Page 6 of The Case of the Missing Dancer
Back at the theatre,I found the corridors buzzing with afternoon rehearsal activity. I made my way to Anya's dressing room, determined to conduct a more thorough search now that I knew what I was looking for.
The room appeared exactly as I'd left it, but this time I examined it with fresh eyes. I ran my hands along the walls, checking for loose panels or hidden spaces. Behind the mirror, my fingers found a slight gap in the wainscoting. I pressed gently, and a small section swung inward with a soft click.
My heart hammered as I peered into the hidden compartment. Inside, wrapped in oiled cloth, was a small collection of items that made my blood run cold.
First, a stack of photographs. The top image showed a young girl—unmistakably Anya, though perhaps ten years younger than her twenty-five years—standing rigidly beside a stern-faced man in military uniform. The child's eyes held a haunted quality that made my chest tighten. Behind this were more photographs: formal family portraits, all featuring the same imposing man and various other figures in expensive clothing and military decorations.
But it was the letters that made my hands tremble.
Written in harsh, angular script on expensive paper, they appeared to be in Russian with some English phrases scattered throughout. Though I couldn't read the Cyrillic characters, certain words stood out:London,ballet,debt, and most chillingly, what appeared to be threats. The handwriting grewincreasingly erratic in the later letters, the ink darker and more aggressive.
At the bottom of the stack was a British newspaper clipping from three months ago, yellowed and carefully folded. The headline read:MYSTERIOUS FIRE DESTROYS EAST END WAREHOUSE—RUSSIAN BUSINESSMAN SUSPECTED OF INSURANCE FRAUD.
My breath caught as I studied the accompanying photograph. The man pictured bore a strong resemblance to the figure in Anya's family portraits, though older and wearing civilian clothes. The caption identified him asDmitri Volkov, currently under investigation by Scotland Yard.
Volkov. The same name the florist had given me.
I hovered, torn between propriety and necessity. Taking the letters and photographs felt dangerously close to theft—but leaving them meant risking the truth staying buried. I didn’t know who could translate the letters, or who might recognize the faces in the photos. But I would find a way.
After taking photographs of everything with my small camera, I slipped the items into my handbag. As I closed the panel and rose, my hands still unsteady, one thing was painfully clear: whatever Anya had become entangled in, it was far more perilous than I’d ever imagined.
The sound of footsteps in the corridor made me freeze. I quickly smoothed my skirt and moved to the vanity, pretending to examine the cosmetics as someone passed by the slightly open door.
When the footsteps faded, I slipped out of the dressing room. I needed to contact Robert, my fiancé, immediately. As a Chief Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard, he might know something about the investigation into Dmitri Volkov that could help me understand what hold Volkov had over Anya.
But even as I considered that thought, a chill ran down my spine. If Volkov was willing to threaten and stalk his own niece, what might he do to anyone who interfered with his plans?
I thought of the newspaper clipping—mysterious fire,suspected fraud. Whatever business Volkov was involved in, it wasn't the sort that left witnesses behind to tell tales.
For the first time since taking the case, I wondered if I was in over my head. But then I thought of Anya's frightened face in those childhood photographs, of the carefully hidden evidence she'd risked her life to preserve, and I knew I couldn't walk away.
Whatever secrets lay buried in London's Russian community, whatever hold Dmitri Volkov had over his niece, I would uncover the truth. Even if it meant walking into the wolf's den myself.
CHAPTER 4
SHADOWS FROM ST. PETERSBURG
The first thing I did upon returning to the Ladies of Distinction Detective Agency was seek out Emma, who glanced up from her correspondence, somewhat surprised by my breathless entry. “Kitty, you look as though you've seen a ghost. What happened?”
“The investigation into Anya Petrova’s disappearance? It’s more complicated than I expected,” I said, settling into the chair across from her desk. “Do you know anyone who speaks Russian? Someone we can trust with sensitive material?"
She set down her pen, giving me her full attention. "As a matter of fact, yes. Professor Dimitri Levkin teaches Russian literature at University College London. He's also a refugee from the revolution—came to London in 1920. Completely trustworthy, and he's helped the Foreign Office with translations before."
"Perfect. I need to see him immediately."
Her brow wrinkled. “What exactly have you discovered?"
I quickly recounted my visit to the florist and the hidden cache in Anya's dressing room. Emma's expression grew increasingly grave as I described the seemingly threatening letters and the newspaper clipping about Dmitri Volkov.
"If Volkov is already under Scotland Yard investigation for insurance fraud, and now he's threatening his own niece . . . ?” She took a breath. “You’re right. This is no simple missing person case.”
"Exactly my thinking. Can you arrange a meeting with Professor Levkin this afternoon?"
"I'll telephone him immediately."
Two hours later, I found myself in the cluttered study of Professor Levkin's modest flat near Russell Square. Books in multiple languages towered in precarious stacks, and the air smelled of strong tea and tobacco. The professor himself was a small, neat man with intelligent dark eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles.
"Miss Worthington," he said in accented but perfect English, "Lady Emma explained you have some Russian documents that require translation.”
