‘I don’t suppose you know the time for the meeting?’ asked Powerscourt. If it were late then Johnny Fitzgerald might be able to accompany him.
‘Nine thirty,’ said Derzhenov, beaming with his knowledge and his ability to convey good tidings. He paused for a moment before dropping in, ‘Same time as the unfortunate Mr Martin, oddly enough. And that was on a Wednesday too.’ The Tsar at nine thirty. Death by half past one.
But if he thought Powerscourt might be superstitious, there were no signs of it. ‘There is just one small thing I would ask of you, Lord Powerscourt, one very tiny favour.’
‘Of course, General, ask away.’ Inwardly Powerscourt prayed that the good Lord would forgive him this and all his other sins.
‘If you could see your way, Lord Powerscourt, to telling me the gist of your conversation with the Tsar, insofar as it has to do with Mr Martin, I would be most grateful.’
Powerscourt thought he disliked the Uriah Heep Derzhenov even more than the earlier Attila the Hun Derzhenov. And he wondered, not for the first time, about the strange fascination Martin’s meeting with the Tsar had for his secret service. Certainly Derzhenov seemed to have no idea what was discussed or what was resolved.
‘General Derzhenov,’ Powerscourt went on, relieved to know he had a slightly better hand than he thought he might have had five minutes ago. Derzhenov had to keep him alive until tomorrow evening at least. ‘I am sure you know the responsibilities of a man in my position towards his government, particularly when the death of a senior diplomat is involved. And the discretion involved. But rest assured, if I can see my way clear to helping you in the manner you request, I shall certainly do so.’
And may the Lord have mercy upon my soul, he said to himself.
Derzhenov had one last card to play. ‘It so happens that I shall be in these offices tomorrow night when you return from Tsarskoe Selo. Perhaps you could pop in then, if it was convenient.’
Had Martin, too, popped in at Fontanka Quai on his way back from the Alexander Palace? Had that been the last place he had seen alive? Powerscourt didn’t feel happy.
‘I fear my Ambassador will want to hear my news first, General Derzhenov. But the next morning, have no fear.’
As he made his way out of the building, Derzhenov trotting by his side, Powerscourt thought he smelt something particularly nauseous rising from the basement. It was, he decided, after a couple of discreet sniffs, the smell of roasting flesh. Or, to be more precise, roasting human flesh. St Lawrence was being offered up as a sacrifice to his God once more.
His hair was dirty. His fingernails were black and extended far forwards like the claws of an animal or the talons of a bird. His beard was untrimmed. He smelt of the countryside, of the filth of the peasants, so alien to the salons of the capital. The most remarkable thing about him were his eyes, deep-set, grey, that seemed to disappear into pinpricks of light when he spoke. The self-styled Father Grigory Rasputin was the latest sensation to burst into the jaded world of the seance takers and the psychic-loving circles of St Petersburg. He claimed to possess two of the attributes of the staretz, the traditional holy man said to come from the purer world of Siberia to cleanse the capital of its decadence. Holiness Rasputin certainly thought he possessed. Had he not walked the length of Russia not once but twice, and been on pilgrimage to the Holy Land? And could he not cure people of their illnesses? There were many witnesses to his ability as a healer. People said he could even reverse the flow of blood, to direct it away from a wound, for example.
It was the Montenegrin sisters, Militsa and Anastasia, both Grand Duchesses, who introduced Rasputin into society as they had introduced the Frenchman Philippe Vachot years before. Within a short time women of all classes were flocking to his dirty apartment in search of an audience with him, or more. Rasputin had one unique advantage for a holy man who might be a fraud. He offered a threefold package to his women admirers, in the shape of sin, redemption and salvation. Before they could be saved, Rasputin assured the gullible and the neophytes, they had to commit sin. If they cared to step with him into his bedroom, soon known as the Holy of Holies, he would be happy to provide the sin in his role as another weak and humble servant of God. Then, in his role as Holy Father, he could offer redemption from their transgressions. Finally he would bless them and see them through to the final stage of their journey to salvation. The Montenegrins spread his fame. To the rich women of St Petersburg, they said, he brought the promise of carnal and spiritual satisfaction at virtually the same time. To those nursing the sick and the afflicted, they stressed his healing powers. The messages sent to the Alexander Palace stressed that here was a mighty healer. They reminded Alexandra of the words of Philippe Vachot that he, Vachot, was but the forerunner of one greater and more powerful than he. Rasputin, they implied to the beleaguered party in Tsarskoe Selo, was the Christ to Vachot’s John the Baptist.
Johnny Fitzgerald was very taken with St Petersburg. He liked the great buildings, he like the huge squares, he confessed most of all to having developed an enormous liking for the vodka on the train.
‘There I was, Francis, minding my own business, when these two fellows came in and joined me. They were pretty well gone by this stage but they offered me a choice of three varieties of vodka as if I was their long-lost relative. I’m sure I will be able to find some more of the stuff round the place.’
Powerscourt was delighted to be able to tell him that the Ambassador, of all unlikely people, had a small cellar devoted to vodka and might be persuaded to open up. More seriously, Johnny was able to tell Powerscourt of the latest discoveries in the case of Mrs Martin. None of the police inquiries, he reported, had produced any sightings of strangers going up or down the path to the house. Furthermore, a note had been discovered in the bureau in the study of Colonel Fitzmaurice’s house, apparently in Mrs Martin’s hand, addressed to her in-laws but not posted, saying that she could go on no longer. There was no further news of the mysterious Russian visitor, who seemed to have vanished into thin air. The Colonel, possible paramour of Mrs Martin, had not disappeared at all. He had taken himself to the south coast to recover from the excitement and wrestle with the treacherous winds and very fast greens of Rye Golf Course. On a normal day Powerscourt would have been asking for more details, checking on the handwriting, inquiring what the police view was and generally making himself a nuisance. But today the affairs of the late Mrs Martin and the little tower at the top of Tibenham Grange seemed very far away. Today was a day for her husband, the late Mr Martin. Was not he, Powerscourt, going to have an evening audience with the Tsar on exactly the same day of the week as Martin? Might today not be the day when he would find Martin’s killer? Or perhaps, he wondered, it would be the day when Martin’s killers killed him too. The Ambassador had only ever had two private audiences with Nicholas the Second since he took up his post and he regarded it as slightly unfair that a mere upstart, a hired hand rather than a member of the proper Foreign Office, should enter the imperial presence after a couple of weeks or so.
A party of six set off to escort Powerscourt to his audience. He was accompanied by Johnny Fitzgerald, Mikhail as interpreter, secretly hoping for a quick glimpse of Natasha, the coachman, a sergeant from the Black Watch and Ricky Crabbe the telegraph king who had expressed such pathetic longing to see the Tsar’s palace that even the Ambassador could not resist him. Powerscourt had a brief conversation with de Chassiron about the interview before he left.
‘House rules?’ de Chassiron had said, placing his beautifully polished shoes on his coffee table and fiddling absentmindedly with his monocle. ‘Not much different from school, really, going to see the headmaster. Sorry, Powerscourt, that wasn’t helpful. Just like going to see the King really, big handshake, bow, don’t interrupt him, however stupid the things he says, all these damned monarchs since Louis the Sixteenth have thought they were cleverer than they actually were. If you’re lucky there won’t be a flunkey there during the interview, though they may be listening at the doors. Flunkeys in my experience get very irritated if they think their master is carrying out business behind their back. It’s almost a criminal offence.’