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

by Sally Spencer

  “So how do you come to be here?” he asked.

  “I arrived in the same way that you did, I expect,” Miss Agnes replied, matter-of-factly. “A boat from Tilbury to St Petersburg, then a train, then a bone-shaking carriage.”

  Blackstone grinned again. “Now you know that’s not what I meant at all,” he said.

  “I was born in India,” Miss Agnes told him. “My father was an officer, serving in the Argyles.” A sudden look of sadness came into her dark eyes, and then was gone again. “If he’d lived, I expect I’d have stayed in India, married one of the more ambitious younger officers in the regiment, and ended up as the Colonel’s Lady,” she continued. “But he didn’t live. He caught a fever and died. After we’d buried him, my mother and I returned to Scotland. And what was I to do there — a young lady with a good background but very little formal training? Work in the dark satanic mills for twelve hours a day? That’s no kind of life for any woman, and certainly not one I wanted for myself. So I used what education I had, and came to Russia to work as a governess. I’ve been here for twelve years now, and I’ve been working for this family for the last two. It’s not a bad life.”

  “Tell me about the family,” Blackstone said.

  “I thought I just had.”

  “The Count’s family.”

  “That would be a very indiscreet thing for a loyal retainer to do, don’t you think?” Miss Agnes said. She paused, and smiled again. “Be very careful of the Count. He might be a bore and a crashing snob, but that’s not the same as saying that he’s stupid. Not by any manner of means.”

  “So what is he?”

  “He’s a courtier down to his fingertips, and — inasmuch as the Autocrat of All Russia is allowed to have one — he’s a personal friend of the Tsar’s.”

  “What about the rest of the family?”

  “The Countess is a wee bit out of her depth, to tell you the truth. Very well-meaning, in her own woolly headed way, but really not very bright. And the Count doesn’t exactly go out of his way to help her with her difficulties. The marriage was a true love match, you see. He loved the size of her dowry! And now he’s got his hands on it, he pretty much ignores her. The children are fine, as long as they’re ruled with a firm hand — and my hand is very firm.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Blackstone said. “I understand you weren’t here when the Prince of Wales made his visit.”

  “No, I missed out on the opportunity to catch Tum-Tum’s notoriously roving eye for a well-turned ankle,” Miss Agnes agreed. She raised her hand to her mouth in mock horror. “Oh, I do hope that I haven’t offended your royalist sensibilities, Inspector.”

  “You need have no worries on that score,” Blackstone assured her. “Monarchism’s never been one of my vices.”

  “You strike me as a man who has very few vices at all,” Miss Agnes said. “Very much a man in control of himself.”

  Was she flirting with him? Blackstone wondered. And if she was, did he object to it’? He forced his mind back to the case, which — although she probably didn’t realize it — Miss Agnes was helping him with.

  “I expect the reason they sent you and the children away for the duration of the royal visit was because they didn’t want them getting in the way of their guests,” he said.

  Miss Agnes laughed. “You really don’t know Russians at all, do you, Sam?”

  “Perhaps not. But I will if you tell me about them.”

  “They dote on their children, and they dote on showing them off to their friends. To be honest with you, I was quite surprised when the Count said that he’d arranged for us to make a visit during the house party. I’d have expected him to jump at the opportunity of presenting the children to the Prince of Wales. And they weren’t too pleased about going, either, I can assure you of that. In fact, they kicked up quite a fuss. But for once the Count wasn’t his usual indulgent self. They were to go, whether they liked it or not.”

  “It’s almost as if he knew the robbery was going to happen,” Blackstone mused. He feigned sudden concern. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Perhaps you don’t know—”

  “That the Prince had his precious golden egg stolen from him? That there’d been a murder under this very roof — though, admittedly, since it was only a peasant who was killed, it doesn’t really amount to a murder at all? Yes, I knew. In a household like this, there are very few secrets.” Miss Agnes took a sip of her tea. “That wasn’t really a slip of yours, was it?”

  “What wasn’t?” Blackstone asked innocently.

  “Mentioning the robbery. You were testing to see how well versed I was with the affairs of the house. You were aware that the guests knew about it, and probably aware that the servants did, too. ‘But what about the eccentric Scottish lady?’ you asked yourself. ‘She’s neither fish nor foul. Does she really have any idea about what’s going on?’ Now isn’t that the truth?”

  “It’s the truth,” Blackstone admitted.

  “I’ll go even further,” Agnes said. “The reason you wanted to know was because you wished to ascertain how valuable I might be as a source.”

  “Perhaps,” Blackstone agreed cautiously.

  “There’s no perhaps about it, Inspector Blackstone,” Miss Agnes said, matter-of-factly. “You’re doing your damndest to investigate a serious crime, but half the people involved won’t speak to you, and you wouldn’t understand the other half if they did. You need help, and while I would not have been your first choice in most circumstances, I’m the only choice available in this particular case. Now come on, be honest with me! Isn’t that just about the long and short of it?”

  Blackstone found his mind travelling back in time — retreating two years which seemed like an eternity — to a tea shop in London’s Little Russia, where he’d first met his beloved Hannah. She’d spoken words similar to those Miss Agnes was speaking to him now — and look where that had led!

  “It’s very kind of you to offer, but I really don’t want to involve any civilians in my investigation,” he said.

  “Of course you don’t,” Miss Agnes agreed easily. “But, as I’ve already told you, you’ve no choice if you want to bring the investigation to a successful conclusion. And that is what you want, more than anything else, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so. From the second I first saw you, I had you marked down as the kind of man who doesn’t excuse failure in himself, even if there are very good reasons for that failure.”

  For perhaps half a minute, Blackstone was silent. Then he said, “Do you speak Russian?”

  “Passably well,” Miss Agnes told him. “Certainly well enough to ask the questions you’ll want answering.”

  Agnes could free him from the tyranny of always working through Sir Roderick, Blackstone thought. Agnes could take him to places that Sir Roderick would never think of going — like the village.

  “And will you have the time to help me?” he asked, half-hoping that she would say no.

  “I have all the time in the world,” Agnes replied. “My job —as we’ve already established — is to look after the children, and since the children aren’t here, I have absolutely nothing to occupy me.”

  “Why aren’t the children here?” Blackstone asked. “Because they’re still with the friends they were visiting when the robbery and murder occurred.”

  “So why aren’t you there, too?”

  Miss Agnes frowned. “I don’t really know,” she admitted. “Captain Dobroskok sent some soldiers to escort me back, and I thought no more about it at the time. But now I stop to consider it, it does seem a little strange, doesn’t it?”

  “No,” Blackstone said.

  “No?” Agnes repeated quizzically.

  “It doesn’t seem a little strange,” Blackstone told her. “It seems very strange indeed.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The Duc de Saint-Cast was smaller than Blackstone had taken him to be when watching him from the balcony, which, if anything, made his
heavily waxed and elaborate moustache seem even larger than it had when viewed from above. In many ways, he could be considered almost a slightly ridiculous figure, but if he was aware of creating such an impression he gave no indication of it, and when he entered the library it was with the air of a man who owned the place.

  “It’s very kind of you to agree to spare us some of your time, Your Grace,” Sir Roderick said in a voice which reminded the Inspector of the trail of slime left by a snail. “Very kind indeed.”

  “Sink nossing of it,” the Duc replied. “It is certainly a better use of my time zan talking to zose empty-headed people I ‘ave just left.”

  It was almost blasphemy — in Sir Roderick’s eyes — to talk of people of quality like that, Blackstone thought. But since the Duc was undoubtedly a person of quality himself, the Assistant Commissioner did no more than blink, and then offer Saint-Cast a chair.

  “I will try to make this as short as possible,” Sir Roderick began, “but there are some questions that I feel I must—”

  “No, no, no,” the Duc interrupted him, turning round to look at Blackstone. “I am ‘ere to talk to ze organ-grinder, not to ze monkey.”

  “I beg your pardon!” Sir Roderick said.

  “To ze professional, not to ze dilettante,” the Duc amplified. “If I am to be questioned, I wish to be questioned by an expert.”

  Sir Roderick swallowed hard. “I see,” he said. “Well, if you think you’ll feel more comfortable talking to Inspector Blackstone—”

  “I will,” the Duc said firmly.

  Sir Roderick waved his hands ineffectively in the air. “Then, perhaps, Blackstone, you might as well...”

  Blackstone crossed the room, walked round the table, and took up a standing position next to Sir Roderick. “Could I ask you how you come to be in the house in the first place, sir?” he asked the Duc.

  The Frenchman shrugged. “I was invited,” he said. “Not only zat, but ze Count insist on paying my travelling expenses.”

  “And why do you think he did that?” Blackstone wondered.

  “Per’aps because ‘e ‘oped it would give ‘im the opportunity to ravage my beautiful mistress?” the Duc said. He laughed. “No, not zat,” he continued, a little more seriously, “because I do not sink a Russian like the Count would know ‘ow to handle a woman ‘oo is capable — in ze boudoir — of both lying on her back and moving at ze same time.”

  Even without looking at him, Blackstone could sense that Sir Roderick was blushing.

  “So what’s the real reason for the Count’s inviting you, sir?” he asked the Duc.

  “I am ‘ere, I suppose, because my very presence in ze ‘ouse gives zis little party the Count is throwing a small dash of cachet.”

  “Would you mind explaining that, sir?” Blackstone asked. Saint-Cast looked surprised.

  “What is to explain?” he wondered aloud. “My family ‘as been noble since ze reign of Charles X. Ze Count’s family...” he shrugged again, “...well, ze title ‘count’ ‘as only existed in Russia since ze eighteenth century. It was imported — like so many unpleasant things in Russia — from ze Germans.”

  “So, on the whole, you’re not very impressed by the Russian aristocracy,” Blackstone said.

  “Zay are nouveau riche, in ze worst possible sense. Did you know zat ze Count ‘as a strongroom?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Blackstone admitted.

  “A big room wiz bars on it as thick as your arm,” the Duc said. “And why does he ‘ave it? To protect his valuables? Non! Absolument non!”

  “Then why?”

  “As soon as I arrive, ‘e takes me to see it. ‘Your jewels will be quite safe ‘ere,’ he says. But what he means is, ‘See ow rich I am. See what a large room I need to store all my jewels.’ He try too ‘ard to impress. Zat is what new money always does.”

  “And did you in fact entrust your jewels to his safe-keeping?” Blackstone asked.

  The change was remarkable. The Duc’s air of confidence evaporated, and he was suddenly looking rather uncomfortable. “No, I did not entrust my jewels to ‘is safe-keeping,” he admitted.

  “Why not?”

  “I do not travel wiz mere trinkets,” the Duc said, sounding fairly defensive now. “The only jewel I carry wiz me is my family name.”

  Which is another way of saying that you’re broke, Blackstone thought. And the reason you sponge off people you claim to despise is because you have very little choice.

  “Could you tell me more about the impressions you’ve formed of Russia?” he said aloud.

  “I could talk on ze subject for hours if I chose to, but why should you wish to listen?” the Duc asked suspiciously.

  “You’re a man who’s seen something of the world,” Blackstone said. “A sophisticated man.”

  “It is true,” the Duc agreed, nodding.

  “Whereas I’m only a simple English policeman, completely lost anywhere outside the confines of London,” Blackstone said. “So, as you’ll appreciate, anything that I could learn would be of great value to me. And you seem just the man to teach me.”

  Saint-Cast relaxed a little. “Very well, since it amuses to me to do so, I will consent to be your professeur in Russian affairs,” he agreed.

  “I appreciate it,” Blackstone said.

  The Duc ran his finger delicately over the edges of his waxed moustache. “Ze lesson begins,” he announced. “Ze Russians speak passable French, but zey are barbarians at ‘eart. And where zey are not barbarians, zey are simply gauche. You ‘ave only to look at the man ‘oo leads them.”

  “You’re talking about the Tsar?”

  “We ‘ad Napoleon,” the Duc said. “‘E was an upstart, it is true, but which of us was not an upstart at some time in ze past? And what an Emperor ‘e became! My one regret in life is that I was born fifty years too late to serve ‘im.”

  “We beat him in the end,” Sir Roderick pointed out.

  Saint-Cast shot him a look of contempt. “You beat ‘im?” he asked. “Mais non. It took the combined armies of ze rest of Europe to bring ‘im to ‘is knees.” The Duc turned his attention back to Blackstone. “So we had Bonaparte,” he continued. “An’ what do ze Russians ‘ave? Nicolas ze Second! A man ‘oo might ‘ave made a very good shoe salesman in a small provincial town, but ‘as no business trying to run a country like Russia.”

  “Look here, Your Grace, I really think you’ve gone a bit too far there,” said Sir Roderick, who, in spite of the Duc’s impressive lineage, was no longer able to restrain himself.

  The Duc gave him a glare which would have frozen glowing charcoal. “It is a new experience for me to ‘ave anybody — especially a mere chevalier — tell me I ‘ave ‘gone too far’,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” Sir Roderick mumbled. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Ze Tsar rules zis country as if it were a small bakery ‘e was running,” Saint-Cast told Blackstone. “Zat is not ze act of a strong man.”

  “You’ve met him, have you?” Blackstone asked.

  The Duc smiled. “Of course I ‘ave met ‘im,” he said. “I am no snob. I will rub shoulders with even a Russian monarch if ‘e is prepared to go out of ‘is way to be amenable.”

  “And the Tsar was?”

  “‘E was not such a fool as to fail to recognize ‘oo was being honoured by our meeting,” Saint-Cast said.

  There seemed to be little point in prolonging this excursion into the Duc’s megalomania, Blackstone thought. Besides, he was not sure how much longer deference and outrage would continue to battle in Sir Roderick’s breast before outrage won.

  “Tell me about the night of the robbery, sir,” the Inspector suggested.

  “Zer is very little to tell. My mistress, she play the pianoforte, and all eyes are on ‘er. Your Prince, ‘e might need a winch to lower ‘im over ‘er, but zere is no doubt zat zat is where ‘e would like to be.”

  There was a spluttering sound from Sir Roderick. It might have been the onset of
a coughing fit — but Blackstone did not think so.

  “You went straight to bed when the party broke up?” the Inspector asked hurriedly.

  “Mail oui,” the Duc agreed. “My own eyes follow ze lady’s curves as much as anybody else’s, and I could not wait to pleasure ‘er.”

  “Were you sleeping in the same wing of the house as the Prince?”

  A look of disappointment came to the Frenchman’s eyes. “No. Unfortunately, I arrive after most of ze others, and so I am ‘oused in ze ozer wing.”

  In the less prestigious wing, Blackstone translated — the one in which Major Carlton had been billeted.

  “So you heard nothing during the night?” he asked, without much hope of a helpful answer.

  The Duc smirked. “‘ear many groans of satisfaction,” he said, “but of ze robbery I ‘ear nursing.”

  “And in the morning?”

  “I ‘ear all ze disturbance, but I am not an early riser, and I ignore. Besides, I ‘ave other matters to consider. Ze lovely Mademoiselle Dupont, she is getting restless again.”

  “Thank you for sparing us your time, Your Grace,” Sir Roderick said, standing up and bowing.

  The Duc ignored him. “We ‘ave finish ‘ere?” he asked Blackstone.

  “I think so, sir,” the Inspector replied.

  The Duc stood up. “Zen I will return to ze charming company of ze empty-’eads,” he said.

  “The man’s an absolute swine!” Sir Roderick said when the Duc had left the room. “I mean... er... his manners might be misinterpreted by those unfamiliar with the ways of the aristocracy,” he added quickly, when he remembered who it was that he was talking to.

  Blackstone wouldn’t have phrased it in quite that way. He saw the Duc as a man perfectly willing to exploit his social standing in front of those who really thought it mattered. And good for him!

  “I couldn’t comment on the Duc’s manners—” he began.