Chapter 3
THE MYSTERIOUS ADMIRER
The florist's card from Anya's dressing room bore the elegant script of Pemberton & Sons, Fine Flowers, with an address in Bloomsbury.
I hailed a cab, my mind turning over the details I'd gathered.
A Russian man with concealed hands, expensive gifts that frightened rather than pleased, and now a paper trail that might lead me to answers.
The shop occupied the ground floor of a narrow Georgian building, its windows filled with elaborate arrangements that perfumed the street despite the closed door. As I entered, a bell chimed and the heady scent of roses, lilies, and gardenias enveloped me.
An elderly gentleman emerged from behind a curtain of trailing ferns, wiping his hands on a leather apron. His weathered face creased into a professional smile.
"Good afternoon, miss. How may I assist you?"
I withdrew the card from my handbag. "I'm inquiring about some arrangements that were sent to Miss Anya Petrova at the King’s Theatre. I believe they came from your establishment?"
His expression shifted slightly—not suspicion, exactly, but wariness. "Are you from the theatre, miss?"
"I'm a private investigator." I handed him my card. "Miss Petrova has gone missing, and I'm trying to trace her recent contacts."
He studied my card, then looked up with genuine concern.
"Missing? That lovely young lady? Oh, dear me.
" He moved to a ledger behind the counter, running his finger down columns of entries.
"Yes, here we are. Miss Petrova. Weekly deliveries for the past two months.
Always the same—two dozen white roses, premium grade. "
"Were these orders placed by Miss Petrova herself?"
"Oh, no. A gentleman arranged them. Paid in advance for two months' worth.
" He turned to another book, thick with order slips.
"Most particular about the arrangements, he was. Only the finest white roses, delivered every Tuesday morning. He paid extra to have them delivered personally to Miss Petrova. He did not wish to have them left at the stage door.”
"Can you describe this gentleman?"
The florist paused, his fingers drumming against the counter. "Well-dressed, foreign accent—Russian, I'd say. Silver hair, very distinguished looking. Expensive overcoat, carried himself like a military man."
My pulse quickened. "Anything else distinctive about him?"
"Well . . .” He hesitated, then lowered his voice as if sharing a confidence. "He wore gloves. Fine leather ones, even though it was warm when he first came in. I remember thinking it odd. And there was something about the left hand. The glove seemed . . . stiff. As if it concealed something."
"Concealed what?"
"I couldn't say for certain, but when he reached for his wallet, I caught a glimpse. Scarring, I think. Quite extensive, from what little I could see. Poor fellow must have been in some sort of accident."
I made careful notes, my excitement growing. This matched Margaret's description perfectly, and now I had physical details that might prove crucial.
"Did he give a name?"
"He did, though I suspect it wasn't his real one. Called himself Mr. Volkov. Paid in cash, always. Never wanted receipts."
Volkov. The name had a harsh, distinctly Russian sound that made me think of wolves and winter. "Did he say anything about his relationship to Miss Petrova?"
"Said she was his niece, visiting London for her career.
Mentioned he was proud of her success and wanted to show his support.
" The florist frowned. "Though now that I think on it, she never seemed pleased when the flowers arrived.
The delivery boy said she always looked frightened when she saw them. "
"When did you last see Mr. Volkov?"
"Last week. He came to renew the arrangement for another month but seemed . . . agitated. Kept looking over his shoulder, asked if anyone else had been inquiring about the deliveries." He paused. "I told him no, but now I'm wondering if I should have been more cautious."
"You did nothing wrong," I assured him. "One more question. Did he ever mention where he was staying in London?"
The florist shook his head. "No, but he always arrived in a fine motorcar. Black, with a uniformed driver. Foreign license plates, I think, though I couldn't make out the details."
I thanked him and left, my mind racing as I walked through Bloomsbury's tree-lined streets.
A Russian "uncle" with scarred hands and a military bearing, wealthy enough to employ a driver and pay for expensive flowers in advance.
The pieces were starting to form a clearer picture, and it was far more sinister than a simple family reunion.
Back at the theatre, I found the corridors buzzing with afternoon rehearsal activity. I made my way to Anya's dressing room, determined to conduct a more thorough search now that I knew what I was looking for.
The room appeared exactly as I'd left it, but this time I examined it with fresh eyes.
I ran my hands along the walls, checking for loose panels or hidden spaces.
Behind the mirror, my fingers found a slight gap in the wainscoting.
I pressed gently, and a small section swung inward with a soft click.
My heart hammered as I peered into the hidden compartment. Inside, wrapped in oiled cloth, was a small collection of items that made my blood run cold.
First, a stack of photographs. The top image showed a young girl—unmistakably Anya, though perhaps ten years younger than her twenty-five years—standing rigidly beside a stern-faced man in military uniform.
The child's eyes held a haunted quality that made my chest tighten.
Behind this were more photographs: formal family portraits, all featuring the same imposing man and various other figures in expensive clothing and military decorations.
But it was the letters that made my hands tremble.
Written in harsh, angular script on expensive paper, they appeared to be in Russian with some English phrases scattered throughout.
Though I couldn't read the Cyrillic characters, certain words stood out: London, ballet, debt, and most chillingly, what appeared to be threats.
The handwriting grew increasingly erratic in the later letters, the ink darker and more aggressive.
At the bottom of the stack was a British newspaper clipping from three months ago, yellowed and carefully folded. The headline read: MYSTERIOUS FIRE DESTROYS EAST END WAREHOUSE—RUSSIAN BUSINESSMAN SUSPECTED OF INSURANCE FRAUD.
My breath caught as I studied the accompanying photograph. The man pictured bore a strong resemblance to the figure in Anya's family portraits, though older and wearing civilian clothes. The caption identified him as Dmitri Volkov, currently under investigation by Scotland Yard.
Volkov. The same name the florist had given me.
I hovered, torn between propriety and necessity. Taking the letters and photographs felt dangerously close to theft—but leaving them meant risking the truth staying buried. I didn’t know who could translate the letters, or who might recognize the faces in the photos. But I would find a way.
After taking photographs of everything with my small camera, I slipped the items into my handbag. As I closed the panel and rose, my hands still unsteady, one thing was painfully clear: whatever Anya had become entangled in, it was far more perilous than I’d ever imagined.
The sound of footsteps in the corridor made me freeze. I quickly smoothed my skirt and moved to the vanity, pretending to examine the cosmetics as someone passed by the slightly open door.
When the footsteps faded, I slipped out of the dressing room. I needed to contact Robert, my fiancé, immediately. As a Chief Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard, he might know something about the investigation into Dmitri Volkov that could help me understand what hold Volkov had over Anya.
But even as I considered that thought, a chill ran down my spine. If Volkov was willing to threaten and stalk his own niece, what might he do to anyone who interfered with his plans?
I thought of the newspaper clipping—mysterious fire, suspected fraud. Whatever business Volkov was involved in, it wasn't the sort that left witnesses behind to tell tales.
For the first time since taking the case, I wondered if I was in over my head. But then I thought of Anya's frightened face in those childhood photographs, of the carefully hidden evidence she'd risked her life to preserve, and I knew I couldn't walk away.
Whatever secrets lay buried in London's Russian community, whatever hold Dmitri Volkov had over his niece, I would uncover the truth. Even if it meant walking into the wolf's den myself.