The Corpse at the Crystal Palace

by Carola Dunn

  “I can’t promise, but it’s very unlikely we’ll need to tell them the source of the information.”

  “All right,” she agreed, still hesitant. “I cannot easily recall these English names but I will recognise if I read in order book. I will make list for you.”

  “That would be helpful, madam.”

  “However, will not include those who did not order.”

  “Never mind. It sounds as if Mr. Devenish was pretty helpful to your business?”

  “Yes. My father was very grateful.”

  “And you?”

  “I also, of course,” she said too quickly.

  Piper glanced at Alec. He had done very well so far but now he seemed uncertain how to proceed.

  Alec stepped into the breach. “It’s difficult to be grateful to someone who demands gratitude, isn’t it, Miss Zvereva?”

  “Impossible! But I must pretend or my father grows angry. The flowers, you comprehend. He believes Teddy is in love with me. He finds out from his … his good friends, Russian friends—”

  “Cronies?”

  “That is the word! Papa finds out that Teddy is rich. Not just one ruby he owns, but much money. Is good. Also, he finds out that Teddy is of nobility. He will be baron—no, not baron—baronet, yes?”

  “Yes, when his father dies. Not quite nobility, but aristocratic.”

  “Never will Papa let me marry to one who is not of good family. Russian nobility is best, but we are in England. With English aristocrat in family, we are safe. So my father believes.”

  “And you, Miss Zvereva? You agree?”

  Again her shoulders lifted in that so expressive shrug. “Perhaps. But when I marry it will be for love, not for money or safety.”

  “Are you thinking of getting married?”

  “What young woman is not? But I did not even like Teddy.”

  “Why?”

  “Why does one like one person and not another? To me, he was conceited and arrogant, always expected—no, ‘assumed’ is the correct word?”

  “Your vocabulary is excellent.”

  “My grammar not so,” she said ruefully. “No matter, if I am understood. Teddy assumed I will be always grateful and delighted by his courtship. To my father, he was too agreeable. Papa saw only good manners and deference. To Vasily Ivanovich, he—”

  “Vasily Ivanovich?” Alec queried.

  “Our gold- and silversmith. The person who makes from my designs.”

  “D’you mind spelling that, madam?” Piper begged.

  She obliged, then advised him, “Not everyone transcribes Cyrillic alphabet to Latin exactly same way. This is one possible. Surname is Petrov. You can spell?”

  “Petrov. Yes, thanks.”

  “Vasily Ivanovich is first class fine craftsman. Teddy treated him like servant.” Her contemptuous tone was clearly aimed at Devenish’s bad manners, not at Petrov, Alec thought.

  “You told your father you didn’t care to marry Devenish?” he asked.

  “I told him I did not believe he really wanted to marry me. I have heard stories. Teddy likes to … I do not know words.”

  “Raise expectations?” Alec said dryly. “With no prospect of their fulfilment?”

  “Yes!”

  “We have heard such stories, too.”

  “Stepan Vladimirovich—my father—refused to listen. He said an English gentleman would not behave so. He remind me I am thirty, may be last chance for husband.”

  “Never give up,” said Piper staunchly. He was courting a young woman of about the same age.

  Miss Zvereva flashed him a smile, the first they had seen. It transformed her face. If she smiled more often, she’d have no trouble attracting suitors, Alec decided. Whether any would be acceptable to both her and her autocratic papa was another matter.

  “Did you give in to your father?” he asked.

  “He is old man, not well. If I say ‘never will I marry Teddy,’ will be much argument, not good for him. And tiring for me! I did not agree to accept Teddy if he asked me. I tell Papa only, I will not … rebuff him. When Teddy jilt me, as I expect always, he blames me for not encourage enough.”

  “He was angry with you, as well as with Devenish.”

  “With me. Not so much with Teddy.”

  “I’ve heard rumours of a breach of promise suit.”

  “Rumours only. Teddy made no promise and wrote no letters. Lawyer tells my father, is no grounds for suit.”

  “Which, I should think, just made him angrier.”

  “Monsieur, if you believe my father killed Teddy, you will take one look and know it is not possible,” she said calmly. “I have answered many questions. I have been frank. Now I cannot spare you more time. I have much work to be done.”

  “Just one more question: Where were you last Wednesday morning?”

  “Here, as I am every morning except Sunday. I cannot risk losing customers because is no one to attend.”

  “Did any customers in fact come in?”

  “I do not remember Wednesday in particular but I can check in ledger. Will be noted—if we do business.”

  “Very good. Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Zvereva. I appreciate your frankness.” Though he was dubious about parts of it. “We won’t keep you from your work any longer. I should like a few words with your father now.”

  “Stepan Vladimirovich speaks very little English. You speak not Russian, I think? French?”

  “Very little, I’m afraid. I’ll have to ask you to interpret for us. I’m sorry to keep you longer from your work.”

  She frowned, leaning forward with her hands flat on the counter. “And if I refuse?”

  “Then we’ll have to invite Mr. Zverev to accompany us to Scotland Yard where we can send for a Russian interpreter.”

  For a moment she stared silently down at her hands. When she raised her head, Alec read anxiety in her eyes. “Very well. You leave me no choice. You will remember that the prince is old and in poor health. I shall go and prepare him.” She swept out through the curtained doorway.

  “Quick,” said Alec in a low voice, turning to Piper, “refresh my memory about Russian princes.”

  The DS grinned. “For a start, they’re not nearly as rare or important as British princes. They’re more like our dukes in some ways, except all their children are also called prince or princess.”

  “Leading to a vast proliferation!”

  “For sure. Prob’ly got rid of a lot in the revolution,” Piper said callously.

  “No doubt. So Miss Zvereva is a princess?”

  “If her dad’s really a prince, yes. It’d take a bit of nerve, though, to use the title serving in a shop.”

  “However, her father may expect his, since he seems to stay behind the scenes. How do you think I should address him? I don’t want to antagonise him unnecessarily.”

  “Just ‘prince,’ I think, Chief. No ‘my lord’ or anything.”

  “That’s a relief. Thanks, Ernie. Good job I told you to find out just in case.”

  “Here she comes, Chief.”

  Alec swung round as curtain rings rattled. Miss Zvereva drew the drapery to one side and opened the gate in the counter to usher them through.

  “Please come this way, messieurs.” She stood back to let them pass.

  Alec noted that the door usually concealed by the curtain was steel, with a top-quality heavy lock.

  The room behind the curtain was a surprise. He had expected it to match the shop, cramped, ill lit, bare. Instead, although the same width as the shop, it was much deeper and had large windows as well as a glazed door. They looked out onto a small paved courtyard with high walls of dingy, soot-stained London brick to left and right. The far side was filled wall to wall by a two-storey outbuilding, probably once a mews. Evergreen shrubs in large terra-cotta pots struggled to survive the lack of sunshine and the smoky atmosphere.

  Indoors, Alec’s quick scan took in the main features: a sloped drawing table, angled to catch the light f
rom the windows, a camera on a tripod, a small but solid safe, and a couple of cabinets. A curious apparatus on a small table he recognised as a samovar. On the right-hand wall hung half a dozen icons and several pencil drawings. A staircase occupied the left-hand wall, with the usual cupboard under it.

  Against the fourth wall, shared with the shop, was a huge tiled stove, radiating heat. Beside it, leaning on a stick, stood the prince. Once tall, he was stooped, white-haired and -moustached, his unhealthily plump, sallow face creased. He was heavily built, flabby. The thought of his having masqueraded as a nanny was ludicrous. That didn’t mean he hadn’t had someone else to exact his revenge for him.

  And there was one obvious person.

  Alec offered the prince a slight bow, seeing from the corner of his eye Piper clumsily emulating the gesture. Zverev, expressionless, responded with a curt nod.

  The sergeant might as well take over. They were not likely to get much information out of the father with his daughter as interpreter. Alec might learn more by watching closely.

  He gestured to Piper, who stepped forward, saying slowly and clearly, “Detective Sergeant Piper, sir, from Scotland Yard, and this is my chief inspector. I have a few questions to put to you. First, may I have your full name for the record?”

  Zverev showed no sign that Alec could detect of understanding anything but the words “Scotland Yard,” at which he blinked.

  Miss Zvereva said something full of rolling Rs, then turned to Piper. “My father’s title is knyaz, usually translated as ‘prince’. His name is Stepan Vladimirovich Zverev.” She spelled it out.

  “I don’t want to keep you standing, sir. Please be seated.”

  The suggestion, translated, first met with a refusal, but Miss Zvereva pressed her father and he subsided into his chair with a grunt.

  “You were acquainted with Edward Devenish, sir?”

  The prince caught the name and a volley of bitter denunciation ensued.

  “Yes,” said his daughter. Piper just looked at her with raised eyebrows. “He was snake in chest,” she added reluctantly.

  Piper looked blank.

  “Viper in bosom,” Alec told him sotto voce.

  “Ah! Where was Mr.—the prince—on…” he started to ask Miss Zvereva. Correcting himself, he addressed the man himself. “I mean, where were you, sir, last Wednesday morning?”

  This time, she didn’t translate. “Here at home,” she said coldly. “Where he is every day except Sunday, when we with much difficulty take him to our church and then to Russian café to meet friends. Cronies. Please do not upset by remind him he is cripple.”

  “‘We’?”

  “Please?”

  “Who’s ‘we’? Who helps you take your father out?”

  “One of the servants.”

  Alec was sure she was holding something back. Piper also picked up on it, or perhaps simply doubted that she and a single servant could manage the heavy old man between them.

  “And? Who else helps?”

  “Vasya—Vasily Ivanovich,” she muttered sulkily. “Last name Petrov.”

  “The goldsmith,” said Piper with satisfaction.

  “We shall see him next,” said Alec. “He’s in the workshop out there?” He pointed at the outbuilding beyond the courtyard.

  “How you know this?”

  “Good guess. While we are talking to him, please prepare a list of the names of your father’s friends.”

  “Already you want Wednesday customers list! I have work to do.” She gestured at the drawing table.

  “If it’s more convenient, Miss Zverev, you may bring the lists to Scotland Yard tomorrow. Does Mr. Petrov speak English?”

  “Very little. Almost none.”

  “Enough, I expect. Come along, Sergeant.”

  They went out. She said something to her father, then followed, catching up as they reached the door of the building.

  “I will interpret—”

  “I wouldn’t dream of keeping you from your work. I’m sure we’ll manage. If not, I’ll send DS Piper to fetch you.”

  Her dark eyes widened, apprehensive. Alec turned away. He heard her footsteps on the stone flags, retreating, as the door opened in response to Piper’s knock.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “Mr. Vasily Ivanovich Petrov?” Piper asked, consulting his notebook.

  “Da. Yes. You are police.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Stepan Vladimirovich told me with speaking tube. Come in, please.”

  His grasp of English seemed quite adequate, his accent possibly better than Miss Zvereva’s. Alec wondered about his calling the prince by his first and second names. Did it suggest that they were on terms of close friendship, not just employer and employee, or was it just a quirk of Russian usage?

  Stepping over the threshold, he was met by a blast of hot air, its source a small gas furnace in a firebrick-walled corner. A safe matching the one in the shop’s back room stood in another corner. Two tables, one topped with zinc, occupied much of the room, and Alec recognised a machine on a shelf at the back as a wire-drawing apparatus. Other shelves bore moulds and a variety of tools of the goldsmith’s trade. The rear wall had neither door nor windows. The building might share a wall with one in the next alley.

  The smith himself was a dark man of about Alec’s own age. Clean-shaven and short-haired, shorter than Piper who had barely passed the minimum height for the police, in a wig and nanny’s outfit he could at a pinch have passed for a woman.

  Alec couldn’t conceive of any reason for him to take part in Devenish’s prank, but Devenish was notoriously persuasive, by fair means or foul.

  While he was studying the room and the man, Piper had introduced both of them, again neatly avoiding giving Alec’s name. “We have a few questions to put to you, sir,” he continued.

  “About Mr. Devenish, yes.” He checked the temperature gauge on the furnace. “I can leave furnace for short time. Is cooler upstairs. You come?”

  Whatever its original use, the first floor was now a small flat. Petrov had furnished it plainly but comfortably. Sash windows overlooking a narrow alley were wide open, letting out some of the heat that rose palpably from the floor.

  Petrov offered tea. After a glance at Alec, Piper accepted. If—for whatever reason—the natives chose to appear friendly, there was no harm in responding in a friendly manner.

  While he fiddled with his samovar, Piper asked a couple of preliminary questions, confirming for the record his name and address and profession. Alec went over to a shelf of books. Most were in Russian, but there were a couple in English and a two-way dictionary. Clearly Petrov had made a serious effort to improve his English skills. So what had Miss Zvereva meant by saying he spoke almost none?

  And whatever her reason, had she intended to make some sort of sign to him to speak only Russian?

  Petrov poured small amounts of already made tea, very dark brown, from a silver teapot into glasses with intricately wrought silver holders, then added hot water.

  “Your work, Mr. Petrov?” Alec asked, holding his glass up to get a good look at the glass-holder’s interwoven flowering vines. The tea itself, milkless, was a beautiful clear amber, very different from muddy English tea.

  “My work. Zina—Zinaïda Stepanovna’s design.”

  “Very attractive.”

  Piper regarded his brew with suspicion. Petrov regarded him with amusement.

  “You like sugar, Mr. Piper?”

  “Yes, please!”

  Alec accepted a slice of lemon in his.

  “You have questions, sir?” Petrov asked him.

  “I do. You knew Edward Devenish.”

  “Only because he was friend of Stepan Vladimirovich.”

  “You didn’t consider him a friend of yours?”

  “He was nobleman. No, aristocrat, not nobleman. But I— I am craftsman. Prince not consider suitable friendship for me. He employer of me. Also, I not liked—disliked Mr. Devenish. He was not genuine. I
know bad man from good as I know fourteen-carat gold from eighteen-carat.”

  “A useful skill. You didn’t see much of him, then?”

  “As little as possible. I meet sometimes by chance in house.”

  “Did he admire your work?”

  He shrugged. “Admired Miss Zvereva’s drawings. She bring him to workshop where is made from drawing beautiful jewelry. He has only contemp’. He says any ordinary goldsmith can do this. I, who was apprentice in Fabergé workshop, thanks to Stepan Vladimirovich, I am not ordinary goldsmith! He knows nothing.”

  “You must have been angry.”

  He shrugged again and laughed, but there was an edge to his laughter. “Opinion of ignorant is nothing to me. Also, I know he wants only to make Miss Zvereva think he is very clever. If he praises my work like hers, she think he praises always what he sees, so his praise of drawings of her is not so … so…”

  “Meaningful?”

  “Da, is good word. I tell you what I think?”

  “Please do.”

  “This man is what you call nuts. He has flying mice in the bell tower. You understand?”

  Alec managed to hold back a smile but a muffled snort came from Piper and his mouth twitched.

  Petrov looked at him and smiled. “This is funny? An Englishman tell me anyone will understand what is meaning.”

  “And so anyone will, sir, but if you don’t mind me saying so, he was pulling your leg.”

  “Tak! To make fun of foreigner is joke in Russia also. Please, what is correct expression?”

  “Bats in the belfry, sir. Bat—that’s sort of a flying mouse; belfry is same as bell tower. So you weren’t that far out.”

  “In your opinion, then, Mr. Petrov,” Alec brought them back to order, “Devenish was not wholly sane?”

  “Holy sane? England has same ‘holy fools’ like in Russian? I have not seen. Mr. Devenish was not such.”

  Alec groaned silently as Piper enquired and Petrov explained. Developing rapport with a suspect sometimes proved useful, he reminded himself.

  Piper himself returned to relevance. “What exactly made you think he was nuts, sir?”

  “I try to explain. For man to court young lady, change mind, jilt—this happens, da? But Devenish, to me seems he courts Miss Zvereva with intending from start to jilt. This not normal.”