‘And the other thing, Charlie,’ said Powerscourt, keen to bring as much excitement as possible to the young of Tonbridge, ‘is that sending this may have been one of the last things he did alive.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Charlie. ‘Did the Cossack monsters charge in and drag him off the telegraph machine to his death?’
‘Not quite,’ said Powerscourt, ‘but he could have been killed very soon afterwards, outside in the snow.’
‘I’ll never forget this morning, Lord Powerscourt,’ said Charlie. ‘For me, it’s been so exciting. I know I read too many of those detective stories, but this has been like a look through the door of one of them. I’m ever so grateful, my lord.’
‘I tell you what I’ll do, Charlie,’ said Powerscourt with a smile. ‘When I know what happened, what really happened, I’ll let you know. I tell you what, even better, I’ll send you a telegram.’
Forty minutes later Powerscourt was climbing up the little stone staircase that led to the top of the tower at Tibenham Grange. Of Inspector Clayton, or Constable Watchett, keeping the property free of visiting architects, there was, at present, no sign. As he stood on the top once more Powerscourt gazed intently at every single stone in the surface, in case they had all overlooked a vital clue. He stared into the woods, imagining a fifty-five year old man, bent on revenge for what had happened all those years before, inching his way towards the Grange. He saw him helping himself to a weapon in the kitchen and presenting himself in front of an unsuspecting Mrs Martin in her favourite bay in the library. Then he saw her marched at knifepoint through the house she loved towards the tower from where she would see it no more. He saw the man creeping back through the woods towards a train to London, secure in the knowledge that this time his claim on the estate would surely win the day. He was woken from his reverie by a loud shout from Inspector Clayton who had appeared suddenly on the lawn.
‘Thank God you’ve come,’ yelled the Inspector. ‘See you in the library.’
There a panting Inspector delivered his message. ‘You’re to return to London, my lord, as soon as possible, your wife says. There’s news from Russia. Lady Powerscourt didn’t say what it was, but it surely concerns the investigation.’
Before he set off for the station Powerscourt told Clayton all he had discovered about the earlier court case from Theodore Ragg, and he showed him the telegram from St Petersburg.
‘I wish that message had been more help to you, my lord,’ said the Inspector. ‘Do you think it likely that this old family feud has come to the surface?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Powerscourt, ‘but I’m sure we have to look at it closely. If we can eliminate the other Martin, as it were, we’re still left with the original three contenders.’
‘Three?’ said Inspector Clayton.
‘Three,’ Powerscourt replied firmly. ‘Did she fall, did she jump, or was she pushed? Something tells me we may never find the answer.’
Powerscourt was lucky enough to secure a whole compartment to himself on the way back to London. He sat by the window and stared out over Kent. He hoped, he prayed, that the news from St Petersburg was not what he feared it might be. He wondered if he should take Johnny Fitzgerald back with him or leave him working on the death of Mrs Martin. He wondered how upset Lady Lucy would be if he disappeared into dangerous territory once again. He wondered, less seriously, if he should buy more dolls and soldiers for the twins.
The message was brief, sent by Mikhail Shaporov via his father’s private system to William Burke. ‘Natasha due to meet me at four o’clock yesterday,’ it said, ‘but she did not appear. Nor has she come today. What should I do? Mikhail.’
Powerscourt swore violently to himself. It was what he had feared, that something would happen to the girl. Had she fallen into the hands of the Okhrana? Would she live to survive her incarceration? Was Natasha Bobrinsky, young, beautiful and clever, about to meet the fate of Roderick Martin on the ice of the Nevskii Prospekt?
12
Powerscourt had composed his reply on the train. ‘Suggest no, repeat no activity for the present. There may be some domestic crisis at the Alexander Palace. Leaving London for return to St Petersburg tomorrow. Regards. Powerscourt.’ He sent it off to William Burke’s office in the City and began pacing up and down his drawing room. He was debating with himself the sending of a rather different cable to the Russian capital, one that would precipitate a crisis in his investigation. It might also, he reflected grimly, kill him. He thought of Lady Lucy and knew that, for once, he could not ask for her advice. The one person he could ask, Johnny Fitzgerald, was not in London, although he might be later. He consulted a train timetable as a diversion and discovered that if he left London that evening he would have time for a meeting in Paris in the morning and still connect with the service to St Petersburg. Then he found his mind made up and he set off for the Foreign Office. Sir Jeremiah Reddaway was able to squeeze him in between a meeting of the Ottoman Empire working party and afternoon tea with the Icelandic Ambassador.
‘God bless my soul,’ was the mandarin’s first reaction to Powerscourt’s request. ‘I’ve never heard of such a thing before. It’s quite unconstitutional.’ Powerscourt refrained from pointing out that as there was no written constitution it was difficult to break it. ‘Are you sure about this, man? What do you think you will gain from it?’
‘I need to test a theory about Martin’s death, Sir Jeremiah.’
‘But what’s wrong with us here at the Foreign Office, Powerscourt? What’s wrong with me, for God’s sake?’
Once again Powerscourt held his tongue. ‘I want to speak to the best informed person I can find about Russia and the court of the Tsar. Our Embassy in St Petersburg’ – he did not name de Chassiron – ‘believe that the best informed person is the head of the French secret service. The French Ambassador in St Petersburg is well informed, but M. Olivier Brouzet is the man I wish to see. With your approval, of course, Sir Jeremiah. We are allies with France now, after all, are we not?’
The diplomat snorted. Rosebery had observed long ago that concluding an alliance of friendship with another country virtually guaranteed that relations would begin to deteriorate immediately.
‘All right, man. I’ll sanction it,’ said Sir Jeremiah with bad grace. ‘If I didn’t, I presume you’d just go ahead and make the appointment anyway.’
Powerscourt made no comment. Ten minutes later he made his way to the telegraph office and dictated a message to go at once to de Chassiron in the Petersburg Embassy.
‘Returning St Petersburg tomorrow. Believe I should be in a position to know what happened to Martin in a week or so. Please request audience with Tsar for me on Martin related business. Kind regards. Powerscourt.’
The real recipient was not de Chassiron. It was the Okhrana. Powerscourt hoped Mikhail Shaporov’s information about reading the messages was correct. He felt elated suddenly, as a man might who is gambling with his life. The message might smoke Derzhenov out and force him to reveal what he knew about the death of Martin. And if he were granted an interview with the Tsar, it might also produce the same result as before. Powerscourt could join Martin in a cold and icy grave.