Blackstone and the House of Secrets (The Blackstone Detective series Book 3)

by Sally Spencer

  “A different world, Blackstone,” Sir Roderick said, making no attempt to keep the amusement out of his voice.

  Yes, it was, wasn’t it? Blackstone silently agreed.

  Chapter Seven

  The Count was a tall broad man, with greying hair and an aquiline aristocratic nose. Like Captain Dobroskok, he was dressed in the uniform of the Hussar Guards, though his uniform was that of a colonel. He welcomed Sir Roderick graciously — and even gave Blackstone an acknowledging nod — but it was plain from his demeanour that he was not pleased to have them in his house.

  The reason for his ill-humour was made clear the moment he had taken them into his study on the second floor.

  “I could have cleared this whole matter up days ago, without any help from the outside,” he said, without preamble.

  “How would you have done that, sir?” Blackstone asked.

  “The Faberge egg must be somewhere in the village,” the Count replied, speaking slowly, as if addressing a simpleton. “Finding it involves no more than searching all the filthy hovels in which the muzhiks live.”

  “Even assuming one of the peasants did take it,” Blackstone said, “there’s no reason he should have hidden it in the village itself. Knowing that the village would be searched, he might have concealed it elsewhere. For instance, he could have buried it in one of the fields, or in the common pasture.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” the Count agreed. “It would be unlike the muzhiks to think far enough ahead to come up with such a plan, but I suppose it is just possible that they did.”

  “And there’s a lot of ground to search,” Blackstone pointed out. “Even with all the men at your command, you’d be very lucky to find it.”

  The Count favoured him with a supercilious sneer. “Do you take me for a complete fool?” he asked. “Do you think I’d set my men digging before I knew where to dig?”

  “But how could you know?”

  “I would know because I would have already extracted the necessary information.”

  “Extracted it?” Sir Roderick said. “How?’

  “His Majesty’s grandfather might, in his wisdom, have freed the muzhiks from servitude, but they are still serfs at heart,” the Count explained. “They expect to be whipped by their betters as a matter of course, and there isn’t a muzhik yet born who will not tell me what I want to know after a good thrashing.”

  “How would you know which one to whip?” Sir Roderick asked, in a tone which seemed to Blackstone to be more curious than outraged.

  “Any one of them would do,” the Count replied indifferently. “They are like animals — and rather unpleasant ones, at that. They huddle together for protection against the hostile world, and they have no secrets from one another such as we might have from our friends. Thus, it does not really matter whom I choose to whip. He will have the answers I require, and when I have had enough skin flayed off his back, he will give them to me.”

  “I would have thought that if they knew the name of the murderer, they would have revealed it already, especially since he killed one of their own,” Blackstone suggested.

  “Murderer?” the Count repeated, mystified. “What murderer? I was not aware that anyone had been murdered.”

  “The robber had to kill one of your servants in order to gain access to the Prince’s room,” Blackstone reminded him.

  “Oh that,” said the Count airily. “The servant in question — I cannot recall his name, if I ever knew it — was probably drunk, in which case he more than deserved what he got.”

  “Did you smell his breath, to see if he had actually been drinking?” Blackstone asked.

  “One does not get close enough to one’s lower servants to smell anything about them,” the Count said haughtily.

  “Who was in the house at the time of the murder?”

  “Naturally, I was here, and so was my wife.”

  “But not your children?”

  “My children were away visiting friends, with their governess. In addition to my wife and myself, my normal complement of servants was here, but you need have no suspicions about them.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  The Count glared at Blackstone, as if he suspected his judgement was being called into question.

  “I know how to pick my staff. They understand their duty, and they are fiercely loyal to me.”

  Except the one who, according to you, had so little sense of duty that he got drunk and allowed his throat to be cut, Blackstone thought.

  “What about the guests?” Sir Roderick said, asking an uncharacteristically policeman-like question.

  “The Prince was here with his attendants,” the Count said.

  “That much is obvious,” Sir Roderick said. “But what about the others? Who are they, and where are they now?”

  “They are all dining in the grounds,” the Count said. He walked over to the French door which led on to the balcony, and opened it. “You may observe them from here, if you wish.”

  “I would very much like to do that, Count,” Sir Roderick replied, at the same time shooting a look across at Blackstone which said: You see now how easy it is to get co-operation from people of quality when you approach things in the proper manner?

  The company below was seated around a large, and obviously expensive, table. There were twenty of them, Blackstone found, doing a quick head count — twelve men and eight women. The women were all wearing elegant, elaborate and totally impractical dresses and huge hats with wide brims. The majority of the men were in some kind of military uniform or other. Hovering in the background were at least a score of servants, eager to satisfy their slightest whim.

  “You perhaps already know some of the distinguished company personally, Sir Roderick,” the Count said, “but for the sake of simplicity I will name them all for you.”

  “That would be most kind of you,” Sir Roderick replied.

  “Sitting at the head of the table, as befits his position in society, is Grand Duke Ivan,” the Count began, pointing to a corpulent man with a bald head and huge white whiskers. “He is, as I am sure you are aware, His Highness’ uncle.”

  “Indeed,” Sir Roderick chimed. “I once had the honour to be entertained at his magnificent palace on the Neva.”

  Which means you’ve already got your head halfway up his backside, even before we talk to him, Blackstone thought.

  The Count continued to list the guests, supplying not only their names and titles but also their family connections.

  “And that is the Duc de Saint-Cast,” he said, pointing at a bald man with an elaborately waxed moustache.

  “A Frenchie, eh?” Sir Roderick said. “I trust he’s not one of those nouveau aristocrats that bounder Napoleon created.”

  The Count winced, as only a man whose own ancestry is not entirely illustrious could.

  “No, indeed,” he said through clenched teeth. “The Duc can trace his line back several hundred years — and never tires of doing so.”

  The Frenchman seemed to have other interests, besides his own family tree, Blackstone thought. Even from a distance, it was possible to guess from his extravagant, almost-theatrical gestures that he was flirting with every woman at the table in turn.

  “Who’s that stunning creature?” asked Sir Roderick, pointing to a woman sitting several seats away from the Duc.

  “That is Mademoiselle Durant, the Duc’s ‘companion’,” the Count replied, with some disgust.

  “Well, you have to say the man’s got good taste in his doxies,” Sir Roderick said enthusiastically.

  Blackstone knew exactly what he meant. The other women at the table undoubtedly took great care of their appearance, but Mademoiselle Durant could have dressed in sacking and still been the centre of all the male attention, save that of the Duc. There was a femininity about her that the other women there lacked. She gave off an air of being fragile, but also extremely energetic. And she probably left no man she met in any doubt that, should she choose to gra
nt him her favours, he would be spoiled for other women forever.

  The Count’s finger had moved on, and was now pointing at a young British officer with heavy side-whiskers. “I expect you know who that young man is, don’t you?” he asked.

  “It’s not… it can’t be… by God, it is. It’s young Georgie Carlton,” Sir Roderick exclaimed.

  “He mentioned that you were acquainted,” the Count said.

  “More than just acquainted,” Sir Roderick said. “His father used to be my dearest friend. He was Sir Horatio Carlton, you know. Did you ever happen to meet him?”

  “Yes, I did, as a matter of fact,” the Count said.

  And so did I, Blackstone thought, as he felt an involuntary shudder run through him.

  He’d known Colonel Sir Horatio Carlton well — though in a vastly different world to the one in which Sir Roderick would have known him. As Sergeant Blackstone, he’d been part of Carlton’s command during the Afghan Campaign — on the long, bloody march to Kandahar. They’d said Carlton was mad — and maybe he had been — but he was still one of the finest soldiers Blackstone had ever been privileged to serve under.

  “So that’s little Georgie Carlton, is it?” Sir Roderick said wonderingly. “Not so little now, is he? Fine strapping figure of a man.” He sighed. “The years do fly by, don’t they?”

  “Indeed they do,” the Count concurred. “Now, concerning the matter of your quarters — I have issued instructions that a room in the West Wing be prepared for you. As for your man, here, I assume you would have no objection to him bedding down with the other servants.”

  “…er… I’m not entirely sure,” Sir Roderick said. “What would that entail, exactly?”

  “He’d be found some sort of mattress in the male servants’ dormitory, I expect,” the Count said.

  The look that crossed Todd’s face suggested he was momentarily tempted to take revenge on Blackstone for his earlier behaviour, and agree that ‘some sort of mattress’ in the men’s dormitory would suit him fine. Then, with just a show of reluctance, he shook his head.

  “I’m afraid that really won’t do at all, my dear Count. Inspector Blackstone is a ranking officer in the Metropolitan Police. We must think not of his own dignity, necessarily, but of the dignity of the Force. And with that in mind, I rather think he should be given a private room.”

  The idea seemed novel — and perhaps a little dangerous — to the Count, but Sir Roderick was his guest, and, as such, his wishes were paramount.

  “In a house the size of this one, I’m sure we can find your man a room of some kind,” he agreed. “Now, about your investigation?”

  “Yes?” Sir Roderick said.

  “You probably would like to take a hot bath and have a rest after such a long journey. But when you’re fully refreshed, I assume the first thing you’ll want to do is to take a contingent of soldiers into the village and start interrogating the muzhiks. I am more than willing to accompany you, should you wish it, but it will not really be necessary. Just tell the sergeant in charge which of the filthy creatures you want whipped, and he’ll see to it that it’s done.”

  Blackstone coughed discreetly. “The first thing we’d like to do is to visit the scene of the crime,” he said.

  “You’d like to do what?” the Count asked, astounded.

  “Visit the scene of the crime,” Blackstone repeated.

  The Count looked at him as if he were an idiot. “But the thief won’t be there, you know,” he said. “He’ll have gone scurrying back to the village as soon as he got his hands on the egg.”

  “Visiting the scene of the crime is standard British police procedure,” Sir Roderick said. “It may seem strange to you with your own way of going about things. Indeed,” he continued, diplomatically, “it sometimes seems strange even to me. But those are the rules that are laid down for us, and you know what sticklers we British are for following the rules.”

  The Count nodded, as if to indicate that he had long since learned to accept — if not understand — that the British were the oddest race on earth.

  “Well, if that is your standard procedure, you must certainly follow it here,” he said graciously.

  “Could you tell us who was occupying the rooms close to that of the Prince?” Blackstone asked.

  “Could I do what?” the Count asked.

  “Do you think your butler will have a record of who was sleeping in which room on the night of the robbery?” Sir Roderick interceded.

  “He may have,” the Count said, “I wouldn’t know about that. It is not a gentleman’s place to be familiar with the mundane running arrangements of his household.”

  “Indeed it is not,” Sir Roderick agreed, giving Blackstone another significant glance. “Do you think that my man might talk to your butler to ascertain whether such records exist?”

  “Certainly,” the Count agreed. “If nothing else, it will serve to keep the idle devil fully occupied while you take your well-earned rest.”

  “True,” Sir Roderick replied, not quite able to hide his smile.

  Chapter Eight

  The corridor on the first floor of the West Wing was roughly the same width as many of the streets in Blackstone’s normal stamping ground. But there the resemblance ended. The streets of the East End of London were made up of crudely cut, badly laid cobblestones, whereas the corridor was floored with precision-cut marble tiles. The streets were full of stinking rubbish; the corridor was as clean and sparkling as the best-run hospital. In the overcrowded slums, personal space was something to be prized above all things. Here, it was in such abundance that it could be squandered at will.

  “You were assigned a room after all, were you, Inspector?” Sir Roderick asked, as they walked along the corridor.

  “Yes, if that’s what you want to call it, sir.”

  “And what would you call it?”

  “I’d call it a cupboard,” Blackstone said. “An airless hole in the wall with no window.”

  “Still, when one considers what the Count wanted to give you, I suppose you should be grateful.”

  “My cup runneth over,” Blackstone said dryly.

  There were no numbers on the doors — “It’s not a hotel, you know,” Sir Roderick had said snootily, when Blackstone had commented on the fact — but the rooms were numbered on the butler’s list, and Blackstone was counting them off as he passed them. He came to a halt about half-way down the corridor.

  “This is it,” he announced. He glanced back over his shoulder. “It’s a long way back to the staircase.”

  “Am I supposed to draw some special significance from that?” Sir Roderick asked.

  “The guard on the door would have had ample warning that the intruder was approaching,” Blackstone pointed out.

  “Unless, as the Count suggested to us, he was inebriated. If that were the case, he probably wouldn’t have noticed a herd of wild elephants rampaging down the corridor.”

  “And once he’d committed the robbery, the thief had a long way to go until he was safe again,” Blackstone said.

  “True, but thieves do tend to be rather reckless, don’t you think?” Sir Roderick said.

  “Not in my experience, no,” Blackstone told him. “A good thief’s a skilled craftsman. He doesn’t cut corners, and he doesn’t take any more chances than he has to.”

  “Well, you obviously have more experience in these matters than I do,” Sir Roderick said, making it seem as if experience was a positive disadvantage for a policeman investigating a crime.

  “According to the list, there was no one in the rooms on either side of the Prince,” Blackstone said.

  “Well, of course there wouldn’t be,” Sir Roderick agreed. “The Prince is a man who both values and expects his privacy.”

  Blackstone consulted the list again. “His private secretary was two doors down to the left, and his equerry two doors down to the right. What about his personal servants?”

  “Expect they were sleeping at the foot
of his bed like a pack of faithful hounds,” Sir Roderick said. He laughed. “Only joking, of course. They will have been quartered in a more appropriate part of the house, far away from the Quality. The Prince probably wouldn’t have needed them in the night, but if he had suddenly felt such a need, he’d only to ring a bell by his bedside to have them come running, hadn’t he?”

  Blackstone crouched down and examined the lock. “No signs of forced entry,” he said. “But then, that’s only to be expected.”

  “Is it? Why?”

  “This is a substantial door. The noise which the intruder would have had to make forcing it open would have woken the Prince. And probably his secretary and equerry, for that matter.”

  “So the lock was picked,” Sir Roderick concluded.

  “Don’t think that, either. This is an Underwood 37.”

  “And what the devil is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that it was made by one of the finest locksmiths in London. There’s not more than a couple of dozen thieves in the whole of the Smoke who could pick it. Outside London, they’re even fewer. The chances that anyone in this Godforsaken hole could manipulate it are next to nothing.”

  “So perhaps the door wasn’t locked at all,” Sir Roderick suggested.

  “I would have thought that if there was reason enough to post a guard on the door, then there was reason enough to lock the door as well.”

  “So you think the intruder had a key?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which he had clearly stolen?”

  “Which was clearly used by a person not authorized to use it, given the Prince had a right to expect that only he and his people would have access,” Blackstone said enigmatically.

  “Then the solution to the crime is obvious,” Sir Roderick said. “All you have to do is find out which of the servants have access to the keys, and you have your man.”

  “Some servants steal,” Blackstone admitted. “Some servants are stupid. But it would be a very dishonest and very stupid servant indeed who’d risk this kind of thing, knowing, as he would have done, that the finger of suspicion would point directly at him.”