The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (20 page)

“Don’t know, but any money they could fetch on the international market could go a long way to making a few villagers or a community happy.”

The Civic cut across the black-dust covered outskirts of Golovchino as Tamsin attempted to get her bearings. Ahead loomed a crossroad with a large wooden signpost, which she read out aloud.

“Industrial Area. four kilometres. Turn left… Village Centre, Shops, Amenities, two kilometres. Ahead… Military Area Restricted Access, only four kilometres. Turn right.”

“I guess that settles it,” said Manton. “Straight on it is.”

More houses began to appear. People dressed in work clothes and carrying tools, shovels, forks, scythes and others driving tractors, either farmers or agricultural workers. A medley of barns, an ornate Orthodox Church spire and what resembled a local community building came into view. They were now travelling on the road and through the main village. Interspersed at various places were stone memorials, evidence of horrific events and battles that happened when the Nazis took control.

“Hey, we’re in luck.” She pointed at a small building with a large blue and white logo, displaying a prominent blue eagle topped with the words
Pochta Rossii.
“That’s the post office.”

“It looks like an English village post office.” The familiar flutter of pre-discovery nerves pumped at his stomach.

Tamsin parked close by, stepped out and slid her arm through his and pushed open the stainless steel and glass door. Several people stood near the counter and glared suspiciously on hearing them speak English. One woman with a contemptuous look began cursing about them to her companion.

Tamsin, with a glare of steel, moved across and touched the woman’s arm, and in a loud voice for all to hear, said,
“Ostorozhny Madam. Ya Russkly. Ya ponemayu kazdhdoye tvoyo slovo!
”

The woman flushed bright red and hung her head down. “
Mne zhal’ chto ne ponimayu.
”

“That sorted her out,” snapped Tamsin, turning back towards Jack.

“What was that all about?” Jack looked bewildered.

“She was calling us filthy foreign scum, and that we should go back to where we came from. I told her I was Russian and understood every word she was saying. She apologised. I enjoyed that!”

Jack raised an eyebrow. Tamsin at her scary best.

The interior was small and the walls were decorated with government announcements, pensions and work information. The smell reminded him of an old English newspaper and the confectioner’s shop he frequented when he was a small boy. At the main counter, sat a plump middle-aged woman dressed in blue dungarees, watching a small, desk-sized TV.

“Looks busy,” Jack whispered into Tamsin’s ear.

She stood with a welcoming presence. The name on her badge identified her as Tanya Petrova. “
Dobry den. Ya magu vam pamoch
?”

“Good afternoon,” replied Tamsin in faultless Russian. “I hope you can help. We are looking for relatives or descendants of the family of Ivan Brodsky who lived and died in these parts. We know he had a brother Nikita and he also had three children Mikhail, Lev and Sofia. They also had children. We are particularly looking for Maria, who married a man named Ilya Bromovitch.”

The pause was short, the smile bigger. “
Ah Maria Bromovitchova. Bis prabl’em. Minutu, pazhalusta.
”

“What’d she say?” asked Jack.

“No problem. Wait a moment.”

“What’s she doing?”

“She’s writing it down.”

“She knows her?”

“She does.”

“Well, jeepers me. That’s amazing.”

“Unbelievable at first time off. Not all the natives are hostile then?”

“No they’re not and generally, they are most welcoming.”

Tanya Petrova hadn’t dropped her smile as she pushed a notepaper under the glass partition. The page had written directions for locating Maria Bromovitchova.

Tamsin responded, “S
pasiba, spasiba
,
Tanya
. Thank you.”

“
Ni za Shto a udachi
.”

“She said, ‘Think nothing of it and good luck’.”

“Makes me want to speak Russian, all that.”

“Stick to Brodsky research, it’s easier.”

“So, where’re we going?”

Tamsin studied the note. “Down to the end of Karl Marx Street, a couple of turns and about eight hundred metres from here., It’s the third village house on the left at the end of the street.”

“Now I’m nervous. If we find her, I don’t know where to begin.”

“I’ll do the talking but I’m feeling jittery myself. I’ll be asking you for prompts.”

“Let’s go.”

They climbed back into the Civic, and Tamsin pointed it in the direction of Karl Marx Street. On the way, they passed the village postman bent low with a sack of mail. He returned their cheerful wave with a sullen scowl.

The village, he could only surmise, hadn’t changed much in the last forty years, apart from a few new looking buildings and a mini supermarket. Karl Marx Street stretched out like a broomstick before petering out and surrendering to woods and fields. Ilya Bromovitch’s house was located on the outskirts of the village alongside several other homes, some appearing to be more than a hundred years old.

“Look at that.” He pointed to a large green and red house, built on a concrete base but otherwise made of wood and great chunky weights of sawn timbers. It possessed an early post-war quality with a fretwork of colourful window shutters, eaves and gutters that festooned the exterior. A plume of white smoke billowed from the chimney even though it was still summer.

“You’re pointing at Ilya Bromovitch’s house, would you believe?” Outside stood a small tractor and a weary and ancient looking off-road 4x4 Lada Niva, splattered with mud. Tamsin brought the Civic to a halt outside the front steps and switched off the engine.

“The curtain moved,” said Jack.

“Someone must be in. So, let’s go, and remember I’m looking to you for questions and answers.”

“Let’s do it.” He held out his hand and together they walked up the six stone steps to the door and knocked.

Creaking on its large decorative metal hinges, the door opened. A small, elderly, suspicious-looking man with pockmarked skin and radiant blue eyes stood in the doorway. He wore a belted shirt, furry felt boots and an incongruous Boston Red Sox baseball cap topping a full head of white hair.

Tamsin spoke first. “Ilya Bromovitch?”

“Yes. Who are you and what do you want?” His voice growled like an angry dog.

She introduced herself and then Manton before showing their passports. He looked them over and then back at them. His expression did not change.

“We are researchers and are looking for relatives or descendants of Ivan Brodsky, and the artist Mikhail Brodsky of Prokhorovka and Golovchino.”

“What for?” He glared.

“We have reason to believe that his paintings could be valuable and that many are still missing, unaccounted for.”

“Nothing to do with me.”

“Maybe, but your wife, Maria, was Mikhail Brodsky’s niece and we know he gave paintings to family members. We are desperate to see if she has any or knows where others might be. Gospodin Bromovitch, if you have any, they could be worth a considerable sum of money.”

Manton glimpsed the sudden shimmer in Bromovitch’s eyes.

He stepped backward and said, “You are welcome to our house.” He ushered them in and then offered a handshake. “One moment while I fetch Maria. Please sit down.” He offered them two large wooden-backed chairs decorated with plump handmade cushions.

Manton sat down, raised his eyebrows, held his hands in a gesture of prayer and gave Tamsin a questioning gaze. She acknowledged the gesture with a so-so wave of her hand and wrist.

Some minutes later, the back door opened and Ilya Bromovitch strode in. Maria Bromovitchova limped in behind him, a stout woman in her sixties. She roughly wiped her hands on her apron. Her eyes involuntarily twitched, but her smile was warm with a childish smirk as she reached out and clasped Tamsin’s hand tightly. She wore a light brown dress decorated in a
mille fleurs
style from which beneath protruded a pair of scuffed brown land boots.

Tamsin stood and introducing herself explained that Jack knew only a few words of Russian, but was an acknowledged expert on Russian paintings.

“Ilya,” said Maria Bromovitchova, in a voice as sharp as a fresh lemon. “Are you forgetting yourself? Please bring our guests tea cakes and drinks.”

Ilya scuttled out and within minutes reappeared with a vast tray of Russian cakes, a samovar of tea, cups and a large half-f bottle of Putinka vodka, along with two large glasses. He placed them on the table and Maria gestured to Manton that he should drink. Ilya enjoyed the vodka, not the tea.

Oh God, they drink this stuff neat.
Manton nodded, attempting to look pleased.
What I do in the name of research!

Ilya filled two glasses, offered one to Manton and sat back in a chair near the table. His earlier truculence had vanished, and Jack could only surmise that the prospect of a few vodkas made a healthy contribution.

Maria spoke first, addressing Tamsin directly. “Ilya has told me why you are here, and I don’t know how I can help you. I never met my uncle Mikhail, since he died in a Nazi concentration camp. God bless his immortal soul.” She made the sign of the cross, and Tamsin noticed a hard swallow and the slightest tremor of her chin.

“Maria,” said Tamsin. “Your uncle’s paintings are now revered and honoured in Russia and are much sought after by the international art market. My colleague here, Jack, found two of them recently in Australia, and knows that apart from those in some museums, there are many unaccounted for. They could be worth a lot of money.”

Maria said nothing, leant forward and offered tea from the samovar and teacakes. Ilya took advantage of the break and splashed out two more hefty shots of vodka into their glasses. He lifted his own high. “
Za vashe zdorov’e
.”

“To your health too,” responded Jack, raising his glass with reluctance before looking at Tamsin. “Ask Maria if she ever received any painting from her mother. Is there anyone else that her uncle might have painted or given works to?”

Tamsin interpreted his questions. A thoughtful look swept across Maria’s face and she turned to Ilya. He too looked uncertain. Manton began feeling a sense of futility.

“Wait, she did leave me various things about three years before she died. A lot got thrown away as we had little use for it.” She leant forward, sitting on the end of her chair. “Some got stored in a crate. D’you remember, Ilya?”

“I do. That crate should still be in the barn. There may have been paintings there. I can’t recall,” Tamsin translated.

“Yes, there were two. Don’t you remember, we didn’t like them? They looked like those modern things you see in fancy galleries.” She waved her hand at their surroundings, as if to indicate that the paintings weren’t appropriate for their simple tastes.

“Can we look, please?” Tamsin asked Maria.

“Of course, if I can find them. We can all go there now.”

Manton’s palms began sweating.
This sounds promising. But what sort of state must they be in after years in a dilapidated Russian barn?

For the first time he caught an expectant glint in Maria’s eye as she took charge and ushered everyone toward the back door. The barn area was reached by a series of wooden steps that must have been in place since the farm was built. Weathered and yellow-grey in texture they creaked under the unexpected weight moving over them. Dotted around were animal-pens with chickens, a few pigs and goats. Manton ignored the steamy stench of the animals and sensed a knot of tension balling inside his stomach.

Chapter Twenty Two

B
irds, insects and assorted rodents had taken refuge in the large wooden barn that stood a way back from the farmhouse and was exposed to the extremes of Russian weather. Its structure revealed obvious signs of wear and need for repair. Ilya lifted the heavy wooden bar and swung the door back with a grating noise. on its rusty hinges to reveal a two-storey interior. From the sloping roof roosting chickens dived to the ground and, with heads jutting forward, rushed out of the door. The floor was littered in mouldy straw, hay, old sacking, derelict tools, a broken plough and obsolete agricultural equipment. Inside, the only source of light came from the open door and sunlight streaming in through gaps in the weathered boards. He heard Tamsin gasp as the reek of ammonia-rich, coagulating manure assaulted her nostrils.

“Phew.” Her voice choked as Ilya raised more dust and smells as he rummaged through twenty-year-old piles of accumulated farm rubbish, boards, planks, wires, and rotting materials. Manton held on to Tamsin’s arm and stood back as the Bromovitch’s set about searching with surprising vigour. The lure of potential wealth had a remarkable rejuvenating effect on their constitution. The debris and junk cascaded behind them at a surprising rate.

It didn’t take long.

“This is it, I think,” shouted Ilya, pulling aside a vast amount of stockpiled wood lodged in a corner. With both hands, he pulled a thick, ancient rope handle, dragging a battered-looking crate through dust and straw. A simple brown metal clasp and a decayed leather strap fastened its lid. Traces of fungi, white and mottled black, adhered to the sides.

“Yes it is,” said Maria. “I remember it now.” Without hesitating, she clambered over the garbage, and grabbed the strap that disintegrated in her strong grip into a whitish shower of powder, but the metal clasp opened with ease as she flipped the catch. She began lifting the lid.

Everybody leant forward and peered inside.

At first glance, all Manton could see was an assortment of rust-covered metal pots and pans awakened from their hibernation. Maria unearthed the contents, placing them on the ground next to the crate. Unwrapping bundles of her mother’s old clothes she began laying them in piles around the floor. He could see from her brightening eyes that nostalgia had her in its grip. She cooed and sighed, setting some items aside, and stroking others. She pulled out vases, jewellery, crumpled hats, and a motley assortment of ornaments. Rammed down the back of the crate and wrapped in thick black blankets, he could see the only possible object that could conceal paintings. He pointed at the blanket and Tamsin asked Maria to pull the item out. Maria eased the double-blanketed item from its home.