In the Mouth of the Tiger

by Lynette Silver

  I was suddenly violently sick. My mind spun and my body heaved, and then Denis was calming me as he always did. We sat on the side of the bed as I told him of my certainty, and then he hurried me into the bathroom and under a warm shower. ‘Leave this entirely to me, Nona,’ he said. ‘I’ll get a message to Malcolm immediately. You mustn’t be involved anymore or this could turn into a nightmare for you.’

  I went back to bed and lay shivering until Denis returned and took me in his arms. He had spoken to Malcolm, and the police would be on their way to Argyll Street immediately with all the equipment necessary to break up the concrete slab. ‘Malcolm’s a pretty good egg at heart, Nona,’ Denis said. ‘He could have insisted on getting a search warrant, which would have meant bringing your evidence out into the open. But he’s going to take a chance – bust the concrete open on his own say-so and pray you are right. If Tommy’s body is there, there will be no need for you to be involved any further.’

  I sighed deeply. ‘Tommy’s body will be there,’ I said. ‘I know it will. I feel so awful, Denis. Poor Tommy was there all the time and I never guessed. I used to practise the piano in the summerhouse and he was probably trying to tell me where he was but I didn’t listen. There is a piece I used to play. A piece by Rachmaninov. It has heavy chords and I used to have this vivid picture in my mind of nails being hammered into a coffin lid . . .’

  ‘Stop it, Nona,’ Denis said almost harshly. Then he smoothed my hair back gently from my forehead. ‘I want you to promise me you won’t brood about this business, darling. You can’t go back in time and change anything, so stop kicking yourself. You’ve done what you can for Tommy, and now it’s up to the police and the courts.’

  We told Tanya and Eugene the whole story at breakfast and they insisted that we stay another day. ‘You are in shock, Nona,’ Tanya said firmly. ‘You are as pale as a ghost. You mustn’t drive down to KL today. Stay with us and relax.’

  Denis looked at me seriously. ‘I think Tanya is quite right. In fact if I were you I’d spend the day in bed.’

  ‘The last thing you would do is stay in bed,’ I said smiling. ‘You would be up and doing something to get your mind off things.’

  ‘I’m having the Russian Nobles Society meeting here this afternoon,’ Tanya said quickly. ‘I’d love you to join us, Nona. I can promise you a fine old-fashioned Russian afternoon tea, and old man Popov is going to be talking about Saint Petersburg before the Revolution.’

  An afternoon in the company of pretentious Russian émigrés was the last thing I felt like, but Denis was nodding at me emphatically and so I acquiesced. ‘I suppose it will do my soul good to revisit my roots,’ I said with my tongue firmly in my cheek. I really had nothing in common with the nostalgic and rheumatic members of the Nobles Society. I had been a baby when I left Russia and of course had no memories to share or stories to tell. My knowledge of Russia was limited to what I had gleaned from Russian literature, or from the few hazy glimpses of dusty Astrakhan which Mother had vouchsafed in her less guarded moments.

  ‘Don’t be so cynical,’ Tanya said. ‘You are Russian, Nona, whether you like it or not. You are one of us.’

  I decided to make the best of a bad job, and put on my ‘garden party’ dress, a flowing white ensemble with a snakeskin belt and matching shoes. At least the distraction was taking my mind off Tommy. At three o’clock the cars began arriving, each crunching up to the porch and unloading fat overdressed men and women dripping in pearls. Denis had of course done a bunk, inventing some dubious appointment in town, so it was left to Tanya, Eugene and me to meet the guests as they arrived.

  We were mingling in the hallway when Prince Mikhail Gagarin came up and embraced me, kissing both of my cheeks. Prince Mikhail was a real prince, his lineage recognised by the British, and he was the undisputed head of the émigré community in northern Malaya. ‘We are indeed honoured to have our dear Nona amongst us,’ he boomed for everyone’s benefit. ‘Much of Russian history is woven around the story of the Orlovs, and Nona is a worthy and beautiful representative of her noble house.’

  I blushed and looked hard at the Prince, but he stared back without a hint of irony. Mother had given herself the Orlov name when she first arrived in Turkey from Astrakhan in 1919. Whether she really was a member of that illustrious family was something of a sore point in the Russian community. Several members of the society had scoffed at Mother’s claim to the name, and certainly it had never been substantiated. Whenever I had taxed her on the matter she had immediately hushed me with her standard response to any question about her past: ‘For why do you want to know about the past, Nona? The past is over. It is the future you must think about.’ But now here was Prince Mikhail himself publicly endorsing the claim. Mother would have been ecstatic.

  About thirty members of the society had turned up by the time tea was served from three giant samovars set up on the lawn facing the Straits of Malacca. We lounged in long steamer chairs while the uniformed houseboys circulated with scones and plates of Russian sweetmeats. At a signal from Tanya, the servants brought out a lectern and Boris Popov cleared his throat, shuffled a depressingly thick wad of notes, and launched into a long, maudlin story about his lost youth. Saint Petersburg, the lovely Summer Capital of Tsarist Russia, appeared in the epic only in a supporting role.

  Nearly two hours later sheer exhaustion brought his story to a tearful end (well, Popov was crying) and the guests got to their feet to stretch cramped muscles. I had been puzzled by Prince Gagarin’s ringing endorsement of myself as an Orlov and took the opportunity to confront him. ‘Thank you for what you said about me when you arrived,’ I said. ‘But I am a little puzzled. I thought that the only Orlov you recognised was Dr Orlov from Ipoh. What has changed? Have you discovered Mother’s origins?’

  The Prince looked at me for a long moment and then smiled. ‘Let us take a little walk,’ he said, steering me away from the milling group towards the low sea-wall, where he brushed the stonework pedantically with his handkerchief and invited me to be seated. It was clear that the little pantomime was designed to catch the attention of the other guests, and I saw them out of the corner of my eye agape at the signal honour afforded to me.

  ‘Dear girl,’ he began, sitting down carefully beside me. ‘Who we really are is known only to God. Who we are perceived to be is what is important. I want you to be perceived as an Orlov because as an Orlov you can serve Imperial Russia.’

  I gave a puzzled frown. ‘I am sorry, Prince Mikhail, but I have no idea what you are talking about. How can I serve Imperial Russia? I thought Imperial Russia had died with the Tsar.’

  The Prince shook his head. ‘Imperial Russia lives on. It lives on in the breasts of those of us who are fighting for its return. It lives on, I am convinced, in the breasts of ordinary Russian folk, the Russian folk who are suffering and dying under the yoke of Communism.’

  I sighed. Prince Mikhail was an intelligent man, and no doubt in most things a man of balanced views. But like so many others of his class he was deluded by the possibility that somehow or other the inexorable tide of history could be reversed so that Communism would be overcome and the power of the Tsar restored. ‘How exactly could I help?’ I asked carefully. ‘I have no power of my own, nor do I have important contacts who could promote your interests. I am only a mother with a small child to look after, and with another child on the way.’

  Prince Mikhail turned beguiling blue eyes on me. ‘You are more than that. I believe that you can give us very substantial help.’ He bent towards me and his voice dropped even further. ‘You see, I happen to know that you have the ear of British Intelligence . . .’

  I bridled at the words but the Prince held up a peremptory hand. ‘No, my dear, hear me out. We know for a fact that your Denis Elesmere-Elliott is connected to British Intelligence. It is almost what the English call an open secret. Because you are so close to Denis you could be invaluable to us.’

  I felt suddenly out of my depth. ‘You are not a
sking me to pass on British secrets to your people?’ I asked.

  The Prince looked pained. ‘My dear girl. Quite the reverse. We would like you to pass on our secrets to the British, in such a way that they will be taken seriously. You see, at present we are a laughing stock, and what we say is regarded as of little consequence. That is because of the foppish image we have chosen to foster, and because far too many of us are utter idiots like Boris Popov. But we are not all Boris Popovs, dreaming of yesterday while today rushes past us. We know precisely what we are doing, where we are going. And we have contacts that could be immensely useful to the British. Contacts in Russia with those who oppose Stalin. Contacts in China with the Nationalists. Even contacts with Tojo’s people in Japan.’

  ‘Why can’t you simply pass this information to the British yourselves?’ I asked.

  The Prince moved uncomfortably on his stone seat. ‘It is a matter of building trust and confidence. We would like to commence a dialogue with the British. A sensible dialogue, based on mutual self-interest. After all, do we not share with the British a mutual desire to bring down Communism?’

  ‘You are offering the British information,’ I said. ‘What would you want in return?’ It has its advantages, being young and naïve. One can sometimes ask the most direct questions without giving offence.

  ‘In the fullness of time we would want Britain to reconsider its antipathy towards the Germans and the Japanese. It is an unthinking antipathy that is not shared by all levels of British society.’ Prince Mikhail paused a moment, then put his hand on mine in a companionable way. ‘As you know, Nona, the real enemy of all the world is Communism. Not Fascism. Not the legitimate interests of the Japanese. The real enemy is Communism.’

  ‘I still don’t know what I can actually do to help,’ I said after a moment, regaining my hand carefully.

  ‘You can become an active – and prominent – spokesperson for our group. You can confide our aims and our qualities to Denis. He may well want to meet some of us one day, to see at first hand that we are not all ranting Popovs.’

  ‘I’ll certainly pass on what you have said to Denis,’ I said. ‘But to be perfectly honest, Prince Mikhail, I really don’t know if I want to become involved with émigré politics. I just don’t feel . . . I just don’t feel Russian enough.’

  The Prince clicked his tongue. ‘It grieves me to hear you say that,’ he said. ‘You are, after all, an Orlov with all that that implies. Just passing on my comments to Denis will not help at all. You must convert him to our cause. Persuade him with your own passion and commitment. Denis is a man with many important contacts, both here in Malaya and in London, and if you can bring him into our group you will have achieved something immensely important for Russia.’ He half-turned from me and frowned theatrically up into the sky. ‘I had no idea you would be here today, Nona. None at all. When I arrived and saw you amongst the throng, looking so cool and so lovely, I knew immediately that Almighty God had decided to favour our cause.’

  The bejewelled old dears made quite a fuss over me as they were leaving, one prune-faced countess actually curtseying. ‘You are our hope,’ she said, levering herself painfully to her feet. ‘Don’t let us down, Nona.’ It left a rather bitter taste in my mouth: these were the same women who in the past had sneered at Mother behind her back, calling her ‘the make-believe Orlov’.

  As we dressed for dinner that night I repeated to Denis every word of my conversation with Prince Mikhail. He listened carefully, then shook his head. ‘My advice is not to get mixed up with them,’ he said. ‘I suppose they have good reason to hate the Bolsheviks, but what they are promoting is awfully close to defeatism. Perhaps even treachery. For better or worse, Stalin’s Russia is here to stay – and England will need Russia on its side in the coming war.’

  ‘My instinct is to steer clear of them,’ I agreed. ‘But I think they might not let up on me too easily. They think that because I’m Russian, and an alien in this country, I should be on their side.’ I paused, thinking. ‘You know, they offered me a bribe,’ I said.

  Denis looked at me sharply. ‘What did they offer you?’

  ‘They offered me membership of the Orlov clan,’ I said, and Denis laughed.

  The afternoon had taken my mind off Tommy, but as soon as I closed my eyes that night he haunted my dreams. There was one particularly vivid dream in which I was playing my piano and the notes were not coming out properly. I opened the piano lid to see a tangle of bones amongst the wires, with a small skull grinning up at me. I awoke with a scream in my throat but choked it back, and then lay on the bed, shaking and covered with sweat. I managed to calm myself without waking Denis but there was no way on earth I could relax enough to go back to sleep. So I sat on our little verandah, waiting for the sunrise.

  The discovery of Tommy’s body was headlines in the Malay Mail: ‘Body of Missing Boy Found. Couple Charged with Murder’. I didn’t read the article, with its flattering photograph of Malcolm and its very unflattering photograph of the Ulrichs being hurried out of the Magistrate’s Court to a waiting van.

  It was on that day that we decided to leave KL, take a world trip, then settle in Singapore where Denis would open up an import-export company of his own. We made the momentous decision leaning on the rails of the car ferry during the crossing to Butterworth, and fleshed out our plans during the drive home through the gentle green hills of Perak. I remember that drive as clearly as if it were yesterday: Tony asleep on my lap, Miriam snoring softly in the back, and Denis and I quietly planning our bright new future as the engine hummed and coconut-trees, lakes and kampongs flicked past in an indolent, colourful procession.

  Denis didn’t waste any time putting our plans into action. He gave Guthries his notice the next day, and we spent the afternoon in the air-conditioned premises of the World Travel Service in Java Street, looking at forthcoming passenger sailings for Europe. I felt almost giddy at how fast things were moving and at one point turned to Denis with a mild flutter of panic. ‘Are you sure we aren’t rushing things?’ I asked anxiously. ‘You’re not doing this just to take my mind off poor Tommy?’

  ‘I want you to see the world before it gets torn apart,’ Denis said. ‘The experts think the balloon may go up before Christmas, so we haven’t got all that much time. So buck up and decide between the China and the Cathay.’

  There were a hundred practical things to do. Perhaps the worst was having to say goodbye to Ismail. Denis told him of our plans early the next morning and invited him to come with us to Singapore. Ismail saluted with great formality, a gesture so typical of the man that I knew precisely what it portended. ‘I cannot come with you, Tuan. My mother is close to the end of her days, my sister needs me because her husband is dead, and my betrothed would never leave Selangor. So Allah has decreed that we must part. I hope Allah will protect you in Singapore, which is full of cunning and unscrupulous men, most of them Chinese.’ And with that he had turned on his heel and walked away to work out his emotions polishing the Alvis.

  Denis sat down on the low wall of the porch, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully, then called Ismail back. ‘Allah may well have decreed that we part,’ he said in his rather stilted Dunlops’ Malay. ‘But he has not decreed that we cannot remain business partners. I need a good man to run a taxi here in KL while I am away, and I can think of nobody whom I could trust as much as you.’

  Ismail sat down gracefully beside Denis, the wet chamois still in his hand. ‘It is true that I would look after your taxi with great loyalty and skill,’ he said conversationally. ‘But would it not be better to invest in two taxis rather than one? If one taxi can earn a profit, two can earn twice that amount. And I have a cousin who would be an ideal taxi driver. His name is Ibrahim, named after the follower of the Prophet, and he is a reliable and honest man. He is also very interested in my widowed sister.’

  Denis dug out a flat yellow tin of Players cigarettes and offered one to Ismail before lighting up. ‘I would want both of our taxis registe
red in your name, Ismail,’ he said quietly. ‘No man can properly manage a small taxi company with another man always looking over his shoulder.’

  Ismail nodded thoughtfully. ‘That would be a very wise thing to do, Tuan,’ he said. ‘But in the eyes of your God and in the eyes of the True God, we would be partners.’

  It was only later, after he had dropped Denis off at the office and returned to take me shopping that Ismail allowed his emotions to get the better of him. ‘My heart breaks that you and Tuan are leaving,’ he said thickly as we set off. ‘Tuan’s offer to make me the owner of two fine taxis is no consolation for the pain I feel.’

  Soon we were in the heavy traffic of Batu Road, with Ismail still deeply upset. ‘I would have stood against the black leopard for him,’ he said turning to me earnestly. ‘I would have stood against the charge of an elephant . . .’ The Alvis weaved dangerously under the pressure of Ismail’s emotion and I saw a truck driver’s startled face as we missed him by inches.

  ‘I know of your loyalty, Ismail,’ I said urgently. ‘You have also stood beside me in my time of danger. But please slow down. Your worthy tears cloud your vision, and it would be sad if Tuan were to lose both his wife and his syce in a single day.’

  Denis brought home two bulky envelopes from the World Travel Service that night, and I opened them with the excitement of a child opening Christmas presents. We had first class tickets to Marseilles on the Cathay, an overnight rail ticket from Nice to Cherbourg, ferry tickets to Dover (oh, what echoes of Sir Percy Blakeney those tickets had for me!), and then tickets on the Queen Mary from Southampton to New York. ‘I’ve left open the dates of our return from America,’ Denis explained. ‘Just in case we decide to go up to Canada. I don’t know why but I’ve long had a yen to visit Ottawa.’