Maidens in the Vale : A Novel (2023), page 2
He waited on the aisle, as the ghostly opening fanfare echoed through the hall. Indeed, Sophia and Rudolf had barely made their seats before the massed violins of the Glyndebourne orchestra filled the great domed auditorium with the achingly sinister overture to Verdi’s Rigoletto.
Almost 120 years after his death, Verdi, the bearded Italian socialite, composer of 25 operas, was, right here in deepest Sussex, once more gripping an audience with sounds from the very heavens, in which he undoubtedly dwelt.
Outside, high in the ancient Spring trees of Glyndebourne, a light summer breeze drifted in from the nearby south coast of England. And the new leaves trembled. As well they might. Two daggers would strike fatally on this night. And both of them would involve a very beautiful woman.
Rarely, even from the Milanese maestro, does any overture sigh so beautifully with such promise of evil, perhaps even murder. Especially when immaculately-played by the London Philharmonic Orchestra, in residence tonight. And a thousand tiny electric tremors zipped along the spines of even the most resolute opera-lovers, as they were engulfed once more by the orchestral swell of Rigoletto, created by perhaps the finest composer the world has ever seen.
This was the work of one of opera’s gods, whose dark statue still stands timelessly glowering in the foyer of La Scala. Glowering was in fact the natural facial expression of Guiseppe Verdi, and almost every sculpture of him seems to highlight the furrowed brow, the stern uncompromising look of the Maestro.
Such an expression was, however, less often seen on the complacent face of Baron Fontridge, Lord Justice of England, Chairman of the Glyndebourne Trustees. But right now his expression was tortured. He actually looked as if he had seen an apparition. And the words on the now opened letter, written to him with the purest malice, shook before his eyes:
My Lord,
I do hope you remember me. Such intimate moments, with my little sister looking on, before you thrashed her bare skin with that leather belt. I always wondered why you wanted to hurt her every time you had me. She was only 15, and I was 17. I still relive the agony and the shame every night of my life. Your brutality seemed so unfair to us both.
Meet me by the stone bridge by the lake immediately after the first act. I’m afraid there will be a price.
Yours,
Sophia.
PS Should you not keep this rendezvous, I will be in the offices of The Sun newspaper by 11am tomorrow morning.
Lord Fontridge never heard one note of the overture. His mind was transmitting a brand new dimension to the word ‘fear’. He tried to fold the letter away and slipped the envelope into his inside pocket. He tried to bring a sense of self-righteous anger—“some shoddy little blackmailer trying it on.” But that didn’t work. The ghastly spectre of The Sun hitting the street with an end-of-the-world typeface proclaiming “ROYAL ADVISER ACCUSED OF SCHOOLGIRL RAPE,” stood before him.
“Mother of God!” breathed Lord Fontridge. And where the hell was his accuser? Was she in this this very opera house? What was he supposed to do? There was literally no one to whom he could turn for help. Right now his only course was to attend the bridge, face this Sophia, whoever the hell she was. And find out if the price was worth paying.
Right now he was in the deepest throes of self-denial, repeatedly saying to himself alone, ‘What is this woman talking about? Little sister? Brutality? What price to pay? Why me? I’ve never heard of anything so outrageous. Does she have any idea who I am?’ Worse yet he was trapped in his second-row seat. No escape. He was also trapped by his very own personal demons.
But, even more profoundly, there came the whispered words of another voice, from deep within—I am afraid she knows exactly who you are. And Lord Fontridge understood he must either silence Miss Sophia. Or face total ruin, humility, socially, legally, and perhaps even financially. Such overpowering national disgrace is suffered by very few.
Rigoletto proceeded, essentially without the head of the Board of Trustees. The rich and melodious baritone of the hunchback himself thrilled the audience, as did the Italian tenor playing the sly and seedy Duke of Mantua. But perhaps it was the purest notes of the truly enchanting soprano playing Gilda who stole the opening hour, as she drifted towards an inevitable fate, born of her impassioned love for the Duke.
In barely disguised torment, Baron Fontridge tolerated the First Act. And as the long interval approached, he knew he must leave, right in front of his fellow Board members. Several rows back, there was already an empty seat. Miss Sophia Morosova was out of the auditorium, and pulling on a pair of soft black leather driving gloves, as she made her way down the lawn, on her way to the bridge.
On stage, Rigoletto himself was a study in anguish. He stood terrified of the curse, which runs thematically throughout the opera: La Maledizionne. His voice betrayed his terror, and his agony. Lord Fontridge, perhaps above all other opera-goers, understood precisely how the hunchback felt about the oncoming disaster.
Excusing himself for the slight disruption, Fontridge stepped past his fellow Trustees, and made his way out of the theatre. He walked along the footpath to the great lawn, and then set off down towards the lake, and the stone bridge. It was a five-minute walk, but it took him longer, as his footsteps slowed, in anticipation of the ordeal, which undoubtedly awaited him. He still had not the slightest idea either of what to say, or indeed to do. Both his mood, and the night air were growing darker.
And now, up ahead, he could see a shadowy figure just beyond the bridge. And as he walked on towards the shore of the lake he had to admit it was a rather relaxed looking, shadowy figure, a tall girl, standing beneath a willow tree, looking down at the evening ripples lapping from the lake. When he reached the stone crossing, he hesitated, then strode forward, summoning all the pompous authority his many offices afforded him.
He was tall, a handsome man, with a dashing smile when required, and now he said briskly, “Good evening, madam. I believe you mistakenly wished to see me?”
“No mistake, my lord,” replied Sophia. “Perhaps you would like to step a little closer, in the interests of identification. I, of course, will never forget you, but I think it would be better for both of us if you could recognise me.”
“Well, I don’t think there’s any need for that,” he replied, “None at all. But you might inform me what you actually want.”
“I want you to look at me, perhaps for old time’s sake …”
“I’ve told you,” he replied, now standing about six feet from her. “No need. I’ve never seen you in my life.” His gaze was instantly captured by the driving gloves she wore, slightly incongruously. They were in no way a lady’s evening gloves. Indeed they were more suited to the hands of a Formula One Grand Prix competitor.
Fontridge looked momentarily puzzled, but Sophia smiled, and took a step forward, holding out her hand in a rather affectionate gesture. “Come along, Freddie,” she chuckled, remembering for the one millionth time the name her own step-father had used when addressing this very brilliant lawyer seven years ago. And Lord Fontridge, his dinner jacket unbuttoned, took her by her gloved left hand.
Sophia, however, moved quickly. And she came forward smoothly, guessing where the gap between the aristocratic fourth and fifth ribs were located, on the right side, facing him. And as their bodies lightly touched, she rammed the eight-inch blade of her bone-handled Italian stiletto into his white dress shirt, and directly into the nearside ventricle of Lord Fontridge’s heart, which went into immediate spasm.
The eminent Law Lord gasped, the very last gasp he would ever make. The pain was overwhelming, his eyes looked as if they might explode from his head, but Sophia was still smiling as she whispered in his ear.
And these were the final words he would ever hear, before she grabbed her letter from his jacket pocket, and crammed it into her trusty Hermes bag. Then she twisted his body around and shoved Freddie Fontridge backwards into the shallow waters of the Glyndebourne lake.
Still jutting grotesquely from his central rib-cage was the stiletto, upon which there would not be one smudge of a finger-print. With the body face-down half-submerged, Sophia had one more task to complete. She leaned down and picked a small flint rock out of the water, about four inches wide at the base, and shoved it into her pocket.
Lord Fontridge was already dead, and knew nothing of this ritual. And, since he knew not one word of Russian, neither would he ever understand the departing statement of one of his former victims … “Dosvidaniya, ty ublyudok.”
Goodbye, you bastard.
Chapter Two
No Cathedrals for Sasha
But it was the tower, that stark and sightless high peak of evil,
which hardly ever faded from her mind. Sophia Morosova
prayed at the grave-side for her sister—trembling at the true
reason for her suicide.
Sophia left her dagger behind. She had delivered the fatal thrust with the kind of expertise only available from men like the former KGB assassin who had coached her. Rudy would, she guessed, be very proud of her. She had obeyed his instructions to the letter, right down to the last order: leave the dagger in, it stops the bleeding.
And now she walked on a casual stride towards the car park—no running. She realised it was much darker now, and the body could not possibly be discovered until the ground staff arrived tomorrow morning—unless they decided to dredge the lake tonight. And how unlikely was it, that the body could be found, floating just below the surface, in the pitch black after Rigoletto had concluded?
No chance of that, thought Sophia as she slipped through the lines of cars, and climbed into her own, ironically named, black Ford Escape SUV. She headed west along the coast towards the old A23, which runs north to Gatwick Airport, site of some of the most anonymous commercial hotels in England. This was a place where anyone could get completely lost, especially a Paris-based Russian nobody, travelling on at least a half-dozen impeccably forged foreign passports, and driving licenses.
Sophia looked more French than English, especially her clothes and her hairstyle. After Cambridge she had gone to France and taken a course in fashion and design at the Paris L’institut Marangoni, on the Rue de Miromesnil in the grandest of the Paris arrondissements—the 8th, the hub of the city, with the Champs Elysee running through its heart. There was nothing suburban about Sophia, but the self-possessed world of people who essentially make frocks for a living was too whimsy for her.
Sophia sought something more serious, and more exciting. She had no idea what that would be. But, two terms at L’institut had done it for her, and, on reflection, here on the A23 speeding innocently away from the scene of a crime, she was probably on a better track. She loved Paris, and wherever this new adventure finally led her, so far it definitely beat the hell out of shifting hemlines, and shoulder pads.
The journey away from Glyndebourne took her just under one hour. She parked in a space close to the London Gatwick Hilton, and checked in using her Canadian passport—one large double room, king-sized bed, double lock on the door … plastic card key—Please Do Not Disturb.
At around 10.20pm she checked her watch. And again coincidentally, it was approximately the same time Sparafucile was plunging a much larger dagger into the heart of Rigoletto’s daughter, Gilda, giving way to the classical, tortured final scene, with wondrous music from the very gods. Not to mention the heart-wrenching, unforgettable plea of the hunchback …Non morir … non morire o ch’io teco morro—Don’t die … don’t die, or I shall die beside you …
Not even Rudolph knew where his niece was, as he fought back utterly foreign Russian tears. Quite separate now from this overwhelming operatic performance, Sophia slept for a fitful eight hours, awakening over and over again, fighting back the grotesque dying image of Lord Freddie. This was a lot worse than Gilda’s tragic end, until finally Sophia awakened at first light, on Sunday morning, wondering if his Lordship was properly dead.
She ordered a light breakfast in her room, and then checked out, retrieving her credit card (in a false name, of course) from the receptionist and then paying in cash. Rudy never missed a trick in the noble art of vanishing without trace in the immediate hours after a contract murder, approved by the State.
Sophia once more turned her SUV towards the north, driving up the short stretch of dual carriageway which led to the M25 highway, the one which completely encircles London. She drove clockwise up through Surrey and out towards the West of England, that’s sharp left at the junction with the M4.
Probably the fastest, and definitely the busiest freeway in England, the M4 orders travellers off the highway and down a local road for those heading into the picturesque Thames-side town of Henley, home of the most famous Regatta in the world. Sophia went for the familiar, ancient stone bridge which has straddled the river since the 12th century. It’s famously arched and narrow, right at the top of the dead-straight 2000-metre racing stretch over which the fastest rowing crews on earth have raced every summer for almost 180 years.
Princess Grace Kelly’s brother Jack won the coveted Diamond Sculls here back in 1947. Which was sweet revenge indeed, since his father, the three times Olympic sculling gold medallist and construction tycoon, Jack Senior, had his entry rejected by the Henley Stewards in the 1920’s since he had once worked as a bricklayer!
That particular entry was in such flagrant defiance of the rigid social rules of the Regatta at the time, it almost gave the Stewards a couple of haemorrhages apiece. Today, of course, they would probably have been in the slammer for an infringement of Big Jack’s human rights.
Sophia Morosova drove across the bridge in light traffic. She knew it well. Too well. And she parked at the Red Lion Hotel, before walking down to the water, where she stood staring down the racing straight all the way to Temple Island. A hopeless romantic, Sophia used to come to Henley with her mother for long walks downstream along the rural Berkshire riverbank.
And once more she was pondering the exploits of her grand-father Pietr, who had rowed in the great Soviet Navy eight which won the Grand Challenge Cup, rowing’s Holy Grail, twice in the 1960’s. She and her mother had so often stood and gazed at these historic waters.
“Right out there,” MaMa always said. “My father raced out there. His crew was unbeatable in all the world.” And then, to her daughter, “You have so much to be proud of. Always remember moy angelochek, we are Russian and sometimes we are better than anyone.”
For all her early life, this place, along this river, was sacred to Veroniya Morosova. Her famous father had died too young, but, for her, his memory would never settle in Moscow, and never along the Volga, nor even on the shores of the northern oceans, where he served for many years as a Chief Ship Starshina (Chief Petty Officer) in the Soviet Navy’s Baltic Fleet.
No. For Mrs Veroniya Morosova, Pietr’s memory would always be here, close to the scene of his greatest triumph, the one that saw him presented with the rarefied Russian Award of Honour, alongside his crewmates and coaches at an unforgettable ceremony in the sprawling dockyards of Murmansk. It was a medal which set Pietr, the steel-armed stroke-man, apart. It was the Medal awarded only to those who attained the very pinnacle of Russian sport.
But somehow his spirit never belonged there, up by the Arctic Circle. It belonged here, right along the Remenham shore, where once thousands had roared the Russians to victory. In Veroniya’s opinion, the modern population of Russia may not be aware. But surely God would. And the soft green fields of the Upper Thames would always be in her soul.
But now her older daughter Sophia stood alone. And she began the one-mile walk, across the bridge and down past the fabled Leander Club towards the little church. It was a walk that unfailingly assaulted her senses, somehow bringing her closer with each step to the memory of her mother, and the strong, defiant spirit of her grand-father.
Russians in England. Good Russians. People of culture and stern responsibilities. Sophia walked in the footprints of her mother, and was now watching the blades of a lone sculler skittering across the water before the stroke. For people of a racing crew heritage, this was paradise on a summer’s day. And the walk was one of the most beautiful in southern England. It was also a walk she dreaded. Every step of the way. And tears streamed down her face with every yard she travelled.
The towpath was deserted as she made her way along the riverbank, but suddenly it widened and to her right was one of those old fashioned English stiles, an easy little climb-over. These things were built originally to prevent livestock escaping and falling into the river, while allowing pedestrians to traverse the fence simply. They must have worked fine, since they are still in place, all over the country, and have been for about seven thousand years.
Sophia climbed over, and headed up a rough little road for 150-yards, at which point she came face to face with the one-thousand-year-old Church of St Nicholas, a village place of Roman Catholic worship when it was built, but left in the lurch, surrounded now only by woodland, after the ravages of the bubonic plague (Black Death) which swept England in the late 1500’s, killing 80,000 people in one year alone.
The destruction of the village has rendered St Nicholas Church a very beautiful oasis at the foot of the lush hills above the river. It stands mostly in shadow surrounded by a rather elegant brick wall, headstones in the little churchyard standing resolutely on its well-clipped, always dark green grass. Its stone tower wreaks of history, stretching back through the entire millennium, right into the pages of the Domesday book.
Which meant, of course, it was Catholic for at least 600 years, before the English King Henry VIII decided to fire the Pope to facilitate his divorce. This was important to Sophia, a devout Roman Catholic—just knowing that the holy ground upon which she stood, was somehow connected to the ancient church of Rome.
