Eva Ibbotson

“But certainly: 33 Mikhailovskaya. It is a beautiful apartment—the bathroom is particularly fine and in five minutes one can reach the Winter Palace and also the statue of Peter the Great, though I regard this as not absolutely the best work of Etienne Falconet; there is something a little bit exaggerated in the proportions and—”

“His address in London is what I want, Madame. Don’t trifle with me!”

“I regret, Professor, that I do not know—”

“The woman’s lying!” shrieked Aunt Louisa—at which point Madame summoned her servant and the Mortons were shown the door.

“Oh, heavens, Bernard, what shall we do?” Louisa was so distraught that she omitted to pick up from the pavement a pocket comb with only one tooth missing which, after a good scrubbing, would have done for the spare room.

But back at Scroope Terrace the valient Hermione Belper waved a newspaper she had just fetched from her home.

“There!” she said triumphantly. “I thought I’d seen something about a ballet company going up the Amazon. They’re at the Century Theater, in Bloomsbury.”

The Professor took it from her hand.

“We must leave for London immediately,” he announced. “This newspaper is five days old and anything might have happened since then.” His decisiveness sent a flutter of approval through the ladies. “If we hurry, we can catch the five-fifty-four.”

“But Bernard, that could mean a night in a hotel. The expense!” cried Louisa.

“Damn the expense!” said the Professor, and if anyone had doubted that he loved his daughter they could doubt no longer. “If this escapade should reach the ears of the Master, with the Senate elections coming up…”

“Or Edward,” said Louisa faintly. “If Edward came to hear of it…”

And an hour later the Mortons were on the train.

Stage-doorkeepers in general are not renowned for their loving kindness or the enthusiasm with which they greet unauthorized visitors, but even among that well-known band of misanthropes “old Bill” at the Century stood out for the particularly poor view he took of human nature. Even before he had lost an eye in the relief of Khartoum in ‘85, his nature had hardly been sanguine, and now—with the aid of a scruffy and paranoid mongrel called Griff, who bit first and asked questions afterward—he ensured that those who worked in his theater were seldom unnecessarily disturbed.

“What d’yer want?” was his greeting to the Mortons as he stuck out his grizzled head from the window of his cubby-hole.

“We have come to see Mr. Dubrov,” announced the Professor. “The matter is extremely urgent.”

“Well, he ain’t here. No one’s here at this time of night.”

It seemed unlikely that he was lying; as the Mortons had walked around it, the Century Theater had been silent and dark.

“We have come to make inquiries about a girl who may have joined the Company,” began Louisa, “as a dancer.”

“Shut up!”

Bill was addressing his dog, but without rancor, for in growling even more hideously than usual and baring his yellow teeth, Griff was only confirming Bill’s own view—that as far as people in general went, this toffee-nosed couple were bottom of the heap.

“She is an English girl,” persisted Louisa. “There cannot be many English girls in such a company.”

“Not any,” said Bill laconically. “All Russian. All got Russian names. Got to have. No one’ll stand for English names, not in ballet.”

“But there must have been a girl who spoke English? You must have heard the girls speak?”

“Me?” said Bill, “Why should I hear them speak? I haven’t got time to stand around chattering. Got me work to do, I have.”

Bowing to the inevitable, the Professor felt in his pocket and extracted a half-crown which he laid on the counter. “Wasn’t there just one girl who spoke to you? Said good morning, perhaps?”

Bill moved the coin slowly across the counter, but did not yet pocket it. Taking a tip could tie you…

“Aye,” he said. “Come to think of it, there was one—a real smasher. Great goo-goo eyes, blonde hair and curves.” He sketched the delectable Marie-Claude in the air with deliberate crudity.

Louisa shuddered. “That is not the girl we are looking for.”

“Now look here, my man; I am the girl’s father and this is her aunt. If you know anything about her and conceal the fact, we shall have not the slightest hesitation in reporting you to the police.”

Bill lifted his eye-patch to scratch his forehead. Then slowly he slipped the half-crown into his pocket. It was doubtful if the old gaffer could do much, but there was never any point in getting mixed up with the police.

“The girl we want is plain,” said Louisa firmly. “With straight brown hair and brown eyes. A plain girl.”