“A wig! Whatever for?”
“Because I’ve cut off all my hair.”
There was a pause, all I could hear was the electrical crackling on the wire.
“And are you becoming one of those Suffragettes — a Pankhurst girl, then?”
She didn’t allow me to answer, just ploughed on; typical Mamma: “Well good, very good, Beatrice. We should have had the vote centuries ago.” And at that she hung up her instrument.
Yes, but it will take another few centuries for this to happen in Austria, I thought. Even in London it would be difficult.
I wrote immediately to Aunt Ludmila and by mid-afternoon she had replied. My suggestion for the following morning was accepted.
***
The residence that now was occupied solely by my great aunt was in a large block of apartments on Sokolská, one of the two broad avenues that stretch out from the top of Wenceslas Square to end in the Karlov Gardens with its great open vista to the south, ironically including the old fortress of Vyšehrad, where Uncle Berty now was lying, and the great Vltava River flowed down its path between towering cliffs and forested hills. Down in the valley directly below the gardens and the town ramparts, speculators had built the bustling suburb of Nusle with its terraces of houses rising on a hill opposite — the last outpost of the City of Prague and straddling the winding road to Brunn and Vienna.
All the family had wondered what had persuaded Uncle Berty to remain in Prague after his retirement. He would have been much more at home in Vienna, or in one of the houses on the family estates in Upper Austria, they had said. That Aunt Ludmila would have wanted to be nearer to my mother or the other Morštejns would have probably been of no consequence to the old autocrat. He had always had his own way. Or had he? This whole business now was exposing a weakness that none of his family could have known about, perhaps not even Aunt Ludmila.
“You understand that I don’t want to go into that room, not for the present.” Aunt Ludmila was standing on the threshold of Uncle Berty’s study. “Don’t move the small rug near his writing table, will you? It hides a stain. I will have the whole carpet taken up and burnt as soon as I can,” she warned. I knew what the stain must be. So it was in here that Uncle Berty could finally stand the pressure no longer.
The top of the table which served as his desk was completely bare. This must have been due to the cleaning up. However, a desktop would usually be a good place — I would have thought — for an appointment diary, odd keepsakes, recent correspondence (perhaps as yet unanswered), plus postage stamps, even an address book. All these things, if they had been there at all, were now gone. So I began with the table’s two drawers.
They were full to overflowing with silver and gold pocket-watches, card cases, cigar cutters, spoons, forks, tie-pins, spectacles and eyeglasses, napkin rings, ashtrays, small silver dishes…in short, anything which could be pocketed. Here were the results of a lifetime’s kleptomania or at least the items over which dear Uncle Berty had never been challenged. I paused at one curious-looking device. It was like a small pair of scissors, but with blades that formed a circle and which were armed with cruel teeth. I imagined it had some barbaric or even some — shall I say — medical purpose. Then I remembered. As a child, our governess had one to cut the tops off our boiled eggs every morning. This was a curious collection. I ventured over to the bookcase, which had drawers below the glazed book presses. They too were filled with the same assorted bric-a-brac.
So I turned my attention to the bookshelves. The key to the doors I found hanging on a string behind. I went through the entire contents of those shelves, book by book. There were no false books with hidden compartments, no hidden caches of letters — just one album of personal photographs: regimental, wedding, Ludmila in a studio setting — her hand poised somewhat unnaturally on the back of an ugly chair — hunting in Austria, a castle somewhere with a house party on the front steps, a holiday in the South of France, Egypt in front of the pyramids, this apartment building with the trees on the avenue noticeably younger: nothing for the last twenty years or so.
There was another album of photographic copies of many of the posters advertising past productions at The Tontine Theatre, but again nothing too recent. It was just so strange that none of us — his family, that is — knew anything of his secret life connected with the theatre. An investment in a building was one thing, but this was something different. Otherwise, apart from the volumes of military history (Julius Caesar to Prince Eugene and Napoleon, nothing afterwards) and the usual classics, some as school prizes — plus some surprising volumes of poetry — there was really nothing deeply personal. It appeared the old man had done a good job of wiping out his past, or at least all its intimate associations.
I decided to re-examine the writing table. I rummaged in the right-hand drawer first, putting my hands under the trinkets, trying to see if there were any hidden papers. Nothing but the lining paper in that one. The second drawer yielded the same result, other than some pens and pencils in a leather case, two small tins of snuff, a magnifying glass, a bunch of door keys and a clutch of old tickets — opera, theatre, concerts. So I crossed the room again and took a chance with one of the bottom drawers of the bookcase. Guarded by its gold and silver hoard, or so it seemed, I felt a flat envelope which I managed to withdraw without emptying the other contents.
It was a plain envelope, larger than for normal social correspondence. Inside was folded a second envelope, which had been torn open and was empty. Its postmark was Prague Central Office, and dated less than two weeks ago. The handwriting of Uncle’s address was a scrawl — the writer had clearly tried to disguise his or her hand, but I recognised it as having certain Russian characteristics and it was written with that same spidery thin nib and dated almost at the same time as the postcard to Father Svoboda. On the back of this envelope was written an address in pencil, in Uncle Berty’s hand. It was for a house in Jeseniova Street — 166 Jeseniova Street. But what had become of the letter?
It was very hot in the room. The window was shut tight and the curtain drawn to allow only a thin column of light. I touched the ceramic stove, which was cold — the heat was coming from hot water radiators and pipes. But maybe the old stove was still usable. I opened its door and, indeed, in the grate, were the ashes of papers, recently burnt by the look of them. Their contents, as innocent or incriminating smoke — for it made no difference by then — had been dispersed to the four winds.
I had a very light repast with Aunt Ludmila, mainly so as not to leave her lunching on her own — but that, she would have to get used to. I could summon up no appetite. It didn’t feel right, that room, the stain on the floor, the near presence of Uncle Berty — and then the contradiction: that apart from a scribbled address in pencil, I had learned nothing more about him whatsoever.
***
Father Svoboda was again taking confession at three. I could feel him tense when he saw me. I had waited until last, and it was by now nearly a quarter to four. I pushed the envelope from Uncle Berty’s study through the crack beneath the grille. The very sight of it made Father Svoboda draw breath.
“Did you receive a letter in a similar envelope, Father?”
“I did.”
“Can you tell me what kind of letter it was?”
“Yes. It was an extortion. A blackmail demand. I don’t know how they thought I could ever afford such a sum.”
“Did the blackmail involve this dancer, or perhaps the Jeseniova address?”
“It was a maison de passe, or slightly more — a kind of club. It had been set up some years ago by a man called Hammond, who had done something of the kind in London. He couldn’t go back there and wasn’t allowed in France either. I didn’t really like him.”
“But you did like what he offered?”
“To my shame…to my shame, I did.”
I could sense him shuffling uneasily on his seat.
He went on:
“Then nearly two years ago this Pilipenko appeared and Hammond went off. But six months ago he closed Number One-Six-Six. First it was the postcards from his wretched wife, and now these letters.”
***
Jeseniova turned out to be a street continuing out into the fields beyond the suburb of Žižkov. It was a road that wasn’t made-up and resembled more the country track of its origins. There were a few villas, some vegetable gardens, the bare trees of orchards and land lying in wait for speculators who would be “improving” this street as soon as the bustling populations of Vinohrady and Žižkov expanded outwards.
It had to be number 166, which we were now approaching. It was a small, drab villa standing on its own amidst vacant land. It appeared to be boarded-up. There was a “To Let” sign, with an agent’s address, on the rough planks which covered one of the front windows. Strange that this sordid building could have been any kind of place for pleasure. But men are strange in the way they must degrade themselves, as if making love wasn’t already an animal enough act even between husband and wife.
I can’t deny that I have noticed — and perhaps been fascinated by — the night butterflies who solicit for their trade quite brazenly at the top end of Wenceslas Square after dark and I can’t help noticing how old, addled, and ugly many of them are — yet many a good husband will take them, when at home he has an adoring wife who is still pretty enough. Perhaps the whole attraction is this sordid degradation which men seek — and women certainly do not.
I was about to call to the coachman to stop so that I could take the agent’s address when I noticed a figure — it was a woman — stepping out of a side door, very plainly dressed and carrying a large enamel jug for water. She was walking to a pump.
“Drive on,” I said to my coachman. He was new, I noticed. It was another wearisome sign of the times that the turnover of staff was so frequent. “Just drive on, then turn left or right then head back for home.”
But there weren’t any side turnings, and the poor coachman simply looked round at me from the box, wondering what to do.
“Just turn right round, then, and back the way we came.”
He wheeled the brougham round by a field entrance and we came trotting back past the house again. I was intent on looking forward, not appearing to be taking any notice of the house. However, the woman was now standing by the gate and she had been joined by a man. All I could observe, by not staring, was that she had rather thick black eyebrows. The man quickly turned away so that I was not able to see his face, but he had a head of wild black hair.
As we finally turned into Jindřišská Street I broke the habit of the last twelve months: “Drive on past home and drop me outside the Post Office.” This meant also passing the vulgar Palace Hotel, which I still refused to acknowledge as even existing. But I was in a hurry to get a telegram wired.
I couldn’t remember ever having been in the building before. The sending of mail or cables or the collection or dispatch of parcels was something Müller would send the hall-boy to do. I sat myself down at a writing desk and waited there. In due course an official came and took my instructions. I certainly had not intended to wait amongst the throng. The official soon returned with the form and I began to write my telegram to Vienna.
In my bag I had put the note that Violet Northcott had sent me, thanking me for the supper last week. Colonel and Mrs. James Northcott were the couple I had invited to soften my dislike of spending too much time alone with my mother. At least her thank you — what is called a “bread and butter” note in England — gave their address in Vienna, which I did not have. But violet ink! How tasteless, even for one called Violet.
Had it been a posted letter, I should have written:
Dear Mrs. Northcott,
It was so pleasant to make your acquaintance and to meet your husband again. During supper your husband mentioned that he had good connections with the Ambassador in St. Petersburg. I was wondering if he might be so good as to pass on a request for information concerning a certain dancer, a principal of the Imperial Court Ballet — one Vasily Pilipenko. Anything your friend might be able to tell me would be most helpful. I would appreciate this information at your earliest convenience.
In addition, in a parlour quiz recently the question arose: ‘What would the Kaiser want with the uniform of a British Field-Marshal?’ Do you think your husband might know the answer to this brain-teaser?
I am, yours most sincerely,
Beatrice von Falklenburg.
But since it was a telegram, paid by the word, after much scratching out and eventually after having acquired a fresh form, I sent the following:
THANKS LETTER STOP REQUEST INFORMATION FROM HUSBANDS PETERSBURG CONTACT CONCERNING IMPERIAL BALLET DANCER
VASILY PILIPENKO SOONEST REGARDING URGENT MATTER STOP ALSO WHAT DOES
KAISER WANT WITH OUR FIELDMARSHAL UNIFORM QUESTION VON FALKENBURG
Quite succinct in thirty-two words — who really needs the social niceties?
I walked back the two hundred or so metres to the Harrach Palace and got Müller to summon the young men for a meeting as soon as they could be found.
***
The watch on the theatre was still being maintained. The news was that the actor impersonating old Alois had now started coming in to run the theatre office on Monday and Wednesday mornings, but who was in overall charge there after the death of Duvalier remained a mystery.
“Then there’s the man with the red hair,” said little Honza Minor, “He’s back. And he has bought a small dog — a little terrier.”
The reappearance of Jenks was significant. I wondered if the dog needed a little paper slip, but a detective, I was discovering, couldn’t afford to ignore anything. I explained to the young men I also wanted the house at 166 Jeseniova watched, and to report to me any unusual comings and goings. At six-thirty, as the light was beginning to fade, they set off again to keep their vigils — happy, I supposed, for having a proper diet and gainful employment. I wondered if I should report the sighting of Jenks to Inspector Schneider. My decision on this could wait until tomorrow.
I was exhausted by the day. Uncle Berty’s study had thoroughly depressed me, as had thinking about the empty future of Aunt Ludmila, as if the past hadn’t probably been empty enough for her, as now I realised. I had undressed and was just preparing to go to sleep at almost ten o’clock when there was a knock on the door of my boudoir and I heard Sabine’s voice:
“They want you to come, Madame. They say something’s up at Number One-Six-Six — and that you’ll understand.”
I thanked Sabine and asked her to get my urchin’s outfit ready for me. In a minute it had been carefully laid-out for me as if it had been a precious evening gown from Worth. I had to stop Sabine from brushing it down! Putting it on was somewhat easier than anything from Worth, however. Oh how quickly a man can dress! In the space of three minutes I was running down the stairs to the front entrance. Müller was standing there, trying to do up his collar.
“I’ve already summoned the carriage, Milady,” he said, and then slightly under his breath he added, cocking a characteristic eyebrow: “Sabine has told me all about the outfit. You could have fooled me, if I hadn’t known it was you.”
There was a clattering of hooves and jingling of harness in the courtyard. Against the silence of the night it seemed all the more noisier.
“Why don’t you come, Müller? You’ll only be waiting for me otherwise. Can you bring a lantern?”
“Indeed, I would rather accompany Your Ladyship, yes. You may need rescuing again, Milady.”
Müller put a dark topcoat over his suit and thus looked only a little less like a butler on some lordly errand. The night was clear and crisp, frosty but dry. Jeseniova, when we got there, was already a part of the countryside: shadowy and still. Behind us the hill of Vitkov was alive with human activity, d
otted with gas and electric lamps and the illuminated cars of the electric tramways which were still plying the route back and forth to the Old Town.
We stopped the brougham a good way off, concealed by the darkness, and descended. The coachman blew out the lamps and stilled the horses. Jirka Minor had run the errand, while Jirka Major kept watch nearer the house. The two Honzas were engaged at the theatre. Jirka Minor wouldn’t tell us anything, as he wanted the bigger boy to tell us. Shortly before we got to the fence around the plot on which the infamous Number One-Six-Six stood, Jirka Major suddenly appeared out of the darkness.
“What is it?” Müller asked.
We could see the side door of the house was open. The gaslights were still burning and a great pool of yellowish light spilled out onto the rough ground — otherwise all was dark and silent.
“It’s like this, Mr. Müller,” Jirka Major began, “about an hour ago — the door being closed then — there was a great commotion inside. There was only a dim glimmer upstairs, coming from the light downstairs.”
Indeed, that much fainter light was still visible now. Both a downstairs and an upstairs room at the back had not been boarded up. Jirka Major continued his story:
“There was a woman’s scream — two, three screams. Then suddenly, out rushes a gentleman. Just a dark figure. He rushes past us, and up towards Žižkov. I didn’t think to follow him. It happened so quick. Then there was silence — just like it is now. And I thought we should send for you, as you had asked us.”
I thanked Jirkas Major and Minor and turned to Müller.
“Are you prepared to go in with me and find out what has happened, Müller?” I thought that sounded very brave and positive. In truth I was terrified. If Müller had declined, then we would have all gone home to our beds. But he said yes. He knelt down and lit the wick of the oil lantern, and when he stood up with it alight, I beckoned him forward. The two Jirkas were right behind us.
“Do you think they should see whatever’s inside?” I asked Müller.
The Countess of Prague Page 17