by Carola Dunn
EIGHTEEN
Kesin came alone to pick up Daisy next day. “The memsahib send excuses, madam,” he told her. “She very busy this morning.” For a moment Daisy was afraid she would have to call off the expedition. She really didn’t want to tackle the Russians on her own. But the chauffeur continued, “We drive back now to fetch her.”
It was a chilly day, and he tucked a tartan rug round her knees before they whizzed down Hampstead Hill to St. John’s Wood. The Prasads occupied one of the larger detached houses, Sakari’s husband being an important official at the India Office. It was a late Georgian building standing square and solid in a good-sized walled garden. Kesin jumped out to open the wrought-iron gates, then drove in between beds of multicoloured wallflowers, their scent overwhelming the everpresent fumes of petrol.
He pulled up at the bottom of a wide flight of steps. “I go see if memsahib ready, madam. You wait or prefer come in?”
“I’ll wait while you see how long she’ll be.”
“Very good, madam.” He ran up the steps, to return a couple of minutes later with Sakari leaning on his arm. She was always a bit unsteady coming down steps, because—as she was wont to explain—she couldn’t see her feet.
Kesin handed her in beside Daisy and swathed her in two rugs. After years in England, she still felt the cold, and her insistence on wearing saris didn’t help, even with a coat on top. There was no such thing as a warm woollen sari.
“I am sorry to be late, Daisy. A minor domestic crisis. You brought your aquamarines?”
“Yes.” Daisy patted her handbag. “If they’re used to dealing with diamonds and rubies and emeralds, they’re going to think these pretty paltry, but the stones are quite nice. They do definitely need a new setting to show them off.”
It didn’t take long to reach the narrow shop in the maze of alleys, closes, passages, and mews in the vicinity of Soho Square. There were three other shops in the alley, selling antiques, wine and spirits, and books respectively. The sign above the jeweller’s door read simply 3верев-ґ3бепеб. Green blinds were down in the half-glass door and the window, but a card hanging between blind and door pronounced the place open.
The Sunbeam was almost as wide as the alley. Daisy had to slide across the leather seat and get out on the driver’s side after Sakari.
Sakari spoke to Kesin in Hindi. He salaamed and got back into the car, while she turned to Daisy and said, “He will leave the car in the square under the nose of a policeman and return to wait at the door. Let us go in.”
A bell jangled harshly as she pushed open the door. The interior, wider than it was deep, was murky, lit by a single bulb over the counter that divided the small space lengthwise roughly in half. Behind the age-blackened counter was a bare, whitewashed wall with a rectangle of matte brown tile that suggested a closed-off fireplace. In one corner was a doorway masked by a velvet curtain, a startlingly vivid royal blue in the otherwise featureless room. It was warm, though there was no visible source of heat.
Three plain cane-bottomed chairs stood stiffly against one wall. Above them hung a small oval painting of the Virgin and Child in an ornate gilt frame. Two tall stools were positioned before the counter. Sakari at once hitched herself up onto one of the latter, as if it might escape her should she give it the opportunity.
The curtain swayed. A beringed feminine hand held it aside and a tall woman came through.
“Mesdames, what can I do for you?” She flicked a switch behind the counter, turning on a brighter electric light. It revealed an elegant figure in a black frock of heavy silk, a patterned cashmere shawl over her shoulders. Her abundant dark hair was done up in coiled braids on top of her head. She looked nearer thirty than twenty, older than Daisy had—for no particular reason—expected. “Ah, it is Madame Prasad, n’est-ce pas?”
“Namaste, mademoiselle. This is my friend, Mrs. Fletcher, who wishes to have some gems reset in the modern style.”
“Bienvenue, madame. I am Zvereva, Zinaïda Stepanovna. Certainly we can help you. You have brought the gems?”
“Les voici, mademoiselle.” Daisy placed the tissue-wrapped package on the counter.
“Vous parlez français, madame?”
“Un peu seulement.”
“Then we will speak English. I had an English gouvernante as a child.”
“And I a French governess, but little practice,” Daisy said with a smile.
Miss Zverev—Zvereva?—returned a slight smile. “Bien. Before I look at what you have brought, I wish you to examine my hands.” She laid them flat on the counter. “As you see, I wear a number of rings. Those on my left hand are in the old fashion. Those on my right are more modern. Before I begin a design, I must be sure I understand what you want.”
Daisy pored over the gleaming rings, noting the slender, well-kept hands they adorned. The massive older settings emphasised the left hand’s elegance but seemed to weigh it down; the contemporary rings, much more delicate, made the hand that bore them look strong and capable in contrast. Much more appropriate for a modern woman who had no intention of spending her life languishing on a chaise longue, Daisy thought. She herself rarely wore anything other than her wedding ring. They always seemed to catch on things, so she reserved even her engagement sapphire for special occasions.
“I prefer these,” she said, indicating the right hand, “but I don’t want rings.”
“Let me look at your jewels.” The young woman unwrapped the heavy, ornate aquamarine necklace, earrings, and bracelet. “Ah, sapphires … Mais non, these are aquamarines. One sees not often such fine dark blue.” She held up the necklace and looked at Daisy through the arc. “One is missing, I see. This colour will be difficult to match if you wish to replace. If not, I can make design without.”
“Yes, no need to try to find one to match.”
“The colour of the stones is perfect for you, madame, matching your eyes, but the settings—non, non, non. You are wise to desire a change.”
“Is this not exactly what Mr. Devenish told you, Daisy?” Sakari put in.
“Teddy? Good heavens no,” said Daisy, surprised. Then she realised she had momentarily lost sight of the real purpose of the visit to the Zverev establishment in the interest of the ostensible purpose. She had to admire Sakari’s deft introduction of the name. “No, I didn’t know him well enough for that, though I believe his artistic judgement was good, whatever his faults.”
Miss Zvereva’s hands had balled into fists. She leaned forward over the counter and said in a low but intense voice, “You are friends of Teddy Devenish?”
“No.” Daisy explained: “Mrs. Prasad never met him, did you, darling? I was acquainted with him very slightly, only because he was the cousin of a friend of mine.”
“Is true he is dead?”
“It’s true.”
She straightened with a sigh, apparently of relief, and murmured something that sounded like “Horror show,” but presumably meant something else in Russian.
“You knew him?” Daisy asked.
“Yes.” With a backward glance, she went on, still in a hushed voice, “My father wished me to marry him.” She shrugged. “He is—He was English and rich, and one day title.”
“You didn’t want to?”
“Never! And this is not what you say ‘sour grapes,’ like Aesop. I heard stories about Teddy. He pretend to love me but I did not trust him. Was not surprise to me when he … he jilt me. Was shock to Papa. Blamed me for not encouragement.” Her fractured English bore witness to her emotional state.
However, Daisy couldn’t be sure of the reason for her agitation. Quite possibly being jilted upset her more than she would admit. Or did she suspect her father of having a hand in Teddy’s death? If not the murderer, he might conceivably be the instigator.
It depended whether he viewed Teddy as a reluctant suitor to be wooed or a trickster who had never seriously intended to wed his daughter. Did he have a son who might have decided or been persuaded to avenge his sis
ter? How could she find out?
“I hope others in your family support you, mademoiselle,” said Sakari, commiserating, as if she had read Daisy’s mind.
“We are only two, my father and I. I do not like to disobey, but I tell him, we are now in England. Daughters are not oblige to marry man chosen by father.”
“Absolutely not,” Daisy said warmly. “You had a narrow escape from Teddy Devenish. He wasn’t at all a nice man.”
“I think not. I cannot be sorry he is dead. Alas, my father now encourages a second Englishman. He—” She broke off abruptly as the blue velvet was thrust back with a rattle of curtain rings.
The man who entered looked to be in his late thirties. Like the Russian Daisy had seen at the Café Royal, he was dressed in a long, belted shirt worn over his trousers. Bareheaded, he was clean-shaven and wore his dark hair clipped short. He was stocky, about the same height as Zinaïda. Daisy decided he could have passed for a rather stout woman.
In a deep voice, he spoke in Russian to Miss Zverev, addressing her as Zinaïda Stepanovna and saying something about “Stepan Vladimirovich.” Or rather, that was what Daisy thought she heard. Russian names were extraordinarily complex, as she knew from having once attempted to tackle a translation of War and Peace, only to give up because she never knew who was talking to whom.
Miss Zverev answered in Russian, then turned back to Daisy. “Madame, the prince my father wishes to see the jewels before I agree to make design for them. He is very particular about my work. I would like to make for you, but in this I will do as he decides. They will be quite safe with my father and Vasily Ivanovich. You do not object?”
“Not at all,” said Daisy, hoping that her stones came up to scratch. She didn’t care so much about them in themselves, though she was more interested than she had been. What she wanted was an excuse to come again.
On a pretty silver tray from beneath the counter, the aquamarines disappeared beyond the curtain.
“Vasily Ivanovich is a skilled gold- and silversmith,” said Sakari. “Has he been with you for many years?”
“All my life. His grandfather was a serf in the household of my grandfather. My father obtained for him an apprenticeship in the workshop of Fabergé.”
“The Fabergé who made the Imperial Easter eggs?” Daisy asked. “I’ve seen pictures. Not surprising that he’s good, then. One of my editors might like an article about the eggs. I wonder where they are now.”
“The Soviet thieves have some,” said Zinaïda contemptuously, “and most of the rest are in the hands of American millionaires.” Her contempt for American millionaires sounded not much less than for the Soviet thieves. “The rest—who knows? They are lost. Stolen by the rabble and broken up to be sold bit by bit, probably.”
“That would be a great pity.”
The goldsmith returned with the aquamarines, closing the curtain behind him. He set the small tray on the counter and spoke to Zinaïda. When she demurred at whatever he said, he urged the point, addressing her—Daisy thought—as “Zinochka.” She shrugged.
“My father has some very fine small diamonds. He suggests a setting that will surround the largest aquamarine with these brilliants.”
Daisy foresaw what was supposed to be a minor expenditure for the sake of sleuthing ballooning into a financial disaster. “Oh no, I don’t really…”
Zinaïda lowered her voice. “This is not what you want. Would make again heavy, elaborate, old-fashion pieces such as you do not wear. Leave to me, I will make what suits you. I draw two, three, four different designs, and if you like none, I draw again. You pay small deposit, commits you to nothing.”
Daisy glanced at Sakari, who nodded. “Thank you, that is perfect.”
“Bah, it is good business. My father is prince, does not understand how to do business.”
Again consulting Sakari, Daisy wrote a cheque for the five pounds. It seemed like a lot for some drawings that might prove worthless, but she had no experience of jewellers and she supposed that those who dealt in precious gems had their own scale of values. Sakari certainly knew what she was doing.
Zinaïda gave her a receipt. “Now I must make sketch and photograph of stones. Mesdames may wait or go away to drink coffee or look at hats, return in half hour, one hour.”
Outside the door, Kesin was waiting. Sakari asked something in Hindi and the chauffeur responded with a gesture down the alley to the left. “He reminds me that there is a respectable coffee room round the corner. I take it you do not choose to look at hats?”
“How well you know me! Thank you, darling, for introducing Teddy’s name so neatly. You must have been reading my mind. I couldn’t think how to bring him into the conversation. Also, to tell the truth, I’d momentarily forgotten him.”
“The different styles of Miss Zvereva’s rings are interesting, are they not?”
“Yes, but not as interesting as what she had to say about Teddy.” Daisy dropped the subject momentarily as they stepped into a cosy coffee shop just round the corner. Coffee served, along with a selection of pastries that Sakari insisted on ordering, she asked, “Do you think he was ever truly attracted to her? She’s very elegant. She might even be beautiful if she smiled more.”
“I have read much about Russian culture. It is not their custom to smile often. It is why they tend always to look solemn, but when they do smile it is very meaningful.”
Daisy laughed. “Not like what’s-his-name in Hamlet.”
“King Claudius. ‘One may smile and smile and be a villain.’”
“Did you find out about their names in your studies? They seem very complicated.”
“The names themselves are not difficult once you know the rules, but the usage is complicated. The first name and patronymic—”
“Don’t bother to explain, darling! Just tell me: Women add ‘a’ at the end of the surname?”
“Yes, so Zinaïda is Miss—or Mademoiselle—Zvereva. Another thing I learned is that before the revolution the aristocracy mostly spoke French among themselves.”
“And she speaks it; so her father may really have been a prince.”
“Let us say rather that it is not impossible. A member of high society, at least.”
“Hmm, and the story about the goldsmith’s grandfather being his serf could be true, not ‘merely corroborative detail.’”
“Household serfs were not given land when emancipated. Many continued to depend on their masters for their livelihoods, therefore they were likely to remain loyal, like your old family retainers and ours, in India.”
“The plot thickens! Suppose he—Vasily Ivanovich, was it?—managed to steal some Imperial Easter eggs from the Fabergé workshops.”
“Or perhaps lesser eggs. The Czar had some made to give as presents to his court, and other bejewelled knickknacks, and jewelry for wearing, too.”
“Those might be easier to steal than the Imperial eggs. Might his loyalty to the family be strong enough make him take the loot to the prince?”
“Who knows? If they had been particularly generous to his family. But this is a fairy tale, Daisy. Why should not the jewels Zverev is selling be family property alone?”
“They probably are,” Daisy admitted with a sigh, “you killer of fairy tales. On the other hand, if they are from the imperial workshops, and somehow Teddy found out, he could threaten to inform the Soviets if the old man didn’t support his pursuit of Zinaïda.”
“Wealth and title seem to me sufficient motive for that.”
“It’s a good motive for wanting him dead, though.”
“And so is the insult offered by the jilting of Miss Zvereva.”
“A plethora of motives. I’m going to have to tell Alec.”
“Daisy! Were you seriously considering not telling him?”
“Not really, I suppose. I hate to think what he’s going to say. How long have we been here? Let’s go back to the shop. I want to ask her about the second suitor she mentioned. Did he appear before or after Teddy�
�s defection?”
“Not to mention, who is he?”
“That too, of course. How can I find out without seeming frightfully nosy?”
“Impossible,” said Sakari, laughing, “but I will try to provide an opening as I did with Teddy. She talked so freely about him that I suspect she is in need of a sympathetic confidante.”
“She must be acquainted with some Russian women, don’t you think?”
“I daresay, but perhaps they are not sympathetic.”
“Perhaps.” Daisy frowned. “They may be right. Perhaps the Zverevs would be safer if she married an Englishman.”
“This is not your concern, Daisy. You cannot solve all the world’s problems. Concentrate on sympathising with Mademoiselle Zvereva.”
Daisy had no immediate opportunity to follow the excellent advice. Looking back at Sakari as she reached the shop door, she wasn’t concentrating on pushing it open. The bell gave a single soft ting and swung only a few inches. The gap was wide enough, however, for the sound of raised voices to reach her ears.
Maddeningly, though not surprisingly, they were shouting in Russian. She recognised Zinaïda’s and Vasily’s voices. The third was a gravelly bass she assumed to be the prince.
Two against one, and if so, which two and which one? Or was it a three-way quarrel? No way to tell. She and Sakari exchanged raised eyebrows, then she gave the door a good shove.
The jangle covered the voices. By the time it ceased, so had they.
“Oh blast!” muttered Daisy. Zinaïda was not going to be in any mood to answer nosy questions.
NINETEEN
“You what?” Alec asked absently as they settled with their coffee that evening.
“I took Aunt Gertrude’s aquamarines to be reset.”
“Why? You never wear them.”
“Darling, that’s why, as well as one being missing. What happened to your keen analytical brain? If they had a more up-to-date setting, I would wear them.”
