Death on the Nevskii Prospekt (27 page)

‘Come in,’ said Mikhail.

One of the Shaporov butlers drew himself to attention right there in the doorway and bellowed out his news.

‘Message for Lord Powerscourt.’ Mikhail and Natasha translated Russian into French virtually in unison. ‘Message from Mr de Chassiron at the British Embassy. Will he please
return at once. There have been most significant developments, not for his inquiry, but for Russia.’

Once again Natasha and Mikhail translated together. Powerscourt did not know how they might all three be received at the Embassy, but he felt sure he could not just abandon them here. Mikhail
they knew, and Natasha would, he felt sure, go down very well with de Chassiron. Maybe she would bewitch the Ambassador with her beauty.

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s go and find out what’s happening. I have a great urge to speak once more to the Embassy telegraph officer.’

Rupert de Chassiron had made a valiant job of tidying up his cables. There was now one very large pile of them, neatly shaped, at the far end of his table. There was another
much smaller pile in front of him. He glanced down at it anxiously from time to time as if he thought it might leave the room. He seated Powerscourt opposite with Mikhail and Natasha on either
side. Natasha he had greeted gravely with a severe bow almost to the floor.

‘Thank you for coming,’ he began. ‘The news is bad. It comes from Moscow. Let me tell you first of all what we know for certain.’ He paused and riffled through his pile
of cables, finally selecting one that seemed to contain a very short message indeed.

‘This comes from the British Consul in Moscow. Grand Duke Serge, Governor General of Moscow, uncle and brother-in-law of the Tsar, has been assassinated. Revolutionary elements blew him up
with a bomb by the Nikolovsky Gate on the way out of the Kremlin this morning. Death was instantaneous.’

Ricky Crabbe the telegraph operator came in with some more cables to add to de Chassiron’s pile. He nodded cheerfully at Powerscourt and stared long and hard at Natasha before returning to
his post.

Nobody spoke. ‘There is other, unconfirmed information. The Grand Duke, as you know, was one of the most hated members of the imperial family. People said he boasted that he never slept in
the same bed in the Kremlin for two nights running in case the revolutionaries came for him. He was a most determined opponent of the granting of any reforms whatsoever. According to some of the
other reports, the bomb was thrown straight into his carriage. The coachman was mortally wounded but he took some time to die. The Grand Duke was in the epicentre of the explosion. His clothes were
ripped off his body, his head was gone, all that was left of him was a hand and part of a foot. He was scattered into hundreds of fragments of blood and muscle and bone, some of them sticking to
the walls of the gateway. There was a rumour that students from Moscow University hurried to the scene and carried tiny pieces of the Grand Duke’s flesh away as souvenirs.’

Outside the watcher in soldier’s clothes wondered how much longer the young lady was going to stay inside the British Embassy. He felt sure he would be well rewarded for this information.
And though he wanted to be home he knew he could not desert his post now. He pulled his vodka bottle from his pocket and settled down to wait.

Natasha Bobrinsky had gone pale. ‘He was married to the Empress Alexandra’s elder sister, this Grand Duke, wasn’t he, Mr de Chassiron?’

The diplomat nodded.

‘I met him shortly after I’d gone to work for the Romanovs,’ she said sadly. ‘And to think of him now reduced to hundreds of pieces of flesh and blood, like minced meat.
The Empress came to her sister Ella’s wedding to this Grand Duke years ago in the Winter Palace chapel. She told me about it just before Christmas, the great pillars in the chapel, the
singing and chanting of the choir, the clergy in their rich vestments, and the jewels all over the society ladies. Alexandra said she felt like a German pauper.’

‘What do you think the reaction will be, de Chassiron?’ asked Powerscourt, wondering how it might affect his investigation. Anything that made Derzhenov and his thugs less interested
in the strange death of Roderick Martin was to be welcomed.

‘It’ll make the imperial family even more security conscious than they are already. There’s a rumour that nobody is to be allowed to leave Tsarskoe Selo for the funeral when
the body is brought up here from Moscow. They’re to remain inside the Alexander Palace, cowering behind the walls. God only knows what kind of example that sets their subjects if you’re
unwilling to be seen burying your dead.’

‘But will there be reaction or reform?’ Powerscourt had scarcely asked the question when Ricky Crabbe burst in without knocking and handed a cable to Powerscourt.

‘This has just come from the Foreign Office for you, my lord. From Sir Jeremiah Reddaway, my lord.’

Powerscourt expected some freshly discovered details about Martin’s past or his financial affairs. Nothing had prepared him for this.

‘Corpse found lying in water at Tibenham Grange with severe head wounds consistent with fall from the tower of the house or assault and battery with blunt instrument. Body positively
identified as Mrs Letitia Martin, wife of late diplomat, Roderick Martin. Please return soonest. Reddaway.’

Two more deaths, Powerscourt thought bitterly. The one in Moscow would surely bring more hatred and division to a country that already suffered from a surfeit of both. The one
in Kent might bring an end to the family Martin, for, as far as Powerscourt knew, there were no children of the marriage. De Chassiron was scrabbling through a little booklet brought out from one
of his desk drawers. Ricky Crabbe was hovering with intent by Powerscourt’s side, as if expecting a telegraph message to materialize almost instantly.

‘How terrible,’ said Natasha Bobrinsky. ‘Two more dead people. Will it never stop?’

‘I presume you will have to go back to London, Lord Powerscourt?’ asked Mikhail. ‘Would you like me to accompany you? It can be a long and tedious journey.’

Powerscourt managed not to say that he had no need of an interpreter in his own country. ‘That’s a very generous offer,’ he said, ‘but you need to stay here and keep
watch over Natasha. I know you think I’m being absurdly old and fussing, Natasha, but I am sure you could be in very great danger if your employers or some of their staff find out that you
are in touch with me and the British Embassy.’

‘Here we are!’ said de Chassiron suddenly, holding up a battered copy of a railway timetable. ‘There’s an express to Berlin in two and a half hours, Powerscourt,
you’ll be able to pick up a connection there easily enough.’

‘Thank you,’ said Powerscourt, his brain a long way away. ‘Could you bear to hold on here for a minute while I compose a message or two for the Foreign Office with Ricky
here.’

With that Powerscourt followed the young man into his telegraph room. ‘I have a number of questions and messages for you, Ricky,’ he began. ‘The first is the least important. I
presume that if I send a message to the Foreign Office, and you turn it into code, that it could be read at the other end within minutes of arrival?’ Powerscourt was thinking of the Okhrana
at this point rather than the Foreign Office.

‘Correct, my lord,’ said Ricky Crabbe.

‘Something like this then,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Terrible news death of Mrs Martin. Returning London via 19.30 to Berlin.’

In less than half a minute, Crabbe had coded the message and sent it off to London.

‘Now then, Ricky, I want to try your secret system to your brother. This message is to be sent to Mr Burke, whose address I am writing for you on this piece of paper. “Returning
London because of death of Mrs Martin in mysterious circumstances. Please inform Lady Lucy I leave today, Friday, on the 19.30 from St Petersburg to Berlin. All love, Francis.” There was
nothing in the message that needed to be kept secret, but Powerscourt wanted to test this secure channel of communication in case it was needed for more important messages in the future.

‘That’s going to cheer up your wife, my lord, knowing you are coming home.’

‘Never fear, Ricky, I shall be back here very soon. Now I want to ask you about keeping records of the telegraph messages and things like that. I’ve suddenly realized that it could
be very important.’

‘Fire ahead, my lord,’ the young man said.

‘When you send messages out, Ricky, do you keep a copy?’

‘I have to, my lord. Normally I have the piece of paper with the original message, handwritten by the Ambassador or Mr de Chassiron. Then I code it, sometimes on the bottom of the same
piece of paper, sometimes on a different sheet. The Foreign Office Telegraphy School, my lord, is adamant that all outgoing messages, copies and originals, must be filed.’

‘I’ll come back to that in a moment, if I may. Tell me about the incoming messages.’

‘Same thing, really, my lord. We have to write them down. Sometimes we have to decode them. Other times we can bring the message to the recipient as taken down. But even before I leave
this room, I have to make a copy. If the traffic goes on increasing at current rates, my lord, we’re going to have to rent a warehouse to keep all the stuff.’

‘Do you file the messages under subject matter or under day of the month?’

‘Day of the month, my lord, with the subjects subfiled in alphabetic order. Messages from Bucharest ahead of those from Vienna, as it were.’

‘Now then, Ricky, I come to the point. You told me before that it was possible that Mr Martin could have sent a couple of messages out of here when the office was empty. What would have
happened to them?’

Ricky Crabbe looked at him keenly. ‘Well, I don’t think he would have left any copies lying around for me to file, my lord. He’d probably stuff the message in his pocket and
get rid of it later. As for the far end, it may have gone to the Foreign Office, though if it had they would have surely told you about it, my lord, or to some telegraph office at a local train
station or in a town. God knows whether they’d keep copies, probably they would until it had been collected.’

‘And if it had gone to the Foreign Office, would he have sent it in code?’

Ricky Crabbe paused and stared at his machinery. ‘I doubt if he would have sent it in code at all, my lord. He might have done. But not even Mr de Chassiron knows how to use the
codes.’ Suddenly Ricky stopped staring at his wires and buttons and turned slightly pale. ‘Do you think, Lord Powerscourt, that he could have sent a message to his wife saying
he’d found the Crown Jewels or whatever else he had found out? And because of what he knew, one lot of Russians killed Mr Martin here, and another lot could have killed Mrs Martin in Kent if
they knew what was in the message? Or if they tortured poor Mr Martin till he told them what was in the message?’

Powerscourt nodded. ‘Well done, that is indeed what I am wondering. Please don’t tell anybody else about it, Ricky, you were very quick to work that out.’ Powerscourt looked at
his watch. An hour and three quarters left before his train. ‘Could I ask you one further favour, Ricky? Could we have a look at the incoming traffic from the Foreign Office over the five
days before I came here?’

Ricky pulled a series of files down from his shelves. Once they were properly sorted he read with growing astonishment Sir Jeremiah Reddaway’s very full accounts of the Foreign
Office’s efforts to make him change his mind and return to detection. Now for the first time he realized the importance of the visit of Lord Rosebery to Markham Square. One mystery at any
rate was solved, even if a whole lot more awaited him in London. General Derzhenov didn’t have battalions of spies lurking behind the trees in Markham Square to know the details of
Powerscourt’s visitors come to persuade him out of retirement a month before. He just read Sir Jeremiah’s telegrams.

‘Ricky,’ he said, shaking the young man’s hand, ‘thank you so much for your help. If anything important should happen in my absence, please send a message to Mr Burke on
your secure channel with your brother. Don’t go near the Foreign Office. If I need to get in touch with you I’ll go through your brother.’

‘Mr Burke’s office will have the address by now, my lord. Can I say I hope we see you back here soon? And that your mission to Kent is successful?’

Powerscourt wondered if there was a suggestion that his visit to St Petersburg had been unsuccessful. As he walked back to de Chassiron’s room, he decided to write a series of very short
letters. He wrote to Mr Bazhenov, Deputy Assistant Under Secretary at the Interior Ministry, to Mr Tropinin, Under Secretary at the Foreign Ministry, to General Derzhenov of the Okhrana in his
torturer’s lair on the Fontanka Quai and to Mrs Tamara Kerenkova, onetime mistress of the late Roderick Martin. He informed them as a matter of courtesy that he had been recalled because of
the sudden, mysterious death of Mrs Martin. He thanked them for their assistance during his stay and said that he looked forward to renewing their acquaintance on his return. With Mikhail and
Natasha he was as optimistic as he dared be in the circumstances.

‘I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ he said. ‘It may be that the second death makes it much easier to solve the first. Depend upon it, I have often known that happen in the
past. Natasha,’ he smiled at her, ‘please take very great care. I know I’ve said it before but I dread to think what might happen to you if they ever found you out, those people
at the Alexander Palace. Mikhail, I fear we shall never find the body now, but please keep trying. And if you need to get in touch, Ricky Crabbe has his own methods of reaching me in
London.’

‘Why do you think the body will never be found, Lord Powerscourt?’ asked Mikhail.

‘I suspect that somebody doesn’t want us to see what happened to Roderick Martin before he died. He may have been tortured because he wouldn’t tell his captors what they wanted
to know. Or he may just have been killed because his captors didn’t want anybody else to know what he knew. Or he may have been killed in frustration because he wouldn’t tell them what
he knew. I just don’t know. Martin’s body was left out on the Nevskii Prospekt in the middle of the night and then spirited away. Something tells me that whatever his secret, the people
who wanted to find it still haven’t done so. At least one of them, the Okhrana, hope I will lead them to it.’