Killigrew and the Sea Devil

by Jonathan Lunn

  Killigrew was impressed. Had he not known they were two of Wojtkiewicz’s men, he would never have recognised them in those old soldier’s greatcoats and false beards, and the way they staggered and slurred their words… consummate actors who were wasted as Wojtkiewicz’s hired ruffians. He hoped they could sham-fight as convincingly.

  One of them had pushed Mademoiselle Orlova back against the wall of the theatre and she struggled to break free as he tried to thrust the neck of the bottle between her lips. It was time to intervene.

  Killigrew stepped out of the shadows. ‘Unhand that woman, you scallawags!’

  The two men turned to look at him. ‘Tebya ne ebut, it ne podmakhivai!’ snarled one.

  It was at that moment Killigrew realised that they were not Wojtkiewicz’s men at all, but were in fact a couple of genuine drunks.

  Before he could draw his gun one of them threw the vodka bottle at him. It bounced off his head to smash against the cobbles. He staggered and felt his legs turn to jelly beneath him. He sank to his hands and knees, and the two drunks closed in on him, kicking him viciously. He rolled up into a ball, wondering where the hell Wojtkiewicz’s men were. He tried to protect his head with one arm while he reached for his revolver with the other, and then hesitated, realising that if Mademoiselle Orlova saw it, she would be suspicious immediately; if he did not draw it, on the other hand, he was going to get his skull kicked in…

  Then one of the drunks sank to his knees, his face twisted in agony, one hand clutching his crotch. Someone jumped on to his shoulders and used them as a launch pad to leap into the air, delivering a kick to the other drunk’s face as she flew past. He sprawled on his back, and as booted feet hurried across the cobbles to the fracas, he scrambled to his feet and ran off into the night. Suddenly there were three more men there. They grabbed the first drunk, but he had recovered sufficiently from the kick in the groin to break free of their grip and run off after his companion.

  All Killigrew could see through swimming eyes was four pairs of feet, including one pair that could only belong to Mademoiselle Orlova. ‘What happened?’ a voice Killigrew did not recognise asked in Russian.

  ‘It’s nothing, it’s all right,’ a woman replied. ‘Just couple of veterans who’d had too much to drink, that’s all.’

  ‘What about this one? Is he one of them?’

  ‘He tried to help me.’ She crouched over Killigrew. ‘Are you all right? How many fingers am I holding up?’

  He squinted at her hand. ‘Seven?’

  ‘Sounds like a foreigner to me,’ said one of the men.

  ‘That is a nasty bruise on his head.’

  ‘Help me get him to the carriage.’

  He felt himself lifted up and carried across the embankment. They manhandled him through the door of a carriage and put him down on one of the seats. The carriage rocked on its springs as two men climbed out and someone else climbed in there with him, and a moment later a cold, damp cloth was pressed soothingly to his forehead.

  The carriage door was slammed shut, he heard her shouting instructions to the driver, and they rattled off over the cobbles.

  Killigrew struggled to maintain his grip on his consciousness, then decided the game was not worth the candle and passed out.

  Chapter 12

  Pas de Deux

  ‘It says here his name is Yown Vya’useh.’

  ‘Yown Vya’useh? What kind of name is that?’

  ‘It’s an English one. And it’s pronounced “John Bryce”.’

  ‘John – that’s the English equivalent of “Ivan”.’

  Four different women were speaking, in French, but with delicious Russian accents, husky yet lilting. Lying on the chaise longue with his skull aching, Killigrew decided he was content to remain with his eyes closed for now, listening to their voices.

  ‘I prefer “John”,’ said one. ‘It sounds… ooh, exotic. “John Bryce”.’ The way she pronounced it, Killigrew decided he preferred it, too, and decided he envied this John Bryce fellow, whoever he was.

  ‘Is he English, then?’

  ‘It says here he’s an American journalist.’

  ‘American? That explains the gun.’

  Killigrew reached for his own gun instinctively, wondering why it was important, and then it all came flooding back to him: his mission, his cover, the Sea Devil, the fight on the Dvortsovaya Embankment…

  He realised he was going to have to open his eyes.

  He was not looking forward to it. He was already imagining the way the light would lance in through his eyeballs to send blinding agony stabbing up into his skull, adding a fanfare of pain to the throbbing timpani that was already there in spite of the cold compress resting soothingly on his brow. Best to take it slowly, he told himself, opening only one eye to begin with, and that in no great hurry.

  Except when he saw the four women standing over the chaise longue, he forgot all about his headache. He had already seen that Anzhelika Orlova was one of the most beautiful women he had ever encountered, but she hardly stood out in her present company.

  She turned to one of them. ‘He’s awake.’

  ‘Make him a cup of tea, Pola.’

  ‘Why should I be the one who has to make the tea?’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ offered the fourth woman, hurrying away from the side of the chaise longue.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ asked Mademoiselle Orlova.

  ‘Absolutely wonderful,’ he told her, without irony, remembering just in time to speak with an American accent. ‘My name’s Bryce, by the way – John Bryce.’

  ‘I am Anzhelika Orlova,’ she told him. ‘This is Pola and Tanya.’ She gestured to her two remaining companions. ‘And that is Glazovoi,’ she added, gesturing past the end of the chaise longue. ‘He carried you up here.’

  Killigrew had to twist his head to take in Glazovoi, who stood by the door with his brawny arms folded. Although Glazovoi wore a coachman’s cloak and broad-brimmed hat on his bald head, he had the broad shoulders and short legs of a man who had spent much of his life pushing at the bars of a capstan. He was not smiling: his pock-marked face was not really designed for that.

  ‘You can go now,’ Anzhelika told Glazovoi.

  The coachman shook his head. ‘While he stays, I stay,’ he growled.

  She grimaced. ‘You must forgive Glazovoi,’ she told Killigrew. ‘He can be somewhat overprotective of my virtue.’

  ‘Doesn’t he take orders from his mistress?’

  ‘I am not his mistress. Glazovoi is Admiral Zhirinovsky’s coachman.’

  ‘And Admiral Zhirinovsky is…?’

  ‘My patron.’

  ‘Ah.’ Killigrew put a world of meaning into that single word.

  ‘It is not what you think. If it were, I would not be living in a dreary apartment block. But a ballerina must have a patron at court, yes?’ She spoke in English now; a language Glazovoi did not understand, Killigrew suspected. ‘I am indebted to you, M’sieur Bryce.’

  ‘What for?’ he asked.

  ‘Coming to my aid.’

  ‘Much good I did,’ he said ruefully. ‘If there’s any thanks owing, it’s from me to you for looking after me.’

  She smiled. ‘You diverted them long enough for me to break free and drive them off.’

  ‘Yeah. Where did you learn to roughhouse like that?’

  ‘That was not “roughhousing”; that was ballet.’

  ‘Seems like your Russian ballet is kinda different from the way we do it in the States.’

  ‘You have ballet in the United States?’ asked Pola. ‘I had thought America was a cultural desert.’

  Killigrew smiled. ‘We ain’t all slave drivers and bushwhackers, ma’am.’ He turned back to Mademoiselle Orlova. ‘I go to the ballet in New York a heap, but I don’t recollect seeing anyone get kicked in face like that.’ He thought for a moment. ‘’Cept in one production of La Sylphide, but that was when Bill the Butcher and his Nativists got on stage and set about the corps de ballet for
being foreigners.’

  She grinned impishly. ‘You should come to rehearsals.’

  ‘I might just take you up on that,’ he replied with a smile.

  The fourth woman emerged from the kitchen with a cup of tea. ‘I’m Natalya,’ she said.

  ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am,’ Killigrew told her, and she giggled.

  He sipped the tea and cast an eye over the room. He lay on one of four beds, and from the way the furniture was arranged in the limited space available he guessed that this room was bedroom, parlour and drawing room for all four women. Now that he looked, he recognised Natalya as having danced in the corps de ballet earlier that night, so he guessed Pola and Tanya were dancers too. The rooms were little different from the shared lodgings of some of the opera dancers he had dallied with in London, but he could not help thinking that the prima ballerina of the Mariinsky Ballet might expect to be housed rather more comfortably.

  ‘You all four live here?’ he asked, making no attempt to keep the surprise from his voice.

  The point was not lost on Anzhelika, and she grimaced. ‘Ballet dancers are not held in the same esteem here in Russia as they are in the West, M’sieur Bryce. Like most ballet dancers, our parents are servants in the households of wealthy aristocrats. We are the lucky ones: we auditioned for Imperial Ballet School and won places. We are paid, but…’

  ‘Why not emigrate to the West?’ suggested Killigrew. ‘You’d be paid better in London or Paris.’

  All four women looked around nervously, as if he had blasphemed and could expect to be struck down for his pains at any moment. ‘It is not permitted,’ explained Anzhelika.

  ‘I guess that’s one way to stop talent from leaving the country.’

  ‘At least it is our home,’ said Natalya. ‘In here we can do as we please, come and go as we please, beholden to no one.’ She shot a glare up at Glazovoi.

  Killigrew drained his cup of tea and laid it to one side, rising to his feet. ‘Well, I reckon I’ve taken up enough of your time. People will talk…’

  Anzhelika smiled sadly. ‘I told you, M’sieur Bryce, we are considered little better than serfs. Our reputations are considered of no account.’

  Killigrew jerked a thumb at Glazovoi. ‘He don’t seem to reckon so.’

  ‘Are you quite sure you are well enough to leave?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Glazovoi will drive you back to your hotel. I’ll show you to the door.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ offered Natalya, but Tanya caught her by the arm and shook her head when Natalya looked at her enquiringly. Natalya shrugged, and remained in the apartment with the others while Anzhelika showed Killigrew out into the corridor and down the stairs, Glazovoi’s ponderous footsteps following them down.

  When they emerged from the building, Killigrew saw Tweedledum and Tweedledee sitting on their drozhky further up the street. They must have followed him from the Dvortsovaya Embankment. They pretended not to be interested in Killigrew, and he returned the favour.

  ‘I still feel indebted to you,’ he told Mademoiselle Orlova.

  ‘Please, call me “Lika”.’

  ‘There must be some way I can pay you back for taking care of me, but I’m loath to be so crass as to offer you money…’

  ‘Oh, I do not mind,’ she replied brightly.

  He pursed his lips, nodded, and took a few roubles from his pocket book. ‘Will that cover it?’

  She shook her head. ‘It is too much.’

  ‘Keep it. It’s only money.’

  She regarded him with one eyebrow arched. ‘Are you sure you’re American?’

  ‘A quarter Irish on my maternal grandmother’s side. Perhaps we can talk again before I return to the States, Lika?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said, without much enthusiasm. Or was it a lack of hope?

  He took her hand and bowed to kiss it. ‘Au revoir, Mam’selle.’

  She managed a smile. ‘Au revoir, M’sieur Bryce.’

  Glazovoi opened the door of the monogrammed carriage standing nearby and gestured for Killigrew to get inside. He was not the sort of fellow one disobeyed without a very good reason. Killigrew climbed in the back, and as Glazovoi slammed the door shut and climbed on to the driving seat, the commander looked out of the window to see Lika standing on the threshold of the apartment block. She waved him goodbye, and as the carriage clattered away over the cobbles she retreated inside, closing the door behind her.

  ‘Where to?’ Glazovoi growled in Russian. It was a good language for growling in.

  ‘Dussot’s.’

  They headed back to the Nevsky Prospect.

  * * *

  ‘You call this a backdrop?’ the ballet master snarled at one of the scenery painters. ‘What scene is it intended to represent? I cannot recall any scenes in this ballet which call for the set dressing “a foggy day in hell”.’

  ‘It’s supposed to be impressionistic,’ the scene painter said defensively.

  ‘Impressionistic? Oh, it is. Why, just looking at it, I get a distinct impression. The impression that you have the artistic ability of a drunken Cossack! I could eat five bowls of borsch and vomit better scenery.’

  The scene inside the Winter Palace Theatre that afternoon was familiar to Killigrew from his dabbling in amateur dramatics for charity. Anzhelika Orlova was on stage, practising arabesques, oblivious to the falling piece of unfinished scenery that would have swatted her like a fly had it not been for a quick-witted and nimble stage hand; a gnomish young man extemporised at the pianoforte in the orchestra pit; the ballet master’s assistant – an attractive, bespectacled blonde – discussed lighting set-ups with a lighting engineer; four more stage hands sat on boxes playing cards; and two dwarfs juggled burning brands.

  ‘Perhaps we’d better come back later,’ Wojtkiewicz suggested as he entered the auditorium with Killigrew.

  ‘You haven’t spent much time at a theatre during rehearsals, have you?’ Killigrew said with a smile. He was carrying a bunch of red roses, like any stage-door johnny. ‘It doesn’t get any better than this. Don’t worry. They have a saying in the theatre: it’ll be all right on the night.’

  ‘It’s not opening night I’m worried about, it’s this afternoon that concerns me.’ Wojtkiewicz shrugged and advanced down the aisle towards the stage.

  A man in a black leather greatcoat sat in the front row, looking thoroughly bored as he switched his attention between the ballet master and Anzhelika. He could have been first cousin to Tweedledum and Tweedledee, and Wojtkiewicz nudged Killigrew and muttered: ‘Third Section.’

  Killigrew wondered what the Third Section agent was doing at the theatre – he did not look like an aficionado of the ballet – but Wojtkiewicz did not explain further.

  The ballet master became aware of Killigrew and Wojtkiewicz and broke off from haranguing the scene painter to face them. ‘Can I help you?’ he demanded, in a tone that boded no good for anyone foolish enough to ask for help, or indeed to do anything but retreat from the auditorium with a muttered apology. He produced a lorgnette to regard the two intruders with practised disdain, but when he recognised Wojtkiewicz the change in his expression suggested that the Pole was a generous patron of the arts. ‘Mscislaw; mon cher! Where have you been hiding yourself these past few months? And who is your handsome young friend with the lamentable taste in waistcoats?’

  ‘M’sieur Perrot, may I present M’sieur John Bryce? John, this is M’sieur Jules Perrot.’

  That explained the presence of the watcher from the Third Section. Jules Perrot – once one of the most famous ballet dancers in the world, who had partnered Marie Taglioni for a while – was a Frenchman, and Russia was at war with France as well as Britain and Turkey. Only in a society as paranoid as Russia’s would the secret police have had a watching brief on a ballet master of Perrot’s stature.

  Killigrew shook his hand. ‘It’s an honour, sir. It goes without saying that your fame has stretched as far as the United States.’


  Perrot looked disappointed. ‘Oh. An American. Oh, well, nobody’s perfect. What brings you to St Petersburg, M’sieur Bryce?’

  ‘I’m a reporter for the New York Herald.’

  ‘A reporter… how unfortunate. If you’ve come for an interview, I never speak to the press—’

  ‘I’m not a theatre critic,’ Killigrew reassured him. ‘I’m here to report on the war with Britain, France and Turkey. I only accepted M’sieur Wojtkiewicz’s invitation to watch your rehearsals because I happen to be an aficionado of the ballet in my spare time. Say, come to think of it, I reckon it might be kind of interesting to write an article on how life in St Petersburg is carrying on as normal, in spite of the war. Perhaps a few words on that subject…?’

  ‘I’m sorry, M’sieur Bryce, but as I said before, I never give interviews. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’ Perrot turned away and mounted the stage.

  Killigrew spoke to his assistant. ‘Would it be possible to have a brief word with Mam’selle Orlova?’

  She looked Killigrew up and down, and then called over her shoulder: ‘Lika! Your latest beau is here.’

  Anzhelika looked down from the stage and saw Killigrew. ‘M’sieur Bryce!’

  He grinned and tipped his hat to her. ‘You did say I should come and watch rehearsals.’

  ‘I was joking,’ she said, but she said it with a smile. ‘Wait there, I shall just be one moment.’ She ran off the stage.

  The assistant turned her attention to the bouquet Killigrew was holding. ‘Twelve?’

  ‘I’m a stickler for tradition.’

  ‘In Russia, it is unlucky to give someone an even number of flowers.’

  ‘Oh! That would explain why the girl at the florist’s made such a fuss. In that case…’ He plucked one of the roses from the bunch and handed it to her, before proffering the remaining eleven to Anzhelika, who returned wearing a dressing gown over her costume, and tripped down the steps to greet him.

  ‘Thank you, they’re lovely. Anya, could you put these in water?’ Anzhelika handed her roses to the assistant. ‘How is your head this morning?’ she asked Killigrew.