Katerina's Secret

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Yes, Mama.’

  ‘Has Monsieur Valery still not taken breakfast?’

  ‘No, Mama. I think he must have gone out early for some trip he forgot to tell us about. Oh, I must go and get the countess’s breakfast tray.’

  ‘Try not to let it take you more than half an hour,’ said Madame Michel.

  In Nice, Edward drove towards Heriot’s amid the morning traffic. He stopped first, however, to go into the municipal library again. He scanned the pages of a weighty tome entitled The Last Tsar of Russia. His reading began to absorb him. The portrait woven by the biographer of Nicholas and Alexandra produced an impression of autocrats entirely devoid of autocratic character or political insight. They were husband and wife, and they were parents, and as such they were faultless in their love, devotion and care. In all else, they were inadequate, it seemed. Nicholas was indecisive, Alexandra a dreamer.

  Edward turned to a long chapter describing the looks, the attributes and the characters of the children.

  The youngest, the Tsarevich Alexis, the heir to the throne, was, apparently, an engaging boy, with all a boy’s aptitude for mischief and pranks. He was also a figure of heartbreak to his parents, especially to Alexandra, who had transmitted to him the disease of haemophilia. His frequent illnesses had been critical, and Alexandra, in her mysticism, believed that only the charlatan monk, Rasputin, had the power to heal him.

  There were four daughters.

  Olga, Tatiana, Marie and Anastasia. Olga was the eldest, Anastasia the youngest. They were, according to the biographer, girls of great charm, all endearing in their different ways. The descriptions were detailed. Edward absorbed every line. Olga was enchanting because of her warmth and her shyness. Tatiana was sparkling and outgoing, her delight in life infectious. Marie was a lovely, blue-eyed romantic. Anastasia was a tease and a tomboy.

  Olga and Tatiana. Marie and Anastasia. And Livadia, their white palace in the Crimea, to which the whole family repaired as often as they could. There, Alexis and the girls found enchantment and bliss, and the happiness of growing up together, and of disporting together.

  Edward was spellbound.

  The sweetness of life for the girls was shattered in 1917, when Lenin and the Revolution arrived, and the Tsar and all his family were imprisoned, first at the Winter Palace in St Petersburg, then at Tobolsk in Siberia, and finally at Ekaterinburg in the menacing unfriendly Urals.

  Ekaterinburg. Where, apparently, they had all been executed, the Tsar, the Tsarina, the Tsarevich and the four lovely Grand Duchesses. Edward knew of it, of course. Everyone knew of it. But his reading of it became painful. There had been an attempt to rescue them, a failed attempt, it seemed.

  In the middle of the book, a selection of photographs held his eyes. They fascinated him, and there was one that brought incredulity to his spellbound mind.

  A failed rescue attempt? Edward thought of the young woman who had surfaced in Berlin several years ago, claiming to be Anastasia, a woman ill, with a wandering mind, it was declared, but who had once lucidly said, ‘I am who I am.’

  Now there was another woman, a woman of secrets. Edward left the library looking as if he had come face to face with the unbelievable. When he arrived at Heriot’s, he sat for five minutes, trying to orientate himself to what had been the main purpose of his journey. But incredulity was still uppermost when he got out of his car to look for someone who might help him. He did not go to the hire-department office, for he did not want to ask questions again of the man in charge. He began a survey of cars that were available for hire, with or without a chauffeur. He was approached by an employee who doubled as a sales assistant and a chauffeur. Edward opened up a conversation with him. He had his own easy way of communicating with people, and inside a few minutes the man was telling him, yes, sometimes clients who drove themselves were a little careless and did bring back cars scratched or damaged. Not often, but now and again. The winding, hilly coastal road, with its hairpin bends, was a hazard to certain drivers.

  Edward mentioned the Citroën that had been damaged several days ago.

  Ah, yes, the client had glanced a wall rather badly.

  Edward, explaining that his interest was personal, asked what the client was like. His informant, who had dealt with the original enquiry before referring to the manager, was quite happy to describe the man in question. Edward, not completely attentive up to that point, suddenly began to listen and to freeze. The description was unmistakable.

  He felt eyes on his back. He turned, his mind in turmoil because of the incredible and, now, the frightening. The manager of the hire department was watching him. He accorded Edward a polite nod of recognition, then disappeared into the office. There had been collusion, thought Edward.

  He left in a state of intense, painful urgency. The description he had just been given of the person who had tried to batter him and Katerina over the cliff made him board his car like a man who needed to catch up with time itself. God in heaven, he thought, the lunatic was there, at the Corniche, and Katerina—

  My God, I took her to the hotel to be safe, and the tiger’s sitting outside her door.

  He drove through Nice in a panic. Coming to his senses for a moment, he pulled sharply up outside an hotel. A telephone call, yes. The hotel, boasting a call box in its lobby, offered a lifeline to his drowning mind. He rang the Corniche. Celeste, a further lifeline, answered.

  ‘Celeste, listen,’ said Edward, his chest constricting.

  ‘Yes? Yes?’

  ‘Go to the countess’s room at once, please. Will you do that, will you let me know if she’s all right? Quickly, my angel – no questions – go at once.’

  ‘Immediately.’ Celeste, leaving the phone off the hook, went. She was back in half a minute. ‘She’s sitting beside her window, and is only interested in when you are coming back.’

  ‘Celeste, could you sit with her until then?’

  ‘But why, m’sieur?’

  ‘I can’t explain, not yet. If you’re very busy, then get her to lock the door. Will you do that? It’s very important.’

  ‘I see.’ Celeste did not quite see, but she did not argue.

  ‘Good girl. I’ll be back quite soon – I’m leaving Nice now.’

  He returned to the Bentley. The sky was as heavy with clouds as yesterday, and the air cool as he drove out of Nice and on to the coastal road at a speed he rarely permitted himself. He enjoyed his Bentley, his one extravagance, and he handled it carefully to avoid physical stress, and lovingly because of his pride in it.

  Compulsively rushing at bends in an attempt to shorten his journey began to do him no good at all. He realized, when his racked mind allowed him a moment of sanity, that his telephone call to Celeste had taken care of any immediate danger. He slowed, forcing himself to settle for his usual steady pace. Common sense, however, did not prevent the drive back becoming a test of nerves and patience. Or ease his lungs.

  Having spent almost ninety minutes in the library, it was well into lunchtime when he finally reached the Corniche. Turning into the entrance that led to the space for cars at the side of the hotel, he saw a knot of people on the front steps. Rosamund was among them, and so was Celeste. Everyone seemed to be talking to Jacques. Celeste, seeing Edward drive in, detached herself and hurried round to meet him as he parked his car. She opened the passenger door and slipped in beside him, her face pale and her eyes big with distress.

  ‘Edward,’ she gasped, ‘something dreadful—’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ he said, and his lungs caught fire. ‘Celeste, the countess—’

  ‘No, no – it’s Monsieur Valery. He’s dead. He was found at the foot of the cliffs, just like Dr Kandor, only on the beach next to ours.’

  ‘Valery? Valery?’ Edward looked at her in stark disbelief.

  ‘Yes. Isn’t it terrible?’ Celeste was white and shaken. ‘He may have been lying there all night, because his bed hasn’t been slept in and he never appeared for breakfast. And because it’s been
such a dull morning, no one has been on the beaches. Colonel Brecht decided to take a walk along the cliffs a little while ago, and saw the body down below. Oh, to have happened so soon after Dr Kandor, to have happened at all – people will think La Roche too dangerous to visit – oh, poor Monsieur Valery.’

  ‘My God,’ breathed Edward, ‘it’s unbelievable.’

  It was. The description he’d been given at Heriot’s had been unmistakably that of Valery. Slight and dapper, with his long nose, the nose that had pointed so often at the desirable Mademoiselle Dupont, as if she alone represented all he most wanted from life. She, intuitively perhaps, had utterly disliked him. How unlikeable indeed was any man who had deliberately attempted to send Katerina to a terrifying death. Edward decided he would not be at all surprised if the police discovered Valery was not French.

  ‘It’s terrible, terrible,’ said Celeste. She was trembling. He put an arm around her. She was agitatedly quick in the way she turned and put her face against his shoulder, her young body pressing close. He comforted her. There was no immediate worry about Katerina, none at all. Valery, who was out to murder her, and who had used the Corniche as a base, was gone as dramatically and cruelly as Dr Kandor. And Edward had no doubt it was primitive justice, no doubt it was Valery who had sent the doctor over the edge. The barking Alsatian had signalled an alien presence.

  But who had sent Valery over the edge?

  ‘Oh, my God,’ he said again.

  Celeste whispered, ‘Monsieur Valery would surely not have gone walking along the cliff top at night.’

  ‘He might, sweet one, he might have been out before dark. The police will have to find the answer. It isn’t for you to worry about.’

  Celeste cuddled close, loving his warmth and his comforting.

  ‘Jacques went down with Colonel Brecht to look at the body,’ she said, ‘and he’s just telephoned the gendarme in La Roche before going down to the beach again to guard poor Monsieur Valery until the gendarme arrives. That inspector from Nice will be here again, asking many questions. What will he think? Mama is so upset, for it will hardly do our hotel much good, will it?’

  ‘Your hotel will weather every storm, Celeste, for you and your mother make it a place of warmth and welcome.’

  ‘Some guests will leave, I’m sure.’

  ‘I’ll stay, Celeste. And so will Mrs Knight, I’m certain, and her friend, Colonel Brecht.’

  ‘Oh, I do love you,’ murmured Celeste, ‘I’m so happy whenever you’re here. I haven’t told the countess. She’s still in her room and knows nothing of this new unhappiness. She locked her door, as you wanted her to. She said she would not hesitate to do all you commanded of her.’

  ‘I don’t think she would have quite said that.’

  ‘Well, perhaps not quite.’ Celeste lifted her head and smiled wanly. ‘Oh, but it is terrible, isn’t it? First Dr Kandor and now Monsieur Valery.’

  ‘A tragic coincidence, my sweet,’ said Edward, determined to disclose very little to anybody and nothing at all to the police. If he informed them that Valery was a distinctly murderous character, they would ask a thousand questions, not only of him but of Katerina. Under no circumstances was he prepared to have her drawn into an investigation. He still felt stunned by what he had deduced from that book at the library. As far as he was concerned, Katerina was a woman who should be spared all questions, even his own. All her secrets, whatever they were, belonged only to her. If she ever decided to talk, he hoped it would be to him. If not, there must be no inquisition, no interrogation. He felt now that that was what Dr Kandor had tried to tell him. Dr Kandor had been murdered. That was a tragic fact, he felt. Valery was dead. That was an extraordinary but just sequel.

  ‘I’d better go and comfort Mama,’ said Celeste. ‘Lunch is quite ruined for everyone, and the whole day quite ruined for her.’

  ‘Celeste, is Monsieur Valery’s room locked?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you care to open it up for me so that I can take a quick look around?’

  ‘This is to do with Madame, isn’t it?’ said Celeste.

  ‘To do with our love for her, my infant.’

  ‘You must tell her that,’ said Celeste.

  ‘No, no—’

  ‘You haven’t seen what I have seen,’ said Celeste, ‘you haven’t seen how she looks at you.’

  ‘I’ve seen how your tongue wags,’ said Edward.

  ‘What do you expect to find in Monsieur Valery’s room?’ asked Celeste.

  ‘I don’t know, but I’d like to look.’

  ‘I’m very upset about things,’ said Celeste, ‘but such is my terrible curiosity that I’m bursting as well as upset.’

  ‘It’s all for the good of the countess, believe me,’ said Edward.

  Celeste regarded him in concern. He looked drawn and strained.

  ‘I’m not going to like it if you make yourself ill,’ she said.

  ‘Trust me not to make myself ill and not to do anything you wouldn’t do yourself. There, Celeste, how’s that?’

  ‘Oh, I would trust you always and for ever,’ she said.

  As they got out of the car, Gregory the gardener appeared. Edward’s eyes fastened on him. Gregory was Russian.

  ‘M’sieur, are you unwell?’ said the gardener, drawing his bushy brows together.

  ‘A little short of breath, that’s all,’ said Edward.

  ‘My arm, m’sieur, to see you into the hotel,’ said Gregory.

  ‘Thank you, no.’ Edward smiled. ‘I’ve Celeste with me.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Celeste and Edward entered the hotel. The lobby was empty. The guests were in the lounge, and the lounge was a buzz of shocked but active voices. Mademoiselle Dupont came out, accompanied by Colonel Brecht. She looked quite cold. The colonel looked quite troubled. She gave Edward a polite nod and left the hotel. The colonel sighed, shrugged and went up to his room.

  Celeste gave Edward the pass key to Valery’s room, and while he made his way up she went in search of her distressed mother.

  The room, on the first floor, was tidy. Edward probed quietly around, looking for something that might confirm Valery’s involvement in events concerning the Villa d’Azur. There were no papers, letters or documents of any kind. But on the floor of the wardrobe, partially concealed by a newspaper, was a cylindrical leather case, a foot long. It contained a bright expanding telescope. Edward replaced it, closed the wardrobe and left. He walked slowly downstairs and knocked on Katerina’s door.

  ‘Who is there, please?’ she called.

  ‘Edward.’

  She came at a rush, unlocking the door and opening it. Her eyes were bright.

  ‘Oh, I’m so glad to see you back,’ she said.

  ‘May I come in?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. He stepped inside. She closed the door. ‘Edward, Celeste told me—’

  ‘Yes, to lock your door.’ He did not want to agitate her. ‘I thought of you while I was in Nice, I thought it was something you ought to do, lock your door. It’s not only residents who walk in and out of hotels.’

  ‘That is very nice, you know, to have you think of me,’ said Katerina. ‘I – Edward, it’s been such a long morning without you and you’re late for lunch.’

  Her tray was on a table beside the window. She alone had enjoyed an undisturbed meal. He studied her with new eyes, the incredulity underlying the fascination. He thought about the book, about the Tsar, the last Tsar of all the Russias, and about the Tsar’s family, all supposedly executed in 1918. He remembered a particular photograph. He could not take in all that Katerina appeared to be, all she might be. The magnificent auburn hair, the clear grey eyes, the oval features, her classical beauty and the always natural air of regal elegance. Impossible, impossible. Or could one believe in miracles?

  One could when one remembered what had been happening, and when one thought about the high wall Dr Kandor had put around her.

  ‘Katerina—’


  ‘Edward, why are you looking at me like that?’ she asked. ‘And why are you so drawn and dark?’

  ‘Because no one will paint me in oils, I suppose,’ he said. ‘No, I was just wondering from whom you inherit such marvellous auburn hair.’

  Her lashes flickered.

  ‘From my grandmother, I think,’ she said lightly. ‘Edward, is something wrong? You really are looking at me very strangely.’

  ‘That’s because—’ He hesitated.

  ‘Say it, please. If it’s something I shall dislike, if it’s to do with a fault I have, you must tell me. I do have many imperfections, I know. So please be frank.’

  He smiled.

  ‘I was only going to say you’re very beautiful. I think you’ve always been so, haven’t you?’

  Katerina’s sensitive colour rushed.

  ‘Edward?’ Little vibrations were perceptible.

  ‘The family you served – the girls were beautiful too? As beautiful as you?’ He did not feel they were questions, just expressions of his wonder.

  ‘They were lovely, yes.’ Her lashes veiled her eyes. ‘Edward, is that what you think, that I’m beautiful?’

  ‘I’m sure you always have been,’ he said. ‘But you have enemies, haven’t you? We both know that, because of what happened to Dr Kandor. No, I’m not going to ask questions. However, I think you’re safer now, for the moment. So much so that after I’ve completed a couple of hours’ work this afternoon, I think you and I could go for a little drive. You must hate being confined to your room all day. Would you like to go out later? You can wear your veil.’

  ‘Edward, how good you are to me,’ she said. She did not ask why he felt she was safer. ‘I’ve lost my faithful doctor, my guardian, and I’m so grateful that I have you. A drive will be rapture. Yes, really. Thank you.’

  ‘We’ll drive and talk,’ he said. ‘You can tell me about Bulgaria – or Russia, if you like.’

  ‘Russia?’ The vibrations were very perceptible.

  ‘If you want to, Katerina.’