The Kill Fee Read online

  “Why don’t we crop it to a close-up on the arm – then use it as an inset on a bigger photograph?” suggested Daniel. “Such as –”

  “Such as the catfight between the princesses! Brilliant, Danny Boy, brilliant! That way we imply that one of them might be the shooter.”

  Poppy frowned. “Is that fair, Rollo? It might not have been either of them. They could sue for libel…”

  “Pwah! Let them sue. They won’t win. Besides, Selena deserves it.” Rollo took the photograph of the two women fighting and pinned it to the board next to the “smoking gun” picture, with the drawing-pin right in the middle of Selena’s forehead.

  “Now, now, Rollo; don’t do anything out of spite. That wouldn’t have anything to do with this, would it?” Daniel held up the photograph of Rollo being slapped by Selena.

  Rollo went red in the face and cleared his throat.

  “What’s that about?” asked Ike, trying not to laugh.

  Rollo busied himself rearranging the pages on the board. “She offered me a kill fee.”

  “For what?” asked Ike, Poppy and Daniel in unison.

  “To not publish any interviews with the Yusopovs that claimed she intended to keep the Fabergé egg for herself.”

  Poppy was puzzled – and a little bit shaky. Too much coffee. She struggled to concentrate. “But we haven’t done an interview like that. Not yet, anyway… or have we?”

  “She’s convinced we have.”

  “Maybe it was Lionel.”

  “Maybe, but she’s convinced we’ve got one ready to go to press.”

  “How much did she offer you?” asked Ike.

  “Not enough,” said Rollo, picking up his cup and examining it with disappointment. “Who’s for more coffee?”

  Poppy and Daniel declined. Ike poured a cup for himself and Rollo from a pot simmering on a little primus stove in a small kitchenette off the newsroom.

  “Is that why she slapped you?” asked Daniel, stifling a yawn. “For turning her down?”

  “No, she slapped me because I told her I expected more class from a Romanov dame, and –” Rollo grinned “– I asked her for more money.”

  “You what?” asked Poppy, more rudely than she’d intended. Nonetheless she was shocked that the editor had even considered burying a story. Did he really need money that badly? At the expense of the paper’s reputation? At the expense of the reputation of every journalist who worked there?

  Rollo seemed to read her mind. His bushy red eyebrows came together in disapproval. “Keep your judgments to yourself, Miz Denby. The day you take over the day-to-day running of this paper – dealing with advertisers and creditors and paying thankless reporters’ salaries – is the day you can have opinions on such things.”

  Poppy lowered her eyes. She had spoken out of turn. She would not have done it if she hadn’t been so tired. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, and doodled with her pencil on her notepad.

  Daniel reached for her hand and squeezed it, then stared daggers at Rollo. “Steady on, old man, the girl’s entitled to her opinion.”

  Rollo sighed. “Yes, she is. I’m sorry. I think we all need to get some sleep.” He caught Poppy’s eye and smiled.

  She smiled back, but was still a little hurt.

  “However…” said Rollo, “no sleep until we figure out what to do next.”

  It was midday before Poppy left the office. While Rollo split his time between the print room and the newsroom, Ike, Poppy and Daniel discussed the story so far. The evidence seemed to suggest that a woman had shot the guard and stolen the egg. But which woman? There had been plenty at the exhibition. Irina Alexandrovna Yusopov was a front runner. She had publicly accused Selena of stealing the egg from the family and had every motivation for trying to get it back. On the other hand, what if Selena had stolen it – to keep it for herself? But why would Selena steal something that was already in her possession? And as she said herself, why wasn’t it on her person? Or the gun for that matter? The same went for Irina who, when searched – with much protestation – was clean. Of course, the possibility existed that someone else was behind the theft – possibly the Red Russians – and that they had used a woman, someone as yet unknown to The Globe staff, to do their dirty work. There were dozens of suspects – practically anyone who had attended the exhibition and had been able to slip away before the Household Cavalry moved in.

  Poppy agreed that after she had caught a few hours’ sleep she would try to speak to Selena, who was a house guest of her aunt’s. Then, after that, she would try to speak to Oscar.

  Ike was going to cover the Russian embassy, as well as get some comment from Marjorie Reynolds on behalf of the Home Office. Rollo would try to use his connection with Yasmin Reece-Lansdale to arrange a meeting with the Yusopovs. After that he would go for a drink at Oscar’s and see if he could track down the barman. He also had a meeting set up first thing Monday morning with Scotland Yard.

  It was agreed that Daniel had done more than his fair share and could go home to his children. Poppy kissed him on the cheek before he climbed on his motorbike.

  “We’ll have to rearrange meeting the family.”

  He looked at her, his eyes tired. “Not too long, though, Poppy; not too long.”

  Indeed, not too long, thought Poppy as she put on her fox-fur stole and stepped onto Fleet Street. She didn’t have the energy to get the bus, so she decided to splash out on a cab. But as she was waiting for one to arrive, she saw a familiar figure on the opposite side of the road – the archivist Ivan Molanov, who looked as if he was going into Temple Church. Poor Ivan. For the same reason he had not attended the exhibition last night, he could not bear to be around people who reminded him of his family. The Russian Orthodox Church in Kensington was one such place. The well-meaning folk there would shower him with sympathy. Poppy knew that he sometimes slipped into Temple Church to worship – anonymously – and to light a candle for his loved ones.

  Just before Ivan turned down the alley to the right of the Cock Tavern, leading to Temple Church, a man in a black trench coat and homburg hat intercepted him. Poppy caught a glimpse of a goatee beard. Could that be Vasili Safin? It was too far to see properly, but Ivan’s body language was defensive. The large man’s shoulders cowed as the goateed man spoke to him. They only conversed for a moment before Ivan turned down the alley and the man hailed a cab. As the black motor pulled up, the man glanced across the road and caught Poppy looking at him. Poppy stared back. Yes, it definitely looked like Vasili Safin. Perhaps she could get a comment from him for Ike’s article… But before she could manoeuvre her way across the road he had climbed in the taxi and was driven away.

  Poppy woke at seven o’clock that evening. She could hear the tinkle of cutlery being put out in the dining room below her. Was it supper time already? When she’d got home she had gone up the stairs without speaking to anyone and literally collapsed onto her bed and fallen asleep almost immediately. If it wasn’t for her grumbling tummy – and the fact that she was beginning to smell like a navvy – she would have turned over and gone back to sleep. Oh, and the fact that she still had work to do. Poppy groaned and threw back the eiderdown. From the recesses of her mind she recalled Rollo asking her to interview Selena – and then Oscar, if she could. She really didn’t have the energy for it, but she knew that Rollo meant tonight, not tomorrow, and that he would not be sleeping until he’d sent Monday morning’s paper to press.

  She showered as quickly as she could and put on a clean dress before going down to the dining room. Aunt Dot and Miss King were still at the table. Selena was absent and it didn’t look as if a place had even been set for her.

  “Poppy darling! What are you doing up? I was convinced you would sleep through to morning. Gertrude here –” she indicated Miss King – “brought a tray up to you around four o’clock, but she said you were sleeping like the dead.”

  Poppy sat down and reached for the tureen in the middle of the table. She lifted the lid – mmm, lamb
casserole. She started ladling some of it onto a plate. “I would have,” she explained, “but I still have work to do. Rollo wants me to interview Selena.”

  Miss King made a funny noise like a cat sneezing.

  “Good luck to you!” said Aunt Dot, and produced the four-page Sunday edition of The Globe from under a napkin. “Fabulous article, by the way, darling, but Selena literally fainted – and I mean literally, don’t I, Gertrude –” Miss King nodded “– when she saw the front page. I on the other hand have never laughed so much in my life.”

  Aunt Dot held up the picture of Selena and Irina clawing at each other like prize peacocks, with the headline: Russian royals in hen fight over stolen egg. “Classic Rollo! But Selena was not amused.” Aunt Dot folded the paper and picked up her knife and fork. “How’s the casserole, darling?”

  Poppy, who was almost finished with her first plate and contemplating her second, had a mouthful of food but nodded enthusiastically. She swallowed carefully and then said: “So Selena won’t talk to me, you think.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t take it personally, darling; it’s just your association with The Globe. It’s not you, per se, it’s –”

  “You think a woman did it.” It was Miss King. Her voice was as thin and brittle as the autumn leaves scattered on the townhouse lawn. “The picture’s not that clear…”

  “It’s clear enough,” said Aunt Dot and put on her pince nez, which hung on a gold chain around her neck. She unfolded the paper again and scrutinized the inset photograph. “Yes indeed, it’s clear enough. It’s a woman holding a gun. No gloves, no jewellery that I can see –”

  “No jewellery?” Poppy grabbed the paper from her aunt with a hasty apology and looked at the blurred photograph. Aunt Dot was right: there didn’t appear to be any rings on the fingers or bracelets on the wrist. She looked again at the Selena and Irina picture and squinted to see their hands. But the angle it was taken from did not show what she needed to see. She would ask Daniel in the morning if he could go through his film again to see if there was a better shot of the women – or other women – that showed their hands.

  “Well done, Aunt Dot. You might have given us a lead.” Aunt Dot flushed. “Really? How exciting!”

  “You would have thought the police would have dusted us all for gunpowder residue.” Miss King again. Aunt Dot and Poppy looked at her with a new-found respect. They waited for her to say more, but she didn’t.

  “They didn’t do anything like that, did they?” said Aunt Dot. “Very suspicious…”

  “Maybe they didn’t see the need,” said Poppy. “Maybe DCI Martin had come to the conclusion that the shooter must already have left. They did search us all for the gun and the egg, and no one found anything. So, ergo, the culprit had already escaped.”

  “Then it wasn’t Selena or Irina.” Dot sounded almost disappointed.

  “I’m not saying that,” said Poppy. “Only that that’s what the police might have thought.”

  Miss King and Aunt Dot looked at each other and nodded. Then they all tucked into their casserole.

  CHAPTER 11

  JULY 1918, YEKATERINBURG, RUSSIA

  Nana Ruthie, Anya and Fritzie walked down the high street of Yekaterinburg. It had so far been largely untouched by the war, despite its proximity to the strategic Trans-Siberian railway. Red flags flapped in the wind, declaring the town’s allegiance to the Soviet committee that had taken control – without a shot being fired – back in October. And in case anyone was in doubt as to which side of the Red/White divide the citizens of Yekaterinburg were on, hammers and sickles, crudely painted on doors and shutters, marked the town as one wholly embracing the new Russia.

  Before packing their meagre belongings into a carpet bag, Nana had tied a red ribbon into Anya’s hair and wrapped a washed-out red scarf around her own, tying it under her chin. She ensured – for the third time that morning – that Anya had their cover story straight: they were domestic servants from Moscow. Their White aristocratic masters, of whom they wholly disapproved, had been arrested. Nana, calling herself Saskia Obledavich, claimed she had been the cook and Anya – renamed Mitza – was her granddaughter. The little dog had been the family pet, but Mitza was fond of it, so they had brought it with them. They were heading east to find some distant relatives whom they hoped would take them in. Who and where these relatives were changed the further east they went. But as they had only been asked their story once before, they had so far got away with it. The reality was, they didn’t look important enough to stop, and no one east of Moscow knew who the Andreiovich family was – apart, perhaps, for the people at the Ipatiev House, and that’s where Nana and Anya were headed.

  On the two-mile walk from the train yard to the centre of the industrial town, Nana had made Anya recite nursery rhymes in Russian with a working-class accent. The girl was getting very good at it – perhaps she might have the makings of an actress, or, like Nana herself, a spy. Nana sighed as she remembered when she had first been approached to be the eyes and ears of His Majesty’s government in the Russian court. If she had known then what she knew now, she would have turned down the offer and stayed in her comfortable semi-detached townhouse in Tower Hamlets.

  In 1915, she had had a good job working as a translator of trade documents for the Chancellor of the Exchequer at number 11 Downing Street, while her friend, Gertrude King, worked there as governess to Lloyd George’s daughter, Megan. It was well known that the Chancellor had his eye on moving in to Number 10, and he did in fact do so in December the following year. Asquith’s approach to the war was attracting a lot of flak, and Lloyd George was not-so-secretly involving himself in foreign policy. So when Gertrude approached Ruth on behalf of the Chancellor, and asked her to meet with him about a “translation job abroad”, Ruth suspected there was more to it than met the eye. And she was right.

  Ruth Broadwood was the daughter of a famous linguist who had travelled the world with the British Foreign Service, writing “phrase books” for the diplomats, to help them get the basics of whatever lingo was spoken in Queen Victoria’s vast colonies. Ruth, whose mother had died when she was young, had accompanied him until he retired after the Boer War. It was an exciting life but, as she approached middle age, she felt the need to set down some roots. She nursed her father until his death in 1910 and then, using his contacts in the Foreign Office, got herself a plum job with the Exchequer. There were a few male eyebrows raised that she was the “wrong” gender, but none of the other applicants could rival her vast knowledge of world languages. And it was this that had attracted David Lloyd George to her – that and the fact that she looked like a typical British spinster, straight out of a Brontë novel.

  So after a bit of training in how to be a governess and the basics of espionage, she travelled to St Petersburg with forged references from some minor British royals. She was to be a back-up governess to the Romanov children in case the main governess fell ill. But as it turned out, the existing governess was in robust health and during the year she spent in the Winter Palace, she never got to see the children once. In 1916, the tsarina suggested her time would be better spent elsewhere, and sent her to the house of a distant cousin in Moscow.

  Ruth was frustrated by the move but unable to say no to the Russian empress. The purpose of her deployment to the Romanov court had been because of Lloyd George’s concerns that the tsarina’s much-rumoured dalliance with the “mad monk” Rasputin would precipitate a Bolshevik-led revolt that would ultimately lead Russia out of the war, freeing Germany and the Austro-Hungarians to concentrate all their efforts on the Western Front. Lloyd George wanted eyes and ears in the court. Ruth reported what she could to her contact at the British embassy, but as she never quite got into the family’s inner circle, she was limited as to what she could see and hear. Just before her redeployment to Moscow there was talk of “indisposing” the existing governess – much to Ruth’s alarm. But it never came to that. And as it transpired, the Moscow placement turned out to be far
more fruitful.

  Count Sergei Andreiovich was a military advisor to the tsar. He had been sent to France as a liaison officer to the Western allies in 1914 and relayed information back and forth between the Russian government and the Allied military top brass. However, early in 1915 he disappeared – some said he was dead, some said he had gone undercover as a spy, but no one really knew. Until, that is, Nana Ruthie moved into 67 Ulitsa Ostozhenka to look after little Anya.

  The house was much smaller than the royal palace and she had easy access to all parts of it. Using the training she had received from the Secret Service, she was quickly finding and copying letters and overhearing snippets of conversation that suggested Andreiovich had become disillusioned with the tsar and tsarina’s increasingly autocratic style and had joined forces with some reformers, trying to influence Nicholas II to bring about democratic reforms before a revolution erupted. He had voiced his views to some fellow officers who, it seemed, turned on him. He was shot trying to get away. Allied troops found him, nursed him back to health and then he claimed asylum. He now feared for his family’s future in Russia and wanted them to leave and come to Paris. However, his exact whereabouts were unknown.

  Nana Ruthie relayed all of this information to her contact at the British embassy, who declared it to be “most useful” and instructed her to stay in place. Then, one afternoon in March 1917, she struck gold. The lady of the house received a visit from Princess Selena Romanova Yusopova. Nana had seen Selena on the London stage during a tour of the Bolshoi, and met her briefly at the Winter Palace in St Petersburg. She had also read a file on her, provided by the Secret Service, marking her as a “person of interest”. Nana Ruthie could not imagine for a moment why the silly, affected prima donna might be a person of interest to British Intelligence, but after reading the file she changed her mind.

  Princess Selena had once been completely and inexplicably in love with Vladimir Lenin, despite him being happily married with children. It seemed as if Lenin had seen Selena on tour in Paris and presented her with a bouquet of flowers in appreciation of her performance in Shaw’s Arms and the Man. Selena read a coded romantic overture into the gesture and started following Lenin’s career. She attended a few Bolshevik meetings, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, and in London tried to get Emmeline Pankhurst and Dorothy Denby to introduce her to him. She eventually did get to meet him and he, thinking she might genuinely be interested in Bolshevism, politely entertained her.