She looked up at Powerscourt, her eyes still red, her cheeks still stained with tears.
‘If there’s anything else you remember later on,’ said Powerscourt, rising to his feet, ‘you have Mikhail’s address in St Petersburg. And thank you so very much for being so helpful. ’
‘Not at all,’ she said, ‘thank you so much for coming. I hope I was of some use.’
Potemkin raced their carriage down the drive until it turned the corner by the side of the cherry orchard. Powerscourt was wondering what other high diplomatic secrets might have been divulged between Roderick Martin and his mistress in between the sheets. Another thought struck him when Volkhov and the Kerenkov house and the borzoi Potemkin were far behind. He remembered the question he should have asked. Suppose there was an estrangement between Martin and Tamara, a falling out, maybe an end of the affair. She suspects him of being involved with another woman. That could be why he has not told her of his latest visit. And when she hears of his impending return to St Petersburg, does she borrow her husband’s revolver and return to the city in a fit of Russian passion to shoot the man who had been her lover?
As they headed back towards St Petersburg, out at the Alexander Palace at Tsarskoe Selo Natasha Bobrinsky was pacing up and down her room in stockinged feet, desperate for the time to pass. It was, she had decided, much much worse than waiting for a lover. There were still days to go before she could be released from her palace prison to tell Mikhail and Powerscourt what she knew, that shortly before his death Mr Roderick Martin of His Majesty’s Foreign Office had been received, alone, in his study quite late at night, by Nicholas the Second, Tsar of All the Russias.
9
The note was waiting for Powerscourt at the Embassy a couple of days after his return from Tamara Kerenkova. ‘Please join me for a small private tour of the Hermitage this evening. My man will call for you at six thirty. Derzhenov.’ Mikhail Shaporov was checking various coastguard offices in case they had custody of the body of Roderick Martin. Natasha Bobrinsky was still locked up at the Alexander Palace. Rupert de Chassiron, reading volumes of cables that had come in overnight, was sceptical about his cultural expedition.
‘It seems fairly absurd, Powerscourt, with the whole country in ferment, possibly on the edge of revolution, that you and the head of the secret police should be gallivanting round the galleries of the Hermitage late at night when there’s nobody about. Do you suppose he’s got a stash of pornography hidden away up there?’
‘God knows,’ said Powerscourt wearily. ‘Tell me something, de Chassiron. Who would you say has the best intelligence system here in St Petersburg?’
De Chassiron’s customary look of weary boredom left him for a few moments.
‘Do you mean best intelligence system about the foreigners or about the natives?’
‘Both,’ said Powerscourt.
‘Well . . .’ De Chassiron bent down to retrieve a recalcitrant cable that had fallen on to his carpet. ‘The best intelligence system about the foreigners is run by the colleagues of General Derzhenov whom you are going to see this evening. As for the best intelligence about the natives, the Americans are too crude in their approach, too liable to barge in and ask people to tell them what is going on, that sort of thing. We British are more interested in intelligence from Berlin than we are from here, more prepared to spend money there. Cousin Willy more interesting than Cousin Nicky perhaps. My own knowledge is based on the local papers, a lot of reading, a number of local contacts, and, frankly, diplomatic gossip. I could talk for hours about the Russians but my knowledge is pretty thin. The best informed people are the ones with the longest cultural links with this country, the ones who provide a home from home for the local aristocracy in Paris or Biarritz or on the Riviera. The French, I should say, are the best informed. And there is one further reason why they need to know precisely what is going on.’
‘Which is?’ said Powerscourt.
‘Money,’ said de Chassiron. ‘French loans have paid for the modernization of Russia – well, not entirely, but without them it wouldn’t have happened on this scale. The Russians need another loan fairly soon. If they don’t get it, there are fears that the economy could collapse. If the revolutionaries don’t get them,’ de Chassiron visibly cheered up at this point, ‘then the bankers will. That is why the French are the best informed.’
‘And I presume,’ said Powerscourt, feeling his way through, ‘that the centre of that intelligence, the brains and the knowledge, would be in Paris rather than St Petersburg. It would be too dangerous to concentrate the knowledge here. Am I right?’
‘You are,’ said de Chassiron. ‘And why, pray, this interest in the best intelligence about Russia?’
‘My friend,’ Powerscourt laughed, ‘I cannot be expected to amass a detailed knowledge of this country in a week or ten days. I may need to tap into somebody else’s brains.’
‘I don’t think our lords and masters at the Foreign Office will be very pleased to hear that their star investigator is crawling off to the French secret service. His Nibs will have a fit. Maybe worse.’ De Chassiron grinned like a schoolboy at the thought of his Ambassador losing his temper.
‘I’ve no intention of consulting His Nibs, de Chassiron. You and I have never had this conversation. A man could stop off in Paris on his way back to London after all. You see, I’m beginning to have a theory about why Martin was killed. It’s very flimsy, on the surface very unlikely. I should just like to bounce it off somebody and I don’t want to burden you with it right now in case it’s too preposterous.’
‘It’s your investigation,’ said de Chassiron cheerfully. ‘I’m happy to help any time I can.’
A large body of soldiers were marching across Palace Square as Powerscourt made his way towards the Hermitage. He looked forward to going inside, even in such nauseating company, for he had long been keen to see the finest art gallery in Europe. A footman in blue and scarlet took his coat and gloves as he entered. A tall, rather sombre waiter offered him a glass of clear liquid from a silver tray. Maybe it was going to be a combination of cocktail party and art viewing, Powerscourt said to himself.
‘My dear Lord Powerscourt! Please do me the honour of taking a glass of this special vodka! It is of exceptional purity. Now then, do bring your glass with you. Have you been to the Hermitage before? No? Well, I’m afraid most of it is closed but I have my own humble section to show you.’
Derzhenov, his bald head shining like a small light, led the way up an enormous marble staircase, decorated with huge pillars and monumental mirrors.
‘We must not forget our business, Lord Powerscourt, about that poor Mr Martin. Such a shame!’ With that Derzhenov opened an enormous door and led them through a series of interconnected rooms full of Italian masterpieces of the Renaissance. They were hard to see in the gloom, and Derzhenov had now got so far ahead that only the odd word drifted back across the marble floors. ‘Leonardo room . . . such a treasure trove, Raphael room . . . what a privilege . . . Raphael’s Madonna Conestibale . . . what a painting.’ Powerscourt suspected that the man knew very little about art but was perfectly capable of enthusiasm in spite of ignorance about the Old Masters. Such characteristics, after all, are not confined to St Petersburg.