There was a momentary frisson between them. Ursula tried to ignore the jealousy uncoiling like a green snake within her.
“Although those days are, of course, long gone,” Lady Winterton concluded with a smile that did not quite dissipate the tension.
“James killed a man and yet Lord Wrotham took him in?” Ursula said, “that hardly seems to make any sense.”
“Hmm…perhaps you are right, but I’m sure Harrison was part of it all. What role he played we may never know. I’m afraid Grace was really only interested in James’ affairs.”
“I see…” Ursula said, though in truth she felt more unsure of herself than ever.
“Lord Wrotham believed in James,” Lady Winterton said quietly. “Surely that counts for something.”
“It does,” Ursula said, trying without success to shake off her doubts.
“What does the note from James say?” Lady Winterton inquired, reaching for a cake with the silver tongs.
Ursula paused, considering how much she should disclose, before answering. “He has discovered where Count von Bernstorff-Hollweg has gone—Prague.”
“Prague?” Lady Winterton seemed to savor the word as she chewed her mouthful of cake. “That isn’t too far—we could easily get there by train.”
“Maybe,” Ursula answered noncommittally as she stared at her now empty coffee cup—she was already regretting having brought Lady Winterton into her confidence.
“Why the hesitation?” Lady Winterton asked. “Don’t you trust James?”
Ursula looked up sharply. “What on earth made you say that?!”
Lady Winterton raised an eyebrow. “I would have thought it was obvious,” she answered coolly. “Why should you trust a man who abandoned Lord Wrotham at the first opportunity? He’s killed before, so who’s to say he isn’t the one who murdered Admiral Smythe?”
She pinned Ursula with her stare.
“Who’s to say he isn’t planning on killing you?”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
HOTEL PARIZ, PRAGUE,
KINGDOM OF BOHEMIA
The winter wind had an icy edge to it as it swirled across the Old Town Square. Ursula pulled up the collar of her black cashmere coat as she hastened after James, whose long, brisk strides outpaced the mincing steps she was able to take in her skirt, stockings and tightly laced black boots. The powder-tower, Prašná Brána, loomed ahead in all its medieval glory but their pace did not abate. They were not here on any tourist vacation—they were here to talk to the man whose testimony may very well condemn Lord Wrotham to the gallows.
They passed the municipal house and turned down U Obecního domu to face the magnificent Hotel Pariz.
“Well, you certainly wouldn’t know that he had money problems,” Ursula observed as she and James walked through the doors into the foyer of the hotel. A long red-carpeted grand staircase curved its way to the upper floors, its cast-iron railing and ceramic tiled walls a testament to the flourishing art nouveau movement in Prague just a few years earlier.
“No,” James replied. “But then I believe the Count is an expert at evading his debts.”
Ursula regarded him uneasily, feeling vulnerable and exposed now that Lady Winterton was no longer with them. Although James had initially expressed resentment that Ursula had felt the need to bring Lady Winterton into her confidence, he had reluctantly agreed to allow her to accompany them to Prague. Even he had to acknowledge that in the absence of Lady Wrotham (who was now enjoying Herr Hubert’s attentions at his sanatorium in the Southern Tyrol), propriety demanded that Ursula be accompanied by a female chaperone. James fell easily back into the role of chauffeur, making it exceedingly difficult for Ursula to speak to him in private about getting access to Lord Wrotham’s field book. The existence of the book was an aspect of the case that Ursula had, so far kept, from Lady Winterton. Knowing Lady Winterton’s doubts regarding James, she didn’t want to prejudice her even further—something that was sure to happen if Lady Winterton knew that James was refusing to allow Ursula to attempt to decode it. Ursula had also been unable to shake off her own doubts about James—and now, as they walked together across hotel foyer, she felt her anxiety surge once more. Could she really trust him?
Her only comfort was that Lady Winterton was only a few minutes away, strolling down the ‘Regent’ street of Prague, PŘikop,probably already ensconced in one of the many shops selling embroidery dolls or Bohemian glassware. Ursula had little interest in such trinkets but Lady Winterton seemed delighted by them.
“You should wait here,” James said, waving his hand toward one of the armchairs that graced the lobby, “while I go and assess the situation upstairs. The Count is obsessed about personal safety and security. I don’t want us walking in unprepared.”
“All right,” Ursula agreed reluctantly. “But I do need to speak to the Count personally—whether he likes it or not.”
“I am well aware of your determination, Miss Marlow,” James responded. “Believe me, your reputation precedes you.”
“That’d be right,” Ursula murmured as she took a seat in one of the gilt and brocade armchairs that afforded a good view of both the staircase and the front hotel doors. Dressed in his dark green and black chauffeur uniform, James had to make his way to the servant entrance and stairs. In so doing, he looked as innocuous as any other servant making their way to their masters and mistresses via the route designated for servants and other ‘tradespersons’.
Ursula contented herself with watching the guests as they made their way in and out of the hotel—it was a pleasant distraction from worrying about James or Count von Bernstorff-Hollweg. A young couple entered arm in arm and Ursula felt a sudden pang—that could have been her she thought, if things had only turned out differently. She turned quickly away, embarrassed as the young woman looked up at her curiously. Instead, Ursula focused on the elevator doors as they slid open and a bellman in a red uniform stepped out. He was followed by a man in a dark pin striped frockcoat and trilby hat. As the man approached he took off his hat, revealing curly dark hair that was unexpectedly unruly beneath such a polished exterior. He acknowledged her with a slight bow that seemed to have an edge of mockery to it, and Ursula lift her head to glare at him imperiously. This prompted a crooked half -smile, but as he passed, she noticed the expression in his vivid blue eyes change from amused disdain to a kind of wary recognition. Ursula tried to sift through her memories but she was sure they had never met before. As she watched him make his way out of the hotel through the revolving doors, she suddenly felt her skin prickle. She remembered the photograph in Professor Prendergast’s study; the man next to Lord Wrotham—younger yes, but the same curly dark hair—the same droll stare…
“Oh my God,” she said hoarsely. “McTiernay.”
Ursula rose to her feat unsteadily, gripping the back of the armchair to regain her balance before she hastened across the granite floor to the main staircase, worried that McTiernay’s men may be upstairs waiting by the elevator. As she saw the back of his dark-clad figure sauntering down the street, she was torn between running after him and going to check on James. After a momentary hesitation she started to climb the stairs—the dread she felt about McTiernay’s presence convincing her that the safety of James and the Count must be her first priority.
Ursula dashed up the stairs, heart pounding. By the time she reached the third floor she was breathless and trembling. What, she worried, was she likely to find? It took all her self-control to rein in the panic that squeezed all breath from her throat. As she made her way down the hallway towards the rear of the hotel she eased off her boots and tied the laces together. Slinging them over her shoulders she continued down the corridor, her steps like a cat’s—light and wary of discovery.
The long hallway was deserted. As James had not given her any specific room number, all Ursula could do was proceed slowly down the cool, dim corridor, her stockinged feet noiseless on the carpet strip that ran along the polished floor. There was no sound, e
xcept the whirr of the dumbwaiter cables behind her and the halting sounds of her own ragged breath. All the doors she passed were closed. She came to a junction framed by a small window that looked out on the rear lane behind the hotel. The window had been cranked open an inch and as she approached the heavy curtain billowed out for a moment with an unexpected breeze. She heard a door open behind her and spun around—her hand firmly clamped against her mouth for fear of what sound may burst forth. No sound came, only the hoarseness of her breath as she watched James hurry towards her.
Through the open doorway behind him, she could see the form of a man lying face down on the carpet. James blocked her path.
“You don’t want to go in there,” he said, in low, urgent tones.
Ursula could just make out the edge of a gold and red brocade bedspread lying next to the man, and what looked like a dark pool of ink on the floor beside him.
James grabbed her arm roughly. “We need to leave now,” he urged her forward. “Before the Count’s servants discover him and the others!”
“Others?” she asked in confusion.
“The Count and both his bodyguards are dead,” James said quickly as he unceremoniously pushed her through the door leading to the servants’ stairwell.
“Was it?…I mean you didn’t…did you?” she asked..
“No, they were already dead when I arrived,” James answered, apparently unfazed that she should suspect he killed them.
“McTiernay,” Ursula gasped, in the shock of seeing the bodies she had almost forgotten. She caught her breath. “I think I saw him in the foyer.”
James tightened his grip on her arm.
“McTiernay?” he repeated. “Are you sure?”
Ursula nodded, still out of breath. “I didn’t recognize him at first. I’ve only ever seen a photograph of him and Lord Wrotham at Oxford but I’m almost certain it was him—he came out of the lift just a few minutes after you left.”
James urged her down the stairs. When they reached the doorway at the bottom, James shoved her through. “Did he see you?” he asked..
Ursula swallowed hard before nodding.
“Do you think he knew it was you?” he asked.
Ursula shook her head. “We’ve never met but…” she stopped just outside the doorway. “But I’m sure he recognized me—that’s partly why it dawned on me who he was—from the look he gave me. I guess with all the photographs of me in the newspapers it’s hardly surprising.”
“Damn!” James said, pushing back his blond hair with the palm of his hand in obvious frustration.. The servants’ stairs led out onto a dreary laneway at the back of the hotel. As they walked quickly along the lane and back to the crowded street, Ursula heard James mutter. “McTiernay’s cleaning house…” under his breath.
“What do you mean?” Ursula demanded.
“I mean he’s just killed the Crown’s main witness,” James said and, without any concern for propriety, grabbed her arm, urging her to continue walking apace. “The question is,” James said as they hurried along. “Why? Is it to help Lord Wrotham or is it merely vengeance?”
“Does it matter?” Ursula asked.
“Of course,” James responded angrily. “We need to know if McTiernay thinks Wrotham is still a patriot or whether he’s found out he was a spy.”
“What if he believes Lord Wrotham betrayed him?” Ursula asked breathless as they turned the corner.
“Then,” James replied grimly. “McTiernay will stop at nothing until Lord Wrotham is dead.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
TRAIN BOUND FOR CALAIS
The third class carriage was teeming with people; bodies, hot and sweaty from the proximity, and grimy from the coal dust and steam, were everywhere. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and Ursula and Lady Winterton, on opposite sides of the carriage, both tried desperately to get some air near the window, amid the stifling heat and atmosphere of the crowded train. Given his concerns about McTiernay, James had insisted that they travel ‘incognito,’ which meant foregoing the luxury of their own first class sleeper car and traveling as inconspicuously as possible. Ursula wriggled in the dress James had insisted she wear, for the cheap linen was itchy and the seams were damp with sweat. She felt herself getting woozy as the heat and claustrophobia of the carriage started to take its toll. She cast a glance across to Lady Winterton who had apparently managed to fall asleep, one cheek pressed against the window pane. Ursula staggered to her feet and made her way awkwardly out of the carriage, trying to avoid outstretched legs, feet, baskets and bags, as she stumbled her way into the passageway. It was a good thing, she reflected, that both Julia and Grace had been sent on ahead to England, for she could just imagine their horror at seeing their mistresses looking so dirty and disheveled.
Ursula closed the carriage door with relief—though the train corridor was also crowded, at least most of the windows were open. She could feel the drafts of cool night air clearing her head. James was standing, peering out of one of open windows, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He turned and acknowledged her with the briefest of nods as she walked over to join him. Ursula sucked in a few deep breaths of fresh air as she steadied herself, hands gripping the window frame.
“Are you all right?” James asked.
Ursula nodded. “It’s just infernally hot in there. It felt like I was being smothered by a cheap dirty pillow…”
“I would not have inflicted this if I didn’t think it was necessary,” James reminded her.
“Oh, I can cope,” Ursula replied quickly. “And as an ex-rifleman man I’m sure you’ve endured worse.”
“I see Lady Winterton’s wasted no time in giving you the potted history of my life,” James observed.
“Just the highlights I assure you,” Ursula replied, feigning levity. “Actually I saw the photograph of your rifle regiment in your room.”
James looked inquiringly.
“Lord Wrotham seemed concerned about your whereabouts so, naturally, I took a look around his house.”
“Naturally,” James replied.
His gaze returned to the window and the pitch black sky beyond. “I can’t help but wish you’d kept Lady Winterton out of all of this.” His face was now brooding.
“Why?” Ursula asked. “Because she knows more about your past than you cared to tell me?”
James flushed. “I thought Lord Wrotham told you I was once a policeman…and that’s not what I meant. I just don’t want any more people being in harm’s way than absolutely necessary.”
“Oh.”
James continued to stare out the window with a bleak look of resignation.
“I guess you must have known the Winterton household pretty well,” Ursula prompted.
“As much as any servant of a close family friend would,” James replied.
“Lady Winterton certainly seems to know a great deal about you,” Ursula said. “Her lady’s maid was apparently always eager to tell.”
“Yes, Grace never was one to keep her mouth shut,” James said and there was a savagery in his response that took Ursula off guard. She paused, uncertain whether to continue with her questions. An overwhelming need to be know, to be reassured about his past, however, compelled her to probe further.
“Tell me about Grace,” Ursula said gently.
“There’s not much to tell,” James replied, taking a drag of his cigarette. “She’s Lady Winterton’s maid—has been since before Lady Winterton was married. I met her soon after I became Lord Wrotham’s chauffeur…only that wasn’t the first time we had met. I knew her from my days with the Kings Royal Rifles. I joined when I was fifteen—they were the Finsbury rifles then, before they became the London regiment in ’08—Grace’s brother was in my regiment. She was just a scullery maid at the time but we went out now and again. Her brother didn’t stick with the Rifles though. He ended up working with his dad on one of the stalls at Spitalfields market. That’s how they knew the Harrisons. When I got back from the Boer War I was pretty
much done with the army, and it was them who arranged for me to meet Harrison. That’s why I joined the Metropolitan Police. By then Grace had risen in the ranks and was Lady Winterton’s maid.”
“Why did you leave the police and go work for Lord Wrotham?” Ursula asked. She was treading cautiously now as James’ face revealed the depth of his unwillingness to delve into this particular aspect of his past.
“No doubt Lady Winterton has passed on all of Grace’s tittle-tattle,” James replied bitterly.
“She said it was because you killed an innocent man,” Ursula said, watching his reaction closely.
James took Ursula by surprise when he let out a short bark of a laugh.
Ursula looked at James with confusion. “So you didn’t?”
“No, I bloody well did not,” James replied, he was still laughing but, again, there was an edge of savagery to it.
“But you did kill someone…” Ursula ventured.
“Yes,” James’ expression changed instantly. “But then that’s what the army trained me to do.”
“And is it the reason you left the police?”
“Yes.”
“Does it explain why you went to work for Lord Wrotham?”
“Yes—in part at least—both Chief Inspector Harrison and I owe Lord Wrotham our lives.”
Ursula looked at him questioningly but James shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s for Lord Wrotham, and him alone, to explain.”
“But—”
“But nothing, I swore an oath and I intend to keep it,” James replied.
“Spare me such loyalties,” Ursula muttered under her breath. “For I am heartily sick of them by now…”
James frowned.
“I only mean that Lord Wrotham said something similar about Admiral Smythe and why he could not rebut the charges against him,” Ursula explained with an exasperated sigh. “I’m sure he also feels some similar obligation to his erstwhile friends from Balliol for he refuses to divulge anything about his time in Guyana or what caused the rift between him and McTiernay.”
Unlikely Traitors Page 17
