Stanislavski readjusted his shoulders on the pillow and said, “If I were directing this play I would say that Andreiovich is part of a sub-plot, not the main.”
“What do you mean?” asked Poppy, intrigued.
“You are assuming that the same person who stole the eggs is the killer.”
Poppy nodded her agreement.
“But what if they are two different crimes with two different motives?”
Poppy straightened up. The thought had crossed her mind, but she had not been able to figure it out. “Go on,” she said.
“What if Andreiovich had a vendetta against Selena?”
“Such as?”
“Such as it seems like it was she who got Andreiovich’s wife involved with the eggs in the first place. And ultimately, if what you say is correct – God rest their souls – that is what led to their murder. Andreiovich might have blamed Selena for it and killed her simply out of grief. This man is acting in his own tragedy. He is a Hamlet.”
Poppy thought of Ivan and the sadness he carried. Yes, he was a Hamlet – not a Macbeth. If he killed, he killed out of pain, not to further a cause or ambition. She felt a cold chill run down her spine. But he had killed nonetheless… perhaps.
“It’s strange you should mention the Andreioviches,” Stanislavski continued. “Do you know that I introduced Adam Lane to them back in 1915? Or to the countess, at least. The count was on the Western Front at the time.”
Poppy had not mentioned Adam’s name yet. Her ears pricked up. “Oh?”
“Yes,” continued Stanislavski. “I’d met Adam at the Bolshoi and was very impressed with him – both as an actor and a man. It was his first time in the city, so I invited him with me to the Andreioviches for dinner. He was charming. He took the little girl a puppy. And now it seems the child might still be alive. I wonder if Andreiovich knows?”
Poppy wondered the same. Did Ivan know his little Anya was still alive? Or that she might be? Was the information he’d received last week about his family possibly having got out of Moscow really just information about his daughter? But then, Rollo had said, it turned out to be false. Could this rising of hope and then the dashing of it have pushed Ivan to lash out at the woman he blamed for his family’s death?
“I have no idea,” she answered truthfully. “But,” she took a deep breath, “now that we’re on the subject of Adam, I have something else to tell you.” She went on to recount what she knew – or suspected – of Adam’s activities as a jewel thief, and surmised that he was involved in the theft of the Fabergé eggs.
Stanislavski closed his eyes and listened. When she had finished he opened them again and said, “If you expect me to be surprised, I’m not.”
Sensing that Stanislavski had a story to tell, Poppy leaned in closer.
“I once met a manager at a provincial theatre, here in England, who told me his former props man had raised an orphan lad to be a thief. The manager thought this was highly amusing and told me to keep a look out for the lad, because he was now grown up and on the acting circuit. I don’t know what he expected me to do with the information – the fellow was drunk at the time – but I thought it an interesting tale. He told me the boy’s name was Adam, and that he was blond, but couldn’t remember the surname.”
Poppy gasped. “Adam! Adam Lane!”
Stanislavski nodded sagely. “That’s what I’ve come to believe, yes. I first met him in Paris in 1912 –”
“Selena’s necklace!”
“Indeed. There have been rumours in theatrical circles that jewel thieves often target wealthy theatregoers and hide their loot among the props until it is safe to move it. And although Selena was an actress not an audience member, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what happened there. And perhaps what happened here.”
“You mean the egg could be in the props room at the theatre?” asked Poppy incredulously.
“It could be, but it seems in this case the props man – Watts – has taken his fencing activity off-site. His poor nephew at Oscar’s…”
Yes, it was all beginning to make sense. The killer, assuming it was a different person to the thief, had come to the theatre looking for the egg, assuming, like most people did at the beginning, that Selena herself had staged the theft at the exhibition. She wondered if the police were pursuing this line of enquiry too or – what was it Andrei Nogovski said? – were they still considering that Selena passed the egg on to Delilah’s father, Victor Marconi, who in turn took it to Malta? If so, no doubt the authorities would be waiting for Mr Marconi in Valetta when he docked tomorrow. Poor Mr Marconi. She sincerely doubted that he was involved, but who knows what a man might do for a woman he had been infatuated with?
“However, it does seem that whoever killed Arthur Watts believed that he had the egg, or knew where it was,” continued Stanislavski. “Which suggests that the egg was not found at the theatre.”
“But that brings us back to the theft and the murder being connected after all,” observed Poppy.
“Oh, I’m sure they are connected,” clarified Stanislavski, “but I just have the feeling they may have different causes.”
Poppy agreed that they might. But there was something else bothering her. “Monsieur Stanislavski, you said that Adam had impressed you as an actor and as a man. Do you still feel the same now that you’ve heard he might be involved in all this?”
Stanislavski thought about this for a moment and then answered, “Yes, I do still feel the same. If what I’ve heard about him is true – that he was raised by a thief in the theatre – then the boy didn’t really have a choice. He was bred to be a thief. But murder is a very different thing. And the man I know would not choose to willingly kill someone. Would you agree?”
She’d been over this before. And still she had no definitive answer. “I don’t know,” she answered truthfully. “I would like to speak to him personally and then I’ll judge.”
Stanislavski nodded. “Yes, I think that would be wise. But assuming that he is the thief, I think it’s pertinent that he hasn’t yet left town. The question is why?”
“Well, as far as I know, he’s currently out looking for Delilah.”
“Exactly. He’s a man with a heart. Could a man like that possibly be a cold-blooded killer?”
Poppy hoped not. She thought of how happy Adam and Delilah were together… and then a shadow passed Stanislavski’s door. It was a nurse, looking in. Poppy turned her head, hoping not to be challenged. She wasn’t, but it was just a matter of time. She needed to wrap this up.
“There’s just one more thing, Monsieur Stanislavski. What do you know about Andrei Nogovski?”
Stanislavski’s eyes flicked to the door and back, then he lowered his voice to a whisper. “A very dangerous man.”
“So I’ve been told,” whispered Poppy in return. “But is there anything else you can tell me about him? Anything that might be useful to this investigation?”
Stanislavski fell silent for a moment, accessing his memories of Nogovski. Then he looked up at Poppy. “He was Selena’s bodyguard. When she was in Paris. It was there that he met Lenin and was turned – so Lenin told me in later years. Nogovski became a communist soon afterwards but kept it a secret. After Paris he was recruited into the Okrana, the secret police. He’d kept his political leanings to himself and we can only assume he worked for the Reds as a double agent. But it must have become too much for him, because sometime in 1915 he resigned from the Okrana and became a card-carrying member of the Communist Party. And as you know, he’s now high up in their intelligence service. He is a trained killer, Miss Denby. But – and this is strange – he always remained devoted to Selena. No one could figure out why. We all thought, initially, that it was because he’d been assigned to be her handler. From what you’ve told me you already know that the royals indulged her dalliance with Bolshevism, and both sides used her to spread misinformation –”
Poppy nodded. Yes, Marjorie had told her the same thing.
“But in my opinion, it was more than that. I saw Nogovski and Selena together. There was something there I could never quite put my finger on. Some kind of sub-text…”
The hairs on the back of Poppy’s neck were beginning to stand up. Was Stanislavski suggesting Nogovski and Selena had – or were having – an affair?
“When he visited her at the theatre last week –”
The door opened and a nurse came in, pushing a medicine trolley. “Time for your nightcap, Mr Stanislavski,” she said. And then, on seeing Poppy: “And who are you?”
Poppy muttered something about being on the way to see another patient and pretended she was straightening the sheets.
“Goodnight, Monsieur Stanislavski. I’ll see you tomorrow. Sleep well.”
“Goodnight… nurse,” Stanislavski winked at her.
“I haven’t seen you before. Are you new?” The real nurse stepped from behind her trolley and looked at Poppy full on. “And what is that get-up you’re wearing?”
“Iz well…” But before Poppy was compelled to answer, the theatre director started coughing and spluttering, and the real nurse rushed to his aid.
Poppy slipped out.
CHAPTER 33
Poppy walked home up Fulham Road. She felt light-headed from hunger and needed to get some supper. Yasmin Reece-Lansdale’s sandwiches seemed a long time ago. However, Marjorie Reynolds lived on Fulham Road and Poppy decided to see if she was home. She could always beg a biscuit. Marjorie lived in a well-to-do four-storey townhouse complete with butler, live-in maid and cook. The butler answered the door and informed her that Mrs Reynolds was not yet home. The elderly man looked tired and more than a bit worried, failing to hide it behind his mask of servitude.
“Don’t worry, Mr Samuels. I’m sure everything will work out fine.”
The servant allowed himself the hint of a smile. “I do hope so, Miss Denby. Mr Oscar has got himself into quite a fix. He’s too old to be worrying his mother like this.” Poppy remembered her aunt telling her that Samuels had been with the Reynolds family since before Oscar was born.
“I’ll be praying,” said Poppy.
The old man thanked her. “Is there anything I can help you with, Miss Denby? You look tired.”
A ham sandwich, a cup of tea and some divine inspiration to sort out this muddle, thought Poppy. But instead she answered: “If you could just ask Mrs Reynolds to give me a ring when she gets in, I’d appreciate it. On second thoughts,” she looked at her watch, “I’ll only be home for about the next half an hour…”
Samuels raised an eyebrow at the suggestion that a young lady like Poppy would still be out so late at night.
“So better she call Rollo Rolandson at The Globe. He’ll be doing an all-nighter. We very much need to speak with her.”
“I will do, Miss Denby. Would you like me to walk you home?”
Poppy smiled at his kindness. “No, thank you, Mr Samuels. It’s just around the corner and there are plenty of people out. Living just opposite a cinema has its advantages.”
Mr Samuels didn’t look fully convinced, but he let her go, and shut the door.
Five minutes later, Poppy was putting her key into her aunt’s front door. It was just after ten o’clock and across the road the evening picture show had just finished. Men and women – dressed to the nines in fur coats and top hats – spilled onto the pavement, comparing notes about the performances of John Barrymore and Martha Mansfield in the apparently terrifying Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. She and Daniel were planning on going to see it next week. She had received review tickets, but they had clashed with a gallery opening in Piccadilly, so Ike Garfield had taken the tickets and written the review on her behalf. Good old dependable Ike; he was a real asset to the paper. Him and Daniel… Her heart lurched as she thought of the press photographer. She had cooled down since their fall-out and all she wanted to do now was fall into his arms and say she was sorry. But was she sorry? Hadn’t she had a right to object to his controlling attitude? She felt irritation stir again, but she quenched it. There would be time to think about that later. For now, she only had one thing on her mind, and that was food.
She let herself into the hall and called up the stairs that she was home. Aunt Dot’s wheelchair was at the bottom, so Poppy assumed Miss King had helped her aunt into the stair lift to get her ready for bed.
“Poppy, is that you, darling?” called her aunt.
“It is, Aunt Dot. But I’m not staying. I’m still working on a story. Just need to get some supper first though.”
“Oh bother!” called her aunt. “I was hoping for a good chinwag before bedtime. There’s so much going on.”
“I know, Aunt Dot. I’ll tell you as much as I can at breakfast. I’ll pop in and say goodnight before I go though.”
“All right then, darling. See you in a jiff.”
Poppy smiled at her aunt’s remarkably tolerant attitude to her comings and goings. Her parents would have a cadenza if they knew. But Aunt Dot had encouraged Poppy to get a job as a journalist and was supportive of everything she did. Which was just as well, because on the arts and entertainment beat it wasn’t unusual for Poppy to shuffle in after midnight. If Aunt Dot weren’t so laissez-faire Poppy would have had to consider getting a place of her own. Or taking a room with Delilah. That reminded her – she needed to pop up to her room to get Delilah’s spare key. Poppy kept it in her dresser drawer. But first, supper…
Fifteen minutes later, Poppy had polished off a slice of Melton Mowbray pie, a jacket potato and a pile of limp green leaves, cucumber and chopped tomato that the cook charmingly referred to as salad. The cook was a temporary stand-in. Aunt Dot’s faithful companion Grace Wilson – who was now serving time in Holloway – had been nursemaid, cook and friend. Miss King, on the other hand, drew her boundaries far more clearly. She would aid Aunt Dot with her personal ablutions, cater to her medicinal needs and provide social companionship, but cooking, cleaning and, well, anything else was not in her remit. So Aunt Dot had had to hire a cook and a cleaner, despite her semi-socialist views. Poppy was not fussy. Limp salad and cold pork pie filled the gap, washed down by a hot cup of tea.
Feeling satisfied, Poppy popped up to her third-floor bedroom to change, bypassing Aunt Dot’s second-floor room where she could hear the older woman chattering away to Miss King. She’d drop in on the way back down. Poppy looked at herself in the full-length mirror and saw that her turquoise outfit was looking rather worse for wear. Not surprising after all she’d been through today. So she opened her wardrobe to look for a change of clothes. She reached for her poppy red dress, but then changed her mind. It was twenty past ten and she was not going out on the tiles. Instead she took a grey skirt and dark blue jersey top off the hanger and slipped into some sensible shoes. She scratched around in her drawer and found Delilah’s key, which she dropped into her skirt pocket. She just needed to go to the bathroom and she was ready.
A few minutes later she stepped onto the landing. She noticed that the door to the guest bedroom – recently occupied by Selena – was slightly ajar. She pushed it open and went in. She did not have much time, as she really needed to get to Delilah’s flat, but she’d have a quick look. She flicked the light switch and was not surprised to see that the room was topsyturvy. The police had done a good job of pulling everything out and leaving it where it shouldn’t be. Selena had a surprising number of belongings for a woman who had allegedly fled a war zone with only the clothes on her back. Poppy had read reports of the warship HMS Marlborough that had been sent to Yalta to evacuate the empress and her entourage. Apparently it had taken the captain two days to load the refugees – with all the luggage they had managed to bring from their Black Sea holiday villas, where many of them had been in exile. One or two of them arrived with just a suitcase each, but most of them had trunks and hampers filled with household goods. And of course the famed Rembrandts, Fabergé eggs and other works of art that had been made public at the weekend’s exhibition. Some of the crew of the Mar
lborough had allegedly been given gifts of priceless Russian artefacts to keep them sweet. The captain eventually had to call time on all the luggage, as the Red Russian army was literally at the gates of the city and starting to shell the harbour.
Poppy began to pick through all that was left of Selena’s worldly goods: a nightdress here, a camisole there and a box of cosmetics. At the bottom of the make-up box Poppy spotted the corner of what looked like a photograph. She extracted it with thumb and forefinger and realized it was two photographs that had been glued together. On one side was a picture of a baby in Victorian-era clothing. The child – Poppy could not tell if it was a boy or a girl – was propped up against a pile of cushions and looked as if it was just about to drop off to sleep.
The second photograph nearly took Poppy’s breath away. It was a more recent snap (if the quality of the image and card was anything to go by) and on it was a picture of an elderly woman dressed in Russian peasant garb and a young girl of about seven or eight. The girl too was dressed as a peasant; but Poppy recognized them both from pictures she had seen earlier today: Ruth Broadwood and Anya Andreiovich. In the right-hand corner of the photograph was scrawled “Yekat’brg 1918”. Poppy had no idea where or what Yekat’brg was, but it appeared that she finally had proof positive that Anya Andreiovich had survived the Moscow massacre and was still alive up to, at least, two years ago. She needed to speak to Marjorie and Rollo and –
“What do you have there?” Miss King was standing in the doorway. Poppy’s instinct was to hide the photographs, but she realized it would look silly to do so. Miss King had already seen that she had something in her hands.
“Some photographs of Selena’s.”
“Oh,” said Miss King. “I was going to tidy this lot up tomorrow. Your aunt has invited the Yusopovs to dinner and we’re going to ask them to collect Selena’s things. They’re her nearest relatives – at least the nearest that are in London – and your aunt thinks they should have them. May I see?”
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