'You know it, don't you?' I said.
Alexei rose. 'I'll bring you the paper, Commissar,' he said politely. With the paper safe in my pocket I next sought out Kobylinsky and took up with him the matter of the steamer Rus and her contents. Discussion produced the stratagem that I, as emissary of the Central Executive, issue papers to the vessel's master and to the Tobolsk manager of the shipping company commandeering the boat, and then handing control of it to Kobylinsky in the name of the Central Executive committee. He was greatly concerned about the position of himself and his men. Kobylinsky, after all, had no standing at all. In a country increasingly controlled by the Bolsheviks, he was an officer of a former regime and one, furthermore, tainted by personal contact and service with his old master, Nicholas. He could never live it down; he knew that and was accordingly hoping for the advance of the White armies to Tobolsk so he could join them. Kobylinsky's life was difficult. Elements of the guards from both Omsk and Ekaterinburg still remained, and though the good colonel had nominal command, it was in truth beyond his exercising. All in all, I determined, it was better that I leave at once. I went on horseback. The Rus had to stay where she was, and with the spring thaw now powerfully under way, a sled would prove impossible, for its runners would cut through the wet snow and scrape the ground beneath.
So I made the decision to ride, and a foolish choice it was - one that was to cost me dear. But as I rode those first two or three miles, the document given so trustingly to me by young Alexei, and so much wanted by Lenin and by Zaharoff and apparently by half the world, was burning a hole in my pocket. From the beginning, from the very first awed conversation in Lenin's room in Moscow, I had had a notion of what it must contain. Now I found I had to know. And so, in the last of the light, I reined in my horse, took the envelope from my pocket, and broke the seal.
I checked first that it had indeed been signed - and there was his signature: not a simple Nicholas as once it must have been, but 'Nicholas Romanov'. I saw, too, that it had been witnessed by Kobylinsky. Surprising, I thought, that it had been witnessed at all; but then I realized the document was composed in English, a language Kobylinsky did not speak.
It was only then that I read it through. My eyes followed the typewritten lines with growing incredulity, for though something of what I expected was there in the dry, legal language, there was far more. So much more! At stake with this document was so much that my senses reeled. Then the questions flooded in. Who knew? Did King George the Fifth? I couldn't believe that] Lenin then? No, the deceit encompassed him too.
But two men had known. Nicholas Romanov, ex-Tsar of all the Russias - he knew. And so did Basil Zaharoff, whom many held to be the most sinister figure in Europe. And now there was a third, for Henry George Dikeston knew . . . Progress in snow depends upon the condition of the snow, and a horse is as dependent upon it as is a man. Set the animal upon firm, hard-packed snow and a horse is happy and moves well. Set him upon soft slush, which is half-water, half-ice, and all treachery and discomfort, and the horse prefers to pick his way.
It was true of all those I rode and I exchanged horses several times. They would trot, certainly; flog them hard and they'd work up a gallop? but only for a few moments. That ride back to Tyumen began in difficulty and rapidly became more and more unpleasant. On a succession of horses I splashed and slithered my way southward, part of the time through falling sleet. I grew so wet and cold that had I been asked I would have said it was quite impossible to be wetter and colder. But that was wrong. I had more than a hundred miles still to go when the horse fell and threw me and I landed in a pothole in the road, a hole filled with earthy black water, and though neither the horse nor I was hurt, by the time I had remounted and ridden a few minutes in that bitter wind, I was chilled to the marrow. J should have stopped. In a village I could have found fire and food and warmth. But I was alone, and the solitary night-time traveller in remote country had better beware, whether he is in Siberia or Somerset, especially when, as was the case with me, there was wealth in his pockets. So I pressed on. My teeth chattered and my feet were blocks of ice; gradually the cold crept through my body, so{ hat I shivered uncontrollably. Come morning, I was aware that I was already quite unwell, for alternately I shook and was feverish, and felt increasingly foul. But I came into Tyumen still in place upon my horse's back, just in time to leap direct aboard a train bound west for Ekaterinburg. That journey, also, was a nightmare. The remnants of my money bought me a place only in a third-class carriage which was impossibly crowded, and not only with people, though there were three for every two places. In addition there was baggage and several animals, including a goat whose stench, I swear, was no greater than that of several of the peasants near me. Probably I stank also; certainly I steamed and in the press of humanity there were many like me: soaked and steaming. I felt increasing hunger and thirst, but there was no means of satisfying either. My health deteriorated by the hour: I was hot, I was shaking; the fever was rising, I sweated like a hog. The last three hours of the journey were spent huddled on the floor, sleeping perhaps, though it was more of a faint.
As the voice yelled 'Ekaterinburg,' I dragged myself to my feet. It was just after eight o'clock by the station clock as I staggered out of the stinking, steamy heat of the railway carriage into the cold night air of the city.
In an hour I must meet Ruzsky.
I would have waited another day to see him, and should have done so. Food and a bed and healthy warmth were what was required, but I had no money for lodging, the last having been spent on the train journey. Only a few kopeks remained and with those I bought tea at the station. It refreshed me a little, as tea does, but I was in a poor way as I set off from the station towards the Palais Royal Hotel. Already I knew, from talk heard in the station, that the Imperial Family remained imprisoned in the Ipatiev House. Ruzsky was late. It is unimportant, I suppose, but it mattered that night to me, feeling as I did, and leaning against the rear wall of the hotel, miserable as a sick dog. But it is difficult to blame him. In the days since I had left Ekaterinburg he must have kept our rendezvous faithfully, and was keeping it still. At the sight of me he said wrathfully, 'Where in hell have you been?'
I began to tell him and my teeth were chattering. He pulled a bottle from his pocket. 'Plum brandy. Drink it.'
Then he listened as I told him about the steamer and Tobolsk. The story took little time in the telling, so that soon I could ask him: 'What news of the Romanovs here?'
That, too, was soon told. There were no events to record; the Imperial Family remained under guard, that was all. But one change had occurred: and it struck me at once as deeply sinister. Ipatiev's house now had a new name, by proclamation. It must now be known as The House of Special Purpose!
'But what does it mean?' I demanded. 'What special purpose?'t Ruzsky gave a shrug. 'Who knows? A name means nothing. Drink some more.'
The political state of affairs was unchanged, he told me then: the Urals Soviet had been meeting almost daily, and always there was discussion of what to do with the Romanovs. 'General opinion is for execution of Nicholas.'
'He alone?' I asked.
'That depends who speaks. Beloborodov, the chairman, would kill the Tsar and spare the rest, or so I think. Goloshchokin's for butchering them all. With the Whites too near for comfort he thinks their presence is a danger to the city.'
'Is there no opposition?' I demanded. 'Surely there must be - when there is talk of killing children?'