Yasmin Reece-Lansdale’s chambers were as swish and exotic as Poppy had expected. They were greeted by a doorman wearing top hat and tails, who welcomed them into the foyer of one of the best addresses in Whitehall. The polished white marble floor and walls acted like a prism, bouncing the reflected light emanating from recessed alcoves. Poppy felt as if she were in an ice palace. But as they exited the lift into the suite of offices occupied by Yasmin and her legal partners, the globe spun from the Arctic north to the sultry Middle East. The walls were hung with silk tapestries made – Yasmin told her – during the classical period of the Ottoman Empire, and Poppy’s scuffed shoes sank into the plush pile of a Turkish carpet. Poppy thought she should be walking in stockinged feet, but as Yasmin didn’t, neither did she. Inside Yasmin’s chambers, the globe shifted ever so slightly again, to Egypt. Poppy knew that the renewed interest in the archaeological excavation of the pyramids was causing a fashion flurry in London – exemplified by Delilah’s apartment and wardrobe – but this was the real thing. Yasmin was half-Egyptian and the décor and objets d’art were all original, not a reimagining of an art deco designer.
Rollo flopped onto a divan uninvited, kicking off his shoes and tucking his short legs under him, but Poppy waited. Yasmin smiled at the younger woman, acknowledging the courtesy. She indicated a suitable seat and Poppy took it. Then she picked up her thoroughly British telephone and requested tea and sandwiches be sent in. It was nearly six o’clock, but clearly Yasmin’s assistants worked as late as she did.
While they were waiting for the tea to arrive Yasmin opened a cocktail cabinet – greeted by grunts of approval from Rollo – but shut it firmly after removing an ice bucket and a linen napkin. “Put that on your cheek, Poppy. You won’t be able to see out of that eye soon unless you get the swelling down.”
Poppy took it gratefully. She filled Rollo and Yasmin in on what had happened in the tunnel and outside the club as she pressed the cool, damp cloth to her face, then, as the tea arrived and was poured, listened to Rollo’s retelling of his stint in the slammer. As she had already gathered from Ike Garfield, Rollo had heard Oscar’s version of events that there was a third man in the cellar, but that he hadn’t seen who it was.
“If Oscar is to be let off, we need to find that man,” said Yasmin, adding a slice of lemon to her tea. Poppy, like a good northern lass, reached for the milk jug. “As he is now my client,” Yasmin added.
“Hold your horses,” Rollo interjected. “Oscar’s your client as well? Is there anyone in London who isn’t your client, Yazzie?”
Yasmin smiled at him indulgently. “No one who matters, sweetie, no.”
Behind her napkin, Poppy smiled at the repartee between the couple. They really were a good match for each other.
She put down the ice pack, her cheek sufficiently numbed, and sipped her tea. The cups were rimmed with gold leaf. She had no doubt that it was genuine.
“So,” continued Yasmin, “what were you trying to tell the police?”
Poppy put down her cup and reached for her satchel. She took out Adam Lane’s Jazz File and outlined her suspicions about the young actor – highlighting the fact that he had been in the same cities at the same time as the Fabergé eggs had been stolen.
She then went on to discuss Arthur Watts and the possibility that he was a fence. Rollo grunted at this, saying his sources had told him much the same thing. They all agreed that it was highly probable that Watts had been killed by someone hoping to get his – or her – hands on the stolen Fabergé egg.
Then she told Rollo and Yasmin the highlights of her conversation with Marjorie Reynolds that morning and the hypothesis that one of the eggs contained sensitive information that could negatively expose the royal family, and another egg, the key to open the first. Rollo’s ears pricked at “sensitive information” and Poppy could see him ruminating over the juicy gossip that it might contain.
Could Rollo be trusted not to splash the information all over the morning newspaper if it came into his hands? Probably not. And why should he not? She knew that his view – which she partially shared – was that the royals should not have any kind of special privilege when it came to reporting the truth. If they’d got something to hide, and The Daily Globe found it, why shouldn’t they expose it? But what if that information was as sensitive as Marjorie Reynolds had suggested and royal families could actually fall? The ripple effect might cause such social and political unrest that Europe could be thrust back into war. Poppy shuddered at the thought.
“Well, go on,” said Rollo, sitting up on his divan and leaning forward, eager to hear what else Poppy had discovered.
“How certain is Marjorie that that’s what’s in the eggs?” asked Yasmin.
Poppy shrugged. “I’m not sure. I doubt she shared with me everything the Home Office has on this, but I think her words were “we believe they contain”. So I think the probability is high that that’s what’s in them.”
“Or that’s what people think is in them and they are prepared to kill because of it,” offered Rollo. “In the end it doesn’t really matter. Wars have been started on less.”
Yasmin and Poppy nodded in agreement. Rollo’s ominous words echoed Poppy’s own thoughts on the matter. The eggs were dynamite.
“You’re representing the Russian royals on this, aren’t you?” asked Poppy.
Yasmin pursed her lips. “I’m giving them legal advice during the investigation into the exhibition theft, yes. But I’m afraid, Miss Denby, that I can’t divulge any information about what they’ve told me regarding the eggs, if that’s what you’re after.”
“Of course that’s what she’s after. That’s what we’re all after, Yazzie. Come on, toss us a bone. Do the Romanovs and the Yusopovs know what was in the eggs? Do they suspect that was the reason they were stolen? What do their spies say?”
“Mr Rolandson,” said Yasmin with mock chastisement. “This is a refugee family who fled a war zone with only the clothes on their backs!”
“Oh really?” said Rollo, turning to face his girlfriend. “So the rumours about rolled-up Rembrandts and jewels sewn into bodices are all false?”
“Scurrilous lies!”
“So you’ll be doing all this pro bono then?”
Yasmin scowled at him.
“Just as well Oscar and Marjorie Reynolds can afford a few bob. Your fee for keeping Oscar from the gallows might just keep you from the poor house too.”
Poppy chuckled, imagining the elegant solicitor in one of the city’s poor houses.
“Oh, that reminds me,” said Yasmin, opening her briefcase and taking out a sealed envelope. She passed it over the table to Poppy. “Marjorie asked me to give this to you earlier. She said it was the thing you’d asked her to do.”
Rollo craned his neck to have a look. “What’s that then, Miz Denby? Top secret files from the Secret Service?”
Poppy laughed. Her cheek didn’t hurt quite as much as it had earlier. “No. Just something I asked Marjorie to look into. It’s –” Poppy paused, stopping herself from blurting out exactly what it was. Perhaps it was best that she look at it privately first, before Rollo and Yasmin got the wrong end of the stick. Or the right one … and that was more worrying. “I asked her to look into something on my aunt’s behalf,” she lied lightly, hoping her bruised face would mask her deception. She slipped the envelope, unopened, into her satchel. Yasmin and Rollo didn’t look worried. Poppy breathed a sigh of relief. “So, how is Marjorie?” she asked, trying to steer the conversation away from the contents of the envelope once and for all.
Rollo grinned. “Spitting nails. She read the riot act to Martin about arresting Oscar.”
“Yes, she did,” agreed Yasmin, then frowned, her beautifully shaped eyebrows touching over the bridge of her Egyptian nose. “But she admitted to me that she realised Martin didn’t have a choice. Oscar was in the wrong place at the wrong time. And seeing that it’s his place, well …” she motioned with her manicured hands.
Poppy tucked her own short-nailed fingers, cracked and split due to hours of pounding her typewriter, into the palms of her hands. “Have they found the murder weapon yet?” she asked.
“No,” answered the solicitor.
“Then surely that’s the hole in their case.”
Yasmin smiled at the young reporter. “Have you ever thought of going into law, Miss Denby? Your mind works in very clever ways.”
“Back off, Yazzie; she’s mine,” growled Rollo. And they all laughed.
“Poppy’s right though. That’s exactly what I’m going to be using to get Oscar out. And as soon as we’re finished here I’ll be drawing up my deposition to a judge to accelerate Oscar’s bail hearing.” She sat up straight in her chair. “So, if you’ll forgive my directness, Poppy, can we hurry this up please? What else have you got for us?”
Poppy took out Nogovski’s file and opened it on the desk, the picture of him in Paris with Selena uppermost. “Comrade Andrei Nogovski. Seems like he used to be Selena’s bodyguard.” She pointed to the younger bearded man behind the princess.
“By Jove it is!” declared Rollo, picking up the photograph and examining it closely. “Amazing how a beard can change the look of a man.”
“And the feel,” purred Yasmin. Rollo chuckled. Poppy blushed.
“So you didn’t put this picture in the file?” observed Poppy. “It must have been Ike … or Ivan.” Poppy chewed her lip, sorting through the problem. “But why would he have …”
“Hello, Miz Denby!” snapped Rollo.
“Sorry. There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you but haven’t had a chance with all the recent drama. Ivan warned me to stay away from Nogovski. He told me he was a very dangerous man and that he’d known him back in Russia when he was a member of the tsar’s secret police. Ivan was a reformer,” she added for Yasmin’s benefit. “But Ivan being Ivan is not too forthcoming with information. I was wondering if you could have a chat with him, Rollo, to see what he knows. It might not be any more than is already in here, but there’s a chance …”
Rollo nodded. “Will do. He’s been more glum than usual – because of what he’s heard about his family – but I’ll take him out for a drink and see what I can get out of him. Do you mind if I give him a ring, Yazzie?”
Yasmin passed him the phone. He picked up the earpiece and spoke to the operator, asking for a number. The Russian answered. Poppy could hear his gruff voice across the room as he grumbled and groaned that he was too tired to go out. Rollo quipped that this was the first time he’d ever known a Russian to turn down a free drink. Ivan’s tone lightened as he asked whether Rollo was offering to buy them. Rollo said he was, but only if Ivan was man enough to take off his slippers and meet him at the Cock. This seemed to do the trick and they agreed to meet at Ye Olde Cock Tavern in an hour. Rollo put the phone back in its cradle and meshed his fingers behind his head. “Spiffing. Righto. Let’s wrap up here and I’ll give you a lift back to the office, Miz Denby.”
“Well, yes, I suppose I can tell you the rest in the motor …”
“Splendid!” said Rollo and slapped his thighs. He got up, went around the desk and kissed Yasmin on the cheek. “Later, toots!”
Yasmin gave a mocking scowl at the provocative, sexist slur and raised her eyebrows towards the door. Then she pulled out a legal pad and started making notes.
“Sorry, Miss Denby; time is of the essence if I’m going to get a hearing for Oscar tomorrow morning.”
“Of course,” said Poppy congenially, and started to gather her things. However, she hadn’t had a chance to discuss her suspicions about the connection between Andrei Nogovski and Adam Lane, and which of them might be the killer. Nor why she was trying to give this information to the police. Delilah! She needed to telephone Miss King to find out if she’d located the young actress, but Yasmin had already picked up the receiver and was asking for a number at the Old Bailey. Poppy closed her files and put them in her satchel. As she did, a sheet of paper slipped out and fluttered onto Yasmin’s desk. The solicitor’s eyes widened when she saw what was on it – the sketch of the sapphire and ruby necklace stolen from Selena in Paris in 1912.
Yasmin asked the operator to wait a moment and turned to Poppy: “Where did you get this?”
“It was in the Jazz Files,” said Poppy.
Yasmin took the paper. “Do you mind if I hang on to this?”
Rollo snatched it from her hand, folded it up and put it in his breast pocket. “I’m sure you’ve got enough to deal with this evening, toots.”
She glared at him, but then was distracted by a voice from the telephone. “Ah, yes, good evening. May I speak to Judge Denvers please … Yes, yes, I know it’s gone six o’clock, but …”
Rollo took Poppy’s elbow and steered her towards the door as Yasmin continued her conversation.
“What was all that about?” asked Poppy in the black cab on the way back to Fleet Street. Rollo checked to see that the glass division between the driver and the passenger compartment was firmly shut.
“Yazzie was very interested in that necklace. She’s obviously seen it before.”
“But how could she? It was stolen eight years ago.”
“Exactly, Miz Denby, exactly. But I’ve known Yasmin Reece-Lansdale long enough to read her expression.”
“Why didn’t you just ask her about it?”
“She was on the telephone. And besides, even if she wasn’t, she wouldn’t have told me. Not if it had something to do with one of her clients. Which I suspect it has.”
“With Oscar? Oh, you don’t think he is involved with this after all?”
“No, I don’t. I feel it in my water, Miz Denby. Call it a newspaperman’s sixth sense.”
“Then who? The Yusopovs?”
Rollo nodded. “Very possibly. I need to do some more digging. I’ll start with Ivan and see if he can suggest someone else to speak to.”
“You don’t think that Felix Yusopov could be the killer after all, do you? Have you changed your mind on that?”
Rollo shrugged. “I’m keeping my options open. What do you think?”
Poppy touched her cheek. “Well, I’m not sure now. The Felix Yusopov connection has put a spoke in the wheel …”
“It has. But before you heard his name, who else did you think was involved in this?”
Poppy leaned back in the cab and pressed her head into the leather upholstery, stretching her neck. “Well, that’s why I was at the police station, you see. It’s possible that Adam could be the killer, and that puts Delilah in danger.”
Rollo snorted. “Adam Lane? A killer? Come on, Poppy. Do you really think that? What’s in your water? What do you really feel?”
Speaking of water, Poppy had not had a chance to visit the restroom at Yasmin’s chambers and really needed to go. She crossed her legs as subtly as possible. Then she thought of Adam, the man she had come to know since the summer. Handsome, charming and good-natured, he clearly thought the world of Delilah. But from the evidence she had seen so far, he seemed to be a man with a secret. Was the secret that he was a killer? She didn’t really think so, but whether this was a newspaperman’s sixth sense or a woman’s intuition she didn’t know. Perhaps it was neither. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking – wanting to think the best of Adam for the sake of her friend. The cab dipped into a pothole. Poppy’s bladder lurched. She crossed her legs the other way.
“I think Adam’s involved with the theft,” Poppy said eventually, “but I don’t think he’s the killer. However, the chances are that he knows the killer. Or perhaps is even in partnership with him. And I think Selena was involved too. I think there were three of them in on the exhibition theft: Adam, Selena and someone else.”
“And might this someone else be Andrei Nogovski?”
Up until a few minutes ago, Nogovski had been her prime suspect. But the mention of Felix Yusopov added another possibility. Both men had a motive to get the eggs – or more likely, what they contained. Yusopov’s motivation would probably be to protect the royal families – the British and Russian; Nogovski’s, as a Red, would be to expose the corruption (or whatever dirty secrets the egg contained) to discredit the royals once and for all to sway public opinion towards the revolutionary cause. Could they be working together? No, it wasn’t possible. One was White, the other Red. On the other hand, Nogovski had been working for the Whites until a few years ago … Was his conversion fake? Possibly, but then Poppy remembered the evening she had danced with Felix Yusopov, and he and his wife Irina had seen Nogovski talking to Watts at the bar. They had looked terrified and left immediately. Why? Were they scared Watts was going to expose them as jewel thieves? Were they jewel thieves? Had they commissioned Adam to steal the egg? It couldn’t have been them personally; they were both still at the Crystal Palace after the police arrived. And what was their connection with Selena? Was all of that arguing and catfighting just a smoke screen? Very possibly, thought Poppy.
For the rest of the journey Poppy expounded her thoughts on the matter. Rollo nodded in agreement with her line of thinking. “We need more information, Poppy, but I think we’re on the right track. I’ll see what I can get out of Ivan. And you?”
Poppy wasn’t sure what to do now. She needed to find Delilah. She also needed to see Monsieur Stanislavski in the hospital. Which reminded her: the envelope … her first priority was to see what information Marjorie had dug up on the fingerprints on the chocolate box card. “I’m not sure. I’ll go back to my desk, write up some notes and take it from there.”
“Righto,” said Rollo as the cab pulled up outsideThe Daily Globe.