Текст книги "The Blood Royal"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

In the bustle of Simpson’s, Joe sat wrapped in thoughtful silence, paralysed by his insight. Disturbing though this clearly was, it showed no sign of affecting his appetite. He settled to his rib of beef and was halfway through it before he remembered his manners and engaged again in conversation with his equally preoccupied companion.

‘Lamb suit you, Wentworth? Mint sauce not too fierce?’

‘It’s all perfect, sir.’

After a pause: ‘You can’t send it back, you know … The painting, I mean.’

‘That’s exactly what my mind was turning on. I’m not used to receiving such lavish presents. I was trying to find the right phrases for a note to the prince.’

‘Well, you can forget about returning it with a few polite words. Out of the question. No one returns a royal gift. Ever. You must admit that it was a thoughtful gesture – and well deserved. Altogether, highly appropriate.’ He caught his bossy tone and added, more mildly: ‘I say, you weren’t really minded to return it, were you?’

‘Not on your nelly! I’m keeping it. I’m not such an ingrate as to spurn a gracious offering. And besides, I like it. My admiration was genuine. I encouraged the prince to bid for it. I can’t wait to show it to my father. It has an uneasy and depressing presence but it’s wonderfully done.’

‘Know what you mean. One wouldn’t hang it in one’s drawing room, perhaps …’ Joe agreed. ‘Tell me what you see in—’ He stopped talking, seeing the wine waiter approach to pour more burgundy into his glass.

Lily waited until they were left alone. A table discreetly placed in a corner, behind a small tropical forest of broad-leafed plants, had been put at Sandilands’ disposal. And not for the first time, judging by the warm greeting and the swift accommodation from the maître d’hôtel. The rest of the diners who crowded the room had already embarked on their sponge puddings and custard; some were as far advanced as brandy and cigars. All were loudly talkative, cheery and unbuttoned. No one was paying the slightest attention to the quiet couple in the corner.

‘It’s a frightening vision,’ Lily said. ‘Deliberately so. The princess told us all – do you remember – that no photographic equipment is allowed any longer in Russia. The country’s being laid waste, people are fleeing their homes or starving to death, massacres are going on, and what do the rest of us see of this? Nothing! The painting is an allegory. It’s a scream of protest, a warning, a cry to the world for assistance from whoever sees it. It shows the trackless wastes of the artist’s homeland but in the forefront there’s a deep, freshly dug grave. Reminiscent of a plague pit. It’s standing ready to receive its cargo of corpses. We know this from the crosses lining up in the background. Crosses made of human bones. Russian bones.’

‘Is that what you see, Wentworth? An allegory? Is that all?’

Lily looked at him in puzzlement. ‘Isn’t that enough? A foreshadowing of disaster for the Russian people? The death of a great empire?’

‘No. You haven’t looked closely enough. Look – we’ll finish up here and go back. We’ll pass a magnifying glass over the paintwork. And I’ll fill you in on our goddess. I called her the “Morrigan” after the Irish deity but I see I may have been poking about in the wrong pantheon.’

Joe talked on while Lily concentrated on her lamb and mint sauce. ‘She’s really Morana. In Russian and Slavic pagan religion, Morana was the goddess of death and winter. A beautiful girl with black hair and light skin but endowed also with wolf’s teeth and clawed hands. And she has form – she’s known to have killed her own husband, the god of fertility. She’s a dangerous goddess of darkness, frost and death.’

‘I begin to think you see one of these charmers around every corner, sir. Herr Freud might suppose you were frightened at an impressionable age by an odd-looking nursemaid!’

Joe reflected that Miss Jameson would never have dared to tease him so blatantly and wondered why he allowed it.

‘And is there any remedy against this recurrent nightmare?’ she wanted to know. ‘Or is Morana invincible?’

‘Apparently not. No. It’s her only useful attribute: she can be overcome – if only temporarily. She’s the spirit of winter, after all, and winter passes into spring. Even on the Russian steppes. Just to be quite certain they were rid of her, the country people used to make a straw puppet representing Morana and throw it into the river.’

Lily grunted. ‘And we know what that signifies. It’s just another way of celebrating the destruction of the matriarchal society and its replacement with a patriarchal one.’

Joe shot a warning glare across the table. ‘Stop right there. I must ask you, Wentworth, not to bend my ear with all that suffragist talk. You’re preaching to the converted. The Pankhurst ladies are good friends of my mother’s and therefore – of mine.’

‘Well, I’ve never heard of your Morana – I think you’re making her up – but it wouldn’t surprise me if she existed. She’s probably Celtic in origin like the Morrigan … similar names. Same root? All these stories come with a warning – women are nasty, dangerous creatures. Chuck ’em off the nearest bridge.’

The flippant comment provoked a dry response. ‘No use. They’d bob to the surface in that annoying way they have and float, then we medieval-minded men would have the bother of fishing them out and burning them. Look here, I think we can manage without pudding, don’t you? In all the excitement I forgot to warn you that we’re expected for tea at Cassandra’s. Better leave room for the tea cakes.’ He signalled to the waiter that he’d like his bill. ‘She’s got her two boys back home and I think she rather wants to introduce us to the new head of the family. We’ve just got time to go back to my office and take a proper look at that painting.’

‘I see a Russian landscape. Desolate place, miles from anywhere … probably Siberia. Summer time – there’s no snow. Thick forest,’ Lily offered in return to his challenge.

‘You’re not looking carefully enough. Stand closer.’ Joe put a hand on her shoulders and steered her towards the canvas. Surely this bright girl could see what he was seeing? ‘It’s all in the detail. It’s summer time, yes. Forest – yes. And I think the trees: birch, larch, pine … and the soggy terrain … would indicate a scene in the Ural mountains. But miles from anywhere? No. I think we can tie this spot down very precisely. In fact I can point it out to you on a map.’

He produced a map of Asia from a drawer of his desk and, after a moment’s search, found the place he was looking for. Lily’s eyes widened as she read off the name and she went back to stare at the painting.

He followed her. ‘There, what do you see on the horizon?’

‘I think I see the gates of hell,’ Lily murmured. ‘Hieronymus Bosch would have admired this.’

‘Many would agree with that interpretation. A hellish place. And it’s not imaginary. It’s very real. What seems to be the entrance to the underworld or a town on fire is the heat and smoke of dozens of factories, smelting works, and mineral processing plants. The biggest iron works in Europe is what you see belching away there, Wentworth. And the whole hot nastiness is emanating from a mineral-rich earth. There’s a saying that “If you haven’t found gold within twenty miles of Ekaterinburg, it’s because you haven’t looked for it.” Precious stones and metals – they’ve been dug out of the soil here and fashioned into the jewels and precious objects that decorated the Tsar’s palaces for years.’

‘Ekaterinburg! I had no idea. That’s the city? It’s just a name … a rather terrifying name … the place where the royal family was murdered.’

‘It’s terrifying for the poor souls who work there and for those who make their way through it – in shackles. It’s in the Ural mountains – the division between Europe and Asia. Ekaterinburg is the gateway to the prison camps of Siberia. Thousands of the Tsar’s prisoners were sent from jails in Moscow and Petrograd to walk with shackled feet and bound hands on their way across Russia to a miserable death. Men, women and children tramped through. And still do. But now they tramp in greater numbers and these prisoners have the benefit of no legal process. They’re condemned for no good reason by the Bolshevist butchers who rule the empire now. It’s enough to be intelligent, skilled, outspoken, unpopular with a neighbour – any of those qualities or none will have you arrested and obliterated.’ Joe gave a sharp grunt of laughter. ‘You and your father wouldn’t last two minutes in the new Russia, Wentworth. But in Ekaterinburg in 1918, the Tsar and his secret police force were hated. The “Crowned Executioner” they called him … or “Nicholas the Bloody”. This was the last place on earth he would have wished to be sent himself as a prisoner. He knew that he and his family could expect no mercy at the hands of the Ural Regional Soviet.’

‘But who sent them there? They were doing no harm where they were held in detention in … Tobolsk, was it? Siberia?’

‘As long as they were alive, they were always going to be a focus for the royalist party. In 1918 the White Army was still active and making progress. They’d joined forces with a rather effective Czech contingent and were fighting their way towards the city. In the last days, you could hear the guns getting closer. It was undoubtedly Lenin, back in Moscow, who gave the order – by telegraph – for the guard to carry out the assassination of the whole family before they could be rescued. He was wily enough not to sign his name on any incriminating documents.’

‘Lenin? It was reported that the local Ural Soviet took matters into its own hands.’

‘A cover story! The whole affair has his fingerprints – if not his signature – all over it. Never forget who sent them to the Urals in the first place. And to whom did the executioners dash to report success? To Lenin in Moscow. All part of a larger plot. Many other Romanovs were executed in various unpleasant ways at about the same time. The Bolsheviks were making certain that Russia would never be in thrall to the imperial family again.’

‘And this is where they shot them? In the forest?

‘No. They were executed in the cellar of the house in which they’d been imprisoned. A villa requisitioned from a local industrialist called Ipatiev. The bodies were transported by lorry into the countryside some miles away, we’re told. To just the place you see here,’ he added thoughtfully.

‘And this pit isn’t a broad allegorical reference to the death of Russia at all? It’s very specific? To one family?’

‘Yes. Highly specific. It’s the Romanov grave. And geographically specific, too. Do you see the light in the sky?’

‘Ah, yes. Yellowish – white. Too pale to be sunset. Dawn? The light’s breaking on the left of the picture, so that must be the east.’

‘So where does that place the city in relation to the artist’s viewpoint?’

Lily thought for a bit, moving her hands about, and then she said: ‘It would be to the south-east. So this grave is … um … ten miles or so north-west of Ekaterinburg.’

‘Well done! It is – to be exact – a particularly depressing corner of the Koptyaki Forest, a place called the Four Brothers, after four tall pine trees that grow hereabouts. That could be one of them, there, on the right. It’s a quagmire underfoot and riddled with old mine workings. Just the place to lose eleven bodies.’

‘Eleven, sir?’

‘The Tsar and his wife, their five children and four of the household. Maid, valet, footman and the loyal family doctor – Botkin – all went to their deaths with the imperial family. But there’s something else we can glean from the picture. Take this magnifying glass. Go and see what you can find carved on the surface of the crosses. I’m sure I noticed something.’

‘There’s an A, an N, and smaller – an O, another A, an M and a T and a third A. You could easily miss them. These are crosses for the Tsar Nicholas and his wife, Alexandra, and their five children, aren’t they? Olga, Tatiana, Maria and Anastasia. And this smallest cross here is for the youngest, the boy Alexei, the heir to the throne.’

‘Aged only thirteen when he died.’

‘Are you thinking, sir, that this was done by an eyewitness? Now I see the precision …’

‘Yes. Or by someone who was given a detailed description by an eyewitness.’

‘Sir? May I ask you how you come by all this knowledge? You seem to know more than I’ve managed to glean from the news reports. I’d expect that, but … well, this is a remote place we’re talking about. It’s thought that no one really can be sure what happened to the Romanovs. Their death was announced on three different occasions by the British press in the months before that July. By the time they really died, people were shrugging their shoulders – it sounded like old news. But I was the same age as one of the girls and my nephew was thirteen at the time like little Alexei – I felt for them. I read and was convinced by each account of their massacre. Like the rest of the nation. But, then, I found myself equally convinced by the stories that it was all a smokescreen and that the family had been taken to safety. Who’s to say this isn’t all a pack of lies? That this grave in the forest story isn’t false? A bumbling amateurish set-up. Who could possibly have witnessed this scene? Lived to record it? And got it out of the country?’

‘Witnesses?’ Joe gave a sarcastic grunt. ‘This apparently godforsaken spot was crawling with ’em. One behind every bush. Local villagers, fishermen, White Army officers reconnoitring ahead of their advance on the city, and even the odd British secret service officer. All watching in disbelief as a cut-throat crew of drunken, power-crazed incompetents crashed about noisily in the forest in trucks and bulldozers, trying to bury the evidence of their butchery. And the murdering thugs – can you credit the indiscipline? – met up with their mates in the city afterwards and spent a jolly drunken evening at the smelting works social club bragging and singing about their exploits. Paying for their beer with jewels snatched from the pockets and the underwear of the imperial family. Not much of a secret!’

‘Deliberately, showily incompetent are you saying, sir? A set-up?’

‘One does rather wonder.’ Joe was silent for a moment. ‘I’ve weighed the evidence. A workmanlike investigation was undertaken – is still being pursued, by a man who seems to know his trade – into what they’re calling the “Romanov Murder Case”. We were graciously sent a copy. I rather think it was aimed at foreign consumption, to put an end to speculation. It ended up on my desk. It’s a good report. Credible and professional. I dutifully ploughed my way through it. I have to say, though, they’ve turned up a pitifully small amount in the way of human remains. Not enough to satisfy a British coroner. And all burned and broken beyond recognition. Our man Spilsbury would have laughed them out of court. But what they have dredged up is a truly impressive quantity of Romanov possessions – jewellery, icons, buttons … everything from the Empress’s huge diamond pendant to the Tsarevich’s belt buckle.’

‘I saw pictures of those in the papers.’

‘And again, one wonders. What sort of execution squad in a starving country leaves the contents of an Aladdin’s cave littering the forest floor? But, as so often in a murder inquiry, it was one small detail that trumped all others. One detail that confirms for me that executioners did indeed perform their grisly task in Ekaterinburg … The doctor’s false teeth.’

He smiled to see her puzzlement. ‘Dr Botkin’s upper plate. It was found at the edge of the pit in which they initially stashed the bodies overnight. Yes,’ Joe sighed. ‘My Russian confrères have three crime scenes to work on. Nightmare.’

‘If you were laying a false trail, it would be easy enough to scatter pearls and buttons about, but what kind of mind would think of asking a man to relinquish his false teeth?’

‘Exactly. You have a pretty devious mind yourself, constable, but would it have occurred to you? No. Nor to me. In the quest for verisimilitude, Wentworth, this would be a step too far. And I’ll tell you something else. The last telling detail was the caking of mud between the front teeth, consistent with a grisly scenario where the doctor’s body was dragged by the heels, face down, towards the pit. The teeth scraped along the ground and became detached.’

‘Now there’s a subtlety. A convincing detail, as you say. So – unless some overarching malign intelligence was running this show …’

‘Bacchus was engaged elsewhere at the time. I checked.’

‘… the massacre must be a true bill. They died there and were buried in the forest. Poor creatures! But you mentioned a British presence. How on earth did his majesty’s agents fetch up here in the wilderness?’

‘Ekaterinburg may be a far-off outlandish sort of place, but where there’s money about, and in enormous quantities, there you’ll find international interest also. There’s a whole boulevard taken up by embassies of one sort or another. The British have an outpost there. And we have in our consul, Thomas Preston, and vice-consul, Arthur Thomas, two active, intelligent, Russian-speaking officials of the highest calibre. Bold too, I may add. The vice-consul went along to bang on the table and make demands of the local soviet concerning the security of the Romanov family once too often. He was almost shot on the spot by a gun-toting official. They did what they could and kept the villa where the Romanovs were held under very close surveillance, remaining in touch, telegraph permitting, for as long as possible. And then, of course, we have our man Lockhart out and about and up to mischief. I can say no more. Just accept that we know far more than ever appears in the pages of the London Times.’

‘I’m thinking this is a puzzle of a painting I’ve been handed.’

‘Yes. Intriguing possibilities here … A potentially dangerous work, though. It could cause difficulties for you if it got about.’ Joe began to pad about the room. ‘You see – it’s empty, the grave. It’s been dug but there are no bodies. Not a sign of one. Do you think the artist would have been able to restrain himself from adding a symbolic smear of blood-red staining the oily puddles of the taiga floor if …’ He was muttering almost to himself as he stared again at the painting. ‘I wonder if I could use this to our advantage? The uncertainty?’ He took a few more steps about the room and then: ‘Look here – I think you should leave the picture with me. It was addressed to you, care of Commander Sandilands after all. I’ll put it away in my cupboard.’ He watched as her expression changed. ‘Oh, all right. Let’s agree to wrangle about that later. Come and sit down. I need to hear your female opinion. Let me move your chair round here; you’ll want to take a look at this file with me. Bacchus managed to come up with something he thought we might find useful. It’s all we have on Anna Petrovna. Now, come on, constable! She’s in here … the woman and her motives. We have to get into her skull. We have to understand what she’s up to and why on earth she’s turned assassin. And, most importantly, how much further does she intend to go?’ He opened the file with a flourish. ‘First let’s take a look at her. Not much in the way of photographs but here’s what we have.’

He found two sepia prints and laid them out on the desk. ‘First, a line-up of nurses. Hair concealed under those white headdresses they wear. The imperial ladies, led by the Empress, rolled up their sleeves and did some pretty basic nursing work in military hospitals during the war. The older girls, Olga and Tatiana, worked like Trojans apparently. Tatiana, the sprightlier of the two, inevitably, having led such a sheltered life, fell hopelessly in love with a White Army officer under her care. Her first and only love,’ he added. ‘Bacchus’s gossip … not sure that’ll be in the notes.’

‘Oh, dear! I can’t imagine much good would have come of that,’ Lily said sadly.

‘No indeed. He must have been a spectacular young man, however. Even the Empress – the fussiest and most snobbish woman on earth – liked him and was reported to admit he’d have made a wonderful son-in-law, if only …’

‘An imperial archduchess would be destined for one of the European royal heirs. Our own Edward? Oh, goodness – now, there’s a thought. Well, I’m glad to hear the girls had a taste of real life before …’

‘We think this girl here, the tall, full-bosomed one, is our Anna. Hard to be certain. Some of their friends did join them on the wards. And then there’s this snapshot, in different mode. A rather distant and blurred shot of five girls on a summer’s day – the imperial daughters plus Anna and, honestly, she could be any one of them. They all look alike to me. A froth of white lace, a glimmer of jewels and a gallery of sulky faces. Has a Romanov ever been observed to smile?’

‘That one’s our girl, sir,’ said Lily, pointing without hesitation.

‘Now how do you know that?’

‘The princess showed me a photograph. She wouldn’t part with it. But I can remember her features well enough to be able to identify her from this. She’d be the one standing next to Tatiana. Beauties, both.’

Sandilands peered. ‘We can’t use this for identification. Not clear enough and five years out of date. They all look alike to me though I think I can spot Tatiana! What a girl.’ He looked again. ‘Her raven-haired friend is spectacular too. The face is similar but she looks … heavier … than the taxi girl, Miss Hampshire.’

‘Puppy fat, sir? Some girls are blessed with it and lose it with age. And after all, there was a war on over there in Russia too.’

‘As you say. But then … Anything to reveal about her character before I open these pages and find out what she’s really been up to?’

‘Quite mad, the princess would have us believe. “A loose cannon” she called her. Utterly devoted to the imperial family. A Royalist to the core. But there are other things we can work out for ourselves, sir.’

‘Go on.’

‘She’s clever. She got the better of Bacchus, after all. She doesn’t act on instinct – she plans ahead. Six weeks ahead in the matter of her preparation for the Prince of Wales’s assassination. She’s ready to get her hands dirty in the pursuit of her aim – as Hopkirk, was it, said, she must be a strapping lass to survive the kitchens of a London hotel. And the address she gave … it was carefully chosen. She was always going to have early warning of interest from the Special Branch. Any strangers coming calling would receive a hostile and probably noisy reception where she sent them. The children would act as her guard dogs. She knew she’d have time for a quick exit round the back.’

‘So – resourceful and tough.’

‘But there’s another side to Anna. I sense her people are genuinely fond of her and would go to some lengths to protect her. Even to the extent of sending the forces of law and order on a fruitless chase around London while she goes into hiding. And the children – the street kids in Hogsmire Lane … I know she bribed them with lollipops but there was something more. Kids aren’t easy to deceive. And these ones really truly liked her and were concerned for her welfare. If they’d known I was a policewoman on her trail, I do believe they’d have turned their father on me!’

‘So what are you saying?’

‘That we’re looking for a girl of good character who’s been diverted – cut loose from her moorings like a ton of bronze cannon to crash about the decks – by some apparently overwhelmingly strong force that’s turned her mad. She now has a mind to murder and nothing’s going to stop her trying. Again and again.’

Joe’s nod said that he had already reached this point. ‘Let’s see if we can identify the force that turned her loose on us, shall we, Wentworth?’