“Well done, Danny Boy!” Rollo clutched the blurred photograph like a child with a present on Christmas Day. “Do you think The Courier or The Times got anything?”
Daniel was equally excited, but far more worn out than the hyperactive American. He yawned. “I don’t think so. There was only one flash – mine.”
“And I heard Lionel and his photographer having a tiff.”
Daniel, Rollo and Ike turned to look at Poppy, still in her blood stained evening gown. She was just finishing her fourth cup of coffee of the morning.
“What about?” asked Rollo.
Poppy downed the rest of the coffee and winced at the bitter dregs. She put down her cup, stretched her neck to left and right, then answered her editor. “Lionel spent most of his time propping up the bar instead of interviewing guests. The camera chappie was having kittens. I heard him tell Lionel that if he wasn’t going to bother doing his job properly, why should he? And then he stormed off. Left Lionel with a face like a slapped kipper.”
The journalists chuckled. Lionel Saunders used to work at The Globe but had left in disgrace. Since getting hired by The Globe’s rival, he had gone out of his way to undermine every story Poppy worked on.
“Looks like you’ve scooped him on this one, Poppy,” said Ike.
“Perhaps,” said Poppy thoughtfully, “or perhaps not. He’s not a complete fool. He was talking to the barman from Oscar’s… and like I said, I think there might be something going on there with him and the fellas from the Russian embassy. What if Lionel’s thinking the same thing?”
“Talk to Oscar and see what you can get out of him, Poppy, and I’ll talk to the barman,” ordered Rollo, then he pinned the photograph to the flat-plan on the board. “Pity it’s so blurred. Won’t print well, but it’s too big a scoop to leave out…”
“Why don’t we crop it to a close-up on the arm – then use it as an inset on a bigger photograph?” suggested Daniel. “Such as –”
“Such as the catfight between the princesses! Brilliant, Danny Boy, brilliant! That way we imply that one of them might be the shooter.”
Poppy frowned. “Is that fair, Rollo? It might not have been either of them. They could sue for libel…”
“Pwah! Let them sue. They won’t win. Besides, Selena deserves it.” Rollo took the photograph of the two women fighting and pinned it to the board next to the “smoking gun” picture, with the drawing-pin right in the middle of Selena’s forehead.
“Now, now, Rollo; don’t do anything out of spite. That wouldn’t have anything to do with this, would it?” Daniel held up the photograph of Rollo being slapped by Selena.
Rollo went red in the face and cleared his throat.
“What’s that about?” asked Ike, trying not to laugh.
Rollo busied himself rearranging the pages on the board. “She offered me a kill fee.”
“For what?” asked Ike, Poppy and Daniel in unison.
“To not publish any interviews with the Yusopovs that claimed she intended to keep the Fabergé egg for herself.”
Poppy was puzzled – and a little bit shaky. Too much coffee. She struggled to concentrate. “But we haven’t done an interview like that. Not yet, anyway… or have we?”
“She’s convinced we have.”
“Maybe it was Lionel.”
“Maybe, but she’s convinced we’ve got one ready to go to press.”
“How much did she offer you?” asked Ike.
“Not enough,” said Rollo, picking up his cup and examining it with disappointment. “Who’s for more coffee?”
Poppy and Daniel declined. Ike poured a cup for himself and Rollo from a pot simmering on a little primus stove in a small kitchenette off the newsroom.
“Is that why she slapped you?” asked Daniel, stifling a yawn. “For turning her down?”
“No, she slapped me because I told her I expected more class from a Romanov dame, and –” Rollo grinned “– I asked her for more money.”
“You what?” asked Poppy, more rudely than she’d intended. Nonetheless she was shocked that the editor had even considered burying a story. Did he really need money that badly? At the expense of the paper’s reputation? At the expense of the reputation of every journalist who worked there?
Rollo seemed to read her mind. His bushy red eyebrows came together in disapproval. “Keep your judgments to yourself, Miz Denby. The day you take over the day-to-day running of this paper – dealing with advertisers and creditors and paying thankless reporters’ salaries – is the day you can have opinions on such things.”
Poppy lowered her eyes. She had spoken out of turn. She would not have done it if she hadn’t been so tired. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, and doodled with her pencil on her notepad.
Daniel reached for her hand and squeezed it, then stared daggers at Rollo. “Steady on, old man, the girl’s entitled to her opinion.”
Rollo sighed. “Yes, she is. I’m sorry. I think we all need to get some sleep.” He caught Poppy’s eye and smiled.
She smiled back, but was still a little hurt.
“However…” said Rollo, “no sleep until we figure out what to do next.”
It was midday before Poppy left the office. While Rollo split his time between the print room and the newsroom, Ike, Poppy and Daniel discussed the story so far. The evidence seemed to suggest that a woman had shot the guard and stolen the egg. But which woman? There had been plenty at the exhibition. Irina Alexandrovna Yusopov was a front runner. She had publicly accused Selena of stealing the egg from the family and had every motivation for trying to get it back. On the other hand, what if Selena had stolen it – to keep it for herself? But why would Selena steal something that was already in her possession? And as she said herself, why wasn’t it on her person? Or the gun for that matter? The same went for Irina who, when searched – with much protestation – was clean. Of course, the possibility existed that someone else was behind the theft – possibly the Red Russians – and that they had used a woman, someone as yet unknown to The Globe staff, to do their dirty work. There were dozens of suspects – practically anyone who had attended the exhibition and had been able to slip away before the Household Cavalry moved in.
Poppy agreed that after she had caught a few hours’ sleep she would try to speak to Selena, who was a house guest of her aunt’s. Then, after that, she would try to speak to Oscar.
Ike was going to cover the Russian embassy, as well as get some comment from Marjorie Reynolds on behalf of the Home Office. Rollo would try to use his connection with Yasmin Reece-Lansdale to arrange a meeting with the Yusopovs. After that he would go for a drink at Oscar’s and see if he could track down the barman. He also had a meeting set up first thing Monday morning with Scotland Yard.
It was agreed that Daniel had done more than his fair share and could go home to his children. Poppy kissed him on the cheek before he climbed on his motorbike.
“We’ll have to rearrange meeting the family.”
He looked at her, his eyes tired. “Not too long, though, Poppy; not too long.”
Indeed, not too long, thought Poppy as she put on her fox-fur stole and stepped onto Fleet Street. She didn’t have the energy to get the bus, so she decided to splash out on a cab. But as she was waiting for one to arrive, she saw a familiar figure on the opposite side of the road – the archivist Ivan Molanov, who looked as if he was going into Temple Church. Poor Ivan. For the same reason he had not attended the exhibition last night, he could not bear to be around people who reminded him of his family. The Russian Orthodox Church in Kensington was one such place. The well-meaning folk there would shower him with sympathy. Poppy knew that he sometimes slipped into Temple Church to worship – anonymously – and to light a candle for his loved ones.
Just before Ivan turned down the alley to the right of the Cock Tavern, leading to Temple Church, a man in a black trench coat and homburg hat intercepted him. Poppy caught a glimpse of a goatee beard. Could that be Vasili Safin? It was too far to see properly, but Ivan’s body language was defensive. The large man’s shoulders cowed as the goateed man spoke to him. They only conversed for a moment before Ivan turned down the alley and the man hailed a cab. As the black motor pulled up, the man glanced across the road and caught Poppy looking at him. Poppy stared back. Yes, it definitely looked like Vasili Safin. Perhaps she could get a comment from him for Ike’s article… But before she could manoeuvre her way across the road he had climbed in the taxi and was driven away.
Poppy woke at seven o’clock that evening. She could hear the tinkle of cutlery being put out in the dining room below her. Was it supper time already? When she’d got home she had gone up the stairs without speaking to anyone and literally collapsed onto her bed and fallen asleep almost immediately. If it wasn’t for her grumbling tummy – and the fact that she was beginning to smell like a navvy – she would have turned over and gone back to sleep. Oh, and the fact that she still had work to do. Poppy groaned and threw back the eiderdown. From the recesses of her mind she recalled Rollo asking her to interview Selena – and then Oscar, if she could. She really didn’t have the energy for it, but she knew that Rollo meant tonight, not tomorrow, and that he would not be sleeping until he’d sent Monday morning’s paper to press.
She showered as quickly as she could and put on a clean dress before going down to the dining room. Aunt Dot and Miss King were still at the table. Selena was absent and it didn’t look as if a place had even been set for her.
“Poppy darling! What are you doing up? I was convinced you would sleep through to morning. Gertrude here –” she indicated Miss King – “brought a tray up to you around four o’clock, but she said you were sleeping like the dead.”
Poppy sat down and reached for the tureen in the middle of the table. She lifted the lid – mmm, lamb casserole. She started ladling some of it onto a plate. “I would have,” she explained, “but I still have work to do. Rollo wants me to interview Selena.”
Miss King made a funny noise like a cat sneezing.
“Good luck to you!” said Aunt Dot, and produced the four-page Sunday edition of The Globe from under a napkin. “Fabulous article, by the way, darling, but Selena literally fainted – and I mean literally, don’t I, Gertrude –” Miss King nodded “– when she saw the front page. I on the other hand have never laughed so much in my life.”
Aunt Dot held up the picture of Selena and Irina clawing at each other like prize peacocks, with the headline: Russian royals in hen fight over stolen egg. “Classic Rollo! But Selena was not amused.” Aunt Dot folded the paper and picked up her knife and fork. “How’s the casserole, darling?”
Poppy, who was almost finished with her first plate and contemplating her second, had a mouthful of food but nodded enthusiastically. She swallowed carefully and then said: “So Selena won’t talk to me, you think.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t take it personally, darling; it’s just your association with The Globe. It’s not you, per se, it’s –”
“You think a woman did it.” It was Miss King. Her voice was as thin and brittle as the autumn leaves scattered on the townhouse lawn. “The picture’s not that clear…”
“It’s clear enough,” said Aunt Dot and put on her pince nez, which hung on a gold chain around her neck. She unfolded the paper again and scrutinized the inset photograph. “Yes indeed, it’s clear enough. It’s a woman holding a gun. No gloves, no jewellery that I can see –”
“No jewellery?” Poppy grabbed the paper from her aunt with a hasty apology and looked at the blurred photograph. Aunt Dot was right: there didn’t appear to be any rings on the fingers or bracelets on the wrist. She looked again at the Selena and Irina picture and squinted to see their hands. But the angle it was taken from did not show what she needed to see. She would ask Daniel in the morning if he could go through his film again to see if there was a better shot of the women – or other women – that showed their hands.
“Well done, Aunt Dot. You might have given us a lead.” Aunt Dot flushed. “Really? How exciting!”
“You would have thought the police would have dusted us all for gunpowder residue.” Miss King again. Aunt Dot and Poppy looked at her with a new-found respect. They waited for her to say more, but she didn’t.
“They didn’t do anything like that, did they?” said Aunt Dot. “Very suspicious…”
“Maybe they didn’t see the need,” said Poppy. “Maybe DCI Martin had come to the conclusion that the shooter must already have left. They did search us all for the gun and the egg, and no one found anything. So, ergo, the culprit had already escaped.”
“Then it wasn’t Selena or Irina.” Dot sounded almost disappointed.
“I’m not saying that,” said Poppy. “Only that that’s what the police might have thought.”
Miss King and Aunt Dot looked at each other and nodded. Then they all tucked into their casserole.