Derzhenov collected his vodka tumblers and checked that all the paintings were hanging properly. ‘I forgot to tell you, Powerscourt,’ he said as he led the way out of their long corridor, ‘that someone in the Catholic hierarchy must have had a warped sense of humour. Do you know what he’s patron saint of, among other things, our mutual friend St Lawrence here? Guess.’ Powerscourt had no idea. ‘Prepare yourself, my friend,’ said Derzhenov, smiling broadly. ‘After all he went through on his gridiron, St Lawrence is the patron saint of cooks!’
Two days later Natasha Bobrinsky was off duty at the Alexander Palace. She kept telling herself to be calm. I may have this very important piece of news which is a very great secret, she said to herself as the train carried her the fifteen miles or so from Tsarskoe Selo to St Petersburg. In her fashionable bag she held the note from Mikhail inviting her to tea in the Shaporov Palace. Some older people might say I am only eighteen years old, she thought, but I am a woman of the world, a friend and colleague of a great investigator sent from London to look into a mystery, and the lover of one of the most eligible young men in St Petersburg. Natasha was wearing a dark red coat of her mother’s today with a black fur hat. Her friends said it set off her dark hair and her green eyes. It was two years since she had borrowed the coat, and she was not sure she had actually told her mother about the loan, but it served very well.
As she set out from the station to walk to the Shaporov Palace, she was so lost in her own thoughts that she had not time to notice a soldier, who had been sitting in the next carriage staring blankly out of the window. The soldier, wearing the normal uniform and greatcoat, seemed to look into the distance on the steps of the railway station as if he expected a sign or a signal. Then he followed Natasha, about fifty yards behind. She was not to know that all sections of the Russian security services, police, Okhrana, maritime and customs, imperial protection units, all favoured military personnel for the work of following and trailing persons of interest. It was the uniform, they would have said, if pressed. Uniforms are so much more anonymous. So when Natasha went into the main entrance of the Shaporov Palace, the soldier backed away into a doorway some seventy yards distant. He lit a cigarette and checked in his pocket for the half bottle of vodka. He settled down to wait. Most of the people he was asked to follow were middle-aged men. A pretty girl made a delightful exception. The man in the doorway wasn’t a soldier at all. He had been recruited into the ranks of the watchers and proved reliable. Out on the Vyborg side his wife and family were grateful that he was in work and much better paid than he would be in one of those terrible factories.
Natasha tried to look unconcerned as she walked into the little Dutch sitting room. It was called the Dutch sitting room because it had a multitude of Dutch and Flemish paintings crammed on to its walls, Rembrandt portraits, Rubens landscapes, seascapes by Van de Velde. Powerscourt didn’t think General Derzhenov would care much for any of them. Natasha was wearing a long black skirt with an elaborate shirt of white lace fastened to the neck on top. Mikhail was translating for Powerscourt from a navy newspaper that carried details of ship repairs, including Tamara Kerenkova’s husband’s ship, the Tsarevich. Powerscourt rose to shake Natasha by the hand. ‘Unless I’m very much mistaken,’ he said with a smile, ‘you have something important to tell us.’
‘How did you know?’ said Natasha, slightly cross. ‘I thought I was being frightfully grown up and reserved about it.’
‘You were, my dear Natasha,’ said Powerscourt, feeling rather like her great-grandfather, ‘but sometimes people have a sort of glow about them if they’re excited. Why don’t you tell us all about it.’
Natasha folded her hands together in her lap as her governesses had taught her. Although she had rehearsed this little speech about fifty times by now, she suddenly felt it slipping from her memory once the moment of revelation had come.
‘It was the beginning of this week,’ she began, looking alternately at Mikhail and Powerscourt. Mikhail was wondering if they would have a chance to be alone together on this day. Powerscourt was wondering just how much danger the girl was in. ‘All the girls, the Tsar’s daughters, I mean, were out in the park with their sledges by Toboggan Hill. Toboggan Hill was built years ago to provide a good slope to run down in the snow. The girls all love it. The little boy was sick, he was in bed at the house with his mother and three doctors from St Petersburg fussing over him.’
Powerscourt thought it might be advantageous at some point to find out exactly what was wrong with Alexei, the Tsarevich.
‘They’re all very good with their toboggans,’ Natasha went on, ‘though the two elder ones are quite cautious. The third child, Marie, is easily the most gifted at it, but she is also the most reckless. This is what happened.’
Natasha paused briefly to concentrate on her memories. Already the afternoon seemed like a dream from long ago. ‘It was growing dark,’ she began.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said Powerscourt, ‘but were there just you and the girls there at this point, no security police, no soldiers?’
‘There had been a soldier,’ Natasha said, ‘but he seemed to have disappeared. I think he may have gone to relieve himself in the bushes. They’re always doing that. Anyway, it was very nearly dark and I thought there was only enough light for two more descents of Toboggan Hill. Marie got one of her big sisters to push her across the top so she had a good head of speed when she began her descent. Then it all went wrong. Her toboggan hit a stone or something and she was thrown out, hitting her head on a tree trunk hidden in the snow. She was flung off through the air. All the other girls started screaming and wailing. I was just going to try to calm them down when this soldier appeared from a sort of shed by the Krasnoselskie Gates not far away. He seemed to know what he was doing. He told me he knew about first aid and things, and that he would carry Marie back to the Alexander Palace. He picked her up and collected the other girls as well. One thing he did say, was that I had to mind his shed until he came back. I’ve thought since that he must have assumed, as a soldier or guard or whatever he was, that he would get a reward for bringing the girls back.’
Natasha paused and took a drink of tea. Mikhail looked at her admiringly.
‘The shed was very crude, Lord Powerscourt. There was a sort of writing ledge with a big book on it. The Captain of the Guard from the far side of the gates told me I had to write down the name and purpose of visit of anybody coming in. The only person who came in my time was the piano tuner. But here comes the bit that will interest you, Lord Powerscourt. I turned the pages back to the days when Mr Martin was in St Petersburg. On the evening of December the 22nd last year, Mr Martin came to see the Tsar alone. If people are coming in a body, all their names are entered together. Mr Martin was there on his own. He probably saw the Tsar when the rest of the household had retired for the night.’
‘Bloody hell! Well done, Natasha!’ said Mikhail.
‘Indeed,’ Powerscourt chimed in, ‘extremely well done. Natasha, are you sure nobody saw you looking at the back entries?’
‘Well, I can’t be certain. But the captain and his men were all on the other side of the gates. He’s not even meant to come inside the park at all. And the soldier who carried Marie to the palace didn’t come back for a good ten minutes or so.’
‘This is easily the most significant fact we have learnt since the start of the investigation, and I am eternally in your debt,’ said Powerscourt, staring vaguely at some fishing boats in the Scheldt estuary on the wall. ‘Can I ask you another question, or rather another two questions, Natasha?’