CHAPTER 7

SATURDAY 20 OCTOBER 1920, LONDON

Poppy locked the front door of the Chelsea townhouse and hurried to the waiting taxi. Well, as much as one could hurry in four-inch heels and an ankle-length, figure-hugging white satin evening gown with fox-fur stole. If it weren’t for the knee-high slit, she would have been hopping to the motor car like a white rabbit. Rollo, waiting to greet her, let out a long, slow whistle, took her hand and kissed it. “You look swell, Miz Denby, positively swell.”

“Why, thank you, Mr Rolandson.” Poppy flushed in pride and embarrassment as she stepped into the cab, ducking to ensure the ostrich feather in her headdress didn’t get bent. The little editor jumped up beside her, closed the door, and instructed the driver: “To the Crystal Palace!”

Poppy greeted the other passengers, two of whom she knew, one she didn’t: Ike Garfield and his wife Doreen, and a striking woman in her early forties with a black Eton crop and Middle Eastern features.

“May I introduce Miz Yasmin Reece-Lansdale? Yasmin, this is Poppy Denby, the new reporter I’ve been telling you about.”

Yasmin reached out a long, elegant, gloved hand to Poppy. “The woman who finally put Melvyn Dorchester in his place. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” smiled Poppy as she shook the woman’s hand. So this was the infamous Yasmin Reece-Lansdale. Poppy had heard that Rollo had been stepping out with her – or “dating”, as the Americans called it – for the last three months. The daughter of a British major general and an Egyptian socialite, Miss Reece-Lansdale was not just an exquisite face. Behind those striking black eyes was a legal mind second to none. Trained as a solicitor, she was one of a handful of women hoping to be appointed to the Bar in the wake of the recent Sex Disqualification (Removal) Act. Having attended the various trials that emerged from her sensational journalistic debut, Poppy thought Yasmin would make an excellent barrister: intelligent, forceful and shrewd; but she would need every ounce of ability – and then some – to make her mark in the all-male Crown Court.

“Mind you, he should have got more than seven years for attempted murder.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Miss Reece-Lansdale.”

“Please, call me Yasmin.”

“Yasmin. And as for his son…”

“No surprise though, is it? Alfie Dorchester’s got friends in high places.”

“Most of them with holiday homes in Monaco,” contributed the American editor.

“Is that where he’s gone?” asked Ike.

“Last we heard. He should never have been given bail in the first place.”

“Absolutely not,” said Yasmin, with a look that said she would never have allowed the defence counsel to get away with it.

Poppy shivered at the thought of her nemesis roaming freely around Europe, and pulled the fox fur closer around her shoulders.

“His sister’s in New York now, isn’t she?” asked Yasmin.

“She is,” agreed Poppy and wished they could change the subject. Her first story had been a raging success, but she did not want to be defined by it.

“Is Daniel not coming, Poppy?” It was Doreen Garfield, Ike’s wife. Doreen was a short, plump West Indian woman with warm brown eyes and a smile to light up the West End.

Poppy smiled at her gratefully. “He’s going to meet us there. He wants to be in position to photograph the guests as they arrive.”

Doreen’s eyebrows furrowed in sympathy. “That young man of yours works too hard. And so do you. How you two manage to find time to see each other, I’ll never know. It’s bad enough with Ike working, but if I did as well…”

Ike patted her hand.

“Oh, we manage,” said Poppy.

“Well, don’t you go giving up on your career for him, Poppy,” said Yasmin with a sideways glance at Doreen. “I’ve seen it too many times: men being attracted to career women when they’re single, but then expecting them to play second fiddle to them when they’re married.”

Rollo chuckled. “Is that a thinly disguised barb at me, Yazzie?”

“Of course not, sweetie,” said Yasmin, stroking his cheek. “We’ll never get married.”

Rollo laughed even louder. Poppy wasn’t sure if she was joking, but wouldn’t have been surprised if she wasn’t. Rollo – a notorious skirt-chaser – had met his match in Miss Reece-Lansdale.

Ike chuckled politely; Doreen glared at him and he stopped. Then she turned back to Poppy: “Have you met his children yet?”

“He’s got children? Well, say no more! The word ‘bargepole’ comes to mind, Poppy. Stay well clear.”

“I think you’re the one who should stay well clear, Miss Lansdale,” said Doreen. “Poppy needs to make her own mind up without your interference.”

“Interference?” Yasmin spat.

“Yes, interference,” said Doreen, sitting as straight as she could, but still only coming up to Yasmin’s shoulder.

“Ladies, ladies!” drawled Rollo. “Let’s not spoil the night before it’s begun. It’s going to be a corker, wouldn’t you agree, Poppy?”

“It should be,” said Poppy quietly, and looked out of the window as they pulled up to the Crystal Palace. They were met by a bank of camera flashes. And somewhere in that crowd was Daniel.

 

Poppy had never seen so many jewels in her life – both on and off the guests. The who’s who of British high society wove their way through the exhibition hall, examining case after case of glittering artefacts, exquisite jewellery and objets d’art. On the walls were Rembrandts, Vermeers, Makovskys and Kramskois – and was that actually a Da Vinci? Poppy would need to check in her aunt’s Encyclopaedia of World Art when she got home.

But it was the collection of Fabergé eggs on a raised dais in the middle of the hall that attracted the most attention: six of them – of various sizes – gilded and bejewelled with the finest craftsmanship the world of jewellery design had ever seen. According to the information card on the dais, they were all owned by members of the Romanov family.

“Aren’t they just exquisite, darling?”

Poppy looked down to find her aunt beside her, wearing a violet gown of crushed velvet and taffeta.

“Almost as exquisite as you, Aunt Dot – you look gorgeous!”

Aunt Dot’s cheeks flushed a delightful pink and her bluebell eyes nearly outshone the sapphires on her tiara. “It’s a Jacques Doucet! It arrived from Paris just this morning. I almost thought I would have to air one of my old rags again.”

“You would look spectacular in whatever you wore.” Victor Marconi, with Princess Selena on his arm, joined Aunt Dot and Miss King, who was wearing a surprisingly elegant peach silk gown.

“Well, thank you, Victor. So which one is yours, Selena?” asked Dot.

The princess was wearing what looked like a Jean Paquin, but its simple lines were obscured by more jewels than were housed in the Tower of London. The question from Aunt Dot elicited a melodramatic hand to the side of the face and a stifled sob. “It is not mine, Dorothy. I am just a treasure-keeper. I am merely the custodian until dear Nicky and Alix and their children reclaim them.”

Poppy, who believed reports that the tsar and his family had all been murdered, wondered if Selena really did think she was merely a custodian or was just “playing the pauper”. She knew what Delilah would think.

“So which one is it?” asked Aunt Dot again.

“It’s the large purple one in the middle, isn’t it, principessa?” said Delilah’s father.

Selena nodded her agreement, sniffing back tears. “Alix gave it to me herself, with her dear, sainted hands.” Then she threw herself onto Victor’s chest and sobbed. Victor patted her back gingerly. Poppy, who tried not to think the worst of people, was nevertheless finding it hard not to roll her eyes. Even Miss King, more practised in impassivity, raised an eyebrow at the pantomime.

Eventually Selena straightened up and dabbed a lace handkerchief at her eyes. “E-excuse me. I must go powder my nose.” Then she flounced off, leaving Dot, Victor, Miss King and Poppy to admire the Fabergé eggs.

“You’re a saint, Victor, a saint,” said Dot and giggled.

“I hope she puts on a better performance in The Cherry Orchard,” said Delilah as she joined the group, slipping an arm into her father’s and kissing his cheek.

“Oh, she’s marvellous on stage – just wait and see,” said Dot.

“She’s not showing much promise in rehearsals, is she, Adam?”

“Don’t be unkind, Delilah; she’s only been at it a few days,” said Adam Lane as he too joined the group.

Delilah snuggled further into the crook of her father’s arm. “It looks like she’s been at it for years.”

Despite herself, Poppy couldn’t help chuckling at her friend’s summation of Princess Selena Romanova Yusopova. One had to pity the woman – having to flee for her life from the Bolsheviks – but she wasn’t doing much to endear herself to her prospective daughter-in-law.

Adam, the tallest of the group, suddenly stood up straight. “What ho, this looks like trouble… Didn’t someone say Selena and that bounder Felix Yusopov – the fellow who offed Rasputin – couldn’t stand the sight of each other?”

“Loathe wouldn’t be too strong a word,” commented Delilah, standing on her toes to try to see what Adam was looking at.

“Well, they’re on a collision course.”

Poppy, although taller than Delilah, couldn’t see over the crowd either. “What’s happening?”

“He’s with the empress, and Selena is going to pay her respects… no, no… she’s seen him and has changed direction… she’s heading towards…”

“Adam dear, as delightful as you are at giving commentary, I think I’d rather talk about what I can see, not what I can’t,” said Dot and turned her chair to face the collection of Fabergé eggs. “What do you know about them, Poppy? You’re bound to have researched them for your article.”

Poppy gently nudged the chastised Adam. “She didn’t mean it like that,” she whispered, before raising her voice and answering her aunt. “I have actually. They were made by the jeweller Peter Carl Fabergé and commissioned by the late – the current – oh, you know what I mean – they were commissioned by Tsar Nicholas’s father Alexander and then by Nicholas himself as presents for their wives and daughters. Every Easter since 1885 the Romanov women have received one of these splendidly jewelled eggs. There are around fifty of them in existence.”

“Is it true some of them have secret compartments?” asked Dot, pushing her chair closer to the dais. One of the two guards flanking the Fabergé display stepped forward and politely asked Aunt Dot to move back. She did so, with a smile.

“So I’ve been told,” said Poppy. “Apparently all of the imperial Easter eggs contained some kind of surprise. Did Selena mention anything about that to you, Mr Marconi?”

“She did not,” said Victor. “But she only has one of them.”

“What do you think it’s worth, Papa?” asked Delilah.

“The big one could fetch around half a million pounds at auction. Perhaps more.”

Adam whistled. “No wonder they’re so tight with their security.”

And no wonder the Bolsheviks want them back, thought Poppy. She assessed the guards in front of her: British, definitely British. In the days since the press conference at the Russian embassy there had been a tiff between the White and Red Russians about who exactly would provide security for the exhibition. The Whites claimed the Reds’ offer to help protect the jewels – until such a time as their return to the people of Russia could be negotiated – was simply a ploy to steal them back. But the Reds insisted that the Whites could not be trusted with their nation’s treasure either. So it was reluctantly agreed that the London Metropolitan Police and a security detail from the Queen Mother’s Kensington Palace would be employed – although the latter was controversial, as the Queen Mother Alexandra was sister to the Russian empress Maria Federovna, mother of Tsar Nicholas II. However, as both of the royal sisters were attending the exhibition, the British government would not compromise on their safety – as Ike’s article in this morning’s Globe put it – and stood firm against the Bolsheviks’ demands to have the Household Cavalry removed.

At that point Daniel arrived with his camera. “Daniel, darling! We’ve missed you,” said Aunt Dot. “When are you coming around for supper again?”

“Whenever your niece asks me,” said Daniel and gave Poppy a kiss on her cheek. “You look breathtaking,” he whispered into her ear.

Poppy felt a shiver of delight run down her spine.

“Good to see you, old chap,” said Adam. “I was just going to get us all some drinks. Do you want anything?”

“Not while I’m working, thanks,” said Daniel as he changed the bulb on his flash. One of the guards stepped forward and questioned him. In reply Daniel produced his press card. The guard stepped back. Adam went to the bar.

“Do you need us to move?” asked Victor.

“Not at all, Mr Marconi. I’ve already taken pictures of the exhibits – before the doors opened. I want some shots of people viewing them now. I’ve managed to get a great one of the sister empresses in front of that Da Vinci. But,” said Daniel with a wink at Poppy, “they are merely a warm-up act for the delectable Miss Dorothy Denby.”

Aunt Dot threw up her hands in delight, then primped her hair and pouted her lips. “Ah, Mr Rokeby, I thought you’d never ask. Miss King, could you pass my compact, please? I do not intend to be outshone by an egg!”

Everyone laughed as Aunt Dot’s companion dutifully passed her employer a mother-of-pearl make-up compact. But before Aunt Dot could start applying the powder the lights went out. A collective groan filled the room – just another in a series of repeated outages the guests had suffered throughout the autumn – followed by a litany of complaints about the London Power Company needing to get its act together. Then a momentary, deafening silence drowned by screams as a gunshot, and then another, echoed in the darkness.