Chapter Twenty-Four #2
They crossed the courtyard in a light drizzle that made the paving stones slick. Alec noticed Petrov’s knee-high boots, worn over his trousers, which appeared to be made of some sort of rough fabric.
“Your boots are Russian, Mr. Petrov?”
“Da. They are valenki, made of felt, like hats. Very comfortable.”
“They look quite new.”
“Made by Russian shoemaker in London. Plenty Russians here to buy.”
Many, maybe most, émigrés stuck together with their fellow countrymen, a fact worth remembering when any of them became involved in an investigation.
Petrov unlocked the workshop door and ushered them in. Mackinnon looked round with interest. “Nice setup you have here, sir.”
“Is good business. Would be stupid to risk for … little revenge. Is better word…”
“Petty revenge, we say.”
“Petty, like French petit.”
“You speak French?” Alec asked.
“A little. From Russia we go to China. China was not good place. Prince was badly beaten by thieves and princess very ill. When she died, we go to France. Was good, but Stepan Vladimirovich hear of old friend from Russia now living in England so we come here. Same old friend that he visits tonight.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask how you happened to join the prince after the revolution.”
“Was during revolution. Bolsheviki come to workshops, I run away, go to estate of prince, Bolsheviki come to estate, all run away. Some day when you not think I killed Devenish, you come drink vodka like friend, I tell you stories will make hair curl.”
“Thank you.” Oddly enough, Alec felt honoured by the exile’s offer of friendship. “I hope that day will come. In the meantime, may we see your book with the record of last Wednesday?”
The order book was very neat, but of course it was written in Russian, in a tiny hand. No wonder Petrov hadn’t balked at letting them see it. However, after poring over it for a few minutes, he and Mackinnon deciphered the dates and found the page they were pretty sure was last Wednesday’s.
It had several small, rough sketches and a good deal of writing on it, at least as much as any other page, suggesting that as much work as usual had been accomplished.
The writing was as firm and regular as the rest, without waverings that might have indicated unsettled emotions.
All in all, as Petrov had pointed out, it didn’t prove anything, but it certainly leaned towards indicating innocence.
On the other hand, a man who had survived hair-raising experiences, who retained his composure when suspected of murder, could conceivably have killed in the morning and worked late into the night with a steady hand.
“You wish to see also detail sketches of Zina?da Stepanovna by which I work this piece?”
“That won’t be necessary at present,” said Alec.
“Thank you, sir, perhaps later,” said Mackinnon. “Would I be correct in assuming this gives the name of the customer for whom you were working?”
After taking a moment to work out this convoluted question, Petrov shook his head. “Nyet. Number only. Is not need I know name. You can read in Zina?da Stepanovna’s book.”
“You wouldn’t know whether it was one of the people Devenish introduced to your work?”
“Nyet.”
“Did you meet any of those customers?”
“Nyet. Is not my job to meet customers.”
“Never?”
“Nu, now and then I meet by chance in shop if go to speak to Zina. Sometimes she introduce me. I do not remember names.”
“You don’t recall a man named Clark?”
“Clark? Da, him I remember. But he was not customer. Was friend of Devenish, but not rich, no jewelry.”
“Do you remember his full name?” Mackinnon asked eagerly.
“Nyet. Was introduced as Mr. Clark.”
“Can you describe him?”
“I saw one time only. Fair hair. Face not … rememberable. Like any young English gentleman. I would not recognise. His clothes I remember: good when new; now old, wore out.”
“Tall? Short?”
“Not very tall. Perhaps more than me, is hard to be sure. Thinner, make to look taller.”
“He sounds far from memorable,” said Alec, “yet you remember him in spite of seeing him only once.”
“He came many times, first with Devenish, then alone. Stepan Vladimirovich tell me always when they will come. Then he not need me to play nardy—is game like backgammon I play often with him. He does not want me to be there.”
“That must have rankled,” Mackinnon commented.
“Please?”
“It must have upset you.”
Petrov shrugged. “I am not aristocrat. Is way of world.”
“What about Clark, is he an aristocrat?”
“So I am told. He will be lord—and rich—when relative dies. This is what he says. Is true perhaps. Stepan Vladimirovich wishes to believe.”
“Did they play backgammon together?” Alec wondered aloud. “I assume neither Devenish nor Clark speaks Russian and the prince doesn’t speak English.”
“He understands English. He will not speak for not wanting to make mistakes, look foolish. Zina?da Stepanovna must always be there to interpret for him. She said to me he tells stories of old life in Russia, and sometimes they play cards because he will not learn English backgammon game.”
The prince had not admitted to understanding English when Alec spoke to him. Nor had Miss Zvereva admitted the fact. She had translated everything Alec and Piper said into Russian for him.
Whatever was going on, Petrov didn’t seem to be part of it.
He had freely admitted to speaking English, though Miss Zvereva had claimed he didn’t.
Whether her obfuscation had anything to do with Devenish’s death was obscure.
It would probably have to be sorted out sooner or later, but at present they had more than enough on their hands.
Mackinnon pulled him out of his reverie. “Any more questions for Mr. Petrov, sir?”
“Not just now. We’ll probably have to come back, I’m afraid, Mr. Petrov. This is a complicated business.”
Impassive, Petrov bowed without speaking. He ushered them out, across the courtyard and through the shop. Alec heard the shop door’s heavy lock clunk behind them as they turned away.
“What do you think of that, Mac?”
“The soul o’ candour wrapping a secret that may or may not hae aught to do wi’ the case.”
“I couldn’t have put it better myself. If he knew, or suspected, that Miss Zvereva had killed Devenish, would he try to protect her, if only to preserve his own livelihood?
Those customers whom she says she saw that morning will have to be thoroughly questioned.
Would they even have noticed if someone—another woman with a Russian accent—had stood in for her?
How often does one really notice someone serving in a shop? It’s a pity she’s out this evening.”
“Ye won’t want to disturb the deathbed, sir?”
“No. I can’t see Miss Zvereva fleeing the coop with a cripple and no luggage. We’ll catch her tomorrow, Piper and I, while you’re in Yorkshire. Who’s next on our list?”
“Desmond Mathieson. He’s probably the author whose manuscript Devenish had used to light a fire, by Miss Winter’s account.
She didn’t name him, mind you. Piper’s narrowed it down from all the reports that have come in.
Mathieson refused to talk to the DC who went to see him, but the lad says he’s clean-shaven and not outlandishly tall to pass as a nanny.
He writes thrillers, so there’s a good chance he’s studied a bit of anatomy. ”
“Mathieson it is.” Alec sighed. He was going to miss the twins’ bedtime again, and Bel was off to school in a couple of days. The superintendent’s job looked more and more attractive.