The Kill Fee

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  Back home in Russia, she kept up a casual association with local Bolshevik intelligentsia who frequented theatrical circles. Her family were surprisingly unalarmed by Selena’s flirtation with left-wing politics, seeing it as just another expression of her “eccentricity”, and turned a blind eye to her pale-pink leanings. The file did not suggest that she was a serious Bolshevik, just that she had friends in Bolshevik circles who might try to use her connections with the royal family to further their aims. It never occurred to whoever compiled the file that Selena might genuinely be complicit in an anti-royal plot.

  A few weeks after the February Revolution, which had forced through reforms and the abdication of the tsar, but not yet brought in full Bolshevik rule, Princess Selena visited Countess Sofia Andreiovich. As soon as Nana Ruthie heard the two women were going to take tea in the conservatory she slipped in ahead of them and positioned herself behind an elephant fern. She was far enough away for them not to hear her breathing, but close enough, with the acoustics of the tiled floor and glass walls, to hear whatever confidences they might share. And after a little bit of chit-chat, they got down to business…

  “It really shouldn’t have come to this; if only Nicky and Alix had listened to people like Sergei,” commented Sofia.

  “Yes, Sergei would never have wanted them to abdicate. They just needed to be a bit more sensible about everything. Now look where we are,” observed Selena.

  “In the middle of a revolution.”

  “Surely not the middle, Sofia. Last month’s goings on will be the last of it, I’m sure.”

  “Are you? I can’t say I’m convinced of that – not at all. The people are angry. It won’t be long until the Red Gnome –”

  “If you mean Vladimir –”

  “Lenin. Of course. Don’t look at me like that; you know what he’s capable of.”

  Selena sniffed and took on an offended tone. “He is capable of great things.”

  “Don’t be a fool! This is not one of your silly plays. You cannot take off your costume and go home after the curtain falls. This is the new Russia. There is no going back. And by the looks of things, there’s going to be bloodshed… oh, for heaven’s sake, Selena. Sit down.”

  “I will not have Vladimir spoken of like that!”

  Sofia’s voice softened as if speaking to a child or a startled pony. “All right, I’m sorry. I hope you’re right about him. But that’s not why you came, is it? To discuss the – to discuss Lenin.”

  From her vantage point Nana Ruthie could only see the two women’s feet. Selena reached down and opened her bag. She took out something about the size of a grapefruit wrapped in cloth. She sat up, taking the object out of Nana’s eyeline. Whatever it was made Sofia gasp.

  “How did you get that?”

  “Alix gave it to me. She asked me to make sure it was kept safe. She’s scared that the Bolsheviks will loot the palace. I told her, of course, that they would do no such thing… What? Oh, do stop it, Sofia, or I shall leave. I came here needing your help, and this is the way you treat me –”

  Sofia sighed. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. You were saying… about the egg…”

  Selena humphed and Nana Ruthie could imagine her folding her arms over her spectacular chest.

  “I’m sorry, Selena…”

  “All right. Apology accepted. So Alix has got it into her head that all the Romanov treasure is going to be looted and scattered to the masses. So she’s asked me – and a few others – to ensure some key pieces are kept safe. Will you be a treasure-keeper, Sofia?”

  “You want me to keep a royal Fabergé Easter egg?”

  “Just until things settle down. Will you?”

  “I suppose so. At least until Sergei and – at least until I have decided whether or not the family is going to leave.”

  “I’m so sorry. I forgot about poor Sergei. Is there any news?”

  “No.”

  “Do you fear the worst?”

  “I do not, Selena, and I would appreciate it if you did not voice such morbid thoughts.”

  “Of course. That was quite insensitive of me. So… the egg… will you?”

  Sofia sighed again. “Yes, I’ll do it. Give it here.”

  “Before I do, there is something you should know. In case – well – in case Alix is right and things get – well, things get out of hand. I’m sure they won’t. Vladimir won’t let it, but…”

  “What is it?”

  “Let me show you.”

  Nana Ruthie repositioned herself, desperate to see. She risked the women seeing her, but…

  “It’s a key! A tiny key!”

  Nana still couldn’t see. If she shifted a little this way…

  “A very important key. So important in fact that the old tsar – Uncle Alex – asked Monsieur Fabergé to hide it in one of these eggs.”

  “What is it a key to?”

  Nana Ruthie could finally see. Just a little bit, but enough. Sofia held a ruby and diamond encrusted golden egg on her lap. A tiny compartment was open and she held an equally tiny key in the palm of her hand. Nana wished she had seen how the compartment had been opened, but she would have to figure that out later. If she ever managed to see the egg again. For now she needed to concentrate on what Selena was saying…

  “It’s a key to another egg. And in that one there’s a map.”

  “Do you have that egg too?”

  “No. Someone else does. Alix and Nicky thought it wise that each treasure-keeper does not know who has the companion egg to their own. The contents of the map are – how should I put it? – incendiary.”

  “Oh?”

  “Oh yes. They show the location of a secret vault.” Selena’s voice took on a theatrical timbre. “If the contents fall into the wrong hands…”

  Nana saw Selena take the egg and key from Sofia and close the secret compartment. She opened and closed it again for good measure. Ah, so that’s how it’s done; that ruby there…

  Sofia had an incredulous look on her face. “No offence intended, Selena dear, but why would Alix and Nicky entrust this to you? They fear the Bolsheviks, and they know you have – well – Bolshevik friends…”

  Selena sat bolt upright. “My loyalty to the family has never been brought into question! And never will. Alexandra trusts me, she always has, even though she and I differed over Rasputin – as did you and she…”

  “Indeed. I for one was glad he died. Shocked by the way it happened – whatever was Felix thinking? – but not unhappy that he had finally gone. Which is my point exactly. We saw things differently. Why then is she trusting you – and me – with my husband a known reformer?”

  “For exactly that reason. No one would suspect us. It’s genius!”

  Sofia did not look convinced, but curiosity got the better of her. “So… what’s in this vault?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “You don’t know.”

  “I most certainly do. I told you: Alix trusts me. And just to prove how much, let me tell you.” Her voice became sotto voce; Nana Ruthie could imagine her on stage at the Bolshoi or the Royal Albert Hall. “There are secret documents pertaining to all the royal houses of Europe. You know that between them Nicky and Alix are related to them all. Well, so was the late tsar – and Empress Maria Federovna.”

  Sofia’s voice was disdainful. “Of course, everyone knows that!”

  “But what they don’t know is that Tsar Alexander had been collecting incriminating evidence that could bring down every monarchy on the continent. He kept it for insurance. Just in case he needed their help or they decided one day to turn on him.”

  Sofia opened her mouth to speak and then closed it again. She was an intelligent woman – far more so than Selena – and Nana realized that she was weighing up the probability of whether or not Selena was telling the truth. And if she was, what it might mean to her circumstances.

  “So, if I help you…”

  “Not me – Nicky and Alix…”

&nb
sp; “So if I help Nicky and Alix, will they help me?”

  “I’m sure they will. If they can.”

  “Indeed. If they can. And that’s a big ‘if’. However, I have nothing to lose. Sergei is still missing and I will need all the help I can get to find him. I believe the tsar knows where he is. So yes, go and tell them I will help them. I will keep the egg – for now – but in return I want everything Nicky knows about Sergei’s whereabouts.”

  “And if he does not know…”

  “Oh, he knows. And if he wants his little secret kept secret, he will have to help me. Do we have a deal?”

  Selena looked at her cousin and handed over the egg. “We have a deal.”

  Nana Ruthie, Anya and Fritzie walked past the wrought iron gates of the Ipatiev House, flanked by two Bolshevik guards. Nana instructed Anya not to look in. They would not be entering the residence the conventional way. This was just a reconnaissance.

  Nana felt the little key on the silver chain, cool against her chest, and gripped Anya’s hand more tightly.

  CHAPTER 12

  SUNDAY 21 OCTOBER 1920, LONDON

  The man with the bearskin coat whistled to himself and swung his cane as he headed to his next meeting. His previous meeting on the Chelsea Embankment had gone exactly the way he had hoped. Green had been recommended to him by an associate as an efficient courier who – as long as you could meet his eye-watering fee – would take whatever items you desired from A to B. In this case A had been the White Russian Art Exhibition at the Crystal Palace and B a park bench on the Embankment.

  The previous night, Green had paid someone to flip the switch – someone who would pocket his fee and seal his lips – and waited for the egg to be passed to him. There was to be a signal when the man in the tuxedo – not his bearskin coat – got close enough to the dais to make his move, then the lights would go out. When they did, the man grabbed the egg and passed it to Green, who had been dressed as a waiter. Green then exited the exhibition hall before the cavalry had time to cordon it off. All of that had gone to plan. But what hadn’t been expected was the gunshot. Neither Green nor the man in the tuxedo had a gun with them, nor – so they swore to each other – did they know who had.

  “Must’ve been someone else after the egg, guvnor,” said Green as he passed the treasure, innocuously wrapped in an oilcloth, to the man in the bearskin coat. “But we’s the ones what got it.”

  “Indeed, ‘we’s the ones’,” agreed the man as he handed over an envelope full of cash and thanked Green again for his service. Green ran his thumbnail over the bills, doffed his bowler hat, and walked away. The man did not wonder why Green hadn’t counted the money; he knew that men like Green knew people who knew people and his life would not be worth living if he had short-changed him. Besides, he had a reputation to protect. He was a “gentleman thief”, not a common scoundrel, and honour must always be upheld.

  That was why he had risked his life to save the old lady and the child in Moscow three years earlier. He wondered, though, why these eggs attracted such violence. First the massacre of the Russian family, now the wounding of the guard – and he was lucky he was only wounded. Who else was after these eggs? He’d thought in Moscow that it had been sheer coincidence that the Bolshevik thugs had broken into the house at the same time he had. But now, with the events of the previous night still fresh in his mind, he began to wonder if they too – or whoever had sent them – had actually been after the egg as well.

  The man looked to left and right and, apart from a lonely dog walker on the towpath, he was alone. He sat on the bench under the gaslight and opened the oilskin to reveal the purple enamel egg with the silver filigree hatching. A large pearl, like a bobble on a hat, topped the egg, and hatching radiated from it. At the cross of each hatch was a diamond – thirty-six in all – each worth more than the man earned in a year in his day job.

  The egg rested on a silver tripod. He turned it this way and that, trying to see if he could find any evidence of a secret compartment – but he couldn’t. Not all Fabergé eggs had the compartments, but he knew some did. He had found one in the egg in Moscow – but it was empty. Either there had never been anything in it or someone had taken whatever was in it before he broke into the safe that night. Regardless, his client had not been well pleased. At least, that’s what his “fence” had told him to justify why he was not getting the full fee they’d agreed.

  The man in the bearskin coat was not well pleased himself at that, particularly because he had nearly been killed on the job. After the old lady and the girl had fled across the lawn he had held off the thugs with his rapier until he had a chance to jump over the balcony, holding on to the drape with one hand and his weapon with the other. He had lowered himself down to the lawn while the Bolshevik thugs argued about which one of them was to follow him. And then he made his escape. But before he did he looked up to see a man in a dark suit looking down at him. He had seen the same man last night at the Crystal Palace – had he been the one to fire the gun? Had the man spotted him and realized what was about to happen? Had the bullet been meant for him? The man in the bearskin coat shuddered at the thought, but then dismissed the idea. No, that was highly unlikely. Since he had shaven his full beard and washed out the dye and cut his hair short, he was not easily recognizable as the man who was in Moscow. But he didn’t want to take any chances. The first thing that needed to go was the bearskin coat. He took it off and threw it into the river below the Embankment. He shivered, and pulled his light dinner jacket closer around him.

  As soon as this job was over and he had handed over the second egg to his fence, it would be time to move on. Venice was nice at this time of year… the opera would be worth the trip alone. Or perhaps he could get another foreign placement with his day job – as he had in Russia. But first things first.

  He turned the corner from Oakley Street into King’s Road and was soon standing in front of the double brass doors of Oscar’s Jazz Club. He resisted the urge to pat the wrapped egg in his inside pocket, in case he was being watched. Instead he flashed a smile at the doorman.

  “Shocking what happened at the Crystal Palace last night, wasn’t it, guvnor? I read about it in The Globe this morning. You was there, wasn’t you?”

  “I was, yes. Shocking. Absolutely shocking.”

  Poppy knocked on Princess Selena’s bedroom door. Despite being told that the Russian woman would not want to see her, Poppy was determined to get some kind of statement from her to file with Rollo before deadline.

  “Who is it?” came the answer, thick with tears.

  “It’s Poppy. Can I come in?”

  “No, you cannot! How could you do this to me?”

  “I did nothing. It wasn’t my decision to print the picture. It was my editor’s.”

  “But you wrote the article. The one about the treasure-keepers.”

  “Yes, but there was nothing in there that –”

  “I have nothing to say to you, Miss Denby. Now leave me alone!”

  Poppy sighed, reluctant to give in, but she didn’t have much choice. She would try again in the morning. Selena would have to come out of her room sometime.

  The man who had once owned a bearskin coat walked into the jazz-soaked atmosphere of Oscar’s and headed straight for the bar. But as he did he noticed that someone had got there before him and was talking to his fence. It was Rollo Rolandson, the editor of The Daily Globe, nursing a tumbler of whisky. He doubted that Rollo knew the barman was a fence – only a handful of people did – and it was probably just a coincidence that the American was there. Still, better not risk it. He’d have to deliver the egg another day. He went into the men’s cloakroom and wrote a quick note, using the code he had been given by the fence, and asked to rearrange their handover day. He placed the note in the crack behind the hatstand just outside the men’s cloakroom, as per instruction.

  And then he heard a woman singing – ah, Delilah Marconi. Such a pity he couldn’t stay.

  Poppy smi
led at the doorman at Oscar’s as he pushed open the doors for her. “Evening, Miss Denby, ma’am. Miss Marconi is already here.”

  “So I hear,” she said as the alto broke into the final chorus of “Avalon” by Al Jolson.

  Poppy walked across the dance floor as Delilah brought the song to a close. The club was only a quarter full, but there was still a good round of enthusiastic applause. Many of Oscar’s regulars had been at the Crystal Palace the night before, so Poppy wasn’t surprised to see most of them had decided to have a night in. She stifled a yawn, shunning thoughts of her nice warm bed and eiderdown comforter, and joined Rollo at the bar.

  “Evening, Poppy. Glad you could make it,” said the red-haired editor, signalling for the barman to bring Poppy a drink. “Chardonnay, is it?”

  “Just soda water tonight, Rollo; I have a headache.”

  Rollo chuckled and put in the order. He waited for the barman to serve a customer at the other end of the bar before continuing his conversation with his reporter.

  “Did you get anything?”

  Poppy sipped her water and shook her head. “Sorry, no. She wouldn’t talk to me. Wouldn’t even let me in her room.” Then she went on to tell Rollo what Aunt Dot and Miss King had told her about Selena fainting when she saw the picture of her and Princess Irina fighting.

  Rollo threw back his head and roared. He had a loud, sonorous laugh that still surprised Poppy. Other customers looked over and smiled. Rollo raised his glass in their direction. “I didn’t do much better,” he said. “The barman couldn’t shed much light. Like we suspected, he’d just been hired in to cater the exhibition. Oscar had provided all of the staff – waiters, waitresses and bar staff.”