After Ursula had stalked out the door, Lord Wrotham returned to his desk and sat down. He moved aside some papers to reveal a small and tattered suede-covered volume. It was lashed together with a separate strap that was so worn it had lost all pigment. He tapped his fingers on the cover of the book thoughtfully.
The book was a diary of sorts. Part actual travelogue, part travelogue of the mind. On the front page the words The Radcliffe Expedition—A Journey Down the Orinoco had been inscribed in fine calligraphy. A later handwritten note, cramped and spidery, had crossed out the last part and substituted the words A Descent into Hell. The early diary entries covered the expedition with a botanist’s eye including beautifully detailed sketches of red man-groves, orchids, and bromeliads. Turning each page was like taking a step out into the light as the author passed from under a dense, dark canopy. As the entries continued, however, there was a progressive deterioration. The sketches became erratic and distorted, often featuring members of the expedition in gross and distended proportions. The last entry made was dated April 11, 1888, the day of the infamous massacre. No more entries followed, except for two roughly drawn sketches: caricatures that were almost faded from view on the inside back cover of the diary. One was of a white man, bound and gagged. His eyes, although open wide, were bleeding. The other image was of a grotesque figure in a mask, hunched over with all limbs touching the ground, rather like a monkey.
A small, black-edged card had been slipped between the first two pages of the diary. On it was written, The consequences of sin cannot be denied. The child that is born to you shall die.
The diary had arrived that morning by Royal Mail formally addressed to “The Right Honorable Lord Wrotham, KC.” Mr. Robert Marlow, identified as the sender, had enclosed a handwritten note, penned with obvious urgency: This arrived anonymously this morning, and I had to act quickly to keep it from Ursula’s prying eyes. Arrange a meeting for when I return, and do not yet inform the others.
Determined not to waste any more time, Lord Wrotham called in his clerk and asked him to schedule an appointment with Mr. Robert Marlow as soon as possible.
The sun faded below the chimney tops, and the chill of evening soon set in. True to his word, Ursula’s father arrived in Euston on the six o’clock train. On account of Ursula, Samuels had to hurry to be at the station to meet him. As soon as she got home, she went straight upstairs to change, refusing all Julia’s offers of assistance. There she had remained, sitting on a silk-covered stool in front of her dressing table staring at the mirror. As she often did when angry, she fixed her gaze on her own reflection and tried to force the “other self” she saw to regain some self-control, while hot tears of frustration streamed down her cheeks.
She hadn’t felt this discomfited since the day she met Alexei, and today’s humiliation in Lord Wrotham’s chambers brought back all those painful memories. Alexei was the son of one of Winifred’s old tutors at Oxford, Anna Proznitz, who had fled Russia in the wake of the Kishinev pogrom of 1903. Alexei had followed his mother to London after the failure of the St. Petersburg Revolution in 1905. A fervent Leninist, he remained in London after the Third Congress of the Russian Social Democratic Party to help coordinate support for the Bolsheviks among Russian expatriates.
Even now Ursula could recall every detail of their short time together. How she and Winifred arrived at Anna’s apartment in Fitzrovia to find him seated in the front parlor, his dark, angular face buried in a book, feet propped up on the desk under the window. He wore navy blue pants, scuffed leather boots, and a khaki shirt with the sleeves rolled up, suspenders showing. As Ursula entered the room he looked up, peered over the top of a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, and laughed. Ursula had instantly felt self-conscious. Dressed as she was in a hand-embroidered silk pongee walking suit and wide-brimmed straw hat, she was the epitome of the bourgeoisie. Later that morning, angered by his snide comments about “rich heiresses playing at politics,” Ursula stormed out of the apartment. Leaning from the third floor window, Alexei then shouted out a very public apology and tossed down a copy of Lenin’s pamphlet To the Village Poor with an invitation to attend a public meeting of the Bolsheviks. So began a heady, passionate, and tumultuous relationship that Ursula would now, nearly two years later, rather forget.
The front door opened, and she was jolted back to the present. She heard the familiar tread of her father’s footsteps in the hall as he called out a greeting to Biggs and Mrs. Stewart. Ursula rose from her seat, hastily poured some cold water into the washbasin, and splashed it over her face. She then patted her pale skin dry with an Irish linen face towel and looked at her reflection again, wondering if she could make herself look sufficiently presentable to avoid any awkward questions from her father.
“Can I come in now, miss?” Julia asked through the bedroom door. “We need to get you dressed for dinner.”
“No—don’t worry. I’m going down now to meet Papa first.”
Ursula put a dab of Floris’s Rose Geranium perfume behind each ear, then walked over to the door and opened it.
Julia was still standing at the door in her apron and cap.
“I’ll come back up and change before dinner,” Ursula reassured her. “Why don’t you lay out the lavender silk—it’s Papa’s favorite.”
“Of course, miss.” Julia bobbed a perfunctory curtsy and hurried off to iron said dress.
Ursula’s father would be expecting his usual greeting—a shout from the top of the stairs and a wide smile as she came running down to meet him. Ursula would not disappoint him. She peered over the banister at the top of the stairs and saw her father standing below, looking weary from his time in the North.
“Papa!” she cried, and he glanced up with a smile.
Robert Marlow handed over a charcoal gray overcoat and felt hat to Biggs, as Samuels came in carrying a small traveling trunk. He had been away for two days visiting his Lancashire mills and factories, a visit prompted by a growing sense of unease. There were rumors of labor unrest and rising militancy among the trade unions. Although her father tried to keep most of his fears from her, Ursula knew there was already talk of the government introducing a minimum wage. Ursula had heard her father speak many times of the need to stand firm against the liberal threat. To give an inch, he said, would be to release the tide of socialism.
“Glad to be home?” she asked, kissing him on the cheek.
“Aye, glad as always to be back.”
Despite his words he looked tired and worn, prompting Ursula to feel a sudden pang of guilt.
He patted her hand. “Don’t you go worryin’ about me, lass—and no botherin’ me neither.” He rubbed the back of his neck and yawned. “Eigh up, I nearly forgot, Tom said he may be droppin’ by. Wants to speak to me before we meet McClintock tomorrow.” He yawned again.
Ursula groaned, but her father merely continued. “You might have to entertain him for a bit. I’ve a couple of telephone calls to make.”
Just as Ursula started muttering excuses, the doorbell rang.
Her father kissed her forehead lightly. “Don’t worry, I won’t be long.”
Ursula sighed.
“Biggs,” her father called out as he walked into his study, “tell Cook we’ll be ready for dinner at eight.”
Biggs nodded and strode down the hallway to open the front door. Ursula forced a smile before turning to greet Tom Cumberland as he entered the house.
Tom handed over his hat and coat to Biggs and followed her into the front parlor.
“Please take a seat,” she said politely as she sat down on the winged sofa. “Papa will be joining us shortly.”
As Tom sat down opposite her in a leather armchair, Ursula noted that, as usual, Tom had used far too much hair oil. His flaxen hair glistened in the glow of the standard lamp beside him.
“Miss Marlow, you’re looking as lovely as ever,” he began before Ursula dismissed him with a wave of her hand.
“Spare me your compliments, Tom, really. They are quite unnecessary!”
Tom was the kind of man who grated on Ursula’s nerves. A regular guest at Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith’s soirees, he had sweet-talked all the girls of Ursula’s acquaintance with his smooth charms. At thirty-five, he had spent most of his life at sea, as his tanned face and sun-bleached hair attested, and was full of stories of his adventures, designed to amuse “the ladies.” Unfortunately, Ursula was not so easily won over. Despite her father’s partiality (Tom had raised himself up from nothing, just as Robert Marlow had), she found his attentions exasperating.
Tom brushed his mustache lightly with his fingers.
“Your father’s friendship is of supreme importance to me. I only hope to repay his great kindness by honoring his daughter.”
Ursula bit her lip and paused before replying. “Of course, Tom. You know that my father appreciates everything you do for him.”
“Be assured I would likewise do anything, anything at all, to assist his most beautiful daughter.”
Ursula stifled a laugh before scrutinizing Tom’s face carefully. Maybe he could be of some use after all. She hesitated for a moment and then said, “Actually, there is something you may be able to help me with. You see, a chum of mine has got into a spot of bother, and I’ve been trying to help her.” Ursula deliberately kept her tone light. “Only a lady’s name keeps coming up, and, well…maybe someone more worldly than myself would know who she is….” Her voice trailed off.
“Please go on,” Tom urged her.
Ursula feigned embarrassment. “It’s a tad awkward, you see, as I think the lady in question may not…may not be entirely respectable.”
Tom leaned forward in the chair. “Rest assured, Miss Marlow, I am all discretion.”
Ursula lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Have you heard of a Madame Launois?”
Tom instantly paled.
“I can see from your face that you have heard of her, and clearly she is not respectable,” Ursula said hurriedly.
“Indeed she is not,” Tom replied, color slowly returning to his face. “She runs an establishment that is nothing short of a den of iniquity…or so I hear.”
Just as Ursula opened her mouth to speak, her father strode into the room.
“Tom! Glad you could make it. Need some advice on McClintock!” his voice boomed. Tom leaped to his feet and shook her father’s hand eagerly. “Only too glad to be of service, sir!”
Marlow turned to Ursula. “Best go up and change for dinner, lass. No need to hang about listenin’ to all our business prattle.”
Ursula, piqued at her father’s patronizing words but nonetheless eager to be rid of Tom, got to her feet.
Tom reached out and took her hand in his. “Miss Marlow, if I can be of any assistance in this matter—any at all—please do not hesitate to ask.”
Robert Marlow raised an eyebrow.
“I only hope we can continue our most interesting conversation,” Tom went on. “Another time?”
Ursula winced at his eagerness. She was already beginning to regret giving him even the slightest excuse to interpret her behavior as a sign of encouragement. She extricated her hand with a murmured thank-you and, careful to avoid her father’s gaze, quickly exited the room.
An hour later Tom departed, and Ursula joined her father in his study as they waited for Biggs to announce dinner. Robert Marlow stood beside his English oak desk, harrumphing as he opened various pieces of correspondence with a flick of his ivory-handled letter opener. Ursula smiled, reassured as always by her father’s presence, and picked up the latest copy of the Strand.
Eager to put the day’s humiliations behind her, she was already engrossed in the latest Arthur Conan Doyle story, “Through the Veil,” when Biggs knocked, entered, and announced that dinner was served. Her father gave Ursula a quick prod to get her to move from the chair before they made their way into the dining room.
As always, they sat facing one another across the long mahogany table. Mrs. Stewart had arranged a beautiful centerpiece filled with Christmas lilies and had set out the silver service on the sideboard for after-dinner coffee. The copper-and-brass chandelier over the table shone brightly with the recently installed electric lights.
Ursula toyed with her soup spoon while her father sat reading over a letter as he ate. He seemed preoccupied, and there was an unusual silence as they proceeded from the soup to the ptarmigan pie.
“Papa—is something troubling you?” Ursula finally asked.
“Hmm?” Her father looked up from his plate and indicated to Bridget to take it away. Ursula saw Bridget’s look of quiet dismay. Belowstairs, Cook would demand to know why her master’s favorite dish remained only half eaten.
“What is the matter?!” Ursula asked, putting down her knife and fork in exasperation.
“Why do you think anything is the matter?”
“Because you’ve hardly eaten anything. You’ve hardly said anything. It’s not like you. Was everything okay at Oldham?”
“Everything was fine.”
“Then what?” Ursula was uneasy. “Did George say anything?” George was manager of the Oldham mill.
“Only that Shackleton should be shot.”
David Shackleton was the local member of Parliament and a member of the Labour Representation Committee. He and Robert Marlow had experienced their fair share of run-ins in the past.
Ursula fell silent again.
“Is it something to do with that letter? Have you received bad news?” she asked after a bit.
Her father hesitated.
Bridget entered the dining room carrying two plates of stewed plums and custard.
“I think we may wait till later. Thank you, Bridget,” Ursula said.
“Let’s go sit in the study,” her father answered finally. “We can discuss it there.”
Ursula rose to her feet. In the electric light that shone overhead, she suddenly noticed how old her father looked. How the graying of the hair at the temples seemed accentuated. How the lines around his eyes and mouth seemed deeper, more entrenched. It was as if old age had found a place to settle and had decided to stay.
She followed her father into his study, taking care to close the heavy wood-paneled door behind them. Once inside, she tossed off her shoes and curled up in the leather armchair in front of the roaring fire. In her father’s presence, the turmoil that had followed the interview with Lord Wrotham seemed to fade away.
Her father sat down heavily in the chair opposite.
“I’m sorry, love,” he said. “But I’ve a great deal on my mind at the moment.”
Ursula shifted in the chair uncomfortably.
His gaze moved to the fire and then back to Ursula. He seemed to be reminded of something long forgotten.
“Your mother…” he started absently. “How you do remind me…” He gazed at the fire again and fell silent.
“Papa…” she prompted.
He sighed and sank back into the chair.
Ursula got up from her chair and knelt down in front of him. “Papa, please tell me….”
This seemed to bring him back to the present.
“Laura Radcliffe,” he said after a hesitation.
“Laura…Radcliffe?” Ursula replied warily.
“Don’t play silly buggers with me, lass,” her father replied sternly. “I know all about your visit to Miss Stanford-Jones’s house. Wrotham told me everything.”
“Oh.” Ursula waited for her father’s anger, but it never came. Instead he said, “I knew Colonel Radcliffe many years ago…. Laura was his eldest daughter.”
Ursula frowned. She had never heard her father mention the name Radcliffe before.
“That letter was from his wife,” he continued. “She writes to tell me that the colonel is dead. Took his own life.” Her father sank back in his chair disappearing into the folds of shadow and fire-light. “When he received the news about Laura, he shot himself.”
“God, how awful!” Ursula cried. “Did you know him well? Did you know Laura?”
She wanted to bombard him with questions. Instead something in her father’s eyes, something dark and enigmatic, made her halt. Normally she could interpret his moods and gauge his thoughts just by reading his eyes. Tonight, however, they were suddenly inscrutable.
“Oh, Papa, I’m sorry.” She could think of nothing else to say.
Her father sighed, clasping his hands in front of him.
“We must tread carefully,” he said slowly. “Very carefully.”
Then, as if some terrible memory reemerged, he leaned forward and spoke with a frightening intensity.
“I couldn’t bear to lose you like I lost your mother. I couldn’t go on—”
“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 getting 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 air. 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.