Chapter 17

The man who once owned a bearskin coat stepped out of the lift and onto the landing outside his Kensington penthouse flat. He scratched around in his new sheepskin coat pocket and found the key to the rented accommodation. He opened the door and immediately checked to see if the cigarette paper he had left in the lintel was still there. It was. Good, no unwelcome visitors. Unless of course they had come in through the balcony door … He flicked the secret catch on his cane and released the rapier, holding it like a French fencer as he approached the sliding glass doors. Seeing that neither the blinds nor the windows had been disturbed, he lowered the razor-sharp blade, sheathed his rapier and placed it with his hat and coat on the stand near the door. Then he poured himself a large whisky.

Whisky in hand, he went into his bedroom, kicked off his Italian leather shoes and slipped on a pair of slippers, then plucked a red satin smoking jacket from a hanger behind the door. The man was looking forward to a night in. He had been working non-stop in the run-up to the exhibition, the exhibition itself and then in the aftermath, trying to get the egg to his fence. He had tried again tonight, but once more Oscar’s was filled with people who might recognise him. Perhaps he would go in the morning, before his day job; he wasn’t due in until around eleven, so that should give him plenty of time. The man was starting to get very anxious. It did not usually take this long to pass on merchandise. The longer he had it on his person, the greater his chance of getting caught. And now this business with Princess Selena. Good grief. Why couldn’t that woman keep her nose out of other people’s business? Even in death she was causing trouble. Or at least Poppy Denby was. Just his luck that the reporter was the one to find the body. That girl would never stop digging until the truth was out. Hopefully he’d be gone before it got to that. Hopefully …

He ignited a gas wall-heater, took a cigarette from an ivory and onyx cigarette box, bent down and lit it from the blue flame. Sucking the nicotine into his lungs, he started to relax. The clock on the mantelpiece struck nine. Yes, a night in would do him the world of good. He ran a finger down a pile of gramophone records, stopping at a Tchaikovsky – no, he’d had his fill of Russians. How about some Brahms? Or – ah – yes, some Gershwin. Something New World. He opened the leather folder, took out the disc and placed it on the turntable. Then he wound up the lever, lowered the arm and smiled as the crackle and hiss turned into a melody.

He topped up his whisky, then lay out full stretch on his leather sofa, sucking on his cigarette until his heart rate steadied and the stresses of the last few days ebbed away. But then a knock at the door jarred him back to his former state.

“Who is it?” he called. No answer. Another knock.

Sighing, he sat up, swung down his legs, perched his cigarette on a black marble ashtray and shuffled towards the door. He made sure his left hand was in easy reach of his cane, put the security chain on the latch and then opened the door.

A beautiful, dark-haired elf stood outside, her eyes wide with fear.

“Delilah? What is it?” He immediately unhooked the chain and opened the door.

She threw herself at him, sobbing.

July 1918, Yekaterinburg, Russia

Nana Ruthie scaled the wall around the Ipatiev compound and forced her way through the brambles and ivy, not caring that thorns tore her flesh and ripped at her clothes. She was greeted by a yapping dachshund and a sleepy child. She wasted no time gathering their meagre belongings and hurrying them in the direction of the railway yard, not forgetting to retrieve the key from under the rock where she had hidden it. But as she stood up, brushing the Ural dust from her knees, Fritzie started barking and pulling on his lead. Little Anya struggled to hold him, and he broke free, running along the wall, following a scent or sound only he could detect. Anya ran after him. Nana Ruthie called out for her to stop, but the child did not obey.

Cursing in English and Russian, Nana Ruthie ran after her. They scampered around the corner of the wall and then through a hole in the masonry that Nana had not seen before. Oh dear God, they were going into the Ipatiev grounds where – if Nana was not mistaken – the Russian royal family had just been murdered.

“Anya!” Nana screamed.

“I’m getting Fritzie,” Anya yelled back. “I won’t be long.”

Nana clawed at the stone and mortar, trying to make the hole big enough so she too could crawl through. “Come back now!”

But the only answer was a scream from Anya and furious barking from Fritzie – which was silenced with a thud and a yelp. “Fritzie!” screamed Anya.

Nana sat on her backside, lifted both legs, and kicked at the loose brickwork with her hobnail boots. Pain shot through both her ankles and knees, but she kept on kicking.

“Don’t worry, Miss Broadwood. I’ve got them.”

Nana stopped kicking and looked up to where she heard a male voice speaking in English. It was the man Selena had called Nogovski. He was perched on the wall, looking down.

“Tell her you’re safe, Anya.” The man spoke to the child in Russian.

“I – I’m safe, Nana, but Fritzie –”

“Fritzie will be fine, my little poppet, as long as you do what you’re told.”

Nana could not see Anya through the hole, but she didn’t sound as if she were far.

“It’s all right, Anya, I’m here. Don’t be scared. Everything will be all right.” Nana tried to keep her voice calm.

“Indeed it will,” said Nogovski, his voice light and playful. “As long as your Nana gives me her key. Now, Miss Broadwood, don’t waste our time by telling me you don’t have it. What good fortune that little Anya should stumble across my path! I knew her father well. She has his eyes, you know. And I can’t believe she still has that little dog! Now, Miss Broadwood,” he continued in English, “I think it would be best if you came through the front gate – it’s much more decorous for a lady of your age. Anya and I will meet you there. Come, poppet! And yes, you too, Fritzie!”

Monday 22 October 1920, London

Poppy was glad to be heading home. After her meeting with Rollo she had typed up the lead for the following morning, filed it with the editor and left him to choose a front page pic from Daniel’s photos. Daniel was at a parents’ evening at his eldest child’s school.

It was 9.30 p.m. when Poppy got off the bus at the top of King’s Road and walked to her aunt’s house at 137, opposite the Electric Cinema. A crowd was gathered outside the cinema, including some police cars. Poppy wondered which moving picture star was making an appearance tonight. But as she got closer, she realised the crowd was not outside the cinema but her house. And on the pavement, wrapped in a blanket, was Aunt Dot with her companion Miss King, who was pouring tea from a flask and offering it to her employer.

“Aunt Dot! What are you doing out here?” Poppy ran the last few feet and knelt down beside her paraplegic aunt.

“Oh Poppy! You wouldn’t believe it. But these – these – monsters arrived an hour ago and tossed us out!”

A line of Bobbies blocked the entrance to the townhouse and Poppy could see shadows moving behind the curtains of the three-storey building.

“We didn’t toss her out, miss,” said one of the Bobbies. “We asked her to vacate the premises so the forensic lads could do their job.”

“The forensic lads?” queried Poppy.

“They’re searching Selena’s bedroom. And the rest of the house. What they expect to find, I have no idea!”

“Fingerprints, gunshot residue, Fabergé eggs …” offered Miss King.

“Surely if there had been a Fabergé egg in my house I would have seen it. Besides, it has already been stolen from Selena. Don’t the police read the papers?” She glared at the Bobby who had spoken, daring him to contradict her. His unfashionable handlebar moustache twitched, but he didn’t speak.

Poppy sighed. “Excuse me, constable. My name is Poppy Denby. This is my aunt, and I also live in this house. I have had a long day at work and I would like to go inside and have my supper.”

“I know who you are, miss. You’re the press, and you’re not allowed in.”

“But it’s my house!”

“Actually, darling, it’s my house, but they don’t care about that either.”

Poppy took her aunt’s hand and squeezed it – it was freezing. Poppy saw red. “Now listen here. I demand to speak to DCI Martin immediately. My aunt – sorry, Aunt Dot – is not a well woman and it will not look good for the police if tomorrow’s morning paper reports that an invalid was left to freeze to death on the street while the police stood by and did nothing.”

“She has a blanket. She has tea. She –”

The door behind the three Bobbies opened and Detective Chief Inspector Jasper Martin and a team of men carrying briefcases and bags – the forensic lads, Poppy assumed – filed out of number 137.

“DCI Martin!”

Martin held up his hand. “Not now, Miss Denby. Anything I have to say to the press will be to your editor, not to you. And that will be at an official briefing, at my convenience, not his.”

Then he stopped in front of Aunt Dot and Miss King. “I apologise, Miss Denby, Miss King, for the inconvenience. You may go back in now.”

“Did you find anything?” asked Miss King.

“That has still to be determined,” said Martin, and he led his team to the nearest Black Mariah and climbed in. After the police had pulled away, the crowd began to disperse, until only Poppy, Aunt Dot and Miss King remained.

“Well, we’d better get in then,” said Poppy.

“Actually, darling, could you do me a huge favour?”

“Of course, Aunt Dot.”

“Can you go and check on Delilah?”

“I can telephone her. Why?”

Miss King cleared her throat and busied herself screwing the lid back on the flask.

Aunt Dot twirled a curl of hair around her finger. “Er, no you can’t. You see, I’m in a bit of a fix with that. Since Grace left I’ve had some trouble keeping up with paying all the bills – who knew there were so many? – and our telephone’s been – it’s been –”

“It’s been cut off,” said Miss King, packing the flask into a basket hanging from the back of Aunt Dot’s wheelchair.

“Ah, I see. Why didn’t you say something before? I could have done that for you,” said Poppy.

“I didn’t know! But look, can we sort that tomorrow? I’m worried about Delilah.”

Poppy felt a cold chill seep through her red mackintosh. “Why? What’s happened to her?”

Aunt Dot squeezed Poppy’s hand. “Oh nothing! Nothing like that. But these – these dreadful policemen – scared her, I think. She popped around here after coming from Oscar’s and saw us being tossed out. She objected, just like you did, but then that awful constable with the moustache – you know, you could hang twins from that thing – told her that they were there because a killer was on the loose and she should be thanking them, because she could be next.”

Poppy stifled a giggle.

“It’s not funny, darling. You might have taken it with a pinch of salt, but Delilah is like me, she’s got a fertile imagination – it’s what makes her such a good actress – and she, well –”

“She got spooked,” finished Miss King.

“Spooked?”

“Yes, that’s a good word for it, Gertrude, a very good word. She got spooked. She ran off. Can you pop down the road and see if she’s all right? It shouldn’t take more than half an hour …”

Poppy considered that in half an hour she could have had a light supper, a shower and be preparing for bed; but her aunt’s large blue eyes, filling with tears, won her over. As they always did. Poppy let out a sigh that sounded more like a groan. “All right, Aunt Dot. I’ll go. But can you rustle something up for me when I get back?”

“I will,” said Miss King and then pushed her employer up the ramp and back into her ransacked home.