Rasputin's Revenge (36 page)

But to most of the people in the room, Rasputin’s motives were unimportant. What mattered was what he had done—abused his relationship with the Czarina. In doing so he had undermined not only the power of the Czar but his willingness to prosecute the war. Russian society, adrift without the leadership of its crown, was crumbling under the weight of icons, scandal and superstition.

Rasputin was hated or feared everywhere but in the mauve bedchamber. When it was revealed that he had also been behind the Palace murders, some men were moved to act. Did Lupa know they would? I don’t believe it. Did his charade announcing the monk’s assassination put the idea in someone else’s mind? Again, not purposely.

Lupa’s first action after revealing the deception about Rasputin’s death to the group at the embassy was to send Yussoupov to fetch Dubniev—both to surrender ourselves to him, and to arrest Rasputin. He did not
know, could not have foreseen, that Yussoupov would not obey him. In fact, we spent the rest of the day at the embassy, after Elena’s body had been removed, awaiting the inspector’s arrival, not without a great deal of trepidation.

(Paleologue promised diplomatic immunity for us all if Dubniev proved intractable, but the situation still made me uncomfortable. We were, after all, not accused of the murders, but of espionage. In truth, I counted more on Alexis to influence his mother than on Paleologue’s assurances.)

Rasputin, it turned out, was never informed of Elena’s death. He spent the afternoon drinking with gypsies, then had an early dinner with Anna Vyroubova, who had heard of some plot afoot and warned him not to go out. But when he got to his apartment, Yussoupov was there with some good Madeira and an invitation to a wonderful party.

I do not believe, and never will believe, that murder can be a legitimate alternative to law. But I must say in defense of the conspirators that they probably perceived that they had no recourse to law, since the law here in Russia is the crown, and the crown in this case would never have prosecuted Rasputin. By all accounts, Alexandra was so under the sway of Rasputin that she might well have concluded that everyone that had gathered in the embassy—Kerensky, Lvov, Anastasia, even Paleologue and all the rest—was involved in our conspiracy. Given that background, it may be understandable, though not excusable, that Yussoupov and his friends did what they did.

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TO HER MAJESTY
ALEXANDRA FEDOROVNA
CZARINA
REPORT ON THE DEATH OF
GREGORY EFIMOVICH RASPUTIN
DECEMBER 16, 1916

The starets was met at his home sometime in the late evening of December 16 by Felix Yussoupov. The two left by Yussoupov’s car and drove to the Moika Palace. Present at the Palace were the alleged conspirators—Yussoupov, the representative Purishkevich, Grand Duke Dmitry, Sukhotin, and Dr. Lazovert.

When Yussoupov and Rasputin arrived, the other conspirators began playing “Yankee Doodle” on a phonograph to simulate a party in the upper rooms. Rasputin evidently had been lured to the Palace because Yussoupov had promised to introduce him to his wife, Princess Irina. (The princess was then and is now in the Crimea, for health reasons, and does not appear to have played any part in the conspiracy.)

Leaving Rasputin with poisoned cakes downstairs, Yussoupov announced that he was going to get his wife. Upon his return, he found Rasputin happily consuming the cakes, each of which, according to Dr. Lazovert, contained enough poison to kill several men instantly.

In shock over Rasputin’s apparent immunity to the poison, Yussoupov poured wine and watched Rasputin eat cakes for the better part of two hours, during which time he played gypsy songs on a guitar while waiting for the poison to take effect.

Finally, his wits shaken, he went upstairs and borrowed a Browning revolver from Grand Duke Dmitry. Returning to the cellar, he spoke for a few more minutes with Rasputin, then, urging him to pray for his soul, shot him in the back.

The others, hearing the shot, rushed downstairs, where Lazovert pronounced Rasputin dead. No sooner had he done so, however, than the monk rolled over, opened his eyes, and with a cry, foaming at the mouth, leapt upon his assailants.

He tore an epaulet from Yussoupov’s jacket and nearly strangled him. Escaping, the Prince ran upstairs, while Rasputin raged behind him.

Somehow Purishkevich had by now come into possession of the revolver. He pursued Rasputin out into the courtyard, where the monk had run trying to get away. Purishkevich fired at least four times, hitting Rasputin twice—in the shoulder and the head.

The conspirators now gathered around the fallen starets. Still very much alive, he looked up at Yussoupov and said, “Felix, I will tell everything to the Empress,” whereupon they fell upon him again with their boots, fists, and a rubber club of Yussoupov’s.

They then wrapped the still body in a curtain bound with rope and Lazovert and Purishkevich took the bundle to the Neva, where they pushed it through a hole in the ice, while the other three conspirators killed a dog and left it to bleed on the snow where Rasputin had fallen, in case anyone should question the blood on the snow.

Rasputin’s body was found yesterday. The autopsy revealed that, in spite of the poisoning (his body contained, as Lazovert said, enough cyanide to kill several men), the three bullet wounds, each potentially fatal, a concussion and several broken ribs, he had finally died by drowning.

After he was dropped into the freezing water, wrapped in his shroud and tied with rope, he managed to free one hand. Witnesses who knew the starets while he was alive and have viewed the body swear that the one raised hand is in the same attitude as that which he used to give benediction, and that therefore his last action before death, much as our Lord’s, was offering a blessing and forgiveness to his killers.

December 21, 1916

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JANUARY
2, 1917.

S
herlock Holmes looked up from his first bite of woodcock. “Delicious, Auguste, absolutely delicious.”

Lupa nodded solemnly, allowing only the slightest turn of his lips as he accepted his father’s compliment. He could not so well control his eyes, however—they shone with pleasure.

“Where did you get woodcock here in St. Petersburg?” Dr. Watson asked.

“Monsieur Muret has his connections,” Lupa answered, nodding graciously at our host.

Muret took his cue. “Who would not have done so? It’s a great honor to have Auguste Lupa in one’s restaurant.” He paused. “And, of course, you other gentlemen.”

In the background, a trio of gypsy guitarists played softly. Lupa had spent the afternoon in the Villa Rhode’s kitchen preparing the excellent dinner we were enjoying. Holmes, Watson, Muret and I were sharing a couple of bottles of Cornas while Lupa chose to drink Muret’s good dark beer.

It was our first evening out since we’d been pardoned, and the celebration was most welcome. After several days of Embassy cooking, we were doubly appreciative of Lupa’s talent, and fell to the meal with a vengeance.

When we’d all but finished, Dr. Watson was the first to speak. “There’s still one thing I don’t quite understand.”

Holmes, his own humor completely restored by the successful conclusion of the case, mopped up the last of his sauce and ate it on a bit of Lupa’s fresh bread, leaned back into the booth’s upholstery and patted his stomach happily. “And all’s right with the world,” he said.

“Really, Holmes, there’s no need for sarcasm.”

Holmes wore a mild look of surprise, which seemed feigned to me. “My dear fellow,” he said, “I’m afraid that came out wrong. Please forgive me. What is it you don’t understand?”

Muret refilled the good doctor’s glass and he sipped, then continued in his blustery way. “All of Rasputin’s motives are clear to me—the revenge and so forth—but I don’t quite see how he convinced Miss Ripley to do his bidding. After all, she didn’t need him. She had her own career. What could persuade her to do his terrible work? What could he give her to make it worth the risk?”

Lupa didn’t give his father a chance to respond. “Love!” he blurted out, as though it were a curse word. “Love, the most powerful force in the world.”

“Just so,” Holmes agreed. “When the only goal is to please a lover, anything else, everything else, is secondary.”

“Even murder?”

“Anything,” Lupa said, “it doesn’t matter what”—he stopped to take a drink of his beer—“which is why the damned emotion ought to be avoided at all costs.”

I had to speak up. My infatuation with Elena may have nearly killed us, and her love for Rasputin was surely turned to the wrong ends, but I wasn’t willing to propose a loveless world as the solution. “To the contrary, Auguste. It may make us either fools or heroes, but surely it’s worth it. A life without it is an empty life indeed.”

I must have touched a nerve, for Lupa appeared about to say something, then bit it back. Sherlock Holmes, though, leapt into the breach. “Let’s not forget that love can also lead people to do the right thing.” He looked directly at his son and his hard eyes softened. “It is, after all, what brought Watson and me here to Russia. In more ways than one, Auguste, it’s why you’re alive.”

Lupa, obviously grappling with strong emotion, swallowed hard, then looked down, finally reaching for his beer. For me, the admission of love from father to son is the most natural thing in the world, but clearly that hadn’t been the case between Holmes and Lupa.

A fanfare of strummed guitars accompanying an outbreak of applause gave my friend a moment of respite. The lights were turned down, and from the stage I heard the haunting strains of Varya Panina as she began
singing, almost whispering, a ballad to an insistent rhythm like that of a heart beating. As I had been the other time I had seen her, I was captivated by her artistry, her passion, even though I couldn’t understand the words.

While she sang, the restaurant was quietly rapt in its attention, and if ever I was grateful that the world was through with the vulgarity and the evil of Gregory Rasputin, it was at that moment. When the chanteuse finished, the room exploded again with applause. There were few dry eyes in the house, and none at our table.