“True. But then there’s our tragic count. After all that’s happened, I’d be surprised if Mr. Pike doesn’t toss him out on his ear. Then what will he do?”
“What he’s always done, I suppose. Land on his feet somewhere else. I don’t suppose he told you anything more while I was after Joan, did he?”
She shook her head. “He passed out right after you left. What do you think he meant? All that about his name. Do you know anyone called Kuznetsov?”
“There was a Tommy Konstantinov at Eton, if I remember right, but his family have been in England since Henry the Fifth’s time. No one else even comes close. Why do you think he put himself in harm’s way for me?”
She got up and pulled him to his feet. “Tomorrow you can ask him about it. For now, you need to sleep. Doctor’s orders.”
“The doctor never said anything of the kind,” he protested as she led him over to the bed and tucked him in.
“Wife’s orders, then,” she said, getting under the coverlet beside him. “And that’s much more important.”
Drew closed his eyes and was asleep before she even had time to switch off the light.
As soon as he’d dressed and breakfasted, Drew went to Kuznetsov’s room. As white and modern as the rest of the house, it seemed more like a hospital ward than a bedroom, especially with the stern-looking nurse sitting reading beside the patient’s bed. Kuznetsov lay pale and languid under the white sheets, his eyes closed, his breathing deep and regular. But he stirred when the nurse asked, sotto voce, what Drew wanted.
“My valet told me the count requested my presence regarding an important confidential matter.”
Kuznetsov opened one eye and then both.
“Let us alone a while,” he told the nurse in a surprisingly sturdy voice and in the accent he’d used before, the one that was convincingly English. “I have a feeling a discussion between Mr. Farthering and I is long overdue.”
The nurse scolded them both about not overtiring the patient and instructed Drew to call her the instant there was any sort of difficulty, but then she left them alone and shut the door after herself.
“I’ll have you know that Mrs. Farthering is not very pleased to be left out of our discussion. She’s positively perishing to know what you meant last night.”
There was an enigma in the older man’s expression. “I will tell it to you and then leave it to your own judgment what you wish to tell her.”
“How are you feeling?” Drew asked, taking the nurse’s chair. “Although, even being shot, you look sturdier than you ever did when you were our noble artiste.”
Kuznetsov laughed softly and then winced. “It was getting to be a bit tedious being so delicate.”
“Kept you out of any actual work, though.”
Kuznetsov bit his lip and held up one hand. “I must ask you not to make me laugh, if you please. I’m not quite sure what all has been rearranged and sewn back together inside me, but I’m not allowed to do anything that might pull it all loose again.”
“Fair enough,” Drew said. “But I think I’m due an explanation at this point. If not for you, I’d be the one who’d just been reassembled, and that only if I were fortunate to survive in the first place. Why ever did you do it?”
“I saw you were in over your head with that spy business and thought I’d better keep an eye on you. And our dear Miss Rainsby struck me all wrong the moment I met her. I thought I’d better keep an eye on her, as well. I suppose she saw me as a kindred spirit. I can’t say I didn’t try to drop a hint here and there. It wasn’t hard to convince her I was willing to help her escape if I were compensated sufficiently.”
“That still doesn’t explain why.”
“Consider it my first step on the path to redemption.”
“I’m afraid that’s not quite good enough, old man. I want to know why you kept her from shooting me. And what did you mean about your last name?”
Kuznetsov huffed softly and then put one hand over his right shoulder where his stitches must have been. “I don’t suppose you’re very familiar with the Russian language.”
Drew shook his head. “French, a smattering of German and Italian, some Welsh, that’s about it for me.”
“It’s funny, you know, that fellow MI5 took away the other night, his name was Schmidt. At least the name he went by, yes?”
“That’s right,” Drew said.
“I suppose it’s in every language. Schmidt, Smit, Kowalski, Demirci, Fabbro . . . Kuznetsov.”
“Smith. No matter what nationality you’re pretending to be, it’s easy to remember your name is some form of it.”
Kuznetsov nodded. “And because it is my real name. In my native language.”
“I haven’t quite decided what your native language is. You do them all so convincingly.”
The artiste gave a gracious nod. “You are too kind. However, I think you should know that I was born a Frenchman, as you were.”
Drew frowned. “How did you know that?”
“Oh, it isn’t hard to find out. Not when one makes the effort. In France, there are a number of surnames that are tied to the occupation of blacksmith: Lefévre, Faure, Favre, Fabre.” He paused for a moment, watching Drew’s face. “Fabron.”
Drew caught his breath. Mikhail Kuznetsov. Michael Smith in English. In French, Michele Fabron. “You’re—”
“Your mother’s brother.”
Drew opened his mouth and shut it again. It was too insane to be believed. It was—
“Monstrous,” Kuznetsov said, his accent and demeanor suddenly Russian again. “Yes, I know. Poor fellow, but we must bear it, must we not?”
Drew laughed, still not knowing what to say. “I— You—”
“I’m afraid there’s no escaping it,” Kuznetsov, or rather Fabron, told him, reverting to the English accent he’d used before. “I will confess when I heard Mr. and Mrs. Pike mention that you would be at Thorburn Hall for the Open, I was determined to meet you. I wanted to know what you’d be like and, to be brutally honest, I was hoping I could touch you for a bit of a loan. But, to my great surprise, you turned out to be a rather nice fellow. Nothing like the spoilt snob I was expecting to find.”
“Thank the Lord for small favors,” Drew said. “But good heavens, man, you have to tell me about my mother. Where is she? How is she? How did you know who I was?”
There was a touch of rue in the man’s smile. “Your mother died this past January. Consumption. All these years, she would never tell anyone who your father was, only that he had taken you away to England when you were born and that you were better off with him. I have a feeling she was afraid I might try to take advantage of the connection.” He shrugged, again the charming rogue, though he couldn’t quite hide the depth of feeling in his eyes and voice. “At the very end, she took a newspaper clipping from the little box where she kept her treasures, a photograph with your name under it. ‘He’s very like his father,’ she told me, and that was the last she ever said.”
“That was all,” Drew murmured. “Did—did she have anyone? Any family?”
“She married, but her husband was killed at Verdun during the war. She lost the child she was carrying, his child, and after that she lived alone.”
Then that was it. After so long wondering, waiting, searching, that was it. There was nothing more Drew could do. “I wish I’d known. I wish I’d been able to do something for her. I wish—”
“She lived alone. That doesn’t mean she was lonely.” Kuznetsov, no, Fabron slipped his hand out from under the sheet and patted Drew’s arm. “She worked in one of the finest shops in Grenoble, and fashionable ladies everywhere were eager to have their hats made by her. She had many friends and no lack of invitations. True, she died far too young, but she was not unhappy, and she was not in want.” There was a twinkle now in the older man’s eye. “No doubt she despaired of me ever making anything of myself besides a nuisance, but she seemed to have little else to complain of. I believe you would have liked her.
I know she would have liked you.”
That made Drew smile in spite of himself. “I’m glad.”
He looked at the man lying there in the bed. His uncle. His uncle. It seemed impossible, but somehow Drew believed it. He studied the man’s face. Handsome. Aquiline. Good-humored. Had she been like him?
Drew cleared his suddenly tight throat. “I don’t suppose you have a photograph of her, do you?”
Again the man flashed that enigmatic smile. “Do you like Russian literature?”
Drew hesitated and then glanced at the stack of books on the bedside table. On top lay a copy of The Brothers Karamazov.
“She never could abide it for the most part,” his uncle said. “She always said she’d rather laugh than cry. Still . . .” He nodded toward the book.
Drew picked it up and opened the front cover. There were not one but two photographs inside. The first was old, sepia-toned, faded. It showed a girl of about twenty and a boy of ten or eleven standing before Notre-Dame Cathedral. The other appeared to be more recent. Judging by the clothing, perhaps only a year or two old. The man in this one was clearly the boy from the other photograph. Kuznetsov. No, Fabron. And the woman—
Drew studied the first picture once more, searching his memory for the right dates. He’d been told she was about twenty when he was born. She was a fetching twenty too, dark and finely featured like her brother, round-limbed and willowy, with something of the same enigma in her smile.
The more recent photograph showed her in front of a little cottage. She was holding a basket of wildflowers and wearing a full-skirted dress, white or light-colored. She must have been in her middle forties then. Though she was lithe and slender still, her lovely face held the unmistakable mark of her illness, the ethereal stamp of death.
“A friend of ours was good enough to send us to the country for a month,” his uncle said. “We thought it might cure her. It didn’t, of course, but as you can see, she was happy.”
Drew nodded, for a moment unable to say anything.
“May I keep these?” he asked at last. “I don’t suppose I’m anything like her.”
“Not so much. But then she said you were very like your father. I suppose that was for the best.”
“Yes, I suppose it was.” Drew looked at the photographs again. Not all that much, but at least now he knew. “Perhaps these are all you have of her.”
“I brought them for you. I have others.”
Drew tucked the pictures gratefully into his waistcoat pocket. Madeline would want to see them. Would it make a difference? Not likely. He’d already told her the story. It seemed ages ago now, sitting on the floor with a batch of newborn kittens, still reeling with the newly revealed truth about himself, he’d told her. They had been little more than strangers at the time, but there had been something about her even then that told Drew he could trust her with his secrets, with his heart. She would want to know what he’d found out, especially since it was the last.
He looked up to find his uncle watching him, reading his face no doubt.
“What will you do now?” Drew asked.
His uncle gave a small shrug. “The doctor says I can’t be moved for a few days. With everything that’s happened, I don’t feel I ought to stay any longer than that.”
“You know, Kuznetsov,” Drew began, and then he stopped himself. “I don’t suppose I should keep calling you that. What ought I to call you?”
“Not Uncle, I implore you,” the wounded man said with an air of horror. “It’s terribly aging.”
Drew raised his eyebrows expectantly.
“Your mother used to call me Renard, but that was only when she was more amused than vexed at me.”
“Fox.” Drew laughed softly. “Somehow that seems to fit perfectly. But for now, how about just Michel?”
“There are worse things,” his uncle said, “and I’ve been called most of them.”
“I’m surprised Mrs. Pike hasn’t been in here looking after you.”
“Ah, dear madam. She really is a kind and trusting woman, and I’ve taken abominable advantage of her. But I trust I’ve amused her, too, in my small way. However, Mr. Pike has informed me most graciously during her tearful visit this morning that they were returning home and I would not be joining them. Therefore, I am cast adrift. Friendless and penniless.”
“Always the poor unfortunate,” Drew said mildly, picking up the letter on the bedside table. Two one-hundred-pound notes fell out of it.
“I said penniless,” Michel said quickly, “not poundless. And truly, what can I do with only that? I shall no doubt starve in the streets.”
Drew put the letter and the money back on the table. “Most men don’t make that in half a year, you know.”
Michel blinked. “Don’t they?”
“The doctor’s surgery is at his house. He often has patients to stay if they need observation or have no one to look after them.”
“Ah, excellent. I will need a place to recuperate.”
“You will,” Drew said. “And I believe his fee is two hundred pounds.”
Michel started and then wilted back against his pillows.
Drew chuckled. “Not to worry. I told him I’d pay it and any other expenses.”
Michel brightened.
“Legitimate expenses,” Drew added.
Michel sighed. “And after?”
There was a tap at the door and then it opened.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Madeline said, looking in, the rose-and-green floral print of her dress a welcome splash of color in the otherwise colorless room. “Only the nurse said the count ought to have his rest.” She smiled warmly at the patient. “How are you feeling this morning?”
Michel heaved a doleful sigh. “Ah, madam . . .” He broke off at Drew’s dubious look and smiled instead. “I am progressing nicely, thanks to the good doctor and his frightful nurse.”
“My wife and I spoke at length about you last night,” Drew told him as he got up to give Madeline his chair. “We’re both awfully grateful to you. Keeping me alive and everything.”
Michel waved one artistic hand. “Nothing at all, I’m sure.”
“It meant a great deal to us,” Madeline said.
“Anyhow,” Drew continued, “we thought, once you’re feeling up to it, you might find the sunny Riviera a pleasant place to spend a few weeks. Our treat, of course.”
“It’s too kind,” Michel said. “Really, too kind.”
“We’d better let him have his rest.” Madeline stood. “If you’ve finished your important conversation.”
“Just done,” Drew told her, patting his waistcoat pocket. “And I think you’ll be very interested in knowing what we talked about.”
She gave the wounded man a coy little glance. “You won’t mind if he tells me, will you?”
“I expected he would before I told him,” Michel said.
“Oh, good.” She squeezed his hand. “Then I won’t tire you with my questions.”
“She saves that for me,” Drew admitted.
“I’m so glad you’re going to be all right,” she told Michel, making a great show of ignoring Drew’s comment. “I don’t suppose we’ll be seeing you after this, though.”
He clasped the hand that still rested on his and brought it gallantly to his lips. “One cannot tell the future, madam. That must be left to heaven.”
“Then I’ll pray that God will bless you and send you His very best.”
He said nothing for a moment, but for once it seemed as if there were no façade between him and them, no part he was playing. And then a cavalier smile touched his lips. “I can see no use He might have for, what did you label me, dear boy? A thief, liar, and sponge?”
“You may well be surprised,” Drew said, “if you give Him half a chance.”
With a laugh, Michel let Madeline go and put his hands lazily behind his head. “You mustn’t expect too much, you know, and I make you no guarantees. The sun on the Riviera is hot and makes i
t difficult to think of anything more weighty than where one shall be dining that evening and in whose charming company.”
He smiled and closed his eyes, looking despite his pallor as if he were already lounging on the beach. A moment later, the nurse returned. She said nothing, but the stern clearing of her throat let Drew and Madeline know that visiting hours were over.
Twenty
Twining was waiting for Drew when he came out of the patient’s room.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but we’ve received a telephone call from Inspector Ranald. Lady Rainsby has been released and will be returning home. She’s asked for Agnes to bring her some fresh clothing and whatever else she may need and to attend her there. I thought perhaps—”
“I’d be happy to escort Lady Rainsby home,” Drew said, “and to see to whatever details might be required by the police. Madeline, darling, would you like to come along? It might be a comfort to her to have you there.”
“Of course. I’ll just get my gloves and handbag.”
Phillips drove them into Edinburgh, with Agnes perched, silent and pensive, on the seat next to him, Lady Louisa’s monogrammed traveling case clutched in her arms. Beside Drew in the rear seat, Madeline, too, was silent. The drive seemed much longer than it actually was.
Lady Louisa looked thinner than when Drew had last seen her. Definitely paler. There was nothing stylish about the gray, sack-like prison uniform she was wearing. Later, in her own somber but well-fitted garments, with her hair and makeup done, she still looked thin and pale. She looked older now than the woman who had greeted him and Madeline in the drawing room at Thorburn Hall at the beginning of the Open, the woman who’d told them all how much she enjoyed having people come to stay.
Still, she stood with her back ramrod straight and her head held high as she asked to see her daughter. After some discussion with his superior, the officer on duty said he would make inquiries. It wasn’t long before he returned.
“She’s refused to see you, my lady.”
Tears sprang into Lady Louisa’s eyes, but she responded with only a gracious nod of her head.
Death at Thorburn Hall Page 27