Unlikely Traitors

by Clare Langley-Hawthorne

  “You want me to cycle to the village to send this telegram to Anderson rather than Pemberton?” James asked.

  Ursula nodded but did not turn—her attention was still focused on Lady Winterton.

  James read the text of the message aloud. Investigate Tir Tairngire on the investor list STOP Check who else knows STOP Dobbs?

  “I don’t understand…” James said with obvious confusion.

  “No,” Ursula replied enigmatically. “You aren’t meant to.”

  James followed her gaze. By now Lady Winterton was crossing the rear courtyard as she made her way to the front door. She was holding a basket of bread in one hand and a wire milk bottle holder in the other.

  “Ursula,” he said. “Is there something more you need to tell me?”

  “No,” she replied as she continued to stare out of the window bleakly. The front door closed and they could hear Lady Winterton and Grace talking in the hall. “Not yet.”

  James excused himself as soon as Grace and Lady Winterton entered the library. Ursula saw Grace’s cheeks grow pink as he passed her in the doorway, before Lady Winterton hastily instructed her to go and make tea. Lady Winterton turned to Ursula with a sigh. “That girl is hopeless—you’d think she’d have learned from last time!”

  “I guess some of us are just perpetual romantics,” Ursula said with a wan smile.

  “It could be worse I suppose,” replied Lady Winterton lightly. “She could be madly in love with a Bolshevik!” Ursula knew Lady Winterton’s levity was for her benefit but she could summon no more false good humor.

  “Where’s James off to anyhow?” Lady Winterton asked.

  “Just to send the telegram I mentioned last night,” Ursula replied.

  “Ah,” Lady Winterton answered. “You didn’t want Grace to go…”

  “It’s not that so much as I wanted James out of the house for a while,” Ursula answered. During the night she had wondered whether playing into Lady Winterton’s mistrust of James could have its advantages.

  It took all of Ursula’s self-control not to ask Lady Winterton the questions she knew she would one day ask. Until Lord Wrotham’s fate was known she could risk no such disclosure. Until then, until Ursula could confront McTiernay, Ursula knew she had to play a dangerous game with Lady Winterton. A game of deception and disingenuous smiles. Of feigned friendships perhaps and, almost certainly, the bitterness of betrayal.

  “Can you do me a favor?” Ursula asked.

  “But of course, my dear.”

  “Can you keep an eye out for James—I want to take a few moments to check his belongings. Grace put him in one of the old servants’ rooms I believe.”

  “Yes, she did…It was a trifle indiscreet I thought, but no doubt it was wishful thinking on Grace’s part.”

  “I won’t take long—but this may be my only chance.”

  “I take it you still don’t entirely trust James?” Lady Winterton asked. Her eyes followed Ursula closely.

  “You warned me, did you not?” Ursula replied. “How else am I to be sure?”

  “Certainly prudent of you,” Lady Winterton replied. She licked her lips. “I wish we could all be so cautious in giving our trust.”

  “Yes,” Ursula agreed. “Sometimes it is those closest to us who inflict the most pain.”She worried she may have tipped her hand for she detected a flash of something in Lady Winterton’s eyes. Suspicion perhaps? Acknowledgement? It flared so quickly, however, that it was soon gone and Ursula, as she made her way out of the room and up the stairs, was not sure she had not imagined it after all.

  James had brought only a small canvas knapsack with him and Ursula felt decidedly self conscious rummaging through it even though she knew his undergarments, at least, were hanging up outside on the clothes line. If she had been hoping to find a secret stash of letters or perhaps James’ own notebook then she was sorely disappointed. The only item of interest was a round of ammunition in the rear pocket, and an old photograph of whom she could only assume were his mother and father.

  “Damn,” Ursula muttered under her breath. She sat down heavily on the bed. Even though she calculated she could be no more than five months pregnant, her body felt as though it was stretched and aching already. By now she felt unsettling stirrings within her and the bond of attachment to her unborn child felt so strong Ursula wondered how she was going to able to cope with all that was too come. Her love was so raw and so primal she knew she would do anything to protect it.

  Ursula gazed about the room and her eyes caught sight of James’ Norfolk jacket hanging on the hook behind the door. Given the current weather James had gone out with his heavy woolen greatcoat over his shirt and boiled wool jumper. Ursula walked over and checked the outside pockets of the jacket but they were empty save for a tin of cigarettes. She opened the jacket and felt for an inside pocket—which to her chagrin was also empty. While ferreting around inside, however, Ursula felt the outline of something in the jacket lining. She took the jacket off the hook and laid it out on the bed to investigate further. It required considerable attention to the details of the seam and the stitches, but Ursula managed to locate and extract the thin piece of paper. It turned out to be a telegram with a German Imperial stamp on it—sent, it appeared, from the main London post office. It contained just two sentences.

  Hotel Pariz STOP Prague STOP Continue to keep Marlow close STOP Any further communications should be addressed to Dismas c/Drogheda Post Office STOP

  The sender identified was Mr. Fergus McTiernay.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “What the hell is she doing here?!” James demanded as he tied a petrol can on to the rear of the motorcar. He pointed to Lady Winterton who was adjusting the scarf on her hat as if preparing for a day’s vacation motoring around Ireland.

  “I asked her to come with us,” Ursula replied. “She once knew McTiernay—perhaps it will help.”

  Ursula sincerely hoped she sounded calmer than she felt. Ever since learning that James was really McTiernay’s man, she had been unable to reign in her anger. For some reason his betrayal galled her deeper than Lady Winterton’s. Although Ursula was still far from understanding the truth, she felt sure that Lady Winterton’s actions, no matter how despicable, were motivated by a desire to avenge her husband and seek redress for the losses occasioned in Guyana. James’ motives were, she suspected, far less noble. It took all of Ursula’s self-restraint not to confront them both—but she would do nothing until she knew of Lord Wrotham’s fate. At least Harrison had the field book, Ursula rationalized. She could only hope she had done enough already to exonerate Lord Wrotham should today’s encounter with McTiernay end badly.

  James wiped his oil smeared hands on his handkerchief and kicked one of the rear tires to check it was secure. James had driven the car into the driveway earlier that morning but Ursula did not like to inquire too closely as to its origins—she was convinced it had probably been stolen.

  James pulled Ursula aside. “This is madness—you are risking more than just one life now.”

  Ursula prized his hand from her arm. “I know,” she replied. “But she is coming with us all the same.”

  As if sensing there was a hidden meaning to her words James frowned, but as Lady Winterton was now climbing into the rear of the motorcar, he said no more.

  “Are you ready?” Lady Winterton asked Ursula.

  Ursula looked at Lady Winterton and felt a strange sense of calm. “Yes,” she said, meeting Lady Winterton’s shrewd blue eyes.

  As James navigated down the narrow lane, Ursula stared bleakly ahead, fearful, yet determined to face the truth, whatever it may mean for her and her child.

  The address James had for McTiernay was for a small farmhouse located in-between the villages of Dunmore and Drogheda. James informed them loudly, above the noise of the engine, that he estimated it would take them nearly five hours to reach the farm. He had packed petrol cans, spare tires and an assortment of provisions designed to deal with the per
ils of traveling along the roads in Ireland that were best suited to horse and carriage than motorcar.

  Five hours. Ursula felt deadened by the prospect. Five hours of waiting with the knowledge that, although she did not know the full extent of the betrayals involved, she was sure of one thing: A reckoning of the dark days of the past was close at hand.

  It was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon, some six and a half hours since they had set out that morning, when they finally reached the muddy road that led to the farmhouse where McTiernay and his men were believed to be holed up. The drive had been fraught with mechanical problems and by now James’ shirtsleeves were covered in grease and his impatience and anxiety had increased tenfold.

  James pulled the brake lever, bringing the motorcar to a grinding halt. “Perhaps we should wait until morning,” he cautioned, looking anxiously at the sky, but Ursula refused to be deterred.

  “No,” she said. “You would have told him to expect us today—Just as you’ve been telling him everything, all along.”

  Lady Winterton’s knuckles whitened as she gripped the passenger door. Ursula, however, remained surprisingly composed. James turned in his seat but before he could speak, a shot rang out across the green meadows and hedgerows. They all ducked for cover.

  Ursula caught sight of a man standing in plain view on the rise of the hill in front of them, his rifle trained on the car.

  “Raise your hands,” James instructed quickly. “There’s sure to be more of them.”

  Both Ursula and Lady Winterton remained seated in the back of the motor car, hands above their heads. The rifleman strode down the hill before being joined by two more men. They approached quickly.

  “Keep your hands where we can see them,” one man shouted. “Slowly now—then, all of you, out of the motorcar.”

  Ursula cautiously alighted, followed by Lady Winterton. James was the last to get out of the motorcar and he did so with slow, carefully measured movements. None of McTiernay’s men acknowledged him as one of their own.

  Ursula, Lady Winterton and James stood, ankle deep in red-brown mud, as the men searched each of them.

  “You can tell McTiernay that we’re here,” Ursula said. “No doubt he’s expecting us.”

  “It’s not what you think,” James hissed as the men led them towards the fields.

  Ursula ignored him.

  “I have not betrayed him,” James whispered, his voice low but insistent.

  “Spare your breath,” Ursula replied. “I found the telegram in the lining of your jacket. You’ve lied to me all along. You knew what McTiernay was planning—what he was going to do in Prague, just as you knew what he’d do with Lord Wrotham.”

  “No—that’s not true. I was as shocked as you. I would have told you if I had known what had happened to his Lordship. Believe me. Trust me. Things are not what they seem.”

  Ursula looked away.

  Lady Winterton, who up until then had been trudging along in silence, tripped over a rock and fell to her knees. Ursula helped her up. The soft pink of Lady Winterton’s skirt was now black with mud and soil.

  They walked for nearly a mile across the broad green meadows. As the sun dipped behind the hills, they came to a ridge. Below them spread the valley—green upon green, with a grey stone farmhouse nestled amongst the trees. Approaching them was the man Ursula recognized as McTiernay.

  “Lady Winterton,” McTiernay called out. “I had not expected to see an old friend such as yourself here today.”

  “I came to make sure Miss Marlow was treated well and unmolested by your men—should we find you here. I remember many of the brutes from parties at my husband’s estate years ago—and I’m sure they have not changed.”

  “Indeed they have not,” McTiernay said. “And you have not either. Nigel always said your beauty would be timeless.”

  “As is your silver tongue…Nigel always said you could sweet talk your way out of most things,” Lady Winterton replied, though her tone was neutral her eyes betrayed her resentment.

  McTiernay raised one eyebrow before turning to Ursula. He gave her a mock bow, his dark curly hair as unruly as ever and his blue eyes, as they met hers, showed he had not forgotten their last encounter at the Hotel Pariz.

  “Miss Marlow,” McTiernay said. “You seem in remarkably good health for a woman in your condition,” he looked at her belly with a mixture of curiosity and surprise. Clearly James had failed to tell him of this particular development.

  “You know why I am here,” Ursula said hoarsely. “Tell me is it the man or the grave that I can expect.” Nothing could mask the anguish behind her words.

  McTiernay merely pointed across the flagged stone path that led across to a series of stone buildings. One of McTiernay’s men was scrubbing down the doorsill to one such building, a bucket of water beside him. Ursula looked on in horror as he tipped the water, for it turned pink as blood washed away from the stone. Her hand leaped to her throat. Her knees felt as though they would collapse beneath her and she bent over, breathing hard, to try and stop the world from spinning.

  “Where is his body?” Lady Winterton demanded.

  As she spoke the door to the farthest building opened and a tall man emerged. Although dressed in laborers’ clothes, there was no mistaking him. From the dark hair that fell over one eye, to the way he flicked open his cigarette case and took one out, lighting it with an icy arrogance that seemed ingrained in every movement and gesture.

  McTiernay turned to Ursula. “This is a working farm,” he said pointing to the bloody pool of water on the doorsill. “And we need to eat.”

  “Wrotham!” McTiernay shouted. Ursula sucked in her breath as the man across the courtyard raised his head and looked over at them. There was no disguising the shock that registered in his eyes.

  “Told you to expect a surprise,” McTiernay called out with a cavalier lack of compassion that was all the more chilling. “Well,” he amended with a meaningful look at Ursula’s belly. “Two surprises actually.”

  As Lord Wrotham approached Ursula noticed that, despite her first impressions, there was a stiffness in his gait, a gauntness in his face that suggested he was in pain. Yet she no longer cared. Fury had taken hold.

  “How dare you!” she cried. “How dare you let me think…” she choked on her words, hot tears pouring down her face.

  He reached out to her but she refused his embrace—striking out with her fists, beating against him with angry sobs that rose like a banshee wail. “I didn’t know if you were dead or alive! How could you leave me to face that alone?! Not one word?! Nothing!” Her words dissolved into incomprehensible cries.

  “Ursula?” Lord Wrotham’s voice was little more than a rasp.

  She pushed him away as her boots struck the stones and dirt.

  “Ursula?” Lord Wrotham repeated before collapsing to his knees. Head bent, he coughed so violently that blood smashed in a fierce splatter upon the ground.

  “My love,” Ursula whispered in horror, her fury spent. “What have they done to you?” She crouched awkwardly beside him, lifting his face in her hands. She drew him close till he could rest against her. He placed both his hands upon her belly and closed his eyes.

  It was McTiernay’s voice that broke through the suspension of time and space. Ursula, drained now of all emotion struggled to her feet, helping Lord Wrotham who with great effort pulled himself up off his knees, wracked by violent coughs once more.

  “It’s pleurisy—or so we think,” McTiernay said. “But we can’t exactly bring a doctor out here, now can we.”

  “Ignore him,” Lord Wrotham said wiping his mouth and brow with a handkerchief. “It’s nothing more than bronchitis—hardly surprising given the weather in this God forsaken country.”

  “Ah, you were always one for exaggeration,” McTiernay answered with a smile. He gestured to the fields and sky. “You English have no stomach for real Irish weather!”

  Ursula’s eyes narrowed, her anger rising once more.
She did not want to accept that McTiernay and Wrotham were bantering like old friends. Not when she knew all that McTiernay was capable of. Not when the truth of this game had yet to be revealed.

  “How can he still be alive?” Lady Winterton’s voice startled them all. Her face was ashen.

  “Lady Winterton,” Lord Wrotham said slowly. He blinked as if adjusting to the light. “I find it surprising that you, of all people, should be here…” His face was impassive but Ursula saw his eyes flicker to James for just a moment. Up till now James had remained a silent bystander. He now stepped further back into the shadows beneath the farmhouse eaves.

  “Didn’t you know, she’s been helping with Miss Marlow’s investigations,” McTiernay said. Though he smiled, Ursula saw the muscles in his jaw tighten.

  “You should have killed him!” Lady Winterton spat. “He’s a British spy!”

  “Why on earth would you think that, my dear.” McTiernay’s tone remained casual, light even, but Ursula was not deceived. The mood and tensions between them all were shifting fast.

  “Because I was Admiral Smythe’s lover,” Lady Winterton said coldly. “I found out all I needed to about him, about Lord Wrotham, about their plans for you…You’re a fool Fergus if you think he’s the man he once was.”

  “Admiral Smythe’s lover?” Lord Wrotham asked. “And, no doubt, his murderer too…”

  Lady Winterton regarded both McTiernay and Wrotham with undisguised loathing.

  “Did you really think I could forget the wrongs done to my husband? I have waited years setting this in motion and Smythe was as easy to manipulate as you both were. To think he was actually worried about a German spy in Naval Intelligence but never thought to worry about the woman with whom he was having an Affaire de Coeur…” Lady Winterton’s top lip curled as she pronounced the French with derision.

  “So who did you pass the information on to?” Lord Wrotham asked. The coldness in his grey-blue eyes was more terrifying than any outburst. Ursula held her breath.