JACK OF DIAMONDS

CHAPTER 5

Marlborough was the smallest of the six Manor houses located in an area the locals called Chumley Glen--a wooded area of meandering streams, open meadows of vales and hills, and a host of golden daffodils fluttering and dancing in summer's breeze. It boasted eighteen bedrooms in addition to a salon, a dining room capable of seating forty, a library, music room, and full kitchen. It was what one might label the senior representative of the six. The arbiter of its own local history written in the beams and plaster of countless renovations. It’s own colourful history went back to 1705. The house had been through as many renovations as it had owners. Some claimed the house to be haunted; others, that the walls were too tight. It had hosted all the major celebrities of Europe throughout its history: Handel, Mendelssohn, Litz; Christopher Wren, Isaac Newton, Edmund Halley; Pope, Defoe, Swift—the anecdotal tales about the house had gone through as many incarnations as it had renovations.

After a while, ownership was a guess, at best.

Finally, in 1907, the house was purchased by Dmitri Alexandrovitch Chernetsov, undergoing renovations once again. The scion of a well-connected, as well as influential, Russian banking family, he was commonly referred to as Prince Igor. He was a Russian businessman said to have ties with the Boyars; others said that he was the romantic embodiment of what an aristocratic exile should be; some believed his to be a self-imposed exile; others suggested he was an exil d'amour.

Chernetsov brought his family to live in England in 1910. He'd been sent to London as part of the family’s growing business empire. He was forty-two at the time. It was a good decision on the family’s part. Chernetsov was Oxford educated, graduating in 1892. He'd spent his formative years at a boarding school in Kent. He'd originally bought Marlborough House as an investment, in the end deciding it was the perfect home for his growing family. He had three boys and two girls, seven years apart.

Thirteen years later, his oldest was now twenty-seven and it broke his heart knowing his children would never see Russia again.

That’s not to say he wasn’t patriotic; he was. There was no one more patriotic, or Russian, than Chernetsov. He’d actually tried mounting a small force to rescue the Russian Royal Family, but failed in his attempt, arriving two days too late. It was that experience which convinced him Lenin and the Revolution had to be stopped, at any cost.

With the Civil War over and the Reds declaring victory, the Whites—the monarchist armies and their allies alike—began withdrawing with as much organized chaos as possible. While most of the Boyars and aristos in Russia were looked upon as ‘Former People’, White Russian loyalists like Chernetsov did what they could to help rescue those trapped and looking to get out. That he was involved in trying to topple the newly established Communist regime there was no denying; it was the lengths to which he was willing to go people didn’t fully understand.

People like Aleksandr Antonov, he thought as he took a slow sip of his whiskey sour, looking out over the magnificent garden his wife insisted they plant. The grandchildren were outside playing in the late September sunshine, while his daughter-in-law insisted they come in out of the cold. He smiled, remembering his own childhood—until he was sent off to boarding school.

A tall, thin man of fifty-five, Chernetsov dressed as would befit a gentleman, with elegance. His hair was always maintained, and though it had lost the once upon a time sheen of his youth, the grey somehow added to the image he projected. The grey came in light at the temples, and peppered his thin beard and sculpted goatee, giving him a cavalier appearance. His eyes were dark brown, his brows grey, and together with the hair, added one more layer to the mystique that seemed to surround the man as if an aura.

Women were said to hide behind their fans and all but swoon at the sight of him.

He put his empty glass down on the sideboard, knowing a maid would come in to pick it up later, and made his way downstairs to the floating cellar. The halls were papered in red and gold, with white coving above, and the meander—a decorative baseboard—in the design of a Greek fret, with twisted pillars and sculpted cornices at each of the inside and outside corners. There were paintings and scultures of the Romantic Age; one wall devoted to the Russian painter Ivan Aivazovsky. The floor was wall to wall carpeting because nothing annoyed him more than listening to boot heels in the middle of the night when he was trying to sleep.

He opened the door to the cellar using the key he kept in his wallet. He could feel the cold air rushing out of the room as he entered. Closing the door quickly, he picked up the heavy wool sweater his wife knitted for him twenty years ago. It felt comfortable.

It was a small room, once used for cold storage. The floor was built to float on the fast running currents of the River Chumley, supported by four large iron turnbuckles; the walls were made of heavy brick, two feet thick, made to keep the cold in. It was ill-lit, with a single bulb hanging from a long wire that seemed to sway in time with the floor.

Chernetsov looked down at the man tied to the chair. His face was a bloody mess, his naked chest stained with his own blood. His shirt had been ripped open and his chest bore the lacerations of the many knife strokes inflicted upon him; his feet were tied to the legs of the chair, his arms tied behind his back.

He was a young man, strong-willed, Chernetsov could see, but he’d break eventually. They always do, he reminded himself. He looked at the other three men in the room and gave a quick nod. The first man, his hands bound with cords, let loose with a vicious punch to the ribs and Antonov gasped for breath; Chernetsov suspected the man's ribs had broken with the impact.

“You can scream if you wish,” Chernetsov said, his impeccable Russian stained with an English accent. “No one will hear you, I assure you. This used to be a storage room when they first built this place—what?—two hundred years ago? They call it a floating floor. Have you ever seen anything like it? It might be a Dutch innovation, who knows? The Dutch have given us so much, don’t you think? But now, in this day and age--I mean with refrigeration--the room’s no longer needed. A moot point. So, I took it and made it into my interrogation room. No one comes down here. They know better than to ask questions about the room at the bottom of the steps. No one was witness to your arrival, and they certainly won't see you when you leave. So, I’ll ask you one more time, after that, I’m be done with you, one way or the other.”

“What does that mean?”

“What does what mean?”

“One way or the other?” Antonov asked.

“It means, if you don't tell me what I want to know, I'll kill you and bury your body will no one will ever find it. If you cooperate, I'll set you free.”

“Free?”

“Do you doubt me?”

The man nodded after some consideration.

“I can understand that. But I assure you, I'm a man of my word,” Chernetsov smiled.

“The word of Prince Igor?” Antonov said with a sneer, spitting blood on the floor.

“Ah, the English and their strange antics,” Chernetsov smiled. “Had Borodin never written that piece, they'd have never heard of the name. Not a very imaginative people, the British.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I’m sorry? You're here for eight hours, undergoing eight hours of beatings, broken bones I imagine, and lacerations, and you ask me what I want to know? Were you not paying attention earlier? I simply want to know who sent you? You’re not the first man Lenin’s sent to kill me.”

“I wasn't sent by Lenin.”

“And that's the part that intrigues me. So someone else then? Is there a power struggle happening in the Kremlin?”

“It’s more than that.”

“More?” He crouched down in front of Antonov, looking up into his bloody, swollen face. “Tell me, what do you mean, more?”

“Lenin’s had a stroke.”

“A stroke?" he asked, standing up to consider the implications something like that could do to a flailing revolution. "Stroked by the Hand of God, you say? Well, I doubt that, considering what he’s done to the Russian Church. But it’s a serious hiccup in the upper echelons of the Kremlin, no doubt. Who’s vying for power?”

“Stalin.”

“Who’s he?”

“He’s the general secretary of the party. He’s in charge of Lenin’s convalescence.”

“Is it really that bad then?”

“He’s had two strokes.”

“And why does this man Stalin want me dead?”

“Why not? Right now, you control all the wealth of the Chernetsov banks. They’ve managed to kill or arrest most of the family—aunts, uncles, cousins—but you never returned, except that one time when you tried to save the Royal Family. That was Stalin’s doing, as well. Lenin was prepared to let them leave and go to England, but Stalin went behind his back. He went to see Trotsky, whom he knew wanted the Royal Family eliminated, and the two came up with a plan.”

“So Stalin had the Royal Family killed?”

“And we believe he’s muffled Lenin’s correspondences.”

“But why kill me?”

“Because he knows you won't stop until you bring down all the Soviets.”

“Is that all of it?”

“You said you were a man of your word?”

“And I will free you,” Chernetsov smiled, turning and drawing a small pistol out of his coat.

He shot him dead.

“There. Now you're free.”

*

Madam Chernetsov—Bubbi, as the family called her—was a large bosomed, matronly woman. She looked over the list for tomorrow night’s upcoming entertainment and shook her head slowly, asking herself how she could have ever agreed to letting her sons help organize this year’s upcoming costume Ball.

A juggler—and what's the sense in that? she thought, fighting back a feeling of distended disbelief. A magician, as well? What is this, a children’s party? At least they still have the octet I asked for—but a Jazz band? An American Jazz band? she thought with disdain. Why would anyone think we needed an American Jazz band?

She nodded as she read further down the list, and then looked back up at Kazakoff, her major-domo as she liked to refer to him. Tall, thin, and unassuming, he’d served the family since they first arrived in England thirteen years ago. Now in his mid-fifties, the man simply hadn't aged. His hair may have been a little thinner, but not noticeably so; it was something she’d never admit to despising about the man, because really, what was the point in that? Some people age prematurely, they lose their hair, gain weight, turn grey, and show their age with wrinkles and age spots; he simply happened to be one of those people who didn't.

“And the guests?” she asked, almost afraid to hear what the answer might be.

“Forty, perhaps fifty,” he said softly—“but we’ll have enough food for more I would think.”

“Of course. And the wine? Have they raided my wine cellars and taken the best for themselves? This is turning out to be more of a college party than a Costume Ball. Perhaps we should order hot dogs and beer, rather than canapés?”

He smiled. “I made certain they did not go into the wine cellar unattended, Mum,” he said, now trying to hide the lingering smile she could see playing at the edge of his thin lips. She wondered if her sons had predicted how she’d react once she saw the night’s itinerary.

“You did? Thank God for that!” she said, letting out a gentle sigh of relief.

“I felt thirty bottles of red and sixty bottles of white, should be more than enough.”

“Ninety bottles of wine? They cannot possibly drink that much! Is it this generation, or am I simply getting old?”

It wasn’t a question she expected him to answer, and she was glad he didn't answer, but looked at her in silence. She wished more men understood when it was best for them to remain silent. It would make her life so much more tolerable if she didn’t have to listen to their outlandish ideas of what was wrong in the world. She told hereself it was those ideas that brought about the Great War and the Revolution in Russia. She shuddered when she thought about what may have happened to her family back home.

“You don't feel ninety bottles of wine is excessive?” she asked.

“Perhaps, but far better to have too much, than not enough,” he pointed out.

“I suppose you’re right, but still,” she said with a slow shake of her head.

“What would you like for me to do about the champagne?”

“There’s champagne, too?”

“Two dozen bottles.”

“Two dozen,” she said, shaking her head again. It seemed to her she was shaking her head a lot. Kazakoff would report back to her sons, and they’d all laugh at her for being a stick in the mud. Is that what they’re saying these days? A stick in the mud? It’s hard keeping up with today’s slang. “Again, it would be so much more economical for us all, if they had a taste for beer,” she said, voicing another sigh.

“I’m sure they do when they go into London, Mum,” Kazakoff said with another smile.

She looked at him and nodded, thinking he was probably right.

“And these Americans?” she asked, slapping the list as she did.

“Yes, Mum?”

“When are they supposed to play? I doubt the guests will appreciation American Jazz.”

“I have them slated in for an hour. At ten o’clock.”

“An hour?”

“Your sons insisted.”

“My sons? All three of them?”


“Apparently one of them heard the man in London and asked him if he and his band would be interested in playing. They all seem to be familiar with the man’s music.”

“Is he supposed to be something of a celebrity?”

“That, I do not know.”

“Well then, you can tell my sons I expect they will be the ones paying him, or them. I did not budget an American Jazz band into the equation. It’s either they pay, or the band doesn't play. And you can tell them I said that, as well—no, never mind. I’ll tell them myself. Where are you putting them? I trust they’ll not be mingling with the guests?”

“I’ll see to it they stay in the kitchen, Mum,” he said.

“I trust they won't be in the way? The last thing I want is for Gregson to be upset.”

“There’s little that doesn't bother Gregson,” Kazakoff reminded her. “Would you prefer they remain outside in the Garden?”

“And have them say we were uncivil toward them? No. It'll have to do. I won't have them waiting outside and say afterwards that we were uncivil toward them. Do I make myself clear? You know I don't like repeating myself.”

“I understand, Mum,” Kazakoff said, bowing his head.

“It doesn't matter where they sit, to be honest. It'll be a far cry better than what they're used to. Did I tell you my father once served as the Ambassador at Washington when I was a young girl? I was no more than a child, but let me assure you, I remember how unkind the people were towards the Negroes. That’s something you never forget. I’d never seen an American Negro before, and it was quite a shock to me seeing how they were treated. Plus, you’d hear stories. It was shameful, really. I won't have them treated any less because they are Negroes. Do tell the staff.”

“I will, Mum,” he said, bowing his head once more.

“Now, where is that man?”

“I’m sorry, Mum?”

“My husband? I need to talk to him about the upcoming wedding,” she said, handing over the list. Reynolds accepted it and put it in his breast pocket.

“I shall endeavour to seek him out, Mum.”

“No doubt he’s in that secret room of his, plotting and scheming,” she added.

“I'll send for him directly, Mum. Where shall I say to find you?”

“Tell him I’ll be in the Garden,” she said, and paused before adding: “Perhaps you could be so kind as to set up lunch for us there? Be sure to tell my sons. Say one o’clock? Maybe we can get everyone seated by 1:30?”

“Of course, Mum,” he said, bowing and leaving her to her thoughts.

Ninety bottles of wine! What was the man thinking?

Still, the boys are no longer boys, she reminded herself. Anatoly's twenty-seven now.

And when did that happen?

He was a father and husband now, and though they had their issues, but what married couple didn’t, she asked herself? She remembered her first years with Dimitri and how she’d been quick to put her foot down and demand that he put her needs first. And he’d complied. But he was different from most men, and she knew that. He was devoted to her, as well as their children; Anatoly, not so much. His business dealings with the firm had him in London two weeks out of four. She was convinced he had a mistress, even though she had no real proof; it was just a feeling, a persistence she felt, but couldn’t explain.

She didn’t dare confront him, for fear of driving a wedge between them that would be impossible to repair. Her own mother had done that with her brother and she vowed not to make the same mistake. Still, it was something she found difficult to accept. Her husband didn't see a need to have a mistress

*

The Gardens of Marlborough Estate were close to an acre in size. Broken and discarded paving stones had been used to make the Estate's walking paths, with small benches nestled inside cozy alcoves built in later years for reading, talking, or perhaps an evening tryst during one of the many gala Balls. The benches lined up along the footpaths under the cover of a dozen willow trees. Built nearly a hundred and fifty years ago, time had helped establish the natural wonders of the Gardens more handily than any landscaper, or gardener employed by the Estate, could've ever hoped to accomplish.

The Gardens had been originally constructed because a small ditch had been dug out of the landscape once upon a time, for use as a latrine by workers when they were erecting the estate two hundred years ago. They'd diverted a stream from a larger tributary feeding into the Chumley, but they had failed to properly refill it after the completion of the project. It may have been an argument about wages, she thought, but we'll never know, will we? Over time, it created a large swampy mire. The Gardens had been built out of necessity; the pond becoming a wading pool for toddlers in the summer, and a skating pond in the winter.

The tiny rivulet carved into the smooth rolling landscape eventually became a pond measuring one hundred feet across, no more than a foot deep. Over the years, it had been re-enforced with brick and mortar, eventually built up and re-shaped, the ground eventually pulling away from beneath it and forming a low laying, natural escarpment. The water gathering in the pool before it spilled over the edge and onto the rocks of a second pool below. Here, another stream had been made, with a grade sloping down ten feet over the course of one hundred yards, to a small, child sized village with dozens of toys buildings, doll houses, and shops, that opened up to reveal hand-made furnishings inside. The houses and buildings sat on top of masonry bricks slickened with the moss and lichen of a hundred years. A working water-wheel spun endlessly at the bottom of the stream, where water droplets capturing the afternoon sun tangled with the willows and let slip a gentle rainbow of colours.

It had proven to be a delight as each successive generation added to the project. The pond would some days be festooned with paper boats, ceremonies and celebrations, and later—as both the children and the centuries grew—more experimental boats were built to meet future demands as the Industrial Revolution took rise. The small paper sailboats floating down the stream had children laughing behind them, screaming in delight on the banks of the small, narrow stream, eagerly following the boats through the pool to the very edge, where ten feet below lay the imaginary city built to entertain the generations

Chernetsov stepped out of the library, briefly looking up at the clear sky as he strolled across the garden, looking at the colours of the trees where they dotted the distant landscape. He could see a lark, or something like it—a bird at least, he could see that—soaring silent and solitary, watching for prey. Perhaps it's a raptor of some sort, he thought? He wondered if his eyes were that bad, and looked out across the endless acre of landscape.

My landscape, he reminded himself; all of it's mine.

It was always nice at this time of the year to remind himself as to why he liked the Spring instead. He’d had a small American designed, locally made and glass encased gazebo, erected on a low rise over-looking the Children’s Village. The side panels were made of etched glass, and had recently been replaced in an effort to prepare for the up-coming party—the first party of the Solstice--which always culminated with a drinking party and bragging rights as to who would possess Cromwell’s skull.

Oh God, the party.

He'd forgotten.

He'd told them to hide the body, and though a part of him wanted to know--even wondered where--he knew if the police start looking for this thief, and stumbled across the body, it would be more than just a complication. It was the kind of complication he didn't need right now.

He stood at the table, looking at his watch again. It was precisely one o’clock. Lunch was always served at one o’clock, and he was always the first to arrive; without fail, it seemed. Bubbi was the next to arrive, holding tight to Dasha’s arm, looking stunning in a white tea dress. Dasha was the middle son; being with him made her look years younger. She was a modern, vibrant woman on the go. It seemed to him she was always doing something with her time, whether it was organizing socials for the ladies, or collecting scrap clothing for the villages. He’d always thought the Cromwell Costume Ball was a complete waste of time except for the money collected to help feed the village poor through the coming winter months. It was the latest in a long line of what he thought of as simple sycophancy to the Upper class, until he realized he was probably more Upper class than all of them.

“Oh, Darling, you’re here,” Bubbi said, holding Dasha’s arm. She stopped, looking at her husband, smiling, recognizing the lustful look in his eyes.

“Do you like it?” she asked, letting go of her son’s arm and dancing a quick pirouette in place.

“You look stunning,” Chernetsov said, pulling her chair out and helping her to sit. He bent low and kissed her neck. She smiled, and then looked down when she caught the sneer on her son’s face.

“Maybe if you paid as much attention to your wife as your father does your mother, she might not be up in her room complaining of womanly cramps, and a headache?” Bubbi said, unfolding her napkin and placing it on her lap without another word. She reached for a glass of wine, noticed that the glass was empty, and waited as Kazakoff—who seemed to appear out of nowhere—filled her glass.

She smiled and thanked him.

“Why do you always do that?” Dasha asked as soon as Kazakoff was out of earshot.

“Do what?”

“Thank the help?”

“Where are your brothers?” Chernetsov asked, impatient as he looked at the empty place settings. The sunlight crackled through the stemware. It danced on the water jug, and he looked up, distracted, as everyone seemed to arrive at the same time. First came Anatoly, along with Magda and their two children; Katja, his daughter—a war widow from the last days of the War and the second oldest child--arrived with her two sons; and then Misha, single and not interested in marriage at the moment; finally Jaleena, the youngest, and his favourite, soon to be married.

“I fail to see why you must all be continuously late for lunch?” Chernetsov said, looking at his pocket watch as the grandchildren rushed to his side before taking their seats.

“Late?” Anatoly laughed. “We’re not late, Da,” he said, looking around the table at all the nodding heads.

“No? Lunch is set for 1:00 pm, precisely,” Chernetsov said, looking at Bubbie as he snapped his watch shut and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.

“No,” Anatoly said with a slow smile and an equally slow shake of his head as he waited for Kazakoff to finish pouring him a glass of wine.

“What do you mean?” Chernetsov asked, looking at him past Kazakoff.

“Lunch is set for 1:15,” Anatoly said. “And has been for some time.”

“What are you talking about?” Chernetsov said with some confusion as he took his seat beside his wife. He looked at Bubbi and she tried to hide a smile.

“Lunch for us is set at 1:00 O'clock, Dearest,” she said, reaching for his hand, “but only for you and I.”

“Why’s that?”

“To be honest, I thought it might give us some time together. But it never seems to work out that way, does it?” she laughed easily, putting her glass down and sitting up straight.

“I’m sorry, you what?”

“We seldom have the time to see each other, so I told the children they had a different lunch time. And dinner, as well.”

“Dinner?”

“You’ve never noticed before, because there’s always been someone about, talking to you about something that has nothing to do with any one, or anything. So I suppose it didn’t work out at all, did it? I still don’t get to have you to myself.”

“I apologize—to all of you,” he added. He looked at his wife, kissing her hand gently. “I’m sorry, Bubbi. I'll try to make more of an effort to spend time with you, but I've been preoccupied with all that’s been happening back home—”

“And what's happening, Da?” Anatoly was quick to ask. "Anything that affects us? I mean the bank?"

“Yes. It seems that the Civil War's over, and Lenin is dying,” he said slowly.

“Oh, that’s nothing new,” Dasha said with a laugh. “The newspapers have been saying that for a week. Pull our troops out, the headlines say. You haven’t seen the headlines? It’s been on all of the front pages in big, black blocks. Reds rout Whites! Allies withdraw!”

“On a lighter note, have you seen the new Scaramouch movie?” Misha asked.

“Who’s that, dear?” Bubbie asked.

“Scaramouch? It was a book. They always make movies out of the best sellers. Ben Hur? Zorro?”

“Oh, I know him! He’s the thief.”

“He’s not a thief. He’s like a Mexican Robin Hood. He’s there to help the poor.”

“Cynthia says there’s a thief about,” Jaleena said.

“Who says that?” her sister asked.

“I was on the telephone with Cynthia—”

“Who’s that?” Chernetsov asked.

“You know who that is, Dearest,” Bubbi said.

“I do?”

“They’ve been friends since they were seven.”

“They have?”

“Never mind him,” Bubbi said, looking at Jaleena. "Go on."

“Why are you interested in a thief, Bubbi?” Katja asked, reaching for her water glass.

“Why wouldn’t I be? The last thing we need out here is someone breaking into houses and robbing us blind. We do have the Egg.”

“We could lock the doors,” Misha laughed.

“That won’t stop this man.”

“Why, is he like Nosferatu, appearing out of thin air?” Misha laughed again.

“Who’s Nosferatu?” Bubbi asked.

“Another one of his movies,” Anatoly explained. “It’s about a vampire.”

“Oh dear, no,” Bubbi said with a shake of her head.

“There are no real vampires, Mother,” he laughed.

“I know that!” she said, but not too convincingly.

“This man’s nothing like that,” Jaleena went on. “Cynthia said he beat poor Roger Ashcroft half to death.”

“Ashcroft?” Chernetsov asked, taken by surprise.

“How'd he get in?” Magda asked.

“That's is the best part,” Jaleena said, leaning forward so they all might hear her. “Cynthia says he climbed up the side of the building and broke in through one of the upper balconies. Ashcroft woke up and caught him in the act.”

“Woke up? He wasn’t even home last night,” Dasha scoffed, laughing the story off.

“And how do you know that?” Jaleena asked.

“Because I gave him a ride home last night.”

“You did? Then the Constable’s going to want to talk to you,” Anatoly said.

“The Constable?” Chernetsov said with a shake of his head. “There's no need for them to come here.”

“You can't say no, Da,” Anatoly smiled. “Besides, the Constabulary here are not the same as the Czar's police in Russia.”

“How do you know that?”

“They can't arrest you on suspicion and send you into exile, for one thing.”

“Have you never heard of Australia?”

“That was two hundred years ago!” Anatoly scoffed at the idea.

“Never mind, you two,” Magda said, looking at Jaleena. "What happened?”

“Apparently, the thief attacked him in the bedroom. Cynthia said he was naked—”

“The man came in naked?” Misha laughed. “Now, that would make a good movie! The Naked Thief! I’d pay to see that.”

“Not the thief, you dolt! Roger Ashcroft!”

“Why was he naked?” Bubbi asked.

“Oh, Bubbi, come on!” Anatoly laughed. “Most people are naked when they have sex with their wives.”

“Sex?” she asked.

“Have you seen Jenny Ashcroft?” Dasha smiled. “I’m surprised he doesn’t have her naked and tied to the bed every night. I would.”

“There’s no need for that kind of talk at the table,” Chernetsov said.

“You haven’t seen Jenny Ashcroft,” Misha grinned.

"Which would explain keeping her tied to the bed," Dasha laughed.

“She really is quite beautiful,” Katja offered.

“The man took a small fortune in jewels belonging to her sister-in-law,” Jaleena went on.

“Which one is she?” Magda asked.

“The mousey one,” Jaleena said.

“Oh, with the dark hair?”

“That’s her.”

“Oh, she’s not very nice,” Magda said, sitting back in her seat as if to say it couldn't have happened to a better girl.

“What else did he take?” Anatoly asked. “I mean, that’s a big house. He must have taken more than just that?”

“Not if Roger came home and caught him in the act,” Dasha said. “He was pretty drunk. Said he’d settled some huge account across the way, in America. Seems there’s this investor looking for clients in a sure to hit deal guaranteed to make a profit. Some Italian name. I can’t quite remember. So did he get hurt bad?”

“Bad enough from what Cynthia said.”

“All of this excitement over a single bag of jewels?” Anatoly laughed.

“Oh no. He took the violin. Do you think he knew it was there all along and it was a targeted robbery? That would make sense.”

“The violin?” Bubbi asked.

“It’s a Stradivarius,” Chernetsov said softly.


“How do you know?” Jaleena asked.

“I was going to buy it three years ago as an investment, but they want to keep it--a reminder of their son.”

“Well, that’s not all of it!” Jaleena laughed.

“There’s more?”

“He stole a horse. Just took it out of the stables and rode away.”

“I don’t like the idea of a thief being in the area, Dimitri,” Bubbi said.

“The police are bound the catch up to him,” Chernetsov said.

“Do you seriously believe that? Have you seen the local Constabulary?” Dasha laughed.

“I’m sure London will send someone to investigate,” Bubbi added. "Especially when you ask them why we're paying so much money for protection--"

"We don't pay anyone in London. We pay them ourselves, all the families."

“London doesn’t care what goes on out here. They have enough to deal with,” Anatoly laughed.

“Yeah, the fact that he stole a horse, too,” Misha laughed.