman here, not your common or garden criminal!”

  The young police constable turned beet red, halted, and stood in the middle of the room. “Oh, sorry…I mean, pardon…pardon me, my Lord…” he stumbled over his words.

  Lord Wrotham regarded him impassively. “Please,” he replied with a shrug. “No need to apologize.” That night, Ursula sat in her study, staring at the fire. Her feet were curled up in the chair and a plate of supper lay discarded and uneaten on the floor beside her. Chief Inspector Harrison had refused to allow her to accompany Lord Wrotham to Scotland Yard, where he was to be formally charged and placed in protective custody. Instead, she had been forced to remain at home, like some domestic pet, caged and abandoned. Ursula, never one to tolerate captivity easily, had spent the next two hours restlessly pacing the room and making telephone calls.

  The first call she made was to Sir Robert Pemberton KC, who sounded as though he had just returned to his Mayfair home from a long, late lunch at White’s. His response was one of bewilderment, but in slightly halting tones (he had obviously indulged in some fine wine over the course of the afternoon), he assured her he would go directly to Scotland Yard and apply for Lord Wrotham’s release on bail. Ursula knew there was little likelihood of bail being granted but regardless she clung to that hope and waited anxiously by the front parlor window. By nine o’clock it was clear Lord Wrotham was not returning and she stalked back into the study. Since making this first telephone call, Ursula had spoken to no one else except Biggs, her butler, who, upon hea
ring the news of Lord Wrotham’s arrest, paled but otherwise gave no outward indications of alarm. The fact that he promptly returned with a strong cup of coffee was comfortingly predictable, although Ursula had been surprised to find it was liberally laced with whiskey.

  By ten o’clock Ursula was frantic. How she wished her good friend Winifred (‘Freddie’) Stanford-Jones was here rather than on an extended lecture tour of the United States. Freddie had long been missed, having left for New York almost six weeks ago, but now Ursula felt entirely bereft.

  Not knowing what else to do, Ursula contemplated calling Hugh Carmichael, her business partner and friend, but knew he would only insist on rushing to London to try and help and she feared that would only fuel further rumors. London society already viewed her as an improper and unsuitable match for Lord Wrotham and she wanted to avoid any additional speculation that she was turning to another man in her ‘hour of need’. Having been the subject of many a lurid story, she knew all too well how the newspapers could manipulate the truth.

  Ursula collapsed on the chair next to her father’s desk and buried her head in her hands. She felt she had to speak to someone or she would go mad. She picked up the telephone receiver, hesitated, replaced it again, and then finally placed a call to Gerard Anderson, her father’s old business colleague and her financial advisor. Ursula regretted her decision as soon as she heard his voice. Anderson, would, of course, focus on the potential business losses a scandal of this magnitude was likely to inflict. He was incapable of providing her the comfort she yearned for. What was she thinking?

  After fifteen minutes of expressing his disbelief and outlining all the worst case scenarios possible for Marlow Industries, Anderson finally said, “I’m proud of you, Ursula. Your telephoning me shows you’ve finally learned to think with your head rather than your heart.” His words left her feeling cold and empty. Was this the woman she had really become? The sort of woman who called her business colleagues ahead of her friends?

  This dreadful thought depressed her still further until she found, to her astonishment, she was lifting the receiver once more to call Mrs. Eudora Pomfrey-Smith. Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith had been her father’s paramour and, ever since his death, she had attempted to act as Ursula’s guide through the intricacies of London society. For the past three years Ursula had rebuffed most of her offers for ‘societal assistance,’ but tonight she felt she had no one else to turn to.

  “My dear!” Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith cried as Ursula broke the news. “You shall be ruined!” Ursula nearly hung up the receiver then and there, but Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith, with what Ursula could only imagine was an ingrained sense of loyalty to her father, immediately offered her unbridled support. Motherless since she was a child, Ursula had always spurned Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith’s kindness in the past, feeling somehow that it would be an affront to her mother’s memory. The lone voice of maternal kindness now reduced her to sobs. Ursula agreed to let Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith place the notice in The Times calling off her engagement. It was a task too terrible for her to bear.

  After the drama of the afternoon, the restless pacing and the telephone calls, the mantel clock finally struck eleven and the house fell eerily quiet. Ursula dismissed Biggs and ignored her maid Julia’s entreaties to come upstairs and get some sleep. Instead, she sat, alone and weary, amid the books and papers that once belonged to her father. Inside her head a thousand questions screamed, but she had exhausted her tears. She wasn’t the same woman she was three years ago when her father had been taken from her. She had defied society’s dire predictions and proven herself to be a successful businesswoman. She had built a life of her own, in which she remained true to her principles as best she could. Yet without Lord Wrotham it felt as if a piece of her soul had already been carved away and she was bleeding internally. The lack of him, the absence of him, was palpable in the room.

  Ursula was in danger of sinking into a deep depression when she reminded herself that Lord Wrotham was innocent. He had assured her of that. And despite all his protestations and stiff upper lip, he needed her help. It was this need that revived her. It helped her focus the questions in her mind. She got up and walked across the room to the window, clearing her head with each step and reaffirming her determination to remain undaunted. Courage, she told herself, courage and conscience. That was all she needed to defy them all.

  LONDON SOCIETY COLUMN OF THE DAILY TATTLER

  FRIDAY JANUARY 17TH 1913

  The fortunes of Miss Ursula Marlow took another ominous turn last night with the shocking arrest of her fiancé, Lord Oliver Wrotham, Seventh Baron of Wrotham, of Bromley Hall, Northamptonshire, on charges of high treason. While lurid details of Lord Wrotham’s arrest are no doubt being plastered across the daily newspapers, we at the Society Column, feel obliged to express our strong suspicion that Lord Wrotham’s current predicament arises directly out of his unfortunate association with Miss Marlow.

  As readers will no doubt recall Miss Marlow’s own father was murdered two years ago as part of a ghastly spree of killings that included two children of Robert Marlow’s long-time business associates, Misses Laura Radcliffe and Cecilia Abbott. Miss Marlow’s own involvement in the investigation raised a number of eyebrows not least because of her foolhardy defense of the woman initially accused of Miss Radcliffe’s murder—Miss Winifred-Stanford Jones (who is currently on a lecture tour of the United States speaking on the merits of radical action to achieve universal suffrage). Dear readers we need hardly remind you of last year’s calumny in which Miss Marlow was a witness to yet another death—Mrs. Katya Vilensky, while on an excursion to Cairo, Egypt. The death of Mrs. Vilensky’s sister in one of Miss Marlow’s factories merely served to compound the whole sorry state of affairs at Marlow industries (and which was no mere coincidence, no matter what Scotland Yard would lead us to believe). After the events of recent years we must surely start to wonder whether Miss Marlow’s own radical political views at the heart of all her troubles. Is she really fit to be handling the large inheritance and business interests left to her by her father?

  CHAPTER TWO

  BROMLEY HALL, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE

  “Nonsense!” The Dowager Lady Adela Wrotham got to her feet with a sniff of disdain. “I just need to make two calls and I’ll get this whole situation sorted out once and for all. I have a cousin at the Admiralty and another with the Foreign Office, not to mention that I know the Prime Minister personally. Scotland Yard indeed. Pack of imbeciles if you ask me. Wait here Miss Marlow and let me handle this—and when I return we can talk all about my plans for renovating the East Wing.”

  Ursula looked at the dowager, unsure whether she should be amazed at her powers of self-delusion or shocked at her blithe assumption that this little ‘misunderstanding’ could be sorted out by a couple of telephone calls. Uncertain of what to say, Ursula lay back on the pale green chaise longue and absently stroked the ears of one of Wrotham’s two collies sprawled out next to her. The dowager had already redecorated the Green Room at Bromley Hall in anticipation of access to Ursula’s substantial wealth and Ursula feared she was about to endure yet another recital of Lady Wrotham’s ‘splendid’ renovation plans for the estate. Lady Wrotham’s recent redecorating stint had converted what was once the epitome of late Victorian opulence into a Japanese inspired drawing room. Although the dowager had professed to seek Ursula’s opinion, in reality she had gone off and chosen the silk-screened wallpaper, Japanese inspired imitation-bamboo chairs and ebonized table by herself. Ursula suspected Lady Wrotham needed the reassurance that she was still the preeminent ‘lady’ of Bromley Hall and left well alone. She had learned, by now, to choose her battles.

  Now she wasn’t sure how to approach the upcoming skirmish at all. She had expected Lady Wrotham to dissolve into hysterics, but instead she had surprised Ursula with an initial resilience, even if it was coated in self-delusion. Surely Lady Wrotham had to be aware of the seriousness of the situation. The police constables and motorcars lined up outside could hardly
have gone unnoticed, yet Lady Wrotham seemed to be in total denial. Ursula dreaded what was likely to happen when the truth finally sank in.

  Ursula had driven up to Lord Wrotham’s estate in Northamptonshire that morning in the new two-seater Bugatti (or the ‘deathtrap’ as her housekeeper, Mrs. Stewart called it) she had bought herself for Christmas. Having seen the newspaper headlines in the early morning editions, Ursula knew she would have to resort to clandestine methods if she was to have any hope of reaching Northamptonshire without attracting undue attention. Accordingly she instructed her own chauffeur, Samuels, to play decoy in ‘Bertie’, the silver ghost Rolls Royce Ursula had inherited from her father. He was probably still driving about London with Julia, Ursula’s lady’s maid, in the back seat, attempting to confuse ‘the enemy’ as Ursula now called the press.

  Despite Lord Wrotham’s request that she ask James to drive her, all her telephone calls and letters to him (directed to Lord Wrotham’s Mayfair home) had, so far, gone unanswered. Lord Wrotham’s part-time the housekeeper could only advise that James had left the morning of Lord Wrotham’s arrest. No one, it seemed, had seen James since.

  Ursula nervously chewed her lip as she waited for Lady Wrotham. Originally she had planned to visit Lord Wrotham before driving up to Bromley Hall, but a messenger had delivered a note from him (via Pemberton) first thing that morning. The note was characteristically brief: On no account visit me. There were no endearments or protestations of innocence. No information that could be useful to her at all. He was too aware of the risk of interception by either the police or the press to risk that, but the note had still left Ursula feeling disconsolate. She had been hoping that Lord Wrotham would have reconsidered his silence. Nevertheless, she maintained her vow that, once she returned from Bromley Hall, she would initiate her own investigation.

  Lady Wrotham was taking so long that Ursula began to wonder if she was going to make it back to London at all that day. She didn’t fancy her chances driving the Bugatti in the dark. Eventually, however, Lady Wrotham did return, ashen faced and trembling. She stumbled unevenly through the door to the Green Room and headed straight for the whiskey decanter sitting on the sideboard. She poured a large glass and sat down heavily on one of the inlaid chairs opposite Ursula. Fearing an attack was imminent, Ursula reached down and rummaged in her skirt pocket for the bottle of smelling salts she had the forethought to bring in case of just this situation.