King’s Road, Chelsea, was a hard place to get parked at night. At the top, opposite where Poppy and Aunt Dot lived, stood the Electric Cinema Theatre, which was currently showing Pollyanna, starring Mary Pickford; and at the bottom, two blocks from Delilah’s flat, was the hottest club in town: Oscar’s Jazz Club, which was showcasing the Original Dixieland Jazz Band on their London tour.
Poppy usually dropped by Delilah’s flat on the way to the club, but this evening, due to the near-forgotten dinner party, she had rung her friend to tell her she would meet her inside – which was taking quite a while, as the queue for the club stretched halfway around the block. Delilah, a personal friend of the owner, Oscar Reynolds (son of Marjorie, whom Poppy had just dined with), always managed to jump the queue; but Poppy did not have the gumption to do so on her own. So it was nearly ten by the time Poppy got through the double brass doors.
She took a moment to soak in the warmth of the place and rub some life back into her freezing hands.
“Poppy! Let me take your coat. Surely you didn’t stand in the queue, did you?”
It was Oscar, the host, in white tie and tails and wearing a gold monocle on one eye. Poppy passed him her black fur-trim overcoat, but kept her boa – partly to keep her warm, and partly to cover the alarmingly low plunging neckline that hadn’t seemed quite as low when she tried it on in the shop.
“I did, Oscar; it was no trouble.”
“But it’s freezing outside!”
Poppy couldn’t argue with that.
“Well, don’t do it again. You know I consider you one of my best guests and I can’t have you dying of hypothermia, now, can I? Your aunt would never forgive me. Or Mrs Wilson. How is she, by the way?”
“I haven’t seen her for a few months, but Aunt Dot says she’s well enough.”
“As well as one could be in prison, I assume.” Oscar shuddered. “Terrible business. Who would have thought she hid such secrets? Your aunt is a saint to forgive her.”
“She and Grace are devoted to one another. And she did what she did out of misplaced loyalty.” Poppy didn’t want to talk about her aunt’s incarcerated companion any more. Unlike Aunt Dot, she wasn’t quite as forgiving of the former suffragette. Grace’s actions had hurt a lot of people, not least Delilah. So she changed the subject. “Your mother’s looking well. I just saw her at dinner.”
“One of your aunt’s soirees! Who else was there?”
Poppy went on to list the guests of the dinner party and, knowing Oscar delighted in vicarious gossip, told how George Bernard Shaw had just insulted the tsar of Russia’s cousin. True to form, he was titillated, but pretended to be outraged. “Poor Selena! I was hoping she’d drop by tonight – she’s quite a draw card – but apparently she won’t be seen dead in the same room as …”
Oscar’s words were drowned by a hubbub at the door. Two doormen stood shoulder to shoulder, trying to prevent the entrance of someone. Oscar immediately went over to help. Poppy decided to leave them to it and go into the club. As she did, she caught a glimpse of a dark-haired man in black suit and overcoat: Comrade Andrei Nogovski, the security consultant from the Russian embassy. Oscar and the two doormen blocked his entrance.
“He jumped the queue, governor!” explained one of the doormen.
Nogovski, struggling to contain his temper, reached into his coat pocket and retrieved some papers. He showed them to Oscar and whispered quietly to him. Oscar stood bolt upright and stepped back, ushering Nogovski in. The Russian shrugged off the restraining hand of one of the doormen and strode in, sweeping past Poppy and into the club. Oscar followed. Poppy caught his arm as he passed. “Is everything all right, Oscar?”
“Yes, yes, Poppy, don’t worry.” Then he cocked an ear and smiled, tuning in to the opening bars of a Dixieland ragtime number. “Ah, I see you’re just in time. Get in; it’ll be a showstopper!” He patted Poppy’s hand, then hurried after Nogovski, who was heading downstairs to the basement, which housed Oscar’s office and the club’s wine cellar.
Poppy made a mental note to follow up Nogovski’s visit with Oscar when he was less harassed. Whatever it was, it seemed official, and there might just be a story in it. She would mention it to Rollo and Ike Garfield in the morning.
For now, Poppy wanted nothing more than to relax and enjoy herself. She pushed open the swinging doors into the club proper to find two hundred people all turned towards the bandstand. As expected, the members of the Original Dixieland Jazz Band, all the way from New Orleans, lit up the stage; to Poppy’s surprise they were joined by an olive-skinned elfin beauty, the up-and-coming West End actress Delilah Marconi. Delilah, in a Japanese-inspired outfit with wide, kimono-style sleeves and Asian eye make-up, stood in front of the microphone. She began to sing “Swanee” in a throaty alto that wooed every man – and nearly every woman – in the room.
As she brought the song to a close, Delilah threw herself off the stage into the arms of four men, who carried her around the room like a bird in flight. Had she prearranged it, Poppy wondered, or just jumped and hoped for the best?
After a full circuit of the room the men put Delilah down. The moment her feet touched the floor she began to dance – and the men followed suit. She started by doing the Black Bottom, a freestyle solo dance, then took a partner and broke into the foxtrot. Poppy clapped with delight. Delilah had taught her the basics of the foxtrot in her flat, but Poppy had never seen it performed at full speed.
Suddenly, a man was beside her: Adam Lane, Delilah’s boyfriend. “Are you on your own, Poppy? No Daniel?”
“Unfortunately he’s working. Trying to get some snaps of Mary Pickford, I think.” And then, turning her attention to Delilah, “She’s marvellous, isn’t she?”
“She is indeed. I shall reclaim her in a moment. But until then, would you do me the honour?”
Poppy laughed. “You want to take a chance with my two left feet?”
“Oh, you’re not that bad,” he grinned, then swept her into his arms. “Just follow me!”
Poppy did her best not to stand on her partner’s toes, and eventually, after two or three “sorries”, she started to get the hang of it, and she and Adam were trotting around the room with the best of them. They intersected with Delilah and her partner; before she knew it, she and the young actress were swapped around and she found herself in the arms of another man, too exhilarated to notice who it was.
As the music came to an uproarious end she collapsed into the nearest chair.
Her partner stood over her and presented her boa, draped over his forearms. She took it with thanks, covering her cleavage as quickly as she could. The man laughed, and she noticed he was wearing heavy eye make-up, like a woman.
“Here you all are!” Delilah skipped over to the table and plopped into the chair next to Poppy, closely followed by Adam. Then she called out across the dance floor to the bar: “Champers!” The barman waved to her.
Poppy looked up at the man and smiled. “Thank you for the dance, but I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced, have we?”
“Felix Yusopov,” said the man with a bow and only the slightest hint of a Russian accent.
The name rang a bell, but Poppy could not quite place it. “Well, thank you for the dance, Mr Yusopov.”
“That’s Prince Yusopov,” said a beautiful, dark-haired woman with a French accent. The woman placed her hand on the prince’s forearm in such a way that Poppy could not help but notice an ostentatious wedding ring.
Suddenly realising who the couple were, Poppy stood up and reached out her hand to the woman, hoping to defuse the situation. “I’m Poppy Denby. And I assume you are Princess Irina.”
The woman nodded stiffly.
“Well, thank you for lending me your husband; although, as you could see, we were just swept along in the dance.”
The man patted his wife’s hand and smiled at Poppy. “Don’t worry, Miss Denby; Irina knows she can trust me. However, with such a beautiful woman as yourself, I might be tempted …”
His wife glared at him.
Poppy cringed inwardly. Was he deliberately trying to cause bad feeling between her and the princess?
“Oh Felix, do stop it!” said Delilah. “Will you and Irina join us for champagne?”
Felix looked as if he were about to sit when his wife whispered something in his ear. He looked across the room and visibly paled. “Thank you, Delilah, but I think Irina and I should get back to Kensington Palace. The empress, I believe, wants to see me.”
“Oh, the empress! Will she be at the exhibition on Saturday?”
“I believe she will,” said the prince, still casting nervous looks across the room.
Poppy followed his gaze and saw, just behind the bar – near where she knew there was a private staff staircase to the basement – the dark figure of Andrei Nogovski. Their eyes met and she felt the same discomfort she had earlier in the day at the embassy. She forced herself to pull away as the Yusopovs bid a hasty retreat towards the club doors.
“What’s put a bee in their bonnet?” asked Adam.
“Oh, who knows! More champagne for us.” Delilah giggled as a waiter arrived with a bottle and five glasses. “Do you know who that is, Poppy?”
“I do indeed,” she answered, nodding her thanks to Adam as he passed her a glass of bubbly.
“So what does it feel like to dance in the arms of an assassin?”
Adam nearly choked on his own champagne. “Whatever are you talking about, Delilah?”
“Don’t you keep up with the news, darling? Felix Yusopov is one of the murderers of that dreadful Rasputin.”
“Good heavens! Is that true, Poppy?”
“It is. Apparently he’s never disputed it.”
“Never,” confirmed Delilah. “Rather proud of it, in fact. Which is one of the reasons why his cousin, Princess Selena, can’t stand the sight of the man. Selena was very close to Tsarina Alexandra, and she was devastated when Rasputin died. At least that’s what she’s told my father …”
Poppy suddenly remembered what George Bernard Shaw had said earlier in the evening about Selena trying to catch Victor Marconi, and asked Delilah if it were true.
Delilah pouted. “Unfortunately, yes. She’s been practically throwing herself at him since she and the other Romanov refugees landed in Malta. The top dogs all stayed at the governor’s residence and the rest of them were put up in hotels. My father is still trying to figure out who to send the bill to.”
“Surely the richest royal family in the world has enough to pay their hotel bill?” commented Adam.
“You would think so,” Delilah agreed, “but they claim that everything was confiscated by the Bolsheviks.”
“Everything apart from an entire exhibition hall of jewels and paintings,” added Poppy.
“What are they hoping to achieve from the exhibition?” asked Adam.
“Well, there’s a hefty entrance fee. I think they’re trying to raise some cash.”
“To pay their hotel bill?”
“To fund their exile. However long that will be …” Poppy looked across at the bar and noticed Andrei Nogovski in close conversation with Oscar. The Russian had an interrogative air; Oscar looked cowed. Then Poppy noticed another man approach the bar and stand beside Nogovski, causing poor Oscar to quake even more. If she were not mistaken, it was Vasili Safin, the trade commissar and interim ambassador. Whatever was going on? Poppy made a mental note to look into it as soon as she could. She turned to her companions and said: “Perhaps it’s just to goad the Bolsheviks. They consider all the art the property of the Russian people.”
“But isn’t it privately owned by the Romanovs?”
“They’re nationalising everything. Don’t you know?”
“Well, I had heard …”
“Oh, do stop talking politics, you two. It’s deathly boring.
Come, let’s toast.” Adam and Poppy raised their glasses.
Delilah rolled her eyes melodramatically. “To dancing with assassins!”
Poppy and Adam laughed. “To dancing with assassins!”