The Kill Fee

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  “Well, as you might have guessed, this is my niece Poppy. My brother’s daughter. She’s from Morpeth, Norman. Near your neck of the woods. Poppy, this is Norman Veitch from Newcastle. He runs a fabulous little theatre there called The People.”

  “It’s the People’s Theatre,” said a kindly looking dark-haired gentleman in his forties. “Did you ever attend, Miss Denby? It’s on Percy Street.”

  “Unfortunately not, Mr Veitch. My parents did not approve of the theatre.”

  Aunt Dot giggled again. “Oh, if they could see you now.”

  Poppy’s heart sank. That was the last thing she would want. She had not seen her parents since she moved to London five months ago under the auspices of being her aunt’s companion. Her letters to them had been scant on details and loose on truth. They knew about her job on the newspaper, but not all that it entailed. She wasn’t quite sure how to put all that in a letter. So she was waiting until her next visit home to give them the full picture of her new life in London. She was not looking forward to it.

  “Norman is a good friend of George’s, isn’t he, George?”

  “Yes, he is. He and his brother Colin have been good enough to stage some of my plays,” a gruff, bearded man in his sixties commented in a Dublin brogue.

  “And this is George Bernard Shaw, the playwright. No doubt you’ll be covering some of his work in years to come, Poppy.”

  “It would be my honour,” said Poppy, trying to keep her voice casual. So this was the famous George Bernard Shaw. Poppy had read all about him in The Globe’s archives: socialist, supporter of women’s rights, vegetarian, teetotaller, atheist… apart from his views on alcohol, Poppy’s parents would have been appalled.

  “George and I met at a Fabian Society meeting. Must have been nigh on twelve years ago now, George, wasn’t it?” asked Dot.

  “Thirteen.”

  “Yes, it was Gloria who introduced us. Were you there, Victor?”

  “Unfortunately, I was not,” said a suave, olive-skinned gentleman. “Lovely to see you, Poppy.”

  “You too, Mr Marconi. I’m going out with Delilah later. Did she tell you?”

  Victor Marconi, the Maltese hotel magnate, laughed. “She might have, but I so easily lose track of my daughter’s comings and goings.”

  “Have you met her new beau?” probed Aunt Dot.

  Victor’s eyebrows met in the middle. “I have.”

  “And do you approve?”

  “The jury’s still out – as you English say.”

  This brought a laugh from everyone at the table – including the gruff Bernard Shaw.

  “Is he from a good family?” asked an exquisitely bejewelled fake-blonde, middle-aged woman sitting to the right of Victor Marconi, with the slightest hint of a Russian accent. She leaned in to him, her cleavage plump and white, offsetting a spectacular sapphire and diamond necklace.

  “I have yet to meet his family, principessa.”

  Shaw laughed coldly. “If by good, Selena, you mean ‘did his parents not send him off to boarding school or hire a nanny to make sure they hardly ever saw him?’, then I think he might be so low down the social ladder that you would never approve of them. And what’s it got to do with you anyway, unless you’re planning on trapping poor Victor here?”

  Princess Selena Romanova Yusopova – second cousin of Tsar Nicholas II, White Russian refugee and current guest star at the Old Vic Theatre – bit her lip and teared up.

  Victor cleared his throat. “There’s no need for that, Shaw.”

  “Yes, George, there’s no need for that. Let’s have a pleasant evening, shall we?”

  “Come now, Dot, surely this was exactly what you were expecting. You know my views on class and yet you invite me to a dinner party with a distant cousin of a dead despot.”

  Selena’s tears were becoming sobs. “Dear Nicky w-was not a despot. A-and there is no evidence that he – he’s d-dead. It never seemed to bother you before that he was – how did you phrase it? – a despot, and you were all too happy to take his money for the Paris run of your show, and – and –” Selena choked up, unable to continue.

  Victor patted her hand. “I think you should apologize, Shaw.”

  “Apologize? Whatever for?”

  Aunt Dot’s pretty pink nails tapped the damask tablecloth in mild annoyance. “For being rude, George. Selena is not responsible for her dear cousin’s politics – and she is here as my guest. On the other hand, though, I too do not agree with the way the Russian aristocrats ruled –”

  Selena gasped.

  “I’m sorry, Selena, but it’s true. You know my views on these things. And in George’s defence, politics has always been on the agenda at this house. So forgive him too, my dear; he is just doing what he normally does when he is here.”

  “You mean not being a gentleman!”

  “Well, yes –”

  “Then you must excuse me.” Selena stood up, nearly toppling her chair. Victor and Norman Veitch stood too. Shaw remained seated.

  “Let me escort you, principessa.” Victor looked at Dot. “Perhaps we can take sherry in the drawing room.” Dot nodded her approval.

  Selena simpered, raising a snort of derision from the Irish playwright.

  Victor shot him a poisonous glare, then took the Russian princess by the arm and escorted her out of the room.

  The butler, his face deadpan, opened then closed the door behind them.

  “Oh dear, George, look what you’ve done!”

  “Yes, George, that was very cruel, even for you,” tutted Marjorie.

  “Poor form, old man,” contributed Norman.

  Miss King and Poppy said nothing. What Miss King was thinking was difficult to tell – trained as she was to appear as wallpaper – but Poppy’s mind raced. An interview with George Bernard Shaw on his views on Russian politics as a side-piece to her spread on Stanislavski’s Cherry Orchard? She would run it by Rollo in the morning…

  Shaw raised his hands in mock defeat. “All right, all right, I’m sorry. But really, Dot, what else did you expect?”

  Dot sighed. “You’re a rogue, George. An Irish rogue.” Shaw laughed. “Guilty as charged. Shall we have the pudding now?”

  Everyone but Miss King laughed.

  “Mr Brown. What delights has cook prepared for us?” Dot asked.

  “Fruit salad, meringue and whipped cream, I believe, ma’am.”

  Aunt Dot rubbed her hands together in delight. “Oooooh, my favourite!” Then she frowned slightly. “We should keep some aside for Selena and Victor. Will you see to that, please, Mr Brown?”

  “Of course, Miss Denby,” said the butler and retreated from the room.

  “Poor Selena,” sighed Aunt Dot. “I didn’t even have a chance to introduce her to you properly, Poppy. She’s going to be staying here for a few weeks.”

  “She’s what?” Shaw could not disguise his incredulity.

  “Oh, do shut up, George,” said Marjorie in her best House of Commons debating voice.

  “Thank you, Marjorie,” said Dot. “She has nowhere else to go, dear. Victor brought her over from Malta with barely more than the clothes on her back.”

  “Did she come on the Marlborough with the other Romanovs?” asked Poppy, who had been keeping abreast of developments in the Russian Revolution.

  “She did. And Constantin – the dear man – has cast her to replace Bernice Boardman.” She turned to Norman to explain. “The poor woman was suffering from a bout of vertigo and fell into the orchestra pit. Broke her collarbone!”

  “Lucky for Stanislavski Selena was in town. She’s from the Bolshoi, isn’t she?” asked Norman.

  “You’ve heard of her?” said Dot.

  Norman grinned. “Newcastle does get the papers, Miss Denby. Things might have gone downhill since you left, but…”

  “Oh, you flatter me, Mr Veitch. Do go on.”

  But Poppy wanted to know more about the Russian actress. “Excuse me, Mr Veitch, but is it normal for a Russian royal
to be an actress?”

  “A lesser royal, dear,” said Marjorie. “But we mustn’t judge. In her own way, Selena is quite a progressive woman. Emmeline met her when she was visiting Lenin. Although the two of them had a blazing row, apparently…”

  “Did they really?” asked Dot, her eyes dancing at the thought of some gossip she had not yet heard.

  “Oh yes, you should ask her about it when she returns from New York.”

  Norman looked puzzled.

  “Emmeline Pankhurst,” said Poppy, helpfully. “The president of the Women’s Political and Suffrage Union.”

  “Of course,” said Norman, folding his napkin into four then placing it in front of his dessert spoon. Shaw, on the other hand, was folding his napkin into a fan.

  “Are we boring you, George, dear?”

  “Not at all, Dot. I love hearing about the filthy rich and their filthy lives.”

  “Oh, I don’t think she’s that rich…”

  “Didn’t you see her necklace?”

  “Of course, but perhaps that’s all she managed to get out when she was fleeing for her life. A woman needs a little nest egg…”

  “A Fabergé nest egg?” Poppy chirped.

  Everyone looked at her. She blushed, but continued. “Apparently they had Rembrandts and Fabergés in their luggage, and jewels sewn into their underwear! There’s going to be an exhibition this weekend. I think they’re hoping to raise money to fund their exile…”

  “Humph,” said Marjorie.

  “Humph, what?” asked Dot.

  “That exhibition is causing a diplomatic furore. Isn’t it, Poppy?”

  “It is. The Russians – the Red Russians, that is – are furious. They are threatening to cancel trade agreements and everything.”

  “The PM was just saying today…”

  But Marjorie’s elucidation of the goings on at the House of Commons was interrupted by the arrival of the pudding.

  Aunt Dot clapped her hands. “Tuck in, everyone!”

  And they did.

  CHAPTER 5

  King’s Road, Chelsea, was a hard place to get parked at night. At the top, opposite where Poppy and Aunt Dot lived, stood the Electric Cinema Theatre, which was currently showing Pollyanna, starring Mary Pickford; and at the bottom, two blocks from Delilah’s flat, was the hottest club in town: Oscar’s Jazz Club, which was showcasing the Original Dixieland Jazz Band on their London tour.

  Poppy usually dropped by Delilah’s flat on the way to the club, but this evening, due to the near-forgotten dinner party, she had rung her friend to tell her she would meet her inside – which was taking quite a while, as the queue for the club stretched halfway around the block. Delilah, a personal friend of the owner, Oscar Reynolds (son of Marjorie, whom Poppy had just dined with), always managed to jump the queue; but Poppy did not have the gumption to do so on her own. So it was nearly ten by the time Poppy got through the double brass doors.

  She took a moment to soak in the warmth of the place and rub some life back into her freezing hands.

  “Poppy! Let me take your coat. Surely you didn’t stand in the queue, did you?”

  It was Oscar, the host, in white tie and tails and wearing a gold monocle on one eye. Poppy passed him her black fur-trim overcoat, but kept her boa – partly to keep her warm, and partly to cover the alarmingly low plunging neckline that hadn’t seemed quite as low when she tried it on in the shop.

  “I did, Oscar; it was no trouble.”

  “But it’s freezing outside!”

  Poppy couldn’t argue with that.

  “Well, don’t do it again. You know I consider you one of my best guests and I can’t have you dying of hypothermia, now, can I? Your aunt would never forgive me. Or Mrs Wilson. How is she, by the way?”

  “I haven’t seen her for a few months, but Aunt Dot says she’s well enough.”

  “As well as one could be in prison, I assume.” Oscar shuddered. “Terrible business. Who would have thought she hid such secrets? Your aunt is a saint to forgive her.”

  “She and Grace are devoted to one another. And she did what she did out of misplaced loyalty.” Poppy didn’t want to talk about her aunt’s incarcerated companion any more. Unlike Aunt Dot, she wasn’t quite as forgiving of the former suffragette. Grace’s actions had hurt a lot of people, not least Delilah. So she changed the subject. “Your mother’s looking well. I just saw her at dinner.”

  “One of your aunt’s soirees! Who else was there?”

  Poppy went on to list the guests of the dinner party and, knowing Oscar delighted in vicarious gossip, told how George Bernard Shaw had just insulted the tsar of Russia’s cousin. True to form, he was titillated, but pretended to be outraged. “Poor Selena! I was hoping she’d drop by tonight – she’s quite a draw card – but apparently she won’t be seen dead in the same room as…”

  Oscar’s words were drowned by a hubbub at the door. Two doormen stood shoulder to shoulder, trying to prevent the entrance of someone. Oscar immediately went over to help. Poppy decided to leave them to it and go into the club. As she did, she caught a glimpse of a dark-haired man in black suit and overcoat: Comrade Andrei Nogovski, the security consultant from the Russian embassy. Oscar and the two doormen blocked his entrance.

  “He jumped the queue, governor!” explained one of the doormen.

  Nogovski, struggling to contain his temper, reached into his coat pocket and retrieved some papers. He showed them to Oscar and whispered quietly to him. Oscar stood bolt upright and stepped back, ushering Nogovski in. The Russian shrugged off the restraining hand of one of the doormen and strode in, sweeping past Poppy and into the club. Oscar followed. Poppy caught his arm as he passed. “Is everything all right, Oscar?”

  “Yes, yes, Poppy, don’t worry.” Then he cocked an ear and smiled, tuning in to the opening bars of a Dixieland ragtime number. “Ah, I see you’re just in time. Get in; it’ll be a showstopper!” He patted Poppy’s hand, then hurried after Nogovski, who was heading downstairs to the basement, which housed Oscar’s office and the club’s wine cellar.

  Poppy made a mental note to follow up Nogovski’s visit with Oscar when he was less harassed. Whatever it was, it seemed official, and there might just be a story in it. She would mention it to Rollo and Ike Garfield in the morning.

  For now, Poppy wanted nothing more than to relax and enjoy herself. She pushed open the swinging doors into the club proper to find two hundred people all turned towards the bandstand. As expected, the members of the Original Dixieland Jazz Band, all the way from New Orleans, lit up the stage; to Poppy’s surprise they were joined by an olive-skinned elfin beauty, the up-and-coming West End actress Delilah Marconi. Delilah, in a Japanese-inspired outfit with wide, kimono-style sleeves and Asian eye make-up, stood in front of the microphone. She began to sing “Swanee” in a throaty alto that wooed every man – and nearly every woman – in the room.

  As she brought the song to a close, Delilah threw herself off the stage into the arms of four men, who carried her around the room like a bird in flight. Had she prearranged it, Poppy wondered, or just jumped and hoped for the best?

  After a full circuit of the room the men put Delilah down. The moment her feet touched the floor she began to dance – and the men followed suit. She started by doing the Black Bottom, a freestyle solo dance, then took a partner and broke into the foxtrot. Poppy clapped with delight. Delilah had taught her the basics of the foxtrot in her flat, but Poppy had never seen it performed at full speed.

  Suddenly, a man was beside her: Adam Lane, Delilah’s boyfriend. “Are you on your own, Poppy? No Daniel?”

  “Unfortunately he’s working. Trying to get some snaps of Mary Pickford, I think.” And then, turning her attention to Delilah, “She’s marvellous, isn’t she?”

  “She is indeed. I shall reclaim her in a moment. But until then, would you do me the honour?”

  Poppy laughed. “You want to take a chance with my two left feet?”

  “Oh, you’re not th
at bad,” he grinned, then swept her into his arms. “Just follow me!”

  Poppy did her best not to stand on her partner’s toes, and eventually, after two or three “sorries”, she started to get the hang of it, and she and Adam were trotting around the room with the best of them. They intersected with Delilah and her partner; before she knew it, she and the young actress were swapped around and she found herself in the arms of another man, too exhilarated to notice who it was.

  As the music came to an uproarious end she collapsed into the nearest chair.

  Her partner stood over her and presented her boa, draped over his forearms. She took it with thanks, covering her cleavage as quickly as she could. The man laughed, and she noticed he was wearing heavy eye make-up, like a woman.

  “Here you all are!” Delilah skipped over to the table and plopped into the chair next to Poppy, closely followed by Adam. Then she called out across the dance floor to the bar: “Champers!” The barman waved to her.

  Poppy looked up at the man and smiled. “Thank you for the dance, but I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced, have we?”

  “Felix Yusopov,” said the man with a bow and only the slightest hint of a Russian accent.

  The name rang a bell, but Poppy could not quite place it. “Well, thank you for the dance, Mr Yusopov.”

  “That’s Prince Yusopov,” said a beautiful, dark-haired woman with a French accent. The woman placed her hand on the prince’s forearm in such a way that Poppy could not help but notice an ostentatious wedding ring.

  Suddenly realizing who the couple were, Poppy stood up and reached out her hand to the woman, hoping to defuse the situation. “I’m Poppy Denby. And I assume you are Princess Irina.”

  The woman nodded stiffly.

  “Well, thank you for lending me your husband; although, as you could see, we were just swept along in the dance.”

  The man patted his wife’s hand and smiled at Poppy. “Don’t worry, Miss Denby; Irina knows she can trust me. However, with such a beautiful woman as yourself, I might be tempted…”

  His wife glared at him.

  Poppy cringed inwardly. Was he deliberately trying to cause bad feeling between her and the princess?