Spies in St. Petersburg

‘Staying in one place is all very well – but there’s nothing quite like the feeling of excitement I get when I see Papa bringing out the maps and railway timetables. Before I know it, he’ll have our trunks fetched, and then he’ll say: Pack your things, Alice! We shall soon be on the move again!’

– From the diary of Alice Grayson

Mayfair, London, England

‘Where will you be travelling this year, my dear?’ asked the lady in pink satin ruffles. ‘The Riviera, as usual?’

‘Yes, and then to St Moritz for winter sports,’ replied her friend in lace frills. ‘What about you?’

‘Oh, Charles is always so tiresome about wanting to attend shooting parties in the autumn,’ sighed the lady in pink. ‘Not at all my idea of fun! But I hope we shall go away in a month or two. I simply long for abroad!’

‘London is so dull once the Season has ended,’ agreed her companion, looking around the room with a disappointed air. ‘Everything interesting seems to happen somewhere else.’

It was true that the summer Season, with its grand entertainments, was over. Yet this quieter autumn gathering was still magnificent by most people’s standards. The long supper table was heaped with tempting delicacies, and silver bowls of fruit punch gleamed in the glittering light of the chandeliers. The ballroom was bathed in rich golden light, and outside the long windows, London was turning gold too. The leaves of the trees flamed yellow and orange, and a hundred little lights twinkled in the distance, as a soft blue twilight fell.

In the ballroom, a string quartet played an elegant waltz, and young ladies in white frocks danced gracefully with upright young gentlemen, whilst their mamas watched approvingly from the sidelines. At the edge of the dance floor, one of the sons of the house was being chivvied forward by his own mama.

‘Good heavens, Rupert! What is the matter with you?’ Lady Grenville pointed her fan in the direction of a young lady across the room. ‘Look – there’s Lady Cynthia, sitting all by herself! Can’t you go and ask her in to supper with you?’

But Rupert shrugged her off. He had no interest in his mother’s social gatherings, which he thought dull and old-fashioned. He didn’t want to dance with the prim debutantes, or to chat with their earnest dancing partners. Most of all, he did not want to sit and have supper with the sneering Lady Cynthia, under the beady eye of her chaperone. Muttering something gruff, he strode off to the refreshment table, helping himself to another cup of punch before retreating to a corner where he stood alone, pulling at his too-tight collar.

From across the room, a girl stood and watched him. Anyone who noticed her would probably think her just the same as the other young ladies present – a pretty girl of eighteen or so, who had no doubt made her ‘debut’ in society that summer. Yet a sharp-eyed observer might have noticed that there was something different about her. It was hard to pinpoint exactly what it was: perhaps her stylish white gown, perhaps her shining dark hair with the vivid spray of crimson roses pinned against it – or perhaps the bright gleam in her eyes, as she glanced around the room, as though she was seeing it more clearly than anyone else.

For a moment more, she watched Rupert fold his arms and sprawl back against the mantelpiece. Then she crossed the room towards him.

‘These balls are so dreadfully dull – don’t you think?’

Rupert turned in surprise. Wrapped up in his boredom, he hadn’t noticed her approaching. Now, she stood just behind him, leaning against the wall as though she was as bored as he was himself. He looked up at her – for she was taller than he was – and his eyes widened. Well-brought-up young ladies did not normally go wandering about the ballroom, starting up conversations with young men to whom they had not been properly introduced.

‘Oh yes . . . er . . . rather,’ he stuttered in reply.

‘I’d much rather go out on the town, wouldn’t you?’ She flipped her ostrich-feather fan open and began fanning herself lazily. ‘Perhaps to the Café Royal. Now that’s quite a place. You never know who is going to be there, or what is going to happen.’

‘Oh rather!’ said Rupert, more enthusiastically this time. He’d never actually been to the Café Royal himself, but he’d heard it was a wild and exciting sort of place – a thousand miles away from his mother’s sedate ballroom.

The girl let out a sigh. ‘If only we could escape! But I suppose we’ll have to put up with all this instead.’ She gestured dismissively towards the waltzing couples.

‘Would you . . . I mean . . . do you think that you might like to . . . ?’ Rupert found himself asking, looking awkwardly from her to the dance floor, and then back again.

‘To dance?’ The girl laughed, as though he’d made a joke. ‘Oh, good heavens, no, Mr Grenville! I don’t care for that kind of dancing. If it was a ragtime tune, now that would be different. But I know – why don’t you show me around the house instead?’ She flashed him a dazzling smile. ‘Perhaps we could find somewhere to sit and talk? That would be much better than a stuffy old waltz, wouldn’t it?’

‘Oh yes, absolutely,’ Rupert replied fervently. He didn’t think he’d ever seen this girl before, and he wanted very much to know her name, but somehow he felt embarrassed to ask the question – especially when she obviously knew who he was. Before he could say anything more, she had placed her hand on his arm, and they were going out of the ballroom and into the long hallway.

‘Your father has a simply wonderful art collection,’ she was saying. ‘I’m tremendously interested in art – aren’t you?’

‘Oh rather!’ said Rupert again, although the truth was he’d never given very much thought to his father’s art collection, besides the fact that it was worth a terrific lot of money. Sir Edwin Grenville was a wealthy merchant banker, and buying art was just one of the things he did as a matter of course – like dining at his club, or playing golf with his business associates.

‘Where does he keep the rest of his paintings? Perhaps you could show me?’

Rupert found himself blushing. Most of the debutantes he met were so polite and demure – it was hard to know how to respond to a girl who started conversations, and asked questions, and looked at him so directly with her large dark eyes. He opened the door to his father’s study, explaining: ‘Most of them are in here.’

The girl glanced quickly around, taking in the panelled walls hung with oil paintings in heavy gold frames. ‘What a lot there are,’ she observed. ‘Where did your father get them all?’

‘Oh, you know. Here and there,’ said Rupert, trying to sound confident – though honestly, he was not entirely sure. ‘Auctions and so on. He’s travelled abroad a lot for his work, and he always seems to come back with something new. Actually, he said he’ll take me with him on his next trip,’ he couldn’t resist adding, feeling a swell of pride at the thought.

‘Oh, really? I’m fond of travelling myself. It’s always thrilling to see new places and have adventures.’

Rupert felt rather surprised. ‘I didn’t think young ladies were allowed to do much of that sort of thing.’

‘Didn’t you?’ She had turned to examine a painting more closely, now she turned back to him. ‘It’s not a bad selection. One or two nice pieces, I suppose,’ she said, flipping her fan open once again.

‘This isn’t all of them, of course,’ Rupert said hurriedly, keen not to disappoint. ‘There are more paintings in the dining room – and some of the very special ones aren’t on display.’

The girl’s eyes brightened. ‘Very special ones? Like what?’ she asked.

‘Well, he’s got some Turner sketches,’ said Rupert, remembering a name he knew.

But the girl wasn’t impressed: ‘Oh – Turner. I mean, they’re wonderful of course, but I’ve seen dozens of them in galleries before.’

‘Or there’s a Benedetto Casselli,’ Rupert added, knowing that, at least, was certain to be impressive. Still, he was unprepared for her awed reaction:

‘A Benedetto Casselli? Not really? Now that’s something! His work is terrifically rare.’

‘It’s a very important painting,’ Rupert boasted.

‘I say, how splendid. Will you show it to me?’

Rupert was struck by a sudden prickle of anxiety. He’d forgotten for a moment that the Casselli dragon painting was supposed to be a secret. His father kept it hidden away in his safe, rather than hanging on the wall with the rest – though he’d told Rupert and his older brother Oliver that it was the most valuable and important work in his entire collection. ‘If anything should ever happen to me, you must make sure you take the utmost care of it,’ he’d said in a very serious voice.

‘I’ve never seen a Casselli painting before. They’re supposed to be perfectly magnificent! It would be such a thrill to see it for myself,’ the girl was saying.

Rupert frowned, battling with himself. He knew he’d said too much already, and he was about to try and explain that he couldn’t show her – but the girl was still talking: ‘And then – do you have a motor car? I’ve got rather a wicked idea! Why don’t we slip away together, and drive into town to go to the Café Royal? We’d be able to have a bit of real fun that way – and I bet we could be back before anyone noticed we’d gone!’

All thoughts of the painting fled at once from Rupert’s mind. ‘I say . . . could we really? That would be a lark!’ As a matter of fact, he didn’t have a motor car himself, but his brother did, and Rupert was pretty sure he could drive it just as well as Oliver. He could already imagine how marvellous it would be to roll into town in the fine new motor, and then pull up at the door of the glamorous Café Royal with a beautiful young lady at his side . . . He felt ready to charge out of the door at once, but the girl laid a restraining hand on his arm.

‘Don’t forget the painting,’ she said. ‘Do just let me have a quick peep before we go.’

‘All right,’ said Rupert, unable to resist. ‘But it’s supposed to be a secret – so you won’t tell anyone about it, will you?’

The girl looked even more excited by the prospect of a secret painting. ‘Of course I won’t tell a soul,’ she said breathlessly. ‘How perfectly thrilling!’

Feeling rather excited himself now, Rupert hurried over to the large mahogany cabinet in the corner which housed his father’s big metal safe. Luckily he knew the combination, and a moment later he had removed the leather folder stamped with the shape of the twisting golden dragon, which he knew contained the painting. He laid it on the desk and lifted the cover with awkward fingers. Beside him, the girl gave a gasp of admiration.

The painting was small – not much bigger than a notebook – and obviously very old. She leaned forward, her hand tightening on his sleeve, as she gazed at the sinuous shape of the dragon, painted in a rich crimson. Its snaking form was shown against a background of a dark stormy sky, and piled at its feet were a heap of bones and what looked like a human skull.

Rupert had only seen the painting once before, and truth be told, he’d not been very keen on it – it was so small and dark, and so jolly sinister-looking – but it was clear the girl felt differently. For a moment or two, she said nothing and only stared.

‘Do you like it?’ asked Rupert at last.

‘Oh, Mr Grenville,’ she sighed. ‘It’s absolutely marvellous!’

‘Do call me Rupert,’ said Rupert at once, thinking how debonair that sounded.

‘Rupert, then. Gosh – I’ve never seen anything like it! Thanks awfully for showing it to me.’

Rupert hurried the painting back into its folder, and away into the safe as quickly as he could. He most certainly did not want his father to know that he’d been showing his secret painting to one of their guests – though it had all been worth it to see the glow of admiration in her eyes. ‘Shall we go, then?’ he said, offering her his arm.

But just then the door of the study was flung noisily open. A young man came bowling into the room, followed by another young man and two laughing young ladies, who all flung themselves down into the big leather armchairs.

‘Rupert, old chap! There you are. What are you doing back here? We’ve found your hiding place, old thing. Your mama’s in a frightful tizz looking for you. She’s dreadfully keen for you to dance with Lady Cynthia, you know. I say – who wants a brandy? You’ll take one, won’t you, Hugo? And one for you of course, old fellow.’

Rupert found a glass was being thrust into his hand. He turned to smile apologetically at the girl – but then stopped in surprise. ‘I say – wherever did she go?’

‘Where did who go, old fellow? Cheers, everyone – bottoms up!’

But Rupert didn’t join in the toast. He was still staring around him. To his astonishment, and intense disappointment, the beautiful young lady with red roses in her hair had vanished. He strode to the door, but outside the hallway was empty. It was as if she had never even been there. ‘And dash it all,’ he muttered. ‘I still don’t know her name!’

Secret Service Bureau HQ, London

Lilian Rose had quite a lot of unusual talents. She could perform a perfect double pirouette, sing various amusing comic songs whilst accompanying herself on the piano, and recite screeds of Shakespeare from memory. She was also not a bad burglar, when occasion required it – which in her line of work, it quite often did.

It had taken her just seconds to slip unnoticed out of Sir Edwin Grenville’s study and into the darkened room opposite. Inside, she stood behind the door, peering through a crack as Rupert came out into the hall – looking all around him to see where she had got to – and then hurried off towards the ballroom.

She didn’t have to wait very long before the others followed him. As soon as they had all gone, Lil opened the door, and slipped soundlessly across the hall. A moment later, she was back in the now-empty study. The mahogany cabinet was open, and she was expertly twirling the dial of the safe with her white-gloved fingertips. Really, poor old Rupert had made it far too easy for her – he hadn’t even bothered to hide the combination.

Inside the safe, she found the leather folder stamped with the familiar symbol of the twisting gold dragon. She’d recognised it at once: after all, she’d seen a Casselli painting kept inside one just like it before, in circumstances she was not likely to forget. She grasped it and pulled it out – and then at last, the precious painting was in her hands.

Her skin prickled with the excitement and strangeness of it. She’d been hunting for The Red Dragon for a long time; it was hard to believe that the painting, which was supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago when a British ship was set upon by pirates, was really here, in this house in West London – and she had it at last! But she knew there was no time to hang about feeling pleased with herself. Quickly, she closed the safe and then the cabinet door: no sense in making it completely obvious that a burglary had taken place.

Silent in her satin slippers, she went back out into the long hallway. But before she could take another step, she realised that someone was approaching. Not Rupert but an older man with white hair and a bristling moustache, talking in a low voice to his companion, a middle-aged man in evening dress. Lil knew that the man with the white hair was Sir Edwin himself.

There was no time for her to get away, but Lil had done this kind of thing far too many times to panic. By the time Sir Edwin and his friend reached the study door, they saw nothing but a young lady examining her reflection in a looking glass, her fluffy ostrich-feather fan cast down on a polished table at her side.

She turned, as if startled, and bowed her head politely – her cheeks pink, as though she was embarrassed to have been caught preening before the mirror. Sir Edwin gave her an indulgent smile and said ‘Good evening’, before disappearing with his friend into the study.

The second the door had closed behind them, Lil lifted the fan, revealing beneath it the painting in its folder.

Really, you never knew when a fan was going to come in handy, she reflected, as she swiftly picked up the folder and darted away down the hall.

She’d already planned her route out of the house, and now she went swiftly through the green baize door that led to the servants’ quarters – knowing quite well that none of the grand party guests would follow her there. With the painting tucked under her arm, she went lightly down the stairs – past a busy kitchen full of steam and rattling saucepans, where Cook was yelling at someone about oysters, past the Butler’s pantry, past a confused-looking boot boy – and then out of the servants’ entrance and into the yard.

She’d stashed an old carpet bag amongst some bushes in the garden. Under cover of the shrubbery, she retrieved it, and a moment later the white evening gown was hidden beneath an ordinary brown coat, and the red roses by a plain brown felt hat. The painting was tucked inside the carpet bag, carefully cushioned by her fluffy fan. Now she was no debutante but an ordinary girl – perhaps a housemaid on her night off – walking briskly, but in no special hurry, down the street towards Park Lane where she could catch an omnibus.

Somewhere behind her, in the yard of Sir Edwin’s mansion, she heard the sound of running footsteps. A voice yelled out; electric torches were flashed into the darkness of the garden. So they already knew the painting was gone? That was rather interesting. Had Rupert cottoned on and raised the alarm – or had Sir Edwin opened his safe and noticed his painting was missing?

Just the same, she forced herself to stroll on towards the bus stop without speeding up. She didn’t even flinch when a motor car came roaring out of Sir Edwin’s driveway, rushing past her at top speed. She knew that hurrying would only make her look suspicious – and besides, there was not the smallest chance that Sir Edwin, or Rupert, or any of the party guests would make a connection between the elegant young lady in white and the ordinary girl in the brown coat, waiting for the omnibus with a shabby carpet bag at her side.

The omnibus rumbled up, and Lil hopped aboard. ‘Good evening,’ she said cheerfully to the conductor, casting a last glimpse over her shoulder at the bright golden lights of Sir Edwin’s mansion, before the omnibus carried her and the dragon painting safely away, into the London night.

Twelve hours later she was walking over the cobbles towards the headquarters of the Secret Service Bureau. Both the evening dress and the old brown coat had vanished, and she was dressed in her own clothes, but the carpet bag was still close at her side. A light rain was falling, but it was warm for September and Lil didn’t bother with an umbrella.