Consequences of Sin

by Clare Langley-Hawthorne

  “Dear Papa!” she cried, clutching his hand in hers. “Never speak of losing me!”

  Ursula was in bed reading H. G. Wells’s Ann Veronica when she heard her father leave. She was used to his nocturnal wanderings (they had certainly ebbed and flowed over the years), but up till now she had never thought to question them. Although she guessed that Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith’s house was his likely destination, she felt an unusual pang of concern. Her father had always seemed so strong and capable, but tonight he had shown a vulnerability that worried her. In spite of this, or maybe even because of it, she was determined to use his absence to undertake a few investigations of her own. Her father’s relationship with Colonel Radcliffe intrigued and puzzled her. She had to know more.

  Ursula climbed out of bed, wriggled into a shirtwaist and skirt, and pulled on a pair of woolen stockings. By now the fire in the study would be out, so she grabbed a cream knit cardigan from the chest of drawers and slipped her feet into a pair of soft leather shoes. She then leaned against the bedroom door and listened intently.

  The grandfather clock struck midnight. Ursula quietly opened the door and crept out onto the landing.

  The house was silent and dark downstairs. She did not doubt, however, that Biggs was awake. He was probably double-checking the wine cellar before turning in for the night. Mrs. Stewart for her part was a sound sleeper, and Ursula felt confident that she would not disturb her. Sure enough, Ursula could hear the distinctive grunt of her snores as she tiptoed past the stairs that led to the servants’ rooms in the attic.

  Ursula carefully made her way downstairs. It was a clear night, and the pale moonlight filtering through the top-floor windows helped guide her path. She entered her father’s study, closing the door softly behind her. Ursula could hear the wind rattling the railings outside. Through the bay window, she could see the dark silhouette of oak trees waving and groaning against the sky. She closed the curtains and turned on the leaded glass reading lamp on her father’s desk.

  The day’s correspondence still lay scattered on top of the desk. A bill from her father’s tailor. A request for additional deliveries from a New York garment manufacturer. A summary of bank-account details in Geneva. Ursula perused these letters quickly, looking for the letter from Colonel Radcliffe’s wife. It lay in the middle of the pile, handwritten on thick ivory paper.

  Robert,

  I couldn’t bring myself to call with such bad news. No doubt you have heard the reports of Laura’s death. It seems I now must bear the loss of a husband as well as a daughter. William took his own life three days ago. You know he has never fully recovered from what happened in South America, and I fear that Laura’s death precipitated another one of his melancholic bouts. I should have seen it was coming. Should have spoken to you earlier. You were the only one who could ever reach him when he was in those deep black moods. I feel I failed him in not seeking your advice sooner. That dreadful expedition was much on his mind. I wish I had sent for you before it was too late. Robert, it is too much for me too bear.

  Please tell me this is not the start of all that we feared.

  Ursula leaned back in the chair and frowned. The final line of the letter made her shudder. What was it that they feared? What was her father’s connection with Colonel Radcliffe? Why did this expedition haunt the colonel so? More important, did it offer any clues into Laura’s death?

  Ursula put the letter back down carefully on the desk. She then got up and went to the bookshelf, scanning for her father’s copy of Kelly’s Handbook to the Titled, Landed and Official Classes. It was on the bottom shelf, next to the latest editions of Burke’s Peerage and Landed Gentry. Robert Marlow wanted to ensure he always knew whom he was dealing with—socially as well as in business. Ursula pulled out the Handbook and flicked through the pages. There was a brief summary under “Radcliffe, William (Col.) VC, DSO”: Distinguished battlefield commander in the Transvaal and Sudan. Founding member of the Explorer’s Club. Amateur anthropologist. Leader of three expeditions to South America.

  It was the last line of the summary that caught her eye.

  Sole survivor of the massacre that occurred on April 11, 1888.

  Ursula closed the book and sat down heavily in her father’s leather armchair. So much seemed to center on this expedition, and yet she couldn’t understand how her father was involved. Ursula had never even heard her father speak of Colonel Radcliffe or his family. He never intimated that he had any interest in South America. Indeed, she had no cause to suspect that her father had any other interests beside his business endeavors. Something tickled at the back of her mind, though…something from her childhood. She couldn’t quite remember, but there was something, nothing more than a feeling, that convinced her that the expedition was the key. Ursula hugged her knees. Her head was starting to ache. Could it be that Colonel Radcliffe’s fears were for his daughter? If so, was Laura’s death somehow related to the events on the expedition nearly twenty years ago? Her mind began to drift.

  She yawned, fighting back sleep. She heard the clock strike one and closed her eyes, trying to clear her mind. Sleep overcame her.

  Ursula’s dreams were filled with misshapen shadows, wraiths and shades from some surreal underworld that seemed to be waiting for her just on the periphery of sight.

  She stood alone in a hallway lined with black wooden doors. Each doorway she stepped though held worse horrors than the one before. Huge sightless eyes, gouged and red, peering out from a woman with grossly distorted lips. A naked man covered in blood. A room full of children, gray with death, piled high one upon the other. She closed each door and ran down the hallway, but she could not escape. Behind her was the pad, pad, pad of a dark cat of some kind. Following her. The hallway became a jungle. She was trying to fight her way though twisted vines. The flash of a knife. The scream of a monkey. She clutched her side, sobbing.

  She was sure she must be awake, for the bedroom seemed so comfortingly familiar. She could see the pale moonlight filtering through the crack in the curtains. The light cast a shimmer on the mirror above the washstand. The green ceramic jug and basin were just discernible in the reflection. She heard a creak on the floorboard outside the door. The doorknob turned slowly, and she held her breath. Her mind felt cloudy and confused, for it seemed as if a shadow entered the room. She closed and opened her eyes again slowly. He was sitting there on the bed gazing down at her. Long fingers stroked her hair. She turned toward him as he lay down beside her. He was fully dressed, and as she nestled her head against him, she felt the fine wool of his dark gray frock coat against her cheek. She was so cold in her white cotton nightdress. She slid her body in close to his, burying herself in his warmth. She felt the smooth silk of his waistcoat against her palms. She stroked it gently, as she would a cat. The dark panther in her mind was pacing. Her eyes closed, and she was lulled back to sleep by the slow, measured sound of his breath.

  The darkness beckoned.

  Ursula could not resist his kiss. It tasted of burgundy wine, of hazelnuts and dark bitter chocolate.

  She woke up.

  There was a soft tap-tap on the study door. Ursula blinked, realizing she had actually fallen asleep in her father’s armchair. She had only dreamed she was still in her bed. While her dreams dimmed, the memories of Lord Wrotham’s image remained. The taste of him lingered. Although all reason dictated that what had occurred was not real, her senses refused to give him up. Ursula scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. She had to pull herself together.

  “Miss…miss, it’s me….” came Julia’s hushed voice from behind the door.

  Ursula crossed the room quickly and opened the door.

  Julia was in her nightdress and tartan dressing gown, carrying a white envelope on a silver tray.

  “I couldn’t sleep, so I came down to find something to read,” Ursula blurted out, feeling that somehow she had to explain herself. Then she frowned. “Julia, what are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “I was up gettin
g myself a glass of water when we—I mean, Mr. Biggs and me—heard someone knocking on the back door. Well, there was this messenger boy standing there. Said it was real urgent, so I’ve brought you his message, and…well, miss, here it is.” Julia handed her the tray.

  Ursula took the envelope and opened it, making sure Julia wasn’t looking over her shoulder. The message was scrawled in Winifred’s hand:

  Sully, I’m waiting out the back. We have to talk. Freddie.

  “Julia,” Ursula said quietly, “you may go back to bed.”

  “Are you sure, miss?”

  “Perfectly. I will deal with this myself,” Ursula replied, crumpling the note in her hands.

  Julia’s eyes widened. “Ooh! Is it a message from Tom?”

  Ursula suppressed a shudder and shook her head. Julia’s romantic notions were getting frightfully tiresome.

  Julia said nothing more but left the room and hastened back up the servants’ stairs to her own bedroom.

  “She’ll have me eloping to Gretna Green next,” Ursula muttered as she left the study, crossed the hallway, and hurried downstairs to the kitchen.

  Biggs was sitting next to the fire, polishing his shoes. He shot Ursula a disapproving glare but said nothing.

  Ursula passed through the kitchen and scullery and opened the back door. Winifred was standing there, bundled up in a large brown overcoat and stamping her feet to ward off the cold. She had a thick woolen scarf wrapped around her head, partially obscuring her face.

  “Freddie!” Ursula exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing coming here?!” She ushered Winifred inside and shut the door behind her.

  “I managed to sneak out the back of my place so the coppers didn’t see me.”

  “You took a great risk—” Ursula began, but Winifred silenced her with a wave of her hand.

  “I simply had to come. I couldn’t stand not being able to see or talk to you! After all I put you through the other night…”

  Biggs gave a polite cough and Ursula whirled around. He looked pointedly at the clock and Ursula grimaced. Her father was likely to be home any minute.

  “Damn and blast! My father will have a fit if he finds you here. You’d better get going.”

  “But I’m not sure when I may be able to see you again. They’re watching me all day and night, Sully.” Winifred’s voice caught in her throat. “I think they are going to have me arrested!”

  Ursula clasped her friends arm. “Don’t worry, Freddie! We’re going to work this one out together. We can’t stay here, though.” Ursula thought for a moment. “Why don’t we nip into the gardens—you can tell me everything there. Biggs won’t give the game away.” Ursula raised her voice. “Will you, Biggs?”

  Biggs was sitting by the fire studiously reading the newspaper. He turned the page loudly.

  “I think that’s a no,” Ursula whispered, and she reached out to take the garden gate key that hung on a hook by the scullery door. She and Winifred then walked out the back door and up the stairs that led to the street.

  “Cripes, it’s cold!” Ursula cried. She felt a tug on her sleeve, and Biggs silently handed her his heavy tweed overcoat and scarf.

  “Just you take care,” he said in low tones.

  “Thanks, Biggs, you’re a brick!” Ursula whispered in reply.

  She led Winifred across Chester Square and into the enclosed garden. There were few signs of life except for the sound of an occasional carriage or delivery van in the distance. The wind picked up the pages of yesterday’s Evening Standard and sent them spinning into the air. Ursula watched, fascinated, as the pages danced and twirled in and out of the lamplight, a whirligig of shadows, black text, white paper, corners flapping. She then shivered and pulled Biggs’s coat closer.

  She led Winifred to one of the park benches and sat down.

  “So tell me, can you recall anything further about that night?” Ursula asked.

  “God, Sully, I’ve told Lord Wrotham and Inspector Harrison everything I can remember. Laura and I were at a party—nothing remarkable about that. We left in a taxicab around one in the morning. Got home and then…then nothing. I remember going upstairs to bed and then nothing…nothing at all. It sounds unbelievable, I realize, but…all I know is that I could never have hurt her. Not Laura. She was…she was—”

  “I know, Freddie. You don’t have to tell me,” Ursula interrupted. “Do you think you could have been drugged?”

  Winifred gave a hollow laugh. “Oh, Sully, what do you know about drugs?”

  “Nothing,” Ursula replied candidly. “But it’s a possibility, isn’t it?”

  Winifred was suddenly sober. “But who would do such a thing?”

  “Someone who wanted Laura dead and wanted others to think you’re the one who killed her. Freddie, before we go any further, there’s something I must know: Is there any motive that the police might think you could possibly have?”

  Winifred scratched her chin, and Ursula suddenly felt uncomfortable. Did she really want to know the sordid details of that night? So much had always been politely left unspoken in their relationship. All she knew was that, beyond their common intellectual pursuits and political interests, Freddie had a life that did not include Ursula. To Freddie it was as if Ursula were a beloved and spirited sister, protected from the dark longings that colored her other relationships. Ursula had always relied on her own imaginings when it came to the hidden desires that plagued Winifred—until now.

  Ursula remembered the peculiar, fearful look that had come over Winifred’s face when she found Ursula in the kitchen the night Laura died. There had always been a darkness, alluring and volatile, about the world Winifred inhabited. Ursula tried to shake off her fears. Winifred was, after all, her friend. She had taught her a great deal about the world and how to live in it. Even saved her from an angry mob of men who’d attacked them during a WSPU rally. Ursula could not doubt her now.

  Winifred stared at her squarely before saying, with forced calmness, “The police found out that Laura and I quarreled that night, and witnesses at Madame Launois’s confirmed it. The argument was about Laura seeing other people. She subscribed, you know, to a notion of ‘free love,’ and I…well, I was—”

  “Unhappy about that?” Ursula asked quietly.

  “Yes,” Freddie responded after a momentary hesitation. “Actually more than unhappy. It’s not hard to explain to you, because I’m sure you felt the same about Alexei.” Ursula flushed slightly, but Winifred merely went on. “I simply didn’t want to share Laura with anyone else.”

  “And so the police believe that you murdered Laura in a fit of jealousy?” Ursula asked, experiencing a strange sensation of both distaste and sympathy.

  “Yes,” Winifred replied, “and they also found out about my past experiences with various substances.” Ursula frowned, not comprehending, but Winifred continued to speak. “Opium. Morphine. That kind of thing. So, you see, they do believe that drugs were involved—only that it was I who administered them!”

  “What does Lord Wrotham think?”

  “Despite some doubts, he is convinced I’ll be arrested and, in all likelihood, will face trial for Laura’s murder. He thinks that, given the evidence they’re likely to produce about my ‘degenerate lifestyle,’ a jury could easily convict me. Wrotham has managed to keep it out of the papers. But there are rumors among the neighbors, of course. As soon as they make an arrest, I expect we will see it all splashed about on the front page of the Daily Mirror.”

  “Going back to that night—at Madame Launois’s—was there anyone else there that…”

  “Shh!” Winifred interrupted her. “I think someone else is here,” she whispered hoarsely.

  Ursula felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. The wind had died down, and the infamous London fog was starting to rise thick and dense around her. Its acrid yellow form gave the oak trees sinister proportions in the moonlight.

  There was a strange, foreign scent of pungent tobacco and spice in the a
ir. Winifred placed a warning hand on Ursula’s shoulders. Ursula froze. There was no sound of movement. Everything was held in abeyance, like an animal waiting for the kill. Only the animal seemed to be the very air itself. The darkness itself. The fog and mist. Surrounding them.

  Ursula felt something brush against her skirt. She opened her mouth to scream, and then everything went black.

  Four

  “Are you completely mad?! What possessed you to go with her there? You could have been killed!”

  The police inspector coughed politely, and Lord Wrotham was silenced midstream. Ursula fought back the tears, threatened by Lord Wrotham’s rebuke, unwilling to reveal her humiliation. The last thing she wanted was a display of “feminine frailty” at a time like this.

  Ursula was sitting at home in the front parlor, a bandage around her head and a woolen blanket tucked across her shoulders. She was inhaling the vapors from the steaming cup of Earl Grey tea in her hands.

  Lord Wrotham was pacing in front of the fireplace, tugging and straightening his jacket sleeve in an apparent attempt to regain his composure. The police inspector, whom Ursula now knew to be Harrison, stood in the middle of the room, appraising her with a gaze that suggested both skepticism and disquiet. He was younger than Ursula expected, with keen dark eyes and a neatly trimmed mustache. Her father sat white-faced in the satinwood armchair, staring at her incredulously. Ursula had fully expected her father’s anger, but his continued silence was far worse. From where she was seated on the sofa, she could see the rain lashing down against the glass panes of the front bay windows, obscuring the view of Chester Square with a heavy mist. The sound of the rain was deafening compared to the apprehensive silence that had fallen in the room.

  Harrison reached into the pocket of his navy blue coat and pulled out his pocketwatch.

  “It’s nearly midday,” he remarked, his East End accent barely discernible. “Just a few more questions for Miss Marlow, and then, with your permission, I’d like to call in some of my boys to watch the place—just till we know what we’re dealing with.”