De Chassiron had been nodding vigorously in agreement with his Ambassador’s sentiments. Powerscourt was certain that he was being ironic and, furthermore, that this was a very dangerous game to play. Only when he reflected on it afterwards did Powerscourt realize that de Chassiron knew the Ambassador was so sure of himself that he wouldn’t have recognized the irony and the lack of respect if they had sat down beside him in his own drawing room. Powerscourt thought the Ambassador’s remarks were nonsense, designed to appeal to everybody and to nobody, to preserve his own position sitting on the fence facing in all directions at once.
His guests paid scant attention to his reports of the visits to the police station and the morgues, though de Chassiron was much taken by the vehemence of the denials that Martin had ever been found by members of that police station. But when he told of the Interior Ministry’s insistence on Martin’s previous visits, they were astonished. Sir Jasper, anxious possibly to see which way the wind would blow, left the initial reaction to Embassy Secretary de Chassiron.
‘Good God man, this is dynamite,’ he said, screwing his silver monocle into his eye and inspecting the notes in front of him. ‘If Martin came here then he didn’t stay in the Embassy, I don’t think he even visited the place. I’ve been here since the year of Our Lord 1899 so I should bloody well know. What on earth do you think he was doing here, Powerscourt? Did your friend in the ministry have any idea what he was up to?’
‘The man from the ministry did not vouchsafe any information on that,’ said Powerscourt carefully. ‘We have to go and see him again early next week for further news. If he was not prepared to tell us all he knew today, I should be surprised if he is going to open his heart to us later on.’
‘We, Powerscourt, we?’ Sir Jasper was fiddling with a paperknife. ‘Have you attained the royal plural or were you accompanied by someone unknown to us?’
‘I went accompanied by my translator, a young man of impeccable family and equally impeccable language skills called Mikhail Shaporov, Sir Jasper. He came to me from the Foreign Office in London.’
‘Of course,’ said Sir Jasper, trying to gloss over the fact that he had been told this information but had forgotten. ‘Please carry on.’
‘I can only repeat the possibilities I discussed with my translator after our meeting, Sir Jasper,’ said Powerscourt, wondering if he too would become pompous after a life in the Foreign Service. ‘Martin could have had a mistress here. He could have fathered children out of wedlock whom he wished to visit. He could have come to pay a blackmailer. Or he could have been an agent of the Okhrana, come for a debrief from his masters and a round of fresh instructions. Or he could have come on holiday. The man might have liked the place. It’s very beautiful. I’m sure we all know people who make a point of going to Venice or Rome or Paris once a year or so. Martin could have been one of those.’
De Chassiron had a look of anticipation on his face as if he expected some dramatic development at any moment. He was not disappointed.
‘Are you telling us, Powerscourt, that you discussed these possibilities with young Shaporov, including the disgraceful accusation that Martin might have been a Russian agent?’ Martin might have been rather a lot of trouble to the Ambassador during his life, but he was not going to have the man’s service traduced once he was dead. ‘I think that was unwise of you, most unwise.’
Powerscourt wondered whether to hit back or not. Probably better not. ‘I am sorry if you felt I was out of order, Sir Jasper. I cannot believe there is anything untoward about a young man recommended by the Foreign Office itself. I should say he is very discreet.’
‘Nevertheless, Powerscourt, I urge discretion on you. At all times. Nobody working in the purlieus of diplomacy and foreign affairs should forget that. I expect you to keep me informed of your activities, and your . . .’ The Ambassador paused for a second or two here as if unsure of the right word. ‘. . . your speculations every evening from now on about this time.’ The Ambassador rose from his seat and headed for the door. ‘Thank you, gentlemen, and a very good evening to you both.’
A battalion of cleaners took up their positions on the ground floor of the Winter Palace at five o’clock on the morning of Thursday January the 6th, Epiphany Day. They brought tall ladders with them as well as the usual complement of mops, pails, dusters, soft cloths, feather dusters on long poles. Today was one of the most important days in the calendar of the great palace. Today the Tsar, members of the court and his family and senior members of the Church in St Petersburg processed down from the first floor of the Winter Palace to a special ceremony by the banks of the Neva called the Blessing of the Waters. And the route down from the first floor came down one of the most spectacular sections of this most spectacular of buildings, the Jordan Staircase.
The twin flights of the marble staircase were overlooked by a selection of caryatids, trompe l’oeil atlantes and a fresco of the gods on Mount Olympus. Ten solid granite columns supported the vaults of the staircase. The walls and balustrade dripped with decoration, with gilding, with mirrors. The ceiling, way above the staircase, showed the gods of Olympus besporting themselves in a heaven scarcely less spectacular than the Winter Palace itself. The route upwards was decorated with monumental statues brought from Europe by Peter the Great: Diana, Power and Might. In the great days of the St Petersburg season, before the Japanese War and the threat of terror put an end to the festivities, the rich and the fashionable of St Petersburg would progress up the Jordan Staircase to dance until dawn in the great state rooms on the first floor.
Today it was the route by which the Emperor led his procession to attend the annual service of the Blessing of the Waters at Epiphany in commemoration of Christ’s Baptism in the river Jordan. It was an uneasy time in the capital. Workers were on strike against their conditions of employment and their numbers increased every day. Police reported the working class districts as being restive and liable to erupt in violence. For the Blessing a temporary pavilion was set up on the ice of the Neva at a point opposite the northern entrance to the palace. The Metropolitan of St Petersburg dipped a cross in a hole made in the ice and referred to it as ‘Jordan’. A small cup was then lowered into the hole and presented to the Emperor who took a sip of the water and handed the cup back to the churchman. Prayers were said for the health of the Tsar and his family, wisely, the more cynical observers thought, in view of the impurities of the river water.
Out on the Neva a detachment of marine police inspected the ice for any signs of suspect activity. The secret police had warned the imperial family that there was a high risk of terrorist activity at this time. The Tsarina and her daughters stayed behind the tall windows of the Winter Palace, staring out at the scene on the blue-green ice. When the proceedings were over there came the sound of a great salute from the guns of the Fortress of Peter and Paul across the river. The more historically minded of the citizens referred to the fortress as the Russian Bastille. Its reputation as a place of incarceration was fearful. Prisoners were said to have died of cold, of hunger, of the terrible beatings they received from the guards. In fact, there were never more than a hundred prisoners in the fortress at any one time and some of them even spent their time reading revolutionary literature without any interference from their jailers.