Poppy walked home up Fulham Road. She felt light-headed from hunger and needed to get some supper. Yasmin Reece-Lansdale’s sandwiches seemed a long time ago. However, Marjorie Reynolds lived on Fulham Road and Poppy decided to see if she was home. She could always beg a biscuit. Marjorie lived in a well-to-do four-storey townhouse complete with butler, live-in maid and cook. The butler answered the door and informed her that Mrs Reynolds was not yet home. The elderly man looked tired and more than a bit worried, failing to hide it behind his mask of servitude.
“Don’t worry, Mr Samuels. I’m sure everything will work out fine.”
The servant allowed himself the hint of a smile. “I do hope so, Miss Denby. Mr Oscar has got himself into quite a fix. He’s too old to be worrying his mother like this.” Poppy remembered her aunt telling her that Samuels had been with the Reynolds family since before Oscar was born.
“I’ll be praying,” said Poppy.
The old man thanked her. “Is there anything I can help you with, Miss Denby? You look tired.”
A ham sandwich, a cup of tea and some divine inspiration to sort out this muddle, thought Poppy. But instead she answered: “If you could just ask Mrs Reynolds to give me a ring when she gets in, I’d appreciate it. On second thoughts,” she looked at her watch, “I’ll only be home for about the next half an hour…”
Samuels raised an eyebrow at the suggestion that a young lady like Poppy would still be out so late at night.
“So better she call Rollo Rolandson at The Globe. He’ll be doing an all-nighter. We very much need to speak with her.”
“I will do, Miss Denby. Would you like me to walk you home?”
Poppy smiled at his kindness. “No, thank you, Mr Samuels. It’s just around the corner and there are plenty of people out. Living just opposite a cinema has its advantages.”
Mr Samuels didn’t look fully convinced, but he let her go, and shut the door.
Five minutes later, Poppy was putting her key into her aunt’s front door. It was just after ten o’clock and across the road the evening picture show had just finished. Men and women – dressed to the nines in fur coats and top hats – spilled onto the pavement, comparing notes about the performances of John Barrymore and Martha Mansfield in the apparently terrifying Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. She and Daniel were planning on going to see it next week. She had received review tickets, but they had clashed with a gallery opening in Piccadilly, so Ike Garfield had taken the tickets and written the review on her behalf. Good old dependable Ike; he was a real asset to the paper. Him and Daniel… Her heart lurched as she thought of the press photographer. She had cooled down since their fall-out and all she wanted to do now was fall into his arms and say she was sorry. But was she sorry? Hadn’t she had a right to object to his controlling attitude? She felt irritation stir again, but she quenched it. There would be time to think about that later. For now, she only had one thing on her mind, and that was food.
She let herself into the hall and called up the stairs that she was home. Aunt Dot’s wheelchair was at the bottom, so Poppy assumed Miss King had helped her aunt into the stair lift to get her ready for bed.
“Poppy, is that you, darling?” called her aunt.
“It is, Aunt Dot. But I’m not staying. I’m still working on a story. Just need to get some supper first though.”
“Oh bother!” called her aunt. “I was hoping for a good chinwag before bedtime. There’s so much going on.”
“I know, Aunt Dot. I’ll tell you as much as I can at breakfast. I’ll pop in and say goodnight before I go though.”
“All right then, darling. See you in a jiff.”
Poppy smiled at her aunt’s remarkably tolerant attitude to her comings and goings. Her parents would have a cadenza if they knew. But Aunt Dot had encouraged Poppy to get a job as a journalist and was supportive of everything she did. Which was just as well, because on the arts and entertainment beat it wasn’t unusual for Poppy to shuffle in after midnight. If Aunt Dot weren’t so laissez-faire Poppy would have had to consider getting a place of her own. Or taking a room with Delilah. That reminded her – she needed to pop up to her room to get Delilah’s spare key. Poppy kept it in her dresser drawer. But first, supper…
Fifteen minutes later, Poppy had polished off a slice of Melton Mowbray pie, a jacket potato and a pile of limp green leaves, cucumber and chopped tomato that the cook charmingly referred to as salad. The cook was a temporary stand-in. Aunt Dot’s faithful companion Grace Wilson – who was now serving time in Holloway – had been nursemaid, cook and friend. Miss King, on the other hand, drew her boundaries far more clearly. She would aid Aunt Dot with her personal ablutions, cater to her medicinal needs and provide social companionship, but cooking, cleaning and, well, anything else was not in her remit. So Aunt Dot had had to hire a cook and a cleaner, despite her semi-socialist views. Poppy was not fussy. Limp salad and cold pork pie filled the gap, washed down by a hot cup of tea.
Feeling satisfied, Poppy popped up to her third-floor bedroom to change, bypassing Aunt Dot’s second-floor room where she could hear the older woman chattering away to Miss King. She’d drop in on the way back down. Poppy looked at herself in the full-length mirror and saw that her turquoise outfit was looking rather worse for wear. Not surprising after all she’d been through today. So she opened her wardrobe to look for a change of clothes. She reached for her poppy red dress, but then changed her mind. It was twenty past ten and she was not going out on the tiles. Instead she took a grey skirt and dark blue jersey top off the hanger and slipped into some sensible shoes. She scratched around in her drawer and found Delilah’s key, which she dropped into her skirt pocket. She just needed to go to the bathroom and she was ready.
A few minutes later she stepped onto the landing. She noticed that the door to the guest bedroom – recently occupied by Selena – was slightly ajar. She pushed it open and went in. She did not have much time, as she really needed to get to Delilah’s flat, but she’d have a quick look. She flicked the light switch and was not surprised to see that the room was topsyturvy. The police had done a good job of pulling everything out and leaving it where it shouldn’t be. Selena had a surprising number of belongings for a woman who had allegedly fled a war zone with only the clothes on her back. Poppy had read reports of the warship HMS Marlborough that had been sent to Yalta to evacuate the empress and her entourage. Apparently it had taken the captain two days to load the refugees – with all the luggage they had managed to bring from their Black Sea holiday villas, where many of them had been in exile. One or two of them arrived with just a suitcase each, but most of them had trunks and hampers filled with household goods. And of course the famed Rembrandts, Fabergé eggs and other works of art that had been made public at the weekend’s exhibition. Some of the crew of the Marlborough had allegedly been given gifts of priceless Russian artefacts to keep them sweet. The captain eventually had to call time on all the luggage, as the Red Russian army was literally at the gates of the city and starting to shell the harbour.
Poppy began to pick through all that was left of Selena’s worldly goods: a nightdress here, a camisole there and a box of cosmetics. At the bottom of the make-up box Poppy spotted the corner of what looked like a photograph. She extracted it with thumb and forefinger and realized it was two photographs that had been glued together. On one side was a picture of a baby in Victorian-era clothing. The child – Poppy could not tell if it was a boy or a girl – was propped up against a pile of cushions and looked as if it was just about to drop off to sleep.
The second photograph nearly took Poppy’s breath away. It was a more recent snap (if the quality of the image and card was anything to go by) and on it was a picture of an elderly woman dressed in Russian peasant garb and a young girl of about seven or eight. The girl too was dressed as a peasant; but Poppy recognized them both from pictures she had seen earlier today: Ruth Broadwood and Anya Andreiovich. In the right-hand corner of the photograph was scrawled “Yekat’brg 1918”. Poppy had no idea where or what Yekat’brg was, but it appeared that she finally had proof positive that Anya Andreiovich had survived the Moscow massacre and was still alive up to, at least, two years ago. She needed to speak to Marjorie and Rollo and –
“What do you have there?” Miss King was standing in the doorway. Poppy’s instinct was to hide the photographs, but she realized it would look silly to do so. Miss King had already seen that she had something in her hands.
“Some photographs of Selena’s.”
“Oh,” said Miss King. “I was going to tidy this lot up tomorrow. Your aunt has invited the Yusopovs to dinner and we’re going to ask them to collect Selena’s things. They’re her nearest relatives – at least the nearest that are in London – and your aunt thinks they should have them. May I see?”
Miss King reached out her hand and Poppy had no good reason not to give them to her. The older woman looked first at the baby and commented “circa 1885 by the bromide”, once again surprising Poppy with her forensic knowledge. Then she turned over the picture and gasped, her free hand going to her throat. It was the most emotion Poppy had ever seen her aunt’s companion emit. “Ruthie!” declared Miss King and turned towards the door.
“Wait! I need the pictures!”
“I’m sorry, Poppy, but these are now the property of His Majesty’s government.”
“They’re what?”
“I have to hand these in. You probably don’t know, but the woman in this picture has been missing for three years. She works for the government, and –”
“Ruth Broadwood. I know. She was spying for us at the Russian court.”
Complete shock registered on Miss King’s face. “However do you know that? It’s top secret.”
Poppy reached out her hand and took hold of the photograph. Miss King continued to hold her side.
“If it’s top secret, Miss King, how do you know? I know you were friends with Ruth when you both worked at Downing Street, but how do you know about this?”
“And how do you know about Downing Street?”
“Marjorie Reynolds told me.”
“Marjorie… oh.” Miss King sank onto the bed. Poppy, now with the photograph in hand, could easily have left, but she was intrigued by Miss King’s past and wanted to know more. She sat on the bed beside the older woman.
“You weren’t just a nanny for the Chancellor, were you? Were you trained as a spy too.”
Miss King had begun to recover herself. She straightened her shoulders and adopted her familiar deadpan look. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Poppy. But let’s just say that my appointment here wasn’t an accident. Your aunt is very well connected in all sorts of circles.”
Poppy was incredulous. “You’re here to spy on Aunt Dot and her friends?”
“Not spy, no. But Marjorie Reynolds thought it might be prudent to have someone in the house to keep an eye on things. For your aunt’s protection.”
“Marjorie what?” Poppy’s voice rose in outrage.
“Gertrude! Poppy! Are you coming down?”
Poppy walked to the door, still holding the photograph. “I’m not going to tell Aunt Dot about this now – I’ve got too much else to do this evening – but I think when things quieten down, you, Aunt Dot and I need to have a little talk.”
Miss King nodded. “Fair enough. But please, promise me one thing: get that photograph to Marjorie Reynolds. If there’s a chance Ruth could still be alive…”
Poppy agreed that she would, then scampered down the stairs to see her aunt. She made the visit as quick as she could, careful not to be drawn into Aunt Dot’s efforts to have a “little chat”, then headed downstairs to the hall. She put on a slate grey mackintosh and hat, and put the double-sided photograph into her satchel, which she swung over her shoulder. She glanced at her watch – a quarter to eleven – then looked at the telephone in the hall. I’d better give Rollo a quick call, she thought. Checking no one was standing listening at the top of the stairs, she called Rollo’s number at The Globe. He answered after a couple of rings.
“Rolandson.”
“Rollo, it’s Poppy.”
“Speak up, Miz Denby. I can hardly hear you.”
“I can’t,” Poppy mumbled into the phone.
“What’s wrong, Poppy? Are you all right?”
“I am, but I can’t talk. I’m at my aunt’s and walls have ears.”
“Can you tell me what you are doing next?”
“I’d prefer not to. Not here. Do you remember who came to the office today to ask for help? Before you, Daniel and I went to Oscar’s?”
Rollo sighed. “I hope there’s a good reason for all this subterfuge, Miz Denby. Are you referring to Delilah Marconi?”
“I am. Can you meet me at that person’s flat in half an hour?”
“I can,” Rollo sounded annoyed. “But this had better be damned well worth it.”
“Thank you.” She was just about to say goodbye when she decided to ask one more thing. She doubted Miss King would think anything of it if she was eavesdropping. “Has Daniel called?”
“No, he hasn’t,” said Rollo. “But Marjorie has. And I’ve spoken to Ivan. I’ve got a lot to tell you too. I’ll see you in half an hour. Goodbye.” He hung up the phone.