The Serpent and the Scorpion (32 page)

No one answered the front door despite her furious knocking. Ursula scurried down the servants’ stairs and proceeded to knock again and again, with growing desperation.

“Come on, Mary,” Ursula muttered under her breath. “Surely you’re here by now.”

Still no answer. Panic was starting to grip her.

She knocked a third and final time.

The door opened slightly, and Alexei peered out. He was disheveled and unshaven.

“Ursula?” he exclaimed, and opened the door fully. Dressed in his gray flannel trousers and a collarless striped shirt, Alexei was bleary-eyed without his glasses on. As Ursula hurried inside and closed the door behind her, he tucked in his shirt.

“Where’s Mary? Where’s Freddie?” Ursula demanded in quick succession.

“Monday is Mary’s day off, and Freddie hasn’t returned from her little ‘outing’ last night.”

Ursula paced up and down the kitchen. “Damn and blast!”

Alexei picked up his glasses and shoved them on.

“What’s the matter?”

“You haven’t heard from Freddie at all?” Ursula asked with growing concern.

“Well, not since around one o’clock this morning, when she had the gall to telephone to tell me she was staying at Lady Catherine’s. I don’t know why she bothered.” Alexei yawned loudly.

Ursula sighed with relief. “Thank God. I thought the worst.”

Alexei raised his eyebrows. “What’s all this about?”

“It’s nothing,” Ursula said quickly. She didn’t want to say anything until she had contacted Winifred. “But I need to use the telephone. I need Freddie to come home as soon as possible.”

“You look dreadfully tired. Let me telephone her. Put the kettle on and make yourself a cup of tea—isn’t that what the English always do in a crisis? I’ll tell Freddie to come right away.” He reached over and stroked her cheek. “You look like you’re in a terrible state,
lapushka.
”

“Oh, Alexei,” Ursula said, ignoring the gesture and rubbing her temples furiously with her fingertips, “if you knew the half of it.”

“Do you have time to tell me?”

“Later. Perhaps. You telephone Freddie. I just need some time to wrap my mind around things. Alexei, I’ve discovered letters—”

“Letters?” Alexei asked. “Do you have them with you now?”

Ursula was too preoccupied with her own thoughts to answer.

“Never mind,” Alexei said. “Let me go upstairs and telephone first; you can explain everything while we’re waiting for Freddie to return.”

Alexei went up the stairs, leaving Ursula standing next to the deep cast-iron sink, kettle in hand, absentmindedly running water into the top. She placed the kettle on the Aga stove and then returned to the sink to splash her face with the ice-cold water.

Alexei returned a few minutes later.

“Freddie’s on her way back now.”

Ursula finally relaxed, crumpling her weary body into one of the wooden kitchen chairs.

“So tell me more about this letter,” Alexei asked, “while I finish making your tea.”

Ursula hesitated, for she still remained unsure of Alexei’s motives. But she was inclined to trust him at least in so far as Katya and Dobbs were concerned. She recounted part of the story, censoring what she felt was necessary, and although it sounded incoherent and confusing, Alexei continued to listen, his dark eyes curiously impenetrable.

Ursula drained her cup of tea and walked over to the sink to rinse out her cup.

“So this letter you found, what are you going to do with it?” Alexei asked.

“Well,” Ursula started, but a low rap at the kitchen door stopped her.

“That’ll be Freddie now,” Alexei said and walked over to the back door. Ursula was still standing by the sink, dishcloth in hand, when it occurred to her that it would be very odd for Winifred to knock at her own servants’ entrance door. That thought was cut short as she was seized from behind. A handkerchief was thrust under her nose and over her mouth. “Alexei!” she tried to call out, but her body started to collapse beneath her. Her vision became grainy and blurred. She stumbled over her feet and, as the ether numbed all her senses, swooned, unconscious, onto the floor.

“Forgive me,
lapuskha,
” she heard Alexei say. “But I had no choice.”

Twenty-two

In her dream she was being buried alive beneath the sand. She struggled, arms flailing. Her mouth opened to scream, but the sand caved in. It was hot and gritty, pouring into her ears, mouth, and nostrils, drowning her. She fought and fought, desperate to rise to the surface, when suddenly her eyes opened and she awoke to find herself looking up at a vaulted ceiling painted with cherubs and seraphim.

“Where is the letter?” Dobbs asked.

All along one wall was a row of heavy brocade curtains over a series of French windows. The curtains were all drawn, so the room was dark. Between each Ursula could see chinks of light. Wherever she was, it was daylight.

Ursula, in her half-conscious state, murmured “No . . .”

“Ursula, wake up and tell me where the letter is,” Dobbs ordered.

Ursula opened her eyes. “No,” she repeated. This time it was a deliberate response. It was then that she realized she was sitting in a chair in nothing more than her undergarments. Her hands were bound behind her back and tied to the chair with thick rope.

“As you can see, we have searched you and know you don’t have the letter about your person. So I ask once more, where is it?”

Ursula knew her only chance of staying alive was keeping the letter safely out of his reach, but she also had to play for as much time as she could, to enable the letter to reach its intended recipient. She closed her eyes and slumped forward in the chair. Rudely started by a wave of cold water thrown over her head, she sat upright, blinking back the water from her eyes.

Christopher Dobbs crouched down and stared her in the eye. “No more games, Ursula. Do you want to live, or do you want to die?”

“Aren’t I dead already? I mean, you’ve killed everyone who saw the contents of that letter . . . ,” Ursula responded.

“You may prove useful in other ways,” Dobbs responded calmly. “So if you tell me where the letter is, I may be inclined to spare your life.”

And pigs might fly, Ursula thought, before another realization hit her in the gut. Alexei had betrayed her to Dobbs.

The man she had recognized from that day with Katya in the Khan al-Khalili stepped forward. “Would you like me to take over now, Sahib? I have skills that may come in handy.”

“See,” Dobbs said, “Harsha is as eager as ever—he’s missed having Baruh to torture. I don’t believe we need to resort to such methods just yet. I think you’ll succumb and tell me soon enough.”

Ursula looked at him defiantly.

Dobbs laughed. “Do you imagine that I’d think twice about killing you? It can be so easily arranged. What do you think the newspapers would say? Ursula Marlow commits suicide over the collapse of her father’s empire. Who’s to say any different?”

“Is that what you thought with Katya? That you could get away with blaming Egyptian nationalists, and no one would say any differently?”

“Well, they didn’t, did they? Apart from you.”

“And how about Arina—how did you expect that to look? An accident? The work of George, my disgruntled manager?”

Dobbs laughed. “George really was most obliging. Oh, he professed his loyalty to your family, of course, but it didn’t take much. The threat of exposing his little indiscretion with Nellie Ackroyd was all it took. Have you met his wife? Well, then, you’d know why he didn’t want her to find out. Stupid what some men do after just a couple of pints. And Nellie, of course, was always very accommodating. . . .”

“George did it to protect his family?” Ursula asked, confused.

Dobbs merely laughed. “He did it to protect himself, and besides, I told him Marlow Industries would soon be mine, and if he wanted to still provide for his family, well, he better make sure he did what I told him.”

Ursula looked at Dobbs in disgust.

Dobbs grinned and, as if guessing her thoughts, responded, “Of course I couldn’t trust him to actually kill the girl. We had to arrange that ourselves. Harsha really is very efficient. . . . How did you do it again?”

“Strangulation, Sahib.”

“So simple, and the fire almost succeeding in disguising it all. It could have been just another ‘accident’ for Marlow Industries.”

“You really are heartless.”

“No, merely clearheaded in business. My only mistake was to keep Baruh alive. But Harsha wanted to torture him to be sure he had not told anyone else. Katya’s letter proved useful in that respect. As soon as I showed it to him, he knew he had condemned not just one woman but two to death. Though after you’re dead, I guess I won’t need to concern myself with that anymore. Harsha can have his way with Baruh.”

Ursula’s eyes were blinded by her tears. Harrison must have been too late to get Baruh out. “How did you even know about Katya’s letter?” she asked. Despite her fear, she was determined to keep questioning Dobbs. “I would have assumed the first person Katya would have told was her husband, yet you never tried to kill him.”

Dobbs laughed. “It was Peter who warned Whittaker in the first place—not that he knew that’s what he was doing. His obsession with his wife’s supposed infidelity came in very useful. He was worried enough in London, but when Katya met Hugh in Palestine his obsession became paranoia. Peter confessed to Whittaker that he was concerned about Katya’s mysterious trips and investigations. It didn’t take Whittaker long to realize what Katya was doing and by then Peter could think of nothing but her alleged affair with Hugh.”

“And Hugh, of course, realized the danger and refused to ask any questions.”

“I also needed him alive if I was to get hold of his shipyards,” Dobbs answered as if by way of explanation.

“Yes, what a real credit to your father you are!” Ursula spat out.

Dobbs’s eyes narrowed. “My father would be proud, I’m sure. He’ll certainly be pleased when I manage to bring Marlow Industries to its knees.”

“You’ve failed so far. Did you really think I didn’t suspect who was behind all of the attacks and unrest? I will never sell to you, and neither will Hugh Carmichael. Your dreams of building dreadnoughts and armaments are already over.”

“You think so? I don’t know—with your death, I think it will all be pretty easy. Hugh Carmichael’s close to the brink—and I doubt even the indomitable Lord Wrotham will oppose me once you’re gone.”

“You think it’ll be that easy.”

“Oh, Miss Marlow, once I’m finished with you, everything will be very easy. So tell me, if I’m to even contemplate sparing your life, where is Katya’s letter?”

“I posted it,” Ursula replied simply. “To Peter Vilensky.”

 
Ursula started to come to. Her neck was stiff, and her mouth was bloody from the blow she had received. Christopher Dobbs was pacing the room while Whittaker watched.

“Your father told us not to underestimate her,” Whittaker said.

Dobbs ignored him, walking over to the rosewood chiffonier near the door and pulling a pistol from the top drawer. Without a word he approached Ursula and held the gun to her forehead.

“Wait!” Whittaker called out. “She may be useful to us alive!”

“I can’t imagine how,” Dobbs responded coldly.

“If she dies now, how will you get Marlow Industries? We need to set the stage—plan it so that we can achieve all our aims. Peter Vilensky is not indispensable—perhaps we can implicate them both in some sordid affair and then stage a double suicide. Use their deaths to our advantage. What do you say, old boy?”

“I say you need to shut up and let me think!” Dobbs spat out in reply.

Ursula groaned as she sat up.

“Glad you could join us again, Miss Marlow.” Dobbs said. “Even if it won’t be for long.”

“I don’t understand why you would even keep it,” Ursula said abruptly, feeling a strange sense of calm now that death seemed imminent. “The letter, I mean. Why not destroy it after you found it at Arina’s?”

“Arrogance.” Chief Inspector Harrison’s voice echoed across the room.

Dobbs spun round and fired the pistol. Three shots rang out in quick succession. Whittaker dropped to his knees, clutching his chest.

Terrified, Ursula flung herself to the ground, toppling the chair.

Harsha and two other men burst in through the door at the far end of the room just as five policemen and Lord Wrotham kicked their way through the French doors. Ursula saw Dobbs lying facedown with a bullet wound to his leg. More shots rang out, and the room seemed to fill with movement and smoke and the smell of gunfire. Through it all she heard Lord Wrotham calling for her.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Dobbs reach for Whittaker’s gun on the floor. She cried out a warning, but she was too late—the shot rang out, and Lord Wrotham collapsed to the floor.

As Harrison’s men rushed to Wrotham’s side, ripped off his jacket, and placed it over his chest to try to staunch the blood, Harrison fought and finally overpowered Harsha. Dobbs was dragged away and handcuffed by the police. Ursula couldn’t even move, bound as she still was to the chair. She knew she was screaming, but she could hear no sound. There was only the pounding of blood in her ears, the sight of blood everywhere. One of Harrison’s men finally came to her and untied her wrists. She pushed him aside and ran over to Lord Wrotham. She cradled his head in her hands, but she could barely see him through the hot, stinging tears that streamed down her face.

Twenty-three

Ursula was sitting slumped against the wall in the hallway, nursing her bandaged wrists. Enveloped in a man’s overcoat and wearing nothing else but her undergarments, she waited for news.

Lord Wrotham had been carried into the billiards room and was in there now, undergoing emergency surgery. His condition had been too critical, and the nearest hospital too far, for anything else to be done. The surgeon, a guest at a nearby country house, had arrived nearly two hours ago, but there was no word as yet on whether Lord Wrotham had survived the operation.