The House of Russian Dolls Read online

  The House of Russian Dolls

  J.P. Lomas

  Text Copyright ©J P Lomas 2015

  All rights reserved.

  By the same author:

  ‘Unlucky 13’ books:

  Special Measures

  Whodunnit

  Murder at Her Majesty’s Pleasure

  The House of Russian Dolls

  Other thrillers:

  The Maggie Murders

  For J, V and P

  ‘I cannot forecast to you the action of Russia. It is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.’

  Winston Churchill

  Table of Contents

  The First Doll

  The Second Doll

  The Third Doll

  The Fourth Doll

  The Fifth Doll

  The First Doll

  Marina

  Her face might not have launched a thousand ships, though it might well have launched an equal number of marketing campaigns, as it was certainly the most airbrushed face on the planet. But not looking like that. Not twisted and ugly in the noose which framed it.

  And yet was this just another ad campaign? One of those designed to subvert and shock as it provided click-bait for the internet generation? Who wouldn’t be able to resist such an image – the beautiful body hanging limp above the silent Thames and framed by a London skyline still lit by the lights of its thrusting office blocks in the early hours of a May morning.

  The returning clubbers and night-shift workers who had seen the hooded figures at work on the Millennium Bridge paid them scant attention. It was a London thing. You didn’t look for trouble and you certainly sensed when there might be trouble. Whatever had happened on the new pedestrian bridge was probably no more than some emergency engineers being called out to check it was no longer swaying alarmingly in the high winds which had seen its temporary closure earlier in the decade.

  But the off-duty cop who usually didn’t like to walk, was ironically the one who did notice her as he walked across the bridge berating the absence of illegal minicabs in the vicinity of Southwark. The man wasn’t stupid and despite the amount of drink he’d taken on board he’d been cunning enough to clean up at cards that night and his greasy jacket pockets were bulked out with wads of twenties and fifties.

  He hadn’t seen many dead bodies, or any living supermodels yet he knew villains when he saw them and the men who melted away as he approached the half way point of the bridge were certainly villains. One had taken a fancy looking camera out of his pocket, yet seemed to change his mind when he saw him approach. Perhaps he looked like a cop? His ex-wife had always said he brought his work home with him.

  And for a fat man he was quick to react. An instinct told him that the girl might still be alive and so fired up by the triumph of his recent poker game, he dragged the girl back on to the walkway with the aid of a civilian he’d commandeered. It took all their strength plus that of another passing night owl to shift her surprisingly heavy body on to the bridge.

  By the time they were recovering their breaths, him especially, it was clear that they had been too late. The girl who lay at their feet was dead and yet each and every one of them, from the cop to the Chilean waiter who had first helped him, to the Canadian clubber who had helped pull her over the railing knew her face. Even though the manner of its death had turned the world’s most famous face into a grotesque parody of itself, it was clear that Marina Davenport lay dead at their feet; a woman so famous that simply Marina would have sufficed for her to be recognised by most people.

  ****

  From the air Belmont Park resembled an old fashioned dolls house surrounded by miniature green fields, but on the ground it simply resembled a Grade II manor house which had seen better days. In fact better centuries, reflected Jake Fletcher as they drove past the now broken symmetry of the original Palladian frontage to the sprawling parklands at the rear.

  ‘Don’t see why they were so keen to preserve this old pile,’ muttered Henson as he manoeuvred their van past yet another pothole.

  ‘Have you no sense of history?’ grinned Fletcher as they headed out to the mausoleum.

  ‘When you’ve been dragged around enough of these places by your family, you’ll soon realise this country’s not short of these crumbling piles.’

  ‘Didn’t put your Mandy down as one of those National Trust types?’

  ‘Not her! She can’t even abide “The Antiques Road Show”. It was my mother when I was a nipper. If she wasn’t dragging me round one of these places every Sunday she’d felt she wasn’t bringing me up properly.’

  ‘And where would you place Belmont Park on the list of Britain’s Historic Gems?’ asked Fletcher, a genuine curiosity underlying the glibness of his tone.

  ‘Doubt it would even creep in to the top ten for this county. Looks like the Victorians buggered up the front by sticking that stupid turret on it…’

  ‘So you’d just tear it down?’

  ‘I’d say the High Speed link is more important than this place, yes,’ reflected Henson as they veered away from the overgrown lawns in the direction of a Gothic folly on the horizon.

  ‘You always were a sly old Marxist.’

  ‘Spending another few million of tax payers’ money just to avoid bulldozing this old pile seems hardly worth it to me. And it’s not even owned by the National Trust or English Heritage, so it can hardly hold much value for the nation.’

  ‘Just a pity the Duke of Sydenham owned the place, isn’t it? If not they might have spared us the hassle of moving his wife’s bones and let us knock down his house instead.’

  ‘It’s not his wife’s remains in there,’ answered Henson as he pulled their van up outside a vast weather stained memorial atop a man-made mound. ‘It’s his mistress. His poor old missus was packed off to Devon when he started cavorting with Harriet Soames.’

  ‘Ah, that makes sense. I bet they wouldn’t have wanted to divert the line through a Duchess’ grave, but were quite happy to let us dig up some Regency tart instead,’ grimaced Fletcher as they gazed up at the imposing marble edifice in front of them.

  ‘Full many a flower is born to blush unseen.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘It’s Gray, the inscription,’ explained Henson as he pointed up at the imposing memorial. ‘I can’t make out the rest, but “Beloved” is clear enough and so I think we can say that the late Duke thought of her as much more than just some tart. Else why create this monstrosity to her memory?’

  ‘Perhaps he was compensating for something?’ grinned Fletcher wryly as he descended from their van and gazed up at the massive marble column surmounting the pedestal. ‘She must have been only a teenager when they met, judging by those dates?’

  ‘And not much older when she died, but he never got over her and died heartbroken and alone a few years later. The old roué who’d conquered the hearts of half the duchesses and marchionesses of Regency London in his youth, having his own heart broken by the illegitimate daughter of a tavern keeper in his old age. Ironic, isn’t it?’

  ‘But why build her memorial so far from the house if he really loved her?’

  ‘Look where the turret is,’ replied Henson as they stared across the miles of parkland between the house and the mausoleum. ‘I bet that was the old Duke’s idea. It’s got a direct line of sight on this place. I reckoned it was Victorian when I first clocked it, but it could just as easily be Regency. Probably put it there to keep a better watch on his beloved’s last resting place. A man who could commit such an act of architectural vandalism for his mistress was clearly besotted by her.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ replied Fletcher, unsure as to whether the act of architectural vandalism being referred to was the
addition of the turret, or the Gothic mausoleum surmounting the artificial hill.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  Moving his eyes away from the obelisk tearing into the sky, Fletcher looked in alarm at the crowbar in his partner’s hand.

  ‘Don’t you have a key?’

  ‘Don’t even know if there’s a door yet.’

  Following Henson around the corner of the monument’s massive pedestal, he watched as his colleague disappeared down a small flight of marble steps at the back of the mausoleum. At the bottom of which they encountered the presumed entrance to the tomb, as a dark wooden door, in surprisingly good condition, was proving a stubborn obstacle to Henson’s jemmy.

  ‘The estate has been on the market for the last couple of months,’ grunted Henson as he levered the bar in tighter to find a more effective purchase. ‘The Sydenhams died out after the Great War and it was acquired by a manufacturing family before they went under in the 70s. According to our records the current owner’s an absentee oligarch, but his solicitors claimed to know nothing about this tomb. They were just keen to make sure their client didn’t lose out if they were served with a compulsory purchase order. So once they knew we only wanted to drive the line through the edge of their land and wouldn’t touch the main residence they became much more congenial, but were still unable to dig out a key for the mausoleum.’

  ‘Well at least we’re only dealing with one dead body this time,’ smiled Fletcher grimly as he recalled the medieval burial pit they’d had to dig up on their last job in London.

  But it wasn’t to be that simple. Having broken down the outer door, the two surveyors found themselves in an antechamber. Their flashlights illuminated cold flagstones and yet another door leading deeper into the tomb of Harriet Jane Soames – 8th March, 1797 to 2nd October 1819 according to the faded lettering on the rain lashed marble outside.

  ‘This really is an old man’s folly,’ remarked Fletcher as they sized up the barred metal door facing them.

  ‘Better than being burnt,’ answered Henson drily as he tried to estimate the strength of the inner door.

  ‘At least you’re warm,’ retorted Fletcher as he turned up the collar of his Barbour in a vain attempt to keep out the chilly air of the subterranean chamber.

  ‘These hinges have been oiled…’

  ‘Don’t try and creep me out.’

  ‘I’m not. Somebody’s oiled these this century. That patch on the floor is fairly recent…’

  ‘Perhaps they sent someone else up here to take a shufti?’

  ‘No, we’re the advance guard.’

  ‘Do you think you can get that door open?’ asked Fletcher in a voice which betrayed the fact that a negative answer would be most welcome…

  ‘Let’s have a go.’

  Jake Fletcher watched in dismay as his colleague’s attempt at opening the tomb’s inner door met with the type of success enjoyed by both Lara Croft and Indiana Jones in their fictional adventures. He tried to exclude the historical tomb-cracker Lord Caernarfon from his thoughts, but the Curse of Tutankhamen inevitably broke into his thoughts just as the black door swung open…

  ****

  The occasion of Marina Davenport’s funeral was a day that Pippa Hamilton-Hurst would never forget. But just in case any of the details should slip her mind, she had immediately uploaded the footage on to her blog. Well there were only so many actual people in Penrose Parva she could tell in person and the world and his wife needed to know the inside story! And as Church Warden of St Jerome’s, she not only had privileged access to the service, but possessed one of the few photographic records of the sorry spectacle. An event which had made this story an even bigger one than the one the world’s press gathered outside the church in their armada of satellite vans had been expecting. And as this was the biggest event to be held in the village since the witchcraft trials of 1619, her conscience wasn’t even troubled by what she had done; in fact it was surely her duty as a parish official to record it for posterity.

  She’d tried exciting Geoffrey about the possibility of them holding the burial service for Marina as soon as she’d seen the story of her untimely death breaking on The Mail’s website, but the Vicar’s indifferent reaction had been very disappointing, giving her yet further cause to question what Clara saw in him. Only when the Davenports’ German P.A. had contacted the Vicarage about the funeral arrangements had the Vicar become even remotely interested and this was only because he felt he had to call the Bishop to ensure he could even agree to holding the service at St Jerome’s! When Clara had passed on this titbit to her over gin and biscuits, they’d both agreed that Geoffrey was making far too much of a fuss. Why miss out on the Church’s biggest pay day in centuries over some obscure point in Canon Law? It wasn’t even as if they were burying Marina there, as not only had their parish graveyard reached its capacity in the 19th Century, but details of the arrangements she’d seen leaked on-line had already specified that Marina’s exquisite flesh would go the same way as those of the three witches executed in the reign of King James – it would be burnt. Though at least this would take place in the municipal crematorium rather than in the village market place.

  And as she’d pointed out to the Vicar’s long suffering wife, it was hardly a sin to give Anglican burial rites to a girl who had revealed in a recent interview with Style Monthly that she possessed deeply held spiritual views. Clara may have dared to demur at this, but could hardly gainsay the evidence of the exquisite Russian Orthodox Cross Marina was pictured wearing around her elegant neck in the accompanying photo-shoot. Clara had then agreed with her whole-heartedly and had also reminded her that they owed it to the family to give the second Lady Davenport a Christian burial in the church where Sir Nahum Davenport had contributed £18,000 of the funds needed to restore the organ. And as Clara had said, it wouldn’t be the first time Geoffrey had had to take such a funeral, as no-one else really believed that old Farmer Havelock had accidentally blown out his brains with his shotgun when cleaning it. Not when the bank had been threatening to foreclose on him.

  Thankfully, the Bishop’s liberalism had prevailed in Marina’s case and as one of the few villagers permitted to attend the ceremony in her role as Church Warden, Pippa had revelled in the chance to photograph the Glitterati whose elegant haute couture creations were helping to turn the nave of the Medieval church into a final catwalk for Marina Davenport. Concealing herself in the organ loft (she’d never forgive the recent limits Robert had imposed on her credit card spending), she’d snapped away at the more expensively dressed models below, fondly imagining that the visitors to her blog would be measured in their tens of thousands by the time she had uploaded the photos.

  Little had she realised that by the end of the day over 19 million hits would have been registered on her site and that the images in her camera could have dressed her in designer collections for the rest of her life…

  ****

  The mummified presence of at least half a dozen extraneous corpses hardly helped to drive all thoughts of Egyptian burial curses from Fletcher’s mind as he swung his flashlight around the circular burial chamber at the heart of the mausoleum. If this was a Hammer Horror, it was a very modern Hammer Horror in which the muted tones of real death had replaced the Technicolor terrors of his boyhood.

  ‘I thought there was supposed to be only one body in here?’ he eventually managed in an attempt to normalise their grotesque discovery; however Henson had already taken to his heels and could be heard retching in the antechamber outside.

  Flashing his torch in his fellow surveyor’s direction he followed him out and helped him back up the steps into the cold air outside.

  ‘What the bloody hell happened in there?’ spluttered Henson as he reached for his mobile.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Calling the police, what do you think I’m doing?’

  ‘Wait!’ Fletcher cut the call off with his gloved hand. ‘Let’s just find out what we’re going to tell them first
.’

  ‘It’s a slaughterhouse in there!’

  ‘Well it is a tomb! What did you expect to find?’

  ‘There’s only supposed to be one body in there! And you’re not telling me those others in there died during the Regency, are you?’

  ‘Let me go back and count them. Then we can call the police.’

  The air outside was clearing his mind and now the horror was no longer imaginary, Fletcher felt ready to face it. Leaving Henson in the van he re-entered the tomb.

  A military policeman in a previous life, he drew his scarf over his mouth and nose as the darkness of the burial chamber enveloped him for a second time. Combining the meticulous exactness of both the professions he had been employed in, he beamed his flashlight carefully around a burial chamber that was some sixty feet in diameter. In the centre was the catafalque on which rested the mortal remains of one of Regency England’s most notorious courtesans, but by the time he had finished counting he reckoned there were eight other bodies in the shadowy tomb. Each had been positioned on the stone flagstones like figures on a gigantic clock face.

  Having served in Bosnia, the sight of death was not something which appalled him. It upset him yes, especially when he recalled some of the other mass graves he had seen, but if he could only find a reason (even if it was a very bad reason) for how these people had died, then at least he could try to explain their deaths. Constructing a whacking great memorial to some dead lover was downright weird in his book and something he found hard to rationalise, but the bodies lying on the marble floor of the burial chamber represented a crime as terrible as any he had seen in the former Yugoslavia and that meant there were people who could be brought to justice for this. And he was also in no doubt that the people grouped around the central catafalque had died much more recently than Harriet Jane Soames, as there was little doubt that the sealed chamber and the stifling air had caused the mummification process which had turned their skin dry and leathery.