Miss Blaine's Prefect and the Golden Samovar

by Olga Wjotas

  I stopped eating the kutia. “So you’re telling me he needn’t have been in exile here for twenty years? If he’d apologised at the time, he could have stayed in town? More to the point, the countess could have been living in town twenty years ago?”

  “Exactly.”

  “She must have been livid.”

  The housekeeper shuddered. “It was horrible.”

  “Do you think she was angry enough . . . to murder him?” I waited to let my words sink in.

  The housekeeper paled. “She was certainly remarkably cross.”

  I leaned forward confidentially. “She couldn’t get rid of him before now. She needed him to be unexiled so that she could install herself in their palace in town. You should see it, by the way.”

  “I can imagine,” said the housekeeper. “That woman wouldn’t know good taste if it was floating in her borshch.”

  “Then,” I went on, “once they were in town and she was launched into polite society, she didn’t need him any more.”

  The housekeeper nodded. “Murdering her husband sounds exactly the sort of thing she would do. She’s a most unpleasant woman.”

  “And then of course there’s Sasha.”

  The housekeeper stifled a guffaw.

  I hadn’t even said protégé. “I don’t think that’s a very appropriate response,” I said tartly. “Manipulating someone for your own ends, it’s not decent.”

  “Maybe not, but it was still very funny watching him get the countess to take him to town. He played her like an accordion.”

  “Pardon?” I said.

  “Yes, it was the pardon. The instant Sasha discovered the count had been pardoned, that was it. The maid didn’t stand a chance.”

  “Sorry?” I said.

  “The maid. My wretched daughter. The one nobody liked. The one he seduced.”

  “No!” I said. This was impossible.

  “Yes. He used her to get to the countess. Being the maid’s lover gave him an excuse to hang around here and he was always putting himself in the countess’s line of sight. Lumbered with a misery guts like the count, of course she was going to fall for a handsome young lad like him.”

  “But that’s not how it was,” I protested. “The countess groomed him. He was her passport into society.”

  “And she was his passport into society.”

  This was making no sense at all. “So did he work far away in the fields?” I asked.

  “Why would he work in the fields?”

  “Bringing in the harvest?” I suggested. “Planting maize? Sorry, I haven’t really paid attention to what kind of fields you have round here.” Whatever type of serf he had been, he couldn’t have worked in the house or he wouldn’t have needed the maid to get himself noticed by the countess. And how on earth had he learned to read and write so quickly?

  “Bless you, madam, the schoolmaster’s son doesn’t work in the fields,” the housekeeper said.

  It must be some sort of couthy aphorism, denoting acceptance of the status quo and condoning class privilege. “We’re all the children of Jock Tamson,” I rejoined.

  We stared at each other for a while. Then, slowly, so that she would understand, I said, “I was just wondering what kind of serf Sasha is.”

  And equally slowly, she responded, “Sasha is not a serf, he is the son of Dmitri Dmitrievich, the schoolmaster.”

  “I’m talking about Sasha,” I said. “Blond hair, blue eyes, chiselled cheekbones, totally stunning.”

  She nodded.

  The schoolmaster’s wife had talked about her son, Aleksandr Dmitrievich. The pet name for Aleksandr was Sasha. It seemed we were indeed talking about the same person. This was good news. Lidia had said she would be prepared to marry a serf for love, but a schoolmaster’s son must be a few rungs up the social ladder.

  The housekeeper had, however, got one thing terribly wrong. It was quite impossible that someone so guileless and transparent as Sasha could have considered seducing the maid and the countess. He was the victim here. I wouldn’t put it past the countess to have set up the maid as a honey-trap, although that just proved what a poor judge of character she was.

  “Right,” I said, finishing off the last spoonful of pudding, “let’s get on with the packing.”

  “May I ask one last thing, madam?” asked the housekeeper. “Why did the countess emancipate my wretch of a daughter?”

  I hesitated. It was wrong to speak ill of the dead – but it was also important to tell the truth.

  “I’m afraid your daughter was chasing after the count.”

  The housekeeper shook her head. “Never. She was cheeky, lazy, greedy, sulky, snobbish and churlish. But she wasn’t dopey.”

  The housekeeper certainly was, with these crazy theories about Sasha. Thank goodness I was there to separate fact from fantasy.

  But I still felt I hadn’t quite worked out everything. On the train back to town the next morning, I sat back on the sofa, listening to the soothing rumbling of the journey, and letting my subconscious take over from my rational mind. You can get so far with rationality, but the subconscious is not to be sneezed at. I half-dozed, half-meditated as the versts went by, five, ten, fifteen, twenty. Twenty.

  I sat bolt upright. Of course. All had become obvious, just as Miss Blaine had said it would. Sasha was twenty. The countess had got married twenty years ago. The countess was Sasha’s mother. I was slightly hazy on the precise details, but since Sasha didn’t live with the countess, he must have been the result of an indiscretion before the countess married the count. She had placed her baby with parents who lived nearby so that she could watch him grow up, paying them monthly to ensure he was well looked after. He had heard his adoptive parents discussing these payments, and had sought out his birth mother, who realised it was time he took his rightful place in society. Now that he had moved out, the countess had cancelled the payments, and then gone on to murder the count to avoid embarrassing explanations.

  I’d thought the countess was an obnoxious, pretentious egomaniac. But now I understood that she had simply been fraught at social events, worried about the impression her wee boy was making. The next time I saw her, I would apologise for thinking badly of her. All I had to do was reconcile her to the idea of Lidia as a daughter-in-law, which should be no problem given Lidia’s fabulous wealth and the fact that she was now a favourite of the princess.

  Getting Lidia onside would be no problem. All she had to do was be in love with Sasha, and who could fail to be in love with Sasha? Nanny would be sniffy about the illegitimacy element, but with the count out of the way, Sasha could be presented as the long-lost legitimate heir.

  I had worked it all out in the nick of time and would complete my mission today with a day to spare. Miss Blaine would be proud of me.

  The train pulled up and I remembered I was going to see if newspapers were being published again, so that I could find out the date. I clambered down from the carriage with my luggage – no need to look for a porter, I can bench press 80 kilos – and was just looking round for a newspaper vendor when a bearded figure hurtled down the platform towards me.

  Instinctively, I went into a forward combat roll and felled my assailant with a hammerfist strike.

  “Welcome home, your excellency,” choked Old Vatrushkin. “Seeing your excellency is the boys.”

  I knelt down beside him. “Old Vatrushkin! I could have really hurt you.”

  Old Vatrushkin tried to gulp in some air and winced. “Let me reassure your excellency that you have indeed really hurt me.”

  I helped him to his feet and let him hang on to me until he caught his breath. I seemed to be suffering from PTSD, going into automatic defence mode at the sight of big beardie blokes.

  “Why on earth did you run at me like that?” I demanded.

  “I could not let you carry your own portmant
eaux,” he said. But he had to, since every time he tried to hoist them onto his shoulders, he buckled at the knees. I regretted having hit him quite so hard. I got him on the driving seat of the drozhky and warned him that if he didn’t stop apologising, I might consider smacking him again.

  “So you were just passing?” I asked as we set off.

  “Yes,” he said, “a very happy coincidence.”

  “Anything been happening while I was away?” I said casually.

  “I don’t know, your excellency,” he replied and then realised he had fallen into my trap.

  My voice was as silky as a very silky silkworm. “But coachmen know everything. Surely something must have happened? Could it be – and please correct me if I’m wrong – that you’ve been waiting outside the station since I left? Despite the fact that you were supposed to be painting?”

  “Please don’t be angry with me, your excellency!” he begged. “My job is to be your coachman. Painting is merely my hobby.”

  “You’re never going to get anywhere with that attitude,” I said. “If you organise things so that your hobby’s your job, you need never work another day in your life. Anyway, let’s see what wages I owe you. That’s at least twelve hours at twenty kopecks an hour – let’s just call it three roubles and have done with it.”

  “No, your excellency,” he protested. “You have already given me far too many coins for what your excellency describes as working antisocial hours.”

  “No more coins, I promise,” I said, shoving the three-rouble note in his coat pocket.

  An ornate carriage approached in the other direction. “My dear Princess Tamsonova!” came a patrician voice. “I have the most extraordinary news! But perhaps you have already heard it from your coachman.”

  “No, Princess,” I said. “My coachman seems to be surprisingly short of news right now.”

  A sob broke from Old Vatrushkin’s lips.

  “I’m just heading home after a trip to the country,” I said. “Do you want to come in for a cup of tea?”

  “That would be delightful. I have so much to tell you. A cup of tea would be – what do you say in your charming language? – the very dab. Coachman! Follow that drozhky.”

  The princess’s coachman performed a reckless three-point turn, scattering pedestrians and street traders, and dislodging the footmen standing on the carriage’s footboard.

  When we arrived home, Old Vatrushkin leaped off the box so that he could meet the princess at the door as the major-domo, then sprinted past her up the marble stairs in order to be ready with tea and pastries by the time we reached the salon.

  “I suppose this is the gardener?” she asked, not having any idea that she had seen him before.

  “I work in the orangery, highness,” he said.

  “What a splendid idea! As soon as I get home, everyone working in my orangeries shall be a footman.”

  “And it’s time for you to get back to the orangery,” I said meaningfully. “And stay there. I’ll pour the tea – I know how the princess likes it.”

  The princess took a mouthful of milky tea and smacked her lips. “Delicious. And such a welcome change from champagne. I drank so much champagne last night, I feel like . . .” She cast around for a suitable simile.

  “A Nebuchadnezzar bottle from Veuve Clicquot?” I suggested, and she delved for paper and pencil and wrote it down.

  “Darling Princess Tamsonova! You make me laugh more than . . .” She looked at me challengingly. A metaphor this time.

  Had we been back home, I would immediately have said, “Someone at a laughing gas party”, since nitrous oxide was used as a recreational drug among the smart set from 1799. But that was only in Britain. If a Russian princess knew about nitrous oxide at all, it would merely be as an analgesic during surgery and not a source of amusement.

  “ . . .a hyena being tickled by a centipede,” I concluded.

  It took her a while to write this down since I had to explain and spell both hyena and centipede. She might know her Scottish literature, but her knowledge of zoology was sadly lacking.

  “So where was all this champagne drinking?” I asked.

  “It was the most marvellous concert – the premiere of a sensational new orchestra. I had no intention of attending, but it turned out to be so popular that not a single ticket was to be had. So of course I insisted that they accommodate me. Let me see, there were four singers, a man with a violin, a man with a very big violin, and a man with a small piano attached to his chest,” she said. “Oh, Princess Tamsonova, you would have loved it. They sang the most charming Scottish songs. And the conductor – a foreigner, but such an energetic young man, constantly waving his arms about. I’m sure I would have enjoyed it very much had I not had to concentrate on the champagne.”

  It was good to know that Pavel Pavlovich had carried out his side of the bargain, and got the band their gig with the fake Beethoven. I imagined they would be off on a European tour shortly, although probably not to Teutonic areas where people might pick up on the Bavarian accent.

  “Ah, yes!” the princess went on. “I have not yet told you the extraordinary news!”

  “Don’t tell me,” I said.

  “But that is why I am here, to tell you.”

  “It’s just an expression,” I explained. “What I mean is that I’ve already guessed what you’re going to tell me. Another lady has fallen downstairs.”

  “Yes, she fell, but not downstairs,” said the princess. “These days, it is commonplace to fall downstairs. I told you this was extraordinary.”

  “You haven’t told me who it was yet.”

  “Why, the countess.”

  “Is she all right?” I asked.

  “Oh no,” said the princess equably. “She is completely dead.”

  Twelve

  The princess took some more tea. “It was so very dramatic,” she said. “It quite put the concert in the shade. We were all obliged to have more champagne in order to recover from the shock.”

  “She was at the opera?” I said. “Just after her husband had died?”

  “But of course,” said the princess. “Black is particularly flattering to someone of her girth. And since she had inherited her husband’s entire fortune, she had treated herself to a diamond tiara, which she was most anxious to show off.”

  “So what exactly happened?” I asked. “Cardiac arrest? Apoplexy? Cholera?”

  “She toppled out of her box. Her embonpoint.” The princess gestured. “Top-heavy. She must have seen an acquaintance in the stalls and leaned over to greet them.”

  “So the countess’s bust killed both husband and wife,” I said thoughtfully.

  The princess shrieked with laugher. “Oh, Princess Tamsonova, I wish I’d said that!”

  I watched her write it down. “You will, Princess, you will.”

  “It caused quite a stir – the concert had to be delayed by a quarter of an hour. When she landed, she crushed three members of the audience to death, but thankfully they were from the provinces, so no harm was done.”

  “That’s a relief,” I said. My egalitarianism was roused yet again, but the princess failed to pick up the ironic tone.

  “The delay in beginning the concert was longer than it should have been, because a German doctor sitting nearby insisted on examining the body and claimed – imagine! – that she had not broken her neck in the fall but had previously been strangled with the cord from the curtains in her box. But nobody paid any attention to him. You know how hysterical Germans are as a race, and how prone to exaggerate every little thing.”

  I scarcely heard her. I was thinking of poor Sasha, so recently reunited with his birth mother and now bereaved.

  “Princess, I’m going to be terribly rude, but there’s something I have to do. Would you mind awfully if I asked you to leave?”

  “Plea
se, no apology is necessary,” said the princess. “I must start immediately on my round of visits to regale everyone with my epigram on the countess’s bust.” She sighed. “So the count’s fortune went to the countess and now there is nobody to pass it on to. My ghastly cousin the tsar will add another palace and more estates to his collection.”

  At least, I thought, that wasn’t going to happen.

  A letter of condolence is never easy to write, and it’s particularly difficult when you aren’t supposed to know about the relationship between the deceased and the bereaved. I would have to make it clear that nobody had told me anything they shouldn’t, and that what I knew was the result of my own detective work. It was going to require very careful wording.

  “Dear Sasha,” I wrote. “This is a very sad day for you. I spoke to your adopted parents, who didn’t deliberately betray any confidences, but I managed to work everything out. Everybody else will find out because of your sudden wealth and at last you can be seen for who you really are.”

  It could be embarrassing for him to explain his parentage so I thought I should offer to take that burden on myself. “I’m prepared to tell everyone all about you,” I wrote.

  It might not be the most elegant of letters, but I was sure he would appreciate the obviously warm and sympathetic sentiments. And de mortuis nihil nisi bonum. I picked up the pen again and wrote: “Your late mother was a lovely woman. Shona.”

  I blotted the ink, and was about to call Old Vatrushkin. Then, just in time, I realised my mistake. I couldn’t possibly ask him to deliver the letter, given his irrational belief that Sasha was a homicidal maniac. I nipped out into the street and found a loitering urchin.

  “How would you like to earn a couple of kopecks?” I asked.

  The urchin leaned back against the wall and surveyed me from under hooded lids. “Whatcha looking for? Vodka? Opium?”

  “I am looking,” I said with great deliberation, “for someone to deliver a letter.”