Chapter 4
SHADOWS FROM ST. PETERSBURG
The first thing I did upon returning to the Ladies of Distinction Detective Agency was seek out Emma, who glanced up from her correspondence, somewhat surprised by my breathless entry. “Kitty, you look as though you've seen a ghost. What happened?”
“The investigation into Anya Petrova’s disappearance? It’s more complicated than I expected,” I said, settling into the chair across from her desk. “Do you know anyone who speaks Russian? Someone we can trust with sensitive material?"
"Perfect. I need to see him immediately."
Her brow wrinkled. “What exactly have you discovered?"
I quickly recounted my visit to the florist and the hidden cache in Anya's dressing room. Emma's expression grew increasingly grave as I described the seemingly threatening letters and the newspaper clipping about Dmitri Volkov.
"If Volkov is already under Scotland Yard investigation for insurance fraud, and now he's threatening his own niece . . . ?” She took a breath. “You’re right. This is no simple missing person case.”
"Exactly my thinking. Can you arrange a meeting with Professor Levkin this afternoon?"
"I'll telephone him immediately."
Two hours later, I found myself in the cluttered study of Professor Levkin's modest flat near Russell Square.
Books in multiple languages towered in precarious stacks, and the air smelled of strong tea and tobacco.
The professor himself was a small, neat man with intelligent dark eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles.
"Miss Worthington," he said in accented but perfect English, "Lady Emma explained you have some Russian documents that require translation.”
“I do.”
“I’ll be glad to help. Please take a seat.”
After I’d done so, I handed him the letters I’d found. I watched his face carefully as he examined them. His expression darkened almost immediately.
"These are . . . most disturbing," he said quietly. "The handwriting is that of an educated man, but one consumed with rage." He looked up at me. "You say these were addressed to a young woman?"
"A ballet dancer named Anya Petrova. Though I suspect that may not be her real name."
"Ah." He nodded grimly. "Many of us who fled Russia adopted new names. For safety." He returned to the letters, translating as he read. "This first one . . . he calls her little dove and says she has been foolish to run away. He demands she return to settle what he calls family obligations."
"What sort of obligations?"
Professor Levkin's mouth tightened. "The word he uses . . . it can mean debt. But in this context, it suggests something more sinister. A blood debt, perhaps. Something that cannot be forgiven."
He moved to the second letter, his frown deepening.
"This one is more threatening. He says he knows where she is, that London is not so large that she can hide forever. And here . . .” He pointed to a particular passage.
"He mentions photographs. Says she was foolish to take them, that they belong to the family. "
My pulse quickened. "The photographs I found showed a young girl with a stern man in a military uniform. Family portraits, it seemed."
"Hmm." The professor studied the letters more carefully. "The name he signs . . . Dmitri Volkov. Do you know anything about this man?"
"Only that he's apparently under investigation by Scotland Yard for insurance fraud. And that he claims to be Anya's uncle."
Professor Levkin was quiet for a long moment, then moved to his bookshelf and withdrew a thick volume. "I keep records," he said softly. "Names of those who fled Russia, those who did not survive, those who . . .” He trailed off, flipping through pages of handwritten notes.
"Ah, here." His finger stopped on an entry. "Volkov, Dmitri Mikhailovich. Former colonel in the Tsar's secret police. Known for his brutal interrogation methods. After the revolution, he was suspected of stealing imperial treasures and selling them to fund counter-revolutionary activities."
A chill ran through me. "Secret police?"
"The Okhrana. They were not kind men, Miss Worthington. Volkov, in particular, was known for his cruelty. He fled Russia in 1919 with several family members, including a young niece whose parents had been killed in the revolutionary fighting."
"That could be Anya."
"Very likely. But here is what concerns me most." He returned to the letters. "In this third letter, he mentions others. He says she is not the only one he is tracking down, that there are debts to be settled with all who betrayed the family honor."
"What does that mean?"
The professor removed his spectacles and cleaned them slowly, clearly troubled. “If this Dmitri Volkov is truly from the old Okhrana, you are dealing with a very dangerous man. These were not ordinary policemen. They were trained killers, experts in intimidation and torture."
"But surely in London, with Scotland Yard watching him—”
"Do not underestimate him," Professor Levkin said sharply. "Many of these men have formed criminal organizations here in London. They prey upon fellow Russian émigrés, blackmailing them, threatening their families back home. Some have even been involved in political assassinations."
The room seemed to grow colder. "Political assassinations?"
"There have been several suspicious deaths among the Russian exile community. Men who opposed the old regime, who might have had information about stolen imperial treasures or war crimes. The authorities suspect a network, but proving it . . .” He shrugged helplessly.
I thought of the newspaper clipping about the warehouse fire. "Professor, if Anya had evidence of Volkov's crimes, would that explain why he's so desperate to find her?"
"Absolutely. And it would explain why she is so frightened." He handed the letters back to me. “If this young woman has evidence that could expose Volkov's network, her life is in grave danger. But so is yours, if he discovers you are investigating."
"What kind of evidence might she have?"
"The photographs you mentioned. If they show Volkov with other Okhrana members, if they document meetings or transactions, such things could be devastating. Many of these men have built new lives here, assumed respectable positions. Exposure would mean prison, or worse."
I tucked the letters back into my handbag, my mind racing. “Do you know anything about current Russian criminal activity in London? Where these men might operate from?"
He hesitated, then leaned forward. "There are rumors of a group that meets in the Russian Orthodox Church on Ennismore Gardens. Not for religious purposes, you understand. They use the community as cover for their activities.” He gripped my arm.
"Promise me you will not go there alone.
These are not men who show mercy to those who threaten them. "
"I understand. Thank you, Professor. You've been invaluable."
As I left his flat and walked back toward the street, my head spun with the implications of what I'd learned.
Anya wasn't just a frightened dancer fleeing an overbearing relative.
She was a young woman caught in a web of imperial secrets, revolutionary violence, and criminal conspiracy that stretched from the ruins of St. Petersburg to the drawing rooms of London.
And if she had evidence that could expose this network, every day she remained missing made it more likely that Dmitri Volkov would find her first.
I was no longer investigating a simple disappearance. I was walking into a world where imperial secrets and revolutionary grudges played out in the shadows of London's émigré community, where men trained in the brutal arts of the Tsar's secret police settled old scores with ruthless efficiency.
I spotted one of the new red telephone boxes on the corner of Russell Square. Stepping inside, I fished for coins in my handbag and asked the operator to connect me to Scotland Yard. Within moments, I heard Robert's familiar voice.
"Crawford Sinclair."
"Robert, it's Catherine. I need to see you immediately.”
He must have heard the urgency in my voice because he immediately asked, “What’s wrong?”
“I’m investigating the disappearance of Anya Petrova, the principal dancer at the King’s Theatre. Are you familiar with the Volkov insurance fraud case?”
“Very much so. I’m involved with the investigation.”
“I’ve discovered something about it that Scotland Yard needs to know."
"How serious is it?”
“Volkov was a member of the Russian Okhrana, a criminal network involved with torture and assassinations.” I kept my voice low, conscious that even telephone conversations weren't entirely private.
There was a pause. "I'll clear my schedule. How soon can you be here?"
"Twenty minutes."
"I'll be waiting."
It took no time to hail a cab and travel across London to Scotland Yard. But as the cab pulled up to the imposing brick building on Victoria Embankment, I caught sight of a familiar black motorcar parked across the street.
The same make and model the florist had described—the one that brought Dmitri Volkov to order his threatening bouquets. As I paid the cab fare, the eyes of the motorcar’s uniformed driver followed my every movement.
I was definitely being watched. Which begged the question. How had Volkov learned about my investigation?