‘Da?’ he said sleepily.
‘I want to see Count Turgenev,’ Patterson said. He held out a piece of paper in front of him. ‘I have a warrant here for the Count’s arrest.’
The other man shrugged indifferently. ‘Niet gabaresh pa-inglesi.’
‘The Count!’ Patterson said, raising his voice. ‘I have a warrant here for his arrest.’
The Russian looked at him blankly.
‘We have to come inside,’ Patterson said.
He took a step forward, but the second he’d begun to move, the sleep disappeared from the Russian’s eyes, and now he shifted so that he was blocking the doorway.
‘We have to come in,’ Patterson said exasperatedly. ‘If you try to stop us, you’ll be taken into custody.’
‘Can I be of some assistance, officer?’ said a rich baritone voice from the hallway.
On hearing the voice, the Russian in the nightshift immediately stepped aside, and Patterson was able to see a very tall man in a silk dressing gown standing at the foot of the stairs.
‘I’m looking for Count Ivan Turgenev,’ the sergeant said.
‘You have found him. It is I. What seems to be the problem?’
‘As I’ve just explained to your manservant here, I have a warrant for your arrest.’
If the Count was in any way shocked by the news, his face certainly did not show it. ‘On what charge am I to be arrested?’ he asked.
‘The attempted murder of a senior police officer.’
‘That would be the intrepid Inspector Blackstone,’ the Count said.
‘You admit it?’ Patterson gasped. ‘Just like that?’
‘I admit nothing,’ the Count replied. ‘Since I am suspected, I assume the attack took place somewhere near here, and the only senior policeman who has appeared in the area recently has been Blackstone. It is a simple matter for anyone with a brain to put the two things together.’
‘I’d like you to come along quietly, sir,’ Patterson said.
‘I will give you no trouble,’ the Count promised. ‘Though I would appreciate it if you would give me a few minutes to get dressed.’
‘Of course. But you’ll have to have one of my men with you at all times,’ Patterson said.
‘While I do my toilet? Certainly not. He can wait outside my dressing room door.’
Patterson shook his head. ‘I’m afraid that won’t do, sir.’
The Count fixed him with hard blue eyes, which felt to the sergeant as if they could burn their way through a glacier.
‘It is as below my dignity to attempt to escape through a window as it would be for me to dress under the gaze of a common policeman,’ the Russian said. ‘Your man can wait outside. Are we agreed on that?’
And almost as if someone else were working his mouth, Patterson heard himself say, ‘Yes, sir. We’re agreed on that.’
*
Blackstone looked across the table in the interview room at Count Turgenev, and reflected on the strange fact that though the Russian had become central to his inquiry, the two of them had not—until now—exchanged a single word.
‘Why haven’t you objected to being dragged out of your bed at an ungodly hour of the morning?’ the Inspector asked.
Turgenev shrugged. ‘Your sergeant produced what he said was a magistrate’s warrant. There seemed to be no point in arguing.’
‘But you’d have argued if the same thing had happened to you in Russia, wouldn’t you?’
A thin smile came to the Count’s lips. ‘In Russia, it would not have happened. In Russia, I could have killed one of my muhziks in front of a thousand witnesses, and everyone would have pretended that the murder had never occurred.’
‘So you’re admitting that you tried to kill me?’
‘There is nothing in what I have said which could lead you to draw such a conclusion.’
He was a cool bastard, Blackstone thought. Nine out of ten men in his position—and probably nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a thousand aristocrats—would have been expressing their complete outrage at being dragged to Scotland Yard. Yet the Russian count was choosing to treat the whole situation as nothing more than an amusing incident.
‘Three men tried to kill me last night,’ the Inspector said.
‘I am sure that is very important to you, but why should it be of any interest to me?’
‘We have one of them in the cells. He’s a Russian. According to his papers, his name is Boris Kamanev.’
‘You still fail to engage my curiosity.’
‘I still fail to engage your curiosity, do I?’ Blackstone demanded. ‘Despite the fact that you know him? Despite the fact that he just happens to be one of your bodyguards?’
Turgenev laughed. ‘One of my bodyguards?’ he repeated. ‘I don’t have any bodyguards.’
‘Then who are those hard, watchful men who seem to go everywhere with you?’
‘Ah, you are referring to my personal attendants.’
‘And is it just a coincidence that one of your personal attendants took part in the attack on me?’
‘Are you suggesting that Boris has implicated me in the attack?’
‘I’m not prepared to disclose exactly what Kamanev has told me under interrogation. But let’s just say that I found it very interesting indeed.’
The Count laughed again. ‘Never bluff when you have an absolutely bust hand, Inspector. Boris has told you nothing—and, whatever you threaten him with, he will continue to tell you nothing.’
‘Most men will say almost anything to ensure their own survival,’ Blackstone countered. ‘They’ll even sell their own mothers down the river if they believe it will reduce their own punishment a little. How can you be so sure that Boris Kamanev has not sold you down the river?’
‘There is nothing you could subject Boris to that would be anything like as harsh as conditions he has already endured without complaint. I remember he was once taken prisoner by tribesmen in Af—’
He stopped, as if he had suddenly realized that in boasting about the loyalty of his man he was giving too much away.
‘In Afghanistan,’ Blackstone supplied. ‘You were about to say he was taken prisoner by tribesmen in Afghanistan.’
‘Perhaps I was,’ the Count agreed. ‘What of it?’
‘And since he was probably working for you at the time, that means that you were in Afghanistan, too.’
The Count shrugged, unconcernedly. ‘Over the years, I have visited many distant places.’
‘But why were you in Afghanistan?’ Blackstone pressed. ‘Were you on official business?’
Turgenev shook his head. ‘I am too rich—and far too easily bored—to have ever entered government service.’
The Count took a flat tin out of his pocket, extracted a long black cigarette, and lit it up.
‘It is thought that it was in Afghanistan that the Mongols invented polo,’ he said. ‘But it wasn’t played in quite the same way as it is now. Instead of a ball, they used a live—bound—prisoner, who they would pick up and hoist across their saddles. The other players would then attempt to pull him away. The prisoner rarely survived the game.’
‘I’m sure some people would find that fascinating,’ Blackstone said, ‘but I don’t see what it’s got to do with—’
‘You asked me what I was doing in Afghanistan, and I am telling you,’ the Count interrupted. ‘The modern version of the game, which the natives call buzkhazi, uses a headless calf soaked in brine instead of a prisoner, but it is still a ferocious sport in which both rider and mount must be ruthless to succeed. I happen to be a keen polo player, so that is why I went there—to buy myself a string of ponies.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ Blackstone said.
‘You must believe or disbelieve as you like, but I am interested to know why you refuse to accept a perfectly truthful story.’
‘Polo is a civilized game,’ Blackstone said. It has strict rules and well-disciplined horses.’
‘The ponies I bought
in Afghanistan were well-disciplined,’ Turgenev told him. ‘But they were not formally disciplined, as are the horses available in Europe. My Afghans reduced all the other mounts on the field to nervous wrecks in a matter of minutes.’ He paused. ‘Do you understand what I’m telling you, Inspector?’
Yes, I do, Blackstone thought. You’re telling me that you play hard and you play unfairly, and that if I have any sense at all, I’ll take the lesson of last night’s murder attempt to heart and get away from London as quickly as I can.
‘Do you know any of the Montcliffe family?’ he asked.
‘I move in all sorts of social circles and know all manner of men,’ the Count replied.
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
‘I believe that I have met Earl Montcliffe on one or two occasions. Perhaps even as many as three.’
‘What the hell does that mean—you met him?’ Blackstone demanded. ‘Did you dine with him? Did you go shooting together?’
The Count shook his head. ‘Nothing like that. We met at functions. I don’t suppose we exchanged more than a few words, but even such a slight exchange was enough to tell me that he is what you English would call “a complete bloody fool”.’
‘If he’s a bloody fool, why does he have such a key role in the Jubilee celebrations?’ Blackstone wondered aloud.
‘He is a bloody fool from a noble family. That is usually enough to bring a man to eminence in most of Europe.’
‘But not in Russia?’
‘Most certainly in Russia. Our own Tsar would make a very good English lord.’
Did this man believe in nothing? Blackstone asked himself. Or was all this an elaborate act?
‘What about Hugo Montcliffe?’ he asked, staring straight into the Count’s eyes. ‘Have you met him at functions?’
‘No,’ the Russian said, blinking slightly.
‘But you have met him somewhere,’ Blackstone persisted.
For a moment, it looked as if Turgenev was about to tell him to go to hell, then the Count said, ‘I came across him a few years ago—in Australia.’
‘What were you doing there?’
The smile returned to Turgenev’s lips. ‘I had never shot a kangaroo before,’ he said.
‘And what was your impression of the Viscount?’
‘That not only was he as stupid as his father, but he had some rather distasteful habits.’
‘What kind of habits?’
The smile was still in place. ‘One gentleman does not discuss another gentleman’s habits with a social inferior.’
At least half of what the Russian said was a calculated attempt to taunt him, Blackstone realized—to make him so angry that he lost control of the situation. Well, it wasn’t going to work.
‘There is one member of the family we still haven’t discussed,’ he said.
‘Is there?’
‘You know there is. What can you tell me about Charles Montcliffe?’
‘Who is he?’
‘The Earl’s youngest son.’
‘I don’t believe I’ve ever met him.’
‘That’s strange—because Charles seems to have been spending a great deal of his time in Little Russia.’
‘Perhaps so,’ Turgenev said, almost lazily, ‘but as far as I know, our paths never crossed.’
He was so sure of himself he wasn’t even bothering to make his lies sound sincere, Blackstone thought.
‘Why are you in London, Count Turgenev?’ he asked.
‘I am in London for much the same reason as I have visited many other places—because it amuses me to be here.’
The door suddenly flew open, and standing in the gap was a furious-looking Commissioner of Police.
It was a bad sign that he’d come personally, Blackstone thought. A very bad sign.
‘I want to talk to you, Blackstone,’ the Commissioner shouted. ‘Out here! Right now!’
As he rose to his feet, the Inspector noticed the smirk that had formed on the Russian’s lips.
I’ll have you, you bastard! he promised silently. Whatever it takes, I’ll have you.
There would normally be a number of officers walking along the corridor at that time of day, but apart from the Commissioner—whose rage seemed to have grown ever more intense since he’d ordered Blackstone out—it was completely deserted.
People always keep clear when the shit’s about to fly, Blackstone thought. He supposed he couldn’t blame them.
‘I don’t know what idiot of a magistrate you got to sign that arrest warrant for you,’ the Commissioner said, ‘but when I find out who he is, I’ll have his balls on a plate!’
‘The magistrate was only doing his duty,’ Blackstone told him. ‘There is strong evidence to link—’
‘I don’t give a damn about any evidence—strong or otherwise. I’ve had both the Home Secretary and Earl Montcliffe on the phone to me within the last fifteen minutes. They’re furious.’
‘Why should Montcliffe be furious? Doesn’t he want me to solve his son’s murder?’
‘Well, of course he bloody does, you damn fool! But not at the expense of causing a diplomatic crisis. Do you know how important the Count’s family is in Russia?’
‘No, I don’t,’ Blackstone admitted. ‘It didn’t seem at all relevant to my inquiries.’
‘A count is the equivalent of an English earl,’ the Commissioner told him. ‘And you wouldn’t think of arresting an earl, would you?’
Oh yes, I would, Blackstone thought. If I could prove that Earl Montcliffe or his son had anything to do with Charles’ death, I’d have them behind bars before you could say ‘landed gentry’.
‘Do you know what I’m going to have to do now?’ the Commissioner demanded. ‘I’m going to have to go into that room and apologize on behalf of the Metropolitan Police and the British government. I’m going to have to humble myself—and I don’t like doing that.’
‘What about me?’ Blackstone asked.
‘You?’ the Commissioner said.
‘Do you expect me to apologize to Count Turgenev, too—because I won’t do it.’
The Commissioner looked at him as if he were a madman. ‘No, I don’t expect you to apologize, Blackstone—because your apologies aren’t worth anything any more.’
Blackstone felt his stomach turn over. ‘What do you mean by that, sir?’ he asked.
‘As of this moment, you’re suspended from the Force,’ the Commissioner said. ‘But that’s only a temporary state of affairs—as soon as we can convene a board of inquiry, you’ll be kicked off it completely!’
Twenty-Seven
Positioned on Park Lane, just opposite the Montcliffe mansion, Blackstone felt as if he were standing knee-deep in the shattered remains of his own career.
He had been fired! He had lost the only job he’d had since the Army—the only job he’d ever really cared to do. What was left for him now but casual labouring on a building site or down at the docks? What was there to look forward to but ending up in the workhouse—with two meals of gruel and bread a day, and the time between them spent unpicking oakum?
He had been fired! Not because he had been doing his job badly—but because he had been doing it too well. It seemed inconceivable to the Commissioner that aristocrats could ever commit a crime, yet a study of their ancestors would reveal a long line of robbers and murderers.
Well, he wasn’t going to take it lying down. He might have lost his position on the Force, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t see this investigation through to the bitter end.
He glanced across at the steps that led down to the servants’ entrance of the house. If he knocked on it now, they would refuse to let him in, but if he waited until one of the tradesmen arrived and followed him down, then the door would already be open.
And the butler would be there! Hoskins would be there because it was his job to see that none of the staff told the visitor about Charles Montcliffe’s mysterious disappearance—his job to protect the Family from outside i
nfluences, to insulate them in their own world of certainties.
A butcher’s wagon rattled down the street and came to a halt in front of the mansion. The driver’s mate dismounted, walked around to the back of the van and took out a large side of meat wrapped in sacking. Blackstone waited until the man had disappeared down the steps, then rapidly crossed the road.
The driver’s mate had stepped through the door when Blackstone pushed him roughly to one side and grabbed the butler by the lapels of his jacket.
‘We need to talk,’ he said.
‘’Ere, what’s goin’ on?’ the deliveryman demanded. ‘Police business!’ Blackstone told him. ‘Put down that meat and clear off—or you’ll be in big trouble.’
‘Mr ’Oskins...?’ the driver’s mate appealed.
‘Do as you’re told,’ the butler said calmly. ‘Nothing’s going to happen here that I can’t handle myself.’
The deliveryman shrugged, propped the side of meat against the wall and headed back up the stairs.
The butler looked down at Blackstone’s hands. ‘I don’t like being manhandled,’ he said.
‘And I don’t like being buggered about,’ Blackstone told him. ‘I’ve got some questions, and I want them answering.’
‘With the Earl’s permission—’
‘To hell with the Earl,’ Blackstone said, tightening his grip on the butler’s lapels. ‘His son’s been murdered! You know that, don’t you?’
‘For God’s sake keep your voice down!’ the butler hissed. ‘Yes, the Family has shown the confidence I’m held in by telling me of Master Charles’ fate. But the rest of the servants do not—and must not—know.’
‘And have they also told you about that bastard Hugo?’
‘The Viscount?’ Hoskins asked, sounding genuinely surprised. ‘What do you know about the Viscount?’
‘That he didn’t want Thomas Grey found. And the reason he didn’t want him found is because Thomas knows exactly what part Hugo played in his brother’s murder.’
Hoskins shook his head. ‘You don’t understand the situation at all,’ he said. ‘If you’ll release me, we can go to my parlour, and I’ll explain everything in civilized surroundings.’
Blackstone and the Rendezvous With Death (The Blackstone Detective Series Book 1 Page 17
