The Firebird's Feather

by Marjorie Eccles

  He finally located what he took to be the offices of the Voice, ran up the uncarpeted stairs and knocked on the peeling door.

  Jon was working as hard as he could, given how much the circumstances of his aunt’s murder had disturbed, not to say angered him, so much more than he was prepared to admit. He could hardly bear to think he would never see Lydia again – a sparkling glance from under a tilted hat brim, quick to laughter – and tears. A joy to be with when she was pleased with life, a hand to be held when the shades of melancholy had her in their darkness. Everyone had liked, if not actually loved her, men and women both.

  He wasn’t sleeping too well and he had a semi-permanent headache; it was stifling in the office of the Voice and the rich smells issuing from the piemaker’s ovens downstairs were overpowering. He mopped the sweat from his brow and thought that what he needed was a month in the country, at Southfields. Time to reconsolidate. A bath – oh, luxury! – whenever he wanted it. Tea on the lawn on summer days like this; in winter the deep chairs in the library where he could read for hours, legs stretched to the fire – lit and replenished by the footman – a glass at his elbow if he rang for it. His mother’s excellent cook. Bacon and egg breakfasts and roast dinners – oh yes. Food had never been a top priority with Jon, but you couldn’t live on pies forever.

  Marcus Villiers was probably the last person he either expected or wanted to see at that moment, but when Nolly opened the door to him, he took his feet off the desk, and reluctantly went forward to shake his hand.

  Marcus blinked as he entered the overflowing room.

  ‘Would you like some lemonade, Mr Villiers?’

  ‘I would indeed.’ His clothing, light and summer-weight though it was, was sticking to him and felt unsuitable for the day or the place. Jon was in shirtsleeves, and Nolly wore a muslin blouse, but they both looked as hot as he felt. How did they manage to get any work done in these conditions?

  ‘Well,’ said Jon, when the girl had disappeared into a room next door, ‘what brings you here? Rather slumming it, aren’t you, old boy?’

  Marcus pretended not to notice the tone. He thought Jon looked tired, as though the world was on his shoulders; at the same time something suggested he was just about ready for a fight, didn’t matter with whom, and that wasn’t what Marcus was here for. ‘I happened to see a copy of your paper, and I thought it would be interesting to see how it was made up.’

  Jon raised unconvinced eyebrows. ‘Well, take a look,’ he said after a minute, throwing his arm out in a wide gesture, indicating the confusion of papers spread around. ‘It grows, bit by bit, as you can see – I’m not talking about the circulation, of course.’ He laughed shortly. ‘Copy accumulates until we have enough to put together, usually about once a fortnight.’

  Nolly reappeared with three glasses. ‘You mustn’t mind him. He’s been like a bear with a sore head recently.’

  The lemonade was lukewarm, but Marcus drank thirstily. ‘I’ve been a bit the same way myself. We’ve all been knocked sideways by what’s happened.’

  Jon gave him a sharp glance but then nodded in a way that seemed grudgingly to admit a shared distress.

  Marcus gave the young woman – ‘Oh, Nolly, please,’ she’d said when they were introduced – a curious glance, wondering what sort of position she occupied here. She seemed to be allowed to make free of what were probably Jon’s living quarters and though he had no experience of lady typists, he didn’t think they would normally speak to their employers as she had done.

  At Cambridge Jon Devenish had had a reputation as a firebrand. A brilliant young fellow who had muffed his chances of a first class degree – as Marcus himself had done, though by a different route. While Devenish had been honing his political awareness Marcus had simply been messing around (at which he could and did blush for shame now, when he allowed himself to do so). But the young man who had appeared at Egremont Gardens after the shooting had been a very different proposition to the one he remembered from Cambridge, and despite the would-be inflammatory nature of some of those articles Marcus had just read in the Voice he was inclined to believe the firebrand had cooled down somewhat. All the same, the police obviously had their eye on the paper – and on Jon Devenish? Could he possibly know more about his aunt’s killing than any of his family suspected?

  ‘What are you really here for, Villiers?’

  He realised he had been wool-gathering under pretext of looking round the office, in a way that wouldn’t have fooled anyone.

  ‘If you’re short of copy, maybe …’ He had expected this question from Devenish in one form or another and had his answer ready, but it sounded rather lame.

  ‘You?’ The sardonic look said it had sounded that way to Devenish, too.

  ‘You’d be surprised. I’m no radical but I’ve knocked about the world, lived in repressed countries when I was younger—’

  ‘In an embassy enclave. Shielded from the reality.’

  ‘But not entirely unaware, my friend.’ Marcus was stung. Their glances met, and locked.

  ‘I appreciate the effort you’ve made to visit us, but if that’s why you’ve come …’

  Devenish was being bloody patronising and Marcus didn’t want this to end in a row. He hadn’t intended it to turn out the way it had. Maybe he’d been too impulsive. Maybe he ought to have thought out his moves better. ‘Thank you for sparing the time to talk to me,’ he said dryly. He stood up, ready to leave. His eyes fell on a copy of the Voice on the desk, the real reason he’d made this ill-considered trip. He pointed to the logo. ‘Did you design it?’

  ‘What, me?’ All of a sudden, Devenish dropped the underlying belligerence and laughed. ‘The extent of my artistic abilities doesn’t stretch further than drawing the back view of a cat.’ He held out his hand. ‘I appreciate the offer to contribute. I won’t forget.’

  Marcus took the hand. ‘Thanks. Who did design it, then? The logo?’

  Jon shrugged. ‘You’d better ask Lukin. The owner, Aleksandr Lukin. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh, just out of interest. It’s very striking, isn’t it?’

  ‘If you grasp the meaning.’ A wolf with bared teeth, set within a circle that might or might not have been a snake, and behind it a rising sun. Jon shrugged. ‘Read as you will.’

  ‘Well,’ Kitty said when Marcus had finished recounting his visit, ‘it doesn’t really matter who designed it, does it? The question is, who sent it to you – and to Mama, and why. Do you think it was this man Lukin?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Marcus, ‘but I intend to find out.’

  Twenty-Two

  The house was in an uproar when they returned. At least what passed for uproar at Egremont Gardens. Louis Challoner had been sent for from his office and had come home immediately. The police were there. They had formed a habit of turning up at the house at unexpected times, which was disconcerting – though perhaps this was the intention – but this time, they had been summoned. The gun, the one Louis said had been stolen from the safe, had been found.

  It had turned up underneath a big, enormously heavy piece of furniture that stood in the hall, a tall five-drawer chest that was supported on flat bun feet, leaving just enough space beneath for a small gun to have been slid right to the back. Young Thomas and the kitchen boy had pulled the chest aside for one of the housemaids, Agnes, who was getting on and not as spry as she had been, to clean the underneath thoroughly with dustpan and brush. It was a chore that might have been left undone for months, or even years, in a less well-run household. This time it had revealed more than dust or spiders. ‘You see!’ Challoner said excitedly, his recent lethargy seeming to have dispersed in minutes. ‘You see, I told you!’

  ‘You don’t think you could have dropped it accidentally, and it got kicked underneath, sir?’

  Louis didn’t bother to answer. He shot the sergeant a withering glance but his momentary elation subsided. He must have known he was not yet in the clear. Although he seemed to think that finding t
he gun went some way to exonerating him from the suspicion of not telling the truth about it being missing from the safe; whether he or someone else had put it where it had been found was still open to question. But if he had first hidden it there as a temporary hiding place, intending to remove it at some time, he would hardly have left it until it was found accidentally. Perhaps it had even been put there by Lydia Challoner herself, so that it had lain undiscovered until now. If, on the other hand, some other person had stolen it, and found it necessary to hide it, why choose there? There were more intelligent ways of ridding oneself of a gun. Unless it was someone who knew the routines of the house and knew the chest would be moved at some point, and that finding the gun would throw doubts on Louis’s credibility.

  None of these theories could be considered as more than a remote possibility, and not only because the gun was free of dust. Maybe the housemaid who had found it had dusted it in an excess of zeal. Even so, to Gaines its discovery was a bonus; it meant the chance of things moving forward. A chink appearing in someone’s armour.

  This gun was after all not the murder weapon, and though he was convinced it must have played in a part in the mystery of Lydia Challoner’s murder, he hadn’t previously deemed it necessary to make a search of the house. Nor for the icon, either, when Louis had finally admitted to that being missing. The gun was small and the icon, too, was only the same size as its copy – roughly twelve inches by about ten, at a guess – which would make it easy to keep either of them well hidden in a house of this size … in the unlikely event that neither had been got rid of immediately. Besides, such a step was not to be taken lightly; people were likely to feel affronted and complain about rights of privacy when their personal space was invaded, especially when they were likely to have friends in high places to whom they could complain.

  When the footman opened the front door to Kitty and Marcus, the sight of the big old chest of drawers dragged into the centre of the hall brought her to a standstill. Her eyes widened further when she saw Gaines and his sergeant, back once more. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Oh, Kitty, what do you think, your father’s gun has turned up, thanks to Mrs Thorpe!’ cried her aunt, who had been hovering in the background. ‘If she wasn’t such an admirably efficient housekeeper, it might never have been found.’

  Kitty was alarmed and relieved both at once. Alarmed at the discovery of the gun but relieved that it had for the moment absolved her from her aunt’s scolding at risking her good name, of being thought fast in allowing Marcus to drive her out. Alone!

  Gaines said, ‘Is there somewhere we can all talk, Mr Challoner? You as well, Mr Villiers.’

  ‘There’s the book room.’

  ‘I think my daughter’s working in there, but I’ll ask her to leave for a while,’ Ursula offered. ‘Or you could use the sun room.’

  ‘That’ll do nicely,’ Gaines answered. ‘No need to disturb her, Lady Devenish – and we needn’t trouble you any more, either. You’ve already been very helpful.’

  ‘Oh. Very well.’ She took the virtual dismissal without rancour and it was her brother who led them to what she had called the sun room. It was a misnomer: a ground floor room at the back of the house that had perhaps once been intended as such but was barely used because it didn’t really get that much sun at all, though it was stuffy and hot today. It was furnished with creaking wicker furniture and a solitary but flourishing palm in a hideous and over-decorated jardinière. A brick wall with shrubs beneath did not entirely succeed in its attempts at screening the tiny courtyard outside from the kitchen yard where a line of tea towels hung to dry. Kitty threw open the French window, then Gaines and Inskip sat together on one side of the small centre table, while the other three – Kitty, her father and Marcus – were each motioned to take a side. It looked alarmingly like a scenario for interrogation. Perhaps it was.

  Gaines chose not to say anything immediately, seeming deep in thought, doodling on the pad in front of him. At last he looked up. ‘This has been a distressing time for you all. I am sorry for it. And for the fact that we haven’t yet caught the person responsible for shooting Mrs Challoner.’ He paused. ‘But I say frankly, we haven’t been helped in this because you haven’t been open with us. Any of you.’

  No one replied. He let the silence continue until in the end Challoner said stiffly, ‘And what precisely do you mean by that, Inspector?’

  ‘I mean that we might be much further on if you, for instance, had told us right away about that valuable item that was taken from your safe, sir. Each day it’s missing reduces the chances of finding it.’ There was a new edge to his voice, as if he’d had enough. ‘Have we now been informed of all the facts, or is there anything else you wish to tell us?’

  Louis lifted his shoulders in a shrug.

  Gaines then turned to Marcus but before he could speak Marcus forestalled him. After exchanging glances with Kitty, he had reached for his wallet, and he now drew out the two halves of the wolf drawing and spread them on the table, matching the torn edges. Gaines frowned over them while Inskip leaned over to look closer. ‘Do you recognise that, Inspector?’

  ‘I know what it is – a wolf, obviously – but not what it means. Why has it been torn in two?’

  ‘I came across one half,’ Kitty began. ‘And—’

  ‘And the other half was sent to me,’ Marcus finished. ‘I’ve no idea by whom.’

  ‘Explain, if you please.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can.’

  How many readers actually looked at a newspaper’s logo, especially when the headlines immediately beneath it were large and strident? And even if they had, how many of Britannia Voice’s readers would have recognised this one for what it was? Or known what it signified? The words seryy volk, the snarling wolf, a snake and a rising sun might have been seen by anyone living under Tsarist oppression as symbols of hope and retaliation against tyranny, but the very name of the paper represented an appeal towards the workers of Britain.

  Gaines said, pointing to the words, ‘Have you any idea what it might mean?’

  ‘Seryy volk is Russian for grey wolf,’ Kitty supplied.

  ‘You speak Russian, Miss Challoner?’

  ‘No. Just a few words I’ve picked up here and there.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, perhaps a logo like that isn’t so surprising. The paper is after all Russian owned. So this part of the drawing was sent to you, Mr Villiers?’ Marcus related how Kitty had found the one half in the box belonging to her mother, and the other had been sent to him, without any other message, on the same day that Lydia had died. ‘Addressed directly to you? Do you have the envelope?’

  ‘No, I threw it away. It wouldn’t have told you anything. It was addressed in block capitals.’ Gaines lifted an eyebrow but made no further comment, absently moving his pencil across his pad. ‘It was pure chance that I connected the two. I’d never seen the Voice until you gave me that copy but I read it through with interest – wondering just why you’d left it with me.’

  ‘It’s a radical newspaper. You must be aware of the connections this case is likely to have and you were on good terms with Mrs Challoner. It’s possible—’

  ‘Now look here!’ This was evidently too much for Louis. ‘I don’t like the inferences you are making. You’re implying my wife had connections with that socialist rag.’

  ‘Reluctant as I am to say it, sir, I’m afraid there may be some truth in that.’

  Seconds passed. Then Louis scraped back his chair and without another word, left the room. Gaines watched but made no attempt stop him. Kitty half rose to follow, until Marcus laid a hand on her sleeve. Meeting his glance, she sat down again and closed her eyes, willing herself to keep calm.

  When the door had shut behind Louis, Gaines waited a moment, then went on as if nothing had happened. ‘So Mrs Challoner had one half of this drawing, Mr Villiers … who do you think sent the other half to you? Mrs Challoner herself, for some reason? You’re sure it wasn’t delivered that day before
you went riding with her and you failed to notice it?’

  ‘No,’ Marcus answered shortly. ‘Other people were in the house. Someone would have seen it had it been delivered earlier. And if I may say so, it’s ludicrous to suggest Lydia sent it. Apart from anything else, I could have no idea what it meant.’

  Beside him, Kitty had given a little start.

  ‘Miss Challoner?’

  She blinked. Just for a moment, a memory had come – and gone, magic lantern pictures behind her closed lids of that terrible day. ‘Oh, nothing,’ she said.

  ‘Well,’ he continued, ‘if we assume it was Mrs Challoner herself who put the one half of the wolf into that box of hers, who sent the other half to you? Someone who, it seems to me,’ he said after a moment, looking hard at Marcus, ‘might have wanted to direct you to the Britannia Voice.’

  ‘Other than you, of course,’ Marcus returned sharply. ‘Surely that was what you meant when you left a copy with me?’

  Gaines did not rise to this. His pencil continued to make complicated patterns on the paper, as if they would help him to think. Marcus waited for an answer while Kitty tried without success to recapture that flash of memory which had come and gone again in a moment. Inskip leaned back and stared at the ceiling. All at once, he sat bolt upright, his wicker chair creaking its protest. ‘That thing you’re drawing, sir.’ He pointed to Gaines’ pad. ‘I’ve seen something like that recently, only I can’t think where.’

  Gaines looked down, surprised himself to see what he had subconsciously been scribbling. ‘Very likely you have, considering where you live. It’s a Russian cross – more or less, I’m no artist – and I don’t suppose it’s the only one in existence.’ Something struck him. ‘Didn’t you tell me, Miss Challoner, that something like this was missing, the day you showed me your mother’s bedroom?’