Blackstone and the House of Secrets (The Blackstone Detective series Book 3)

by Sally Spencer

  But no Cossacks did appear, and at just after two o’clock — as nearly as he could tell by looking at the sun — he caught sight of the cordon, outlined against the horizon.

  Did they know there was a renegade band of Cossacks on the loose, he wondered hazily. And if they knew, did it concern them? Probably not. The military mind is an inflexible mind at best. The soldiers had been ordered to seal off the area around the village and the house, and that was what they had done superbly. Why, then, should they care if bloody murder had been committed beyond their range of operations?

  But Blackstone cared. He did not know what secrets Major Carlton had been keeping close to his bosom, nor what role the Major had been meant to play in this whole affair of the golden egg. But he did know that when danger had appeared on the horizon, Carlton had told him to run. And that when he refused to flee, the Major had done all that he could to protect him.

  Major George Carlton had died a soldier’s death. An honourable death, of which his father could have been justly proud. But it was also a death which had to be avenged — and Blackstone was determined he would be the instrument of that vengeance, for who else was there?

  The soldiers on the cordon line had spotted him, and two of them detached themselves and began to ride towards him. They seemed to Blackstone to be taking an inordinate amount of time, but that was probably because — as far as he could tell — they were not letting their horses’ hooves touch the ground, but instead, and in a most unmilitary manner, were making them tread air.

  He watched their slow progress with a growing impatience. Why couldn’t they get there quicker, so he could tell them what he was going to do to the men who killed Carlton?

  They were still some distance away. In fact, they seemed to be moving backwards. Very well then, if he couldn’t tell them all about it, he would just have to settle for telling God.

  He looked up at the sky and shook his fist. “I’ll get the bastards!” he bellowed. Then he swayed and, for the second time that day, fell off his horse.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was when the man had reached a point roughly half-way between the village and the Big House that he began to think about operational matters in general and his own mission in particular.

  An operation should resemble a smooth piece of machinery, he told himself. From its very inception, infinite care should be taken in constructing it. Then, before it was ever activated, each part should be thoroughly tested to make sure it would properly fulfil its function. That having been done, the operator should be able to just sit back and let it run its course.

  But it never was like that — at least for him. Because however meticulous the preparations — however thorough the checking — factors over which he had no control were constantly jamming up the works.

  And then what happened? Then he was forced to improvise, just as he was being forced to improvise now. If only those for whom he was working would listen, he thought. If only they would leave matters to the experts. But they were convinced they knew best — convinced that their own involvement was all the lubrication the machine needed. And when the cogs finally refused to mesh, these same people turned to him, and told him to fix it — as if it were the easiest thing in the world!

  At least the moon was shrouded in cloud for the moment, he noted. At least the weather seemed to be co-operating, even if the human side of the operation was not.

  There were no soldiers standing on guard in front of the Big House, and whilst he was grateful for that omission, he could not but feel contempt for those who had thought security was unnecessary.

  He had a plan of the house clearly mapped out inside his head, so at least there would be no problem finding his way around. Yet there were plenty of other difficulties which might arise.

  Say, for example, he encountered one of the guests during the second phase of the operation. What would he do then? Well, he supposed, if it were an unimportant guest, he would simply kill the unfortunate man or woman. But if the guest in question were important, it would present him with a real dilemma, because even he could not assassinate a grand duke or grand duchess with impunity.

  Fortunately, there would be no such problem during the first — more difficult — phase of the operation, because that would take place on the ground floor, where there were only the kitchens, workshops and servants’ dormitories.

  He had heard that in England, where the policeman came from, the servants slept at the top of the house, while the aristocracy occupied the lower floors. But then the English did not have the violent flash floods which were so common during the Russian spring thaw, else they would no doubt have decided — as the Russians had done — that it was better to have servants drowned in their sleep than risk damage to valuable carpets and furnishings.

  The impressive main door to the house might have severely tested his lock-picking skills, but the door to the laundry room presented no difficulties at all. Once inside he made his way quietly down the corridor until he reached one of the sets of steep, narrow stairs which connected the servants’ world with that of their privileged masters.

  He had not been told who was sleeping in which room — his informant had thought that collecting such information would be bound to point the finger of suspicion in the morning — but that did not really matter. Since the object of the exercise was to spread alarm through the whole of the West Wing, any starting point would be as good as any other.

  He had reached the first-floor corridor, which was so much wider and grander than the one which ran directly below it. As luck would have it, the moon chose, just at that point, to emerge from behind the clouds, and the floor was suddenly bathed in a pale yellow light.

  Good, he would not have to use the lantern that he’d brought with him after all. He took his time inspecting the corridor, before selecting a window half-way down it as the spot at which to begin his work. He examined the thick crimson curtains — heavy with elaborate embroidery — which hung from the ceiling to the floor. Excellent!

  This one set of curtains alone, he thought, would have cost more than a peasant in the village could earn in a lifetime. But he felt no sympathy for the peasants in question. If they acted like sheep, they deserved to be treated like sheep. If they did not fight back when they had the chance, they had no cause for complaint when they saw the butcher’s knife hovering over them.

  He unstrapped the pack he had been carrying on his back, and spread out the contents on the floor. Powder, liquid, wadding and a timing device — all he needed for his night’s work.

  He set about his task. It took him less than three minutes. There were others who could have completed the job even quicker, he realized — but they had not been available, and he had.

  The work completed to his satisfaction, he quickly made his way to the servants’ stairs. As he passed along the lower corridor, he heard one of the male servants groan in his sleep, and chuckled softly at the thought that the man would soon be wide awake and driven by panic.

  There was no real need to re-lock the door by which he had entered the house, but he knew that he had time — and that it would add to the confusion later — so he did it anyway.

  The moon had retreated behind the clouds again, so maybe God — if such a being existed — was working with him to help him confound his enemies.

  He did not run as he covered the ground between the house and the main gate, but neither did he dawdle, and it was only when he reached the gate itself that he permitted himself to stop and look around.

  The house was now completely in darkness, except for a faint — but spreading — glow by the upper window in the West Wing.

  Excellent, he thought — and had to resist the temptation to start whistling.

  Chapter Nineteen

  At one point in the course of his delirium, Blackstone recalled seeing Sir Roderick Todd standing over him, purple with rage and screaming that he would break him for what he had allowed to happen. At another, he was conscious of Agne
s mopping his brow with a damp cloth — and sobbing softly to herself. Mostly, however, he was unconcerned with anything that belonged to the real world. Instead, he lived within his own mind — in a swirling, multi-coloured, many-shaped fantasy which answered every single question he had ever asked, and yet at the same time told him absolutely nothing at all.

  On the morning of what he was later told was the third day of his confinement, he awoke to find that his brain had finally returned to something like its normal functioning.

  He was almost sure that he could now distinguish between what had been real and what had not. He knew, for example, that both Sir Roderick and Agnes had been to see him, but he doubted very much that a huge eagle with golden teeth had flown around the room, advising him to forget all about its egg and worry about the nest instead.

  Yet there was one incident over which his uncertainty still persisted. At some time during the previous night, he was almost convinced, he had heard a loud bell ringing incessantly in the distance. Other sounds had followed — horses’ hooves and men screaming at the tops of their voices. And though he was quite prepared to be told that it had all been part of a grand delusion, he still could not shake off the belief that he had definitely smelled acrid smoke.

  He was still lying there, deliberating over the problem, when the door swung open and Agnes walked in.

  “Do you like the room?” she asked, wafting cheeriness about her much as an orthodox priest wafts incense. “It’s a pleasant change, isn’t it?”

  He had not even noticed the room, but now he saw that it was neither the cupboard in which he had spent his first night in the Big House, nor Agnes’s bedroom, in which he had spent the second.

  “They wanted to put you in some dismal little room off the servants’ quarters, but I was having none of that,” Agnes continued. “I said that you’d been injured in the line of duty and that you were entitled to the very best the house could offer. Well, of course, they’d never have given you anything that grand — not even if you’d almost laid down your life for the Count himself — but what they have given you isn’t bad at all, now is it?”

  Blackstone looked around. No, it wasn’t bad at all. “Where exactly am I?” he asked.

  “East Wing. The floor they keep for minor guests. Still, even being a minor guest is something of a promotion for you.”

  She was being just a little too chirpy, he thought. And why was that? Because she’d been worried about him, and this was just a way of expressing her relief? Or, and this seemed more likely to him, was it that she was embarrassed’? Embarrassed — and perhaps even ashamed — about what they had done together in her room. So embarrassed, in fact, that she was using her cheeriness as a cloak, to disguise just how uncomfortable she felt.

  “And it’s certainly just as well they didn’t put you in the West Wing, isn’t it?” Agnes continued.

  “Why?”

  “Because if they’d forgotten about you — and they may well have done in all the confusion — you might possibly have burned to death.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  She looked at him strangely. “The fire!”

  “What fire?”

  “The one in the West Wing. Didn’t you know? Hasn’t anybody told you about it?”

  “You’re the first person who’s been to see me seen since I came round,” Blackstone admitted.

  “The servants were supposed to check on you every half hour!” Agnes said, outraged. “I’ll give them hell when I catch them.” Then she softened a little. “I suppose I can’t blame them completely,” she continued. “Everything has been at sixes and sevens since they put the fire out.”

  “Was it a big fire?”

  “Big enough. Several of the rooms have been badly damaged, though the structure as a whole doesn’t seem to have suffered too much.”

  “What caused it?”

  “Nobody knows. Or, at least, nobody’s told me.”

  It might have some connection with the robbery, Blackstone thought, with a sudden quickening interest. Then again, he cautioned himself, it might not. At any rate, there were other matters of more concern to him at that moment.

  “What about Major Carlton?” he said — hoping to hear Agnes reply that the Major’s death had been no more than a part of his delirium, yet knowing deep inside him that it had been all too horribly true.

  “The poor man,” Agnes said. “They packed him in ice almost as soon as you’d brought him back, and then the soldiers took him to the railway station. They put him on the first train that came through, and he should be nearly in St Petersburg by now.”

  There was no time to mourn for Carlton, however much he wanted to, Blackstone told himself. Not now. Not yet.

  “What do people here think happened to us out on the steppe, Agnes?” he asked.

  The question seemed to surprise the governess. “They know what happened,” she said. “You ran into some brigands. They robbed you, and killed Major Carlton. That is what happened, isn’t it?”

  No, Blackstone thought. It most definitely isn’t. Brigands would have taken the horses, not tethered them so they’d be waiting for him when he eventually came round.

  Brigands would never have murdered one of their own to prevent him from killing the man he’d attacked. And that, Blackstone was starting to realize, was what they must have done! There was no other way to explain what had happened to the Cossack with the knife — no other reason why he wouldn’t have pressed on and driven the knife through the English policeman’s heart.

  “We need to have a serious talk,” he said.

  “What about?”

  “I have to know what’s been going on in the house while I’ve been fighting off the fever.”

  “I’ve told you all I’ve heard about the fire.”

  “Not just the fire. Everything that’s been going on. Who’s been acting strangely...”

  “These people are Russians. They always act strangely.”

  “...any unusual occurrences, any variation from the usual routine of the house...”

  Agnes held up her hand to silence him, and tut-tutted disapprovingly.

  “I’m sure it all seems very important to you at the moment, Sam,” she said, “but you’re simply not strong enough to deal with anything of that sort yet. What you need is a good long rest. There’ll be plenty of time to get back to your investigation later.”

  The detective in him knew that was not true — had learned from experience that the colder a trail gets, the harder it is to follow.

  “What are you doing now?” Agnes asked sternly.

  “I’m getting out of bed,” Blackstone told her, swinging his legs awkwardly on to the floor.

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Agnes told him.

  But he already had, and when he took a few tentative steps towards her, he was pleasantly surprised to find that he did not fall over.

  “Where are my clothes?” he asked.

  “The state they were in, where do you think they are?” Agnes replied, her hands now bunched into angry fists and resting firmly on her hips, “had them burned.’

  “You had them burned!”

  He could only imagine the expression on his own face from Agnes’s reaction to it. At first she tried to maintain her stern countenance, but then she gave up and burst into laughter.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not expecting you to walk around in your underclothes for the rest of the time you’re here,” she said.

  “But I only have two suits to my name, and the other one’s back in London,” he protested.

  “That’s probably why I couldn’t find it, then,” Agnes said, still chuckling to herself. “But you’ve no need to fret. I’ve begged one of the Count’s old suits off him. It should fit you well enough, and it’s probably better quality than you’ve ever felt on your back before. So if you insist on getting up, when any man with an ounce of sense would keep to his bed—”

  “I do.”

  “—if
you absolutely, positively, insist, you’ll find the Count’s old suit in the wardrobe over in the corner.”

  “I meant it when I said we needed to have a serious talk,” Blackstone told the governess. “And it has to be soon, because, what with the fever, I’ve wasted far too much time already.”

  Agnes nodded. “All right,” she agreed reluctantly. “If you’re recovered enough to dress yourself, and can find your way up to the schoolroom, we’ll talk. Be there in ten minutes. I’ll have the samovar on the boil, so there should be a nice hot cup of tea waiting for you.”

  “You couldn’t lay your hands on some whisky as well, could you?” Blackstone asked hopefully.

  Agnes gave him a reproachful look, then softened again and said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Getting dressed was not as easy as Blackstone had anticipated. The trousers he was attempting to climb into were being most uncooperative — or so it seemed to him. And when he tried to cover his aching torso with the jacket, the arm-holes deliberately shifted around so he could not find them. The socks alone were willing to be compliant, but pulling them on caused his body to scream out that such stretching and tugging was both cruel and unnecessary. These were all signs that he should have stayed in bed after all, he told himself — but then he’d never been much of a one for paying attention to signs.

  When he finally reached the schoolroom, he found Agnes gazing at a map of Europe on the wall.

  “Swotting up for the first lesson you’ll give when the children get back?” he asked, using jocularity as a cover for the fact that his difficulties in dressing had caused him to arrive ten minutes later than he’d promised he would.

  Agnes jumped, as if he’d startled her.

  “What?” she said.

  “I was asking you if you were swotting up for some future lesson.”

  “No, I wasn’t,” Agnes said seriously.

  “Then what were you doing?”