Consequences of Sin

by Clare Langley-Hawthorne

  “You mustn’t be seen here. Think of the scandal. Think of your father.” Lord Wrotham picked up Ursula’s purse and handed it to her.

  Winifred came up behind them. “Lord Wrotham. Thank God.” Tears started to run down her face. “Damn it all,” she said, trying to brush them away with the back of her hand.

  There was another knock at the door. This time quiet, soft, almost imperceptible.

  “That will be Harrison,” Lord Wrotham said. “Miss Stanford-Jones, if you would be so kind as to let him in. He’s with the Metropolitan Police—owes me a favor. I told him to come straightaway to secure the scene. He knows you are my client. You are to say nothing to him, do you hear? Nothing. Just take him upstairs. Show him the room and then come immediately back down here to me. Do you understand?”

  Winifred nodded wordlessly as she walked past them to open the door.

  Lord Wrotham held Ursula’s arm tightly. “You’ll be leaving by the servants’ entrance. I presume that’s…down here—yes?” He didn’t wait for a reply but led Ursula (rather roughly, she thought) along the hallway and into the darkened kitchen.

  Ursula stumbled on the linoleum as she tried to wrench her arm free from his grasp.

  “But—”

  “I want you to leave now,” he said with force. “Quietly. There is nothing more you can do here.”

  Ursula opened her mouth to speak, but something in his eyes made her hesitate. Lord Wrotham placed a finger to his lips silently. It was a slow, almost seductive gesture. His eyes locked in her gaze.

  Ursula could hear the sound of firm footsteps on the creaking floorboards upstairs. There was a moment of stillness—no more than the holding of a breath—before she grabbed his hand and pushed him away.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, hoping she sounded much calmer than she felt. “I’m going. But you will look after her, won’t you? I only called you because…well, I told Freddie that you would be able to help. So you must promise me that you won’t let anything happen to her.”

  “Have I ever let you or your family down?” Lord Wrotham asked grimly.

  Ursula had no reply to that.

  She opened the back door and looked out into the cold half-light. It was now approaching morning, and an early fog had settled between the railings. The sounds of London waking rose from the damp earth. The familiar grind of wheels along the cobblestones, the distinctive clip-clop of hooves as the delivery carts went by, all signals that morning had arrived again upon the city.

  Ursula had taken only a couple of steps before Lord Wrotham reached and grabbed her arm again.

  “Before you go…” he started to say.

  Ursula turned around and looked at him querulously.

  “Quickly—you didn’t move or touch anything upstairs? Tell me you touched nothing.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she replied, rubbing her arm gingerly. “You’d think I was a child. Of course I touched nothing up there.”

  With that, Lord Wrotham withdrew and the door closed. A halo of pale blue light spread above the houses to the east. Ursula knew she must hurry. Her father, always an early riser, would be up soon. Biggs would be able to cover her absence for only so long.

  Colonel William Radcliffe sat at his mahogany desk staring at a piece of fine white paper and dreaming of Venezuela.

  He was leaving the wide expanse of the Orinoco and starting the slow journey along its narrow tributaries. He watched as the oar dipped into the milky brown water and caught on a mass of snarled roots that lay submerged below the surface. He remembered that feeling, the knowledge he had suddenly felt, that death had come among them. Hovering in the heat and rising in his nostrils, its slow-encroaching decay was ever-present. Its eyes darted back and forth seeking him out, like the black jaguar that had been stalking them along the dark and muddy banks for days.

  He crumpled the piece of paper in his hand, the shrill cry of the howler monkeys still ringing in his ears. He could hardly comprehend the news he had just received. How can a father bear to lose a daughter? It was a fresh wound, raw and burning, that brought the memory of every past wound back. How could he live with the conviction that her death was related to those terrible events over twenty years ago?

  The images returned. It was as if an old fever had taken hold and refused to shake him from its grasp.

  “Master!” a voice sprang out of the shadows behind him. “Look here—another one!” Glancing furtively behind him, he saw Bates in the other canoe sitting hunched and muttering over his books and plants. A hand reached out. There was a flash of white sunlight through the canopy and, suddenly, the sight of a brilliant red flower. Bates didn’t move. After all these long months, he no longer bothered to look up. They were on a sightless journey now, a witless meandering through the streams and crosscurrents of their polluted minds. The fever was spreading among them. The Indians were drunk. There were rumors of an attack, of white men to be thrown in the river. Bates must be the first, he thought, if I am to survive. Before the darkness comes. Tonight. While Bates is sleeping, perhaps. A knife in the heart. A blow rearing up from behind. He was tormented by these images, black blood, black night, shadows all around him. I must kill them all, he thought, before they kill me.

  A single shot rang out in the study. The sound traveled quickly down the long picture gallery. It woke Fanny Radcliffe, who, unaware of her sister’s death in London, was reclining in a wicker chair under the great elm. A bottle of laudanum rolled from her lap onto the soft green grass below. Ears and tails twitched as the two Afghan hounds who’d been asleep beside her raised their pale white heads in languid concern. Fanny stroked the tops of their heads and idly wondered whether her father had decided to accompany the gamekeeper on his rounds after all. Soon this thought dissipated, and Fanny leaned back against the pale yellow pillow and closed her eyes. A strange quiet then followed, and this, too, seemed to travel quickly, like the ominous silence that falls just before a thunderstorm.

  Two

  Winifred Stanford-Jones sat staring out into the rain. The steady pounding was soothing. At least it wasn’t someone’s voice asking her again to explain the events of that night. How could she explain what she didn’t know? How could she make them understand that she simply had no recollection after falling asleep that night in her lover’s arms?

  She had met Laura Radcliffe three months earlier. It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon in mid-July, and they found themselves both standing in front of the same painting at the Royal Academy of Art—a Gustav Klimt that had recently come from the Exposition Universelle. Pallas Athene.

  “It’s her eyes, don’t you think? She defies you with that stare,” Laura had said.

  But Winifred was mesmerized by something other than her eyes. It was the gold of the headdress, the gold of the scales of her armor, the staff that she held.

  “It’s about power. That’s what draws you in,” she replied.

  Their eyes met in tacit understanding. They had then continued to wander through the hall, critically appraising each other as well as the art. There was a final Klimt on display that also caught Winifred’s eye. Silver Fishes. It was the dark hair that drew her in. Just like Laura’s, she thought, all dark and tangled.

  A week later Winifred and Laura were lovers.

  But how long ago this now seemed; it felt as if a lifetime had passed since their last evening together—although it was scarcely two days. The time since Laura’s death had become a blur of questions.

  Lord Wrotham had cross-examined her sharply about all the particulars—although her recollections were so hazy she could hardly give him any.

  “Where did you dine?”

  “I think it was Les Oiseux, the restaurant on—”

  He had held up his hand. “I am well aware of it. And you dined there until?”

  “About ten o’clock, I think.”

  “And then…?”

  “We attended a private salon, held…well, I’m not supposed to—”

  “
Miss Stanford-Jones. This is getting extremely tedious. I must know everything.”

  “Well, at Madame Launois’s. Are you familiar with…?”

  “I am aware of that establishment. I do not, of course, frequent it.”

  “No…of course you don’t.”

  Winifred almost smiled. The conversation was becoming so stilted and formal—as if the real nature of the questioning that must occur was so distasteful it should be avoided until all common courtesies had been exhausted. She knew then she had to admit everything.

  “Lord…I mean…well, Lord Wrotham, then—I have to tell you now that I remember nothing after that salon. Nothing at all. I remember the tableau—it was a Roman bacchanal feast scene. We drank loads of champagne. Cocktails, too. There was a lot of smoke and—”

  “What about drugs?” Lord Wrotham interrupted her.

  Winifred fiddled with the enamel box she had hanging about her neck on a fine gold chain. Lord Wrotham’s eyes never left hers.

  “I…I don’t really…”

  “I think we can dispense with the false naïveté, Miss Stanford-Jones. As I said, I am well aware of Madame Launois’s reputation.”

  “Then you know that women only frequent the lower rooms. We aren’t allowed upstairs, though I hear the bedrooms are most…luxurious.”

  Lord Wrotham sniffed with distaste.

  “An opium den and brothel. So tell me then, what did you ladies indulge in on the ground floor? Opium? Morphine? Cocaine?”

  “Whatever took our fancy,” Winifred replied lightly, though her eyes flickered with annoyance at Lord Wrotham’s tone.

  “But that night I had only a little opium,” Winifred continued. “Laura wasn’t in the mood. She wanted champagne.”

  “So after you had the champagne…” Lord Wrotham prompted.

  “Well, there were a lot of people,” Winifred continued. “And Laura wasn’t impressed. It was too much of a crush. So we left—probably about one in the morning—and Laura came back with me. We fell asleep and then…nothing. Honestly, I remember nothing until I awoke and saw her…just so still…next to me…and the blood, of course. The blood was…all over the sheets. And everything was so cold.” Her chin quivered, and she tried to hold back her tears.

  “What time was this? What time did you awaken?”

  “It must have been about four o’clock,” Winifred said, regaining herself.

  “Did something wake you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Voices. An unusual sound. Anything.”

  “No. Although I think maybe I woke up because of the cold. The window was open. It was so cold. That was what woke me, I think. Yes. That was probably what did it.”

  “Was the window open when you went to sleep?”

  “I can’t recall.”

  “Think, girl—think! Do you realize that in the absence of any other plausible story, the police are going to assume it was you—even if it was in some opium-induced delirium or drunken stupor?”

  Winifred flushed angrily.

  “Is there anything else you can tell me?” Lord Wrotham demanded. “Any information at all that may help your case?”

  Winifred shook her head and looked away.

  Lord Wrotham’s eyes narrowed before he spoke again. “The police will be going through all this with you in great detail, so are you quite sure there is nothing else you should add? Nothing else you should tell me that could affect the case at all?”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Winifred continued to avert her gaze.

  After a moment Lord Wrotham sighed impatiently. “You must understand how this looks.”

  “I know. I know,” Winifred muttered.

  “Yes, but do you know who Laura’s father is? For God’s sake, girl, do you want to join your friends in Holloway Prison?”

  Ursula could wait no longer. She’d paced the hallways for nearly a week since that dreadful night and not a word from Winifred or Lord Wrotham. She had been left to stew in ignorance long enough.

  Indeed, Ursula Marlow was far more resourceful than some might perceive. It was over a year since she’d left Oxford, and all her plans to be a serious journalist had come to nothing. Just that morning she had received a note from Ladies’ Home Journal saying they would be delighted if she would write a piece on the latest Parisian fashions. Despite studying political history, Ursula was merely a society girl to the magazines and journals she had approached. Her father now demanded that she find herself a husband, and even the mere mention of her undertaking any form of employment sent him into a rage. He had indulged her enough by allowing her to attend university. Nevertheless, Ursula continued to secretly apply for positions and send out query letters in vain. This morning’s post plunged her into a deep depression, made all the worse for Winifred’s lack of communication. Ursula restlessly prowled the house, driving Mrs. Stewart, the housekeeper, to distraction.

  The Marlow family establishment was usually a model of efficiency. Ursula’s father counted himself fortunate that he did not have the “domestic troubles” many of his friends and neighbors had. Apart from Mrs. Stewart and Biggs, the butler, there were only five other members on the domestic staff. There was Julia, Ursula’s lady’s maid; Cook (whom everyone, in awe, only ever called “Cook”); two housemaids (Bridget and Moira); and Samuels, the footman and driver. Mrs. Stewart and Biggs both prided themselves on the smooth running of the household. Ursula’s behavior today, with her demands and counterdemands, fidgets and musings, upset the normal daily routine, causing considerable consternation belowstairs (and much relief when she finally left the house).

  After a luncheon of gammon with parsley sauce, Ursula settled on a course of action.

  Once resolved, she hastened upstairs to get dressed.

  She instructed Julia to dress her carefully, with the warning that today she needed to look particularly impressive. After many a silk tunic and gored skirt had been discarded and draped over the Japanese silk screen in Ursula’s bedroom, Julia anxiously peered over Ursula’s shoulder and surveyed the final results in the mirror.

  “Well now, don’t you look grand? Bonny as always, I’m sure.”

  Ursula scrutinized her reflection, ignoring Julia’s chatter. While the white linen shirtwaist blouse with its square neck and flared sleeves pleased her, she wasn’t entirely happy with the diamond butterfly brooch that Julia had pinned to the collar. It made her look young and naïve. Ursula tried to quell her nerves. She knew that getting information out of Lord Wrotham would be difficult. To help Winifred she had to appear to be calm and sophisticated. Ursula decided a plain bar brooch would be more appropriate. Julia scurried over to the rosewood dressing table to open Ursula’s silver jewelry box while Ursula smoothed down her skirt, sucked in her waist, and continued to appraise herself in the mirror. Nervously, she drummed her fingertips on the heavy twill of her skirt. Julia stood by waiting for the assessment, holding a wide black satin sash in her hand. Ursula nodded, and Julia wrapped the sash around her, fastening it at the front with a large enamel pin. Ursula then chose a wide-brimmed black velvet hat which Julia secured by means of a large silver-and-amethyst hatpin. It was severe and plain. Ursula took a deep breath. She was satisfied.

  “Tell Biggs to arrange to have the motorcar brought ’round.”

  “Miss, you’re never going to drive—”

  “No. No. Of course not. Tell Biggs that Samuels must drive me.”

  “Of course. Can I ask…whether…whether you might be visitin’ his lordship in chambers?”

  “And if I was, Julia?” Ursula responded, staring at Julia through the mirror’s reflection.

  “Nothin’. It’s just…” Julia replied, her voice trailing off.

  Ursula bit her lip. She had little time for Julia’s trepidations, but privately she, too, felt uncomfortable. She didn’t like feeling an obligation to any man, least of all a man like Wrotham.

  Ursula walked slowly down the staircase, lost in her thoughts. She had be
en only three years old when her mother had died, and at times she felt her absence acutely. Her father, Robert Marlow, was a self-made man. He believed in the power of commerce above all else. Any other faith he might have had was lost the moment tuberculosis claimed his vivacious wife. His latest indulgence, a new motorcar (a Silver Ghost Rolls-Royce, which Ursula had promptly christened “Bertie”), was designed to show the world just how far he had come, from the backstreets of Blackburn to the grand houses of Chester Square.

  As Samuels brought Bertie around to the front of the house, Ursula felt a desperate urge to get behind the wheel. Everything seemed to be taking an absolute age—as if time had deliberately slowed just to thwart her.

  Samuels sat in the front and Biggs came outside to open the rear door, a tartan blanket in one hand.

  “Really, Biggs!” Ursula exclaimed. “You’d think I was a fifty-year-old invalid!”

  Biggs had no need to reply.

  She sighed and accepted the proffered blanket. Biggs gave her a pointed look. Ursula could almost read his mind. Although he would never dream of voicing his concern over the propriety of her visiting Lord Wrotham unannounced, he was clearly vexed. Robert Marlow may have pulled himself up by the bootstraps, but he was still aware of those in society who regarded him as nothing more than a “damnable upstart.” Mindful of this, he demanded that his daughter maintain the standards of a proper lady. Ursula sighed again. No doubt the Marlow house would ring forth that night with yet another argument on the proprieties of womanhood, and no doubt Biggs would hear this with satisfaction, as he sat by the open fire in the kitchen reading the Daily Mail.

  Ursula stepped into the back of the car and with a rueful smile tucked the blanket around her legs.

  “What will you do when I finally land myself a husband?” she asked Biggs. “You can’t follow me everywhere with blankets and pillows.”

  “When Miss Marlow does find herself a suitable husband, I’m sure we will think of something…. Just so you know—your father is due back from his trip up north at six o’clock. Dinner will be at the usual time.”