The Hunt for Sonya Dufrette

by R. T. Raichev

  ‘It was the anniversary of Sonya’s death.’ Antonia decided to be as truthful as possible. After all, he had been behaving impeccably towards her. ‘I envisaged some unpleasant confrontation. I thought you had sought me out-’

  ‘I hadn’t the least notion that you would turn out to be the librarian! It was one of those extraordinary coincidences.’

  ‘I thought you might blame me for Sonya’s death.’

  His brows went up. ‘Blame you for Sonya’s death? My good woman. How could you think such a thing? That’s absolutely terrible.’

  Antonia smiled faintly. ‘I was in a highly neurotic state. I wasn’t thinking rationally -’

  ‘I felt so sorry for you that day on the river bank,’ Dufrette said. ‘Lena making a scene, screaming at you. I should have intervened - put an end to her mendacious caterwauling - told her to shut up. I wanted to, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think of anything but Sonya. What she would look like when the body was eventually fished out of the water. In a way I was glad that it was never found ... I loved her so!’

  ‘I know.’ Antonia touched his arm.

  The words of ‘Lavender’s Blue’ floated into her head. If you love me, Dilly, Dilly, I will love you ... She remembered the heavy hints Lena had dropped. I didn’t like the way he kissed her. Was there anything in that? Could Lena be trusted? Antonia decided not. Like serenading a lover, Lena had said. Lolita love. That had been Lady Mortlock’s way of putting it.

  The next moment Antonia recalled that she had heard ‘Lavender’s Blue’ not such a long time ago - only where? She frowned. She had the feeling that it was extremely important that she should remember. When she did remember the place where she had heard the song, she told herself, she would know why it had been important ... Was she being irrational again?

  She said, ‘I believe I can understand how terrible it was for you. My son was almost the same age as Sonya, you see.’

  ‘I do remember you mentioning your little boy. How is he? What was his name? Jonathan?’

  ‘David.’

  ‘Doing well, I hope?’

  ‘Yes. Not so little any more. He is fine. He is twenty-six. Married - with a child of his own. A daughter.’

  ‘Good to hear that. I am delighted. So you have a granddaughter! How old is she?’

  He sounds so normal, Antonia thought. ‘Three and a half.’

  ‘Splendid. I would have loved to have grandchildren - read Belloc’s Cautionary Tales to them - I can do the voices perfectly.’ He gave a wistful smile. ‘Sadly, it wasn’t to be ... It was absolutely dreadful, that day, when it happened. And the following day was worse - the day we left Twiston and drove to London ... 30th July. The heat. The Union Jacks, as we drove through London. The hordes of delirious fools still walking in the streets, singing, gawping outside Buckingham Palace, shouting, “Diana, Diana.” The silly goose wasn’t even there ... I told you that marriage wouldn’t last, didn’t I? I was right! Thank you.’

  Their drinks had arrived. He took a sip of vermouth. ‘That journey and its aftermath were the stuff of nightmares. Lena got drunk. The grieving mamma, don’t you know. I wanted to cry but couldn’t. I went into the nursery. Everything was exactly as we had left it. I took out all of Sonya’s toys and arranged them on the floor. The one she loved best was a giraffe called Curzon. I had given him the name. One of Curzon’s ears still bore an imprint of Sonya’s teeth, where she had bitten him. I took Curzon to my room and put him on my bedside table. Then, ten days later, something very odd happened. Curzon disappeared.’

  ‘Disappeared?’

  ‘Yes. He vanished. Nobody seemed to know where he had gone. We searched everywhere, but couldn’t find him. For some reason I was profoundly upset by that second disappearance. I cried then.’ Dufrette’s hand went up to his mouth. ‘Buckets. Couldn’t stop myself. I know it sounds ridiculous ...’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,‘ Antonia said.

  ‘Was he ever found?’ Major Payne asked over his scotch. ‘I mean Curzon?’

  ‘No. He wasn’t.’ Dufrette turned towards Antonia. ‘I wanted to talk to you in the library the other day, but didn’t after I saw the expression on your face. You looked terrified.’

  Antonia blushed. ‘I am sorry. Are you a member of the Military Club? I’ve never seen you there before.’

  ‘I am a member, yes, but it was ages since I’d been there. I know old Haslett and so on, but I am afraid I rather detest it there, so I never visit it. I am a member of several other clubs. Terrible places, but then I am not your typical kind of clubman.’ Compressing his lips slightly, Dufrette shot a pointed glance at Payne as though to imply that he thought him precisely that - the typical clubman, a type he unequivocally despised.

  ‘So you really needed a book on the Himalayas? For your nephew?’

  ‘No, that was only an excuse. I had to think of something. I’d been making a round of all my clubs, promoting my book in my own peculiar way - since nobody else would.’

  ‘Promoting your book?’

  ‘Yes. Self-publicity of a particularly furtive kind, I hate to admit, but it is an extremely important book. A warning to mankind.’ He paused. ‘What I do is enter the library, distract the librarian with some query and then place a copy of my book somewhere handy. Clubs are good because members leave donations all the time, isn’t that right?’

  ‘They do.’ Antonia gave a little sigh. ‘All the time.’ She paused. ‘The Greatest Secret. You left it in one of my boxes, didn’t you?’

  ‘Frightfully infra dig.’ Dufrette took another sip of vermouth. ‘I get no profit whatsoever, but it’s terribly important that people should read my book, that’s why I have been going to such lengths ... The threat is imminent ... I don’t expect you to have read it, but I do believe you should. Time may be very short now.’

  ‘I have read your book,’ Payne said.

  Dufrette’s face remained blank. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I found it fascinating.’

  ‘You did?’ Dufrette said in a flat voice.

  ‘Absolutely. It’s quite amazing.’

  ‘It’s the truth. There isn’t a single word in my book which doesn’t reflect the truth.’ Dufrette delivered this with great gravity. ‘Are you sure we are talking about the same book? I wrote it pseudonymously.’

  ‘The Babylonian brotherhood - race of interbreeding bloodlines,’ Payne said. ‘They established institutions like religions in an attempt to imprison the masses mentally and emotionally - so far they have operated in secret but they are preparing to reveal themselves and take over.’

  Dufrette looked at him again. ‘Well, the danger is imminent. They were behind Diana’s murder. Of course most of the royal family are brotherhood members. You see, she knew. She was foolish but remarkably intuitive. Why hasn’t it occurred to anyone that the Pont d’Alma tunnel is not the way to Dodi al Fayed’s flat? It takes you away from that area. I checked personally. I went to Paris and walked the route the Mercedes had taken that night. There are thirty pillars in that tunnel and the Mercedes hit the thirteenth because it was meant to.‘

  ‘The Babylonian brotherhood throughout the centuries has had an obsession with the number thirteen,’ Major Payne explained to Antonia with a deadpan expression. She managed a grave nod.

  ‘That’s absolutely correct. Diana, on the other hand, had an aversion to it, and she would not allow a thirteenth lot in her dress auction at Christie’s the June before she died. Well, Henri Paul was directed to pick out the thirteenth pillar at the highest speed imaginable. It was inevitable that he should. His subconscious had been programmed.’ Dufrette took a sip of vermouth.

  Payne cleared his throat. ‘Your research was impressive, the details you provide fascinating.’ Dufrette remained silent and continued sipping his drink, but it was clear he was listening carefully. He’s buttering him up, Antonia thought. Suddenly she saw them as Humours: Vanity exploited by Cunning.

  ‘I found the chapter entitled �
�Knights of the Black Sun” of particular interest. Although the information you communicate is of the kind that stretches one’s sense of reality to breaking point,’ Major Payne continued, ‘you treat your readers with tremendous respect.’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘Yes. You must be one of the very few possessors of this truly astonishing data - yet you do not for a moment patronize the reader, rather you leave them to edit the information for themselves. Besides, you are brave enough to stick to your guns while you make it abundantly clear that you expect great opposition to your ideas.’

  ‘Well, I have been described as a raving lunatic - as a “highly dangerous nutcase” - and so on,’ Dufrette said with an indulgent smile. ‘I am perfectly aware of the fact. Still, even if one is in a minority of one, the truth is the truth.’

  ‘Is that Gandhi?’

  Dufrette cast him another glance. ‘An intellectual Major, eh? What an oxymoron that is. Like - like “premeditated spontaneity”, or Nature Morte Vivante.’ He gave an unexpected whinny of a laugh. ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Payne ... That’s a Dali, isn’t it?’

  ‘What? Oh, the painting! Still life moving. Yes ... You are showing off now, Payne. Still, better an intellectual braggadocio than a philistine ignoramus. Incidentally, do you know where “braggadocio” comes from?’

  ‘Marlowe? No - Spenser. Faerie Queen. A boastful character who -’

  ‘Yes, yes. Stop showing off. You seem to be quite different, Payne. Generals are pompous asses, the colonel’s a bore - but majors, majors I abhor,’ Dufrette recited gleefully. ‘Either rogues, bumbling fools or cads - or downright crooks.’

  ‘In fiction, certainly.’

  ‘No, not only in fiction. There’s Diana’s awful love rat ... And the one who fathered the fat duchess - he has a penchant for massage parlours, hasn’t he? I personally knew a Major Yeats Brown, who was an occultist and a numerologist. He drank himself to death. He favoured the kind of Cyprus brandy that could take the shell off an egg. Then of course there was Nagle who as good as killed his wife. He was a sadist.’ Dufrette turned to Antonia. ‘Do you remember friend Nagle?’

  She said she did. Once more she saw the stock-still figure at the window, looking down at her and Sonya.

  Dufrette’s eyes remained on her. ‘What exactly brought you to the Elsnor?’

  ‘We wanted to talk to Lena ... I hope this won’t cause you too much distress, but we have reason to believe that Sonya did not just wander down to the river and drown that day.’

  ‘You have been - investigating?’ Dufrette looked from Antonia to Payne.

  ‘Well, we’ve been visiting people - asking questions.’

  ‘And have you reached any conclusions?’

  ‘Yes.’ Antonia took a deep breath. ‘We have. There is still a lot we don’t know, but - we don’t think Sonya drowned. She never went anywhere near the river that day. Her nanny was paid to leave her unattended. Your - Sonya’s mother too was paid a large sum of money.’

  ‘Go on.’ Antonia saw Dufrette’s eyes narrow.

  ‘We believe that there was some sort of conspiracy involving more than one person. We believe it might have been the Mortlocks. Well, Sonya was - taken. We have no idea for what reason. If she was murdered ...’ Antonia paused but Dufrette’s expression didn’t change. ‘... we think her body is somewhere other than the river. The day was chosen carefully - the royal wedding would have made sure there were not many people around. Sonya was allowed to leave the house -’

  ‘Lena,’ Dufrette said harshly. ‘That bitch ... Michael actually liked her. I don’t think he or Hermione had anything to do with it, though.’

  ‘Well, we believe Lena cooperated fully with whoever it was. We believe she was paid a lot of money. The plan was to make it look as though Sonya had drowned. A false trail was laid - Sonya’s daisy chain and bracelet beside the path - her doll in the river ... Lena gave herself away. She as good as admitted her part in the plot. She never actually said the Mortlocks were behind it, but that was the impression we got.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Dufrette said thoughtfully. ‘A lot of money, did you say? Well, that would explain Lena’s sudden shopping sprees. Of course. Of course. The things she bought - all the extravagant, exorbitantly priced useless objets! Manolo Blahnik shoes and alligator skin pumps - the most ridiculous-looking Ascot-y hats - bottles of Louis Roederer Brut Premier - jars of expensive face creams ... I knew she didn’t have that kind of money, so I wondered whether she might have been shoplifting, but then she bought herself the latest BMW. Well, she might have taken a rich lover. Not as unlikely as you might think. Some men’s tastes incline towards the - shall we say, the recherche if not the downright bizarre?’

  ‘When did her spending sprees start?’ Major Payne asked.

  ‘A fortnight after Sonya drowned ... We were leading separate lives, so I wasn’t really interested, but I did ask her where she got the money. She said it had come from Russia. Some rigmarole concerning property that had belonged to her family before the Revolution. Dachas - land - and so on. It had all been nationalized when the Communists took over but now it was all being returned to her family, of which she was the only surviving member ... I knew that couldn’t be right. The Communists still ruled in Russia - it was still the Soviet Union - Brezhnev hadn’t died yet. Anyway, I didn’t care. Soon after I moved out ... No, I don’t think the Mortlocks had anything to do with it. For one thing, they weren’t rich. Extremely well-off, yes, but I don’t think they had that kind of money -’

  ‘Who’s Vivian?’ Antonia asked suddenly. ‘Lena referred to someone called Vivian. She said that Vivian had been rather mean - that she had loved living at the Dorchester but been “downgraded”. She mentioned Vivian to Lady Mortlock too and again she complained of his meanness and ingratitude ... Could that be the person who took Sonya?’

  ‘Vivian?’ Dufrette’s expression changed. ‘No, not Vivian,’ he said slowly, running his tongue across his lips.

  ‘Well, it might have been a woman - Vivienne,’ Major Payne pointed out.

  ‘Do you know this person?’ Antonia asked Dufrette.

  He remained silent. He produced a pair of reading glasses and put them on his nose. ‘The letter. Let’s take a look at the letter first.’ Dufrette’s pale blue eyes, above the half moons, fixed on Major Payne. ‘I saw you take a letter from the counter, Payne. It was the moment before Lena’s hideous heavings started. Unless my eyes deceived me, it was a sheet of thick writing paper, pale mauve in colour, with gold edges? I believe I’ve seen that paper before. Two letters written on that same paper arrived for Lena in the days after Sonya drowned ... D’you mind showing me the letter, Payne?‘

  18

  B.B.

  Major Payne remained unperturbed. ‘It occurred to me it might be important,’ he said with an easy smile. Pushing his hand inside his jacket, he produced the letter. ‘I couldn’t read it because it is in Russian. Nazdarovye. That’s the only Russian word I know. I am not familiar with the Cyrillic alphabet.’ He unfolded the sheet and laid it down on the table. ‘Thick paper, pale mauve with gold edges - you are absolutely correct, Dufrette. I meant to ask someone to translate it - someone who knows Russian.’

  Dufrette touched the letter with his long pale forefinger.

  ‘Do you know Russian?’ Payne asked.

  ‘No. I meant to learn it when I married Lena, but never got round to it. It wasn’t necessary, really. When she was a child Lena had an English nanny, and then of course she was sent to a school in England.’

  ‘Ashcroft,’ Antonia said.

  ‘Yes. That was Hermione’s school. One of the best in the land, though you wouldn’t have believed it if you judged it by Lena.’

  Did he know about Lena and Lady Mortlock? Antonia wondered but decided not to say anything. Why cloud the issue? She looked down at the letter. ‘No address. 17th March 2001. That’s four months ago.’

  ‘You believe it’s a letter from someon
e who also wrote to Lena twenty years ago?’ Major Payne addressed Dufrette. ‘Do you know who?’

  ‘No ... Not at the time.’

  ‘Weren’t you ever curious to discover who was writing to your wife? Didn’t you ever ask her?’

  ‘I was never curious.’

  ‘There’s no name at the bottom - only initials,’ Antonia went on. ‘B.B.’

  Major Payne picked up the letter, sniffed at it, then held it up to the light. He’s doing his Sherlock Holmes trick, Antonia thought. ‘Ink the colour of burnt sugar ... A loping scrawl - it suggests a no-nonsense personality ... Very expensive ... Water sign. Maison de la Roche, Paris ... So B.B. might be living in France -’

  ‘No, not B.B. In Russian that’s V.V. B in Cyrillic is actually V in the Roman alphabet,’ Dufrette explained, turning towards Antonia. ‘Don’t you see? She said V.V. - not Vivian.’

  ‘V.V.? Well, she spoke rather indistinctly. She was slurring a lot. Lady Mortlock too thought it was Vivian. So Lena was referring to the person by their initials.’

  ‘What did she say exactly?’ Dufrette asked.

  ‘She complained about V.V.’s meanness. V.V. had given her money but was reluctant to give her any more ... Do you know who that might be?’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ Dufrette said slowly, ‘I do.’ He removed his reading glasses. ‘The funny thing was that it did occur to me at the time that there might have been an abduction and that our nanny might have been involved. But I was thinking of the wrong kind of abduction. Chrissie was Greek, had a Greek mother, and I knew there was a trade to supply childless couples with children in rural parts of Greece. It’s an open secret out there, apparently. I did imagine that Chrissie might have been in touch with child traffickers ... Blond, blue-eyed children fetch the highest price on the black market. I had read an article about it -’