Unlikely Traitors

by Clare Langley-Hawthorne

  Ursula was shown into Sir Reginald Buckley’s office by a dour man in a grey pin-striped suit, whose military bearing and pinched disdain for her, as he looked her modern, mannish day suit up and down, left Ursula under no illusion as to his opinion of her. Where was her respectable marriage, her respectable home life and her respectable, well-behaved children? To the secretary, Ursula suspected, she was little more than a tainted specimen of ‘independent womanhood’.

  “Please take a seat, Miss Marlow,” Sir Buckley said as she entered and his tone was surprisingly felicitous compared to their last meeting. “May I offer you a cup of tea, perhaps?”

  Ursula could tell, from the cut and cloth of his Saville Row suit (probably made by Gieves & Hawkes who outfitted many in the Royal Navy) and his foulard-print Ascot necktie, just how much Sir Buckley venerated his status amongst ‘the establishment’. Perhaps someone in the War Office had reminded him of the size and wealth of the textile empire Ursula’s father had left her? If so, Sir Buckley was astute enough to recognize that with money came influence, even for an outsider and a woman like Ursula.

  Hmm, though Ursula, perhaps Pemberton was right, they are just trying to ‘soften me up’ in the hopes that I might turn Crown witness. That was what Pemberton had told her he suspected when she had telephoned him earlier that morning. No doubt Sir Buckley was hoping that she would see the error of her ways and provide assistance in his case against Lord Wrotham. If that was indeed true, Ursula thought, as she handed the secretary her hat and gloves, he was sorely mistaken.

  “No tea, thank you,” Ursula answered Sir Buckley, all politeness. “I’m not here for a social chat.”

  As she took her seat, she shot Chief inspector Harrison a quick glance. He was perched on a wooden chair beneath a small window, a notepad and pencil in his lap. He acknowledged her presence with nothing more than a nod.

  “I take it your lawyer won’t be joining us, then?’ Sir Buckley said.

  “No, should I have asked him to?” Ursula replied. “I was led to believe that I am not a suspect in this case.”

  “No, no, of course not,” Sir Buckley assured her as he sat down hastily. As he was arranging his papers on the desk and adjusting his shirt cuffs (revealing ostentatious gold and diamond cuff links), Ursula noticed the display of framed photographs on the nearest set of bookshelves: Sir Buckley with Winston Churchill, First Lord of the Admiralty; Sir Buckley with Sir Edward Grey, the Foreign Secretary; and, of course, Ursula murmured, Sir Buckley with Andrew Bonar Law, leader of the Conservative Party and staunch supporter of the Unionist cause in Ireland.

  Sir Buckley cleared his throat and began to speak. “I regret Miss Marlow that we last met under very trying circumstances. I hope you understand that we were engaged in the delicate task of identifying and collecting evidence, but I promise you that every effort was made to protect the books in Lord Wrotham’s library.” Sir Buckley fiddled with his gold tie pin. “Now, I’m afraid, I do have to ask you a number of questions regarding the charges laid against Lord Wrotham…”

  “You would have hardly ordered me here, otherwise,” Ursula responded. She regarded him grimly, unmoved by his apology.

  “Yes, well…” Sir Buckley cleared his throat once more.

  “Before you start your questions,” Ursula said, leaning forward in her chair and pinning him beneath her gaze. “I must formally protest the insinuation that I was in any way involved or had any knowledge of Lord Wrotham’s activities. Lord Wrotham has never discussed his governmental duties with me. I was never aware of his movements or meetings abroad and I have never, ever, been privy to discussions with him regarding the activities that led to these charges. As far as I was aware, Lord Wrotham’s politics were clear and unambiguous. He did not support home rule for Ireland. He had no love for the German imperialist cause and he was, and always maintained himself to be, a patriotic Englishman.”

  Ursula’s statement seemed to momentarily take the wind out of Sir Buckley’s proverbial sails but, all too soon, he recovered and asked, as the air blew out his cheeks. “But what of your politics, Miss Marlow? What influence did they have on his Lordship?”

  “None whatsoever,” Ursula answered. “It was one area we tried best to avoid. We held opposing views on the question of female suffrage, Irish nationalism and trade unionism…and, believe me, the list could go on. In short, there was very little in terms of politics that we did agree on.”

  “So you had no idea of his support for the Irish nationalist cause?”

  “What support?” Ursula replied. “I have already told you, he was a Unionist.”

  “So you are not aware of these, then?” Sir Buckley drew out a file from the pile on his desk and opened it. He spread three papers in front of her. The first appeared to be a broadsheet entitled Freedom of Thought, Freedom of Expression: The Radical Undergraduate co-authored by Lord Wrotham and Fergus McTiernay. The second were typed minutes of a debate at the Oxford Union on Ireland for the Irish? featuring Lord Wrotham as the one of the speaker for the affirmative. The third was a copy of an invitation dated October 1911 for the Hanover Club—an Oxford University society that had been formed to promote Anglo-German relations during this time of crisis. It listed Lord Wrotham as one of its prominent after dinner speakers.

  “No,” Ursula said, looking up at Sir Buckley. “I have not seen these before.”

  Her finger nails dug into the palms of her hands as she hid both her shock and her bewilderment behind a mask of feigned self-possession.

  “But you knew about Lord Wrotham’s strong business and family ties to Germany,” Sir Buckley said.

  “Yes.”

  “And you knew about Lord Wrotham’s frequent visits to the continent?”

  “I was aware of them,” Ursula admitted.

  “And were you aware of the nature of his visits to Germany?” he asked.

  Despite his initial solicitousness, there was no mistaking that Sir Buckley was now relishing Ursula’s discomfiture.

  Ursula shook her head.

  “What about something like this?” Sir Buckley held up a small black notebook. “This is Admiral Smythe’s, but our witnesses report seeing Lord Wrotham possessing a similar notebook.”

  “As far as I’m aware Lord Wrotham carries no notebook, only a slim volume of poetry by Alfred Lord Tennyson on occasion.”

  “Do you know which volume that might be?” Sir Buckley asked sharply. He was clearly eager for information that might help identify the cipher key Harrison had spoken of, but Ursula was in no mood to satisfy his curiosity.

  “No,” she lied. “I do not.”

  She saw Harrison raise his eyebrows but he did not interject.

  Sir Buckley handed her the notebook. “Please take a look Miss Marlow and tell me if you recognize anything.”

  Ursula took the notebook and opened it. Inside, the lined pages were filled with strings of numbers, all of which appeared to be in no particular order or sequence. So this was what the cipher looked like, Ursula thought. No wonder Sir Buckley was anxious. Mindful of her brief experience with codes the previous year, Ursula tried to focus on anything in the pages that might reveal some kind of pattern—but she could discern nothing. Inwardly she vowed to dig out her notes from the research she and Lady Winterton had conducted for the WPSU as well as her history books from Somerville College, where she had first become interested in the use of ciphers by Mary Queen of Scots.

  “No,” Ursula repeated, as she perused the notebook. “I’ve not seen anything like this before…Tell me, are you any closer to knowing what these numbers refer to?”

  “No,” Sir Buckley replied stiffly. “We are not.”

  The questions continued to go back and forth for the remainder of the hour but as much as Sir Buckley tried to draw her out, Ursula was determined to reveal as little as possible. Lord Wrotham may well have kept many secrets from her but she would not abandon him now, and she was certainly not about to trust the likes of Sir Buckley.

&n
bsp; After Sir Buckley had finished, Chief Inspector Harrison drilled her for a further hour about Lord Wrotham’s business relations with her father, his role as her guardian, and his involvement in the management of Marlow Industries. Throughout the interrogation, Harrison remained aloof and unemotional, though Ursula sensed unsettled currents beneath the smooth exterior of his countenance.

  “Are you aware that Bromley Hall may have to be closed due to unpaid debts stemming from Lord Wrotham’s brother’s mismanagement of the estate?” Harrison asked.

  Ursula knew Lord Wrotham’s brother, Gerard, had almost bankrupted the estate before his death, but she had also known better than to inquire too deeply into the matter. Lord Wrotham’s family had always been a thorny topic of discussion.

  “I knew the financial situation was tenuous but I was not aware of the extent of the debts owed,” Ursula confessed.

  “We have reason to believe that money may have been funneled to Lord Wrotham through accounts in both Ireland and Germany—were you ever aware of any transactions of this nature?”

  “I am not privy to Lord Wrotham’s financial affairs, and before you ask, Lord Wrotham has never asked for money from me. As my guardian, however, he has always treated my inheritance with due propriety. I know my accounts are all in good order but I am not aware of any of his dealings with Ireland or Germany.”

  “But you are aware that the Wrotham family has German business interests and that Lord Wrotham visited the continent on a regular basis.”

  “Yes,” Ursula admitted reluctantly.

  “And yet you maintain he never discussed the nature of these visits…”

  “As you know, Lord Wrotham keeps his business affairs private,” Ursula replied, leveling her gaze at Harrison.

  “And his past?’ Harrison asked quietly.

  Ursula bit her lip before answering. “He certainly never discussed his time at Balliol,” she said.

  “Or, I take it, his time in Guyana?”

  When confronted with Harrison’s question, Ursula averted her gaze before answering, in a voice that had lost all semblance of equanimity, “no…he did not.”

  “Sir Buckley,” Ursula asked as Chief Inspector Harrison escorted her to the door. “I was wondering if I would be permitted to speak to any of the crown witnesses in this case—specifically Count von Bernstorff-Hollweg.”

  “Certainly not,” Sir Buckley responded with a harrumph. “Lord Wrotham’s lawyers may interview him at an appropriate juncture in the case, but you have no right to contact him directly.”

  “But the Count is still in England?” Ursula pressed.

  “No…” Sir Buckley hesitated. “Not anymore.” His face was starting to grow red. “He’s a very busy man, Miss Marlow and has returned to Germany. We have assurances of his continued cooperation, of course.”

  “Of course,” Ursula echoed as she took her hat from Sir Buckley’s secretary and tugged it on. “What about the other witnesses?”

  “Pemberton has the list of all pertinent witnesses and documents,” Sir Buckley replied stiffly. “I suggest you take the matter up with him.”

  Ursula adjusted her hat and pulled on her gloves, slowly, one at a time.

  “Miss Marlow,” Harrison intervened. “You may as well accept the fact you will not be allowed to talk directly to any of the witnesses in this case. Nor will you be allowed to conduct your own form of investigation. You must also keep us apprised of all your movements, both here and abroad.”

  “Why?” she demanded. “Am I under suspicion now?”

  “No, of course not,” Harrison responded. “But we may still need to contact you regarding questions in the case.”

  Sir Buckley’s secretary held open the door for her, his face etched with disdain.

  “I should keep my head down if I were you, Miss Marlow,” Sir Buckley said as straightened his frockcoat and tugged his waistcoat down over his bulging stomach. “Put this whole unfortunate incident behind you”—he paused to clear his throat—“why a woman of your considerable means could easily find herself another husband.”

  Ursula regarded him with a look she hoped conveyed withering contempt but, like many things, it was lost on Sir Buckley. She saw Harrison though, his eyes thoughtful, regarding her with an expression she had never seen before—at least not for her.

  Pity.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Despite Lord Wrotham’s warnings, Ursula returned to Brixton prison on Monday to visit him. The newspapers by now had already reported Admiral Smythe’s death but Ursula was intrigued to note how few details were reported. There was no mention of cyanide or the possibility of murder. The cause of death as far as the press was concerned was drowning. Ursula surmised that Chief Inspector Harrison was keeping a very tight rein now on any information relating to the case and she was relieved, for it also meant at least one less reason for speculation and scandal. She had been involved in enough murder cases by now to know the insatiable public appetite for gruesome details.

  Ursula bought with her to Brixton a basket of food that Cook had prepared—untried prisoners were allowed to supply their own food as well as wear their own clothes as they awaited trial. Despite this, the deterioration in Lord Wrotham’s appearance was shocking. He had clearly not been allowed to shave and his blue-grey eyes seemed edged with weariness. On his forehead was a bandage through which the stitches were clearly visible.

  “Whatever have they done to you?” she exclaimed.

  “It seems some of my fellow prisoners aren’t too keen on having a traitor in their midst,” Lord Wrotham replied, wincing as he eased himself into the chair. “And I thought I told you not to visit.”

  “We have to file a formal complaint,” Ursula said, ignoring his last comment. “Whatever happened to being innocent until proven guilty?”

  “I’m starting to believe that Hobbes was right,” Lord Wrotham said. “Life really is just nasty, brutish and short.”

  Ursula stared at him in dismay. “Don’t say that…” she responded hoarsely. “There is always hope.”

  “Is there?” he answered and the weariness in his tone concerned her almost as much as his physical deterioration. Ursula reached out her hand but he remained slumped in his chair, refusing to accept her comfort.

  “Sir Buckley and Chief inspector Harrison interviewed me yesterday,” Ursula said, hoping to provoke him into irritation at least.

  “That must have been most unsatisfying,” Lord Wrotham said.

  “Yes,” Ursula answered, “for all concerned.”

  Lord Wrotham raised an eyebrow.

  “Why have you never told me about your days at Balliol?” Ursula demanded. “Were you afraid that I would find out that your politics were originally not so dissimilar to mine?”

  “Is that what you think?” he asked.

  “That’s no answer.” Ursula replied flushing.

  Lord Wrotham ran his fingers through his dark hair. She detected the old sense of trespass—the old sense that she was treading close to old wounds. In the past she found the prospect of unnerving him electrifying. Now it prompted only anguish.

  “I am not the same man I was at Balliol,” Lord Wrotham replied. “Perhaps I didn’t want to deceive you into thinking that I was.”

  “Not the answer that I wanted…” Ursula admitted. “But it was honestly given and I cannot fault you for that. Honest answers seem few and far between at the moment.”

  Lord Wrotham registered her reply in silence. The strain between them was almost unbearable. She wanted, no needed, to see the man beneath and yet still he ignored her pain. Ursula felt a spasm of grief convulse through her. Lord Wrotham sat across the table from her, his face as immutable and hard as a gravestone.

  “In the interview, Sir Buckley showed me a black bound notebook,” Ursula finally said. “He told me it belonged to Admiral Smythe but he seemed to think you also carried something similar. The notebook was filled with some kind of numeric code, though I’m guessing you already know t
hat.”

  Lord Wrotham still said nothing.

  “You know Sir Buckley sent Chief Inspector Harrison to my house a few nights ago, trying to draw me out,” she said. “He thought I might be persuaded to testify against you. That would, of course, presuppose that I knew anything of value”—Ursula bit her lip, getting angry was not going to achieve anything and she exhaled slowly before continuing—“Why did you not at least tell me that Bromley Hall was in danger of foreclosing?”

  “Is that what Sir Buckley told you?” Lord Wrotham asked.

  Ursula nodded, her eyes not leaving his.

  Lord Wrotham looked away and signaled to the guard. “Do you have a cigarette, by any chance?” he asked him.

  Ursula drew a silver case from her skirt pocket and pushed it across the table. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she chided, “take one of mine.”

  She knew, however, that he was just stalling for time.

  “Well?” she prompted.

  He struck a match and lit his cigarette. “Is it true about the debts?” he finished the question for her and then paused. “Yes,” he said.

  “You should have told me,” Ursula insisted. “I could have—”

  “Could have what? Given me money?”

  Ursula’s hands clenched in her lap.

  “You need to stop feeling guilty,” Lord Wrotham said. “You are not, nor ever can be, my savior.”

  “Why does my halo not match my dress?” Ursula snapped.

  “Ursula, you need to be serious…”

  “That’s what I have been—perfectly serious—why do you insist on avoiding discussion on the very things that matter?! Why, if you are bound by some kind of obligation to Admiral Smythe, do you not tell me how I might decipher his notes? Why hinder me from finding evidence that may exonerate you?!”

  “Deciphering Admiral Smythe’s notes may not be in anyone’s best interests,” Lord Wrotham replied.

  Ursula bit her lip again as she tried to hold back her frustration.

  “Tell me about Guyana then, at least,” she said.

  “Why would you want to know about that?” Lord Wrotham said and the cigarette in his mouth dangled precariously from his lips. His surprise seemed genuine.