The Kill Fee Read online

  “What does she want in return?”

  Ike laughed. “Ah, so I gather you’ve met the fearsome lady MP.”

  “She’s a friend of my aunt.”

  “And why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  Poppy was just about to reply when a voice from the front announced: “I see Miss Denby and Mr Garfield are already bored with proceedings, so there’s no need to drag things out. If you have any questions, contact my office; the number’s in the dossier.”

  And with that Comrade Nogovski breezed out of the briefing room without a backward glance, leaving Poppy to nurse a curious sense of abandonment and disappointment. It must have shown on her face because Ike looked at her quizzically as he helped her into her coat. “Are you sure you’re all right, Poppy?”

  “Yes!” she said, in a voice far more blithe than she felt. “Can you give me a lift back to the office?”

  “Of course. Not mobile yet?”

  Poppy groaned. “My aunt’s insurance company have declared I’m not yet competent to drive.”

  “Again?”

  “Again.”

  Ike laughed and offered Poppy his arm. “So Miss Poppy Denby is not a natural at everything she turns her hand to.”

  “Of course not! Who says that?”

  “Everyone,” said Ike in a conspiratorial whisper and then cast a sideways glance at Lionel Saunders, who glowered back at his rivals. “Well, nearly everyone.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Ike dropped Poppy off at the bottom of Fleet Street before heading to Downing Street. The Daily Globe was one of half a dozen newspapers that had offices on the street made famous by Samuel Pepys and Charles Dickens. It was also famous for its pubs, and as she passed, Poppy glanced into Ye Olde Cock Tavern – favourite watering hole of The Globe staff – to see if anyone was having a late lunch. In the five months since she had started work at the newspaper she had discovered that her boss – Rollo Rolandson – used the tavern as his second office. As the daughter of Methodist ministers Poppy had initially found this rather scandalous but soon learned that despite her boss’s dubious intake of alcohol he still ran a tight ship and was one of the most astute editors on Fleet Street. It was Rollo she had to thank for giving her the job in the first place when most editors were still wary of women in the newsroom. But Rollo was a man used to social stigma and the last person to judge a book by its cover – however pretty.

  True to form, there was Rollo. The red-haired man was perched on a bar stool, his dwarfish legs dangling two feet off the ground. Next to him sat a morose-looking Ivan Molanov, archivist at The Globe. Ivan was Rollo’s physical opposite: a giant of a man with a great shaggy beard and a melancholic spirit. He was obviously in one of his moods today as Rollo was giving him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. The editor looked up and saw Poppy in the doorway.

  “Ah, Miz Denby. Sneaking in for a tipple?”

  Poppy laughed at the long-standing joke between the two of them. Poppy did drink, but only the odd glass of champagne or chardonnay on social occasions – and only in the evenings. However, when Rollo had heard that her previous employment had been at a Methodist mission, he had nearly not hired her. A native of New York, he had threatened to turn in his American passport when his mother country adopted Prohibition the previous year.

  “Are you all right, Ivan?” she asked, noting that the Russian man was looking even more depressed than usual.

  He sighed like a bear going into hibernation and shook his head. “I have just had some news, Poppy. From back home. It ees not good.”

  “Your family?”

  “Yes. The rumours I heard were false. They have not been found.”

  “I’m sorry, Ivan. I will pray for you.”

  “Thank you, Poppy.” He tried to smile but failed. Ivan’s whole family had disappeared in 1917 while they were trying to make their way out of Russia to join him in England. The last Ivan heard they had left Moscow, but after that they were never seen again. Ever since news of the murder of the tsar and his family, no one was surprised to hear that yet another White Russian family had been killed. Yet as long as there were no bodies to prove it, Ivan still held on to a glimmer of hope.

  Poor man, thought Poppy and made a mental note to light a candle for him at St Bride’s Church on the way home.

  “Did you want to speak to me, Poppy?” asked Rollo.

  “Just to fill you in on the press conference at the –”

  Rollo raised an eyebrow in warning.

  “You know: the thing with Ike. He’s off to see the PM and asked me to brief you.”

  “Righto. I’ll be up in half an hour.”

  Poppy took that as a dismissal and left the two old friends to their pints.

  She crossed the road and skipped up the granite steps – flanked by two marble globes – and into the black and white mosaic foyer. The foyer and reception area of The Globe was designed in the most up-to-date art deco style – with Egyptian motifs and statuettes – to set it apart from the more formal Edwardian and Victorian décor of the paper’s rivals. “We’re a modern paper with modern ideas,” Rollo had explained on her first day on the job. “We blend the fun of jazz journalism with the social activism of the old pamphleteers. The Establishment may call us a tabloid, Miz Denby, but let me tell you something – this is the future. Are you with us?”

  Poppy, who was only too grateful to be offered a job – any job – had said she was. She smiled as she remembered that day, but, as she always did, acknowledged that it was someone else’s tragedy that had given her the break she needed. In fact, it was in this very foyer, on her first day on the job, that the death of one of the paper’s most senior journalists had started her out on an investigation that shook the House of Lords and made the male journalists of Fleet Street take her seriously.

  “Hello, Poppy!”

  “Hello, Mavis!” Poppy waved at the motherly receptionist, Mavis Bradshaw, who was helping a man with three cigars sticking out of his breast pocket word a birth announcement.

  “Are you sure it’s spelt B-i-r-t-h-a?” asked Mavis.

  Poppy smiled and left her to it.

  She knew she probably should take the stairs up to the fourth floor, but guiltily headed towards the lift instead. It had been a long day already; she was tired…

  “Hold the lift!”

  Just as she was pulling the concertina gate closed a young man in his late twenties with brown hair and twinkling grey eyes stuck out his hand and pushed it back. He had a camera box slung over one shoulder.

  “Going up?” asked Poppy.

  “I’m going wherever you’re going,” grinned The Globe photographer, Daniel Rokeby.

  Poppy pushed the buttons for the correct floors: the art and photography department was on the second, editorial on the fourth. As the door closed on them, Daniel leaned in and planted a kiss on Poppy’s lips.

  “Mr Rokeby! We’re at work.”

  Daniel gave her his wide-eyed puppy look. “Well, work is the only place I get to see you these days.”

  Poppy reached out her hand and took his. “I’m sorry. I know I’ve been busy – but after the White Russian Exhibition this weekend things should ease up.”

  “This weekend?” Daniel slapped the palm of his hand to his forehead. “Oh no! I forgot. I told Maggie you would be coming round.”

  Poppy inhaled sharply. “You told her?”

  Daniel ran his hand through his hair, making him look like an overgrown schoolboy.

  “Well, I didn’t tell her. You can’t tell Maggie anything. But… oh, you won’t believe it – she actually asked when she could finally meet you, and I said this weekend.”

  “She – well – that’s a turnaround.”

  “Isn’t it just?”

  “So what happened to the ‘I’ll never have that woman in my house’ routine?”

  “I don’t know. I was too scared to ask. I’m just grateful she’s finally coming around to accepting you.”

  “Well, it’s only
taken her four months…”

  The lift shuddered to a halt on the second floor. Daniel didn’t get out. After a while it shuddered to life again and continued its ascent. He put his arm around Poppy and drew her close. Even though she was breaking her own rules about no lovey-dovey stuff at work, she leaned her head against his chest. She could hear his heartbeat drumming steadily. She sighed and allowed the warmth of his body to seep into hers.

  “So do you think she’s finally accepting that it’s time you moved on?” she mumbled.

  Daniel caressed her shoulder with his thumb. “I don’t think I’ve ever been the problem. It’s the children. When Lydia died Maggie became more than their aunt. Her fiancé died during the war –”

  “Oh, I never knew that,” said Poppy, feeling ashamed that she had thought so poorly of Daniel’s sister ever since the older woman had conspired to let her believe that he was married and simply dallying with her.

  “Yes. It nearly broke her. Then when Lydia caught the flu…”

  His thumb stopped its circular motion. Poppy waited for him to continue. He didn’t.

  “Look, Daniel, maybe Maggie’s right. Maybe it is too soon. Maybe –”

  He took both her shoulders in his hands, and looked intently into her eyes. “No, Poppy, it’s not too soon. I’m ready to move on. With you. The children will love you, I know they will, and Maggie… well, Maggie will just have to get used to it.” He grinned, the shadows of his past retreating again. Poppy’s heart settled.

  “Then I’d love to meet them. But can we take a rain check until next weekend? It’s just going to be too hectic with the exhibition and everything.”

  “Of course. I’ll tell Maggie I got the dates mixed up.”

  “Just tell her I’m working.”

  “Hmmm, that might not be the best thing…”

  “And why’s that?”

  Before Daniel could answer, the lift stopped on the fourth floor. The door opened to reveal a young woman of around eighteen, with russet hair and green eyes.

  “Miss Denby! Mr Rokeby! You coming out?”

  “I am,” said Poppy. “Mr Rokeby is going back down.”

  “Yes, I am. Need a hand there?”

  Vicky Thompson, editorial assistant at The Globe, grinned widely. “Yes, sir, Mr Rokeby, that’d be grand.”

  Poppy held open the concertina gate while Vicky and Daniel manoeuvred a trolley-full of files into the lift.

  “Got anything interesting there?” asked Poppy.

  “You mean do I have any Jazz Files?” The girl winked. “Well, as a matter of fact I do. Mr Rolandson was just putting one together.”

  “Oh?” asked Poppy, intrigued to find out what latest gossip had been circulating Fleet Street. “Who is it?”

  The girl looked mildly panicked as she tried to remember the name. “Oh, I know it, Miss Denby, I know I do. It’s… oh, something Russian…”

  Poppy laughed. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” She turned to Daniel. “Should we wager for it? A cup of coffee to the winner?”

  Daniel grinned. “All right, you first.”

  Poppy took out her notebook and ran her finger down the page of notes she’d taken earlier at the Russian embassy. “I bet it’s Andrei Nogovski,” she said with a note of triumph, and stuck out her hand to take the file from Vicky.

  Vicky quickly looked at the name on the file then shook her head. “Sorry, Miss Denby, that’s wrong.”

  Poppy bit her lip. “Oh.”

  “Mr Rokeby?”

  Daniel leaned against the lift door, stopping it from closing, straightened his tie and cleared his throat. “I bet it’s Princess Selena Romanova Yusopova.”

  “It is!”

  Vicky held up the file for both to see. “Well done, Mr Rokeby. Miss Denby, I think you owe him a cup of coffee.”

  “Hmmm, how did you know that?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at Daniel.

  He patted his camera box. “I’ve just photographed her.”

  “At the Old Vic?”

  “Actually, at your aunt’s house, followed by the most splendid cream tea.”

  “So you won’t be needing that coffee then.”

  Daniel grinned and looked as if he were just about to kiss her. Vicky giggled and Daniel pulled back. “Let’s take a rain check, shall we?” He pulled the concertina gate closed, enclosing him and Vicky in the lift. Then, as he pulled the door, he asked: “Who’s Andrei Nogovski?”

  Poppy inexplicably felt herself blush. She tried to keep her voice nonchalant. “Just some bloke I met at the Russian embassy.”

  “White or Red?” asked Daniel. But before Poppy could answer, the door closed and the lift went down.

  CHAPTER 4

  Poppy let herself in to 137 King’s Road, Chelsea. It was seven o’clock and she had stopped off on the way back from the office to have her hair trimmed. These fashionable bobs might look fabulous, but they needed regular upkeep. She also had a new frock in her bag, which had been on sale at Milady’s. Thank heavens for her clothing allowance from The Globe! She would never have been able to keep up with her best friend Delilah Marconi without it. When Poppy first arrived in London, Delilah had resorted to clothing her from the wardrobe department at the Old Vic Theatre. Poppy never aspired to be the fashion aficionado that her actress friend was, but she did need to stay up to date to fit in with the jazz set with whom she now regularly rubbed shoulders in her job as arts and entertainment editor.

  Number 137 King’s Road, however, was far from “up to date”. Her aunt, Dot Denby, had had her fashion hey-day in 1905 as a leading lady on the West End stage, and the stuffy Edwardian décor had not moved on since. Stuffy, though, was not a word that could be used of the lady of the house herself, whose most recent career had been as a suffragette and socialist activist. A bubbly giggle emanated from the townhouse dining room, buoyed by a hubbub of dinner party conversation. Poppy remembered that her aunt was entertaining this evening. Drat, she should have skipped the hairdresser and come home earlier. Her aunt had invited her, but as she had not been sure what time she would get home from work, she had been non-committal on her timeline; so non-committal that it had slipped her mind entirely.

  “Join us when you can, then, darling!” had been her aunt’s reply.

  Poppy ran upstairs and got changed.

  Ten minutes later she came down the stairs in her new emerald-green flapper dress and black boa. It might have been a bit risqué for a dinner party at home, but Poppy would be meeting Delilah later at Oscar’s and she didn’t want to get changed twice. Her aunt wouldn’t mind, Poppy knew; her guests, though, might have other views…

  Poppy pushed open the dining room door and heard a Mozart concerto playing on the gramophone. The table was set for eight people, and a further two – wearing a maid’s and butler’s uniform respectively – hovered around the periphery. Aunt Dot – who sat at the top of the table in a Chippendale chair, her wicker wheelchair pushed into the corner – was typical of the socialist-leaning upper middle classes of her era. She did not employ a full domestic staff but rather had a cleaning lady and cook during the day and hired in a butler and maid from an agency for special social occasions. And if it were not for the fact that she was paraplegic, that would have been all the help she needed or desired.

  Unfortunately, Dot’s long-term companion, Grace Wilson, was currently serving a prison term in Holloway, so her daily needs were now met by a Miss King, whose Christian name Poppy had yet to learn. Miss King, who sat primly to Aunt Dot’s left, had once been governess to the prime minister’s daughter, but now the child was grown, she was in need of new employment. Aunt Dot’s old friend the MP Marjorie Reynolds – sitting this evening at the foot of the table – had recommended Miss King as a “stop-gap” until dear Grace came home. The fact that Grace was serving time for blackmail and perverting the course of justice was not enough for her faithful suffragette friends to turn their backs on her. And as Aunt Dot kept reminding Poppy, the former accountant would
only serve half of her two-year sentence if she kept her nose clean.

  “Poppy darling!”

  Aunt Dot raised her glass and toasted Poppy as she came into the room. Two of the gentlemen at the table stood up to greet her; the third remained seated but acknowledged her presence with a nod.

  Poppy went around the table and kissed her aunt on her highly rouged cheek. Aunt Dot laughed like a schoolgirl. “I didn’t think you’d make it, darling. I thought you were chasing a deadline.”

  “Not this evening, Aunt Dot. Although I will be on Sunday night.”

  “My niece works at The Globe, you know. One of the new breed of women journalists.”

  “And doing a splendid job she is too,” said Marjorie Reynolds, raising her glass to meet Dot’s.

  “Hello, Mrs Reynolds.”

  “Hello, Poppy. I believe you were at the Russian embassy this afternoon.”

  “Yes, I was. Did Ike tell you?”

  “Indeed he did. In fact I –”

  “Marjorie, darling, if you don’t mind, you and Poppy can talk shop in a minute. But first I need to introduce her to everyone else.”

  “Of course, Dot. Forgive my rudeness.”

  “Not at all. The new minister to the Home Office can be forgiven anything. Did you hear of Marjorie’s new appointment, Poppy?”

  “I did. Congratulations, Mrs Reynolds.”

  “Thank you, Poppy. Perhaps we can arrange an interview sometime. But not tonight – your aunt’s right, we shouldn’t talk shop.” Then she nodded towards Aunt Dot. “She’s all yours, Dot.”

  Dot clapped her plump hands. “Splendid. Have you eaten, Poppy?”

  Poppy shook her head.

  Aunt Dot raised her finger towards the butler. “Is there anything left, Mr Brown?”

  “There is, Miss Denby. If the other Miss Denby would like to take a seat…”

  The butler pulled out the eighth chair for her and then served her. Poppy was seated between two gentlemen, both of whom nodded politely. She knew one, but not the other.