Chapter 5
THE DANCER'S DILEMMA
The desk sergeant at Scotland Yard recognized me immediately and waved me through without the usual formalities. "Inspector Crawford Sinclair is expecting you, Miss Worthington."
I found Robert poring over a stack of files in his office, his dark hair slightly disheveled in the way that meant he'd been working for hours without a break. As I entered, his face broke into that smile that never failed to make my heart skip a beat.
"Catherine. Perfect timing. I’ve just been reviewing the Volkov file." He rose and kissed my cheek before pulling out a chair for me. “What have you discovered?”
"More than I bargained for," I said, settling into the seat. “What can you tell me about Volkov?"
His expression grew serious as he settled into his desk chair.
"Officially? He's suspected of insurance fraud related to a warehouse fire in March. Unofficially . . .” He lowered his voice.
“You’re right about his criminal activities.
We believe he's connected to a network of Russian criminals operating throughout London.
Men who've used their refugee status to establish what amounts to an organized crime syndicate. "
"What sort of crimes?"
"Blackmail, primarily. They target fellow Russian émigrés—people who fled the revolution with secrets they'd rather keep buried.
But there have been more serious incidents.
Three suspicious deaths in the past year, all men who might have had information about stolen imperial treasures or war crimes. "
A shiver slid down my back. "Professor Levkin mentioned political assassinations."
"Levkin's been helpful to us before. What did he tell you?"
I handed him the letters. “I showed these to Professor Levkin. He translated them for me. Volkov was Okhrana—the Tsar's secret police. And that if Anya has evidence against him, her life is in serious danger."
"This changes everything. If your missing dancer has proof of Volkov's activities . . .” He looked up at me. "Catherine, I need you to be very careful. Volkov isn't just some petty criminal. According to our intelligence, he's suspected of at least six murders since arriving in London."
"Six?" My voice came out as a whisper.
"All made to look like accidents or natural causes. But the pattern is clear—anyone who threatens to expose his network ends up dead." He reached across and took my hand. "Promise me you won't take any unnecessary risks."
"I promise. But Robert, there's something else." I told him about the black motorcar I'd spotted outside. "I think I'm already being watched."
His expression darkened. "From now on, you don't go anywhere alone. And if you see that car again, you contact me immediately." He moved to the window which faced the Victoria Embankment and peered through the blinds. "It's not there now, but that doesn't mean anything."
"What more can you tell me about the network?"
"We know they use the Russian Orthodox Church on Ennismore Gardens as a meeting place. Not for religious purposes, but cover for their activities. We also suspect they have contacts within the émigré community who feed them information about potential targets."
"Has anyone tried to infiltrate them?"
"Too dangerous. These men are trained killers, Catherine. They trust no one outside their immediate circle." He returned to his seat. "But if your missing dancer is Volkov's niece, she might be our best chance of getting inside information."
"Assuming she's still alive."
"Assuming that, yes." He was quiet for a moment.
I held out my hand. “I’ll take the letters back now.”
He didn’t move. “They’re evidence, Catherine.”
“You’re right—they are.” I hesitated. “But I have to return them to the place I found them. If Anya hid these as insurance, she may come back for them. I’ve taken photographs—every page, front and back.”
He studied me, clearly unhappy, but after a beat he handed them over. “Very well. But I still don’t like it.”
I tucked the letters into my handbag. “Neither do I. But if there’s even a chance Anya returns, we need to make sure she finds things just as she left them.”
He gave a short nod, but his expression remained troubled. “There’s one more thing. We’ve had reports that Volkov has been asking questions about booking agents and shipping companies. If your dancer is planning to flee the country . . .”
"She might not have much time left." I stood abruptly. "I need to speak with her landlady immediately. Every hour we delay could mean the difference between finding her alive or—"
“Not by yourself. You’ll have a police escort.”
“Her landlady might have crucial information about where Anya was planning to go, who she was afraid of. A police officer might make her nervous, stop her from talking freely. As much as I appreciate the offer, I have to do this on my own.”
Robert’s jaw tensed. “This is exactly the kind of unnecessary risk I was talking about."
His face was thunderous as I moved toward the door.
"It's not unnecessary if it saves her life.
I'll stay in public areas, check in with you every two hours.
If I see anything suspicious, I'll contact you immediately.
" I paused at the door. "Robert, we both know time is running out.
Every moment we spend arguing is a moment Volkov gets closer to finding her. "
He stared at me for a long moment, clearly torn between his professional instincts and the urgency of the situation. Finally, he glanced at the clock on the wall. "Two hours, Catherine. Not a minute longer. And promise me—no heroics, no following leads alone if they seem dangerous."
"I promise." I moved back to kiss his cheek. "We'll find her, Robert. We have to."
"I don't like this," he muttered, but I saw the resignation in his eyes.
---
After leaving Scotland Yard—and confirming that the black motorcar was nowhere to be seen—I took a cab to Anya's lodgings in Bloomsbury. The modest boarding house stood in a row of similar Georgian buildings, their once-grand facades now showing signs of genteel poverty.
Mrs. Whitmore, the landlady, was a thin, sharp-eyed woman who clearly prided herself on knowing everything about her tenants. She invited me into her cramped parlor, where antimacassars protected every surface and the smell of boiled cabbage lingered in the air.
"Poor Miss Petrova," she said, settling her considerable bulk into a worn armchair. "Such a quiet, polite young lady. Never any trouble, always paid her rent on time. I do hope nothing dreadful has happened to her."
"When did you last see her, Mrs. Whitmore?"
"Tuesday morning, it was. She left for the theatre as usual, carrying that little valise she always took to rehearsals. Seemed a bit agitated, now that I think on it. Kept looking over her shoulder as she walked down the street."
"Had you noticed any changes in her behavior recently?"
Mrs. Whitmore's eyes lit up—clearly she enjoyed a good gossip. "Oh, indeed I had. The past month or so, a visitor had come calling. Late at night, he came too. I don't normally allow gentlemen callers after ten o'clock, but he claimed to be her uncle.”
My pulse quickened. "Can you describe this man?"
"Distinguished looking, foreign accent. Silver hair, expensive clothes. Always wore gloves." She leaned forward conspiratorially. “There was something about him that made my skin crawl. Cold eyes, you know? Like looking into a winter pond."
"How often did he visit?"
"Three or four times in the past month. Always at night, never stayed long. But after his visits, Miss Petrova would pace her room for hours. I could hear her footsteps overhead, back and forth, back and forth."
"Did you ever hear what they discussed?"
"They spoke in a foreign language—Russian, I assumed. But once, when I was in the hallway . . .” She lowered her voice. "I heard her crying and him speaking very sharply. In English, he said something about 'family obligations' and 'the photographs must be returned.'"
The same phrases from the letters. "Did she ever mention being afraid of this man?"
"Not directly, but . . .” Mrs. Whitmore hesitated. "The morning after his last visit, she asked me about ship schedules to New York. Wanted to know the fastest way to book passage to America without drawing attention. Said she might need to visit relatives there very suddenly."
"America, not France?" That was a surprise.
"Oh no, definitely America. She even asked if I knew any American phrases that might be useful for travel.
" The landlady's expression grew troubled.
"But then yesterday morning, she seemed different.
Excited, almost hopeful. She'd received a letter the night before—foreign postmark, though I couldn't make out from where. "
"Do you still have the envelope?"
"I'm afraid not. She took it with her when she left for the theatre." Mrs. Whitmore paused. "But there was something else. She'd been selling her jewelry, piece by piece. I saw her coming back from the pawn shop on Great Russell Street several times over the past few weeks."
“She was raising money for travel.” There was no other explanation.
"That's what I assumed. Though she seemed to have plenty of money otherwise—always beautifully dressed, ate well, never seemed to want for anything."
I made careful notes, my mind working through the implications. "Mrs. Whitmore, did she leave anything behind in her room?"
Well, that's the odd thing," Mrs. Whitmore said. "When I went up to check on her this morning, the room was completely empty. Not just her clothes and personal items—everything. As if she'd never lived there at all."
"Someone cleared it out?"
"Must have." A frown deepened between her brows. "There were no signs of forced entry. Nothing else in the house was touched. Whoever it was knew exactly what they were about. They took only her things."
"You don’t think it was Anya herself?"
"Hardly. She might’ve packed a trunk—taken her clothes, shoes, maybe a few keepsakes. But not every stick of furniture that marked the room as hers."
A professional job, then. Someone with the skills and tools to gain entry without detection. "Did you see anyone suspicious around the building yesterday or today?"
"No, but I was out most of yesterday afternoon visiting my sister in Hampstead. Could have happened then."
I thanked Mrs. Whitmore and left, my mind churning with new questions.
Anya had been planning to flee to America, not France.
She'd been systematically selling her possessions to raise money. And someone—almost certainly Volkov or his associates—had professionally cleaned out her room, removing any trace of evidence she’d ever lived there.
But the timing troubled me. If Anya had received a hopeful letter on Monday night and seemed excited Tuesday morning, what had changed her plans so dramatically? And why had she disappeared before she could execute her escape?
As I walked back toward the main road to hail a cab, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was missing something crucial.
Anya hadn't just vanished—she'd been taken or forced to run before she was ready.
Either way, her carefully laid plans for escape had gone terribly wrong.
And with each passing hour, the likelihood of finding her alive grew smaller.