Violet’s mouth went dry and she felt as though she might be sick. A Russian has been arrested. Could it possibly be Nikolai?
‘What would a Russian be doing setting fire to the tannery?’ Imogen asked.
‘The young foreigner was sneaking around the factory, where he had no reason to be, inciting violence,’ Mr Hamilton continued. ‘You know that Bolshevik Zuzenko, who was deported a few weeks ago? Apparently he had been encouraging workers to revolt against their bosses and burn down their places of employment. The police say Zuzenko left a ring of Bolshevik spies behind, and it seems they’ve finally arrested one.’
There couldn’t have been any other Russians near the tannery, Violet thought. It must be Nikolai. They think he’s a spy.
‘Why would the strikers do such a thing?’ asked Imogen. ‘Surely Ramsay’s staff will be worse off if they can’t work at all? It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘Revolutionaries don’t necessarily have much sense,’ Mr Hamilton retorted. ‘But fortunately they’ve caught this one. Zuzenko had to be deported due to lack of evidence, but after burning down the tannery, this Russian fellow will rot in prison for the rest of his days.’
Violet swayed. This couldn’t he happening.
‘Are you sure you’re all right, Violet?’ Imogen asked again. ‘You don’t look very well.’
‘I have a bad migraine,’ Violet croaked. ‘I’ll get a powder from Mrs Darling.’
Her head was spinning with all the information. She needed to find out if it was Nikolai who’d been arrested. If she told her father, he would know that she’d disobeyed his orders by going into the slums. He’d be absolutely furious – and if it wasn’t Nikolai, she’d be in trouble for nothing. Maybe it actually was a Bolshevik spy who’d instigated the riot. The newspapers were always full of stories about the Bolshevik threat. Nikolai was probably home with his family, drinking tea, and he’d laugh at Violet’s concern that he’d been arrested.
Violet had just convinced herself that she’d let her imagination run away with her when the doorbell rang. Saunders went to answer it. There was a low murmur of voices.
Saunders came to the morning room door. ‘Excuse me, sir, but there’s a Senior Sergeant Brooks and a Constable Lawson here to see you. They are investigating a fire in Richmond today and believe you may be able to help them with their inquiries about a person of interest.’
Mr Hamilton huffed as he rose to his feet. ‘As if I know anything about the fire at Ramsay’s!’
‘Shall I send them away, sir?’ asked Saunders. ‘Only they do seem very insistent.’
‘Very well,’ Mr Hamilton said. ‘Show them into the library. I’ll come at once.’ He turned to the girls. ‘Don’t worry yourselves about this arson attack. The police will sort it out very quickly.’
‘Poor Theodore,’ Imogen said. ‘What a terrible business.’
‘Is he all right?’ Violet asked her father. ‘Was he hurt?’
‘Theodore was there when it happened. He was set on by some of the workers and beaten, his car vandalised, but the police arrived just in time.’
Violet shuddered at the memory. ‘That’s a relief. I’ll just go and get that headache powder.’
‘Do you want me to ring for Mrs Darling?’ Imogen asked as Violet stumbled to the door.
Violet shook her head. ‘I’ll just go to my room and lie down for a while.’
But Violet didn’t go to her room. She took the key to the locked tower room and went inside, fastening the door behind her. She sat on the floor with her head on her knees. Somehow she felt closer to her mother in the tower, in the rooms that had been her very own.
‘What should I do, Mamma?’ Violet cried. ‘Why did you leave us when we still need you?’
Violet took a deep breath to steady herself. There was no response from her mother, so she’d have to figure it out for herself. Why had the police come to question her father? The only possible reason could be that they had interrogated Nikolai and he had told them he was a chauffeur employed at Riversleigh.
But would the police believe Nikolai, that he wasn’t a Bolshevik? How could she prove his innocence?
Violet could almost sense her mother’s presence. Her mother had always said she must stand up for what she believed in. That she must do the right thing, no matter what the consequences. And the right thing to do was stand up for her friend. But how? Would her word be enough?
Suddenly she remembered the roll of film she had taken at the riot – the photos of the smartly dressed push lads who had handed out fence palings as weapons and thrown the bottle bombs. Surely that might be evidence.
Violet jumped to her feet and raced back into her bedroom. The roll of film had been in the pocket of the skirt – now soiled and crushed – that she had flung onto the chair in her bedroom. But her skirt and shirt were gone. Sally must have been tidying up. Violet checked her wardrobe and chest of drawers, but the clothes weren’t there. Sally must have taken them to the laundry.
Violet ran down the servants’ stairs to the laundry, taking the narrow steps two at a time.
‘Sally!’ she called urgently. ‘Sally, where’s my skirt?’
Sally stuck her head around the kitchen door. ‘It’s being washed, miss. Lizzy is boiling up all the darks.’
The film will be ruined if it is boiled, Violet thought. She bolted past the scullery to the laundry. A young maid was standing at the copper kettle filled with scalding water, sleeves rolled to the elbows, her face flushed from the steam. The maid was stirring clothes with a long stick.
‘Lizzy?’ asked Violet with a sinking heart. ‘Have you washed my skirt yet?’
‘Yes, miss.’ She used her stick to fish out the navy blue skirt. ‘Shouldn’t I have? Only Sally said it was very dirty and she thought you might need to wear it tomorrow.’
Violet thought she was going to cry. ‘No, that’s all right, Lizzy. You did the right thing. It’s just that I left something precious in the pocket.’
Lizzy looked worried. ‘I always check the pockets of everythin’, miss, like Mrs Darling taught me, but I didn’t find nothin’ precious, only a film.’ Lizzy gestured with her elbow towards the windowsill. ‘I put it up there.’
Violet nearly wept, this time with relief. ‘Oh, thank you, Lizzy. That’s exactly what I was looking for. You’ve been a marvellous help.’ Violet snatched the film and went through the kitchen towards the front of the house. She paused outside the library. Inside, she could hear low voices.
‘You know what these foreign wogs are like,’ said one of the policemen. ‘Slippery as mud – can’t believe a word he says. But we’ll pin it on him.’
‘So what do you know about this Khakovsky character?’ asked the other. ‘How long have you employed him as a chauffeur?’
‘Not long at all, I’m afraid,’ Mr Hamilton replied. ‘He’s only been here a few weeks. I would never have employed him if I’d known he was a Bolshevik. He just seemed a decent young chap who was hard on his luck. And he had excellent references from his last employer, Countess Orlova in Paris.’
‘The letter was probably forged,’ the policeman suggested. ‘He’d be operating under an alias. The local communists seem highly organised and are committed to sparking a revolution here in Australia.’
‘I hope word of this doesn’t get out,’ Mr Hamilton said. ‘The last thing I need is a scandal about us harbouring a Bolshevik spy.’
Violet took a deep breath, finding her courage and holding it tightly. She knocked on the door and ventured inside the library. Her father was sitting at his desk; the two policemen in navy blue uniforms were sitting opposite, their black leather caps on their laps.
‘Dad?’ said Violet.
‘Not now,’ her father replied. ‘I’m rather busy with the police right now. There’s been an unfortunate allegation about our chauffeur, Khakovsky. Looks like he was a bad egg.’
‘That’s why I’m here, Dad. Nikolai isn’t a Bolshevik at all. He wasn’t involved in
setting fire to Ramsay’s tannery, but I know who was.’
Mr Hamilton looked puzzled and turned to the policemen. ‘Sorry, you must excuse my daughter Violet. She is rather soft-hearted when it comes to our servants. Violet, this doesn’t concern you and you couldn’t possibly know anything about Khakovsky or the fire.’
‘But you see, Dad, I do,’ Violet pleaded. ‘I know because I was there at Ramsay’s when the fire started.’
‘That’s impossible,’ Mr Hamilton blustered, his face flushed with anger. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
Violet turned to the policemen. ‘Nikolai isn’t a Bolshevik. He’s a White Russian, an anti-communist. Actually, he’s Count Nikolai Petrovich Khakovsky. And his mother is Countess Khakovska. His family escaped from the revolution after his father was murdered by Bolsheviks.’
The constable was writing copious notes. Senior Sergeant Brooks turned to Violet, his face impassive. ‘This is all very romantic, but it doesn’t explain what Khakovsky was doing participating in a strike by the workers of one of your father’s associates. The only possible explanation is that he was there to cause trouble. We have questioned the young man and he refuses to give a satisfactory explanation other than that he was just passing by on his half day off. Which is highly unlikely.’
Violet shook her head. ‘He wasn’t just passing by.’
‘See?’ her father replied. ‘It’s all a bit fishy to me.’
‘The truth is that Nikolai was there because he was worried about me,’ Violet said in a small voice. ‘I went to Richmond to take photographs of the slums. I wrote an article for a newspaper, and the editor said he would publish it if I could send him some more photographs of slum life to illustrate the story.’
‘You went to the slums with Khakovsky, and he let you get caught up in a riot?’ Mr Hamilton thundered. ‘Then he’s fired without a reference. He should be flogged.’
‘No, Dad,’ said Violet. ‘I went there by myself. Nikolai just happened to be on a tram going home to visit his family, who live in Richmond. He saw me walking across Hawthorn Bridge and thought I wouldn’t be safe.’
Mr Hamilton glared at her. ‘Of course you weren’t safe.’
Violet ploughed on. ‘So he jumped off the tram at the next stop and came looking for me. By the time he found me, the crowd had turned nasty and I was swept up in the riot. Nikolai came in to help get me out, even though he must have been terrified. He’s seen violent riots in St Petersburg – riots where people were murdered.’
The constable kept scribbling down notes.
Senior Sergeant Brooks looked sceptical. ‘You claim he followed you down to the tannery? That he wouldn’t have been there if it wasn’t for you?’
‘Yes, exactly,’ Violet replied. ‘He may have even saved my life. We couldn’t get out of the crowd. Nikolai came in and dragged us out.’
‘We?’ asked the policeman. ‘I thought you went on your own?’
‘I did,’ Violet said, ‘but I met Frank Burke there. He’s the thirteen-year-old brother of our maid Sally. He works for Ramsay’s tannery and was there with the strikers. Frank saw what happened – you can ask him. He’s sleeping in the men’s quarters. He was badly hurt in the riot and may have broken some ribs, but he’ll support my story.’
‘He’s just a kid.’ The policeman waved his notebook dismissively. ‘Mr Theodore Ramsay said that the violence was initiated by a group of troublemakers who weren’t workers at the tannery. He said the Russian Khakovsky was one of them, and Mr Ramsay is determined to press charges against him.’
Violet felt a wave of fury rise up in her chest. ‘Theodore Ramsay couldn’t have seen Nikolai do anything, because I saw Theodore get pulled down into the crowd before Nikolai even arrived. But I did see two larrikins from the Richmond Push throw jars of petrol at the tannery then flick a match.’
‘How do you know they were from the Richmond Push?’ Senior Sergeant Brooks interrupted.
‘Frank told me – and I took some photographs.’ Violet held out her fist and opened it, revealing the film cartridge on her palm.
‘You took photographs of the arsonists?’ Mr Hamilton demanded. ‘If they’d seen you, they might have killed you.’
Violet decided she wouldn’t tell her father that she had indeed been caught by one of the gang members. He’d had enough of a shock for one day.
‘If you develop the photographs, you’ll be able to identify the real arsonists,’ Violet insisted. ‘Nikolai Khakovsky is innocent.’
The senior sergeant continued to ask the same questions over and over, in slightly different ways. Or he’d deliberately misunderstand her, as if trying to catch her out. Then he pulled Frank out of bed and asked him a lot of questions about the riot. The boy looked frightened but answered the questions truthfully, once Violet had nodded her head to show him he should.
It was much later when Frank was finally allowed to go back to bed. The policemen said good night and took the film away to have it developed at the police laboratory.
Mr Hamilton sat at his desk, slumped back in his chair, hand over his eyes, looking defeated.
‘Dad, I’m sorry I went into the slums by myself when you told me not to,’ Violet said. ‘I know now how reckless that was.’
Mr Hamilton looked up at her. ‘Violet, I don’t know why you are so rebellious. So determined to flout authority. Why can’t you just behave decorously, like a well-bred young lady? I’m trying to do my best to raise you, but it’s so hard to know what to do when … when you don’t have a mother.’
Violet came around next to her father and hugged him around the shoulders. ‘Dad, I don’t mean to upset you. I’m only trying to do what I think is right.’
‘I am determined to ensure that you girls are securely settled,’ said Mr Hamilton. ‘All I want is to see you both married into respectable families, to take your rightful place among Melbourne society, with no hint of scandal. Otherwise, everything I’ve striven for will be in vain.’
‘The world’s changing, Dad,’ said Violet. ‘The old rules don’t matter so much to us anymore.’
Mr Hamilton shook his head despondently. ‘I refuse to accept that, Violet. The old rules still matter to me. It’s the duty of people like us to uphold the old rules – or society will fall utterly apart.’
25
The Russian Ball
Two days later, Violet was in the summerhouse, making the final touches to her painting of the twelve princesses dancing at the secret ball, when she saw a police car pull up at the front gate. A moment later the gate swung open and Nikolai limped up the driveway.
Violet dropped her paintbrush and flew up the driveway to meet him, her heart thumping. Romeo galloped close behind and gambolled around Nikolai, barking with excitement.
Nikolai was looking pale and haggard, as though he hadn’t slept for days. He had a purple bruise on his cheek and multiple grazes. His clothes were torn and grubby. Violet had to resist the urge to hug him.
‘Are you all right?’ Violet asked, gazing at him anxiously. ‘You’re hurt.’
Nikolai grinned as he patted Romeo on the head. ‘Not badly, it’s nothing. What about you?’
Violet felt a rush of relief and happiness. She had been so worried about him – she hadn’t been able to think of anything else since he’d been arrested. ‘Thank goodness. Yes, I’m fine too, but poor Frank was injured. He was trampled on by the mob and broke a few ribs, but he seems to be on the mend now. I’m trying to convince him to go back to school.’
‘I hope he listens to you.’
Violet looked around. They were standing near the marble fountain. A blue-and-brown fairy wren and his mate were splashing in one of its pools. The morning sun shone down, bathing the gardens in golden light. It felt so idyllic that the events of the last few days seemed like an impossible nightmare.
Images of the riot came back to Violet – Frank being trampled, Nikolai disappearing into the flailing mob, the factory burning out of control. She felt desperat
ely guilty about putting him in danger.
‘I’m so sorry, Nikolai,’ Violet began. She put out her hand and touched his arm. ‘I should never have gone near Ramsay’s Tannery that day. You wouldn’t have been arrested or hurt by the mob if you hadn’t come to help me. I’ve been so worried about you.’
Nikolai raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m glad someone has been worried. Here I was, thinking that no-one would even notice that a lowly Russian chauffeur was missing.’
Violet laughed. ‘All of us have been feeling anxious. Sally says that even Monsieur Dufour has been asking after you!’
Nikolai suddenly looked vulnerable. ‘I wasn’t sure if your father would want me to come back … after being arrested.’
‘Your job here is safe for as long as you want it,’ Violet said. ‘The police rang Dad to tell him you were innocent, and I told Dad I’d never speak to him again if he didn’t let you come back.’
Nikolai smiled at her fierce expression. ‘Then I am doubly grateful. Constable Lawson told me that you defended me, and that it was your photographs that identified the men who started the fire. Apparently they had been trying to find evidence against one of them for some time.’
‘I’m so pleased,’ Violet replied. ‘Do you think you’ll feel well enough to come along to our Russian Ball on Thursday? It would be such a shame if you missed it after all the help you’ve given us.’ Suddenly Violet felt like all her excitement about the ball would evaporate completely if Nikolai didn’t go.
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ said Nikolai with a grin. ‘I’m looking forward to dancing a mazurka or two.’
Violet was so exhilarated that she felt like dancing right there in the carriageway. ‘Perfect – but you must be exhausted. We should go in.’
They walked together up the drive, then Nikolai veered left to go to the service entrance and Violet continued straight towards the front door.
The next three days were a flurry of organisation. Nikolai’s sisters were making costumes late into the night. Audrey, Imogen and Violet were finishing the decorations. The ball had been fully subscribed, and more than 600 people were expected to attend, raising nearly two hundred pounds for the Russian Relief Fund.
The Lost Sapphire Page 22
