Chapter Twenty-One #2
The DS grinned. “For a start, they’re not nearly as rare or important as British princes. They’re more like our dukes in some ways, except all their children are also called prince or princess.”
“Leading to a vast proliferation!”
“For sure. Prob’ly got rid of a lot in the revolution,” Piper said callously.
“No doubt. So Miss Zvereva is a princess?”
“If her dad’s really a prince, yes. It’d take a bit of nerve, though, to use the title serving in a shop.”
“However, her father may expect his, since he seems to stay behind the scenes. How do you think I should address him? I don’t want to antagonise him unnecessarily.”
“Just ‘prince,’ I think, Chief. No ‘my lord’ or anything.”
“That’s a relief. Thanks, Ernie. Good job I told you to find out just in case.”
“Here she comes, Chief.”
Alec swung round as curtain rings rattled. Miss Zvereva drew the drapery to one side and opened the gate in the counter to usher them through.
“Please come this way, messieurs.” She stood back to let them pass.
Alec noted that the door usually concealed by the curtain was steel, with a top-quality heavy lock.
The room behind the curtain was a surprise.
He had expected it to match the shop, cramped, ill lit, bare.
Instead, although the same width as the shop, it was much deeper and had large windows as well as a glazed door.
They looked out onto a small paved courtyard with high walls of dingy, soot-stained London brick to left and right.
The far side was filled wall to wall by a two-storey outbuilding, probably once a mews.
Evergreen shrubs in large terra-cotta pots struggled to survive the lack of sunshine and the smoky atmosphere.
Indoors, Alec’s quick scan took in the main features: a sloped drawing table, angled to catch the light from the windows, a camera on a tripod, a small but solid safe, and a couple of cabinets.
A curious apparatus on a small table he recognised as a samovar.
On the right-hand wall hung half a dozen icons and several pencil drawings.
A staircase occupied the left-hand wall, with the usual cupboard under it.
Against the fourth wall, shared with the shop, was a huge tiled stove, radiating heat.
Beside it, leaning on a stick, stood the prince.
Once tall, he was stooped, white-haired and -moustached, his unhealthily plump, sallow face creased.
He was heavily built, flabby. The thought of his having masqueraded as a nanny was ludicrous.
That didn’t mean he hadn’t had someone else to exact his revenge for him.
And there was one obvious person.
Alec offered the prince a slight bow, seeing from the corner of his eye Piper clumsily emulating the gesture. Zverev, expressionless, responded with a curt nod.
The sergeant might as well take over. They were not likely to get much information out of the father with his daughter as interpreter. Alec might learn more by watching closely.
He gestured to Piper, who stepped forward, saying slowly and clearly, “Detective Sergeant Piper, sir, from Scotland Yard, and this is my chief inspector. I have a few questions to put to you. First, may I have your full name for the record?”
Zverev showed no sign that Alec could detect of understanding anything but the words “Scotland Yard,” at which he blinked.
Miss Zvereva said something full of rolling Rs, then turned to Piper. “My father’s title is knyaz, usually translated as ‘prince’. His name is Stepan Vladimirovich Zverev.” She spelled it out.
“I don’t want to keep you standing, sir. Please be seated.”
The suggestion, translated, first met with a refusal, but Miss Zvereva pressed her father and he subsided into his chair with a grunt.
“You were acquainted with Edward Devenish, sir?”
The prince caught the name and a volley of bitter denunciation ensued.
“Yes,” said his daughter. Piper just looked at her with raised eyebrows. “He was snake in chest,” she added reluctantly.
Piper looked blank.
“Viper in bosom,” Alec told him sotto voce.
“Ah! Where was Mr.—the prince—on…” he started to ask Miss Zvereva. Correcting himself, he addressed the man himself. “I mean, where were you, sir, last Wednesday morning?”
This time, she didn’t translate. “Here at home,” she said coldly. “Where he is every day except Sunday, when we with much difficulty take him to our church and then to Russian café to meet friends. Cronies. Please do not upset by remind him he is cripple.”
“‘We’?”
“Please?”
“Who’s ‘we’? Who helps you take your father out?”
“One of the servants.”
Alec was sure she was holding something back. Piper also picked up on it, or perhaps simply doubted that she and a single servant could manage the heavy old man between them.
“And? Who else helps?”
“Vasya—Vasily Ivanovich,” she muttered sulkily. “Last name Petrov.”
“The goldsmith,” said Piper with satisfaction.
“We shall see him next,” said Alec. “He’s in the workshop out there?” He pointed at the outbuilding beyond the courtyard.
“How you know this?”
“Good guess. While we are talking to him, please prepare a list of the names of your father’s friends.”
“Already you want Wednesday customers list! I have work to do.” She gestured at the drawing table.
“If it’s more convenient, Miss Zverev, you may bring the lists to Scotland Yard tomorrow. Does Mr. Petrov speak English?”
“Very little. Almost none.”
“Enough, I expect. Come along, Sergeant.”
They went out. She said something to her father, then followed, catching up as they reached the door of the building.
“I will interpret—”
“I wouldn’t dream of keeping you from your work. I’m sure we’ll manage. If not, I’ll send DS Piper to fetch you.”
Her dark eyes widened, apprehensive. Alec turned away. He heard her footsteps on the stone flags, retreating, as the door opened in response to Piper’s knock.