“Is that absolutely necessary?” Lord Wrotham asked, exchanging looks with Ursula’s father.
“Surely concern over the young lady’s safety outweighs such sensibilities,” Harrison replied coolly.
Her father leaned forward in the chair, placing his head in his hands. Again Ursula was expecting to hear a reproach, but when none came, she found herself shivering despite the thick blanket wrapped around her. Lord Wrotham shifted his stance uncomfortably and turned to face the fire that was smoldering in the grate.
Harrison coughed again. “Agreed, then…. Now, Miss Marlow, I need to ask you a few more questions.”
Ursula looked up as he opened his notebook and hunted in his pockets for a pencil. She still felt woozy and confused.
“Where is she? Freddie, I mean?” she asked
“Down at the Cannon Row police station,” Harrison replied, flipping to a particular page in his notebook.
“You haven’t arrested her, have you?” Ursula asked, dismayed.
“Not yet,” Harrison answered curtly. “Miss Stanford-Jones arrived about half past one this morning, is that correct?”
Ursula took a deep breath, firmly trying to summon up the resolve to appear both poised and confident. “Yes, that’s right.”
“And you accompanied her into the gardens?”
“Yes, yes…she wanted to talk to me.”
“About Miss Radcliffe?”
Ursula nodded reluctantly.
“You didn’t think it a little odd that she should arrive at that time in the morning?”
Ursula shrugged.
“Why didn’t you let her come inside?”
“Because I knew that my father would be upset. He doesn’t like Freddie.”
“Indeed,” Harrison responded.
Ursula stared at Harrison blankly, but instead of replying, she surprised him by asking, “Why did you never interview me after Laura’s death?”
Harrison gave an involuntary start and glanced uneasily at Lord Wrotham. “We felt…at the time…er…that there was no need to involve you unnecessarily in our inquiries.” He then threw Lord Wrotham a pointed look. “We also had strong assurances that you had no relevant information at the time.”
“I would have thought you’d want to verify that,” Ursula replied dryly. Her father didn’t seem to hear any of this exchange and remained silent, still sitting with his head in his hands.
After an awkward pause, Harrison returned to his questioning, “So how long have you known Miss Stanford-Jones?”
“About two years. She’s a journalist, and we met at a WSPU meeting at the Queen’s Hall. I s’pose I really know her through that. Oh, and Oxford of course. We see each other now at rallies and meetings, that sort of thing.”
Ursula saw Harrison grimace, so she continued, determined to make it clear where both her politics and her sympathies lay. “Winifred is very active in our cause and extremely highly regarded, y’know. Why, I was introduced to her by Mrs. Pankhurst herself—”
“The police are well acquainted with Mrs. Pankhurst and her kind,” Harrison interjected. His pursed lips suggested that the Downing Street riots were still fresh in his mind.
“I believe that many of my colleagues are still feeling the ill effects of making that acquaintance,” Ursula responded icily.
Harrison seemed momentarily startled into silence. “Did you see Miss Stanford-Jones socially—other than through your…er…suffragette activities?” he finally asked.
“No, not really. I don’t think…” Ursula’s voice trailed off, and Harrison looked at her curiously. Silently she cursed herself. For Freddie’s sake she really must be careful what she said.
“Don’t think what?” he prompted.
“Well, I don’t think I’m really the type of girl—”
“I should think not,” Lord Wrotham interrupted. “Why don’t you keep to the relevant facts here, Harrison? This is not a question of Miss Marlow’s relationship with Miss Stanford-Jones. Rather it’s a question of the facts. We know that Miss Marlow is acquainted with Miss Stanford-Jones. We know she was called upon to assist her the night Laura Radcliffe died. Surely we should focus our attentions on what happened in the early hours of this morning.”
Harrison flushed darkly. “M’lord,” he replied stiffly.
“What I want to know,” Ursula asked, her voice suddenly loud, “is why you aren’t out there searching for the person who did this right now!”
Harrison snorted in exasperation. “Miss Marlow, the facts suggest that our chief suspect is Miss Stanford-Jones herself!”
“Harrison, you forget yourself.” Lord Wrotham’s warning was clear despite the evenness of his tone.
Ursula looked at them both mystified. “I don’t understand,” she said slowly. “What do you mean?”
Both men were silent.
“Inspector?” Ursula said quietly.
“The evidence, Miss Marlow,” Harrison replied, his eyes watching her closely for any reaction, “implicates Miss Stanford-Jones in the Radcliffe murder as well as the attempt on your life.”
Ursula felt as though a dull weight were suddenly placed on her chest, pressing down on her ribs so she could hardly breathe.
“The attempt on my life! But that wasn’t Freddie—there was someone else there, in the gardens, I know there was! Wasn’t Miss Stanford-Jones attacked as well?”
“When Biggs found you, Miss Stanford-Jones was also injured.”
“See, I told you—” Ursula started to say.
“But I’m afraid we do not believe Miss Stanford-Jones’s story. The way she tells it, someone knocked you unconscious and then attacked her. She argues that she managed to fend off whoever this was and that Biggs’s arrival caused the perpetrator to run off. Biggs swears, however, that he saw no one. When he arrived, Miss Stanford-Jones was standing over you, and while yes, she had injuries consistent with having fended off some kind of attack, we believe that these were caused by your trying to defend yourself.”
“But I have no…no recollection of that at all!”
Harrison ignored her protests. “You have suffered a nasty blow to the head, which no doubt prevents you from recalling precisely what occurred.”
“But—” Ursula began, and was again interrupted. This time by Lord Wrotham.
“Ursula, please. Dr. Bentham has already examined you. It is his professional opinion that a concussion such as yours is bound to affect short-term memory.”
“Dr. Bentham was here?” Ursula said in confusion, realizing that she had no recollection of anything before waking up on the sofa as her father looked down upon her.
“Coming back to the Laura Radcliffe case,” Harrison said with a cough that indicated he had little time for these digressions. “We found a kitchen knife with Laura’s blood on it and have identified Miss Stanford-Jones’s fingerprints on that knife.” He continued, “Lord Wrotham, however, is convinced that there is another explanation.”
“Of course there is! I know Winifred is innocent!” Ursula exclaimed.
“I usually find,” Harrison pressed on, ignoring her outburst, “that my first suspicions are correct. I’ve never been one to believe fanciful conspiracy theories.” He gave Lord Wrotham a withering look, which seemed to have no noticeable impact. Ursula cast a glance across at her father in confusion. Nothing Harrison was saying made any sense.
“Given that there was no sign of a break-in or robbery,” Harrison said, “our first thought was that Miss Stanford-Jones killed Miss Radcliffe and then called you in as a means of casting doubt over what had happened. What she didn’t bargain on was that we would discover the syringe that was probably used to drug Miss Radcliffe or that we would uncover details about her past—”
“Harrison! You really do forget yourself!” Lord Wrotham exclaimed angrily. “Miss Stanford-Jones is my client. I insist you say nothing further to Miss Marlow. Do you want to scare her out of her wits, man?”
Robert Marlow looked up, startled
by the outburst. Ursula inhaled sharply. A gust of wind rattled the windows, sending a cold draft of air across the room.
“Some information is surely necessary,” Harrison said calmly. “For Miss Marlow’s own protection, at least.”
Lord Wrotham remained grim-faced but with a curt nod allowed Harrison to continue.
Ursula frowned and did not move from her seat. Her father excused himself, saying that the last thing he needed at this moment was further confirmation of how close his only daughter had been to the epitome of depravity and perversion.
Harrison cleared his throat. “We have information about Miss Stanford-Jones’s past—and I caution you that this may come as a considerable shock—which indicates that this was not the first time she has displayed violent and perverse behavior. When she was sixteen, Miss Stanford-Jones was admitted to a private hospital. The diagnosis made by the alienist there was that she suffered from neurasthenia—an illness of the nerves. This ailment appeared to have been precipitated by a violent confrontation with her father, who, may I remind you, was a highly respected minister in the Methodist Church. She spent over a year in hospital receiving treatment, before returning to resume her education. At eighteen, however, she appeared to suffer a relapse and was admitted to the Wakefield Asylum. The concern at this time was even more serious than before. A neurophysical degeneration resulting in an aberration of sexual instinct….”
Harrison, evidently discomfited by Ursula’s candid gaze, let his voice trail off. This all sounded so surreal and strange that she could hardly believe what he was saying. She had always known that there were women who preferred the company of other women. At Mrs. Hopkins’s School for Young Ladies in Skipton, many of her classmates had crushes on various members of the sixth form. When she first met Winifred, Ursula had chosen to think of Winifred’s relationships in rather the same way.
How could she reconcile what Harrison had told her with the strong, confident Freddie she knew? It was because of Winifred’s strength that their friendship had started in the first place. Ursula had been walking alongside Winifred at her first suffrage march when a man lunged at her from the mob screaming, “Whore!” There was the flash of a knife, and Ursula was pulled to the ground. The man managed to cut off some of Ursula’s hair as a trophy for his lapel, but before he could proclaim any victory, Winifred set upon him, fists flying in the most unladylike fashion. The man retreated back, snarling and hurling abuses. Winifred had then coolly assisted Ursula to her feet, ignoring his shouts.
Lord Wrotham remained silent, staring out the front windows with an impassive face.
Harrison ran his fingers through his hair. “It was at the Wake-field Asylum that she was first introduced to drugs such as sulphonal and valerinic acid—and we believe that a drug very similar to these was involved in the death of Laura Radcliffe. So can you now understand, with a psychiatric history such as hers, why we are concerned for your well-being? She is a dangerous woman, and we cannot begin to predict her actions. Until we have resolved the case, please, remain where my men can protect you, and avoid all further contact with her.”
“You truly believe that I may be at risk?” Ursula asked incredulously.
“I do,” Harrison replied.
Ursula turned to Lord Wrotham. “And what do you say?” she asked him sharply. He did not respond at first but rather walked back to the fireplace and straightened his jacket.
“Well?” Ursula demanded.
“Well indeed,” Lord Wrotham replied coldly. “What can I, in the predicament I find myself, possibly say? It is you who charged me with the responsibility for this case. It was you who foisted this upon me. So what say I? Nothing. I can say nothing. Advise nothing. It’s a damnable position you have placed me in, Ursula.”
Ursula was silent.
Robert Marlow returned, looking tired and worn. Surveying the room, he sighed before speaking. “Inspector Harrison—would you please leave us for a moment?”
Harrison’s dark eyes narrowed, but he nodded his head.
“You are welcome to use the telephone to call Scotland Yard,” Marlow continued. “Maybe you could make the necessary arrangements for a couple of officers to be posted…”
“Of course,” Harrison replied before walking out of the room, straightening his jacket as he passed.
“I really must talk to Harrison about his tailor,” Lord Wrotham said offhandedly as the door closed. He lit a cigarette, and though his outward composure had certainly returned, Ursula thought she detected a slight shake in his hands and suspected that his anger had not entirely faded.
Convinced that if she stood up, her knees would give way, Ursula remained seated. She placed the empty teacup carefully down on the side table and drew the blanket in tightly around her shoulders. The dull weight on her chest was of little comfort. The rain outside continued to beat against the windows.
Robert Marlow paced in front of the fireplace, concern still deeply etched on his face.
“Do you really think a police guard outside will be of any help?” he asked Lord Wrotham. It was as if he had forgotten Ursula was there.
Lord Wrotham shrugged. “We can only hope. It gives us some time at least to…” He left the sentence unfinished.
She could have screamed. Damn it all, what was happening here?!
“I’m nearly killed, and now everyone is behaving as though I’m invisible,” she muttered. As there was no reply, she continued, out loud this time, exclaiming, “You can’t really believe that Freddie is some kind of a crazed murderer!”
“What about Pemberton?” Marlow asked, still seemingly oblivious to Ursula’s presence.
“He has agreed to take the case. As you know, I’m not an expert in criminal matters, but Fenway speaks highly of him.”
Fenway, Ursula knew, was her father’s solicitor.
“We can’t allow them to arrest her! She didn’t do it!” Ursula said. Her father seemed startled by her voice.
“Quite frankly, I’m not sure we can stop them,” Lord Wrotham replied, still standing by the fireplace. For a moment Ursula thought she saw a quiver of emotion in his normally cool blue-gray eyes. Was it sympathy? Concern? Pity, even? The moment soon passed, though, and Lord Wrotham’s gaze became impenetrable once more.
“But you can’t really think—” Ursula started to insist again.
“I don’t know,” Lord Wrotham replied tersely. “But it seems we must wait, whatever the outcome. Miss Stanford-Jones may have to go to trial. However, if there is someone else involved we have little choice except to wait for the murderer to reveal himself.”
“Himself?”
Robert Marlow silenced her gently. “You must trust us,” was all he said.
There was a knock on the door, and Biggs entered, unruffled as always. “Inspector Harrison wishes to know if he may return now.”
Robert Marlow nodded. “Yes, yes…”
Harrison walked back into the room.
“There will be two of our best men posted outside,” he announced. “One in the front. One out back. I’m sure that will suffice until we have made an arrest.”
He sounded confident that this was close, Ursula thought.
“Miss Marlow.” Harrison addressed her directly. “I must ask that you have no further contact with Miss Stanford-Jones. My lord”—he turned back to Lord Wrotham—“I expect you wish to be present when we resume our questioning. We have made arrangements to interview Miss Stanford-Jones later this afternoon.”
Lord Wrotham extinguished his cigarette. “I will let David Pemberton know. He will be taking on the case—”
“Pemberton?” Harrison seemed impressed despite himself, and perhaps even a little unnerved by the prospect that one of the country’s top criminal barristers was now involved in his case.
“Yes. Fenway has already sent over the brief, and I believe that Pemberton has already interviewed Miss Stanford-Jones.”
“It’s not every day that the likes of you or Pemberton gets inv
olved in a case like this,” Harrison said.
Lord Wrotham’s eyes narrowed. “I am always willing to be of assistance where matters of family honor are at stake. You of all people should remember that.”
Harrison flinched and, after a moment’s hesitation, turned to face Ursula.
“Miss Marlow, I think I’ve imposed on you enough for one day. Please be assured that my men will protect you. There is truly no need to worry. Regrettably, I will have to ask you some further questions. Perhaps it would be convenient for me to return tomorrow morning?”
Ursula sensed that a shift in power had somehow occurred. That whatever complicity lay between her father and Lord Wrotham now embraced her.
“Unfortunately, I will be in the East End all day. The vicar’s wife and I volunteer once a month at a home for working and homeless girls in Stepney,” she replied, and out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw Lord Wrotham smile. “Would Monday be convenient instead, Inspector Harrison?” she asked.
Harrison bowed his head. “Monday, then, Miss Marlow.” He then took his leave.
Ursula watched the steam fog up the white-paned windows as she lay in the bath. She eased down, letting her head drift back to rest on the water, her knees raised slightly. Half submerged, she closed her eyes and felt a watery darkness descend. All her worries seemed to sink into that same darkness. She wanted to hold them down, keep them immersed and distant. But it wasn’t long before they pushed their way forward and the memories of the night Laura died came flooding back. Ursula sat up, shivering despite the heat of the bath, and held her knees in tight.
A kitchen knife and a syringe. Degeneration resulting in aberrant sexual instinct? Harrison’s words were like fragments of shattered glass on a floor. Although she tried to pick them up carefully, tried to piece them together, nothing would fit. She knew deep inside that Winifred was no murderer. Somewhere out there was the real killer, and Ursula was determined to prove it.
Five
After an afternoon and evening of enforced bed rest, Ursula was finally allowed to leave the house and take a walk up to Green Park with one of Harrison’s men in tow. Her father left early to visit his Lambeth dye factory. Mrs. Stewart and Julia had been pecking around her all morning like mother hens, driving Ursula to distraction. Finally she had declared that she “needed some air,” grabbed her velveteen hat, her coat, and her scarf, and marched out the front door.
Consequences of Sin Page 6
