Miss Blaine's Prefect and the Golden Samovar

by Olga Wjotas

  “Paying off your gambling debts, is it?” he said.

  I reflected that it wasn’t his fault that he had such a jaundiced view of humanity. He hadn’t had the advantages of being brought up in Morningside and having had the finest education in the world.

  “The letter,” I said with even greater deliberation, “is a message of condolence to a young man who has just lost someone very close to him.”

  The urchin jerked upright, his eyes snapping open. “You mean Sasha? You don’t waste no time, lady, do you?”

  “You know Sasha?”

  “Everyone knows Sasha! The countess’s ‘protégé.’” He sniggered loudly and I wondered yet again what it was about a perfectly innocent French word that provoked such a peculiar reaction. Perhaps to an uneducated child, anything in a foreign language would sound intrinsically humorous.

  “Sasha’s our hero,” the urchin went on. “We all wanna be just like him when we grow up.”

  It was really heartening that a small urchin, whom I might have associated with larceny, criminality and possibly even psychopathic violence, aspired to be charming and well-mannered. And I should do what I could to facilitate that.

  “First,” I said, “we now refer to the late countess. Second, of course I haven’t wasted any time in sending a message of condolence. It’s important to console the bereaved as quickly as possible.”

  “Oh, no offence, lady. Good on you. You get in there while the other old dears are still looking for their specs, let alone their writing paper.” He shot me a quick conspiratorial grin. “All I can say is you better be loaded. These ‘protégés’ don’t come cheap.” Sniggering loudly, he snatched the letter and a five-kopeck piece from my hand, and scampered off.

  It was a pity I wasn’t going to be around for longer, to teach him to speak properly. But my mission had only one more day to run. Now I had established that Sasha was of noble birth, and wealthy in his own right, all I had to do was get him engaged to Lidia.

  I could scarcely invite him to tea today, just after the letter of condolence, but I could get them both round tomorrow and throw an engagement party.

  Old Vatrushkin was just finishing washing up, and I ordered him to get on with his painting and not to come back under any circumstances. Then I went upstairs for some pianoforte practice.

  In honour of the band, which had played Beethoven’s 25 Schottische Lieder to such great effect after the countess’s demise, I adapted the score for piano and alto. I was just getting to Old Scotia, wake thy mountain strain when my superbly acute hearing caught the sound of quiet, almost stealthy footsteps coming up the stairs. I went out of the salon into the anteroom, preparing to yell at Old Vatrushkin for not painting.

  “Sasha!” I said. “What a lovely surprise! Sorry you had to let yourself in. I’ve given Old Vatrushkin the rest of the day off, and I see he’s been sensible enough to leave the front door open.”

  Sasha’s usual attractive smile was missing, and I realised I had been far too jaunty in the way I had greeted someone who had just lost a parent. Adopting a more serious tone and expression, I said, “So you got my letter? Come and have some tea – tea’s always good for shock.” I ushered him into the salon.

  There was the sound of more footsteps on the staircase, footsteps that were all too familiar.

  “Excuse me a minute,” I said, yet again leaving the salon for the anteroom. Old Vatrushkin stood there, his lamb’s wool cap clutched in one hand and a letter clutched in the other.

  This was seriously awkward. I couldn’t possibly let him know that Sasha was in the salon. He would start going on about how my life was at risk, and create an appalling scene. I had to get rid of him as quickly as possible.

  “Forgive me, your excellency!” he burst out. “I was just strolling nearby when a courier arrived with this letter and I felt it was my duty to bring it to you.”

  “Just strolling nearby?” I mimicked sarcastically.

  “I thought . . .” he mumbled, handing me the letter, “I thought your excellency might need me.”

  I deliberately hardened my tone. It was the only language Old Vatrushkin understood. Apart from French and Latin.

  “Do you remember what I said to you? That you were absolutely without question to take the rest of the day off to paint? You claimed you understood, but apparently you didn’t. Is there any way I can make it clearer?”

  Old Vatrushkin kept his eyes firmly on the ground, the lamb’s wool cap turning round and round in his nervous fingers.

  “Haven’t you wondered,” I asked, “where the maid is?”

  Old Vatrushkin stopped kneading his lamb’s wool cap and stood very still. “Emancipated?” he whispered.

  “Let’s just say my patience is not inexhaustible.” I grabbed him by the elbow and propelled him down the stairs. Then I pushed him outside, saying, “Orangery,” and locked the door behind him.

  As I went back upstairs, I opened the letter and began reading. It was written in a clear, bold hand that I immediately recognised as the same as the maid’s putative suicide note. So it was written by Dmitri Dmitrievich, the schoolmaster.

  “Dear Madam,” it began, “We hope you are well. We are all well and enjoyed the funeral for my wretch of a daughter, especially the pudding. Thank you for the catafalque. We have spoken to the schoolmaster (who with his wife sends you their very good wishes but of course is only writing this and not reading it) who confirms that it was a big, sinister, bearded man who came to ask him to write a note (which of course he did not read), not my wretch of a daughter. It is a great comfort to know that she was murdered and did not take her own life because we all loathed her and could cheerfully have murdered her. We would love to have you visit again but the priest says you must remember your promise never to return.

  Anisya Federovna, Housekeeper.”

  I remember thinking what a nice letter it was. I remember thinking that it was very rude of me to leave Sasha by himself in the salon. I remember a damp pungent cloth being clamped over my nose and mouth. My second-last thought, before I lost consciousness, was that this was another useful clue: chloroform, invented 1831. And my last thought was that if I hadn’t been so star-struck over Beethoven, I would have remembered that he had died in 1827 . . .

  Thirteen

  It was the most wonderful dream. I was in the arms of one of Scotland’s best known and accomplished actors who was covering my face in tender yet passionate kisses.

  “No,” I protested weakly, “I’m on a mission. We mustn’t–”

  Fortunately, he ignored me. But I gradually became aware of an unpleasant odour. The actor’s talent and attractiveness couldn’t mask intense halitosis. I tried to extricate myself but the kissing continued.

  “Mission!” I protested. “Stop!”

  My eyelids fluttered open and I found myself staring at the animated floormop, who was enthusiastically licking my face. When he saw me wake up, he stopped and panted, open-mouthed, releasing another miasma of bacteria.

  I tried to shift to dislodge the malodorous creature. But I discovered that my arms and legs were firmly pinioned. There was no point in struggling; I would only exhaust myself. But what had happened to me? My mouth was dry and I felt nauseous. I was lying in the anteroom. That’s where I had been, reading a letter. There had been something in it . . . yes, the maid hadn’t drowned herself, a big, sinister beardie bloke had dictated the purported suicide note to the schoolmaster.

  I had glimpsed something out of the corner of my eye . . . something odd, something I couldn’t quite remember. I rolled over to look round the room but could see nothing that jogged my memory.

  Tresorka jumped on top of me, wanting to play. And then I noticed another smell. Two other smells. Singed fur and smoke. The animated floormop appeared to be scorched round the edges.

  “Tresorka, what happened to you?” I whispered. �
�Are you all right?” The floormop panted fetidly some more, his other end quivering to indicate tail-wagging. After the Countess’s demise, nobody would take responsibility for the poor creature, and he had sought me out as his best source of help. Except I wasn’t currently in a position to be that helpful.

  The smell of smoke was becoming more intense. I rolled round to see that at the bottom of the marble staircase, flames were beginning to emerge from my wood-panelled bedroom and were illuminating the hallway.

  “You ran through the fire to get to me?” I asked. “What a good dog!”

  Tresorka was quivering so much that he was in danger of causing a draught, which would spread the blaze faster. But who had set the fire and tied me up? The prime suspects would have been the count and countess, but they were both deceased. And I had been alone in the house with Sasha after sending Old Vatrushkin off to the orangery.

  It was then that the truth hit me. They say your blood runs cold, and despite the increasing heat as the fire crept up the staircase towards us, I shivered. I had been betrayed, betrayed even more badly than the school had been by Muriel Spark. Old Vatrushkin, whom I had thought so devoted, whom I had thought was my friend, was nothing but a callous, calculating killer. And the reason was obvious. If I died, there was no will, and Old Vatrushkin would win the ultimate honour for a serf, being owned by the tsar.

  I had told him where the duel was taking place: he was the one who had shot at me. He had been in hiding then, but he had been hiding in plain sight when I fell downstairs. He tried to convince me that Sasha was strangling me, but it had been him all the time. The hands round my throat had been his, and he had attacked Sasha for trying to protect me.

  Then there was the maid. She had never been the assassination target – I was. Old Vatrushkin had got on the train with us, wearing that ludicrous fake beard to conceal his own hirsuteness. Then, after mistakenly drowning the maid, he attempted to drown me. That was why he didn’t know what had been happening in town – he hadn’t been in town. And that was why I had gone into defensive mode when I saw him at the station. At a subliminal level, I knew Old Vatrushkin was a very bad man.

  Now, with diabolical cunning, he had left me trussed up like a wild boar to be roasted alive. My bonds would be burned as well as me, and in an era before proper forensic investigation, people would just assume the fire was caused by a faulty domestic appliance such as a samovar or, worse, that I’d been smoking in bed.

  If Tresorka hadn’t managed to rouse me from my chloroformed daze, it might have been too late. In fact, it might still be too late. I would be incinerated if I stayed here at the top of the stairs. My only hope was to reach the salon and try to close the double doors behind me. The salon. Sasha had been in the salon. What had Old Vatrushkin done to him?

  I couldn’t waste more time trying to loosen my bonds. With a vigorous eel-like motion, I juddered my way along the floor of the anteroom into the salon, Tresorka frolicking around me and over me. I got through the doors and slammed them with an effortful kick.

  “Sasha!” I called. There was no reply. I rolled this way and that, scanning every part of the room, but there was no sign of him. I forced myself not to imagine what terrible fate might have befallen him. He was brave, he was strong, he was resourceful. He would have escaped Old Vatrushkin’s murderous attack and was probably even now alerting whatever rudimentary emergency services there were.

  But as the fire continued to take hold, I couldn’t wait. The windows. I had to break the windows. And first I had to free myself. I could easily smash the glass with my DMs, but the individual panes were too small for me to get through. I needed my hands to open an entire sash. And then I was faced with the conundrum of how to get from the first-floor window ledge to the ground without going splat. There was another imperative as well, arguably more important than saving my own life – saving Tresorka.

  Smoke was beginning to creep into the room. I knew it was important to keep as close to the floor as possible to avoid smoke inhalation, so it was quite useful not to be able to get to my feet. I struggled as forcefully as I could against the ropes binding me, but there was no give whatsoever. Tresorka, who was obviously much smarter than the average lapdog, got behind me and started trying to nibble through them, but it was immediately apparent that his minuscule teeth would have no effect.

  I was lying there beginning to feel quite sorry for myself when my gaze fell on the golden samovar. The golden samovar adorned with an eagle with a razor-sharp beak. I congratulated myself on my foresight in forbidding Old Vatrushkin to file it down.

  I zig-zagged over to it and managed to haul myself into a kneeling position, my arms still tightly tied behind me. My knowledge of first aid had made me very aware that severing an artery was a serious matter, so I raised my wrists up extremely carefully to the eagle’s beak and started rubbing the rope against it. The smoke was thickening, my lungs protesting, but I forced myself to go slowly. Haste could result in the loss of one or more fingers. And if I escaped with my life, I still wanted to be able to play the piano.

  I shot a brief, regretful look at the pianoforte, which was about to be immolated. I thought back to how I had played it that first evening in my new home, and, scarcely realising what I was doing, I began to hum the school song. The majestic, inspiring tune gave me the perfect rhythm to rub the ropes against the cuspidate beak. And at the third repetition of Marcia Blaine’s name, the bonds round my wrists gave way, and I was able to unfasten the ropes round my ankles. I ripped up the nearest cushion cover, soaking it in water from the samovar and holding it over my nose to help my breathing. Tresorka, who was as close to the ground as possible without being an actual rug, was doing much better.

  I staggered to the window, wrestled with the catch, opened it and looked out. The classical dimensions of the house meant it was a very long way to the ground.

  Someone was looking back up at me. “Your house is on fire,” said Nanny.

  “Yes, thank you, Nanny, I’m aware,” I said. “There’s a dog here that needs rescuing. Could you hold out your apron, and I’ll throw him down.”

  Nanny clutched the corners of her apron as tightly as possible. I kissed Tresorka on the nose, told him everything was going to be all right, and then flung him out of the window with the élan of my winning ace during the school tennis championships. Tresorka landed in the apron, bounced slightly, landed back in the apron again, licked Nanny’s hand, and then scrambled out onto the ground, looking up expectantly at me.

  I could scarcely try the same tactic myself or I would squash Nanny as comprehensively as the countess had squashed the visitors from the provinces.

  And then inspiration struck. “Nanny,” I said, “have you got your knitting?”

  Nanny flourished her needles, from which hung a very small amount of work. “I’m knitting another fichu,” she announced.

  “Could you knit it a bit longer?”

  Nanny considered this. “If it’s a bit longer, it won’t be a fichu.”

  “Then could you knit a long sock?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t do socks. It’s the heels, I don’t have the right needles.”

  Flames were beginning to appear under the doors from the anteroom.

  I tried to keep my voice steady. “Could you just do some long knitting?”

  “I’ve only got green wool.”

  “Green is fine,” I said. “And could you do it fairly fast? I need to climb down it before I burn to death.”

  “You want to climb down it? Bless you, my knitting will never take your weight. It’s not as though you’re slim like my little chicken. I’ll have to find something else.”

  She disappeared round the side of the house, Tresorka trotting after her, as smoke swirled round me and the blistered door began to creak and curve inwards. I had two choices: I could stay, and perish in the blaze, or jump, and be smashed to pieces. A
s I stood there, contemplating my imminent demise, it struck me that this was the price of failure. Time had all but run out for the completion of my mission, and I had achieved nothing.

  I bowed my head. “I’m sorry, Miss Blaine,” I murmured. “I’ve let you down. I’ve let the school down. Worst of all, I’ve let myself down.”

  The double doors fell inwards with a crash and flames soared in, darting up the curtains, engulfing the cushioned armchairs, overwhelming the pianoforte. The words continued to echo in my head: “Let myself down let myself down let myself down . . . ”

  In a futile attempt to escape my fate, I tore off a length of smouldering curtain and fastened it to the samovar, which I wedged beside the window. I grabbed the charred material, stepped on to the window ledge, and let myself down.

  This is never going to work, I thought. I was right. The curtain shredded between my fingers and I plummeted to earth. Earth that was softer and more yielding than I had anticipated. The Founder had given me another chance.

  “There,” said Nanny. “That was more sensible than ruining my knitting. You can apologise to your coachman for ruining his horse’s hay.”

  “Nanny,” I said, “you’re a lifesaver.” For once, I didn’t mean it metaphorically. “I know things have been a bit difficult between us recently, but I want to say–”

  “No, don’t say anything!” she interrupted. “I cannot talk to you about – about the things I cannot talk to you about.”

  The power of Miss Blaine must still have been lingering. A series of images crowded into my mind, images I hadn’t quite been able to remember. When Nanny had turned so peculiar, summoning me to her room and then refusing to talk to me, I had felt there was something different about her room, but I couldn’t work out what. I knew now. Her icon of the crinose Saint Volosiya was missing.

  I had thought I saw Sasha in the driveway long after he was supposed to have left. And he had been carrying something, something the size and shape of an icon.

  And then I remembered something else. What I had glimpsed just before I was chloroformed. A reflection in the burnished gold samovar of Sasha’s head spinning round and round.