Miss Blaine's Prefect and the Golden Samovar, page 18
There was clearly a need for my first-aid skills. I was moving towards the connecting door when it opened to reveal a menacing figure brandishing a bloodstained knife.
The maid screamed. “That’s him! That’s the man!”
Steel flashed through the air and there was another scream. This time it wasn’t the maid.
CHAPTER
9
I surveyed the intruder, now pinned to the carriage wall by half a dozen razor-sharp knives that a moment earlier had been secreted up the sleeves of my fur coat.
With my usual precision, I had been careful not to draw blood, while ensuring that he was immobilised. Two knives secured him by the shoulders of his greatcoat, two by his sleeves, and two at his waist.
The maid had been right: he was big and sinister. But his head, hands and feet looked disproportionately small, almost as though he was wearing a ridiculous number of layers of clothing, including two coats. His cap was pulled down over his brow: the rest of his face was concealed by a beard and moustache so shaggy that they made Old Vatrushkin’s spectacular foliage look like designer stubble.
“Stop wriggling,” I advised. “I’ve got a few more of these little beauties up my sleeve—you have no idea how many—and the way this train is lurching, I can’t guarantee I’ll miss your more delicate areas.”
This was doubly untruthful. I had used up all the knives, and I had no doubts as to the accuracy of my aim. But I believe there are some rare instances, notably when dealing with villains, when one can be economical with the actualité. To add credence to my threat, I used the voice that had so chilled the audience when I played Mr Hyde in our fourth-year dramatisation of Robert Louis Stevenson’s novella.
The intruder stopped wriggling.
“Now,” I said, “you’re going to tell us who you are and what you’re doing here.”
The would-be assassin spat at me.
“Missed,” I said. “Your aim’s terrible, by the way. I know all about you stalking my maid but that knife went nowhere near her—it came straight at me.”
The maid was cowering behind the sofa, yowling.
“Okay,” I said in my most silkily scary voice. “Since you don’t seem to want to tell me anything, let me tell you something. You see this coat? Pure haggis fur. Haggis are very, very wee and very, very quick, but they’re not as quick as me. It took hundreds of them to make this coat and I trapped and skinned every one of them myself. In fact, I’ve developed a bit of a taste for skinning things. If you don’t talk, and talk fast, I’m going to make a start on you.”
The intruder slumped in defeat, and I congratulated myself on my fine theatrical skills. I waited for him to make a full confession, but with sudden energy, he burst out of his greatcoat, revealing another greatcoat underneath, wrenched open the compartment door and plunged out into the darkness.
I did a quick calculation. Given the velocity of the train and the angle of his trajectory, the most he would suffer would be a few bruises. He had been more cunning than I thought, and my mission had extended yet again—now I had to keep the maid safe from her would-be assassin.
For once, she was too traumatised even to scream. She was staring at my coat, her eyes wide in terror.
“You didn’t believe any of that, did you?” I said. “This is fake fur. I’d never dream of hurting a wee haggis.”
My levity went unappreciated. The maid’s gaze had swivelled from my coat to the connecting door, which had swung open with the rattling of the train. The conductor was lying in a pool of blood. I went to check his pulse, but there was little point since his throat had been comprehensively cut. The maid’s would-be assassin was already a ruthless killer.
Taking paper and pencil out of my reticule, I quickly wrote a full account of the incident, including not only a clear description of the killer but also a rather good sketch, and the coordinates of where he had leaped from the train. I then enclosed a significant sum for the conductor’s dependents.
The maid had now turned miserable and grumpy, which I realised could be a coping mechanism following trauma, trying to make everything as normal as possible. But I needed the answer to a question. It could provide a clue as to who was trying to kill her.
“Tell me,” I said, “did you tell anybody we were going to the village of N—?”
She hesitated, her eyes flickering. “No,” she said.
“Unless you want to be re-emancipated, you tell me the truth, and you tell me right now,” I grated.
She folded her arms across her chest, glowering. “Didn’t tell anyone,” she retorted.
I had one more sanction. “If you don’t tell me the truth, you won’t get the other three roubles.”
She crumbled. “I might have told Sasha,” she muttered. “It was when you sent me to see if he was all right. So it’s your fault.”
I remembered: it was after Old Vatrushkin had mistakenly thought Sasha was attacking me, when he was merely trying to check my pulse. Telling her to enquire about Sasha’s health wasn’t the same as giving her carte blanche to reveal my travel plans. But I could scarcely blame her for talking to him, since he was the last person anyone could suspect of anything underhand. And yet, I could see how things might have gone wrong.
“Tell me,” I said, “was this at the countess’s?”
She looked shifty.
“Three roubles,” I reminded her.
“Yes,” she admitted. “I know how to get in the back door.”
So now all was clear. The maid had told Sasha. The countess could have overheard. Or perhaps Sasha had mentioned it to her without understanding the implications. He didn’t know how dangerous she was, how ruthless and proprietary. She was still smarting over the maid’s infatuation with the count. I was in no doubt: the countess was the only person who could possibly have hired a hit man. Or one of the two only people, since the count himself might have wanted to get rid of his unwise dalliance.
Knowing that we were travelling to N— gave the countess (or possibly the count) her (or possibly his) opportunity. Murdering the maid in town was too risky because of potential witnesses. A journey was ideal, but the hired assassin wouldn’t have known how or when we were going to N—. So he had kept the maid under surveillance and followed us on to the train.
That was an advantage. His own train journey would have been unexpected, and it would take time for him to return to town and report back to whichever one of the couple had hired him. That still left me an opportunity to complete my investigations in N— before I sent the maid away for her own safety to somewhere distant, such as Irkutsk. Or Omsk. Or Tomsk.
In the note for the authorities, I contemplated naming the countess (or possibly the count) as having hired the conductor’s murderer. But I decided not to, out of politeness. There’s nothing authorities loathe more than amateur detectives, and it implied that I didn’t trust them to reach the right conclusion on their own. In any case, I had my own mission, and it was important to fight the temptation to interfere in other matters.
When we arrived at the village of N—, I made my way up to the driver’s cab and explained that the train crew was now minus one member. I handed over the note containing the report of the murder and the financial support for the conductor’s family, and the driver assured me the matter would be dealt with as soon as he stopped somewhere that had a policeman.
The maid was still in the compartment, as useless as ever, sitting in a morose heap and glowering. I summoned a porter, who summoned a carriage, and before long we were trundling down a lime tree avenue to the countess’s country mansion.
The carriage was visible from a long way off and by the time we arrived, the staff were lined up to greet us, led by a motherly housekeeper. As I was working out what to say, the maid emerged from the carriage, to be met by a collective groan.
“Nice to see you too,” she jeered, strolling up and down the line like a sergeant-major, adjusting an apron here and a collar there. “As you can see from my clothes, I’m now one of the most important members of the household, the countess’s personal assistant, which means you all have to do as I say.”
This provoked a number of incredulous outbursts, which were quickly shushed by the more nervous members of the household.
“The countess sent me, her personal assistant, to personally accompany a real live princess who wants to visit the area,” she went on. There were gasps of surprise and anticipation.
“Princess Tamsonova!” she announced and I stepped out of the carriage, reprising my fifth-year Shakespearean role as Cleopatra. There was a lot of bowing and curtseying but I distinctly heard someone say, “Her frock’s not a patch on the maid’s,” which I suppose was only to be expected since the maid had purloined all the best ones.
She was barking out orders, getting the luggage unloaded, the coachman paid, tea and delicacies prepared, beds made up. The housekeeper, whose authority she was completely usurping, stood in disbelief until she remembered herself and brought me into the parlour. She was getting me settled with quiet efficiency when the maid bustled in.
“Get back to peeling potatoes,” she snapped at the housekeeper. “You don’t know how to look after a grand lady.”
“She’s looking after me perfectly well,” I said, and the maid turned to me with a simper that made me feel quite nauseous.
“Oh, Highness, you are too good, too accepting of inferior service! I cannot let this lowly creature pollute your parlour any longer.”
Before I could say anything, she had shooed the housekeeper out of the room and flopped down on an easy chair.
“I could do with some tea,” I said.
The maid shrugged. “I’m a lady’s maid, not a footman. Samovar’s over there.”
I had created a monster.
“Just remember, you don’t get the other three roubles until my business here is satisfactorily concluded,” I reminded her and she grudgingly poured me a glass of tea, as well as one for herself.
“I’m going to have a look round tomorrow,” I said. “But I think you should stay in your room.”
She began to protest.
“It’s for your own safety,” I wheedled. “What if that maniac has followed us and is planning another attempt on your life?” He would be making his way back to town and wouldn’t be anywhere near the village of N—, but if the maid was confined to her room, it would greatly improve the quality of life for everyone else.
I could see warring emotions re-enact the battle of Waterloo on her face. Then Wellington triumphed and she decided that it would give her extra kudos if she was known to be at risk of assassination.
She went off to disseminate the information throughout the household. “Someone tried to kill me today!” I heard her announce in the corridor.
“Just one?” said the housekeeper in an undertone, coming back into the parlour to check that I had everything I needed.
“Pour yourself some tea and sit down,” I said and she looked startled. This obviously didn’t happen when the count and countess were in residence. She perched on the edge of a chair, holding the glass in front of her as though she was a toddler in an egg-and-spoon race.
“Have you worked long for the count and countess?” I asked.
“I worked for the count before he was married, which was very pleasant since he was never here,” she said, and then realised this was a bit of a gaffe. “I don’t mean any disrespect, madam, what with you being a friend of theirs.”
“Not a friend,” I said firmly. “An acquaintance.”
She nodded, and settled into a more comfortable position in the chair. We understood each other.
“And then?” I prompted.
“And then came the incident of which we are forbidden to speak.”
“Yes, I know all about it,” I assured her.
“That meant the count and his new wife were obliged to live here. It has been a great relief to have them move back to town.”
We contemplated this for a while, sighing companionably.
“Something else I wanted to ask you about,” I said. “I want to find out about a young man, blond, blue-eyed, really gorgeous, the countess’s protégé.”
The housekeeper didn’t snigger, presumably because she didn’t know French. “A terrible business,” she said. “I have never known such depravity.”
I didn’t need to ask her what she meant. I’d had glimmers of suspicion, but always steered away from them. Now I knew for sure. A guileless serf, too handsome for his own good, preyed on by the dissolute lady of the manor. I must save him, and get him safely married to Lidia.
“Am I right in thinking,” I said delicately, “that all has not been well between the count and countess?”
“We are obviously forbidden to speak of it,” said the housekeeper.
“Obviously,” I nodded.
“But from the very beginning, nothing has been well between the count and countess because of the incident of which we are forbidden to speak.”
I could see that the new bride, desperate to become a socialite in town, would be pretty miffed to discover she had to stay in the back of beyond. But that was no excuse for seducing serfs.
“If I wanted to find out more about the depravity, where should I start?” I asked.
The housekeeper put down her tea glass and stood up.
“I’m afraid, madam, that’s not a matter with which I can help you.”
“You misunderstand me,” I said. “I’m not seeking any personal involvement in the depravity. I’m as shocked as you are by what’s been going on, and I want to put a stop to it.”
She dropped back into the chair. “You’re a member of the Skoptsy, madam?”
I searched my memory: the Skoptsy were a weird extreme sect who went around campaigning against lust. But before I could assure her I wasn’t an extremist about anything except feminism, she said, “I thought it was a myth that the female Skoptsy went to great lengths to avoid arousing passion in men, but looking at you, I see it is true. You should talk to the schoolmaster of N—, the most important man in the village. Apart from the priest, he is the only person who can read and write.”
“He doesn’t sound a very good schoolmaster if his pupils can’t read and write,” I said.
“Oh, save us, madam, he doesn’t have any pupils—he’s much too grand for that,” said the housekeeper.
So I set off for the village, having warned the maid to stay indoors. She seemed happy enough, now wearing my second-best dress. The housekeeper was horrified that I was going to walk and wanted to call a carriage, but I had on my DMs and it was a sunny day. I definitely didn’t need the fur coat and just put on a light pelisse that I found in my luggage. It struck me that Old Vatrushkin packed better with his eyes closed than the maid would have done with her eyes open.
It was a pleasant walk, along an isolated woodland path leading past a picturesque pond. When I reached the village, I made for the biggest house and knocked on the door. A flustered middle-aged woman appeared, clutching a feather duster.
“Hello,” I said, “I’m looking for the schoolmaster.”
“Dmitri Dmitrievich?”
“If that’s the name of the schoolmaster, then that’s the very chap,” I said.
“Do you want him to read something for you, or to write something for you?” she asked.
It would be showing off to tell her about my literacy skills. “No, I just wanted a chat,” I said. “I’m from town.”
Her eyes grew large and she dropped the feather duster. “From town! I used to live in town. Is it still as beautiful?”
“It’s very nice,” I said. “Any chance of a word with Dmitri Dmitrievich?”
“Of course, of course! A chat, you say? So you’re a visitor? In that case, let me show you to the drawing room. His study is for clients, not for visitors. Dmitri Dmitrievich! We have a visitor! Who wants a chat!”
An elderly man with spectacles and a long flowing beard emerged from what was presumably his study.
“A visitor, you say, wife? Who wants a chat?”
“Yes, this young lady!” The wife flung her arms wide as though she were a magician presenting a very large rabbit. Had she known the word, she would undoubtedly have said “ta-da!”
“How very remarkable,” said the schoolmaster.
“Yes, isn’t it? I said you would chat to her in the drawing room. I’ll make tea.” She turned to me, bursting with pride. “We have sugar.”
The drawing room was small but very well dusted. The wife flung open her arms beside an armchair in another “ta-da!” moment, and I realised this was where I should sit.
“Very comfy,” I said. Too overcome with delight to speak, she rushed off to make the tea.
The schoolmaster had chosen a plain wooden seat, more in keeping with his ascetic demeanour. “Now, young lady, what do you want to chat about?” he asked. “I can chat about astronomy, history, geology, moral philosophy and metaphysics—”
“Yes, I can chat about all these things too,” I said, to reassure him that I wasn’t a time waster. “But I want to ask you about a local serf.”
“Ah yes,” he said. “I know all of the local serfs. They come to me if there is something they need to have read or written. In other villages, they would go to the priest, but the priest here is a very inflexible man who does not believe in helping sinners.”
How very unlike the Reverend John Thomson of Duddingston Kirk.
“It’s one of the countess’s serfs, a young man called Sasha.”
The schoolmaster frowned behind his glasses. “I don’t know any such young man.”
“You must do. Sasha. Twenty years old.”
The schoolmaster stroked his beard. “No. I do not know him.”
“Twenty years old, unbelievably good-looking,” I prompted.
He shook his head just as his wife reappeared with the tea and sugar. And there was simultaneously a rap at the front door. The wife took a step forward, then a step back, then another step forward. She’d have been a natural for the Gay Gordons.
