The Kill Fee Read online

  “Fiona Veitch Smith has chosen a fascinating period as the background for her plot. The story opens with plenty of exciting action and the characters are lively and believable!”

  Ann Granger, author of the Campbell & Carter series

  “Poppy Denby, on the trail of a Fabergé egg containing dangerous secrets, encounters Russians (Red and White), theatrical types, and the police as she becomes embroiled in another adventure in 1920’s London. A gripping and exciting read.”

  Elizabeth Flynn, author of Game, Set and Murder

  THE KILL FEE

  POPPY DENBY INVESTIGATES

  BOOK 2

  Fiona Veitch Smith

  Text copyright © 2016 Fiona Veitch Smith

  This edition copyright © 2016 Lion Hudson

  The right of Fiona Veitch Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Published by Lion Fiction

  an imprint of

  Lion Hudson plc

  Wilkinson House, Jordan Hill Road

  Oxford OX2 8DR, England

  www.lionhudson.com/fiction

  ISBN 978 1 78264 218 3

  e-ISBN 978 1 78264 219 0

  First edition 2016

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Cover image © Laurence Whiteley

  For my dad,

  Dougie Veitch,

  whose loyalty is an inspiration.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Since the publication of the first in the Poppy Denby Investigates series, The Jazz Files, in September 2015, it has been a flapulous year. Thanks to film producer Dawn Furness for introducing me to that adjective. Since first hearing it I have used it in interviews and press releases, as it so aptly sums up the experience of being an author of books set in the flapper era.

  I have had a flapulous time making and dressing in 1920s gear for photoshoots and launches, writing and directing a short book trailer – where I played a suffragette corpse – and visiting book groups and festivals. Thanks to film-makers Tony Glover and Barbara Keating, actress Amber Irish, the Northumbria University costume department, Noelle Pedersen from Kregel, photo editor Mark Richardson, and photographer Ruby Glover. Also not forgetting the photographic and film editing skills of my husband Rodney Smith and his beautiful assistant, our daughter Megan. Hats off too to jazz musicians Yussef Nimer and Jimmy Madrell.

  A round of applause is also due to all my friends, family and colleagues who have happily spread the word, attended the launch party and toasted Poppy’s success with very cheap “champagne”. A special word of appreciation is due to Keith Jewitt of Northern Screenwriters, who has been an immense support and is now an honorary flapper.

  As always, my fellow authors and members of the Lioness Club have been a great encouragement, as well as the editorial and marketing teams at Lion Fiction and Kregel. Particular thanks to commissioning editor Jessica Tinker, who takes to heart Oscar Wilde’s advice that one should always have something sensational to read on the train. Also to Rhoda Hardie and Remy Kinyanjui of Lion marketing, assistant editor Jess Scott, editor Julie Frederick (all the best with baby number three!) and the design team.

  And finally, to all Poppy Denby’s flapulous new fans: the readers and reviewers who have said they can’t wait to read about her new adventures. Well, without further ado, here they are…

  CHARACTERS

  FICTIONAL CHARACTERS

  Poppy Denby – arts and entertainment editor for The Daily Globe, London. Daughter of Methodist ministers from Morpeth, Northumberland. Our heroine.

  Dot (Dotty/Dorothy) Denby – Poppy’s aunt. A former leading lady of the West End stage; an infamous suffragette and influential benefactor of feminist and socialist causes. Crippled during a suffragette demonstration in 1910.

  Miss Gertrude King – Dot’s recently appointed assistant.

  Grace Wilson – Dot’s long-term companion and fellow suffragette, currently serving a two-year jail sentence.

  Marjorie Reynolds – leading female MP, minister to the Home Office and friend of Aunt Dot.

  Oscar Reynolds – son of Marjorie, owner of Oscar’s Jazz Club.

  Delilah Marconi – Poppy’s best friend, actress at the Old Vic, daughter of deceased suffragette, jazz scene socialite and Bright Young Thing.

  Victor Marconi – Delilah’s father, wealthy hotelier from Malta, nephew of famous Guglielmo Marconi (Uncle Elmo).

  Adam Lane – Delilah’s current boyfriend, actor at the Old Vic.

  Daniel Rokeby – photographer at The Globe, suitor of Poppy.

  Rollo Rolandson – owner and chief editor at The Globe, American, virulent anti-prohibitionist, compulsive gambler, suffers from dwarfism.

  Ivan Molanov – archivist at The Globe, White Russian emigré, close friend of Rollo.

  Ike Garfield – political editor at The Globe, West Indian, new to staff.

  Mavis Bradshaw – receptionist at The Globe, “mother” to staff.

  Vicky Thompson – editorial assistant at The Globe, new to staff.

  Lionel Saunders – arts and entertainment editor at The Courier; embittered rival of Poppy; ex-Globe journalist; snake in the grass.

  Yasmin Reece-Lansdale – female solicitor hoping to become Britain’s first female barrister, girlfriend of Rollo Rolandson. Daughter of British major general and Egyptian socialite.

  Comrade Andrei Nogovski – security consultant at the Russian embassy; Bolshevik.

  Vasili Safin – People’s Commissar for Foreign Trade, Bolshevik; temporary stand-in for Russian ambassador to London, whose post is currently vacant due to civil war in Russia.

  Princess Selena Romanova Yusopova – White Russian refugee, ageing actress, currently starring in The Cherry Orchard at the Old Vic; cousin of Tsar Nicholas II; friend of Dot Denby and Victor Marconi.

  Detective Chief Inspector Jasper Martin – head of the detective division, Metropolitan Police.

  Count Sergei Andreiovich – former emissary and military advisor of Tsar Nicholas II.

  Countess Sofia Romanova Andreiovich – wife of Count Sergei.

  Anya Andreiovich – their seven-year-old daughter; has a dachshund called Fritzie.

  Nana Ruthie/Ruth Broadwood – English nanny to Anya.

  Ar
thur Watts – barman at Oscar’s Jazz Club.

  The man in the bearskin coat – for me to know and you to find out.

  HISTORICAL CHARACTERS

  George Bernard Shaw – British playwright, founder of the Fabian Society and leading socialist.

  Norman Veitch – founder of the People’s Theatre in Newcastle upon Tyne, member of the Fabian Society, friend of George Bernard Shaw (distant relative of the author).

  Lilian Baylis – founder of the Old Vic Theatre, the National Theatre, Ballet and Opera, champion of theatre for the people.

  Constantin Stanislavski – Russian theatre director and one of the most influential drama theorists of the twentieth century.

  Prince Felix Yusopov – assassin of Rasputin, son of wealthiest man in Russia, White Russian refugee.

  Princess Irina Alexandrovna Yusopov – wife of Felix, cousin of Tsar Nicholas II and (in this book only) Princess Selena.

  Empress Maria Federovna of Russia – Mother of Tsar Nicholas II, sister of Queen Alexandra of Great Britain, refugee. Originally Princess Dagmar of Denmark.

  Queen Alexandra of Great Britain – Mother of King George V; former Danish princess.

  Tsar Nicholas II and Tsarina Alexandra (Nicky and Alix) – last reigning Romanov monarchs murdered with their five children in 1918.

  David Lloyd George – Prime Minister of Great Britain (1916–22); Chancellor of the Exchequer 1908–15.

  WHITE OR RED?

  In The Kill Fee you will hear a lot about White and Red Russians. To help avoid confusion, here is a short summary of the differences between them.

  After the Russian Revolution of October 1917, the Russian Empire was thrust into a civil war that lasted three years. In a complex set of alliances, the warring parties were broadly divided into two groups: the Whites and the Reds. The Reds were supporters of the Bolshevik Revolution, hoping to restructure Russia along communist lines. The Whites were those opposed to it. There were many types of White Russians and associate allies, with different motivations and strategies, but they are embodied in this book by the aristocratic families and their supporters who wanted to retain the old imperial system under the rule of the tsar and his family.

  However, the Whites were also split between the moderate reformers, who in the years up to October 1917 tried to get Tsar Nicholas II to implement constitutional and social reform to try to avoid wholesale revolution, and the tsarists, who resisted them. History tells us the reformers failed.

  Before, during and after the civil war, tens of thousands of White Russians fled their motherland and ended up as refugees in other parts of the world. Some of them came to London – including members of the Romanov royal family – and it is against this backdrop that The Kill Fee is set.

  Poppy’s first encounter with the Russians is at the Russian embassy in October 1920. The embassy is staffed by an uneasy mix of Reds and Whites, as the outcome of the civil war has, as yet, been undecided. But as the war comes to a head in the Crimea – and in fact ends only a few weeks after the close of this story, on 7 November – the Reds are positioning themselves for a full takeover. The British government is also watching with interest to see which side will win.

  If this were tennis, we’d be in the fourth set, with the Reds already having two sets marked on the scoreboard and leading 5:3. They are only a few serves away from match point…

  CHAPTER 1

  OCTOBER 1917, MOSCOW

  Above the glow of gaslight a sprinkling of stars was beginning to appear. A man kicked at the golden leaves carpeting the pavement which would, by morning, have a dusting of frost. He pulled up the collar of his bearskin coat, wondering why, only that morning, he had felt overdressed. But he had been in Moscow long enough to know that things changed quickly in this city, very quickly, and a gentleman needed to be prepared for whatever the winds of change might blow his way. His fist tightened on his bone-handled cane and he allowed his thumb to rub against the secret clasp that would unsheathe the rapier closeted within.

  His head swivelled towards a sudden blast coming from somewhere near the Kremlin, startling the swans that were accompanying him along the banks of the Moskva. He waited for the plume of smoke to rise on the skyline – he didn’t wait long.

  So Lenin’s getting his way then, he thought bitterly, still smarting that the performance of The Golden Cockerel that he had been waiting months to see – and for which he had paid an emperor’s ransom – had been cancelled so the little red gnome could address the joint Moscow Soviets in the grand Bolshoi auditorium.

  Another bang and then another came from the direction of Red Square. The man clutched his cane and quickened his steps. If news from St Petersburg was anything to go by, he would not have long to pay a visit to the aristocratic family who lived in this neighbourhood before they too might be forced to flee with the other White Russian evacuees.

  As he rounded the corner into the wealthy boulevard his heart sank. It was barricaded top and bottom, and manned by drunken soldiers in tattered uniforms, brandishing an assortment of weapons from rifles to pitchforks. Whether loyal to the Reds or the Whites he didn’t wait to see, but ducked into a hedge before he was spotted. The sharp twigs clawed at his face and hands as he forced his way through the dense foliage; he emerged into a quiet garden, bathed in light spewing from a dozen windows. This was 67 Ulitsa Ostozhenka, home to a family with Romanov connections and, if the intelligence he’d received was correct, keeper of one of the prized Fabergé eggs.

  The royal family had been under house arrest on the outskirts of St Petersburg since February, and their previous residence – the Winter Palace – was now guarded by forces loyal to the Duma, the new Russian parliament. Aides to the tsar and tsarina had managed to smuggle out the cream of the palace’s treasures and had placed them with various “treasure-keepers”. Rumours abounded that the family at 67 Ulitsa Ostozhenka was one of them. It was a dangerous task and the man in the bearskin coat feared for their safety.

  Two years had passed since he had last been at the house and he wondered if the French window overlooking the herb patch still had the loose catch. It did. With a little jiggle he silently slipped into the conservatory.

  Very little had changed. There were the same wicker chairs and pot plants; the teak card table with the découpage embellishment; the silver tea-trolley and white-tiled floor. As expected, at this time of night, the room was empty. The family, if at home, should be in the upstairs drawing room having their post-supper coffee; but he couldn’t guarantee it, not with the children, and the servants of course could be anywhere. That is, if they had not already deserted the family. The Bolsheviks promised the world to the serving classes and he had heard tales of once faithful butlers and parlour maids turning on their employers. Loyalty could not be guaranteed and if the soldiers on the boulevard decided to break in and loot the place, they might not meet much resistance.

  He ran his thumb over the secret catch on his cane and slipped from the conservatory into the hall. Down the hall, to his relief, he could see the front door was securely bolted shut – but there were other doors to the residence. He stopped to listen: murmurings from downstairs, but nothing above. He mounted the stairs.

  His destination was the first-floor library where, he had been told, the family had secretly installed a new safe since his last visit two years before. Apparently not even the servants knew its whereabouts, but since his informant was the very person who had installed the safe, the man in the bearskin coat was confident he could find it.

  He heard peals of laughter from downstairs: he paused, his hand on the doorknob. When he was certain the voices were not coming any closer, he slipped into the library and closed the door behind him. The room was dark, the bookcases hulking giants around him. Unwilling to turn up a gaslight he edged his way around the room until he reached the window. He pulled back the drapes enough to allow a shaft of moonlight into the library – until the bookcases softened to their normal form. He could now see enough to diff
erentiate furniture from wall and through the silver glow located the Rembrandt he had been looking for. He paused again, listening, but all he could hear was his own breathing and the tick-tock of the library clock.

  He unhooked the painting and propped it up on a nearby sofa, pausing a moment to ensure the masterpiece did not slip onto the floor. Then he turned his attention to the safe. It was a 1915 York Safe & Lock. He had broken into many security devices in his career and for a man of his considerable talent, the York was not the most complicated. It did not take him long to crack the code.

  Inside were an assortment of jewels, bundles of cash and – the object of his search – an ornately jewelled egg, given to Queen Maria Federovna by her husband Alexander II. He pulled out an oilskin from his inside coat pocket and wrapped the egg in it, before inserting it back into his pocket. He perused the rest of the loot and selected a ruby and diamond ring and a pair of emerald teardrop earrings which, if he wasn’t mistaken, had once belonged to the unfortunate Marie Antoinette. He put these in a velvet pouch which he tucked into his trouser pocket. He left the cash; it would be worthless in a few months if the revolutionaries had their way and the economy continued into free-fall. He closed the safe, spun the lock and then lifted the Rembrandt from its bed on the sofa. For a moment he considered slitting it out of its frame, but resisted. The missing painting would draw attention to the fact that the safe had been tampered with, and besides, his business was in jewels, not fine art.