Spies in St. Petersburg
In a strange way, she thought, as she made her way behind the shop towards the staff entrance, it was the Clockwork Sparrow that had brought her here. It had certainly helped her get this job at Riviere’s: when she’d explained she had worked at Sinclair’s, London’s finest department store, for the famous Mr Edward Sinclair, himself a great collector of Rivière’s objects, and when she had talked of his marvellous Clockwork Sparrow, she had been hired almost at once. Of course, it helped that she spoke French – the language of St Petersburg’s aristocrats, who considered Russian the language of the peasants. And being English was a distinct advantage too: for in Russia, her new colleague Irina had explained to her, any English person was automatically considered someone of importance – even a ‘milord’ or ‘milady’.
Now, she pushed open the door and went through into the workshop at the back of the shop. No one even glanced up at her – except for Boris, one of the master jewellers, and Vera’s husband – who gave her a quick, kindly smile from where he was already hard at work examining some technical drawings that were spread out on the workbench before him.
Sophie was quite used to that. In Rivière’s workshop, there was always a feeling of intense concentration in the air. The only sounds to be heard were the scrape of a stool on the floor, the clink of a delicate jeweller’s instrument, or the occasional brief mutter in any one of a dozen languages – for Rivière’s artisans came from all over Europe. With protective smocks over their clothing, the jewellers bent low over their workbenches, holding tiny paintbrushes or magnifiers in their hands – whilst behind them, polished wooden shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, each filled with miniature objects, glinting with precious stones or bright with enamel designs.
Sophie slipped quietly past, towards the cloakroom. She found herself thinking, as she often did, of how strange it was that the Clockwork Sparrow had been made here in this very room. How peculiar it was that so much could have come from something so small – a tiny mechanical bird she could hold in the palm of her hand! For if the Clockwork Sparrow had never existed and been stolen, she might never have discovered her talent for detective work; Taylor & Rose might never have existed; she might never have known about the Baron and his secret society, the Fraternitas Draconum. And of course, if it were not for the Fraternitas she wouldn’t be in St Petersburg at all.
She’d come here on the trail of a notebook which the Fraternitas had stolen: a most important notebook that contained research about the sinister society itself, but more significantly, information about a powerful secret weapon they had hidden away centuries ago. They had concealed clues to the weapon’s location in Benedetto Casselli’s dragon paintings, so that future members of the society could find it. The notebook contained information about how the clues in the paintings could be ‘decoded’ to locate the weapon: but if the Fraternitas were to get hold of it, Sophie knew they would use it to help spark off a terrible war in Europe. It was down to her to get the notebook – and prevent them.
Somewhere, she mused, as she went into the cloakroom to hang up her coat and tidy her hair, in some other world, there was no Clockwork Sparrow. In that world, there was a Sophie who had never come here, who didn’t think at all about things like secret weapons, or wars, or shadowy societies. Perhaps that Sophie was still selling hats at Sinclair’s, gazing out of the window at Piccadilly Circus, and looking forward to going out to tea with Lil.
It was a cosy thought, yet at the same time it made her feel strangely uncomfortable. Her old life seemed small and restricted – a little box into which she would no longer be able to contain herself. Now, she was a thousand miles from London and Piccadilly Circus. And yet at the same time, Rivière’s was oddly like Sinclair’s, she mused, as she went through into the shop, where sales assistants in white gloves moved quietly to and fro. There was the same sumptuously thick carpet; the same richly polished wood and velvet; the same aroma of beeswax, and perfume, and luxury. The Russian countesses admiring jewels could so easily be London ladies, excited about a new Paris hat.
The shop manager gave her a quick nod, gesturing towards a group gathered around a display of diamond bracelets. Sophie went over to them at once: ‘Bonjour, mesdames,’ she began. ‘May I be of any help?’
But even as she showed them the bracelets, Sophie kept a sharp eye out. There was someone she was looking for amidst the silk top hats and frothy ostrich feathers – one person she wanted to see, more than anyone else.
He wasn’t the kind of person anyone else would have paid any attention to. He looked like an ordinary old man, with an unkempt beard. He wore a shabby overcoat with the collar turned up, and his hat pulled low. He wasn’t like the other gentlemen who came to Rivière’s: the haughty young aristocrats; the Tsar’s officers with their gleaming gold braid; the wealthy merchants in fur-lined coats. And yet he visited the shop almost every day. Once there, he would shuffle his way slowly around, before coming to rest, in silent contemplation, before a cabinet of enamelled opera glasses and jewelled lorgnettes. It was always the same display that held him transfixed – and as he looked at it, Sophie looked at him.
The beard, the hat and the collar did not fool her in the least. She knew that this was no ordinary, shabby, harmless old man. In fact, the man who was gazing at the opera glasses was the reason she was here in St Petersburg – and he was someone very dangerous indeed.
Rivière’s, The Nevsky Prospekt, St Petersburg
‘I don’t understand why you waste time on him,’ Irina muttered, as she and Sophie stood together behind the counter, some distance away from where the old man was peering at a gilded magnifying glass. ‘He’s never going to buy anything! He’s obviously got no money – just look at the state of his overcoat!’
‘I know,’ said Sophie, with a shrug. ‘I suppose I feel sorry for him.’
Irina tutted disapprovingly. ‘Alice! I know you haven’t been here very long, but you have to understand! If you want to earn a commission, you can’t start feeling sorry for people. You have to choose your customers with care.’ She cast her eye around the shop. ‘Look – see him, for example? That young fellow, with the gold trim on his coat. He’s got money burning a hole in his pocket, I can tell. See how he wants to impress his lady friend? I recognise her – she’s a dancer from the Mariinsky. He’s the one you want to go for.’
She raised her eyes at Sophie, encouraging her, but Sophie just smiled. ‘He’s all yours,’ she said sweetly.
Irina shrugged. ‘Your loss. I bet you fifty kopeks I can get him to buy that gold bonbonnière.’
She strolled off in the direction of the young man, and Sophie grinned after her. She was fond of Irina, whose easy confidence sometimes reminded her a little of Lil. But the truth was, she wasn’t concerned with earning a commission. The small attaché case, carefully hidden under her bed in her room at Vera’s, contained more money than Irina would earn in a year, courtesy of the Secret Service Bureau.
Sophie wasn’t here to earn money. She was here for the old man in the shabby overcoat.
‘May I help you? Would you like to take a closer look at the opera glasses?’
He looked up and smiled at her, a little embarrassed. ‘You must think I am mad,’ he said, in fluent French – though Sophie could detect the traces of a German accent. ‘Almost every day I come here, and every time you are kind enough to show these to me.’
‘Not at all. It’s my job,’ said Sophie pleasantly, as she unlocked the cabinet with one of the small keys that hung on her belt. ‘We have many customers who come back to look at their favourite items. There is one lady who likes to try on a particular diamond tiara every week!’ she added, with a smile.
The old man smiled back, but his eyes were already fixed on the pearl and ruby opera glasses she was showing him. ‘Fascinating,’ he murmured, extending a careful fingertip to touch the gold filigree. ‘Such perfect craftsmanship!’
‘Is there anything else you would care to look at today, Herr Schmidt?’
Sophie knew that the man’s name wasn’t ‘Herr Schmidt’, any more than her own was ‘Mademoiselle Alice Grayson’. She’d decided to use her mother’s name as her alias – her false name – while she was travelling undercover. It seemed rather appropriate, as she knew her mother had visited St Petersburg as a young girl: she’d read all about it in the old diaries that she had inherited.
For a brief moment, she wondered why the man standing before her had chosen ‘Herr Schmidt’ as his own alias. Perhaps he simply thought that with such an ordinary German name, no one could possibly guess that he was no harmless old man, but in fact the Count Rudolf von Wilderstein – disgraced cousin of the King of Arnovia, and husband of the notorious Countess von Wilderstein, hiding under a false identity in St Petersburg.
When Sophie had left Paris in Captain Nakamura’s aeroplane, she’d never expected she’d end up following the Count all the way to Russia. She’d hoped she would be able to catch up with him at the next stage of the air race, and seize back the stolen notebook he was carrying: the notebook containing the all-important information about the secret weapon. But catching up with the Count had not been as easy as she’d hoped. After the dramatic arrest of the Countess in Paris, he and his plane had disappeared from the race, as though they had vanished into thin air.
It had been Nakamura who had explained that it would not be possible for the Count to disappear altogether – not if he continued to travel by plane, at any rate. After all, there were not very many airfields where a pilot could stop to refuel, or to fix the endless problems which Sophie had learned affected aeroplanes at every stage of a journey. And so, at each stage of the air race, while Nakamura had traded stories with the other pilots, or made essential repairs to his plane, Sophie had talked to the mechanics to learn what she could of the Count’s whereabouts. As the weeks passed and they made their way across Europe, telegrams had zigzagged back and forth to the Bureau in London, and with their help, she’d pieced together the Count’s route. At first he’d roughly followed the path of the air race, taking advantage of the free passage across borders offered to the pilots. He’d travelled out of France to Belgium, and then to the Netherlands, where they’d almost caught up with him, missing him at the airfield by barely an hour. After that they’d lost him for a while, before getting a tip-off that he had landed at an airfield in Sweden.
‘He must be in a great hurry,’ Nakamura had said, as they studied the route that Sophie had pencilled on the map. ‘He’s barely stopped to rest for more than an hour at a time – and flying is tiring. I would think it dangerous to fly so long without a proper break.’
‘I think he’s trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and Arnovia,’ Sophie had observed. ‘He must know he’s wanted by the authorities, for plotting against the King.’
‘So what will we do now?’ Nakamura had asked. ‘There are only two more stops: Milan, and then Zurich. The air race will be finished in a few days. After that, would you like to go in pursuit of the Count and the notebook?’
Sophie had looked up at him, pleased and surprised. She’d assumed that Nakamura would go back to Japan as soon as the air race was over – but now here he was, proposing that they keep following the Count.
‘I’d like that very much, if you really would be willing. But I just wish I knew for sure that he still has the notebook.’ It was far too precious to be sent by post, but there was always the risk that the Count had handed it to some fellow on an airfield somewhere, who’d been entrusted with seeing it safely into the hands of the Fraternitas. ‘If he hasn’t, then all I’ve done will be for nothing.’
Nakamura had been looking down at the map, as though already working out their route. He’d glanced up and raised his eyebrows at Sophie. ‘Well . . . there’s only one way to find out,’ he’d said simply.
And Nakamura had been right. She’d come so far already: there was no sense in giving up. By the time they’d arrived in Milan, her sources were reporting that the Count had left Sweden for St Petersburg, in Russia, where he’d made arrangements to store his plane – suggesting he planned to stay there for a little while at least. A telegram to the Chief had ensured papers were ready for them to collect in Zurich, which would eventually allow them to travel over the border to Russia.
Once they’d arrived in St Petersburg, Sophie had put her detective skills to work, eventually tracking down the Count’s aeroplane, stored in a farm shed not far from the airfield. From there she’d worked hard to locate the man himself, who she learned had taken a room in one of the city’s dingier hotels, under the name of ‘Herr Schmidt’.
‘I bet he’s meeting someone from the Fraternitas here to hand over the notebook,’ she’d said to Nakamura that evening, over a Russian dinner of unfamiliar, strangely fragranced dishes. ‘He can’t have given it to them yet.’
‘How can you be sure?’ Nakamura had asked.
‘If he had, they’d have paid him well for it – and that hotel doesn’t look like the sort of place that a member of a Royal family would stay, if they had money.’
For the next two days, she’d watched the Count’s hotel but there had been no sign of him. She’d barely been able to bring herself to stay away for a few hours’ sleep, she’d been so determined not to miss her chance. At last, her persistence had been rewarded: she’d glimpsed the Count slipping out of the hotel, and hurrying along the street. Was he going to meet his Fraternitas contact at last?
But no meeting had taken place. Instead, Sophie had tracked him to a bank on the Nevsky, where after a short conversation with a clerk, he’d passed a small parcel wrapped in brown paper over the counter. Afterwards, she’d followed him to Wolff’s, where he’d bought an Arnovian newspaper; to a café where he’d sat at a table in the darkest corner, and furtively eaten a large pastry, topped with chocolate and cream; and finally, strangest of all, to Rivière’s, the city’s most magnificent jeweller, where he’d lingered outside for a while, as if trying to pluck up the courage to venture in.
He’d spoken to no one but the cake-shop waitress and the bank clerk. He’d walked with his head down and his collar turned up against the wind. Sophie knew he’d been a military man, who had won medals for his bravery, but he hadn’t looked brave, nor in the least like someone who until recently had hoped to rule a country. Instead, he’d looked only lonely, tired – and afraid.
‘He’s hiding,’ she’d said to Nakamura. ‘He’s worried about being caught, even here.’
‘What about the notebook?’
Sophie had leaned her chin in her hands. ‘I’m pretty sure the notebook is what was inside that brown paper parcel. It looked to me as though he was putting it into a safe deposit box at the bank, which is rather interesting.’
‘Why?’ Nakamura had asked. ‘I would think that was a very sensible thing to do.’
‘Oh, of course. It’s absolutely sensible. In a bank vault it’s safe – there’s no risk of someone like me trying to steal it. But I don’t believe he’d have put the notebook into the bank if he was expecting to hand it over to the Fraternitas immediately. He must be expecting to wait for at least a few days.’ She couldn’t help thinking that was rather strange. She knew how important the notebook was to the Fraternitas, and how much they wanted the information it contained. Why would they delay collecting it from the Count?
What’s more, how was she to get hold of it now? If the Count had kept it in his hotel room, or even in his pocket, she’d have had a chance at stealing it. But locked away in a bank vault? That would be impossible. She’d have to wait for the Count to withdraw it from the bank to give it to his Fraternitas contact before she’d have her chance.
She’d kept a careful watch on the Count, but even after a week had passed he hadn’t returned to withdraw the notebook. It had been time for a new strategy, so she had come to Rivière’s.
Now, under the twinkle of the crystal chandelier, the Count was saying to her: ‘You must get quite used to these treasures, being surrounded by them every day.’
‘Oh, I don’t believe I could ever get used to them!’ Sophie replied. ‘I have my own special favourites too.’
She’d intended to point to one of the bird music boxes, but a sudden instinct made her point instead towards a silver box with a delicate enamel painting of a London scene on its lid – the river and the spires of Westminster.
The Count turned to examine it. ‘A lovely English scene. You are English, are you not, mademoiselle?’
Sophie felt triumphant. She’d been talking to the Count at Rivière’s for several days – but this was the first time he’d asked her a question about herself. ‘Yes, from London,’ she replied casually. ‘This reminds me of home, which seems very far away. You’re far from home too, aren’t you?’
She said it as lightly as she could, turning slightly away to close the door of the cabinet, so the Count could not see her face. She dared to add: ‘From Arnovia, I think?’
Even though she wasn’t looking at him, she felt the Count stiffen. There was a moment of tense silence, in which she locked the cabinet door and then turned to him with an expression of perfect innocence.
‘You know Arnovia?’ he asked, in a hoarse voice.
‘Oh no, not really. I’ve never been there. But I met a couple of Arnovians once, and I remember what they sounded like.’ No lie in that. She had met some Arnovians once, if you counted those brief moments on the airfield in Paris, when she and Lil had rescued Crown Prince Alex with Princess Anna’s help. ‘I believe it’s a lovely place,’ she added.
Relaxing now, the Count nodded. ‘It is,’ he agreed, wistfully. ‘The mountains are beautiful. And Elffburg, the capital – it is a perfect little city. There’s nowhere else like it.’
‘You must miss it very much,’ said Sophie. ‘I know I miss London.’
But the Count only nodded briefly, as if realising he’d stayed longer than he should have. ‘I’ve taken up too much of your time, mademoiselle. Thank you for showing me the opera glasses.’
Sophie smiled in her friendliest manner. ‘Come again. It’s been a pleasure to talk with a fellow exile.’
The Count looked at her sharply. ‘Exile?’ he repeated.
Her face remained innocent as she replied: ‘Yes – it almost feels like that, doesn’t it, when you’re far from home? Come again and tell me more about Arnovia. Perhaps I’ll go there one day. I’d like to see Elffburg – and I hear they have the most wonderful cakes!’
The Count’s face broke into an unexpected smile. ‘Indeed they do! The cake shops here are not bad – but I have found only one patisserie, in the Summer Gardens, that does real Arnovian-style pastries.’
‘I’ll have to try it,’ said Sophie.
The Count bowed a polite farewell, and shuffled away – past Irina, who was taking the gold bonbonnière to be wrapped for her customer.
Sophie watched him go, disappearing into the crowds on the Nevsky. It might not have seemed like much of an exchange, but for her it was important. It was a small but significant step towards completing her mission – and she was beginning to think that her plan for getting back the stolen notebook might just work.
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