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

by Sally Spencer

  Blackstone descended the stairs to the courtyard with as much speed as his aching body would allow him. By the time he reached the door the Count had apparently finally tired of hearing his own voice, and was barking an order to the soldiers standing on each side of the peasant revolutionary.

  The soldiers immediately began to half-drag, half-carry Peter towards the house. But they were dragging him because they wanted to drag him — because that was the way this particular scene had been mapped out — Blackstone thought. The truth was that no such force was necessary — that Peter seemed more than willing to go wherever it was they wanted to take him.

  From his new vantage point, Blackstone was afforded a better view of Peter than he’d had from the schoolroom window. He could see now that while the revolutionary had the long hair and thick, matted beard of a typical peasant, he did not exactly have the build. He was taller and less square than most of the men from the village, and even as the soldiers pulled and tugged at him, there seemed a certain elegance in the way he moved. But it was the face that struck Blackstone the most, because though he could not say where he had seen it before — or even been sure he had ever seen it at all — it looked oddly familiar.

  The Count spurred his horse, and trotted off in the direction of the stables. Prisoner and escort disappeared into the house. Now that the show was over, the servants scurried back to their work, and the guests ambled gently towards yet another morning of relaxation and self-indulgence.

  Soon the only two people left standing in the courtyard were Blackstone himself and Sir Roderick Todd. Todd, noticing him for the first time, strode angrily over to where the Inspector was standing.

  “You got my godson killed, you reckless bastard!” the Assistant Commissioner said angrily.

  “He was the one who invited me to go out riding on the steppe,” Blackstone pointed out.

  “So you’re blaming him, are you, you coward? You’re blaming a man who can no longer answer for himself?”

  “No,” Blackstone said. ‘I’m blaming the Cossacks — and whoever set them on to us. Why do you think the Major was murdered?”

  “I have no idea,” Sir Roderick replied. “But if one of you had to be killed, why did it have to be him — a young man with so much promise?”

  Several responses came unbidden to Blackstone’s mind — none of which he could deliver to a superior officer.

  “Why was that peasant arrested?” he asked. “Did it have anything to do with the fire?”

  “But of course it had something to do with the fire, you idiot! What else could it possibly have had to do with?”

  “How did the soldiers know that he was to blame?”

  “Not all peasants are as completely ungrateful as he seems to be,” Sir Roderick said, inadvertently revealing his own ignorance of Peter’s origins. “There are some who know where their loyalty lies, and who wish to see justice done.”

  In other words, Blackstone translated, the Count has paid informers in the village.

  “And what will happen to the man now?” he asked.

  “If there’s any justice, he’ll be hanged for attempting to destroy this beautiful house,” Sir Roderick said fiercely. “And even if he isn’t hanged, he’ll get twenty-five years hard labour in Siberia — which, don’t you worry, is as good as a death sentence in itself.”

  “I wasn’t worried,” Blackstone replied mildly. “Do you think there’s any chance that the fire had something to do with the robbery, sir?”

  “Anything’s possible with these people,” Sir Roderick said, contemptuously. “They don’t think like we do. But I can’t honestly see how the two things are connected. The robbery was committed for personal gain. The fire was an act of pure, malicious envy by an animal who couldn’t bear the thought that other people live surrounded by beauty.”

  “So why did he start the fire on the first floor of the West Wing?” Blackstone wondered.

  “I’m not following you,” Sir Roderick said.

  Well, that certainly made a change, Blackstone thought.

  “I assume the bedrooms in the West Wing are pleasant enough — though I haven’t had the privilege of seeing one of them myself,” he said, “but if the man was merely envious — as you seem to think he was — then why didn’t he start the fire in one of the reception rooms? Surely they’re the most self-indulgent rooms in the whole house.”

  “Self-indulgent?” Sir Roderick repeated, as if he had no idea of what Blackstone was talking about.

  “Ornate, then,” Blackstone substituted. “Elaborate. Spectacular. Call them what you will.”

  “What you’re trying to say is that if he was out to destroy beauty, he would have attacked the most beautiful example of it.”

  Blackstone sighed. “Yes, that’s what I was trying to say.”

  “I’m sure that coming from a stinking hovel, as he undoubtedly does, the whole building seemed dazzlingly beautiful to him.”

  “And there’s another point to consider,” Blackstone said. “Most arsonists choose one of two possible spots to start their fire. The first is an area where there’s a great deal of flammable material. From that point of view, I would have thought the best place would have been somewhere on the ground floor — either the laundry or boiler room.”

  “Yes, yes,” Sir Roderick said impatiently.

  “Or they choose some central spot inside the structure, from which the fire can spread out and engulf the whole building. This arsonist didn’t do either of those things.”

  “The man’s a peasant, not a professional fire-raiser, like the kind you’re used to dealing with!” Sir Roderick said exasperatedly. “He’d probably have no idea where the best place to start a fire was.”

  “In which case, you’d have thought he’d have chosen to do what was easiest,” Blackstone pointed out. “You’d think he’d start the fire close to where he broke into the house, and then get out as quickly as he could. But he didn’t do that, did he? Instead, he took the risk of going up to the first floor. Why? What could he possibly hope to gain from that?”

  “Back in London, they told me you were clever,” Sir Roderick said, almost wearily. “And they were right. You’re far too clever for your own good, Blackstone. You take a simple incident, and you worry it to death. Who knows why the bloody peasant went up to the first floor? He probably doesn’t even know himself. And if you could step back for a moment, and take a wider view of things, you’d see that it doesn’t really matter one way or the other.”

  But it did, Blackstone thought. There was only one way to explain the fire — and that was to see it as having been started with no other purpose than to throw light on the robbery.

  “Do you think you could persuade the Count to give me permission to speak to the arsonist, sir?” he asked.

  Sir Roderick looked at him as if he suspected he’d lost his mind. “Speak to the arsonist?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Good God, man, he’s nothing but an ignorant peasant. What do you think he’ll be able to tell you that can be of any possible use?”

  “I won’t know until I’ve spoken to him.”

  “And who do you expect will translate for you? The Count himself, I suppose! Or do you think that the Countess would rather relish the thought of being confined in a room with a stinking peasant, while she does your donkey-work for you?”

  “I wouldn’t wish to put either the Count or the Countess to any inconvenience,” Blackstone said. “In fact, I’d much prefer to speak to the prisoner alone.”

  Sir Roderick shook his head. “You really have lost your mind,” he told the Inspector. “You speak no Russian, do you?”

  “No.”

  “And the prisoner — a stinking, ignorant peasant — will certainly speak no English. How do you expect to communicate with him? Through gestures? Through grunts?”

  “As long as he is convinced that we have absolute privacy for our discussion, I’m sure that communication between us will present no prob
lem at all,” Blackstone said.

  “If I do convey your ludicrous request to the Count, he’ll think you’re a fool,” Sir Roderick pointed out.

  “He already thinks I’m a fool. How could a man wearing one of his cast-off suits be anything else?”

  “That’s certainly true enough. But more to the point, he’ll probably think I’m a fool.”

  And he wouldn’t be far off the mark in that particular assessment, Blackstone reflected. “I think I’ve found a solution to your dilemma,” he said.

  “You have? And what is it?”

  “You could tell the Count that you need an opportunity to allow me to make an idiot of myself.”

  “And why would I want that?”

  “So you’ll have an excuse to send me back to London.”

  The idea, now it was clearly spelled out, appealed to Sir Roderick, just as Blackstone had known it would. Because while there were times when the Assistant Commissioner was aware of how much he needed his Inspector, there were others — many more of them — when the arrogant bastard was just looking for an excuse to send his subordinate packing.

  “Very well, I’ll talk to the Count,” Sir Roderick said, his tone making it clear that, in giving Blackstone enough rope to hang himself, he was, in fact, doing the other man a huge favour.

  “That’s very good of you, sir,” Blackstone said, doing his best impersonation of a humble, grateful subordinate.

  “But if it turns out to be a mistake,” Sir Roderick continued, “then I shall expect you to take the full consequences of your impetuous action. Is that clearly understood?”

  “It’s understood, sir,” Blackstone replied.

  “In that case, I will speak to the Count immediately.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Sir Roderick said witheringly. “All I’m doing, Blackstone, is to make quite sure that when you get back to London you have no possible grounds for saying that I, at least, didn’t play my part.”

  He turned, and strode towards the stables. When speaking, of the Tsar, the late Major Carlton had said it was a frightening thing to put power in the hands of a weak man. And watching Todd’s progress, Blackstone knew exactly what Major Carlton meant.

  The Inspector lit a cigarette. The case was still far from solved, he thought, but at least it was becoming a little clearer. And it would become clearer yet when he talked to the arsonist. Because despite what Agnes thought, the man was far from being a revolutionary. Nor — whatever else it might be — was Peter his real name. And though Blackstone had no idea of what his true name actually was, he did at least now know where they had met before.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The arsonist had been incarcerated in one of the rooms on the ground floor of the wing in which he had set his fire. There were two soldiers on guard outside the door. They were standing back-to-back, so that one was looking up the narrow corridor and the other was looking down it. Blackstone approached them with caution, his outstretched arm holding the piece of paper which the Count himself had signed, and which Sir Roderick had assured him would gain him access to the cell.

  The Inspector came to a halt a few feet from the closest soldier, who, he now saw, had a corporal’s stripes stitched to the arm of his jacket.

  “Please read this,” he said.

  Though he did not understand the words, Blackstone’s intention was obvious enough, and the soldier craned his head slightly forward. He did not find it an easy process to read what the Count had written, and while his eyes travelled slowly across the page — and his lips moved as he spelled out the words — Blackstone took the opportunity to examine the holding cell.

  The door was made of steel, he noted, and was probably at least two inches thick. Perhaps it had been used as a cell before, or perhaps only as a secure storeroom, but whatever the case, there was no way that the man inside would ever be able to escape through it.

  The corporal had finished reading the note, and said a few words to the man behind him. The second soldier took a couple of steps back, raised his rifle, and aimed it squarely at the centre of the door. Not until the manoeuvre had been completed did the corporal unhook the key from his belt and insert it in the keyhole.

  The corporal turned the key twice, then twisted the handle. He pushed the door open and took two quick steps back, so that the only person standing in the open doorway was Blackstone himself.

  The Inspector peered into the cell. There was no lamp in the room, and no window, either. A little light did find its way in from the corridor, but not even enough to allow Blackstone to see the far wall. It was, he thought, like gazing into a deep dark cave.

  He turned to face the corporal. “I can’t see anything at all in there,” he complained.

  The corporal looked at him blankly.

  “I need some kind of light!” Blackstone told him, then mimed striking a match and lighting a lantern.

  The corporal first checked that his comrade still had his rifle trained on the door, then he took a cautious step forward, pushed the door closed, and immediately locked it again.

  “I still want to see the man inside, but I’m going to need more light,” Blackstone explained.

  The corporal nodded, to show that he had understood. With one hand he gestured that Blackstone should stay where he was; with the other he indicated that he would go in search of what the Inspector needed.

  Blackstone thought about the prisoner on the other side of the thick steel door.

  Most men, having been left alone in total darkness, would not have been able to resist calling out something when the door was opened. They might have pleaded for mercy. They might have demanded to know what was going to happen to them. They might have spoken for no other reason than to elicit some response from their guards — a few words which would prove to them that they still existed. But not this man. This man had said nothing.

  What self-control the arsonist had! What iron self-discipline! Yet it was no more than Blackstone would have expected of him.

  The soldier returned with a lantern. He handed it to Blackstone, then removed the key from his belt and unlocked the door a second time. Once the Inspector had stepped over the threshold, the soldier shut the door again with a loud clang.

  Blackstone held the lantern up high and shone it around the room. There was no furniture at all — nothing to break up the monotony of the four bare walls and the rough stone floor. No ventilation, either, so the air was both hot and sticky, and had already begun to smell of sweat and other — even more unpleasant — bodily functions.

  He could not find the prisoner at first, and for a moment speculated that — against all odds — he had somehow managed to escape. Then he saw the man, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. It was scarcely a dignified position to be discovered in, but given that the prisoner’s hands were tied behind his back — and his ankles bound together in front of him — it was perhaps the best option available to him.

  “Hold the light closer to yourself so that I can see your face,” the prisoner said, and when Blackstone had done so he chuckled and continued, “Have you only just worked out who I am, Inspector?”

  “The long hair and beard had me fooled for a while,” Blackstone admitted. “Are they real?”

  “They are real in the sense that, until a few days ago, they were a fixture of the head of a real peasant,” the prisoner said.

  “And what happened to him?”

  “He was not harmed. At least, not permanently. But there was not time for me to grow a disguise, so the peasant in question had to sacrifice — albeit reluctantly — his precious growth, and I had to glue it on. And now, I must tell you, that glue is itching abominably.”

  “You’ve endured much worse in your time,” Blackstone said unsympathetically.

  “Yes, I have,” the prisoner agreed. He chuckled again. “You know, Inspector Blackstone, you disappoint me. I had expected that long before now you would have realized that the reaso
n — the only possible reason — for you to be in Russia was that I wished it.”

  He’s right, Blackstone thought. That is the only possible reason, and I should have been able to work it out. He remembered the last time they had met. It was at the end of a case which had almost cost both his own life and the life of a person far more important — by any standards — than he could ever hope to be.

  *

  He had been walking along the Thames Embankment, mourning the loss of the only woman he’d ever loved. He’d stopped walking and looked down at the river.

  He’d heard the gentle swish of the tidal waters. He’d seen the lights of ships anchored midway between the two shores. And he’d been tempted to walk down the nearest set of steps, and keep on walking. Until he was drowned. Until he had made himself at one with the heart of the city which had been his home for most of his life.

  And then he had realized that he was not alone.

  “Do not turn around, Inspector Blackstone,” a voice from not far behind him had said.

  “Vladimir?” Blackstone had asked. “Is that you? Have you recovered from falling off the roof?”

  “The common people below cushioned my fall. That is, after all, what the common people are for — to cushion the MI of those who matter. But why do you call me Vladimir? Do you mean Vladimir Bubnov? How could I possibly be him, since he does not exist?”

  “But you still don’t want me to look at you?”

  “I have already exposed myself to you far too much for my liking.”

  “So now you’re going to kill me,” Blackstone had said, not entirely certain whether he cared one way or the other. “No, I am not here to kill you.”

  “But you’ve got your pistol pointing at me right now, haven’t you?”

  The Russian had not denied it. Instead, he’d said, “My Tsar and my country owe you a debt. Since you have undoubtedly saved us from a ruinous war, I have been authorized to offer you a reward of five thousand pounds, provided, of course, that you agree to sign an undertaking to never again mention the name of Count Turgenev.”