Unlikely Traitors

by Clare Langley-Hawthorne

  Everyone remained silent, except Cook who, with eyes half-closed had begun muttering under her breath. Julia remained in her seat, a stricken expression on her normally rosy-cheeked face.

  “There will be people, reporters and the like, who will offer you money for your story,” Ursula reminded them. “They may offer you money to say almost anything about me, or, indeed, about Lord Wrotham. I must tell you now that I cannot tolerate any disloyalty. If you should tell the press anything at all, I will prosecute for slander, and ensure that all of London society are aware of the reason for your dismissal.”

  Biggs straightened his coat tails. “Miss Marlow,” he said solemnly. “I hope I speak on behalf of all of us here when I say that we are committed to preserving the good name of both the Marlow and Wrotham households.”

  “Thank you Biggs,” Ursula replied. “So am I.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHESTER SQUARE

  It was close to midnight when Ursula, sitting in her study reading a book of Christina Rossetti’s poetry that Lord Wrotham had given her, heard the bell ring at the servants’ entrance below. In truth she had not been reading, but rather turning the events of the last few days over and over in her mind. Images from her interview with Mrs. Stewart, barely two hours ago, were still raw. She could see Mrs. Stewart sitting before her, her gaze teary but defiant. Unable to face another emotional confrontation, Ursula had cut off Mrs. Stewart’s lengthy explanation in mid-sentence saying coldly: “I have no desire to hear your reasons, no doubt you are satisfied with them. I simply wish to know whether you require a reference from me.” Mrs. Stewart’s face, as she heard Ursula’s words, haunted her still. This was not how either of them had wanted things to end.

  It seemed a long time till morning and, with her head still aching despite the Bayer Aspirin powder she took earlier, Ursula was nowhere near being able to sleep.

  The servants’ doorbell rang once more. Ursula put down the soft, leather-bound book, marking her place with the pink ribbon and checked the mantel clock. She rubbed her eyes, murmured, and decided she had better go investigate on her own.

  She met Biggs on the staircase leading up from the kitchen.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  “Chief Inspector Harrison, Miss. He wishes to come upstairs and meet with you but wants to make sure all the curtains and blinds are drawn.”

  Ursula raised an eyebrow. “All this cloak and dagger seems a bit unnecessary—the press are hardly likely to be skulking about near midnight—but you can reassure him everything is closed and he can come on up.”

  She stretched her neck and rolled her shoulders, trying to clear her head.

  “May I offer you and the Chief Inspector some refreshment?” Biggs asked.

  “Tea would be lovely,” she replied. “Thank you.”

  Biggs padded off down the stairs, soft-shoed as always.

  Ursula walked back into the study and turned off the geometric glass and bronze lamp on her desk. The room dimmed, illuminated now only by the electric standard lamp in the far corner of the room. Ursula moved a chair next to the fretwork screen in front of the fireplace for Harrison and eased down in the deep leather armchair opposite.

  Chief Inspector Harrison entered, closing the study door behind him carefully.

  “Miss Marlow,” he said and paused beside the chair. He looked uncomfortable at being alone in her presence.

  “Sit down, please,” Ursula urged. “You look tired,” she said. “I’ve asked Biggs to bring us some tea. It’s late. Have you had dinner? Supper?”

  Harrison shook his head as he sat down.

  “Then I’ll get Biggs to see what he can rustle up,” Ursula replied. She leaned forward resting her chin on her hands and gazed at him expectantly.

  Harrison’s face was inscrutable. “I came because”—he chewed on his lip—“I think I might need your help.”

  “Really?” Ursula answered, leaning back as she crossed her arms.

  “Look,” Harrison replied. “I know it didn’t appear so at first, but I’ve had time to mull over things a bit more and I’ve started to have…”

  “Doubts?” Ursula prompted.

  “More than doubts,” Harrison answered. “I’m starting to be concerned about where this investigation is heading. Sir Buckley’s convinced Lord Wrotham’s guilty, but I’m worried no one has taken a step back and thought about Admiral Smythe’s files or the circumstances in which we found them.” Harrison traced the outline of his mustache with his index finger. “When I first moved to Scotland Yard I was assigned to the forgery section. Most of the cases involved obvious document forgeries—mortgages, wills and the like but one thing my experience taught me was to use my instinct. More often than not, if it looked too good to be true, it probably was.”

  “You think the files could be forgeries?” Ursula queried.

  Harrison licked his lips; he still looked uneasy. “I’m just saying, it seems a little too convenient that we found incriminating files in Admiral Smythe’s study—like they were deliberately left or even staged for us to find as soon as Admiral Smythe was reported missing. We only found Admiral Smythe’s notebook, however, after an extensive search that uncovered his secret wall safe. All the entries in the notebook were encrypted—but the files we found—”

  “Were not?” Ursula supplied.

  Harrison nodded.

  “Do you think someone deliberately planted those files to implicate Lord Wrotham?” she asked.

  There was a tap at the door and Biggs, entered carrying a tea tray and, preempting Ursula’s request, a plate piled high with Lancashire cheese, bread, and pickled onions for Harrison’s supper. Biggs placed the tray down on the sideboard behind Harrison’s chair, passed him the plate and poured them each a cup of Darjeeling tea. Harrison looked strangely embarrassed, as if he had not expected to be treated with such hospitality.

  “Thank you Biggs,” Ursula said absently, her mind still processing what Harrison said. Biggs exited the room in silence. “Has Sir Buckley sent the files off for handwriting or fingerprint analysis?” she asked Harrison

  Harrison’s brow lifted in surprise, but he answered. “Yes, or rather I arranged for that to be undertaken. It will take some time of course. Fingerprint analysis is a relatively new science after all and I’m not sure what they will be able to find.”

  Ursula pursed her lips, deep in thought. “So tell me,” she said, trying to ignore the pounding in her head. “What did these files purport to say?”

  Harrison hastily took a bite of bread and cheese and a quick swig of tea before answering. “One of the files provides details of an alleged meeting in December 1911 at the castle of Lord Wrotham’s cousin, Count Frederich von Bernstorff-Hollweg.”

  “Second cousin,” Ursula reminded him.

  “Yes, well…” Harrison continued awkwardly. “As you, no doubt, know by now, the Count is one the main witnesses in the case against Lord Wrotham. But at this meeting there was also a man called Fergus McTiernay—another old friend of Lord Wrotham’s from Balliol.”

  “Yes,” Ursula prompted him.

  “McTiernay is a known Irish Republican sympathizer even though he’s a gentleman. Special Branch has been watching him for years but, up till now, we always believed he was an advocate of political rather than military action. But at this meeting it seems as though plans to sell information regarding the naval defenses on the South-West coast of England were discussed—a plan that ultimately led to a conspiracy to assassinate and overthrow the British government in Ireland.”

  Harrison took some more bread and cheese and Ursula noticed how much his manners reminded her of her father. It was in way he hesitated as he decided how to hold the knife and his deliberations on how best to tear the bread. It was always the first thing that revealed your class, she thought ruefully. Harrison, like her father, never could escape his origins.

  Ursula got to her feet, crossed the room and picked up her notepad and pencil. She returned to her
seat and starting taking notes.

  “Tell me more about McTiernay and Lord Wrotham’s cousin,” Ursula said.

  “The Count is a well-known philanderer with a reputation for dabbling in whatever get rich scheme he can get his hands on. Hardly a stellar witness, yet, given his title, he moves easily among both German and British high society.”

  “Are he and Lord Wrotham estranged, is that why he is testifying against him?” Ursula asked.

  “I was rather hoping you might be able to tell us that—for as far as we know the two men were good friends as well as relations. The Count is also said to be favored by the Kaiser himself—possibly because of his military aspirations, but, most likely, because of his business associations.”

  Ursula watched Harrison, her expression becoming steadily more guarded. “As I’ve already told you,” she said. “Lord Wrotham has never spoken to me about the Count or his dealings with him…”

  “The Count spends most of the year on the continent, but in the past we’ve had no reason to suspect he was a German agent. Perhaps Lord Wrotham mentioned meeting with the Count whilst he was been in Europe?”

  “No, as I said Lord Wrotham has never mentioned the Count at all.”

  “Supposedly the Count was Lord Wrotham and McTiernay’s contact in Germany,” Harrison continued. “The deal was made to sell the information on the basis that Germany would supply arms to the Irish Republican Brotherhood and provide further military support should there be an uprising in Ireland or a war with Germany.”

  “That part still doesn’t make any sense to me, given Lord Wrotham’s politics.”

  Harrison exhaled loudly. “I know, but Admiral Smythe seemed to think—at least in the files we found—that Lord Wrotham had been drawn to the nationalist cause in his youth and, since working with the Admiral on a number of missions, had become disillusioned with the British government. Given his family ties with Germany, financial problems with his estate, and conflicted loyalties from his days at Balliol, Lord Wrotham apparently chose to ally himself with McTiernay. Lord Wrotham’s business ties and influence made him a valuable asset in securing contacts in Germany.”

  “I don’t really see Wrotham being the disillusioned diplomat turned German spy, do you?” Ursula said. “Even if, which I entirely doubt, he was involved in any kind of radicalism in his youth”—she leaned forward once more in her chair—“he would hardly need the money after becoming engaged to me.”

  “You forget,” Harrison reminded her. “The meeting was at the end of 1911. I believe at that time you had rejected his Lordship’s offer of marriage.”

  Ursula flushed.

  “But I admit,” Harrison conceded. “The picture that Admiral Smythe paints in his files is not one that entirely fits with the Lord Wrotham that I know.”

  “And what of McTiernay then—what has he got to say? Does he corroborate the Count’s story?”

  “McTiernay has disappeared,” Harrison said bitterly. “Special Branch no longer has the network of informers or friends within the Nationalists that we used to have, so he’s going to be hard to find. We suspect he’s gone to ground somewhere in Ireland.”

  “Is McTiernay married? Does he have family that you can contact?” Ursula asked.

  “McTiernay’s wife’s Fenian political views are well known—she is also a member of the Irish Women’s Franchise League.” Ursula was well aware of the Irish women’s group dedicated to securing votes for women and of Harrison’s animosity towards the suffrage issue.

  Ursula felt her hackles rise. “I suppose you think because of that I am somehow in league with her?”

  It was Harrison’s turn to flush. “We’re more concerned about finding Lord Wrotham’s chauffeur, Archibald James,” he said, changing the topic. “As I recall, his Lordship told you to ask James to drive you to Bromley Hall.”

  “I have been unable to contact Lord Wrotham’s chauffeur,” Ursula replied. “And I’m not sure what he’s got to do with any of this, anyway.” Her right foot tapped the upholstered skirt of her chair.

  “You haven’t seen or heard from him then?” Harrison asked.

  “No, of course I haven’t,” Ursula replied.

  Ursula’s cup of tea went untouched beside her.

  “Surely Lord Wrotham must have mentioned his meeting in Germany in December 1911…” Harrison probed. “Or perhaps he discussed McTiernay with you? He’s more likely to have been candid with you about his dealings with the Count and McTiernay given your well-known political support for Irish Home Rule.”

  “Lord Wrotham never saw fit to tell me anything about this meeting,” Ursula answered, stiffly. “Or about his friendships from Balliol.”

  “What about any of his other visits abroad? Perhaps he confided in you about these, but you never understood the implications—until now? Maybe if you think hard you’ll recall something—it may be trivial—but it might be enough to help Lord Wrotham…”

  By now Ursula was sure his presence here was a ruse and nothing more. It was clear Harrison had only given her information to make her believe that he thought Lord Wrotham was innocent—when, all along, he was only trying to draw her out and discover what information Wrotham may have shared with her.

  “I never realized,” Ursula said, leaning forward and pinning him with an icy stare. “How stupid you really thought I was.”

  After Chief Inspector Harrison left, Ursula tried desperately to sleep but she found herself tossing and turning in agitation. Harrison’s duplicity sickened her. Her thoughts awhirl she kept coming back to the names of the men: Smythe. McTiernay. Wrotham. Count von Bernstorff-Hollweg. All four of them Balliol men. All four of them now somehow involved in a plot to sell Britain’s military secrets. Sleep eventually gained a foothold and, as she slipped off the precipice into the dark, deep chasm, her final thought was of Oxford. It was the first door to Lord Wrotham’s past that she needed to unlock.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  BALLIOL COLLEGE, OXFORD

  Ursula decided to let Samuels drive her up to Oxford in ‘Bertie’ rather than risk breaking-down en-route in the Bugatti. Although she managed to leave via the servants’ entrance to her Chester Square home without undue harassment, the journey took longer than anticipated after Samuels spotted a reporter following them just as they approached High Wycombe. It took a lengthy detour and some ingenuity on Samuels’ part to evade their follower and resume their course towards Abingdon and Oxford.

  It was with some trepidation that Ursula left for the journey to Oxford. She felt tainted by the scandals that had dogged her since she left Somerville College and unworthy of returning. Although the main aim of her visit was to investigate the relationship between Wrotham, Smythe, McTiernay and Balliol college, she could not help but be wistful on her own account—for what might have been. She had taken her finals in the end of Trinity Term in 1908. Back then the world held such promise. Her father was alive and she still believed she could convince him to let her make her own way in the world as a political journalist. Sitting in the back seat of Bertie she heaved a sigh as she remembered cramming one night for her finals, a cup of hot cocoa steaming in one hand, a torch in the other and a copy of Homer’s Iliad propped up on her knees. Seated on the narrow bed in the airless room that had been her home for the past three years, she had been was content to switch off her torch and watch the moonlight inch its way across the page as the night drew on. She had felt so restful at that moment, held in the eternal spell of stone and mortar, that she had felt as if, were she to close her eyes for even a moment, she would drift into an infinite, book-filled sleep, never to awaken.

  Now, as they drove up Headington Hill and caught the first glimpses of Oxford’s shimmering spires, those memories seemed little more than a cruel illusion, sent to taunt her with images of all that the world could have been. A vision of innocence, in which she had all the promise of a future career and love, untouched by scandal, untouched by death.

  Samuels with a quick glance round, s
lowed the motor car. “Would you like me to stop, Miss?” he asked.

  “No,” Ursula replied, falling back against the leather seat. “Not this time.”

  For the first two years, Ursula had arrived in Oxford by train, lugging her trunk along the platform and joining the chattering hordes of other young men and women calling for porters and embracing their fellow students who were also returning. In her final year, however, Samuels would drive her to Somerville, and pull over, just about now, so Ursula could jump out, climb the stile on the fence by an old farmhouse and take in her first glimpse of Oxford.

  Now she contented herself with the view from the car window, slumped in her seat, feeling the cool winter air seeping in through her shoes and stockings. There were still traces of frost on the hedgerows after a cold night but the recent spell of milder weather had beckoned a few hardy spring flowers to venture forth, pushing up through the hard ground along the edge of the rutted road. They passed St. Stephen’s House and headed over Magdalen Bridge before turning down Longwall Street. Ursula noticed that nothing seemed to have changed since her last day at Somerville; the students still weaved their way along Holywell Street on their bicycles, and the gates of Balliol were as graceful and imposing as ever.

  She asked the porter at the lodge if she could to be shown to Professor Prendergast’s rooms at the college. As a Senior Fellow of the college he had rooms at the back of the old quadrangle looking out over the Fellows’ garden. The head porter escorted her as they passed beneath the two archways that led through the small front quadrangle to the large quadrangle behind it, where they stopped at a door marked VI, leading to one of the wooden staircases to the rooms above.

  “Up the stairs and first room on your left, Miss. He’s expecting you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Would you like me to provide your chauffeur with some refreshment?”

  “Oh, I’m sure a cup of tea would go down a treat. Samuels has been driving for hours.”