Death on the Nevskii Prospekt (30 page)

‘And the second?’ asked Powerscourt, hoping for a sympathetic lawyer under the age of seventy-five on the morrow.

‘Johnny Fitzgerald told me about it this morning, my lord,’ said Inspector Clayton, ‘and no doubt he will have more details for you this evening – he told me he was
dining at your house. It seems that Mr Martin may not have been the only one to have strayed from the holding the betrothed from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in
sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part. Mrs Martin was very friendly with a Colonel Fitzmaurice, a retired military man from over Ashford way. They went away
together, my lord, though nothing else has ever been proved.’

‘And what of the gallant Colonel, Inspector? What does he have to say for himself?’

‘That’s the problem,’ said the Inspector, raising a hand to ask the cabbie by the door to wait a moment longer. ‘Unless Johnny Fitzgerald has had some luck today, the
Colonel has disappeared, vanished off the face of the earth. My Chief Constable believes he may have gone to join the Martins on the other side.’

The last dishes had been cleared away. The candles had burnt halfway down. A great-great-grandfather of Lady Lucy’s, resplendent in a scarlet coat with enormous
moustaches and a chest covered with medals, painted by Lawrence, was standing to attention over the fireplace, surveying his descendants. A bottle of claret and a bottle of port awaited the
gentlemen’s attention. Lady Lucy was sitting at the head of the table with Francis on her right and Johnny on her left. She felt so proud to have Francis home. Olivia had confided to her at
bedtime that they were now a proper family once again, and while Lady Lucy might have questioned the assumption that she couldn’t cope on her own, she was largely in agreement.

Once again Powerscourt presented his account of his investigation so far. It was, perhaps, less full than the one he had given to Inspector Clayton that afternoon. He would, he said, confine
himself to the facts in the first instance. When they had heard Johnny’s report on Mrs Martin, he might speculate. He made no mention of the torture chambers in the basement of the Okhrana
headquarters or of the grisly paintings in the special section of the Hermitage. He stressed two things, the differences between the various Russian ministries and the secret service, and the fact
that Martin had actually seen the Tsar. He mentioned the tapping of the Embassy telegraphs by the Okhrana and the private system operational between the brothers Crabbe in St Petersburg and London.
He said he thought the investigation would now assume less and less importance in the eyes of the Russians. Their thoughts and their agencies would be increasingly devoted to the threat of
terrorism and the broader political dilemma of repression or reform. He told of the affair between Roderick Martin and Tamara Kerenkova and the circumstances surrounding her banishment at the time
of his last visit. The single most important thing in helping solve the problem, he said gravely, would be an interview with the Tsar. But then, his, Powerscourt’s, fate might be the same as
Mr Martin’s. He said he had tried to think of a message to the British Embassy, ostensibly sent to de Chassiron, but designed to be read by the Okhrana, which might precipitate events that
would unlock the mystery. So far he had failed. In any case, he pointed out, he wasn’t sure the Okhrana knew any more than he did. He looked forward to hearing Johnny’s report but
unless there was some firm evidence from the solicitors or the telegraph company, he feared that the death of Mrs Martin would remain a mystery. If they could discover more about the telegraphs
sent from the British Embassy on the evening or the night of Martin’s death, the situation might become clearer. For if Martin had sent a message to his wife, and if the message contained
compromising material, and if the Okhrana read it almost immediately, then that might account for Martin’s death, assuming the message was sent after his visit to the Tsar. It would also
explain the death of Mrs Martin, killed for the same reason as her husband. They were killed to keep their knowledge a secret. Martin could, he admitted, have sent a message earlier in the day once
he knew his business would be concluded by his interview with the Tsar. He also looked forward, he said, to hearing the views of Lucy and Johnny. The only firm plan he had at present, he told them,
was to stop off in Paris on his way back to St Petersburg and speak to somebody high up in the French secret service. He passed on de Chassiron’s judgement that they were the best informed
organization in Europe about Russia and the court of the Tsar.

Johnny Fitzgerald began his account with the answers, as far as he knew them, to Powerscourt’s queries sent from St Petersburg. William Burke, he said, had reported that there were erratic
swings in the balances of Martin’s bank account, consistent, Johnny now realized, with the visits to Russia and the possible purchases of treats and other delights for la Kerenkova.
Martin’s train tickets for his various expeditions to the Russian capital had not been bought through the Foreign Office, but through a branch of Thomas Cook round the corner. That was
perfectly proper as he was going on private business, or, possibly, spying business. Then he moved on to the life and times of Mrs Letitia Martin in her own village of Tibenham with a very large
swig of his port. Johnny looked round happily at his friends. ‘I’ve got one surprise for you all,’ he said, ‘but as in all the best stories, I’m going to save it to
the end. The first thing to say about Mrs Martin is that she was very popular. She always arrived in the village on her horse, never on foot, never in a carriage. The natives seem to like that. She
was well known in the few shops. The vicar spoke warmly of her as a regular participant at Communion and a generous giver to the fund for the restoration of his church spire. Stood for four hundred
years, could fall down next week, give generously today, as the vicar’s sign outside the church proclaims. There’s just one slight crack in this perfection. Mrs Martin was always very
late in paying her bills. Sometimes, the butcher told me when his shop was completely empty, her suppliers might have to wait over a year to be paid.’

‘Had this been going on for a long time, Johnny, or was it a recent development?’ Powerscourt was fiddling with a fountain pen.

‘It had got very bad in the past few years, they said. Even the vicar had heard about it, for God’s sake. But it may tie in with William’s information about the fluctuating
bank balance.’

Johnny seemed to regard discreditable information that reached the ears of the Church as especially trustworthy, almost as reliable as Holy Writ.

‘What about the Colonel, Johnny?’ said Lady Lucy. ‘I’m very keen to hear about the Colonel.’

‘The Colonel, the Colonel, I’m just coming to the Colonel, Lucy,’ said Johnny with a grin, virtually singing the words “the Colonel” as if it were the refrain in a
ballad. ‘Colonel Peter Templeton Fitzmaurice, formerly of the Irish Rangers, one-time resident at Castleford Lodge, some ten miles from Tibenham, nine miles from the Grange. I have to say,
ladies and gentlemen,’ Johnny looked at his hosts in turn, ‘that the hard evidence for any sort of relationship between those two is, well . . .’ Johnny paused, searching for the
most appropriate phrase, ‘flimsy might be the right word. Or thin. Certainly inadmissible in a court of law. It started in the lounge bar of the Coach and Horses. I don’t mean any
affair started there, but my information did. It was ten minutes or so before opening time and the landlady, a handsome woman in her early thirties, years younger than her husband, referred to
them. “Of course, there’s that Mrs Martin and her special friend the Colonel,” she said, nodding vigorously at the word “special”. The same process then began to
repeat itself. You know, Francis, you know those people who go about studying strange tribes in remote places and asking them questions – anthropologists, are they called? – they could
have a field day down in rural Kent. Communication by non-verbal means, they could call it. I don’t think a single person used words like affair, close friendship, love, certainly not love.
There was the serious nod, making the recipient of the nod complicit in the knowledge of the nodder. There was the tap, or even the double tap on the side of the nose. There was the rolling of the
eyes. There were phrases like no better than she should be, carry on, carry along even. The lad who drives the little fly to the station and back was regarded as a priceless witness for the
prosecution because he had once seen them standing together on the station platform With Luggage. No evidence that they were necessarily travelling together With Luggage, of course, but grist to
the mill all the same.’

‘Was there any truth in it, Johnny? As far as you could discover?’ Lady Lucy smiled at him.

‘Well, yes, I think there is. Or was. You see, I took a trip over to Castleford Lodge earlier today. The Colonel is not in residence. The housekeeper is. I don’t know why, but
housekeepers for some reason are much more forthcoming than butlers in my experience.’

‘It’s because you’re male,’ Powerscourt cut in.

‘I don’t think you should undermine a fellow investigator’s talents in that way, Francis, I really don’t. It’s quite uncalled for. She didn’t know Mrs Martin
was dead, the housekeeper. Her face fell and she looked very pale when I told her. “The master would be so upset if he knew that,” she said, “he was so fond of that lady, he
really was. When she came here to stay he’d be happy for days afterwards.” Then she burst into tears. I didn’t think it politic to inquire about the sleeping arrangements at that
precise moment, so I left.’

‘Isn’t it curious,’ said Lady Lucy, ‘how the words could apply to her master alive or dead. I find that very strange. So which is he, Johnny, the amorous Colonel? Is he
alive or is he dead?’

‘I don’t know. The housekeeper doesn’t know. I’ve nearly finished,’ said Johnny, eyeing his still half-full glass of port. ‘We know she was popular with the
locals. We know she was hard up, sometimes very hard up. I don’t think she was mean. We know she was having a relationship of some sort with the Colonel, dead or alive. And . . .’
Johnny paused melodramatically, like the conjurer finally about to produce a hatful of rabbits or the Queen of Sheba, ‘we know that a week or ten days before her death she received a visit
from a foreigner. A rather unusual foreigner.’ And Johnny tapped the side of the nose in the manner of the Tibenham residents he had described a few moments ago.

‘Stop teasing, Johnny,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘Who was it, Hottentot or Zulu, Afghan or Bedouin?’

‘Russian,’ said Johnny. ‘The lad in the fly brought him to and from the station to Tibenham Grange. When he asked the stranger where he came from – the man was wearing an
astrakhan coat, for God’s sake – he said Russia. And then he smiled, apparently.’

‘Pretty big place, Russia,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Any city, by any chance? Kiev? Archangel? Moscow? Minsk? St Petersburg?’

‘I’m afraid he didn’t say and the lad didn’t ask. Pretty remiss of him, but there you are.’

Powerscourt started walking up and down the dining room, running his hand along the backs of the chairs. ‘Damn! Damn! Damn! I hate to say it but the really infuriating thing about this
case is that so many people are dead. Both Martins for a start. We can’t ask them a thing.’

‘You know what happens in those circumstances, Francis,’ said Johnny flippantly, ‘there’s one lot of dead people and another lot of live people who want to find out what
happened. The live lot send for some investigators to find the answers. That’s why we’re here, Francis, to find out why the other buggers are dead, isn’t it?’

‘Of course, Johnny, you’re right. I’m being stupid,’ said Powerscourt with a smile. ‘But there are so many things a Martin could answer if only they were here. Who
was this Russian? What was he doing here? Had he come from the Embassy to offer his condolences? Had he come from the Okhrana with a final message? Or had he come to find out if Mrs Martin had
received a message from her husband in St Petersburg? Or was he the spy Martin’s handler in London, come to see Mrs Martin with messages of sympathy and large bundles of cash? I know
I’m supposed to be offering suggestions as to what has been going on. I don’t discount the spy theory at all. Maybe the Okhrana asked Martin once he was in St Petersburg to perform some
final, unbelievably dangerous act of treachery. He refuses. They kill him and create this smokescreen which has baffled me ever since.’

A disconsolate Powerscourt sat down and began to run his fingers through his hair.

‘Don’t worry, Francis,’ said Lucy, ‘you’ve had cases as difficult as this in the past and you’ve always solved them in the end.’

‘It wouldn’t look too good,’ her husband said bitterly, ‘if I allowed myself to be brought out of retirement for a case I couldn’t solve. I’d be finished
then, as an investigator, totally finished and hung out to dry.’

‘Francis, Francis,’ said Johnny Fitzgerald, leaning over to refill his friend’s glass, ‘you are forgetting one of the most salient facts of this investigation, if you can
have a most salient fact. What is that? I hear you ask. Quite simply this. You have been operating on your own. Single. Unaided. Achilles without Patroclus. Aeneas without whatever he’s
called, the faithful Achates. Wellington without Blucher at Waterloo. You have not had me at your side to offer sympathy, friendship, intelligence, common sense and alcohol on your journey through
this vale of tears. But I am here now. Oh yes, Johnny Fitzgerald is now on the case. So why don’t you make all our lives easier by offering up your thoughts as to what might have happened to
the late Roderick Martin. And,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘to his wife, if you have formed any theories yet in that department. You don’t usually wait for the facts to get in
the way of the theories.’

Powerscourt smiled. Lady Lucy felt relieved and stood up to give her husband a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘When you’re ready, Francis,’ she said, ‘we’re ready when
you are.’