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

by Sally Spencer

  “Yet you just said that ‘they were going at a hell of a rate’,” Blackstone pointed out.

  “Ah, yes,” Carlton said, looking around the room as if desperately searching for an answer. “Yes, I… er… can see how that might have seemed confusing, but there’s a perfectly simple explanation.”

  “And what is it?”

  “When I said they were going at a hell of a rate, what I should have said was that both the coach and the baggage wagon were going at a hell of a rate.”

  “So the coach and the baggage wagon did leave together?”

  “Spot on! That’s exactly what happened.”

  If I were leaving in a hurry — as the Prince apparently was — I wouldn’t let myself be slowed down by a baggage cart, Blackstone thought. I’d get away as quickly as I could, and have the baggage sent on. But then I’m not a prince of the Blood Royal, so what do I know?

  “Thank you, Georgie, you’ve been very helpful,” Sir Roderick said, without much conviction.

  “Does that mean I can go?” Major Carlton asked, and Blackstone thought he could detect a note of relief in the Major’s voice.

  “Of course, you may go,” Sir Roderick said, expansively. “Didn’t have to come in the first place, if you know what I mean. After all, it’s not as if you’re a suspect or anything.”

  “Quite so,” Carlton agreed, rising from his seat with just a little unseemly haste. He walked over to the door. “You won’t be working on your investigation all the time, will you, Uncle Roderick?” he asked, as his hand reached for the door handle. “We will get a few minutes together for a chin-wag about my pater and the good old days, won’t we?”

  Sir Roderick smiled benevolently. “I’m sure we will.”

  “There is just one more question I’d like to ask Major Carlton,” Blackstone said.

  “Well, what is it?” Sir Roderick asked snappishly.

  “You do know why we’re here? What it is exactly that we’re investigating?” the Inspector asked.

  “I should jolly well hope I do, given all the incessant chattering that’s been going on about it since the blasted thing happened,” Major Carlton said.

  “So you wouldn’t mind telling me in your own words?”

  “No harm in that. As I understand it, some bounder broke into Tum-Tum’s room and stole a golden egg which the Tsar had given him as a present. That’s about the long and short of it, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Blackstone agreed. “That’s about the long and short of it.”

  “Well, there you are, then,” Major Carlton said.

  For a few seconds he stood clumsily in the doorway, then he stepped out into the corridor and closed the door behind him.

  “Would you do me the courtesy of telling me what that was all about, Blackstone?” Sir Roderick said, as the sound of Carlton’s footsteps gradually got fainter.

  “What what was all about?” Blackstone asked.

  “You know very well what I’m talking about,” Sir Roderick countered. “Why did you ask my godson that last question of yours?”

  “Because, as I understand it, the Tsar must never learn that the egg was stolen, as he’s likely to interpret it as an act of carelessness by his uncle.”

  “That’s perfectly correct. But I still fail to see the point you’re attempting to make.”

  “If you want to keep a secret truly secret, then the first thing you do is make sure that as few a number of people know about it as possible,” Blackstone explained. “So why is it that everyone in this house — from the servants upwards — knows that the egg was stolen? Why didn’t they come up with some other story?”

  “Such as?”

  “They could have said the Prince had his purse stolen, for example.”

  The look of contempt, which was becoming a feature of their conversations, came to Sir Roderick’s lips.

  “The Prince doesn’t carry money,” he said. “He spends it — like water sometimes — but he doesn’t actually keep it about his person. He has flunkeys to do that.”

  “Then his watch,” Blackstone said. “Unless he has flunkeys to tell him the time, too.”

  “He does.”

  “Or his rings, for God’s sake!” Blackstone said exasperatedly. “His diamond cravat pin! The silver buckles on his shoes! He must have had something else about his person which they could claim had been stolen, so why did they tell the truth and admit it was the egg that had gone?”

  “It’s very easy to say that — with hindsight,” Sir Roderick answered. “But just put yourself in their place for a moment, Blackstone. Young Georgie told you how the whole house was thrown into a panic by what happened, and no doubt someone — perhaps even the Count himself — inadvertently let the secret out. Or perhaps they didn’t even see the significance of the robbery until they’d had time to think about it. At any rate, I think you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

  You would, Blackstone thought. You bloody well would! “Who will we be seeing next?” he asked aloud.

  Sir Roderick — having no flunkey himself to tell him the time — reached into his waistcoat pocket and took out his watch.

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to leave it there, for the moment,” he said. “I’ve been invited to afternoon tea with the Count.”

  “You’ve what?” Blackstone asked.

  “There’s no point in you taking that attitude,” Sir Roderick said — mildly for him. “I could have refused the invitation, I suppose — though it would have been considered very bad form — but there would simply have been no point.”

  “Wouldn’t there?”

  “No, because all the people who you insist we need to talk to would have been attending the tea party anyway, and we’d have been left here all alone, twiddling our thumbs.”

  “We’re investigating a murder!” Blackstone said, only just able to keep his outrage under control.

  “Hardly that,” Sir Roderick replied. “We’re here — and I shouldn’t need to remind you of this — to investigate the theft of the golden egg. The death of one of the Count’s servants is not really our concern.”

  “And you don’t think they might be, in some way, connected?” Blackstone asked.

  Sir Roderick stood up. “Oscar Wilde can use sarcasm to its full effect in his witty plays, Blackstone,” he said. “Coming from your mouth, it merely sounds clumsy and inept. I would reflect on that, if I were you, while I’m taking tea with the Count and his guests.”

  “Is that all you’d like me to do?” Blackstone said. “Reflect?”

  “That will do for a start,” Sir Roderick said urbanely, as he walked over to the door. “And if you still have time on your hands when you’ve finished that, you might just think of doing a little investigating. After all, that is what you’re here for.”

  Chapter Ten

  Whatever Blackstone might have said in anger to Sir Roderick, and whatever Sir Roderick may have said in retaliation to him, they both knew the reality of the situation. And that reality was that without the Assistant Commissioner by his side to give him some small measure of importance of his own, there was nothing the Inspector could really do to further his investigation.

  And that being the case, Blackstone told himself, I might as well go out for a walk.

  It was still a relief to get out of the rarefied atmosphere of the house, and breathe in the cool, pure, Russian air — which even the Count had not yet worked out a way to deny to anyone who could not claim an impressive family tree.

  Blackstone’s legs took him to the stables, and for some minutes he simply stood in front of them, watching what was going on inside. The horses were magnificent. The grooms who worked on them were easily skilful enough to have been employed by a crack cavalry regiment.

  It did not take him long to realize that his attentions were unwelcome. The grooms did not actually tell him to leave, but neither did they attempt to draw him into their enthusiasm for their horses — as grooms in England would probably have done — a
nd when he gave them a friendly smile they merely looked away.

  He circled the hothouses, wherein were grown flowers he had never seen before, and fruits he had never eaten. The gardeners, like the grooms before them, seemed to regard him not as an interested spectator, but more as a malevolent presence.

  But it wasn’t the stables nor the greenhouses which were destined to be the most intriguing sight he came across on his short walk. That honour was reserved for the bed of flowering plants in front of the house.

  The beauty of what lay before him was not what attracted him, though it was still perhaps the most splendid display he had ever seen, with each plant at its moment of perfection — a moment which was far from frozen in time, and would start to fade even as the sun set. No, his interest lay more in the arrangement — the governing intelligence behind the display.

  The flowers had not been planted at random, he decided, and neither did they seem to be following any rigid geometric master-plan — yet there was undoubtedly a definite purpose in the way they had been placed, if only he could work out what it was.

  He followed the sweeps and curves with his eyes, and realized that the rows of plants formed numbers and letters, and that while they could be more clearly seen from the upstairs terrace than from where he was standing, it was perfectly possible to make sense of them from ground level.

  LE 7, he read. LE 7? Was that some kind of code?

  S... E... P... T...

  It was the date, Blackstone thought. It was the bloody date!

  He read the rest of it, just to confirm his suspicions. E... M... B... R... E.

  And after the letters came more figures — 1… 8 … 9… 9.

  The 7th of September, 1899.

  This was monstrous! The Prince of Wales had a flunkey on hand should he wish to know the time. But the Count…

  The peasants in the village faced a constant struggle to survive, but the Count had his servants devote thousands of man-hours — and God alone knew how many resources — to a task which ensured that, should he happen to want to know the date when he was standing on his balcony, he had only to look down.

  “There’s not much meat on you, but you make up for that with length,” a voice with a slight Scottish burr said from somewhere behind him.

  Blackstone turned around. The woman who had spoken was in her late twenties or early thirties, he guessed, and dressed in tweed skirt and a silk blouse. She was of medium height, with cheeks as round as small apples, and dark eyes which, even from a distance, seemed to sparkle with amusement.

  “Russians tend to grow outwards rather than up, so it’s nice to see a tall man for a change,” the woman continued unabashed. “You’ll be one of those policemen from London — and, from the way you’re dressed, I’d say you’re the one who’s expected to do all the work.”

  The Inspector grinned. “Right first time,” he said. “I’m Sam Blackstone. Who are you?”

  The woman returned his smile.

  “Agnes McDonner,” she said. “The family call me Miss Agnes. The servants call me the same when they’re speaking to me, though God alone knows what they call me behind my back. You’ll either call me Agnes or Miss McDonner.”

  “And which of the two will it be?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ll tell you that when I’ve decided how well we’re going to get on.”

  Blackstone’s grin widened. “I await your verdict with impatience,” he said.

  “That won’t make it come any quicker,” Miss Agnes told him. Then the smile slowly drained away from her face. “I hear that they’ve billeted you somewhere down in the darkest depths of the servants’ quarters,” she continued, her voice more troubled.

  “It’s not so bad,” Blackstone replied. “As a matter of fact, I quite like the smell of boiled cabbage.”

  Agnes shook her head in disgust. “Now isn’t that just typical of some of the petty-mindedness that goes on around here,” she said. “I’ve a suggestion. Why don’t you come up to the schoolroom with me, and I’ll brew you a cup of tea just like the ones your landlady makes for you back home.”

  Blackstone raised an eyebrow. “My landlady?” he said.

  “Now don’t you go trying to pretend to me that you’re married,” Agnes said. “I can spot a single man at fifty yards through a snow storm. Would you like that cup of tea or not?”

  “It sounds delightful,” Blackstone admitted.

  *

  The tea party to which Sir Roderick had been invited was held in a conservatory which ran most of the length of the back of the chateau. Though there were tables and chairs set out at intervals under the tropical ferns and palm trees, the point of the gathering was not to sit down at all. Instead the intention was, Sir Roderick quickly perceived, to walk — to stroll up and down the conservatory, followed by a liveried servant whose sole responsibility it was to hold the guest’s teacup and a plate of delicacies that he or she might care to partake of.

  It was almost, the Assistant Commissioner thought, like being on the grand promenade in Nice — though without any of the inconvenience of actually being outside — and this illusion was further aided by a small brass band gathered at one end of the building, and a stall dispensing ice cream at the other.

  Though he was not a man to accept guilt lightly, a certain uneasy feeling did descend on Sir Roderick. When he’d been talking to Georgie in the library, he reminded himself, he’d been quite rude about the Russians. Now, coming upon this scene as he had, he accepted that they were quite as civilized — in their own Slavic way — as any gathering of the Quality anywhere else.

  “Ah, ze gentleman policeman,” said a voice just behind him.

  Sir Roderick turned to find himself looking at the Duc de Saint-Cast and his companion.

  “I ‘ave the honour to present to you Mademoiselle Durant,” the Frenchman said.

  “Delighted,” Sir Roderick told the woman.

  And indeed he was. Mademoiselle Durant had seemed very attractive when seen from the balcony, but viewed from close range she was truly stunning. Sir Roderick tried to resist the temptation of running his gaze up and down her slim body, and failed miserably. And when he focused instead on her doe-like eyes, slim nose, and inviting mouth, he felt himself quite overcome.

  “We ‘ave an appointment later, do we not?” he heard the Duc say, seemingly from a great distance away.

  “Truly delighted,” Sir Roderick told Mademoiselle Durant, aware that he was almost dribbling. “A great privilege.”

  The Duc laughed, and poked him in the ribs. “Only a fool lusts after what ‘e cannot afford,” the Frenchman said. “Where is zis appointment of ours? In ze library?”

  “What?” Sir Roderick asked, his mind still not quite back in the normal world. “The library! Oh yes, that’s where we’re supposed to meet.”

  “And would you like me to bring Mademoiselle Durant wiz me?”

  Sir Roderick shook his head. It would be difficult enough keeping his mind on this sordid case at all, he thought, without having the distraction of this lovely creature in the room.

  “Ah, mon ami, your mind is just like an open book to me,” the Duc said.

  “Is it?”

  “Naturellement. You are not ze first man to succumb to ze lady’s charms. You would not so much like to make ‘er talk as to make ‘er moan, eh?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Sir Roderick said.

  “It is understandable,” the Frenchman said, with a shrug, “but I am afraid it is not to be.”

  Sir Roderick was starting to feel very hot under the collar. “If you will excuse me,” he said.

  “Of course,” the Duc agreed. “Until later, zen.”

  “Yes, until later,” Sir Roderick mumbled confusedly. He made his way quickly to the other end of the conservatory, where the Grand Duke Ivan was standing.

  “Todd, isn’t it?” the Grand Duke asked.

  “It is indeed, Your Highness,” Sir Roderick said. “You were kind enough to entertain me at
your palace in St Petersburg, as you no doubt remember.”

  “Entertain you?” the Grand Duke repeated. “What did I do to entertain you? Juggle? Ride around on a trick cycle?”

  Sir Roderick looked mortified. “I… I perhaps expressed myself badly,” he stuttered. “What I meant to convey was—”

  “Can’t say I recall you ever being at the palace,” the Grand Duke interrupted, “though I expect that if you say you were then you were. But we’re not here to reminisce about the times when I balanced a ball on the end of my nose for your delectation. I wanted to know about the investigation into the theft of this blasted golden egg. How’s it going?’

  “…er… going very well,” Sir Roderick said. “Excellent. So we should be able to leave soon, should we?”

  “Very shortly, I hope,” Sir Roderick said optimistically. “Did you receive my note requesting an interview, Your Highness?”

  “Certainly did. Most extraordinary thing. Perhaps I was wrong to think you imagine I’m some kind of music hall entertainer. Maybe you see me more as a trained chimpanzee. Is that it? Think I swing from ropes and will do tricks in return for bananas, do you?”

  Sir Roderick swallowed hard, and wished he’d never decided to accept the Count’s invitation.

  *

  The schoolroom was on the top floor of the house. There was a large wall-mounted slate board at one end of it, and Miss Agnes’ desk at the other. In between were the children’s desks, a nature table, and several bookcases.

  “I’d entertain you in my own parlour — if I had one,” Miss Agnes said, as she made the tea at the samovar in the corner of the room. “But since my status falls into some ill-defined space between servant and member of the family, such luxury is not to be afforded to me. Still, this is a pleasant enough room in which to sit, is it not, Sam?”

  “Very pleasant,” Blackstone agreed. “I take it that you’re the children’s governess.”

  Miss Agnes laughed. “You should be a detective.”

  There was only one adult-sized chair in the room, and Miss Agnes insisted that Blackstone should have it, while she herself perched — rather uncomfortably — on the back of the largest of the children’s chairs. The tea she had brewed had none of the delicacy or subtlety of the Russian tea which Blackstone had been drinking ever since he got off the boat. It was, instead, very hot and very strong — and the Inspector thought it was wonderful.