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

by Sally Spencer

  “I was thinking.”

  “About something important?”

  “Perhaps.” Agnes stepped clear of the map, so that Blackstone could have a better view of it. “One of the exercises I give the children is to take a map of Europe, cut out all the countries with scissors, mix them all up, and put them back together again as if they were a jigsaw,” she continued.

  “It sounds like fun.”

  “It’s educational,” Agnes said, with just a hint of school ma’am creeping into her voice. “Yet sometimes I can’t help wondering whether I’m giving them the wrong idea.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I worry that I might be helping to create the impression in their minds that Europe is somehow fixed and unchangeable. But it isn’t, is it?”

  “History would suggest not,” Blackstone said.

  “Exactly!” Agnes agreed. Still standing to the side of the map, she began tracing out shapes on it with her index finger. “This bit of Russia — Vistula Province — was part of an independent Poland until not so long ago.” The finger moved on. “All these states were free, too, until they became part of the German Empire, less than thirty years ago. And this part of Germany,” she indicated Alsace—Lorraine, “belonged to France until the War of 1870. So will I still be teaching from this same map in twenty years time? Or will war and conquest have changed the whole picture again by then?”

  “You mean, will something have happened to upset the balance of power in Europe?” Blackstone asked, thinking of Major George Carlton’s words, just before the poor man died.

  “Precisely! Alliances seem to change almost from day today. The countries we counted as our friends last year are now virtually our enemies, though by next year they may well have become our closest allies again.” Agnes sighed. “But you didn’t come up here to discuss real politik, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Then take a seat, and I’ll bring you your tea.”

  “And the whisky?” Blackstone asked hopefully.

  “We’ll see about that after we’ve talked for a while,” Agnes said sternly. “If I think you’re up to it, you shall have a small glass. And if I don’t...”

  “Then I can whistle for it?”

  “Exactly.”

  Blackstone smiled. “I’ll be up to it,” he promised. And he hoped that he was right.

  Agnes gave him the tea, then perched on the edge of the table. “What do you want to know?” she asked.

  “Let’s begin with the fire,” Blackstone suggested. “When and where did it start?”

  “I don’t know where it started, but it was about three o’clock when the church bell in the village woke me up, so I suppose that it must have been some time before that?”

  “Why did they ring the church bell?” Blackstone wondered.

  “To rouse the peasants.”

  “I can’t imagine they particularly wanted to be roused, not after a day’s back-breaking work in the fields.”

  “I’m sure they did not. But they have the same duty to protect the Count’s property as they had when they were his serfs.”

  “And what if they refuse?”

  “They’d never refuse.”

  “Because they’d be afraid of the consequences?”

  Agnes shook her head wonderingly. “You really don’t know Russia, do you, Sam?” she said. “Consequences have nothing to do with the way they act. They wouldn’t refuse to help the Count, because it would never occur to them that they could. They fast throughout Lent — no meat, no milk, no eggs — even though they have only the vaguest idea of what religion is all about. They get drunk after Easter, because that’s what people do. And they come to the Count’s assistance whenever they’re called to do so. ‘Why’ simply doesn’t enter into it. That’s the way it is, the way it always has been, and the way it always will be. They can’t even imagine any other life.”

  “So they came and helped to put out the fire,” Blackstone said. “What happened next?”

  “The peasants went back to the village — no doubt cursing the Count under their breath when they were close to the house, and being much louder about him once they were clear of it. Then all the servants set about moving the belongings of the guests who were staying in the West Wing into rooms in the East Wing. I don’t know what happened after that, because I went back to my lonely bed.” Agnes paused again. “I’m getting rather bored with the fire,” she said. “Let’s talk about something else, shall we?”

  “Like what?”

  “I’ve been doing some thinking about the golden egg, and also about the mysterious carriage which left the house at roughly the same time as the Prince’s carriage did.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “We know the Prince didn’t steal the egg. What would be the point in his taking something that was already his?”

  “Agreed.”

  “But what about the occupant of the other carriage?”

  “You think he might have taken it?” Blackstone asked. “In other words, you think the egg is no longer here?”

  “That is what I thought might be the case at first,’ Agnes admitted. “But it just wouldn’t make sense if it were.”

  “Explain yourself,” Blackstone suggested.

  “Everybody knew the egg had been stolen by then, yet the other carriage was still allowed to leave. Why was that?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Because the person in the carriage — whoever he was — was as much above suspicion as the Prince himself!”

  “And who might that person be?”

  Agnes frowned. “That’s a very taxing question. Under normal circumstances, I’d say it had to be someone who was so important that no one dared question him — even if they did suspect he was involved in the robbery. That’s certainly what I thought at first.”

  “And why don’t you think it anymore?”

  “Because Grand Duke Ivan’s important — he’s a member of the Russian Royal Family — and he hasn’t been allowed to leave. So the only way I can see the soldiers ever agreeing to let anyone else go is if the Prince of Wales was prepared to vouch for him personally.”

  “So you think this man was a friend of the Prince’s?”

  Agnes shook her head, not so much in denial but as if she were impatient with the slowness of his mind. “It doesn’t really matter who he was,” she said.

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “No! What’s important is that the Prince must have been convinced that he didn’t have the egg. So, in all probability, he didn’t. Which means that the egg is still here!”

  “You’re a governess, not a policeman. Why are you showing so much interest in this matter?” Blackstone wondered.

  Agnes smiled, almost enigmatically. “There are several reasons,” she said. “The first is that I like you, Sam, and want to see you succeed. The second is that this whole affair is damaging the Count’s reputation. And while I may not like him very much myself, I am a member of his household, and feel a certain responsibility to help him in any way I can.”

  “Anything else?”

  Agnes’s smile broadened. “But the third reason — and possibly the most important of all — is that I was bon with an incredibly curious nature, and love solving puzzles.”

  Blackstone felt a slight pang of disappointment, the cause of which he couldn’t quite pin down.

  “Now I’ve offended you,” Agnes said mischievously. “You’d have liked me to say that my first reason was the most important one — that what I wanted more than anything else in the world was to see you gain another feather in your cap.”

  Yes, that was it, Blackstone thought with self-disgust. That was exactly what it was. He had seduced this woman — this virgin — but in the process he had somehow managed to allow himself to be seduced as well. Now, instead of using her purely as a sounding board — which had been his original plan — he was taking everything she said in personal terms. And that had never happened to him befo
re!

  Even with Hannah — his beloved, worldly-wise Hannah, who’d had so much more control over him than this until-recently virginal woman could ever hope to exert — he had managed to maintain some distance. Even with Hannah, he had learned to be a lover when they were in bed together, but a policeman during the time they were out of it.

  “I was just teasing you a little,” Agnes said contritely. “I never wanted to upset you.”

  “You didn’t upset me,” he told her. But what he really meant was: I’ll do my level best to see it never happens again.

  There was a roaring below — a great bellow of excitement and anticipation. It was the sort of noise only normally heard at an important football match — or at a public execution.

  Agnes went over to the window and looked down. “I can see what’s got them so worked up,” she said. “Some soldiers have just arrived, and they’ve brought a prisoner with them.”

  “A prisoner!”

  “Yes. The poor blighter’s got one end of a rope tied around his wrists, and the other end’s tied round one of the soldier’s saddle horns. They must have brought him from the village. How he must have suffered! I know soldiers, and they won’t have ridden any slower than they would normally just because they were bringing a prisoner in. And running behind them, he’ll have known that if he lost his footing, they’d simply have dragged him the rest of the way.”

  “What makes you think they’ve brought him from the village,” Blackstone said pensively. “Is he one of the peasants?”

  “Of course he’s one of the peasants! You don’t think they’d treat anyone else in that way, do you?”

  “I suppose not.”

  Agnes must have realized, from his muted response, how her words might sound to him, because she turned around and said, “Sam?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry, Sam. I truly am. I didn’t mean to sound abrupt. It’s just that I’ve lived here for so long that I take many things for granted, and I’m amazed when I discover that I have to explain them to you.”

  “It’s understandable,” Blackstone said, more because it bothered him to see her look distressed than because he did understand.

  Agnes turned round and looked down again. “The Count’s there. Well, he would be, wouldn’t he? He relishes this kind of situation. It’s the perfect opportunity to show everyone just how powerful he is.” She held her hand over her eyes, to shield them from the sun. “The soldiers have dismounted now, and they’re frog-marching the poor bloody peasant towards the Count. They’re turning him, so that the Count can get a proper look at him, and... Oh, my God!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s... it’s Peter.”

  “Your friend the Social Revolutionary?”

  He had not meant the remark to antagonize her in any way, but it very clearly had, and when she swung round to face him again, her hands were set almost like claws.

  “He’s not my friend,” she hissed.

  “It’s just a manner of speaking,” Blackstone protested. “I never meant to suggest that—“

  “How could he be my friend? I’m a Scottish governess and he’s a Russian peasant. We have absolutely nothing in common. Besides, he’s only been in the village a few days.”

  “Has he, now?” Blackstone asked, as he felt the detective in him take control again. “Only a few days, you say?”

  Agnes caught the change in his tone, and it seemed, in some peculiar way, to calm her down.

  “Well, yes, he’s only been here for a few days.” she said lamely.

  “So he wasn’t born in the village?”

  “No.”

  “And he’s never lived here?”

  “No. For God’s sake, Sam, he’s a political agitator. Don’t you know what that means?”

  “I’m not sure that I do.”

  “It means that he constantly travels from village to village, partly so that he can speak to as many of the peasants as possible, and partly to avoid being caught up with by the police.”

  “You never mentioned this before,” Blackstone said accusingly.

  “But I did. I distinctly remember telling you he was a revolutionary. We were outside the inn at the time.”

  “You might have told me that,” Blackstone conceded, “but you certainly didn’t tell me that he’d only recently arrived in the village.”

  “Didn’t I?”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Then perhaps... perhaps I just didn’t think to. Perhaps it didn’t seem particularly important.”

  “A suspicious character arrives in the village just before the theft of the golden egg, and you don’t think it’s important enough to mention?” Blackstone asked sceptically.

  “If someone had tried to assassinate the Count, I might have thought Peter was involved in it,” Agnes argued. “But it honestly never occurred to me that he might have anything to do with the robbery. And why should it? Whatever else he is, he’s no thief!”

  “He might be willing to do all kinds of things to finance his revolution,” Blackstone said. “That the ends justify the means is pretty much the revolutionary’s motto.”

  “He’s not a thief,” Agnes said firmly.

  “How can you be so sure of that? You’ve only known the man for a few days.”

  “I have a gift for understanding people the moment I see them,” Agnes said passionately, as if pleading with him to believe her. “And I’m always right. Look how I spotted you.”

  But what did you see in me? Blackstone wondered. I thought I knew, but now I’m not so sure.

  Tears had appeared in Agnes’s eyes and began to roll slowly down her cheeks. Blackstone wanted to comfort her — to ask what he could do to ease her pain — but when he spoke it was the voice of the policeman which was in control.

  “Why should it distress you so much that this man, who is almost a stranger to you, has been arrested?” he demanded.

  Agnes’s head jerked back as if he’d slapped her.

  “I’m not crying for Peter,” she said.

  “Then who are you crying for?”

  “I’m crying for myself!”

  “Why?”

  “Because I thought I’d found someone who would understand me. Someone I could put my trust in, and who would trust me in return. But I was so wrong, wasn’t I? You don’t understand me at all! And you’d rather trust the Police Handbook than believe what I have to say!”

  “I didn’t mean... I was only trying to...” Blackstone began. But it was too late for any more words. Lowering her head so she didn’t even have to look at him, Agnes ran through the door and rushed down the passage.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Blackstone walked over to the schoolroom window, and looked down on the drama being played out below. It was just as Agnes had described it before she’d fled the room in tears. Everyone connected with the Big House — from the indoor and outdoor servants to the Grand Duke Ivan himself — had congregated in the courtyard to observe the exchange between the master of that house and the peasant whom the soldiers had dragged from the village.

  The Count was sitting astride his horse, the prisoner standing perhaps a dozen feet from him.

  Had the Count already been mounted and out riding when Peter was being brought in? Blackstone wondered. No, probably not. At that time of day he was much more likely to have still been working his way through his gigantic breakfast when he’d received news of the arrest.

  So why was he mounted now? Because when members of the aristocracy appeared before the lower orders, they were, by their very nature — and by the nature of the system that they embodied — theatrical. And what could be more theatrical than to gaze down on the miscreant from the back of a mighty steed?

  The Count was speaking — or perhaps, from his stance and gestures, it would have been more accurate to say that he was speechifying. Blackstone was too far away to hear any of the actual words — and wouldn’t have understood them however close he’d
been — but he’d witnessed enough examples of oratorical over-indulgence in his time to have a fairly good idea of what the Count was saying.

  “I look after my muhziks,” the Count was probably telling the peasant revolutionary. “They call me ‘father’, and that is exactly what I am to them. They are my children, and they love and respect me for it.”

  And he possibly at least half believed it, Blackstone thought, because even the hardest heart needs to employ a little self-deception in order to justify its owner’s excesses.

  The Count was addressing the rest of his audience now. “Isn’t that true?” he seemed to be saying. “Don’t I treat all of them — ungrateful wretches though they are — better than their real fathers would ever treat them?”

  The Quality assembled there nodded their heads gravely. The servants nodded too, but, aware that their masters’ eyes were on them, they did it with considerably more vigour.

  The Count turned his attention to Peter again. “And this is how I am repaid?” he appeared to he asking. “Is this the thanks that I get for all my kindness and my bounty?”

  He didn’t know he wasn’t addressing one of the peasants from his own village, Blackstone thought. They had no individual identity to him, and he was simply assuming that Peter had lived in the shadow of the Big House all his life. But Peter hadn’t! According to Agnes, Peter travelled around the country and had only been in the village for a few days.

  But if the Count had unwittingly cast himself in the wrong role as betrayed father, there was also something not quite right in the way Peter was playing his part in the drama. Standing there, with his head bowed, shoulders slightly hunched, and eyes pointed firmly at the ground, he was, as Blackstone well understood, merely acting the part of Count’s peasant in order to hide his real identity as a revolutionary. Yet even taking that into account, this performance was flawed. He wasn’t even playing the part of a revolutionary playing the part of a peasant with any real conviction, the Inspector decided.

  Here was a man who’d been dragged behind a horse, all the way from the village. Here was a man who’d been arrested for starting the fire — for what else was likely to have brought about his arrest? — and could look forward to a savage punishment once the Count had finally finished his harangue. Yet he simply did not look anything like concerned enough about the fate which was almost certainly awaiting him.