Death on the Nevskii Prospekt (36 page)

The prisoner uttered what must have been a scream. The gags on his mouth made it sound like a small groan. ‘We thought this one was going to talk about half an hour ago,’ Derzhenov
went on, ‘but when we took the gag out he just spat in the eyes of his captors. But come, upstairs, I have news for you.’

This time the Okhrana chief took him, not to his office, but to a small sparsely furnished sitting room on the third floor. The only decorations on the walls were a painting of a monastery and a
silver crucifix. Any notion Powerscourt might have had about a religious side to the Russian secret service was swiftly dispelled.

‘Forgive me, Lord Powerscourt, they may be using my office for interrogations shortly so I thought we had better find alternative accommodation. We have a tame priest or two on the books
here, you might be surprised to hear. Often some prisoners will talk more easily to them. This is the room we give the priests.’

So that explains the monastery and the cross, Powerscourt thought. He wondered briefly if it was the famous monastery Dostoevsky used as a model in
The Brothers Karamazov
.

Derzhenov was coughing significantly in the chair to his left. ‘I promised I had news for you, Lord Powerscourt. And what exciting news it is! Can you guess?’

Powerscourt wondered briefly if he was to be taken on a special tour of all the Okhrana torture rooms in Russia from Moscow to Archangel with specially adapted carriages on the Trans-Siberian
Express, soundproofing for screams a speciality, and specially adapted facilities for carrying passengers half in half out of their compartments, being torn apart by the speed and the wind.

‘I cannot imagine, General Derzhenov,’ he said, his mind suddenly very alert. He remembered the rash message he had sent to the Embassy from the Foreign Office in London saying that
he hoped to solve the mystery of Mr Martin within a week. He had thought at the time that he might catch something with that message. He felt sure Derzhenov had read the cable. Had his catch now
arrived? Was he the catch?

‘I expect notice of this audience is awaiting you at the Embassy, Lord Powerscourt, indeed I’m certain of it. But it gives me great pleasure to be the first to tell you in person.
Your request, Lord Powerscourt, your request for an interview with the Tsar has been granted! You are going to meet with the Autocrat of All the Russias! Tomorrow evening! To think that I will not
be there to see it.’

‘This is excellent news, General Derzhenov. Thank you if your good offices have had anything to do with it.’

‘One must always do one’s humble best to help one’s friends, that’s what my dear mother used to say, Lord Powerscourt.’

Powerscourt tried to imagine what Derzhenov’s mother must have been like, monster, harpy, she-devil, tutor and mentor to the Borgias and to Lady Macbeth, ogress, fiend, but words failed
him. He wondered if she were still alive. Better not to ask.

‘I don’t suppose you know the time for the meeting?’ asked Powerscourt. If it were late then Johnny Fitzgerald might be able to accompany him.

‘Nine thirty,’ said Derzhenov, beaming with his knowledge and his ability to convey good tidings. He paused for a moment before dropping in, ‘Same time as the unfortunate Mr
Martin, oddly enough. And that was on a Wednesday too.’ The Tsar at nine thirty. Death by half past one.

But if he thought Powerscourt might be superstitious, there were no signs of it. ‘There is just one small thing I would ask of you, Lord Powerscourt, one very tiny favour.’

‘Of course, General, ask away.’ Inwardly Powerscourt prayed that the good Lord would forgive him this and all his other sins.

‘If you could see your way, Lord Powerscourt, to telling me the gist of your conversation with the Tsar, insofar as it has to do with Mr Martin, I would be most grateful.’

Powerscourt thought he disliked the Uriah Heep Derzhenov even more than the earlier Attila the Hun Derzhenov. And he wondered, not for the first time, about the strange fascination
Martin’s meeting with the Tsar had for his secret service. Certainly Derzhenov seemed to have no idea what was discussed or what was resolved.

‘General Derzhenov,’ Powerscourt went on, relieved to know he had a slightly better hand than he thought he might have had five minutes ago. Derzhenov had to keep him alive until
tomorrow evening at least. ‘I am sure you know the responsibilities of a man in my position towards his government, particularly when the death of a senior diplomat is involved. And the
discretion involved. But rest assured, if I can see my way clear to helping you in the manner you request, I shall certainly do so.’

And may the Lord have mercy upon my soul, he said to himself.

Derzhenov had one last card to play. ‘It so happens that I shall be in these offices tomorrow night when you return from Tsarskoe Selo. Perhaps you could pop in then, if it was
convenient.’

Had Martin, too, popped in at Fontanka Quai on his way back from the Alexander Palace? Had that been the last place he had seen alive? Powerscourt didn’t feel happy.

‘I fear my Ambassador will want to hear my news first, General Derzhenov. But the next morning, have no fear.’

As he made his way out of the building, Derzhenov trotting by his side, Powerscourt thought he smelt something particularly nauseous rising from the basement. It was, he decided, after a couple
of discreet sniffs, the smell of roasting flesh. Or, to be more precise, roasting human flesh. St Lawrence was being offered up as a sacrifice to his God once more.

His hair was dirty. His fingernails were black and extended far forwards like the claws of an animal or the talons of a bird. His beard was untrimmed. He smelt of the
countryside, of the filth of the peasants, so alien to the salons of the capital. The most remarkable thing about him were his eyes, deep-set, grey, that seemed to disappear into pinpricks of light
when he spoke. The self-styled Father Grigory Rasputin was the latest sensation to burst into the jaded world of the seance takers and the psychic-loving circles of St Petersburg. He claimed to
possess two of the attributes of the
staretz
, the traditional holy man said to come from the purer world of Siberia to cleanse the capital of its decadence. Holiness Rasputin certainly
thought he possessed. Had he not walked the length of Russia not once but twice, and been on pilgrimage to the Holy Land? And could he not cure people of their illnesses? There were many witnesses
to his ability as a healer. People said he could even reverse the flow of blood, to direct it away from a wound, for example.

It was the Montenegrin sisters, Militsa and Anastasia, both Grand Duchesses, who introduced Rasputin into society as they had introduced the Frenchman Philippe Vachot years before. Within a
short time women of all classes were flocking to his dirty apartment in search of an audience with him, or more. Rasputin had one unique advantage for a holy man who might be a fraud. He offered a
threefold package to his women admirers, in the shape of sin, redemption and salvation. Before they could be saved, Rasputin assured the gullible and the neophytes, they had to commit sin. If they
cared to step with him into his bedroom, soon known as the Holy of Holies, he would be happy to provide the sin in his role as another weak and humble servant of God. Then, in his role as Holy
Father, he could offer redemption from their transgressions. Finally he would bless them and see them through to the final stage of their journey to salvation. The Montenegrins spread his fame. To
the rich women of St Petersburg, they said, he brought the promise of carnal and spiritual satisfaction at virtually the same time. To those nursing the sick and the afflicted, they stressed his
healing powers. The messages sent to the Alexander Palace stressed that here was a mighty healer. They reminded Alexandra of the words of Philippe Vachot that he, Vachot, was but the forerunner of
one greater and more powerful than he. Rasputin, they implied to the beleaguered party in Tsarskoe Selo, was the Christ to Vachot’s John the Baptist.

Johnny Fitzgerald was very taken with St Petersburg. He liked the great buildings, he like the huge squares, he confessed most of all to having developed an enormous liking
for the vodka on the train.

‘There I was, Francis, minding my own business, when these two fellows came in and joined me. They were pretty well gone by this stage but they offered me a choice of three varieties of
vodka as if I was their long-lost relative. I’m sure I will be able to find some more of the stuff round the place.’

Powerscourt was delighted to be able to tell him that the Ambassador, of all unlikely people, had a small cellar devoted to vodka and might be persuaded to open up. More seriously, Johnny was
able to tell Powerscourt of the latest discoveries in the case of Mrs Martin. None of the police inquiries, he reported, had produced any sightings of strangers going up or down the path to the
house. Furthermore, a note had been discovered in the bureau in the study of Colonel Fitzmaurice’s house, apparently in Mrs Martin’s hand, addressed to her in-laws but not posted,
saying that she could go on no longer. There was no further news of the mysterious Russian visitor, who seemed to have vanished into thin air. The Colonel, possible paramour of Mrs Martin, had not
disappeared at all. He had taken himself to the south coast to recover from the excitement and wrestle with the treacherous winds and very fast greens of Rye Golf Course. On a normal day
Powerscourt would have been asking for more details, checking on the handwriting, inquiring what the police view was and generally making himself a nuisance. But today the affairs of the late Mrs
Martin and the little tower at the top of Tibenham Grange seemed very far away. Today was a day for her husband, the late Mr Martin. Was not he, Powerscourt, going to have an evening audience with
the Tsar on exactly the same day of the week as Martin? Might today not be the day when he would find Martin’s killer? Or perhaps, he wondered, it would be the day when Martin’s killers
killed him too. The Ambassador had only ever had two private audiences with Nicholas the Second since he took up his post and he regarded it as slightly unfair that a mere upstart, a hired hand
rather than a member of the proper Foreign Office, should enter the imperial presence after a couple of weeks or so.

A party of six set off to escort Powerscourt to his audience. He was accompanied by Johnny Fitzgerald, Mikhail as interpreter, secretly hoping for a quick glimpse of Natasha, the coachman, a
sergeant from the Black Watch and Ricky Crabbe the telegraph king who had expressed such pathetic longing to see the Tsar’s palace that even the Ambassador could not resist him. Powerscourt
had a brief conversation with de Chassiron about the interview before he left.

‘House rules?’ de Chassiron had said, placing his beautifully polished shoes on his coffee table and fiddling absentmindedly with his monocle. ‘Not much different from school,
really, going to see the headmaster. Sorry, Powerscourt, that wasn’t helpful. Just like going to see the King really, big handshake, bow, don’t interrupt him, however stupid the things
he says, all these damned monarchs since Louis the Sixteenth have thought they were cleverer than they actually were. If you’re lucky there won’t be a flunkey there during the
interview, though they may be listening at the doors. Flunkeys in my experience get very irritated if they think their master is carrying out business behind their back. It’s almost a
criminal offence.’

‘And how should I think of him when I talk to him, de Chassiron? Foreign Office official? Adjutant of regiment? Manager of a small bank out in the country?’

De Chassiron smiled and lifted his feet off his table in one quick, elegant movement.

‘Not the first, Powerscourt, not the second, maybe the third. How about this though? Think of him as a rather dim Captain of Cricket at school, chap who can barely add up, can’t
remember much history, hopeless at languages but very popular with the boys and a good batsman. You must have met plenty of those, Powerscourt.’

Powerscourt agreed that he had. As they travelled the fifteen miles out to Tsarskoe Selo, Mikhail was bringing him up to date on the latest number of strikes that were slowly strangling the
country. Johnny Fitzgerald was peering out into the darkness as if Russian birds, previously unknown to him but of fabulous size and plumage, were flying in formation around their carriage. Ricky
Crabbe’s fingers, Powerscourt noted, were still tapping messages out on to the frame of the carriage widow. Maybe he did it in his sleep. The sergeant from the Black Watch went to sleep.

The Alexander Palace was made up of a centre and two wings. All the state apartments and the formal reception rooms were in the centre. The imperial family’s private apartments were in one
wing, the ministers of the court and the attendant staff in the other. Ricky Crabbe decided to remain with the coachman. He would, he said, take a peep inside a bit later. In reality, he was rather
overwhelmed by the grandeur of the surroundings, the troops of horsemen riding round the walls of the park on permanent patrol against terrorists, the soldiers and policemen who stopped the
carriage at the entrance gate and peered carefully into all their faces before writing their names down in a book, the sentries in their long coats striding up and down the outside of the building
at regular intervals as if they were mobile flower boxes.

Powerscourt and his two companions were guided on their journey to the Tsar by a symphony in gold braid and a footman with a plumed hat. Through the audience rooms they went, through the
Empress’s private drawing room, down a long corridor leading to the private apartments. In the last room at the end of the corridor the Tsar’s personal aide-de-camp indicated that
Johnny and Mikhail were to wait there with him. He began an animated conversation with Mikhail on the virtues of the capital’s most expensive restaurants. Powerscourt felt his mind going far
away to the ice on the Nevskii Prospekt where a fellow countryman lay dead, ignored and forgotten by the authorities. A strangely clad Ethiopian was on guard outside the Tsar’s door. As he
opened it the symphony in gold braid coughed slightly and announced in perfect English: