by Olga Wjotas
“Anna Karenina written by P.G. Wodehouse.”
Linda Cracknell
“If you read one new author this year, make it Olga Wojtas. Miss Blaine’s Prefect and the Golden Samovar is the crème de la crème of crime fiction debuts.”Allan Guthrie
Miss Blaine's Prefect
And the Golden Samovar
Olga Wojtas
Published by Contraband
An imprint of Saraband,
Digital World Centre, 1 Lowry Plaza
The Quays, Salford, M50 3UB
and
Suite 202, 98 Woodlands Road
Glasgow, G3 6HB
www.saraband.net
Copyright © Olga Wojtas 2018
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form
or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without first obtaining the
written permission of the copyright owner.
ISBN: 9781912235001
ISBNe: 9781912235018
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Acknowledgements
Author's Note
For Alistair
One
“Who shall I say is calling?”
Madame Potapova’s major-domo didn’t even look at me, or at the letter of introduction I was waving, as he asked the question. He was too busy glaring at the doorman for letting me in, and at the footman for escorting me across the reception hall.
I announced myself in the Russian style of name and patronymic, and decided to play the exoticism card. “Shona Fergusovna from Edinburgh, the capital city of Scotland. My father Fergus was president of the local heritage association in Morningside, Edinburgh’s most celebrated arrondissement. I arrived here yesterday and have come to pay my respects to Madame.”
Not a flicker. “I do not know whether Madame is accepting any more visitors this afternoon.”
“Well, why don’t you ask her?” I suggested. Madame Potapova was elderly, widowed and threw the best parties in Imperial Russia. I was on a mission which demanded that I wangle an invite to the party she would host that very evening.
But before the major-domo could reply, there was a piercing shriek from the top of the marble staircase and an elderly lady plummeted towards us in a flurry of black silk and taffeta.
I dashed over to try to cushion her fall, but I never got the chance. In the wake of the shriek came the scrape of metal on marble and the snap of bone. The gold chain on the lady’s lorgnette had caught on one of the banister’s artistic protuberances. The gold was obviously of excellent quality, since rather than the chain breaking, it was her neck that broke. She sprawled halfway down the staircase, her head lolling at a 90-degree angle.
“Is that Madame Potapova?” I asked the major-domo.
He nodded, piously crossing himself in the presence of death.
“I suppose that’ll be tonight’s party cancelled then?”
“Unfortunately so, but since your excellency was not invited, your excellency will not be greatly inconvenienced.”
He snapped his fingers to summon a footman. “Her excellency is leaving.”
I always try to see the best in people, but I couldn’t warm to this bloke. I was very glad I hadn’t mentioned what I thought I had seen. Just as Madame Potapova plunged to her doom, it was as though someone had moved on the upper landing, then disappeared into the shadows. I couldn’t be sure; time travel seemed to have left me with a bit of visual disturbance.
If I had said anything, I wouldn’t have put it past the major-domo to start yelling that Madame Potapova hadn’t fallen, she had been pushed. Then some innocent chambermaid or footman who just happened to be in the vicinity would have been executed for murder. I deal in facts, not fancies. And it’s a sad fact that a lot of elderly people don’t exercise enough to retain good balance.
The footman escorted me across the reception hall and the doorman opened the door.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m sorry you’re out of a job.”
The doorman’s brow creased. “Your excellency?”
“Now that your employer’s passed away,” I reminded him. He still looked baffled.
“Excuse me, your excellency,” said the footman. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with the major-domo. I believe your excellency is Scottish.”
“Impossible!” gasped the doorman.
I fixed him with the stare I used as a prefect when some gobby second year tried talking back. “Do you have some objection?”
“By no means, your excellency,” he faltered. “But your excellency speaks our language so perfectly that I can’t believe your excellency is not Russian.”
I smiled. “Yes, I’m from Scotland, where I had the finest education in the world.” I turned to the footman. “How about you? Any problem with my being Scottish?”
“What I meant, your excellency,” he gabbled, “is that perhaps you are not conversant with our circumstances. We are serfs. Whoever inherits Madame’s estate will inherit us as well.”
“Then I hope she’s left you to someone nice.”
“It is widely known that Madame has never made a will. We will therefore be given to Our Little Father, the Emperor and Autocrat of all the Russias, of Moscow, Kiev, Vladimir, Novgorod, Tsar of Kazan, Tsar of Astrakhan, Tsar of Poland, Tsar of Siberia, Tsar of Tauric Chersonesos, Tsar of Georgia, Lord of Pskov, Grand Duke of Smolensk, Lithuania, Volhynia–”
“Yes,” I said, “I know who you mean. So how do you feel about that?”
The footman and doorman closed their eyes in collective ecstasy.
“It is the greatest honour imaginable for a serf,” breathed the footman, “to be allowed to serve Our Little Father, the Emperor and Autocrat of all the Russias, of Moscow, Kiev, Vladimir, Novgorod, Tsar of Kazan, Tsar of Astrakhan, Tsar of Poland–”
I slipped past them through the door as they contemplated their good fortune. It was nice to hear that my language skills had passed muster.
I hadn’t appreciated the significance of the parcel of books when it arrived in the library, marked for my personal attention. The accompanying unsigned note said: “Read and inwardly digest,” so whenever I had a slack moment, I did. I got through the books on Russian history, geography, architecture, politics, culture and infrastructure in no time, and then moved on to the complete works of Tolstoy in the original. I found they weren’t entirely in Russian. A good chunk of the dialogue was in French, spoken by pretentious aristocrats. My French is so fluent that I scarcely consider it a foreign language, but it was fun getting back in touch with my inner Slavonicist.
I was in my flat in Morningside, deciding that it really was time I repainted the kitchen, when the twinges began. At first, it seemed like a touch of indigestion. Then I thought I might be coming down with flu. Then I was convinced that my appendix had burst. I doubled over, gasping, my eyes screwed up as I tried to ride the pain. And when I opened them agai
n, I was lying on a polished wooden floor, looking at a bulbous metal object with a tap sticking out of it. It says a lot for my state of confusion that it was a full minute before I recognised it as a Russian samovar.
I had been told that I would experience “slight discomfort” when time travelling, and I was pretty shocked that I hadn’t been told the truth: it was excruciating. Surely I hadn’t come over as a wimp who would refuse a mission just because it involved severe abdominal pain?
It was starting to ease off slightly, and I began to assess my surroundings, drawing on my recent reading. I was in an anteroom of a nineteenth-century Russian mansion. The samovar was brass, embossed, stately yet serviceable, and would provide a lovely cup of tea. It stood beside a high-legged settee whose upholstery was old and faded. A large rectangular mirror hung on the wall, its gilt frame dingy, its glass mottled with age. There was the faint sound of dance music next door, the high-pitched chatter of society ladies, the clink of wine glasses.
The sound suddenly got louder – the door was opening. I didn’t want to be seen before I knew more about where I was, so I dived under the settee. It might be four decades since I left school, but I have to say I still had the speed and proficiency that saw me crowned class swimming champion.
My view was restricted to floor level. A man had come in. A young man, from the stride. Squeaky shoes. New shoes. Buffed black leather, intricate silver buckles. They paused, as though the newcomer, like me, was assessing his surroundings.
As I peered out from under the sofa, I could see his distorted reflection in the curve of the samovar. He was just a vague shape, but I suddenly had the most extraordinary optical illusion. I thought I saw his head spinning round and round.
I can tell you I was more than a little alarmed. The twinges had been bad enough, but nobody had mentioned visual disturbance. I blinked a few times, then opened my eyes wide and everything was back to normal.
A voice came from the doorway, female, middle-aged, imperious. “My dear Sasha! For shame! What are you doing hiding in here with all the ladies desperate for your company?”
“Countess, you know you are the only lady whose company I seek. Forgive me – I felt quite overwhelmed by the grandeur of this evening, and came in here to compose myself.”
The young man’s voice was light and attractive, the sort that you could listen to for hours on the radio. I wondered whether he had a face for radio as well.
High heels tapped across the floor towards me. The settee sagged, pinning me to the polished parquetry. I couldn’t help admiring the quality of the floor, each wooden mosaic piece meticulously interlocked with its neighbours into graceful patterns. Thankfully, this was a well-kept house, with no sneeze-inducing dustballs. In front of my nose, chubby ankles bulged over high-heeled satin shoes.
“Dear child! You think this is an evening of grandeur? Why, we are all laughing at Lidia Ivanovna for its embarrassing simplicity – the poor creature hasn’t the first idea of how to entertain. Secure me an invitation to Madame Potapova’s, and then you shall see a proper party.”
The settee sagged again as the buckled shoes settled alongside the high heels, but I was less squashed this time.
“If you’re certain . . .” the young man murmured. “Perhaps I’m not ready.”
“You are ready, Sasha, and you will not fail me.” The tone was threatening rather than encouraging, and then it softened. “I assure you that even now they are discussing who your family might be, and creating the most glittering biographies for you. ‘I hear he is the first cousin of the old prince . . .’ ‘He is obviously related to the blue-eyed baroness; the family resemblance is unmistakable . . .’”
There was a pause.
“I shall not fail you,” said the young man.
The countess let out a deep sigh of contentment and the settee sagged still further. “To think that tomorrow evening I shall be a guest at Madame Potapova’s! Yes, that will be success indeed. Now, enough of this hiding away – you are here to be seen. Escort me to the ballroom.”
“I am yours to command.” The buckled shoes turned 180 degrees to face the high heels and braced themselves. The high heels moved a fraction of a millimetre, and I deduced that the young man was attempting to haul the countess to her fat little feet. Eventually he succeeded and both pairs of shoes proceeded to the ballroom.
Once the door had closed behind them, I wriggled out from under the settee and tried to make sense of what I’d heard. It was like a reverse My Fair Lady. Without the songs.
I dusted myself down, and discovered I was wearing a floor-length lilac evening gown, with long white kid gloves that stretched up over my elbows. Just one other thing to check. I lifted the hem of my gown. Excellent. I was still wearing my trusty Doc Martens. The countess might think she had the edge on me in terms of fashion with her high heels, but she was storing up all sorts of problems for herself in terms of bunions, plantar fasciitis and sciatica.
I pushed open the door and emerged into a ballroom of exquisite proportions. It was easy to recognise the refined style of the great Russian architect Andrei Voronikhin. But despite the room being perfect for purpose, and the music enticing, nobody was dancing. Guests were sitting around in morose little groups. Not even phalanxes of footmen bearing vast quantities of food and drink seemed to cheer them up.
It was time to test out my new skill. My heart was racing, whether from excitement or nerves I wasn’t sure.
I thought back to the instructions I had been given: “You must learn to be unobtrusive.”
“How do I do that?” I asked.
“What is our greatest attribute? Our mind. You must concentrate and practise.”
So I concentrated and practised until the day came that I cracked it, and people started bumping into me in the Morningside Waitrose. Nobody would ever be rude enough to bump into you deliberately in the Morningside Waitrose, so I knew people just didn’t see me.
I moved further into the ballroom, blending discreetly into the background as I crossed the magnificent parquet floor. It was made of intertwined leaf shapes in different colours, giving the impression of an autumn woodland. I crept up behind a semi-circle of young women who had turned world-weariness into an art form. They managed to wilt while simultaneously sitting bolt upright. I filed the technique away for future use.
“Who could have imagined it would be so dreadfully dreary?” said one, fanning herself.
“Who could have imagined anything else?” said another. “Lidia Ivanovna simply has no idea what a party is.”
“No, I imagine this is the most exciting night of her life. Oh, ladies, that dress!”
They all sniggered.
“That alone was worth coming for,” said the first. “Do you think it belonged to her mother?”
“Her mother? You mean her grandmother.”
“Well, now we have seen the antique dress, we can be sure there will be nothing of further interest. The champagne is surprisingly tolerable, though. I shall have another glass. And then I shall prise my husband away from the card table and get him to take me to dinner somewhere expensive.”
“Let’s all have some more champagne, then we’ll come with you and the evening won’t have been completely wasted.”
I drifted past them towards the next group, feeling quite sympathetic towards this Lidia Ivanovna. As far as I could see, the problem wasn’t the party, it was the guests.
My fingers and toes started tingling. It wasn’t unpleasant, nothing like the time-travelling twinges, just noticeable enough to get my attention. This must be the signal that I was nearing my target, like an internal metal detector indicating a hoard of Viking treasure. It took me a while to establish which direction to go in, but eventually the increase in tingling led me to a slim young woman standing alone in a corner. She was absolutely stunning, with the perfect contours of a classical statue. Her skin was fl
awless. Unlike the young wives, she wasn’t plastered in make-up, and her long, fair hair hung loose rather than crimped into elaborate swirls. She looked in her mid-twenties, and the simple style of her dress showed she was still unmarried.
She was also a bag of nerves, her arms clasped protectively over her chest, her face tight with apprehension.
I walked up to her, my hand outstretched. “Good evening,” I said. “Allow me to introduce myself. Shona Fergusovna.”
She jumped at being addressed, then smiled tentatively as she took my hand.
“How kind of you to come,” she said. “Forgive me for not recognising you. This is the first time I have been out in society, and I’m afraid all of my guests are unknown to me.”
So the person I had been sent to help in nineteenth-century Russia was our hostess, Lidia Ivanovna.
“Lovely party,” I said.
“Thank you – this is the first party I’ve ever hosted – indeed, the first party I’ve ever attended. I had nobody to ask for advice. I’m not sure . . .” Her voice tailed off as she looked round at the yawning, gossiping guests, and her face tightened with anxiety.
“You know what?” I said. “Nothing gets a party going like a wee jig. Leave it to me.”
I crossed over to the orchestra. It was the standard nineteenth-century set of violin, double bass, bassoon, clarinet, trumpet, percussion and accordion, and it couldn’t have been a better mix for my purposes.
“Hello, lads,” I said, briskly idiomatic, and explained what we were going to do. Then I clapped my hands to get everyone’s attention.
“Honoured guests!” I called loudly in French, determined to make an impression for Lidia’s sake.
Everyone turned towards me.
“Lidia Ivanovna, your gracious hostess, has spared no expense to make this a memorable evening for you. She’s brought me all the way from Edinburgh to teach you some Scottish country dancing. As I’m sure you know, Scottish country dancing is now all the rage at the most fashionable soirées.”
