Once Upon a Spy: A Secrets and Seduction Book

by Sheridan Jeane

  The man opened the sheet of paper and read first one and then the other. “They’re virtually identical,” the man finally said.

  “Virtually? How do they differ?”

  “Um, Your Honor, one translation uses a squiggled line to indicate that there is more information on the page that isn’t translated, and the other uses dots.”

  “Dots?”

  “Yes sir. Dots. Like, in a row down the page.”

  “Mr. Parish, would you concede that dots and squiggly lines are suitably similar?”

  The poor man jerked his head up and down while Walter Winter glared at him.

  “Then please, read out the pertinent translation of the contents of the book.”

  “Weddings. Squiggly line. August 3, one-eight-three-X. Anya Nevsky and Marcus Winter. Squiggly line.”

  “For the year, you said ‘one-eight-three-X,’ did you not?” Mr. Parish asked. “Why did you mention an X?”

  “Because that’s what’s written. On both translations. An X.”

  “The page was damaged,” Lord Tidmore said, “and each entry’s last digit was obscured. None of the weddings recorded on that page can be verified. It would appear that their wedding did take place in Russia, and that it occurred sometime between 1830 and 1839.”

  “But the ending digit of the year provides crucial information,” Parish said, sounding elated. “The late Squire Winter’s first wife died in early 1832 and Miss Antonia Winter was born in 1833. The youngest child, Miss Stephanie Winter, was born in 1838. If the wedding in Russia took place either before 1832 or after 1838, all three children are still illegitimate.”

  Mr. Montlake took a step forward. “If the wedding took place at any time after the death of Squire Winter’s first wife, some if not all of the girls would be considered legitimate.”

  “The legal system does not use guesswork when rendering a decision,” Mr. Parish said. “Without a precise year, it’s impossible to know how this information affects the disposition of the estate.”

  “We have a quandary here,” Lord Tidmore agreed. “Mr. Parish is correct in his assessment. Although it is clear that a wedding took place, without a definite year associated with this record, I can’t make a ruling.”

  “Your Honor,” Mr. Montlake said, “I have a witness I’d like to bring before the court. This man not only attended the wedding ceremony, he performed it.”

  The judge’s eyebrows rose high enough to disappear under the edge of his white wig, which had the effect of making him appear extraordinarily surprised. “By all means, bring him in.”

  One of the court officials stepped into the hallway and returned a few moments later escorting Father Sergey. His dark clerical robes swallowed his thin frame. A long white beard reached halfway down his chest, and a gold cross peeked out from beneath it. His round black hat perched upon his head, making him look like an inverted exclamation point. The poor man looked exhausted, and his face was nearly as pale as his beard. Antonia’s heart went out to him. He must be in his mid-eighties, and today, every year seemed to weigh heavily upon him.

  Father Sergey scanned the room, but when his gaze locked on Antonia’s, he paused and stared at her as if trying to convey a silent question. She knew what he wanted from her— confirmation that she’d seen the burn. But she hadn’t. She shifted her shoulders noncommittally, letting him know she still didn’t know.

  The lack of confirmation hit him hard, but he didn’t look defeated. He looked angry. The priest faltered slightly as he gritted his teeth. The last vestiges of color drained from his face as he halted and turned to face Walter Winter. Disgust flashed in his eyes. Then his baleful gaze seemed to blaze with anger and he threw off the assisting arm of his escort, lifted his chin, and walked the remainder of the way into the courtroom alone.

  Antonia glanced at her uncle— or rather, at Walter Winter, since he’d denied their relationship so vehemently. He seemed taken aback. In fact, the man looked genuinely terrified. He began tugging frantically at Mr. Parish’s sleeve. The barrister leaned closer to his client to hear what the squire had to say.

  “Thank you for being here, Father Sergey,” Montlake said in low tones as the elderly man came to a halt next to him.

  “Your witness is a priest?” the judge asked, breaking some of the growing tension in the courtroom.

  Mr. Parish straightened and shot Father Sergey an irritated look.

  “Yes, my lord,” Montlake replied. “He officiated at the late Squire Winter’s wedding and can attest to the date of the ceremony.”

  Antonia glanced over at her uncle and his lawyer. The two men were whispering furiously, and they kept glancing at Father Sergey. Mr. Parish finally moved his hand in a quelling gesture to silence his client. Based on the way Walter kept glancing at the door, Antonia wondered if he might try to bolt.

  The judge cleared his throat as he surveyed the elderly priest from head to toe, and Antonia followed his gaze. Father Sergey didn’t look well. She’d noticed he’d seemed frail when they’d first met a couple of weeks ago, but he had a keen intelligence and a clever mind. Now as she watched him, she noticed a tremor. The shock of being in the presence of his wife’s murderer seemed to have taken a greater toll than she’d anticipated.

  Lord Tidmore pinned the priest with a sharp gaze. “Can you tell me what year this is?”

  Father Sergey pulled his gaze away from Walter Winter to glare at the judge. “What kind of question is that?” he demanded in a thick Russian accent. “Are you saying I’m— I’m—” he glanced around the courtroom as if looking for help. “What is word for ne kompetenten?”

  “Incompetent,” Frederick offered.

  “Da.” Father Sergey nodded. “Are you thinking I am incompetent?”

  “I need to make that determination before I allow you to speak in my court,” Lord Tidmore replied. “Please answer the question.”

  Father Sergey pressed his lips together like a recalcitrant child, but then answered. “The current year is 1854.”

  Lord Tidmore nodded. “And I believe you’re here to give testimony regarding a wedding you performed. Is that correct?”

  “Da. Anya Nevsky came back to village so her father could be at ceremony. It meant much to him.”

  “And in what year did the wedding take place?”

  “1832.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “Do you think I marry local girl to Englishman every day? Of course I remember. It was momentous event.”

  “I don’t doubt that you remember the event,” Lord Tidmore said. “It’s your recollection of the precise year that concerns me. Do you have any evidence to support your claim?”

  “My church register. You have it in front of you. What more proof do you need?”

  “The book’s been damaged,” Lord Tidmore said, holding the church register up so that Father Sergey could see it. “The edges of the pages are stained, and the last digit of the year was destroyed.” He set the book to one side. “Establishing the date when the wedding took place is essential. Are you quite certain about the year?”

  Father Sergey shot Walter Winter a scathing look. “If book is damaged, I can tell you who is culprit.”

  “I must protest, Your Honor,” Mr. Parish interrupted. “How the book was damaged is not relevant to our current discussion. What most concerns me is Father Sergey’s obvious friendship with Miss Winter. Of course he’ll support her claim.”

  “Yes, Mr. Parish,” the judge replied. “I am aware that the witness could be biased. But Father Sergey is, after all, a priest. We can offer quite a bit more faith in the veracity of his testimony.”

  Mr. Parish glanced at his nervous client, frowned, and then scrubbed his hand down his face. “What if his memory is faulty? I suggest that you ask him about another event that took place during the same year. Can he remember something else from 1832?”

  “Now that is an excellent idea.” The judge looked surprised to hear such a thing come from Mr. Parish and
gave him an approving nod before facing the priest. “We turn to you then, Father. Can you mention some other event recorded in your register that year?”

  Father Sergey frowned. “I remember event. It sticks in my memory. But—” he paused as he seemed to think back, “there was child born to different family not long after wedding— but which one?” He slid his hand down his white beard. “If you check page where I recorded births, you should find boy listed. Vanechka Brechkovsky. He was born same summer as wedding.”

  The judge flipped through the leather-bound book until he found the page he was looking for. “Here it is. Hmm. No. It appears that Vanechka Brechkovsky was born in 1831.”

  “Ah. I make mistake. I remember now. It was Grigori Filischkin who was born after wedding, not Vanechka Brechkovsky.”

  “Or were you wrong about the year?” The judge peered at him.

  Father Sergey’s mouth tightened. “It was 1832. I know this for fact.”

  “Quite a lot depends on the exact year. Is it possible you’ve made a mistake?”

  “Nyet,” he said, glaring at Walter Winter. “No mistake. I remember date. It sticks in mind, like granite carving.”

  Father Sergey looked so very pale. A strong breeze could knock him off his feet. As she watched, she noticed him lift a shaking hand to grab the nearby railing for support.

  “Is Father Sergey permitted to sit?” Antonia asked.

  Lord Tidmore glared at her for speaking in court, but then he turned his gaze to Father Sergey. His eyes narrowed as he peered at the elderly man. “I think that would be wise. In fact,” he said, glancing at the young man who’d escorted Father Sergey into the room, “I think you should hurry.”

  The young man rushed to drag a chair across the room. When Antonia glanced back at Father Sergey, she saw he was leaning precariously to one side as he braced himself on the nearby railing. He wobbled slightly, but before she could react, Robert stepped forward and wrapped his arm around the elderly man’s waist. The clerk arrived with the chair, and Robert helped Father Sergey lower himself into it.

  Mr. Parish cleared his throat. “This might sound insensitive, but it’s quite obvious that Father Sergey is incapable of—”

  “If you don’t wish to sound insensitive,” Mr. Montlake interrupted, “I suggest you stop talking,”

  Antonia knelt next to Father Sergey to peer into his face. He was much too pale. She placed her hand on his paper-thin cheek and was surprised to find it cooler than she expected. “Would you like some water?”

  He nodded. “Am thirsty.”

  She glanced up at Robert, and he turned to the nearby table and sloshed water into a cup. After he handed it to her, she held it up to Father Sergey’s lips. He wrapped his hand around hers and took a small sip, then another.

  Was a bit of color seeping back into is face? “Are you feeling better?” Antonia asked.

  Father Sergey waved away her question. “I do not know what happened. I am not normally so weak. Maybe I am tired from lack of sleep.”

  Antonia glared at Lord Tidmore. How could he have been so thoughtless as to wake an octogenarian priest in the middle of the night?

  He returned her glare with a level one of his own, and after a moment Antonia had to drop her gaze. How could she place the blame on Lord Tidmore’s shoulders when they were assembled here for her benefit?

  The judge’s stern expression softened as he again focused on Father Sergey. “Perhaps you should rest. We’re done with your testimony for now. I’ll call you back if we need you again. You can rest in a room down the hallway. My clerk will escort you.”

  Antonia leaned closer and spoke so only Father Sergey could hear her. “I promise, we’ll see justice done. We have a plan, and your testimony has been an important part of it.”

  Father Sergey’s head wobbled slightly, and it took a moment for Antonia to realize he was nodding.

  The young escort hurried forward, and his vigor made Father Sergey appear even older in comparison. The muscular arm the younger man offered appeared twice the size of Father Sergey’s.

  After staring at the proffered arm for a moment, Father Sergey wrapped his through it. “Spasibo,” he said, thanking the man, and then he leaned heavily on the clerk as they made their way to the door.

  The entire courtroom remained silent as they watched. Father Sergey’s shoulders were slumped in a defeated posture. What would it be like to face your enemy so late in life and then to be forced from the field of battle not by him, but by your own infirmity?

  Walter Winter would pay for what he’d done. And pay publicly.

  Once the door closed, Mr. Parish wasted no time in continuing his argument. “Your Honor, since Father Sergey is no longer in the room, I’d like to point out that his testimony was faulty and inconsistent. I don’t think he can be relied upon regarding the date of the wedding.”

  “I’m afraid I must agree with you.” Lord Tidmore inhaled deeply and let out a sigh. He surveyed the room and then locked gazes with Antonia.

  “It appears we need to provide additional evidence,” Mr. Montlake said.

  “I must object,” Mr. Parish said. “The court shouldn’t be expected to allow you to submit an unsubstantiated item as your ‘evidence.’ Given its poor condition, the church register was highly suspect. Since Lord Tidmore has already stated he must come to a decision by the end of today’s session, I see no need to waste the court’s time with additional delays.”

  “Is justice to be rushed?” Mr. Montlake stepped forward, pushing past Mr. Parish as he addressed Lord Tidmore. “Are these women expected to graciously and silently set aside their claim simply because Mr. Parish wants to hasten the court’s decision before all the facts have been considered?”

  “There’s no need to be melodramatic, Mr. Montlake,” Lord Tidmore said, frowning at him. “Rest assured that the court will consider all of the evidence before making a decision.”

  Mr. Parish harrumphed, but then seemed to think better of it and tried to pretend that he’d been clearing his throat.

  Montlake shot Antonia a satisfied smile. “Thank you, Your Honor. I’d like to assure everyone that I do not intend to bring in any additional evidence at the moment. Everything we need is already in this room.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Laws should be interpreted in a liberal sense so that their intention may be preserved.

  - Marcus Tullius Cicero

  Antonia leaned forward in anticipation.

  “Could I please have some assistance?” The spring in Mr. Montlake’s step betrayed his eagerness as he crossed the courtroom toward the painting.

  Robert and Frederick stepped forward, and at Mr. Montlake’s gesture, they moved to stand on either side of the painting.

  “If you would be so kind as to put on these white cotton gloves,” Mr. Montlake said. “As I mentioned to Mr. Winter, the trace oils on your leather gloves can damage the gilt frame.”

  Robert and Frederick both tugged off their kid gloves and tucked them into the pockets of their frock coats before donning the white ones.

  Once they turned to face Mr. Montlake, he nodded his approval. “I’d like you to turn the painting around so everyone can view the back.”

  Robert and Frederick lifted the heavy piece of framed artwork from the easel and stepped forward until they had cleared the stand.

  “Be careful,” Walter Winter admonished.

  In what looked like a precisely choreographed dance, the brothers rotated places so that the back of the painting faced the room. They gently placed it back on the easel and stepped back.

  “That’s perfect,” Mr. Montlake said. “Thank you, gentlemen.”

  The pristine ivory muslin was marred only by a small, six-inch-long horizontal tear at the very top. Other than that, it looked perfect.

  Just as Antonia remembered.

  Robert’s brow furrowed, and he shot a sharp glance toward Antonia.

  Why? Oh, of course. He’d never before seen the back of th
e painting. She should have warned him about the covering. He must have expected to see the dedication to her parents as soon as he turned it over.

  She smiled and gave him a very slight nod, hoping that would be enough to reassure him.

  Apparently it was, because his forehead smoothed and he gave the slightest of nods in reply.

  He trusted her.

  “Squire Winter, I notice a mark or a tear on the back covering of the painting. Has that always been there?” Lord Tidmore asked.

  Mr. Winter nodded. “I believe so. I noticed it when we took it down from the wall this morning.”

  “And do paintings normally have this sort of backing? I don’t recall ever seeing something like this before.”

  “I wouldn’t know, my lord,” Walter Winter said.

  “If I may, my lord?” Antonia said.

  He turned his attention to her. “Yes, Miss Winter? Do you have something to add?”

  “When I was about ten years old, I recall my father tacking that piece of fabric on the back of the painting. He didn’t explain why, but he seemed secretive about it. At the time, I suspected that he might be hiding something in the space between the fabric and the back of the canvas.”

  The judge raised his eyebrows. “Could whatever was there have been removed through that slit at the top?”

  Antonia shrugged. “I’m not even certain that anything ever was hidden there. It’s simply that he seemed secretive when I walked into his study without knocking.”

  Walter watched her intently as she spoke, his eyes bright with interest. Was he hoping to find something valuable hidden in there? He glanced at the tear in the muslin. “Perhaps we should investigate. After all, the fabric was added after the fact and has no value on its own.”

  “The court agrees, but before you proceed, can you examine the covering carefully? Does it appear to have been tampered with?”

  Walter Winter, Mr. Parrish, and Mr. Montlake all moved closer to inspect the back of the painting. After a few moments, the three men conferred. Mr. Parrish then turned to face Lord Tidmore. “We’ve examined the fabric and the tacks holding it in place. We cannot find any sign of tampering. The tacks all appear to be identical and are uniformly tarnished with age.”