Unlikely Traitors

by Clare Langley-Hawthorne

  “Don’t bother my gal,” Lady Wrotham said sharply, downing the whiskey in one long gulp. “Salts are useless. All I need is a good stiff drink.”

  “Lady Wrotham, I’m so terribly sorry,” Ursula stammered, unsure of what else to say.

  The dowager snorted in disgust. “Don’t you apologize! You’re not the idiot who got himself into this mess. Really, I can hardly believe Oliver. As if poor Gerard didn’t cause me enough grief! Now I have to contend with another son who brings me nothing but shame and disgrace.” The folds of skin around her mouth started to crumple. “What am I expected to say at the Empress Club? How can I ever show my face at royal functions after this?!”

  Ursula hastily got to her feet and caught the empty glass as it dropped from Lady Wrotham’s hands. The collie, irritated by her fidgeting, got off the chaise lounge, shook his sable and white coat, and padded off in disgust.

  “I’m not sure my nerves can take it!” Lady Wrotham collapsed back in the chair and Ursula thought it best if she poured her another glass of whiskey.

  “But you know Oliver is innocent.” Ursula said walking over to the sideboard. “He would never do what they have accused him of.”

  Lady Wrotham closed her eyes. “I don’t know what to think. Oliver was always a complete mystery to me. Gerard, I understood. He had his foibles, yes. But he lived life to the full. Oliver was like a closed book. He could have been the right hand man of the Kaiser himself for all I knew. What with his comings and goings ever since Oxford. Oh, I knew it was some sort of government nonsense—but little did I guess…”

  Ursula hastily poured Lady Wrotham the glass of whiskey and handed it to her.

  “It’s not even the principle of the thing. My mother was German. For God’s sake half our family is German or Russian—but how could Oliver have been stupid enough to get caught?! What a fiasco.” Lady Wrotham took a swig from the glass and licked her lips. “Once of a day, a gentleman would go outside and shoot himself in the head rather than dishonor his family.”

  Ursula opened her mouth to speak, but the dowager refused to broach any interruption. She merely glared at her and continued apace. “Nowadays they just don’t have the courage for it! Nor for that matter do they have the decency to warn a gentleman ahead of time. I know Admiral Smythe and his family—he was one of Oliver’s tutors at Balliol—and yet I hear Smythe actually had the gall to implicate Oliver in this mess. A fine state of affairs!”

  “Admiral Smythe is missing,” Ursula reminded her as she sat back down, smoothing out her navy serge wool skirt, “and Oliver is very concerned about what may have happened to him.”

  “Poppycock!” Lady Wrotham insisted. “Smythe was the traitor—he just left his mess behind so Oliver would take the blame. He’s probably swanning around on the French Riviera by now. I can’t say I’m surprised. I never did approve of their friendship. The Smythes are of common stock don’t you know. Naval men as may be—but still, good breeding always wins out!”

  Ursula curbed her tongue. She need not remind Lady Wrotham that, as the daughter of a Northern mill owner and granddaughter of a coal miner, she too was of ‘common stock’.

  “Of course, you know who’s really to blame don’t you?” Lady Wrotham’s eyes bore down on Ursula and she steeled herself for the expected tirade, but Lady Wrotham did not rail against her, instead the main target of her vitriol was a man called Fergus McTiernay, a friend of Lord Wrotham’s from his days at Balliol College. Ursula regarded Lady Wrotham blankly. She had never heard Lord Wrotham mention anyone by that name.

  “He was a friend of Oliver’s at university. The ‘inseparables’ they called them,” Lady Wrotham finally explained. “A ‘radical thinker’ Oliver used to say—a Fenian rabble-rouser more like—but when did my opinion ever make the slightest difference to Oliver?”

  “So this man McTiernay…you think he may have something to do with Oliver’s arrest?” Ursula asked, doubtfully.

  “How should I know?!” Lady Wrotham exclaimed in ill-humor. “It just stands to reason that Oliver’s ill-advised friendships would land him in trouble one day. I thought he was done with him and Friedrich, that damnable cousin of ours, but no—Oliver would insist on reviving old friendships that were better left dead and buried.”

  “I’m sorry, but Oliver has never mentioned Fergus McTiernay or his cousin, Friedrich, was it?”

  “Count Friedrich von Bernstorff-Hollweg,” the dowager responded imperiously, “Oliver’s second cousin, on my mother’s side. Although,” she admitted, “there are many on that side of the family who would rather disown him. I, for one, was never fooled by his charms, and I never approved of him latching on to Oliver like he did.” Lady Wrotham gave a dramatic shudder.

  “I still don’t see…”

  “You wouldn’t would you?” came Lady Wrotham’s caustic reply. “Given the friendships you seem to insist on cultivating…”

  Ursula flushed at the insinuation but she knew better than to inflame the situation by getting into an argument with Lady Wrotham. Instead she got to her feet and murmured a hasty excuse that she had “best see how the police are progressing in the library.” She had seen the police vehicles lined up in the driveway the moment she arrived and was in no doubt as to their mission. She was also sure that observing their investigations was more likely to yield useful information than any long-winded (and no doubt offensive) discussion with Lady Wrotham over Lord Wrotham’s ‘imprudent’ choice of university chums.

  Ursula exited the room as quickly as she could.

  She encountered Ayres, the Wrotham family’s butler, as he approached along the narrow corridor leading from the East Wing of the house. “Ah, Ayres,” Ursula exclaimed. “I was just wondering whether the police had finished.”

  Ayres sniffed. “No, my Lady. They have not.”

  “I’m concerned about the damage they might cause to the collection,” Ursula said, “and please, Ayres, no need to address me as ‘my Lady.’ Unfortunately my engagement to Lord Wrotham has had to be called off while all this is going on. So until such time as I do marry him—and I pray that that day will come soon—you should address me as Miss. I’m sure the dowager will pick up the faux pas readily enough, if you don’t.”

  Ayres stared down at the floor boards for a moment before meeting her gaze.

  “You know it was not my choice to call off the engagement,” Ursula looked at Ayres earnestly. “I plan to do everything in my power to clear his lordship of these terrible charges.”

  For the first time since she met him, Ayres looked her candidly in the eye. “You know, my Lady,” he said (deliberately ignoring her request), “I believe you will.”

  Ursula lips parted, and her mouth would have dropped totally open at his unexpected frankness, had she not tempered her surprise almost as quickly as it had registered. Ayres’ face assumed its usual passive, world weary façade. “I shall show you to the library,” he said. Although she knew her way by now, Ursula understood his need to cling to whatever sense of normalcy he could in the circumstances, so she merely nodded her head and accompanied him back along the hallway.

  They continued along the passageway together, entering the long picture gallery that connected the East Wing to the main section of the house. They passed an imposing portrait by Joshua Reynolds of the Sixth Baron of Wrotham, Lord Wrotham’s father. As the light from the window opposite struck the painting, the red of his hunting jacket seemed to leap out from the cracked varnish.

  “How are the rest of the servants taking the news?” Ursula prodded, trying to ignore the ominous blood red reflection of the painting spilling onto the floor.

  “We’ve already lost Mary,” Ayres said. “She resigned as soon as she heard of Lord Wrotham’s arrest.”

  “I am sorry to hear that. Should I suggest to the dowager that she gather the rest of the staff together and explain the news? Perhaps that might mitigate against…?” Ursula’s voice trailed off as she saw Ayres stiffen. She frowned uncertainly, b
ut Ayres merely said, stiff-jawed: “There is no need. The rest of us have vowed to stay and serve.”

  “Thank you Ayres,” Ursula responded gratefully. “I know your loyalty will mean a great deal to Lord Wrotham.”

  “I am too old, that is all,” Ayres said but Ursula was not deceived.

  The clang of the servant’s bell being rung from the Green Room echoed along the picture gallery.

  “Ayres?! Ayres?! Where the devil are you?!” Lady Wrotham’s voice boomed down the corridor and Ayres braced himself.

  “Go,” Ursula said gently. “I know my way to the library well enough. I will speak to the police and see if I can’t get them to finish up as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Ayres replied with a bow.

  “Ayres?!” Lady Wrotham shouted again. She appeared to be wandering disorientated towards the entrance hall.

  “You best see to Lady Wrotham. I suspect as long as you keep the whiskey decanter replenished she will be fine.”

  Ayres didn’t miss a beat. “But of course,” he said before turning and heading back in search of Lady Wrotham.

  Ursula hurried to the library. The packing cases full of books and straw out in the hallway were reason enough to cause consternation. Once inside she was horrified to see uniformed policemen thumbing and tossing books with as little thought as if they were discarding fruit at the Blackburn market. Ursula had grown up in Lancashire, surrounded by the poor cotton mill workers her father employed, but she had never seen men treat books with such patent disregard as she witnessed now.

  The library had been in the Wrotham family for generations and Ursula knew that Lord Wrotham, in honor of his father, had spent many years restoring and adding to the collection. Just last week he and Ursula had spent an afternoon browsing the books at Foyle’s bookstore in Cecil Court, searching for a rare first edition of Sir Walter Scott’s novel Waverly. It horrified her to see all their efforts, all their love of literature, being treated with such contempt.

  “Chief Inspector?!” Ursula exclaimed upon seeing Chief Inspector Harrison. “What on earth is going on here?!”

  Harrison tugged his mustache. “I’m sorry, Miss Marlow, but I really must ask you to leave. We are undertaking official police business. I have a warrant to search the entire estate for evidence.”

  “Surely Lord Wrotham’s chambers would be a more appropriate place to search? What do you expect to find in his personal library, apart from books, obviously?”

  “Books may well turn out to be a critical source of evidence,” a well-bred voice called out from behind. Ursula whirled round and came face to face with a man of ample girth, fashionably coiffed hair, and florid countenance.

  “And who, sir, are you?!” she snapped. The man drew himself up, but as he was hardly taller than Ursula herself, it had little discernible effect.

  He was dressed formally in a large black frockcoat, wingtip-collared shirt and blue striped Windsor knot tie. He unbuttoned his coat, releasing his belly, to reveal a scarlet silk waistcoat with mother of pearl buttons. Ursula arched one eyebrow. This man was definitely not a member of the Metropolitan Police Force.

  Harrison coughed. “Miss Marlow, this is Sir Reginald Buckley of the War Office. He and I are conducting a joint investigation.” This time both her eyebrows lifted. The War Office had been established the previous year but she was surprised that they would be involved in what was, she assumed, essentially a matter for Scotland Yard.

  Sir Reginald Buckley regarded her with pale blue eyes that provided a startling contrast to the abundant dark waves of his hair, black beetle-brows and the corpulent layers of his neck and chin. Although Ursula guessed he was much the same age as Lord Wrotham, in his middle thirties, he looked as though he had already settled in to a body more suited to the idleness and excesses of late-middle age.

  “Miss Marlow hardly needs to be kept informed of the progress of our investigation,” Sir Buckley replied smoothly. “Indeed, I’m sure her time would be much better spent riding horses or playing golf, whatever it is ‘modern women’ now claim as pastimes, or perhaps”—he paused, a glint in his eyes—“Miss Marlow prefers breaking windows and harassing cabinet ministers like her fellow suffragettes?”

  Ursula’s involvement in the Women’s Social and Political Union had long been a source of tension between her and Chief Inspector Harrison, and it was obvious that Sir Reginald Buckley held her political views in similarly low regard.

  “Oh, you are out of date Sir Buckley,” Ursula replied smoothly. “Don’t you know we’ve moved on to planting bombs?” Ursula immediately regretted her indiscretion. It was hardly in her or Lord Wrotham’s interests to sound like an extremist.

  “No doubt you’ll be wantin’ to get back to Lady Wrotham, Miss Marlow,” Harrison intervened hastily. “I’m sure she appreciates having you here.”

  “Lady Wrotham appreciates my presence as much as she ever did,” Ursula responded dryly and made no move to leave the Library. One of the young constables in uniform called for Sir Buckley, who, with a pale-eyed last glance, sauntered off leaving Harrison and Ursula standing beneath the arched entrance to the library.

  “Be careful of that one,” Harrison said in low tones. “He’s a right nasty man to cross. Went to Oxford with Lord Wrotham and believe me, there’s been no love lost between them. He’s baying for blood now—so I’d just watch myself if I was you.”

  Ursula was startled by his candor.

  “Thanks,” she replied. “Consider me duly warned, but,” she lowered her voice, “you know this is excessive—what can they possibly hope to find here?”

  All the police constables were gathered in the far corner of the library, beneath the stained glass window depicting the Wrotham family’s royal blue and silver family crest. Under the coat of arms the family motto—Sequere iustiam et invenias vitem—follow justice and find life—was written in gothic black letters. The policemen and Sir Buckley were out of earshot. “Oh come now,” Ursula pressed. “You don’t really believe Lord Wrotham would betray his country?”

  “After all that has happened over the last few days, I don’t know what to believe,” Harrison replied. He tugged at a strand of his short dark hair, pensive and distracted.

  “Then trust your instinct,” Ursula urged. “Help me. Lord Wrotham told me he was innocent and my instinct is to believe him.”

  Harrison sighed and the lines around his eyes tightened as he watched Sir Buckley talking with his constables. “I dare not,” he said, struggling to hide his frustration. “Even if I believe him. My entire livelihood is at stake. And, much as I hate to admit it, this is a significant investigation for me. Likely as not it’ll lead to promotion. A promotion which I need if I’m ever going to be able to afford to marry and have a family”—He paused before continuing—“Unlike you, Miss Marlow, I didn’t inherit money. My parents, God rest their souls, were poor tenants on this very estate. I can’t fight the system like you lot can.”

  Bitterness crept into his voice and Ursula felt the stirrings of compassion. In that moment Harrison revealed more about himself that he had in all the three years Ursula had known him. His ambitions, his background, and his motivations—none of that had ever been fully bared—until now.

  “All you need to do,” Ursula said quietly, hoping to appeal to his conscience, “is tell me what they hope to find here. Give me that and I will trust that, deep down, you believe Lord Wrotham is innocent, even if you cannot overtly say it.” She kept a close eye on Sir Buckley across the room. He had his back to them as he pored over a large portfolio of drawings.

  Harrison shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and stared at the floor.

  “Sir!” A young tow-headed policeman hurriedly entered the library. “The first load of boxes is ready to be transported. The driver said ’e needs your signature to authorize ’em to take ’em back to Scotland Yard.”

  Sir Buckley looked up and his chest puffed out with self-importance. “I will be back momentari
ly,” he advised the police constables before crossing the room with short, swift strides. He passed Harrison and Ursula brimming with self-importance.

  “Make sure she’s out of here by the time I get back,” he said as he walked by.

  Harrison gazed directly ahead, avoiding looking at Ursula. The remaining police constables were still trying to replace the papers back in the leather-bound portfolio. Ursula winced when she thought of the damage they were undoubtedly inflicting. She knew the drawings, they were a series of controversial ink drawings of Salome by Aubrey Beardsley. They were unlikely to be relevant to the investigation, but no doubt Sir Buckley was convinced they demonstrated some prurient side of Lord Wrotham’s character.

  “Sir Buckley believes that a notebook we found in Admiral Smythe’s wall safe was encrypted using a book as the key.” Harrison murmured under his breath. “He’s pretty sure some kind of numeric cipher is involved”—Ursula frowned—“where a number is substituted for the first letter of a word from a book or document,” Harrison explained. “The difficulty is that without knowing the text used it’s almost impossible to decipher.”

  Ursula leaned in closer. She had some limited experience with codes and ciphers, having assisted the WSPU with Lady Catherine Winterton the previous year. The WSPU had long been concerned about the police intercepting messages related to protests or other militant action and Ursula’s good friend, Winifred Stanford-Jones, had enlisted her help in devising a new secure system for communication. Ursula had studied for a brief time the use of codes by Mary Queen of Scots while she was at Somerville College. Her knowledge remained, however, rudimentary and incomplete.