About the Author

About the Author

Ruth Hogan was brought up in a house full of books and grew up with a passion for reading and writing. She loved dogs and ponies, seaside piers, snow globes and cemeteries. As a child she considered becoming a vet, show jumper, Eskimo, gravedigger, and once, very briefly, a nun.

She studied English and Drama at Goldsmiths College, University of London where she hennaed her hair, wore dungarees and aspired to be the fourth member of Bananarama. After graduating she foolishly got a proper job, and for ten years had a successful if uninspiring career in local government before a car accident left her unable to work full-time and was the kick up the butt she needed to start writing seriously.

It was all going well, but then in 2012 she got cancer, which was bloody inconvenient but precipitated an exciting hair journey from bald to a peroxide blonde Annie Lennox crop. When chemo kept her up all night, she passed the time writing and the eventual result was her debut novel The Keeper of Lost Things. Since then she has published two further novels, The Wisdom of Sally Red Shoes and Queenie Malone’s Paradise Hotel, and for her fourth, Madame Burova, she learnt to read Tarot cards and developed a hankering for a traditional vardo and pony.

She is now living the dream (and occasionally nightmare!) as a full-time writer in a chaotic Victorian house with an assortment of rescue dogs and her long-suffering husband. She describes herself as a magpie; always collecting treasures (or ‘junk’ depending on your point of view) and a huge John Betjeman fan. She still loves seaside piers, particularly The Palace Pier at Brighton and would very much like a full-size galloping horses carousel in her back garden.

Also by Ruth Hogan

Also by Ruth Hogan

The Keeper of Lost Things

The Wisdom of Sally Red Shoes

Queenie Malone’s Paradise Hotel

Title Page

Madame Burova

Ruth Hogan

Imprint Page

First published in Great Britain in 2021 by Two Roads

An imprint of John Murray Press

An Hachette UK company

Copyright © Ruth Hogan 2021

The right of Ruth Hogan to be identified as the Author of the

Work has been asserted by her in accordance with

the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any

means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be

otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that

in which it is published and without a similar condition being

imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

eBook ISBN  978 1 529 37334 9

Hardback ISBN  978 1 529 37331 8

Trade Paperback ISBN  978 1 529 37332 5

Two Roads

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

How to use this eBook

Look out for linked text (which is in blue) throughout the ebook that you can select to help you navigate between notes and main text.

Dedication

To Jean and Peter Hogan

Mum and Dad

I love you

Epigraph

Never tell a secret, never tell a lie

If you break a promise you will surely die

Say your prayers at bedtime, God forgive your sin

Then when you get to heaven the angels let you in

Contents

Contents

The Promise

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

A few thoughts and more than a few thanks

A Word About Our Covers

The Promise

The Promise

Madame Burova was a woman who knew where the bodies were buried. She had spent a lifetime keeping other people’s secrets and her silence had come at a price. Some revelations – forbidden affairs and minor indiscretions – had been easy enough to bear. Like feathers on the wind. But others, dark and disturbing, had pricked her conscience and been a burden on her soul. She had seen the lovers and the liars, the angels and the devils, the dreamers and the fools. Her cards had unmasked them all and her cards never lied. Madame Burova knew the killer, the victim and the murder weapon.

Outside, the warm, late-summer twilight was smudged with soft thumbprints of light from the illuminations strung along the promenade. High season was coming to an end, but for now the screams and squeals of excitement from the funfair still carried on the wind; soprano notes duetting with the baritone of the waves booming onto the beach and rattling the pebbles as they slunk back into the sea. Madame Burova – Tarot Reader, Palmist and Clairvoyant – proclaimed the painted sign on the front of the booth where she had been dukkering, as her Romany mother always called it, for over fifty years. Today had been her swansong. Madame Burova was retiring: reluctantly, sadly, but inevitably. Her mind was still sharp and her gift as infallible as ever. But she was weary of other people’s lives – their questions, their problems and their secrets. She needed rest and a little piece of life for herself while she still had the chance. She sat down in a chair beside a small round gypsy table covered with a velvet cloth, where her crystal ball stood next to a silver-framed photograph of her long-dead, beloved borzoi, Grisha. The rings on her fingers flashed and sparkled as she picked up two brown envelopes. She had been entrusted as their guardian and had kept their secrets safe and silent for all these years. She turned them over in her hands. The hands that had held countless others and read the future in their palms. The envelopes held a secret that had troubled Madame Burova more than most, and now the time had come for her to open them and fulfil a promise made long ago.

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

1972

Imelda Burova checked her appearance in the bedroom mirror and was satisfied. So was Rod Stewart. ‘You wear it well’, he sang, his voice rasping out from the small radio sitting on her dressing table. The dress, a green velvet midi with a fitted bodice and balloon sleeves, was Biba and had been bought especially for today on her last trip to London with her mother, Shunty-Mae. Today was Imelda’s first day as proprietress of the family’s dukkering booth on the promenade. Shunty-Mae had taken it over from her own mother, and it was there that she had taught Imelda to read palms and tarot cards, and to fathom the past and future from the depths of a crystal ball. Various Romany aunts and cousins had helped out for a summer season here and there, but the booth belonged to Shunty-Mae and now she was handing it over to her only daughter. Today, Imelda became Madame Burova – Tarot Reader, Palmist and Clairvoyant. She drew back the curtains to let the early-morning sunlight stream in. Shunty-Mae was in the back garden by the open door of her caravan, smoking a cigarette and cursing. Now in her early seventies, she was still an extraordinarily striking woman with sea-green eyes and only whispers of silver in her long black hair. She had left her travelling life behind when she married Imelda’s father, Alexei, but had flatly refused to give up her traditional gypsy vardo and insisted on keeping it in the garden. Whenever she and Alexei rowed, she stormed off to the vardo and often slept there.

Imelda could hear the clatter of pots and pans, and her father whistling in the kitchen downstairs as he prepared to cook breakfast. He had a fiery temper that was easily a match for Shunty-Mae’s passionate outbursts, but whereas his anger was quickly spent and soon forgotten, his wife’s could sometimes smoulder like hot coals and flare again at the slightest provocation. Alexei was a successful tailor with his own shop, but a gorger, a non-Romany, and Shunty-Mae’s family had objected vehemently and vocally when their courtship was discovered. The pair had eventually eloped, and faced with a fait accompli the Romany relatives grudgingly accepted the marriage. Their love for one another was immutable, but their life together a volatile alliance of disparate cultures and traditions.

There was a groan from beneath the rumpled covers of Imelda’s bed and a long, pointed nose appeared.

‘Get up, you lazy hound!’

Two soulful brown eyes and a pair of furry, floppy ears emerged, followed by a wriggling body on gangly legs with a crazily wagging tail. Imelda had found the puppy a few weeks ago, scavenging in the bins along the promenade. He was painfully thin, and his feet were sore and bleeding. But his sorrowful gaze was irresistible, and Imelda was instantly smitten. She took him home. Shunty-Mae had not been happy, but Alexei had been delighted.

‘He’s a borzoi!’ he had declared. ‘A fellow Russian!’

‘It’s a dog,’ Shunty-Mae had objected. ‘It’s probably got fleas.’

Imelda rarely crossed her mother, but when Shunty-Mae had told her to get rid of the puppy, she had been adamant.

‘If he goes – I go with him!’

Shunty-Mae had eventually yielded, fearful of losing her daughter and knowing that this was a battle she would not win. But she attempted to dignify her capitulation by disguising it as oblivion. She simply refused to acknowledge Grisha’s existence and completely ignored him. Shunty-Mae had given birth to four sons before her longed-for and only daughter eventually arrived, and it was clear from the start that Imelda had inherited her mother’s independent spirit and stubborn streak. The first word she had spoken was ‘no’.

Imelda hurried downstairs followed closely by the now wide-awake puppy who skittered into the kitchen and immediately sat down at the feet of Alexei, who was frying eggs for Imelda’s breakfast.

‘You need a good meal inside you, Melda. It’s a big day.’

Imelda poured herself a mug of tea and sat down at the table.

‘Why’s Mum in the vardo?’

Alexi served her two eggs on toast and smiled.

‘I told her not to go to the booth today. To let you have your first day as the queen bee in peace.’

Grisha had squeezed underneath the table and was nudging Imelda’s knee with his nose. She slipped him a small piece of toast.

‘I take it she didn’t welcome your advice, Papa?’

Alexei sat down opposite her and took a deep draught from his mug of tea.

‘She said that I obviously thought she was an ugly, interfering old woman of no more use to anyone, and that next I’d be plotting to have her put in a home and then I’d run off with some gorger floozy.’

‘I said cheap gorger floozy!’

Shunty-Mae was at the back door, listening. She walked over to her husband and looped her arms lovingly around his neck before planting a kiss on the top of his head.

‘But now I forgive you. If you cook me some eggs.’

Imelda glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was eight o’clock and time for her to leave. She wanted to be at the booth early and savour every moment of her first day of sovereignty. She fed a final piece of toast to Grisha whilst her mother struggled valiantly not to notice, and then grabbed her bag, coat and puppy and swept off down the hallway. Madame Burova was on her way.

_______________________

Jeanie peered into the mirror and wondered if she could get away with a bit more eyeshadow. For once, she decided not to push it. Her dad would be waiting downstairs to see her to the bus stop and she didn’t want a row to spoil today. He preferred a more natural look to what he called Jeanie’s full face of slap and he even thought that her skirts should be below the knee. She had eventually resorted to taking her lipstick and eyeliner with her and applying it on the school bus, and rolling up her skirts at the waistband after she’d left the house. Honestly – she was sixteen! But he treated her as though she was still a kid, even though today she was about to become a working woman. She was already planning how to spend her first pay packet after she’d given her dad some rent money. He hadn’t wanted her to pay him anything at all, but she was adamant. For as long as she could remember, it had just been the two of them. He had always looked after her and put her first and now she wanted to contribute. Maybe he might be able to buy himself something nice for a change. Top of Jeanie’s list were some new nail polish and a Billie Holiday LP. She might not share her dad’s views on fashion, but their taste in music was much more harmonious. Ray had raised his daughter on the greats: Etta James, Nina Simone, Ella Fitzgerald, and, of course, Billie Holiday. Jeanie scrabbled through her jewellery box, pulled out a simple gold band on a chain and fastened it around her neck. It had been her mum’s wedding ring and she wanted to feel that her mum was with her today. For luck.

‘Jeanie! What the bleedin’ hell are you doing? Do you want to be late on your first day?’

‘All right, all right! Keep your hair on, Ernie. What’s left of it.’

What was left of her dad’s hair was hidden under the peak cap of his uniform as he waited impatiently for his daughter at the foot of the stairs. Ray Rogers had been delivering milk for over ten years, and he loved his job. But since Benny Hill had topped the charts with his song about the hapless milkman, Ernie, Jeanie had not been the only one to rib him mercilessly. He clipped her playfully around the ear as she galloped down the stairs and gave him a twirl.

‘How do I look?’

Ray shook his head and smiled wistfully. She was the image of her mother at the age when she and Ray had begun courting. ‘Where’s my little girl gone? You look lovely. And very grown up. Your mum would’ve been proud of you.’

It was exactly what Jeanie needed to hear. Although she would never have admitted it, her excitement was matched by apprehension. It was her first day working as a clerk at a swanky private secretarial college in town – earning her own money and making her own way in the world. Jeanie had big dreams, and this was where they began. Ray gave her a tight hug and a peck on the cheek. ‘Come along, sweetheart. I’ll walk you to the bus stop.’

_______________________

‘Didn’t you look in the mirror when you got dressed this morning?’ Ruby Campbell raised her eyebrows at her eleven-year-old son before pulling him towards her by the lapels of his blazer and releasing him so that she could straighten his crooked tie.

‘There. Don’t you look smart? Randall – look at your boy.’

Her husband raised his eyes from the newspaper he was reading and grinned.

‘He looks like a proper young man. And handsome too – just like his daddy.’

Their son was, in fact, a striking blend of his parents’ genes. His blonde-haired, blue-eyed mother and Jamaican father had produced a beautiful child with eyes the colour of aquamarines. But his good looks had done him no favours with his classmates and as a new term in a new school threatened, Treasure was wary. He smiled obligingly at his dad, but Ruby saw the doubt in her son’s eyes and the knot in her stomach that she had been trying to ignore since she woke that morning twisted and tightened just a fraction more. Treasure was a tough little boy – small and wiry, and fast as a hare. But Ruby knew that for him life was not always easy. She remembered the ‘no blacks’ signs in the windows of the flats that she and Randall had seen when they were hunting for their first home, and the casually cruel insults they had endured simply for being seen together and holding hands in public. Treasure wasn’t black, but he wasn’t white enough for some people either, and no man’s land was never a safe or comfortable place to be. She watched him struggle with a few spoonfuls of cornflakes before pushing his bowl to one side. Ruby wished that there was something that she could say or do to protect him from the bullies and the bigots, but she knew that he would have to fight his own battles and forge his own armour with whatever resources he could muster. Growing up was hard for anyone, but for kids like Treasure it was always harder.

Randall folded up his newspaper and pushed back his chair from the table.

‘What’s in my lunch box today, darling wife?’

Ruby laughed. ‘The same as usual: corned beef and tomato. The only thing you’ll eat in your sandwiches.’

‘Why should I have anything different when I found the perfect filling? Delicious, nutritious and fulfilling all my wishes!’ Randall traded a loving kiss on his wife’s cheek for his packed lunch and on his way out of the kitchen placed both hands on Treasure’s shoulders and gave them a squeeze.

‘Good luck, son. Have pride in yourself and you’ll be fine.’

Half an hour later, Treasure stood outside his new school. His stomach churned and his heart beat so hard that he could hear its frantic rhythm pounding in his head. Swept along by the mob of noisy children streaming through the gates, he had never felt so alone.

_______________________

Madame Burova stood in the doorway of her booth and closed her eyes. The sound of waves and swooping gulls and the chatter of passers-by washed over her. The late-afternoon sun warmed her face and a salty breeze ruffled her hair. Grisha stood beside her, his black nose twitching and his feet fidgeting – eager for a run. It had been a good day and the cash box was almost full. A coach party of Women’s Institute ladies on a day trip had kept her busy for a couple of hours and passing trade had been brisk. When she nipped to the café next door at lunchtime to pick up a coffee and a cheese roll, she had pretended not to notice Shunty-Mae wandering along the promenade with studied nonchalance. She hoped that her mother had seen the queue of customers waiting patiently for readings outside the booth. The crowds were thinning now and the owners of shops and cafés were pulling down their shutters. Imelda fetched her coat and bag and clipped Grisha’s lead to his collar before he dragged her outside, heading for the beach. She reined him back just long enough to close the door to her own little kingdom behind them and turn the key in the lock. It had been a good day.

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

1972

‘I want you to tell her to stop hiding my baccy!’

Ernest Plumb was one of Imelda’s regulars. He was a short, stocky man with a bellicose air, who trailed a pungent whiff of mothballs and pipe smoke in his wake. Since his wife, Joan, had died, he had come to see her every few weeks to continue the constant bickering that had been the mainstay of their forty-two-year marriage. Imelda had tried explaining to Ernest that spiritual readings weren’t like telephone conversations. She couldn’t simply dial dead people and have a chat at will. Joan was no more cooperative in death than she had been in life. She only came through when it suited her, but today she did have something to say and Imelda struggled to suppress a grin.

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