The Lost Piece

Prologue.

Petrograd (St. Petersburg), October 1917.

Like it was a red-hot coal instead of exotic hardwood, Pavel dropped the centrepiece at the other end of the workbench. Now he understood both his patron’s command and that he had been a fool to disobey it. Yet how could the simple act of assembling a jigsaw puzzle sunder the air? A kind of spectral tunnel had opened, but distorting every aspect of the surrounding world, obeying no law of science. With it had come biting air colder than any Russian winter, on it the reek of burning.

Far worse, though, was whatever had tried to pass through that horrid rent. Some kind of shadow, malevolent and potent but with neither face nor form. It would have killed him, he was certain, but that slight misalignment of the final piece seemed to keep it trapped. The protruding edge had been just enough for Pavel’s tongs to grasp and pull it clear, the whole maelstrom vanishing immediately he did.

Had all he saw been hallucination, just the effects of too long bent over the magnifier? He reached out tentatively to where the tunnel had appeared, recoiling as a sharp stab seared down his arm and across his torso.

He staggered and almost fell, retreated crablike. For a while he stood frozen and stunned. Hands shaking and his mind reeling, the only refuge the old craftsman could take was in the comforting familiarity of his work. His fingers mirroring the grain’s curve, he sanded the corner of the centrepiece that had stuck. Aware his sweat might swell the precious pockholz wood bonded seamlessly into its dark, sinister spirals, he blew the dust clear and applied a sealing layer of lacquer.

The baron’s commission was completed, but should it ever be made whole again?

For long minutes he sat, eventually weeping. In part it was the sheer depth of his fear. Also that destroying the puzzle would ruin both his own livelihood and that of his apprentice.

“No,” he growled finally. “My hands will not birth such evil into the world.” He jerked to his feet, reached for his hammer. Then the pain in his chest hit again. This time it was a sharp tear through the cloth of life. His sight dissolved into stars. He managed to catch hold of the workbench but his legs beneath him had lost all strength. Thump, thump, thump went his heart, and stopped. He lunged weakly at the only thing still within his grasp: the centrepiece of the puzzle. Managing to enclose it in his fist, he felt the wet lacquer stick to his palm. As he fell to the floor his dying prayer was that this would suffice.

---

It was still dark when Aleksandr arrived at his master’s. Collection of the baron’s commission was due at dawn but not a ruble had been handed over by the nobleman, so Aleksandr wanted to be there to ensure the gentle craftsman he served took payment.

As he reached the door a dull boom came from the city to the north and orange light flared up where the Bolsheviks were besieging the Winter Palace. Word on the street was the order of the Tsars would fall today. That was enticing, but also a worry when the making of objets d’art for the bourgeoisie was what put bread on your table.

Pushing open the door, all other thoughts fled when he saw the crumpled body. He rushed over but his master was already cold to the touch. For a long while he sat on the floor next to the old man, grey sorrow flooding him. Aleksandr was an apprentice with no master now. No trade. Lots of family, but none he could fall back on. Few prospects. No money with which to buy any.

Finally he was roused by a noise growing outside, the distant clack of hooves and rumble of wheels. Swearing, he rose and ran to close the door. It must be the baron’s man coming for the jigsaw puzzle. Aleksandr needed that money. No-one could know that Pavel lay dead.

Muttering apologies, he pulled out the dust sheet and lifted the corpse onto it. It was already growing stiff and the tightly clenched fists made wrapping it a macabre task. Aleksandr carried the body out to the sliver of land behind the house and just made it back as thumping started at the front door. He took a deep breath, went over and opened it. Waiting outside was Ivan, a grizzled veteran from his own neighbourhood.

“Where’s Pavel boy?”

“He’s…upstairs. Fast asleep. I think he worked most of the night on a piece.”

Each looked expectantly at the other until Ivan broke the silence with an irritated snarl. “So come on then, hand it over.”

“The baron’s commission?”

“Yes the baron’s commission. Why else would I be down this arse-end-of-a-goat road?”

“It’s ready, of course,” Aleksandr bluffed, “but the Master told me to be sure to collect payment.”

Ivan reached inside his coat and tossed a leather purse to the apprentice. Aleksandr opened it and counted the notes inside, a gut-punch coming in slow motion as he did. “There’s only five thousand rubles here! The commission was for eight thousand.”

“Read do you?”

“Some, yes.”

“Here then.” Ivan delved into another pocket and handed over a folded piece of paper.

Skipping a couple of the longer words, Aleksandr squinted his way along the spidery scrawl.

I believe that the current political situation merits renegotiation of contracts, and with what is here I have in fact been generous to a fault. I advise you to spend rubles quickly.

There was no signature, but there didn’t need to be because no-one would suspect Ivan of having written.

“Happy now?”

“No! The materials alone cost more than what’s here. This is robbery!”

Ivan explored a nostril with his little finger, paused to examine his find. “Lot of it about. Did you hear they just took the palace? Makes you think, don’t it. Now hurry up.”

Aleksandr knew he had no choice, but impotent fury still pulsed through him as he stalked across the shop.

Master Pavel had apparently assembled the damned puzzle, all bar the centrepiece, and even looking at the image it formed sent a shiver down the apprentice’s spine. Somehow you couldn’t focus on it but you felt it was focused on you. It was a relief to take it apart and pack the pieces in their case.

Now he just needed that final square his master had been working on yesterday evening. He scoured the entire bench but it was nowhere to be seen. The floor perhaps? Trying to be discreet about it he bent down and searched where the body had lain. Nothing. Panic was rising in him now. Five thousand was still a huge amount of money, and Ivan would have instructions to verify what was handed over.

There seemed no way out. Then the apprentice remembered seeing Ivan at the market; he was fine for checking something if it was very big and far away. Up close, as in within two or three arm lengths, not so good, which made it possible the old soldier wouldn’t notice the substitution of the test piece. Aleksandr searched in the bits-and-pieces drawer and there it was! Made of oak but painted to mimic precious pockholz wood, it was a placeholder for matching the grain surrounding the centre. Master Pavel, thorough as ever, had even set two tiny spheres of cut glass in it. They sparkled red but were worth no more than ten kopeks apiece. It was a match, but ultimately a poor one. Too poor to pass Ivan’s long-sighted inspection? Aleksandr had to take that chance.

Fixing a scowl on his face he returned to the door. “Here. And tell your master we’ll accept no more commissions from him.”

“You should be so lucky! Open it then.”

Aleksandr undid the two clasps and thrust the box close to the big man’s face. Ivan grabbed it from him and held it further away. His squinting seemed to last forever, but finally he gave a curt nod, closed the lid, and stumped off to his carriage. It took all Aleksandr had to stay composed as he closed and locked the door.

Then he glanced towards the back garden and instantly grew sombre again.

---

Five thousand rubles.

According to the credit notes some three thousand was owed to local suppliers for the fine woods and jewels. Aleksandr would pay those because Master Pavel would have wanted that.

But then what? The remaining money could either be used for a funeral or for Aleksandr’s start in the world.

For death or for life.

“I think you would understand Master.”

The body, wrapped in its sheet and lying in the rough grass, said nothing.

“You never liked the church. Not the rituals nor the arrogant priests. And even if I spent all of the two thousand the coffin would be clumsy compared to the things you made.”

More silence.

“But this young oak here. You always liked this oak. Nature does things with wood that even your hands couldn’t match, you said. I think if your bones could become part of those roots you would rest happy.”

There was only so long anyone could spend trying to wheedle a blessing from a corpse, and Aleksandr was aware time would be his enemy when the baron received the incomplete puzzle. He found the shovel and for the next half hour the apprentice hacked at the near-frozen soil grimly. When the hole was deep enough he laid the body inside, head nearest the tree that would act in place of a headstone.

At least this patch of ground wouldn’t cheat Master Pavel. It wouldn’t abuse his kindness, nor go back on its word nor use its riches as the ruling class did to steal endlessly from the poor. Instead the oak tree would make simple use of the mortal remains that were all the old man had left to give. That felt right.

And as for Aleksandr, he would not linger in the city always looking over his shoulder for the baron’s men. He would enlist. Go and fight in the great European war. Make a man of himself. Then, when it all ended, he would settle somewhere new. Find a wife. Maybe buy some tools and set up his own little workshop. Everything was being destroyed these days, but there would come a time when people built and cherished again, wouldn’t there?

He finished filling the craftsman’s grave and pushed a covering of fallen leaves over the bare soil to hide it. “Rest in peace, dear Master Pavel,” he intoned in his unstable fifteen-year-old voice. Finally he took out his pocket knife, wiped away his tears, and scored into the tree’s bark a small cross containing the initials P.V.L..

----------

1.

London, July 2015.

Aged twenty-two, part way to being well-qualified, and widely assured he was clever and handsome, Joel Elliott knew how the world worked and what it took to get ahead. He rejected all forms of spirituality as comforting illusion spoon-fed to the powerless. He wanted better than that in life. Yet if your family lacked contacts and currency - as his did - there were no handouts, and trusting to luck was merely a tempting folly for those already losing. So you set a clear goal, you worked hard and if needs be ruthlessly at it, and step by step you went out and you made yourself. All of which was why, sitting at this week's hot desk in Stern Johns Rubikov, International Architects, his desperate hope was that a senior associate or better might ask him to fetch coffee.

“Joel?” The voice from behind him was urbane, assured and a welcome answer to his silent plea, for he was feeling the pressure of falling behind the curve.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“I’m Stephen Latham, a junior partner here. Wondered if you might be able to help me out with something?”

Perhaps twenty years older than Joel, beautifully tailored suit and an air of being at ease with taste, money and influence. Stephen very much personified Joel’s ambitions in life.

“Sure! Is it a Starbucks run?”

Stephen flashed a grin. “Not quite. Come please.” He beckoned Joel to follow and led him to an empty meeting room nearby.

Heart going somewhat faster than usual, the younger architect waited as the older shut the door.

“So Joel, on your CV you’ve put that you speak Russian. If I can be blunt, is that genuine, and to what sort of level?”

“It’s true, really. I have an A-star at A-level plus a lot of conversation practice with a…well, a family friend. I’m fluent.” Russian came with painful memories for Joel, but it had been a free exam pass so he’d kept it up.

“Perfect. And you did your architecture BA in Manchester, is that right?”

“Yes. I’m still waiting on my degree grade but I’m predicted for a first or upper second.”

“Wonderful.” It was galling to see how little importance Stephen attached to the result of three very expensive and hard-working years of Joel’s life. “I’m afraid I don’t have details about your specific course projects and suchlike, but what’s your understanding of tall building pilings and foundations like?”

“Well, I mean I have a theoretical knowledge. I can read details off a plan, but…”

“That’s fine. And surveying? More or less know the principles?”

“Yes. We did some site practice and I’ve used the tools and software.”

Stephen tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Okay. Think this will work. I suppose you haven’t got your passport with you today?”

Joel was annoyed to realise his mouth had fallen open. “I’m afraid I don’t. I had no idea I might need it.”

“Reasonable enough.” Stephen laughed and reached forward to clap Joel on the shoulder. “Sorry. Know I’m hitting you with this out the blue. You live in Bromley, right? So here’s the plan: we’ll meet downstairs in five minutes and the car will take us past your house on the way to Heathrow. Can you pack for two nights away in quarter of an hour?”

“Definitely!” Joel could scarcely believe this was happening.

“Super. I’ll ride out to the airport with you and give you the lowdown, then before you go airside Helen from HR will bring you a laptop with all the plans and specs on and your travel visa. And some new business cards; don’t for God’s sake let anyone know you’re an intern!”

“Okay, sure,” managed Joel.

Stephen chuckled. “We are what our façade presents us to be Joel. Consider that a valuable first lesson in commercial architecture. But more seriously, for the purposes of this trip you’re a fully-qualified junior associate working with me on this project who we’ve sent out as you’re a Russian speaker. Is that a problem?”

“No. I mean if you’re alright with it then so I am.”

“Excellent. And on the somewhat delicate subject of window dressing, can I ask what sort of suitcase you own? What make?”

“There might be one in the attic somewhere, but otherwise I’ve only got an old rucksack.” Joel felt himself reddening as Stephen appraised him. “It’s just what with university fees and so on…”

“Please Joel, no need to be apologetic. Truth be told I admire that you’ve made it here without financial help and somewhat against the demographic odds.” Stephen’s mouth bunched at the corner, perhaps worried about causing offence. “Your generation’s being royally stiffed from every direction you know,” he added in a conspiratorial tone.

There was a sentiment Joel could agree with.

“Now clothes. Is what you’re wearing the best you have? Actually don’t answer that. If we only stop in Bromley long enough for you to grab your passport and non-visibles you’ll have time after security at Heathrow. Shopping there’s surprisingly decent. Let’s see, two hundred for a suitcase and the same again for a couple of shirts and a tie. Four hundred for a suit, fifty for a belt, and of course shoes. Never forget good shoes Joel.”

Stephen forestalled Joel’s helpless shrug with a calming gesture. “Helen will bring you out a company credit card and I want you to charge minimum twelve hundred to it before you board your plane. You’ll also need it to invite people for drinks and food. Please do anything you can to get them talking.”

For some years Joel had known who, what and where he wanted to be. The problem was that the gap between that and who, what and where he was often appeared insurmountable. As the two images suddenly coalesced his body wanted to shudder in exultation, but he kept a grip on it. “Mr. Latham…”

“Call me Stephen, please.”

“Thanks. Can I ask where ‘out there’ is?”

Stephen slapped a hand to his forehead. “How remiss of me! Of course Joel. You’ll be on the afternoon flight to St. Petersburg.”