The Boy Who Stole from the Dead

CHAPTER 16

GRAY SKIES COVERED London but Nadia couldn’t have cared less. She had a special fondness for England, as did most Americans, even if they didn’t care to admit it sometimes. Although the Corvette trounced the Jaguar around the track, it was forever searching for the elegance in the rearview mirror. She sat opposite the headmaster of Jonathan Valentine’s secondary school. Rain drizzled against the window of his office. The headmaster wore a gunmetal and brown patterned suit. The seams were fraying.

“I love your pottery collection, Mr. Darby,” she said, nodding at the bookcase filled with ceramic figurines.

“Why thank you.”

“Toby mugs?”

His eyes widened. “Yes.”

“Royal Doulton.”

He brimmed with delight. “Do you collect?”

“My mother does. Or rather did until it became fashionable. Once other collectors started hoarding new releases for speculative purposes, she gave up.”

Darby came alive. “So did I. What a shame, I tell you. One of the great joys of my life ruined by opportunists. They’re not true collectors. They don’t appreciate the craftsmanship or the whimsy.”

“I see your Alfred Hitchcock has a pink curtain. Not a gray one, which is the common variety. That’s rare, isn’t it?”

“It’s the jewel of my collection.”

Nadia stood up to take a closer look. “It’s spectacular.”

Darby blushed. “Why thank you, Ms. Tesla.”

“Call me Nadia, please. I’ve heard they exist but I’ve never seen one. I appreciate your giving me a glimmer of joy during what is sure to be a grim visit to London.” She sat back down.

“We heard the news about young Mr. Valentine. It’s a tragedy. The faculty—the entire institution—we’re all devastated.”

“Thank you, Mr. Darby. I hope it wouldn’t be too painful if I ask you some questions.”

“Questions? About what?”

“About Jonathan.”

“Forgive me for being so blunt, Ms. Tesla, but what is your connection to Jonathan?”

“I was referred to you by the Office of Alumni Relations at the University of Nottingham. A kind lady there confirmed Jonathan was a graduate of Felshire. I thought he was because I found an old article online, from the school newspaper. It mentioned Jonathan Valentine was named Most Valued Player in a football match against Westminster. Was Jonathan a great athlete?”

Darby squirmed. “Yes, but you haven’t answered my question—”

“Was it just football for him, or did he have other interests beyond scholastics?”

Darby started to answer but stopped himself.

“You do get to know your students fairly well, I suspect,” Nadia said, “given how small the classes are. What did I read? Seventeen students on average per class at Felshire?”

“Yes, that’s about right—”

“Gateway to Oxbridge. I never heard that term before in America. I’ve heard of Oxford, of course. And Cambridge. But never the term ‘Oxbridge’. Was Jonathan’s family disappointed when he didn’t get into either and ended up at Nottingham?”

“Please, madam… Please stop talking for a moment and answer my question.”

“What was the question?”

“Who are you?”

“I told you. My name is Nadia Tesla.” Nadia had considered using an alias but decided against it. A lie would have to be perpetuated. That could become a problem if Darby led her to a person with whom she needed to be honest. The closer she stuck to the truth the better off she was. Besides, the odds Darby knew she was guardian to Valentine’s alleged killer were low.

“Yes. No. I mean, what is your connection to Jonathan? You’re an American. I suspect you’re not related.”

“No. And any such dream is dead now, isn’t it?”

Darby frowned. “I’m afraid you have me at a constant loss, Ms. Tesla.”

“Nadia.”

“Very well, Nadia. Please tell me why you’re here.”

Nadia thought of the time her father asked her if she’d be willing to take the Ukrainian Girl Scout survival test at age twelve. The thought of revealing her true feelings and saying no terrified her. But she felt compelled to do so. She needed to channel the same reluctance and sincerity. She’d concocted the story she was about to tell Darby on the plane to London. Rehearsed it countless times in the hotel. She knew the script. Now it was a matter of delivery. Reluctance and sincerity.

“I was Jonathan’s lover,” Nadia said.

“Oh.” He blushed. His tone eased. “I see.”

“We were going to get married.”

“He always did like older… I’m so sorry.”

“Until Jonathan found out I was pregnant with his child. Then he threw me out of his apartment in the middle of the night.”

“He did what?”

“He said he never wanted to see me again. Said I couldn’t be sure the child was his given I was a whore, and if I tried to sue him to get a DNA test I’d regret the day I was born. I’m just trying to get to know the father of my child a bit, in case he or she asks me about him down the line.”

Darby digested her comments. “Bastard,” he said under his breath. He stood up and closed the door to his office. Collapsed back into his chair. “May God have mercy on my soul for saying this. I know he was the father of your child but you’re better off with him gone. I hate to say it, but the world is better off with Jonathan Valentine dead.”

It was Nadia’s turn to be taken aback. “Why would you say that?”

“I’ve been headmaster here for thirty-two years. During that time I’ve seen some five thousand young men pass through these halls. Jonathan Valentine was the worst of the lot. And whoever the runner up is he’s a distant second.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No, I am most assuredly not kidding you.” Darby opened a drawer. He pulled out a bottle of single malt Scotch. “Will you join me?”

Nadia patted her stomach. “I’d love to, but under the circumstances…”

“Oh. Something else, perhaps?”

Nadia declined. He fixed himself a Scotch on the rocks.

“In what way was he the worst of the lot?” she said.

“In every way. He was a sociopath. Society’s norms meant nothing to him. He had no morals whatsoever. It would have been bad enough if he were merely a pathological liar with criminal tendencies. But no. He was a rogue, a cheat and a scoundrel, too. And he was charming. So charming. As you know. Or rather, as you knew.”

“Yes. Too well. What were some of the worst things he did, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Darby considered the question. “It’s not that I mind your asking, it’s more that you may mind my answering.”

“How so?”

Darby’s eyes drifted toward Nadia’s stomach.

“He got a girl pregnant,” Nadia said.

“My dear, this is a senior boarding school for boys only. There are no girls.”

“Then I don’t understand.”

“Women, my dear. And note that I’m using the plural case. Women. One was a maid and the other was the music teacher.”

“And he got them both pregnant?”

“At the age of seventeen. Within the span of two months.”

Nadia sat speechless.

Darby nodded. “He ran a gambling operation out of his dormitory, stole gold from the chapel, extorted money from the weaker boys, and beat up the biology teacher.”

“And he wasn’t expelled?”

“He should have been. But he wasn’t.”

Nadia studied Darby. His face was the color of eggplant. The straight line drawn by his lips suggested it was a function of embarrassment and resentment.

“Parental influence?” Nadia said.

Darby shrugged. “Parental influence, a man’s instincts for survival. Sometimes they’re one and the same.”

Nadia let a moment go by. “I’m sorry. I can see you were put in a bad spot.”

Darby sipped his Scotch. “Damn Russians.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Damn Russians, I said.”

“What about them?”

“They came here because England offered legal sanctuary and a fair due process of law. Hypocrites. I’ve had men walk in here with bags of cash offering to build swimming pools, classrooms, and gyms in exchange for admission. One man landed his private helicopter on the cricket field. Asked if he could build his personal landing pad there. You can’t imagine the gall of these people.”

“I’m confused,” Nadia said. “What did the Russians have to do with Jonathan?”

“You mean he didn’t tell you?”

Nadia feared she was about to be found out. Her gut was telling her she was supposed to know something she obviously didn’t.

“Tell me what?” she said.

“That his parents were Russian. That he was born in Russia. That he was Russian.”

Nadia sat dumbstruck. “How can that be? He didn’t have a Russian accent. And his last name—”

“His father changed it. Legally. Used to be Valentin. He added a letter. That’s all it takes to go from Russian immigrant to English gentleman. One more letter at the end of a man’s name.”

“Why did the father change the family name?”

“When he immigrated, Jonathan was a baby. Oh, and his first name was Ivan, by the way. Ivan Valentin. His father wanted Jonathan to have every possible advantage. He didn’t want him labeled a Russian. It may be that he didn’t want him burdened by his own past, though I don’t know any details in that regard. That’s me speculating.”

“Is there a large Russian community in London?”

Darby appeared shocked. “You must be joking.”

“No.”

“There’s a long history between Moscow and London. Lenin was here six times between 1902 and 1911. The collapse of the Soviet Union led to several waves of immigration. The early wave in 1991 was mostly professionals looking for a better way of life. Work permits were scarce and visas were hard to obtain so their numbers were limited. The second wave in 1994 was a nastier mix of people. They started showing up to burn money on the weekends. Kremlin insiders, ex-KGB, Russian-based criminals. Then John Major created the investor visa. Anyone who invested 750,000 pounds in UK government bonds could apply for English citizenship after a five year wait.”

“Let me guess. That led to the third wave.”

“In 1991 there were a hundred visas granted to Russians. In 2006 there were two hundred and fifty thousand. The super rich poured in. We became the official bag carriers for the world’s financial elite. We can offer what New York and Hong Kong cannot—a superior tax haven. In England, a person can claim to be domiciled abroad and not pay taxes on income earned outside the U.K. Add to that London’s perfect location—five hours from Moscow, and its top boarding schools for the children, and you have…”

“Runaway property values,” Nadia said.

“And the headmaster to Moscow-on-Thames sitting humbly before you.”

“I had no idea.”

Darby glanced at her midsection again. “No, I dare say you didn’t. Again, I’m so sorry about your predicament. Better days ahead, I’m sure.”

“What can you tell me about Jonathan’s father?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. Secretive sort. All of them are, to some degree. Said he made his fortune in the lumber business in Russia. Only spoke with him a few times. The entrance interview, of course. And then commencement and graduation. His wife did visit the boy now and then. I’m sure it was a struggle for young Jonathan to keep his hands off her.”

Nadia recoiled. “I beg your pardon?”

“No, no.” Darby laughed. “Second wife. He divorced the first wife, Jonathan’s mother, here in London. It was amicable. She got a generous settlement. The second wife is a former page three girl.”

“Page three girl?”

“One of our newspapers, the Sun, publishes topless pictures of glamour models on page three. This one was of Russian extraction. Natasha. Wayward girl. He was sixty-eight, she was thirty-six when they married. What does that sound like to you?”

“New York City.”

Darby drank.

“I understand the funeral is tomorrow morning,” Nadia said.

“Yes. You’re not planning to attend, I hope…”

“Why? Do you think that would be a bad idea?”

“There’s only Natasha and her baby. A girl. I don’t think there are any relatives in Russia. If she finds out you’re with child, she might consider you a threat.”

Nadia savored the moment. Darby had provided a quantum leap in her investigation. Valentine’s Russian heritage gave her hope there was a deeper connection between Bobby and him.

“Then we’ll have to keep it our little secret, won’t we, Mr. Darby? In fact, let’s agree on this. As far as the rest of London is concerned, I’m not pregnant at all.”