Katherine Woodfine - Spies in St. Petersburg

The painting was small – not much bigger than a notebook – and obviously very old. She leaned forward, her hand tightening on his sleeve, as she gazed at the sinuous shape of the dragon, painted in a rich crimson. Its snaking form was shown against a background of a dark stormy sky, and piled at its feet were a heap of bones and what looked like a human skull.

Rupert had only seen the painting once before, and truth be told, he’d not been very keen on it – it was so small and dark, and so jolly sinister-looking – but it was clear the girl felt differently. For a moment or two, she said nothing and only stared.

‘Do you like it?’ asked Rupert at last.

‘Oh, Mr Grenville,’ she sighed. ‘It’s absolutely marvellous !’

‘Do call me Rupert,’ said Rupert at once, thinking how debonair that sounded.

‘ Rupert , then. Gosh – I’ve never seen anything like it! Thanks awfully for showing it to me.’

Rupert hurried the painting back into its folder, and away into the safe as quickly as he could. He most certainly did not want his father to know that he’d been showing his secret painting to one of their guests – though it had all been worth it to see the glow of admiration in her eyes. ‘Shall we go, then?’ he said, offering her his arm.

But just then the door of the study was flung noisily open. A young man came bowling into the room, followed by another young man and two laughing young ladies, who all flung themselves down into the big leather armchairs.

‘Rupert, old chap! There you are. What are you doing back here? We’ve found your hiding place, old thing. Your mama’s in a frightful tizz looking for you. She’s dreadfully keen for you to dance with Lady Cynthia, you know. I say – who wants a brandy? You’ll take one, won’t you, Hugo? And one for you of course, old fellow.’

Rupert found a glass was being thrust into his hand. He turned to smile apologetically at the girl – but then stopped in surprise. ‘I say – wherever did she go?’

‘Where did who go, old fellow? Cheers, everyone – bottoms up!’

But Rupert didn’t join in the toast. He was still staring around him. To his astonishment, and intense disappointment, the beautiful young lady with red roses in her hair had vanished. He strode to the door, but outside the hallway was empty. It was as if she had never even been there. ‘And dash it all,’ he muttered. ‘I still don’t know her name!’

Secret Service Bureau HQ, London

Lilian Rose had quite a lot of unusual talents. She could perform a perfect double pirouette, sing various amusing comic songs whilst accompanying herself on the piano, and recite screeds of Shakespeare from memory. She was also not a bad burglar, when occasion required it – which in her line of work, it quite often did.

It had taken her just seconds to slip unnoticed out of Sir Edwin Grenville’s study and into the darkened room opposite. Inside, she stood behind the door, peering through a crack as Rupert came out into the hall – looking all around him to see where she had got to – and then hurried off towards the ballroom.

She didn’t have to wait very long before the others followed him. As soon as they had all gone, Lil opened the door, and slipped soundlessly across the hall. A moment later, she was back in the now-empty study. The mahogany cabinet was open, and she was expertly twirling the dial of the safe with her white-gloved fingertips. Really, poor old Rupert had made it far too easy for her – he hadn’t even bothered to hide the combination.

Inside the safe, she found the leather folder stamped with the familiar symbol of the twisting gold dragon. She’d recognised it at once: after all, she’d seen a Casselli painting kept inside one just like it before, in circumstances she was not likely to forget. She grasped it and pulled it out – and then at last, the precious painting was in her hands.

Her skin prickled with the excitement and strangeness of it. She’d been hunting for The Red Dragon for a long time; it was hard to believe that the painting, which was supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago when a British ship was set upon by pirates, was really here, in this house in West London – and she had it at last! But she knew there was no time to hang about feeling pleased with herself. Quickly, she closed the safe and then the cabinet door: no sense in making it completely obvious that a burglary had taken place.

Silent in her satin slippers, she went back out into the long hallway. But before she could take another step, she realised that someone was approaching. Not Rupert but an older man with white hair and a bristling moustache, talking in a low voice to his companion, a middle-aged man in evening dress. Lil knew that the man with the white hair was Sir Edwin himself.

There was no time for her to get away, but Lil had done this kind of thing far too many times to panic. By the time Sir Edwin and his friend reached the study door, they saw nothing but a young lady examining her reflection in a looking glass, her fluffy ostrich-feather fan cast down on a polished table at her side.

She turned, as if startled, and bowed her head politely – her cheeks pink, as though she was embarrassed to have been caught preening before the mirror. Sir Edwin gave her an indulgent smile and said ‘Good evening’, before disappearing with his friend into the study.

The second the door had closed behind them, Lil lifted the fan, revealing beneath it the painting in its folder.

Really, you never knew when a fan was going to come in handy, she reflected, as she swiftly picked up the folder and darted away down the hall.

She’d already planned her route out of the house, and now she went swiftly through the green baize door that led to the servants’ quarters – knowing quite well that none of the grand party guests would follow her there. With the painting tucked under her arm, she went lightly down the stairs – past a busy kitchen full of steam and rattling saucepans, where Cook was yelling at someone about oysters, past the Butler’s pantry, past a confused-looking boot boy – and then out of the servants’ entrance and into the yard.

She’d stashed an old carpet bag amongst some bushes in the garden. Under cover of the shrubbery, she retrieved it, and a moment later the white evening gown was hidden beneath an ordinary brown coat, and the red roses by a plain brown felt hat. The painting was tucked inside the carpet bag, carefully cushioned by her fluffy fan. Now she was no debutante but an ordinary girl – perhaps a housemaid on her night off – walking briskly, but in no special hurry, down the street towards Park Lane where she could catch an omnibus.

Somewhere behind her, in the yard of Sir Edwin’s mansion, she heard the sound of running footsteps. A voice yelled out; electric torches were flashed into the darkness of the garden. So they already knew the painting was gone? That was rather interesting. Had Rupert cottoned on and raised the alarm – or had Sir Edwin opened his safe and noticed his painting was missing?

Just the same, she forced herself to stroll on towards the bus stop without speeding up. She didn’t even flinch when a motor car came roaring out of Sir Edwin’s driveway, rushing past her at top speed. She knew that hurrying would only make her look suspicious – and besides, there was not the smallest chance that Sir Edwin, or Rupert, or any of the party guests would make a connection between the elegant young lady in white and the ordinary girl in the brown coat, waiting for the omnibus with a shabby carpet bag at her side.