Miss Blaine's Prefect and the Golden Samovar, page 17
“I’ve got an orchestra inside,” I explained as we cantered on.
“What a marvellous idea!” the princess called back and I heard her instructing her coachman to find the nearest orchestra, and her footman to get off the back of the carriage so that she could stand in his place.
Old Vatrushkin pulled up gently outside the concert manager’s house. I had been going to take the band with me, but they were all snoring contentedly and it seemed a shame to wake them.
It was clearly no use knocking on Beethoven’s door if he couldn’t hear, so I decided on the strategy I had thought of during the concert—climbing in a window. The windows at the front were all closed, but one at the back was ajar, and I easily gained access. That room was empty, but when I walked into the next one, I found myself in the presence of the great man himself. When I saw that bulky figure, that brooding expression, that leonine hair, I couldn’t help it: I turned into a total fangirl again.
“Oh my God!” I gasped in German. “I can’t believe I’m in the same room as Ludwig van Beethoven! This is amazing. I just love all your music, though at the start of the Fifth Symphony, I’ve always wondered why you decided to write the clarinets in unison and not in octaves?”
His expression changed from brooding to utter terror. He had mistaken me for a mad stalker. I wanted to reassure him, and tell him he was entitled to do what he liked with the clarinets, but I was so star-struck that all I managed was to say “Ludwig van Beethoven!” again.
“Ja,” he said.
That was odd. It wasn’t odd that he had replied, since he should surely be able to lip-read his name at the very least. But I had expected a Bonn accent with Viennese overtones, and he sounded Bavarian. Thanks to Marcia Blaine’s language teachers, I have a very well-developed ear. Two, in fact.
“If I talk slowly, can you follow what I’m saying?” I asked.
“Ja,” he repeated. I was pretty sure he was Bavarian.
“Nice to see you in Russia,” I said. “I suppose you’re taking the opportunity to visit Count Razumovsky, who commissioned you to write the Razumovsky string quartets?”
“Ja.”
Bavarian, absolutely no doubt about it.
“You’re not Beethoven,” I said.
“Yes I am.”
“No you’re not,” I said. “There’s no way you were born in the Electorate of Cologne. And you can’t visit Count Razumovsky because, as you would know if you were Beethoven, he’s the Russian ambassador in Vienna, where he’s been living in seclusion since 1814 and I know it’s at least 1825.”
He tugged at his cravat as though it was choking him. “Pavel Pavlovich!” he shouted.
Immediately, another man entered the room and I dropped into an appropriate martial arts stance for fighting two attackers at once. But the fake Beethoven was backing away and the newcomer was a weaselly bloke who posed no threat whatsoever.
“Pavel Pavlovich, she knows I’m not Beethoven!” he wailed, still in Bavarian German.
“You fool, what have you been saying?” hissed the weaselly bloke whose execrable German accent immediately gave him away as Russian.
I intervened. “He’s said ‘yes’ three times, and ‘Pavel Pavlovich’, which has been quite enough for me to work out your whole nefarious plan,” I said in Russian and then quickly translated into German for the fake Beethoven’s benefit.
Pavel Pavlovich was about to speak but I held up my hand. “You’ve been stupid going along with all of this,” I said in German to the fake Beethoven. “But you,” I said in Russian to Pavel Pavlovich, “are the concert manager, and you’re the one I blame. You’re an unscrupulous shyster. You’ve put on a programme of Beethoven, which you know audiences will be suspicious of because it’s modern and difficult. You decide to entice them in by claiming that the composer himself will be conducting. But Beethoven’s hearing has been deteriorating since the turn of the century and he’s had to stop conducting. So you hire this Bavarian doppelganger—” (the fake Beethoven, who clearly didn’t speak Russian, had been looking perplexed but perked up at hearing this reference to himself) “—who looks like the maestro but knows nothing about music, so can’t be allowed near an orchestra. But he can be seen about town so that everyone knows he’s here, and then you come up with excuses for why he hasn’t turned up to conduct. You get massive ticket sales and you don’t have to shell out an enormous fee for the real Beethoven. I’m guessing you’re paying the doppelganger—” (the fake Beethoven looked pleased to get another mention) “—peanuts.”
“That’s not true. I’m paying him real money, fifty kopecks,” said Pavel Pavlovich and then clapped his hand over his mouth. He turned on the fake Beethoven, addressing him in excruciatingly badly pronounced German. “You must have told her! How else would she know every single detail of our plan?”
“I didn’t tell her anything!” the fake Beethoven wailed.
“Someone as crooked as you wouldn’t recognise the truth if it bit you on the ankle,” I said to Pavel Pavlovich, in German, so that the fake Beethoven wouldn’t feel excluded. “But the truth is exactly what he’s telling you.”
“Then you must be a witch!”
I shook my head. “I’m not a witch. I’m not an angel. I simply had the finest education in the world, which enables me to assess the evidence in front of me and make logical deductions.”
I could see grudging admiration in Pavel Pavlovich’s eyes, alongside a strong desire to hack me into tiny pieces. “I suppose you want a proportion of the takings,” he said.
“Don’t insult me,” I said quietly.
He paled. “You want all of the takings?”
“I don’t want any money,” I said. “At least, not directly. I’ve got an orchestra outside. Violin, double bass, bassoon, clarinet, trumpet, percussion and an accordion. You’re going to make them famous and very rich. They’re extremely versatile—I suggest in particular that you get the accordionist playing a transcription of Bach’s Goldberg Variations. Or Clementi, if you want something a bit more contemporary. But their speciality is Scottish country dance music, which, as you know, is extremely fashionable these days.”
A greedy expression came over the manager’s face. “I heard there was an astounding orchestra playing Scottish country dance music at a grand party a few days ago. With a truly exceptional female accordionist.”
Modesty forbade me. “She’s off doing other things,” I said. “But otherwise it’s the same line-up.”
“So I’ll be very rich as well,” he said thoughtfully.
“All in good time,” I said. “First, they’ll need a new set of instruments.”
He sighed. “They’ve sold them for drink?”
I nodded. “And I’m afraid they’re still a bit drunk. They’re just outside, piled up in my drozhky. You’d better come and have a look at them.”
We went outside, the fake Beethoven following us. Pavel Pavlovich surveyed the dishevelled snoring heap. “Yes, I can see they’re professionals all right. I agree to the deal.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I’m not just going to accept the word of a crook. Do you think I came up the Dvina on a banana boat?”
“No, of course not,” he said. “No one has ever come up the Dvina on a banana boat.”
“I’m glad we understand each other. Just a minute.” I signalled to Old Vatrushkin, who jumped down from the drozhky, and took him aside to avoid being overheard.
“I’m leaving for the village of N—later today, but I don’t want anybody to know. First, I’ve got to stop the band from enlisting and facing certain death. The princess said Kirill Kirillovich was the best lawyer in town. Do you know where his office is?”
Old Vatrushkin pointed. “Just across the road, your excellency.”
“Perfect. I’ll sort things out with the concert manager while you go home and get the maid to pack for a couple of days away. I’ll meet you both at the station.”
I avoided telling Old Vatrushkin about the attempt on my life in the forest, since I knew he would fret.
“And it might be cold in the country, so make sure she brings my fur coat,” I added. Again, there was no need for him to know I was aiming for protection from more than the weather.
With some difficulty, Old Vatrushkin, Pavel Pavlovich, the fake Beethoven and I managed to drag the seven musicians out of the drozhky, and then Old Vatrushkin drove away.
“I believe the best lawyer in town is just over there,” I said, changing to German in order to include the fake Beethoven.
Pavel Pavlovich nodded.
“Then that’s where we’re all going.”
“I don’t think they’re going anywhere,” said Pavel Pavlovich, indicating the inert figures on the ground. “Not until they sober up, which will take hours.”
In 1817, Beethoven himself referred to Dietrich Nikolaus Winkel’s new invention, subsequently patented by Johann Maelzel.
“Do you have,” I asked Pavel Pavlovich, “such a thing as a metronome?”
He looked very smug, like one of those geeks with the latest must-have from the Apple Store. “Of course.”
“Of course!” repeated the fake Beethoven in sudden understanding, scampering off to get it.
It was a Maelzel original, a beautiful thing, rosewood and brass. I set it to fifty-six beats per minute and waited. The musicians’ eyes flickered open and they began nodding their heads in time to the ticking. I held the metronome up in front of them, and they staggered to their feet, their bodies swaying to the rhythm. As I set off with the metronome, they clumped along in unison behind me, speeding up as I changed the tempo from lento to adagio.
I announced myself and my business at the lawyer’s, and a troupe of scriveners rushed to get enough seats for us all in Kirill Kirillovich’s office, the musicians collapsing into them when the metronome stopped.
I succinctly outlined the contract to be drawn up between Pavel Pavlovich and the band, ensuring that the band’s rights were absolutely watertight. There was a slight hiccup when Pavel Pavlovich tried to insist on a larger percentage but he saw sense when I pointed out that I could completely destroy his career.
“One last thing,” I said. “There’s going to be an extra concert at the end of this Beethoven series.” The fake Beethoven hadn’t been following the conversation, since we were speaking Russian, but on hearing his name, he smiled and nodded.
“I thought he was deaf,” the lawyer whispered.
“He is,” I said, “but he can pick up vibrations. That’s how he still manages to conduct.”
Pavel Pavlovich was squirming in his chair as though someone was prodding him with the business end of a piccolo.
“You will of course know,” I said, “that Maestro van Beethoven’s Opus 108 is a set of arrangements of Scottish songs?”
The lawyer nodded vigorously. People are terrified to admit that they haven’t a clue about contemporary composers.
“He initially wrote it,” I went on, “for voices, violin, cello and piano, but he has been so impressed by these musicians that he has reconfigured it for violin, double bass and accordion, with the non-playing band members doing the singing.”
Pavel Pavlovich now looked as though someone had whacked him over the head with the double bass.
“So we need a codicil covering that specific performance, which will be conducted by Maestro van Beethoven himself.”
Pavel Pavlovich sagged, his hands over his face, as I dictated the codicil giving all proceeds to the band.
Kirill Kirillovich finished writing, laid down his pen and scrutinised me over his glasses. “You are obviously an eminent legal expert,” he said. “How is this possible when your gender cannot attend university?”
Another tribute to the finest education in the world. “I don’t have any formal qualifications. Jurisprudence is just a bit of a hobby of mine,” I said. “If you could make the necessary copies of the contract, we’ll get these gentlemen to sign it.”
When the lawyer went out to round up some scriveners, Pavel Pavlovich clutched my arm. “Why are you determined to ruin me?” he moaned.
“Ruin you?” I said, reverting to German so that the fake Beethoven would know what was going on. “I’m making your fortune. Nobody will realise he isn’t the real thing. All he has to do is stand on the podium, look moody and wave his arms about.”
“I can do that,” the fake Beethoven said, waving his arms about.
“But that’s not conducting,” Pavel objected.
“He doesn’t need to conduct,” I said. “He just needs to look as though he’s conducting. These boys are self-starters. They’ll sort themselves out, the transcription, the singing, everything. They’ll be great. I’ve played alongside them, and I know.”
Too late, I realised I had given myself away.
“So it was you!” said Pavel Pavlovich. “You are the virtuoso accordionist who captivated everyone at the grand party.”
“It was just a wee jam session,” I said.
“If you will do a concert tour for me, I will give you all the jam you want,” he said.
I briefly considered it. Playing in front of an audience for a maximum of half an hour, ten minutes’ practice just to make sure I remained at my peak, and the rest of the day to myself. It was appealing. And I like jam. But I was now on the fifth day of my mission and running out of time.
“Just be happy with the deal you’ve got,” I said as the lawyer returned with the documentation. I started up the metronome again and the band members revived enough to make their marks alongside the others’ signatures, with me and a scrivener as witnesses.
“You have the most incisive legal mind I have encountered,” said the lawyer. “Would you consider coming into partnership with me?”
“You’re very kind,” I said. “But I’m afraid I’ve got a train to catch.”
In a couple of hours, I had saved nine lives, ten if I included my own when I fell over the branch. I reckoned that ought to please Miss Blaine, and stand me in good stead for the speedy completion of my mission.
I headed for the station. With any luck, a newspaper proprietor had begun publishing again and I would find out what the date was. But before I could look for a vendor, I heard a scream.
I ran to the source and found the maid collapsed against the drozhky, Old Vatrushkin tentatively patting her shoulder.
“She thinks she saw someone,” he said in explanation.
“I don’t think!” she snarled at him and I gave Old Vatrushkin a warning look. “I know what I saw!” Now that her audience had doubled, she started wringing her hands theatrically. “The man! The big man! The big sinister man!”
I tentatively patted her other shoulder, and asked Old Vatrushkin if he had seen this alarming character.
“No, your excellency. If she could read, I would say she had been reading too many Gothic novels.”
I had a brief hope that this would let me pinpoint the date until I remembered that the first Russian Gothic novel was Nikolai Mikhailovich Karamzin’s Island of Bornholm in 1793.
“You think you’re so clever just because you can read and write!” the maid snapped at Old Vatrushkin.
“I can do a lot more than read and write,” he retorted. “I can carry out the packing duties of a lady’s maid.”
“And why weren’t you doing the packing?” I asked her.
“I was out,” she muttered. “It was awful. The big sinister man followed me all day. I had to keep moving.”
“Followed you where?” I enquired and she looked sulky.
“Just visiting some maidservant friends,” she said, and I knew she’d been swanking around in my clothes again, upsetting people. It was what she did best. “He’s been everywhere I’ve gone and now he’s here at the station. I’m sure he wants to sell me down the Bosphorus as an odalisque.”
“Don’t start that again,” I said. “You’re in absolutely no danger. Old Vatrushkin got you here safely, and I’ll be with you on the train.” I normally dismissed most of what the maid said, but just in case she was right for once, I said, “It’s a bit chilly. I’ll wear my fur coat for the journey.”
Old Vatrushkin raced to get it and helped me on with it. “I apologise for taking upon myself the delicate task of packing for your excellency,” he said in an undertone, “but the maid was in too distraught a condition to perform it adequately. May I assure your excellency that I kept my eyes closed at all times. Particularly when packing your excellency’s…accoutrements.”
“Excellent,” I said, feeling nostalgic for the simplicity of a serf-free life. But he was handy for carrying my luggage, and ushered us towards the nearest carriage.
“Here, your excellency. I shall install you in the first-class saloon, beside the conductor.”
“There,” I said to the maid. “Now do you believe you’ll be perfectly safe?”
She looked sceptical, but as we approached, the conductor rushed up and led us into the plush compartment with its velvet-covered sofas.
“I shall be just next door, your excellency,” he said. “If there is anything at all you need during the journey, simply send your maid to fetch me.”
She gave a snort that told me I’d be quicker getting him myself. I waved goodbye to Old Vatrushkin, shouted at him to go and get on with his painting, and had just got myself settled when the whistle went, and the wheels squeaked and clanked against the rails as we set off.
“This is nice,” I said to the maid. “You must be looking forward to seeing your old colleagues.”
“No,” she said. “I hate all of them.”
“Not all of them, surely.”
There was a pause, as she pondered. “Yes, all of them,” she concluded. “I can’t wait to see their faces when I turn up dressed in all my finery.”
“Dressed in all my finery,” I pointed out, at which she turned her back and stared grouchily out of the window at the passing countryside.
I relaxed into the comfortable sofa and listened to the soothing rumble of the wheels. But over the noise of the train, I could hear other sounds in the conductor’s room next door. Raised voices, an indistinct exclamation, a shout that ended in a hoarse gurgle and a heavy thud, as though a body had fallen to the floor.
