The Kill Fee

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  A smash of glass and raucous laughter from somewhere downstairs made him stiffen: it was closer than before. The man shut the safe, replaced the Rembrandt and hurried to the library door to listen. The laughter grew louder; someone was in the hall below him. He checked his mind’s eye to see if he had closed the French door properly – he had. Good. Confident he hadn’t been noticed, he had no reason to doubt he could slip out as quietly as he had come in. Yet something stopped him.

  Why was there no sound from the upper levels? No murmurs from the drawing room, no music, no crying of children and no sound of a bath being run above? Was it only the servants at home? Why then had they not turned out the upstairs lights? Since the February Revolution – and of course before that, during the war with Germany – fuel had been scarce. Even the wealthiest families were forced to economize. And he knew that this family – the Andreioviches – was no exception.

  He remembered the dinner party he had attended here in 1915, where the lady of the house proudly announced to her guests that there would only be four courses rather than five as part of their “war effort” and apologized for the smaller portions of poultry and beef. Everyone had applauded her for her loyalty to Mother Russia and said they were praying for the safe return of her husband. The gentleman of the house – Sergei Andreiovich – was a special military emissary of the tsar, his whereabouts unknown.

  Although the woman’s husband was gone, she wasn’t alone. Her unmarried brother lived with her, and her two boys would be in their mid-teens now. There was also her mother-in-law, a doughty cousin of the empress Maria Federovna, and of course little Anya. The man in the bearskin coat smiled as he remembered the girl’s face when he had given her the present he had brought to the party: a dachshund puppy. The mother had frowned her disapproval, but relented when the little poppet begged her to let “Fritzie” stay.

  But where were they all? The man knew he should leave, but his concern for the family prevented him. Another smash from below and a roar of laughter brought him to attention. It sounded as if someone was in the cellar smashing bottles – accidentally or on purpose he had no idea. With his thumb on the secret catch, he worked his way down the landing, peering around doors, searching for the family. On the first floor was the library – from where he had just come – the music room and family drawing room; on the second the bedrooms, bathrooms and nursery. The ground floor held the more formal reception rooms and conservatory, and downstairs the servants’ quarters, kitchen, scullery and cellar.

  The library, he knew, was clear. He peered into the music room – that too was unoccupied. Only the drawing room remained to be checked. As he pushed open one of the double doors with his cane his stomach rose to his throat. Splayed across the Persian carpet, divans and coffee table were the bodies of half a dozen people. He rushed in and knelt beside a woman in a yellow silk gown – the Countess Andreiovich, her throat slit, eyes staring. He scanned the other bodies for signs of life: there were none. Two teenage boys – their chests blasted open by a shotgun – an older man, probably their uncle, with gunshot wounds to the stomach and head, and an old lady whose throat had been hacked rather than slit. The sixth body was of a man in his sixties wearing livery – a loyal servant, a butler perhaps – with defensive wounds on his arms and a bullet through his temple.

  The man heard two people shouting: “Time to clear out; get what you can!” and then, “What should we do with them?” He could not fathom the reply. He flicked the catch on his cane and released the rapier, stepping over the bodies as he approached the door. He looked to left and right: the landing was still clear. Dare he try to go down the stairs? The voices sounded as though they were in the stairwell. Perhaps the window might be a better option. But as he walked back across the room his ears pricked at a sudden whimper and a stifled yap. It was coming from the sideboard. He checked over his shoulder, then approached the source of the noise. He listened again: silence. But he hadn’t imagined it. And there was, after all, one body missing.

  He carefully opened the door, whispering as soothingly as he could, “It’s all right; don’t be frightened,” and to his immense relief was met by the large brown eyes of a little girl and the growl of a small dog.

  “Shhh, Fritzie, shhh.”

  “Anya, don’t be frightened. We need to get out of here. Come.” He reached out his arms and the dog snapped at him. He pulled back.

  “Where’s Mama?”

  “Mama can’t come right now. But we need to get out.”

  “Are the bad men coming?”

  “Yes, the bad men are coming. But I’ll help you. Come.”

  He reached out again and grabbed the dog by the collar; it twisted around to bite him but couldn’t reach. Then he held out his hand and took Anya’s. Thankfully she came without any trouble. But as she stood up, her eyes widened in horror. She screamed. The man dropped the dog and slapped his hand over her mouth. Fritzie launched himself at him, baring his canines. He kicked him aside. Anya struggled against him. Then he heard someone running down the landing. Holding the child under one arm and clasping his rapier with the other, he turned to face the door.

  But instead of a gang of Bolsheviks there was an old lady, her face battered and bleeding.

  “Nana Ruthie!”

  “Put down that child,” said the woman in English.

  Although he understood her, the man did not comply but pointed his rapier at the old woman’s chest. She didn’t flinch.

  “Put her down,” she repeated in Russian.

  “The killers will be back. We have to go,” he replied in the same language.

  “And how do I know you are not one of them?”

  “You don’t. But you must trust me. I know the child’s name is Anya and I know the dog was a gift from a dinner party guest.”

  “Everyone knows that.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” He lowered the rapier and grabbed the old woman by the arm. “Take the girl and follow me.”

  The English nanny stood her ground for a moment, then complied. Anya ran to her and threw her face into the old woman’s skirts. The dog jumped up, and the old woman caught him in one arm.

  The man strode over to the doors, pulled them shut, then slotted a fire iron through the ornate double handles. It wouldn’t hold for long, but it was the best he could do. Then he went to the window and slashed at the drapes with his sword. He opened the balcony doors and dragged the shredded curtain out onto the small patio, then called the old woman and the child to him. They came, Anya snivelling and sobbing as they manoeuvred their way around the dead bodies.

  “I’ll lower you down. Can you hold on to the child?”

  The woman straightened her spine and stared at him with the condescension and forthrightness of her race: “I am an Englishwoman. I shall do whatever is necessary.”

  He didn’t answer, but tied the curtain cord around her waist. She gave quick instructions to Anya to hold on to Fritzie and then picked them up. With a nod, she was ready.

  The double doors rattled. A voice boomed: “Who’s in there? Open up now!” Then a loud thump as someone threw his weight against the shaky barricade. More shouts and the sound of a crowd gathering.

  The man hefted Nana Ruthie and the child onto the balustrade, braced his feet against the wall, and lowered them down. The doors to the room buckled, but he did not falter. Thankfully there was only one floor to descend and the cord slackened. As he looked down to see the old woman, child and dog safely on the lawn, the doors flew open. He gestured for the pair below to run, then turned, rapier in hand, and prayed that God would be merciful to his wretched, thieving soul.

  CHAPTER 2

  WEDNESDAY 17 OCTOBER 1920, LONDON

  Poppy Denby shuffled along the row with apologies to the gentlemen who rose to allow her to pass. Why Ike couldn’t have chosen a seat on the edge of the press pit, she didn’t know. But as she sat on the reserved seat next to the West Indian political editor, she realized he had positioned them perfectly:
three rows back and slap-bang in the middle. The man addressing the press briefing would not have to crane his neck up, down, left or right to see them. But why should she be surprised? Rollo would not have given Ike Garfield the most senior and influential position at The Globe – apart from his own job of managing editor – if he wasn’t more than capable.

  Poppy chastised herself for second-guessing the man and wondered if she still harboured a little jealousy that he had been given the job she had coveted. She who had only been a journalist five months! She smiled at her colleague – who was wearing a tartan bow-tie and tweed jacket – and whispered: “Sorry I’m late. Drama at the theatre.”

  Ike chuckled. “Don’t worry. These diplomatic types never start on time. Now how diplomatic is that?” Poppy laughed with him as she took off her coat and hung it on her chair. As she settled into her seat she felt something poke the small of her back. She turned around to see what it was and came eyeball to eyeball with the arts and entertainment editor of The Globe’s rival newspaper, The London Courier.

  The ferret like face of Lionel Saunders sneered at her and she noticed the toe of his highly polished shoe was poking into the back of her chair.

  “Excuse me, Mr Saunders; if you don’t mind…”

  He curled back his lip to meet his moustache and said: “Why ever would I mind, Miss Denby?” and poked his toe further into the back of the chair.

  Poppy was just about to put him in his place when Ike turned around and growled: “Back off, Saunders.”

  Saunders removed his foot. Poppy pursed her lips and bit back the “Thanks for the help but I had that in hand” retort, took a calming breath and retrieved her notebook and pencil from her satchel.

  This was Poppy’s first visit to the Russian embassy and as arts and entertainment editor she had been surprised when Rollo instructed her to accompany Ike. Politics wasn’t her patch, but apparently the press call had included an invitation to “cultural journalists” too. So the plush room, decorated with the calibre of art usually found in the National Gallery, was filled with journalists from a dozen newspapers eager to hear what combination of political and cultural news the Bolshies were going to serve up today. On the bus over from the West End Poppy had done some background reading and learned that the embassy was officially being run by representatives of the Russian Provisional Government – a coalition of Whites and Reds – but in reality the Whites, loyal to the monarchy, were being forced out. And if news from the Crimea of the White army’s imminent defeat was anything to go by, the embassy would soon be entirely Bolshevik.

  The hubbub in the room subsided as a man with a black goatee and slicked-back grey hair entered and took his place behind the lectern. He opened a file and placed some notes before him. Then, as if he were not keeping nigh on thirty journalists from his host country’s media waiting, he picked up the notes, shuffled them and then repositioned them again, patting them this way and that until he was finally satisfied. A murmur rose in the room and one or two men coughed their dissatisfaction.

  The man with the goatee did not respond but reached into his jacket pocket and removed a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that he carefully placed on his nose. Then he perused his notes.

  “Well I never. Outrageous manners!” Poppy recognized Lionel’s voice.

  “Get on with it!” someone else shouted.

  Then one or two of the men started to get up to leave.

  “I have summoned you here today…” The speaker’s Russian accent was pronounced, but his English fluent. He did not look up and he did not issue a word of apology.

  The men who were standing continued to stand with their arms folded, but did not leave.

  “I have summoned you here today…”

  “Summoned? Summoned?” It was Lionel again.

  “To issue a statement from my government in Moscow – the Central Committee – that the planned exhibition of stolen Russian art at the Crystal Palace is an insult to the Russian people.”

  “What do you intend to do about it?” Lionel called out.

  “The Central Committee has requested the British government declare the exhibition illegal.”

  “But the exhibition is being held at the behest of the royal family. The government will not interfere.” Lionel again.

  This time the man with the goatee looked up. “They can and they must – if they want the new Russian government to sign the Anglo-Soviet trade agreement.”

  “And you have told Mr Lloyd George this?” Lionel’s partner at The Courier enquired.

  “I have. No doubt 10 Downing Street will be issuing a statement about this soon.”

  “And the palace?” Ike piped up.

  “I have no interest in what the monarchists have to say. This is an issue between the people of Russia and the people of Great Britain, and their elected representatives.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but the Soviet government has not been elected. You have taken over by force!” It was a voice from the back of the room. Poppy couldn’t see who it was, but she thought it was the political editor from The Times.

  “You are indeed wrong. The Central Committee has been elected by representatives of the people of Russia. And – as you say here in England – it’s a jolly lot more democratic than the autocracy we had before.”

  A volley of questions was then fired from the floor and the man with the goatee answered them.

  “Is that Vasili Safin?” Poppy whispered to Ike. “The People’s Commissar for Foreign Trade?”

  “It is,” Ike whispered back, then rose to his feet. His basso profundo voice soon drowned out his fellow journos. “So, Mr Safin, to sum up: you have brought us here today to put pressure on our government to shut down the Crystal Palace exhibition. Is that correct?”

  “I have brought you here today to –”

  “But what if the exhibition goes ahead? What if the prime minister is unable – or unwilling – to convince the palace to withdraw their support? Will that put the Trade Agreement in jeopardy?”

  Safin removed his spectacles and pointed them at Ike. “Those are your words, Mr Garfield, not mine, but if that’s the line The Globe wants to take…” He gave a humourless smile. “Now, if there are no further questions I will –”

  “I have a question,” Poppy interjected, her voice loud, clear and high. If Safin was surprised, he didn’t show it.

  “Yes, the lady at the front.”

  “Poppy Denby, arts and entertainment editor at The Daily Globe.” The snort from Lionel did not throw her, nor did the lone wolf-whistle from the back of the room. She continued: “If, in your view, the worst case scenario happens and the British government is unable or unwilling to shut down this exhibition, what contingency plans have you in place to reclaim your national treasures?”

  “Well, I –”

  “Because that is the point of all this, isn’t it? These jewels and works of art are in the hands of private individuals – loyal to the late tsar and his family – and you believe they should be returned to Russia. Is that not correct, Mr Safin?”

  Safin straightened up and nodded. “Indeed that is correct, Miss Denby. They are our treasures and we will reclaim them.”

  “And what lengths are you prepared to go to to get them?” All heckling stopped. Every man in the room looked at the young blonde woman in the red dress.

  Safin smiled. Poppy didn’t know if it was out of respect or condescension. She didn’t really care as long as he answered her question.

  “Let’s just say we will not rest until they are finally returned to the people of Russia. We are indeed hopeful that the British government will co-operate with us on this. However, if they prove to be too weak to stand up to an old woman and her spineless son, we will demand the strictest security is implemented at the exhibition until such a time as we can negotiate their repatriation. And to that end may I introduce Comrade Andrei Nogovski, chief of security.”

  A tall, dark-haired man in his mid-thirties, dressed in a
slate-grey suit, white shirt and black tie, emerged from the wings as if in a theatrical performance. He shook hands with Safin and they exchanged a few words in Russian. Then Nogovski turned to the assembled journalists and announced in perfect, Oxbridge English: “The Commissar has other business to attend to, so from now on – in relation to the exhibition – I will be your point of contact at the embassy.” He raised both hands as if bestowing a spiritual blessing, and as he did, two secretarial assistants emerged, each carrying a pile of dossiers. They passed them out to the journalists.

  “You are now being handed an overview of the security plan which will come into play if – as Miss Denby has pointed out – your government fails to stop this insult to the people of Russia from taking place.” His coal-black eyes found Poppy’s in the crowd and he continued speaking while holding her gaze, explaining the highlights of the plan. Poppy felt a red flush rising from her neck to her face but refused to look away. Andrei Nogovski was probably the most handsome man she had ever seen. He radiated a self-assurance that was both disarming and alluring. She found herself wondering if he were married and then stopped herself immediately. What was she thinking? She and Globe photographer Daniel Rokeby were just beginning to get their relationship off the ground after a number of false starts. Yes, life in the romance department was more than rosy, so if…

  “Poppy, are you all right?” Ike interrupted her thoughts.

  Poppy turned from Nogovski to her colleague and gave a wan smile. “Yes, of course. I was just wondering why the Russians have gone to the trouble of having this security dossier printed for us if they are convinced they can influence Lloyd George to stop the exhibition.”

  “Exactly the question I will ask the prime minister when I see him later today.”

  “You have an interview with the prime minister?”

  The West Indian man grinned broadly, showing a set of teeth to rival Stonehenge. “Indeed I do. Marjorie Reynolds set it up.”