The Kill Fee

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  Eventually Selena straightened up and dabbed a lace handkerchief at her eyes. “E-excuse me. I must go powder my nose.” Then she flounced off, leaving Dot, Victor, Miss King and Poppy to admire the Fabergé eggs.

  “You’re a saint, Victor, a saint,” said Dot and giggled.

  “I hope she puts on a better performance in The Cherry Orchard,” said Delilah as she joined the group, slipping an arm into her father’s and kissing his cheek.

  “Oh, she’s marvellous on stage – just wait and see,” said Dot.

  “She’s not showing much promise in rehearsals, is she, Adam?”

  “Don’t be unkind, Delilah; she’s only been at it a few days,” said Adam Lane as he too joined the group.

  Delilah snuggled further into the crook of her father’s arm. “It looks like she’s been at it for years.”

  Despite herself, Poppy couldn’t help chuckling at her friend’s summation of Princess Selena Romanova Yusopova. One had to pity the woman – having to flee for her life from the Bolsheviks – but she wasn’t doing much to endear herself to her prospective daughter-in-law.

  Adam, the tallest of the group, suddenly stood up straight. “What ho, this looks like trouble… Didn’t someone say Selena and that bounder Felix Yusopov – the fellow who offed Rasputin – couldn’t stand the sight of each other?”

  “Loathe wouldn’t be too strong a word,” commented Delilah, standing on her toes to try to see what Adam was looking at.

  “Well, they’re on a collision course.”

  Poppy, although taller than Delilah, couldn’t see over the crowd either. “What’s happening?”

  “He’s with the empress, and Selena is going to pay her respects… no, no… she’s seen him and has changed direction… she’s heading towards…”

  “Adam dear, as delightful as you are at giving commentary, I think I’d rather talk about what I can see, not what I can’t,” said Dot and turned her chair to face the collection of Fabergé eggs. “What do you know about them, Poppy? You’re bound to have researched them for your article.”

  Poppy gently nudged the chastised Adam. “She didn’t mean it like that,” she whispered, before raising her voice and answering her aunt. “I have actually. They were made by the jeweller Peter Carl Fabergé and commissioned by the late – the current – oh, you know what I mean – they were commissioned by Tsar Nicholas’s father Alexander and then by Nicholas himself as presents for their wives and daughters. Every Easter since 1885 the Romanov women have received one of these splendidly jewelled eggs. There are around fifty of them in existence.”

  “Is it true some of them have secret compartments?” asked Dot, pushing her chair closer to the dais. One of the two guards flanking the Fabergé display stepped forward and politely asked Aunt Dot to move back. She did so, with a smile.

  “So I’ve been told,” said Poppy. “Apparently all of the imperial Easter eggs contained some kind of surprise. Did Selena mention anything about that to you, Mr Marconi?”

  “She did not,” said Victor. “But she only has one of them.”

  “What do you think it’s worth, Papa?” asked Delilah.

  “The big one could fetch around half a million pounds at auction. Perhaps more.”

  Adam whistled. “No wonder they’re so tight with their security.”

  And no wonder the Bolsheviks want them back, thought Poppy. She assessed the guards in front of her: British, definitely British. In the days since the press conference at the Russian embassy there had been a tiff between the White and Red Russians about who exactly would provide security for the exhibition. The Whites claimed the Reds’ offer to help protect the jewels – until such a time as their return to the people of Russia could be negotiated – was simply a ploy to steal them back. But the Reds insisted that the Whites could not be trusted with their nation’s treasure either. So it was reluctantly agreed that the London Metropolitan Police and a security detail from the Queen Mother’s Kensington Palace would be employed – although the latter was controversial, as the Queen Mother Alexandra was sister to the Russian empress Maria Federovna, mother of Tsar Nicholas II. However, as both of the royal sisters were attending the exhibition, the British government would not compromise on their safety – as Ike’s article in this morning’s Globe put it – and stood firm against the Bolsheviks’ demands to have the Household Cavalry removed.

  At that point Daniel arrived with his camera. “Daniel, darling! We’ve missed you,” said Aunt Dot. “When are you coming around for supper again?”

  “Whenever your niece asks me,” said Daniel and gave Poppy a kiss on her cheek. “You look breathtaking,” he whispered into her ear.

  Poppy felt a shiver of delight run down her spine.

  “Good to see you, old chap,” said Adam. “I was just going to get us all some drinks. Do you want anything?”

  “Not while I’m working, thanks,” said Daniel as he changed the bulb on his flash. One of the guards stepped forward and questioned him. In reply Daniel produced his press card. The guard stepped back. Adam went to the bar.

  “Do you need us to move?” asked Victor.

  “Not at all, Mr Marconi. I’ve already taken pictures of the exhibits – before the doors opened. I want some shots of people viewing them now. I’ve managed to get a great one of the sister empresses in front of that Da Vinci. But,” said Daniel with a wink at Poppy, “they are merely a warm-up act for the delectable Miss Dorothy Denby.”

  Aunt Dot threw up her hands in delight, then primped her hair and pouted her lips. “Ah, Mr Rokeby, I thought you’d never ask. Miss King, could you pass my compact, please? I do not intend to be outshone by an egg!”

  Everyone laughed as Aunt Dot’s companion dutifully passed her employer a mother-of-pearl make-up compact. But before Aunt Dot could start applying the powder the lights went out. A collective groan filled the room – just another in a series of repeated outages the guests had suffered throughout the autumn – followed by a litany of complaints about the London Power Company needing to get its act together. Then a momentary, deafening silence drowned by screams as a gunshot, and then another, echoed in the darkness.

  CHAPTER 8

  The sound reverberated in Poppy’s ears, and she felt a dead weight on her chest. Beyond the ringing she could hear screaming and the crashing of bodies into furniture. A voice amid the chaos shouted: “Stay calm, stay calm!” Easier said than done, thought Poppy as she tried to shift the weight – it groaned. There was someone on top of her.

  The lights came up and Poppy could make out a wheel about a foot from her. “Aunt Dot?”

  “Poppy? Oh Poppy! Are you all right?”

  The person on top of Poppy groaned again and rolled off. Or rather was lifted off. Daniel and one of the guards came into view.

  “He’s been shot!” said the guard. He settled his partner on the ground beside Poppy and began administering first aid.

  Daniel leaned into her. “Are you all right?”

  “I – I think so. I was just knocked off my feet.”

  “You’re covered in blood!”

  “Blood? Oh my! Has she been shot too? Poppy!”

  Poppy looked down to see her white satin dress stained red. “I – I – it’s not mine.” She rolled onto her knees, then crawled over to the shot man. “Is he all right?”

  “I think it’s just through the shoulder, miss.”

  “Here, let me look.” Daniel knelt down beside the man and examined the wound with the expert eye of a former soldier who had seen more than his fair share of bullet wounds. “He needs an ambulance.”

  “The shooter might still be out there,” whispered the guard, and he and Daniel scanned the hall like two Tommies in a trench.

  Still on her knees, Poppy took in the scene around her.

  The guests were milling around in varying degrees of confusion: some trying to catch the attention of the uniformed police swarming into the hall like stormtroopers; others helping friends who had fainted or fal
len, and still others trying to take cover behind whatever makeshift barricades they could find. Poppy had heard two blasts, but she couldn’t see anyone else who had been shot. Yet she couldn’t be sure. What if one of her friends was injured? What if someone else needed help? Before Daniel could stop her, she got to her feet and was swamped by her friends: Delilah, Victor Marconi, Aunt Dot, and even Miss King, clutched her to them.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” asked Delilah.

  “I’m fine,” said Poppy, relieved that they too were unharmed. And Daniel, thank God Daniel was safe. He looked up briefly from helping the injured guard, and nodded towards the dais. Poppy followed his gaze: the cushion where Selena’s Fabergé egg had nestled only minutes before was gone. So that’s what this was all about: they were caught in the middle of an armed robbery.

  Poppy looked around her, trying to judge whether they were in any further danger. The guard was right: the shooter could still be out there. She crouched down, pulling Delilah with her.

  “What should we do?” asked the young actress, her brown eyes wide with fear.

  “I don’t know, I –”

  Suddenly, armed Household Cavalry, with their characteristic horse-tail helmets, burst into the hall from every doorway, brandishing their rifles.

  “On the floor!” shouted an officer, completely ignoring a plain-clothes policeman who walked up to him, showing him his badge. Some of the guests complied; others simply put their hands up.

  A phalanx of cavalry officers swiftly located Queen Alexandra and Empress Maria Federovna, who had been herded into a corner by plain-clothes security guards. The two elderly ladies emerged from the scrum visibly shaken but unharmed, and were quickly ushered out of the hall.

  The rest of the guests were not so lucky. It would be two o’clock in the morning before those who had not managed to flee before the Household Cavalry closed their cordon around the Crystal Palace would be allowed to leave.

  Poppy and everyone else there knew that the body searches they were all subjected to were a waste of time. Whoever had shot the guard and stolen the egg was long gone, but the police still had to do their job.

  Heading up the questioning was the Metropolitan Police’s Detective Chief Inspector Jasper Martin from Scotland Yard, who happened to be at the exhibition with his wife and daughter. The ladies sat patiently in a corner, nibbling carrot sticks and sausage rolls, while DCI Martin took control.

  The guests were ushered into an adjacent hall while the exhibition staff took an inventory of the jewels and art exhibits. It took them half an hour to determine what Poppy already suspected: only the Fabergé egg was gone. At this news Princess Selena fainted, falling into the arms of a gaggle of gentlemen, including Victor Marconi. Poppy wondered for a moment where the princess had been during the robbery, as she did not recall seeing her when the lights came back on. Also “missing” was Adam Lane, who had gone to get drinks moments before the blackout. But as she, Aunt Dot, Miss King, Delilah and Victor shuffled into the adjacent hall Poppy saw him forcing his way through and sweeping Delilah up into his arms.

  Already in the hall were Ike and Doreen Garfield, Marjorie Reynolds and her son Oscar, Yasmin Reece-Lansdale and Rollo Rolandson. The latter looked absolutely delighted to be caught up in the story of the season and lost no time gathering his news team around him. Daniel joined them as soon as he had handed the guard over to the ambulance crew. His war-scarred hands were covered in blood and shook slightly as he clutched his camera case. “Get that developed as soon as we’re out of here,” Rollo instructed in a whisper. Daniel nodded his assent.

  Loud, foreign voices erupted in argument in the corner where Selena had fallen. Selena, no longer needing Victor’s support, appeared to be venting her spleen in Russian at Prince Felix Yusopov, who was giving as good as he got. Then another voice, in French – which at least Poppy could partially follow – joined Prince Felix in his attack on Selena. It was Princess Irina: “I told you that strumpet would steal the egg for herself. Treasure-keeper, my eye!”

  “Why would I steal it? How could I steal it?” demanded Selena in French, and flung her arms wide. “Search me, if you dare!”

  She then switched back to Russian. Whatever she said merely inflamed Irina more and the assassin’s wife threw herself at Selena. Rollo chuckled in delight and ordered Daniel to get some shots as Victor Marconi and Prince Felix vainly tried to keep the women apart.

  “Utterly disgraceful,” said Miss King; the first words she had spoken all night.

  The catfight was finally broken up by uniformed officers on the instructions of DCI Martin, the ladies and their respective gentlemen dutifully corralled into separate corners. Victor Marconi tried to leave to return to his daughter, Adam and Aunt Dot, but a burly sergeant stood in his way. The Maltese hotel magnate had the look of a hunted animal about him and visibly cringed as Selena clawed at his arm.

  “Poor Papa,” said Delilah.

  Aunt Dot giggled. “There go Selena’s wedding plans.”

  But then, as if there had not already been enough drama for one night, a set of double doors flew open and the dark figure of Comrade Andrei Nogovski burst in, flanked by two bodyguards who dwarfed every uniformed bobby in the room.

  “Who is in charge here?” His voice was not loud, but it rose above the hubbub with an intensity and authority that demanded instant attention.

  “Hmmm, who’s that?” Delilah whispered to Poppy.

  “Head of security from the Russian embassy,” Poppy whispered back.

  “Detective Chief Inspector Martin, Scotland Yard,” said the rotund and moustachioed head of the Met without putting his hand out for Nogovski to shake. “And who are you?” DCI Martin was half a foot shorter than Nogovski and barely came up to the chests of the two bodyguards, but he held his ground with a calm authority. He too did not need to raise his voice.

  “Comrade Andrei Nogovski, official representative of the People’s Commissar of Foreign Trade for the Russian Soviet Federalist Socialist Republic.”

  “You mean the Russian Provincial Government,” Martin corrected him like a schoolmaster.

  “I mean what I said.”

  “White or Red?” asked Martin.

  Nogovski’s eyes narrowed. The bodyguards’ backs tightened like drawn bows. “I am here to ensure the safe return of the missing egg to the people of Russia. I shall be joining your investigation.”

  Martin considered this for a moment, then said with a nod to left and right, “Red that corner, White that. Give your names to the constables and you’ll be questioned in turn.” He turned on his heel as if to walk away. Nogovski grabbed his shoulder. Instantly, half a dozen Met police officers launched themselves at the Russian, but were blocked by the giant bodyguards.

  Poppy heard Rollo gasp in delight. Out of her right eye she saw Daniel ready his camera.

  But all hopes of a rumble were dashed as Marjorie Reynolds, resplendent in a sapphire blue Jacques Worth creation, inserted herself between the two factions. “Marjorie Reynolds, minister to the Home Office. May I have a word with you, DCI Martin?”

  Martin’s moustache twitched; still, whatever he was thinking about being superseded by a woman he kept to himself. “Of course, Mrs Reynolds.”

  As the senior politician and policeman conferred, Nogovski and his men held their ground – and so did Martin’s Bobbies. No one else dared speak until Aunt Dot whispered sotto voce: “Go get ’em, Marjorie.” This elicited a few giggles from the crowd.

  A few minutes later Marjorie and Martin returned.

  “Mr Nogovski,” said the DCI, “Mrs Reynolds has assured me of your credentials and has requested that you – and your superior, Mr Safin – be given special diplomatic status as observers in this investigation. However, I will need your assurance that that’s all you will do: observe, not obstruct.”

  Nogovski thought about this for a moment and said: “I will do whatever is to the benefit of the people of Russia.”

  “That doe
s not reassure me, Nogovski.”

  “Well, that is all –”

  Marjorie Reynolds held up both hands. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, we can work out the parameters of Mr Nogovski’s and Mr Safin’s involvement in the morning. For now, can we agree that this will be a two-way investigation by the Metropolitan Police and the Russian embassy?”

  “A three-way investigation!” Marjorie, Martin and Nogovski spun around at the sound of a woman’s voice. Yasmin Reece-Lansdale, flanked by Felix and Irina Yusopov, approached the central group.

  Martin sighed. “And what’s your role in all this, Mrs Lansdale?”

  Yasmin, like a tawny desert lioness surveying its prey, narrowed her dark eyes. “It’s Reece-Lansdale, Ms. And I am the legal representative of the Romanov royal family – to whom the missing egg belongs.”

  “Since when?” shouted Rollo.

  “Since Prince Yusopov – at the request of Empress Maria Federovna – commissioned me.”

  “The Romanovs no longer have any legal standing in Russia. They do not represent the Russian people,” Nogovski declared, his voice tight with anger.

  “Ah, but they do have legal standing in the United Kingdom of Great Britain, where, Mr Nogovski, we still recognize the property rights of individuals. And,” said Yasmin, in anticipation of DCI Martin’s objection as he raised a finger in the air, “the British royal family will be paying for my services on behalf of their esteemed cousins. So if you have any further queries, Inspector, I suggest you take it up with them.”

  Martin looked at Marjorie. Marjorie shrugged.

  DCI Martin ran his hand through his hair, exhaled through tight lips, and said: “Right, Whites to the left; Reds to the right and Pinkos in the middle. Let’s get started.”

  The whole room let out another collective groan. It was going to be a long night.

  CHAPTER 9

  SUNDAY 21 OCTOBER 1920, LONDON

  The newsroom was busy for a Sunday. Normally only Rollo stalked the halls of The Globe on the Lord’s Day – and whichever hack had not managed to file their final copy on Saturday afternoon. The Globe did not have a regular Sunday release; the Monday early edition covered whatever happened on Saturdays, and the evening edition covered Sunday’s news.