Rasputin's Revenge (26 page)

“Cut him down!” Lupa commanded.

The guard called for help from the knot of men at the door. Two more guardsmen came in and began wrestling the stiffened body inside. Engrossed as I was in this operation, I didn’t notice anyone else enter the room until I heard his voice, shrill and authoritative.

“Why are you disturbing the body?”

It was old, wrinkled Inspector Dubniev, the man who had been at Minsky’s bedside in Tsarkoye Selo. “Why are you cutting him down,” he asked.

The guards were cowed into silence, but Lupa responded, “Good morning, Inspector, I gave the order.”

The old man glared at my friend, furious that his authority had again been usurped. “It is my place to give those orders!”

Lupa reached into his breast pocket and extracted a folded square of paper, embossed with the royal shield. “This is my commission from the Czarina,” he said quietly. “As you see, it’s been expanded since we last met.”

The inspector looked over the credentials and handed them back to my friend without a word. He turned to the guards. “Proceed,” he said. Then he bowed once formally to Lupa, turned on his heel, and walking with a stiff, wounded dignity, he left the room. If I’d earlier thought that Lupa had made an enemy of Dubniev, now there was no doubt of it.

But Lupa’s attention was on the body being brought back in through the window; As though reading my thoughts, however, he spoke. “It can’t be helped,” he said. “All will be forgiven if we succeed.”

“But we have succeeded …” I began, only to be quieted by Lupa’s upraised palm. Instead, he ordered one of the men guarding the door to close it.

The guards put the body on the bed, but Lupa wasn’t yet ready to examine it. Rather, he went back to the window, hoisted himself up onto the sill and, balancing himself precariously twenty meters above the courtyard, he leaned out and studied the rope which was still attached to the beam.

As I looked on, he extended his arm, leaning out to touch the end of the beam. Though he seemed completely oblivious to the drop should the perch give under his weight, the guards and I stood holding our breath against his slightest slip.

When he came back down inside the room, he stared at the floor under the window and slowly studied the walls on either side of the window, the shutters, the hinges, everything. Finally he turned and straightened up.

As he had done earlier that morning, he closed his eyes and pursed his lips, rubbing his hands together to warm them. Going to the bed, he leaned over the body and smelled its mouth. Turning its head roughly, which he had to do because of its stiffness, he examined the knot where the rope had bruised the neck.

Kapov had been wearing a purple sleeping gown, cinched at the waist. Lupa lifted it to view the body, presumably searching for bruises. Muttering something to himself, he turned next to the hands, to which he gave special attention. Finally, he straightened up.

I had found the entire display absurd. What did he expect to find? Kapov had hanged himself, and that was all there was to it. Lupa’s insistence on studying the body struck me as pretentious foolishness to prolong an already protracted investigation.

“Auguste,” I said. “Surely what has happened is obvious.” And I explained my theory—indeed, the only plausible theory—about Borstoi’s betrayal and Kapov’s suicide.

He listened patiently. When I had finished, he spoke to the lead guardsman and directed that Kapov’s body be taken to autopsy.

“But …”

“No, Jules. No buts. I want to know his condition when he went out that window. Come,” he said, putting his arm around me, “this room is oppressive. There’s nothing more to be done.”

Out in the hallway, he continued, whispering. “I don’t want to say much in anyone else’s presence.”

“I understand that,” I said, “but surely we should go to the Empress and report.”

He shook his head. “There is still one untied string. Max Pohl sent a message to me this morning.” At my look of surprise, he explained. “I would have told you about it if the guard hadn’t rushed in just when he did. Really, my friend, I’m not hiding things from you. In any event, Pohl’s note said that he has discovered a crucial fact about the poison used to kill Minsky. Something about being able to trace its source.”

“Well, that source probably will lead to Kapov.”

He nodded. “Undoubtedly, but I want to hear what he has to say before I take our case to Alexandra.”

Though that made sense, I was worried about delaying our report, and I said as much. But Lupa overrode me. “Jules, it’s my case. I must conclude it my way.”

Reluctantly, I acquiesced, but I did have one other concern. “How do you think Kapov’s death will affect Nicholas?” I asked.

Lupa stopped and faced me. “Now there is a point,” he said. “Were the two especially close?”

“I saw no sign of it. They were cousins, but otherwise I got the impression their relationship was rather formal.”

Lupa chuckled without humor. “All the kings of Europe are cousins.”

“So Kapov is the first court death that won’t affect the Czar personally. That, at least, is good.”

Lupa shrugged. “It is either good, or it is the beginning of a new phase.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

He hesitated, then laughed as though ridiculing himself “Nothing, Jules, nothing. Sometimes my imagination runs away with me.”

With all the events of the morning behind me, I was somewhat startled to realize that it was still early enough to try and call on Alyosha.

After leaving Lupa, who said he was off to interview Pohl, I crossed the courtyard to the children’s wing. Halfway across, I tried to determine which of the gables Kapov had swung from, though it was impossible to tell.

My mind was still a jumble of conflicting thoughts and emotions—fear of Alexandra’s wrath, relief that the murders had been solved, concern over my original mission with Nicholas, curiosity about Pohl’s message, even apprehension at seeing Alyosha again. And, of course, overlying everything, the elation, guilt, passion and remorse of whatever was happening between Elena and myself and—though she wasn’t here—with Tania and our child.

And so it was with a sense of wonder that I came upon the Heir Apparent and the Grand Duchesses playing a kind of tag together in one of the outer halls in their part of the Palace. Here was no intrigue, no court foppery, no jealousy or hatred, but five happy young people caught in a frieze of simple joy. Even the dour Derevenko, seated nearby and looking on, wore a tolerant smile. And as I came upon the group, Elena appeared from where she had gone to retrieve a ball.

Seeing me, she waved and called out, “Jules!” and my heart leapt to my throat. As moving as Elena’s, though, was Alyosha’s reaction. He stopped teasing one of his sisters, turned and ran across the length of the hall toward me. Stopping a meter away, he smiled broadly and bowed in our private joke; then he came up and threw his arms around me.

“Monsieur Giraud,” he said, “I’m so glad to have you back. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too, your Highness.”

His eyes gleamed. “I have to talk to you about my father,” he whispered excitedly. “We had the most marvelous talk.”

“We will,” I answered.

But before I could say more, Elena had come up, touching my arm protectively. “Alyosha, should we do our surprise?”

The prince nodded and ran back to be with his sisters. I took in Elena’s smiling face. “It looks as though Tati and you are reconciled.”

“It’s wonderful! This morning it had all been forgotten, as if nothing had happened.” She leaned closer to my ear and whispered conspiratorially, “I have a feeling that Alexis talked to her. And I know whom to thank for that.” She took my hand to lead me across the hall. “But you? How are you?”

Not wishing to go into it, I said I was fine, and asked her what the surprise was. She grinned happily. “Just a little skit we’ve worked up—isn’t that right, children?”

One of the girls—the prettiest—stepped forward and held out her hand to be kissed. “I am Tatiana Romanovna,” she said, with great seriousness, but then a twinkle showed in her eyes, followed by a fetching smile that reminded me of Alexandra’s when I’d first met her. I bowed and kissed her hand.

“Since you’ve swept away both my brother and our governess,” Tatiana said, “they’ve persuaded us to perform for you.”

Alyosha spoke up. “And so that I can keep up with my studies, the play is in French.”

Thoroughly charmed by the gesture, I said the appropriate words and retired to a chair by the wall while Elena prepared them for the “curtain.” The skit was a rendering of the scene of Hugo’s
Les Misérables
, where Jean Valjean steals the loaf of bread. Alyosha played the young Valjean, and his portrayal was powerful and subtly ironic. I wondered how the children had come to choose that moment, that topic, and whether it had been Elena’s influence, or the
growing
political awareness of Alexis. Whoever had done it, in that setting it was a stirring piece. Even the girls were believable in their parts, although the youngest of them, Anastasia, was a bit of a ham.

Elena, myself, and even Derevenko were generous in our applause when the skit ended. Each of the Grand Duchesses then came by to shake my hand, and I congratulated them. I was especially proud of Alyosha, and ventured a buss on each cheek for him.

“Quite brilliant,” I told him. “You could easily make a career of this. Don’t you agree, Elena?”

“Beyond any doubt.”

He shrugged off the compliment. “I felt the part strongly, Monsieur Giraud. There must be a thousand Jean Valjeans in my Russia right now—good men, driven to desperation. I can’t afford to let myself forget that.”

What a wonderful ruler he’ll make!

But it was time for lunch, and Elena clasped her hands and instructed the children to go with Derevenko to eat. Before they left, Alexis came up to me and whispered, “Tomorrow,” and I nodded in accord.

When Elena and I were alone, we sat on our chairs by the wall holding hands. “That really was quite excellent!” I said. “And a wonderful theme for royalty to consider.”

“Yes.” Suddenly she seemed tired, abstracted. Looking at her carefully, I saw that there were dark circles under her eyes.

“Are you all right?”

A weary smile. “I’m afraid I didn’t sleep last night.” She squeezed my hand. “I was too excited. Perhaps I should go now and try to get some rest.”

“I’ll walk you to your room,” I volunteered.

As we crossed the courtyard, a new snowstorm had begun. I told her about Kapov’s suicide and mentioned that Lupa would be reporting to the Czarina after his interview with Pohl.

“But I thought it was all tied up? Didn’t you say that Kapov was the murderer? Surely killing himself right at this time is tantamount to a confession?”

I explained Lupa’s ridiculous insistence on getting all the facts before making his report. Obvious though the whole thing was, Pohl’s information might shed light on some new aspect of the crimes, and if it did, Lupa wanted to know about it.

“I suppose that makes sense,” she said wearily.

“Sometimes Lupa’s brilliance hurts him, I believe,” I said, and told her about ordering the autopsy for Kapov, though the cause of his death couldn’t have been more plain.

But I could see all this talk was tiring her more. She lapsed into silence, and her hand in mine went slack. “But come, let’s get you to your bed.”

We’d arrived at her rooms, and when she opened the door, she looked into my eyes. “Please be careful,” she said. “All this worries me so much.”

I kissed her lightly. She looked at me questioningly, and in response I turned her around and patted her derriere as I might have done to a child. “To bed, alone.”

Looking back over her shoulder, she nodded in acquiescence, and closed the door between us.

17

I
had to get out of the Palace. Quite apart from my natural feeling of confinement within its walls, I was loath to run into any of Alexandra’s entourage until Lupa had reported to her.

It was, in fact, lunchtime, and I was hungry, so I made my way, for the third time in a hour, across the courtyard, through the other side of the Palace, and out into the street.