The Kill Fee

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  “Not all about you, Miss Denby. Only what you wrote in The Globe.”

  Poppy doubted that very much.

  “It was quite a scoop, wasn’t it, the Dorchester exposé?”

  “It was a tragic story that needed to be exposed.”

  “Well, Miss Denby, I think you did an admirable job.”

  “Thank you, Mr Nogovski.”

  Poppy and Nogovski stepped aside to allow a group of giggling Bright Young Things in fancy dress pass by. One of them – dressed like an Egyptian pharaoh – greeted Poppy. She couldn’t place where she’d met him – some exhibition or book launch, probably, or possibly out on the tiles with Delilah. She wished him and his friends a good evening.

  Nogovski did not appear impressed.

  “Bourgeois excess?” Poppy teased.

  “Indeed. Back home, people their age are fighting to have a just society.”

  “We’ve had enough of fighting here,” observed Poppy, a note of irritation creeping into her voice. It was time to take control.

  “What is your interest in Victor Marconi?”

  Nogovski’s arm tensed. No, he did not like it when someone else took the lead. She did not give a fig. It was after ten o’clock and she had been at work since nine that morning. And she still needed to catch up on her lost sleep from Saturday night.

  “I’ve told you. It’s in connection with Selena.”

  “And what is your interest in Selena?”

  “You mean other than she might have been involved in the theft of treasures from the Russian people?”

  Ah, so she had been on the right track with that. “Yes, other than that.”

  Nogovski stopped walking. His arm tightened on Poppy’s. She would not be able to break free if she chose to. She told herself to stay calm.

  “Selena Romanova Yusopova was a Russian national. Her death is naturally of interest to the Russian embassy. I am simply doing my duty in trying to find out what happened to her.”

  “So you’re helping the police with their enquiries?”

  Nogovski chuckled. His arm relaxed. “As much as I can. DCI Martin has lots of questions.”

  “Somehow, Mr Nogovski, I don’t think you will give him many answers.”

  “And why do you think that, Miss Denby?”

  “Because you have another agenda.”

  “As do you.”

  She could not deny that. They were approaching 137 King’s Road and she still did not have much information from him. “So, Victor Marconi…”

  “Ah yes. Do you not find it strange that Marconi left the country the day after the theft at the exhibition?”

  “I do not. He would have had his berth booked for weeks. Hang on, are you implying…”

  “That Victor Marconi might have been in cahoots with Selena to steal the Fabergé egg?”

  Poppy wrenched her arm from Nogovski’s and perched her hands on her hips. “I’ve never heard such codswallop in my life!”

  Nogovski threw back his head and laughed. “Codswallop? Oh Miss Denby, you are a breath of fresh air.”

  Poppy sucked in her breath, preparing to give Nogovski a piece of her mind.

  He held up his hand. “Hold on, hear me out. Let me get one thing straight. I do not think your friend’s father had anything to do with this, but I know for a fact that that is a line of enquiry the Metropolitan Police are following.”

  Poppy started to release her breath, slowly.

  “So I have a proposal for you.”

  “A proposal?”

  “You are a formidable investigative journalist, Miss Denby, for one so young. I was highly impressed with what you did on the Dorchester story. I reckon you will no doubt get to the bottom of this one in due course too. So I would like to work with you.”

  Poppy squared up to him and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “And what’s in it for me?”

  “Access to information. I’ll tell you whatever I can. Selena was a Russian national. We have files.”

  Poppy considered this for a moment. No doubt those files would be highly redacted, but they could prove useful. As could a source in the Russian embassy – whatever his true motives for courting her. She doubted that Lionel Saunders from The Courier had been made the same offer. But if she didn’t take it, perhaps he might be next on Nogovski’s list. Rollo would never forgive her if she let this one slip. She chewed her lip. “And you? What do you hope to get out of it?”

  “I’ve told you. You have a knack of getting to the bottom of stories. We need to wrap this up as quickly as possible. We need to retrieve the Fabergé egg and return it to the Russian people.”

  She doubted that was his only reason, but she let it pass. Her newshound nose was twitching: he’d laid a scent and she couldn’t wait to follow it.

  “All right, Mr Nogovski. Let’s see if you can put your money where your mouth is. Bring your files to The Globe office tomorrow and my editor and I will see if there’s anything in there worth following.”

  Nogovski laughed as a cream Jaguar pulled up to the kerb. “I don’t think that would be the best way of approaching it.”

  Marjorie Reynolds stepped out of the motor as Nogovski continued: “I’ll tell you what: meet me at Oscar’s tomorrow night for a drink and we can talk about the parameters of our – er – relationship then. Good evening, Mrs Reynolds.” He doffed his hat at the Home Office minister.

  “Comrade Nogovski. Poppy. Is everything all right here?” asked Marjorie, approaching the two young people.

  Poppy fixed a smile on her face and turned to the older woman. “Of course. Mr Nogovski is just answering a few questions I had for him for a story we’re running. As a – er – representative of the Russian embassy. About Princess Selena.”

  “Poor Selena,” said Marjorie. “I’m sure your aunt is devastated. Is she in? I heard about the police search.”

  Poppy looked at her watch. It was half past ten. “She is, Mrs Reynolds, but it’s rather late…”

  Marjorie hooked her arm through Poppy’s and turned her towards the door. “I know, Poppy, and I won’t stay long, but I simply must see if Dot’s all right. Goodnight, Mr Nogovski.”

  Nogovski doffed his hat. “Goodnight, Mrs Reynolds. Miss Denby. Shall we say eight o’clock tomorrow?”

  Poppy was tired and hungry and beyond annoyed with the presumption of it all. From Marjorie and Nogovski. “I’ll ring the embassy tomorrow and let you know,” she said tersely, pulled her arm from Marjorie’s and strode towards her front door. As she put her key in the lock it started to rain.

  CHAPTER 19

  TUESDAY 23 OCTOBER 1920, LONDON

  “Poppy, ma’am?” Poppy looked down, surprised to hear her name coming from a Fleet Street pavement. She was met by an outstretched hand holding a paper poppy.

  “Good morning, Sarge. What have you got there?”

  Sergeant “Sarge” Hawkins was one of Fleet Street’s regular beggars. He had lost both legs in the war and, like many returning servicemen, injured or otherwise, had not been able to find work back on Civvy Street. He lived in a home for veterans run by the Salvation Army and made his way to this patch of pavement between the entrance to St Bride’s Church and the Empire Tea Rooms every day. He carved small crosses out of wood and sold them for a handful of pennies. Poppy had at least a dozen of them, being unable to say no to the crippled soldier who reminded her of her brother, who had died during the war.

  “Did you make that just for me?” asked Poppy, touched.

  Sarge grinned, revealing a new gap in his sparsely toothed mouth. “I would like to say yes, Miss Denby, but that wouldn’t be the truth. And I know how you like the truth. No, it’s a new thing us old Tommies are doing. For the coming Armistice anniversary. Some blokes thought it would be a good idea to make these poppies as a reminder of, well, you know…”

  As Poppy’s brother was buried under a field of poppies in Belgium, the young journalist knew exactly what he was talking about.

  “How much?”
asked Poppy, taking the paper flower and pinning it to her turquoise lapel.

  “As much as you’d like to give, miss,” answered Sarge.

  Poppy opened her purse and took out some coins, making sure she kept enough back for her breakfast meeting in the Empire. She thanked Sarge, then pushed open the door to find Marjorie Reynolds seated and waiting for her with a pot of tea and a plate of buttered toast. Despite it only being eight o’clock in the morning, Marjorie’s salt and pepper hair was immaculately set with finger waves.

  “Snap!” said Marjorie, pointing to the paper poppy on her tweed jacket lapel.

  Poppy smiled as she pulled out the vacant seat opposite the Home Office minister and took off her cloche hat, hanging it, with her satchel, on the back of her chair. A waitress arrived and removed the hat to its proper place on the hatstand. Poppy smoothed down her blonde curls, expressed her thanks, then turned to her breakfast companion. “Morning, Mrs Reynolds. It’s a nice idea, this, isn’t it?” she said, fingering the flower on her lapel. “Although the paper won’t last that long.”

  “I don’t think it has to. It’s just for the few weeks up to Armistice Day. I hope it will catch on.”

  “So do I. But people like Sarge need a lot more than the few pennies they can get from a paper poppy or a wooden cross. Can’t the government do something to help them? If it wasn’t for charities like the Salvation Army and the Royal British Legion they’d be starving to death on the street.”

  “A tad melodramatic for this time of the morning, Poppy.”

  “Do you think so? I’d say it’s spot on.”

  Marjorie looked down her nose at Poppy as she poured the younger woman a cup of tea. “I didn’t know you’d switched beats to politics, Miss Denby. The last time I checked, Ike Garfield still had that job. And don’t forget you’re preaching to the converted here.” She pushed the sugar bowl across the table. “In the last two years I have backed every social reform bill brought to parliament by the Liberals – and even more that were blocked by the Conservatives.” She sniffed and picked up her cup.

  Poppy, who hadn’t slept well the night before, realized her rudeness. Marjorie Reynolds was one of the good guys – as Rollo liked to say – and an invaluable source who needed to be kept sweet. And that, after all, was why she was here. Last night, before Marjorie left, she had asked to meet Poppy for breakfast. She said she had some information on Andrei Nogovski. Naturally, Poppy was curious and readily agreed. However, Poppy reminded herself, besides her usefulness as a source, Marjorie was also one of her aunt’s oldest friends, and a veteran of the women’s suffrage movement. Social justice was in her veins. “I’m sorry, Mrs Reynolds; I’ve been living on stale air and coffee since the robbery at the exhibition.”

  Marjorie put down her cup and reached across the table and patted the young reporter’s hand.

  “I’ll have a word with Rollo. He’s working you too hard.”

  Poppy laughed and plopped two sugar cubes into her tea. “But not as hard as he’s working himself.”

  Marjorie acknowledged that with a wry “I can believe it”, and then called over the waitress.

  “What will you have, Poppy? I’m just having toast. They feed us well at –” she paused – “the office.”

  “A bacon sandwich, please.” Poppy smiled to herself. She was beginning to suspect that “minister to the Home Office” was a euphemism for what Marjorie Reynolds actually did, and that pause just added fuel to her suspicions. She’d heard rumours about a Secret Service that had been set up during the war to root out German spies. And as far as she knew, it was still going – but now the focus was on scuppering Bolshevik influence. Just two months earlier, her aunt’s old acquaintance, Sylvia Pankhurst, had helped establish the Communist Party of Great Britain. Aunt Dot had been invited to join; she had declined, and so, apparently, had Marjorie Reynolds. “Sylvia’s gone a little too far this time,” declared her aunt, who, although left-leaning, enjoyed her middle-class comforts too much to be a serious supporter of Bolshevism. Was it a coincidence that Marjorie wanted to speak to her about Comrade Andrei Nogovski? Poppy didn’t think so.

  “So,” she said, stirring the sugar into her tea, “Andrei Nogovski…”

  Marjorie sipped on her tea, then put down her cup. “Indeed. Andrei Nogovski. You met with him last night.”

  “I didn’t meet with him. I bumped into him outside –” she stopped, realizing that Marjorie was getting information from her before they had set out the parameters of their engagement. It was one of the cardinal rules of journalism, according to Rollo, and he had drilled it into her. “Information is our currency, Miz Denby. You can buy it or sell it, but don’t give it away.”

  “Buy it?” asked Poppy. “Do you pay people to tell you things?”

  Rollo had raised a shaggy red eyebrow. “Not under normal circumstances, no. It taints what we’ve been given and limits what we can print. No, we buy the information in other ways. Everyone has a price, everyone has an agenda. It’s your job to figure out what it is. Some people are just lonely and want the attention. Others want revenge on someone and use us to out them. Then there are the crusader types who want us to further their cause, or publicity hounds who need to keep themselves in the public eye – for vanity or profit, it doesn’t really matter.”

  “But how do we know what they are telling us is true, Rollo?”

  “We don’t, initially, but we can sift it later. At this stage of the interview you need to suss out whether they’ve got something worthwhile to tell you and whether it’s worth the price they’re asking.”

  “Will they tell you what they want in return?” asked Poppy.

  “Sometimes,” answered Rollo.

  Sometimes. Poppy looked at Marjorie and wondered what it was she wanted. Poppy had known her long enough to understand that she valued forthrightness, so she decided to take the direct route.

  “Forgive me, Mrs Reynolds, but I thought you were going to give me some information about Comrade Nogovski; not the other way round.”

  Marjorie raised her teacup in mock salute. “Ah, I see Rollo’s been training you.”

  Poppy raised her cup in return. “You’ve got something to tell us about him, but I doubt the information will come without strings. What is it you want from us, Mrs Reynolds?”

  Poppy and Marjorie both leaned back as the waitress arrived with the bacon sandwich and enquired if Mrs Reynolds would like more toast. The older woman declined. Alone again, Poppy busied herself with cutting the sandwich in half, the rashers crunching satisfyingly as she pressed the bread down.

  “So, you want to know my motivation in all this?” asked Marjorie.

  “I do.”

  Marjorie finished her toast and dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “And it isn’t enough that I’m worried about an old friend’s niece?”

  Poppy thought about this for a moment as she chewed her first bite of bacon. The juices melted into her mouth. She wished she had more time to savour it. She swallowed. “I appreciate that, Mrs Reynolds, but if this was just personal you would not have arranged to meet me at The Globe.”

  “I didn’t. I arranged to meet you here.”

  “Not at first. Your first thought was that it was a business meeting. Something to do with the newspaper. Then you changed your mind.”

  “Can’t it be both?”

  “I’m sure it can, but we won’t know until you tell me.”

  Marjorie’s sharply pencilled eyebrows met in the middle. “I do appreciate forthrightness, Miss Denby, but you are bordering on rude.” She folded her napkin and reached for her briefcase. “I think I’d better speak to Rollo about this directly. You’re right, it is business; but you’re also wrong. I do have a personal concern for you. And I’d appreciate some gratitude.”

  Again, Poppy pulled herself up for her brusqueness. She was new at this game and struggling to balance her natural, trusting personality with the suspicious stance her profession now demanded of her. No doubt she wo
uld err on both sides of the divide many more times before she found a style that was true to herself and not just a facsimile of Rollo. She put down her sandwich. “I’m truly sorry, Mrs Reynolds. Marjorie. Please forgive me. You’ve been friends with my aunt for a long time and I know you would never do anything to hurt her or anyone close to her. It’s just that with my new job…”

  Marjorie put her briefcase down and waved back the waitress who was preparing to swoop in. “I know, pet,” she said. “It’s a learning curve. I’ve been on it – as an MP and now in my new job. But we mustn’t lose ourselves. We mustn’t try to do things the same way our male colleagues have always done them. We need to find our own way.”

  Poppy gave a tight smile. “Rollo said you’d want something.”

  Marjorie matched the smile. “He’s right. I do. Well, not me personally, but the people I represent. That’s how it works. We want certain information in the press and we want other information kept out of it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have something very valuable for you – professionally and personally. And there is a personal dimension, Poppy. I am worried for you.”

  The bell on the tea-room door rang and a group of men walked in. Poppy recognized them as journalists from The Courier. “Let’s finish up here and go for a walk around St Bride’s, shall we?”

  Marjorie assessed the group of journalists and nodded. “Good idea.”

  A cleaning lady was polishing the brass candlesticks on the altar when Marjorie and Poppy slipped into the chancel. They took a seat at the back, near the stone stairs spiralling down to the underfloor crypt. Marjorie opened her briefcase and extracted a manila envelope. She placed it on the pew between her and the young journalist.

  “What I’ve got here, Poppy, is some information on Andrei Nogovski.”

  Poppy reached her gloved hand out to take the envelope.

  Marjorie edged it away from her. “First, though, I need to tell you what I would like in return.”

  “Well, Rollo’s really the one to –”

  “No. It’s you I need a favour from. It has nothing to do with the newspaper.”