‘I can’t believe people still have the energy to entertain,’ said Militza, ‘with all that is going on around us. And fear standing at every street corner.’
‘Indeed, Madame, it’s not quite the city it was, is it?’ he replied, with another nod.
‘No,’ agreed Militza a little wistfully.
He looked from one Grand Duchess to the other. There was a pause and they all three looked at each other. ‘Well, good evening to you both.’ He nodded. ‘I am on my way home.’
And that could have been that. A chance meeting in the Yacht Club, a brief conversation, a quick crossing of paths. And nothing. They could have all disappeared into that grey night without consequence. Except Militza said something. Quite why, neither of the sisters ever knew. The Fates? The Gods? Spirit? Perhaps it was all preordained… She was compelled to speak, she said later, didn’t have time to think. The request just came flying out.
‘Do join us, Lieutenant Rayner,’ she said. ‘It is awfully cold out there and the brandy here is delicious. I demand you stay and have one before you leave!’
Except Lieutenant Rayner did not have one brandy, he had three. And during the process of his drinking he recounted Prince Felix Yusupov’s last few meetings with Rasputin.
‘He’s been “curing” him,’ said Rayner, his eyes shining over the rim of his crystal glass.
‘I thought Felix couldn’t stand Grisha?’ said Militza.
‘That much is true. He says Rasputin’s “eyes are like two phosphorescent beams of light, melting into a great luminous ring”.’ Rayner smirked. ‘“They drew him nearer and then further away, he was powerless, powerless, in the full beam of his hypnotism”!’ Rayner laughed loudly and the sisters smiled briefly; they liked Lieutenant Rayner. ‘He is with him at the palace tonight!’
‘The palace?’ asked Militza.
‘On Moika,’ nodded Rayner, taking another sip of his drink. ‘Rasputin’s gone to meet Irina – apparently he’s madly in love with her! As is everyone in Russia, of course. What’s not to be in love with?’
‘Irina Alexandrovna Yusupova?’ asked Stana.
‘Yes, that’s right. He’s desperate to meet her apparently! Weak at the knees! The old dog!’ He laughed again.
‘But that’s impossible,’ said Stana.
‘Why?’ Rayner’s smile disappeared.
‘She is in the Crimea,’ said Stana. ‘I dined with her just before I left. And I arrived only today, so she can’t possibly be here.’
‘Oh,’ he said and then scratched his head.
‘Well, that is odd,’ said Militza. ‘Why would Prince Yusupov lie?’
Oswald Rayner of the British Secret Intelligence Service was remarkably garrulous for a man whose job it was to keep secrets. Maybe, as a British spy, he didn’t take the plot seriously. The idea that the effete, spoilt prince he’d met at Oxford, the man he’d befriended at the Bullingdon Club, the man he’d spent wild nights with, drinking and dancing, watching him dress up in women’s clothes and flirt outrageously with fellow students, the idea that he – a ponced-up peacock of a prince – could possibly be the perfect candidate to pull off the political assassination of the century, was clearly some sort of joke to him. And the method? Some poisoned cakes laced with cyanide. Cakes? Only children dreamt of killing people with poisoned cakes! It was the stuff of fairy tales.
‘They’re all there,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘About now!’ He drained his glass. ‘Him and a few cronies, hoping the Beast is going to eat a few madeleines and keel over!’
‘Well, that won’t work,’ said Militza, picking up the decanter and replenishing Rayner’s glass.
‘I know, I’ve told him!’ agreed Rayner, taking another rather large slug of brandy. ‘If you want to kill someone, you really have to shoot them.’ He tapped his top left-hand pocket. ‘You need a bloody gun!’
‘No, I don’t mean that,’ said Militza. ‘Rasputin is immune to cyanide. He’s been eating apple pips, apricot and peach kernels for years.’
‘Mithridatization,’ said Rayner, sitting up straight in his chair, suddenly very serious indeed. ‘Well…’ He shrugged and scratched his head again.
Militza looked at her sister. Their time was now, right now, and they both knew it.
‘Your gun?’ asked Militza quite simply. ‘Is it loaded?’ Rayner nodded. ‘Then come with me,’ she said, getting slowly up from the table. ‘Don’t hurry,’ she said with a wide, generous smile, beaming around the room. ‘There is no need for any fuss.’
Militza led the others straight into the kitchen. If this were to be their one and only opportunity, then there could be no margin for error. It was difficult to explain to the kitchen staff that they wanted herbs. Lots of herbs. Smoking a pistol with a bunch of sage was not a usual request. But the commis chef was Italian and viewed such bizarre Russian behaviour as none of his business. Besides, the country was at war, anything was possible. So Rayner looked on as the two sisters burnt the sage over the stove and let the smoke curl around the muzzle of his pistol. They began to chant and mumble and mutter strange words in a language he did not understand; all he knew was something momentous was about to happen and that he, somehow, was going to have a part in it.
They walked out of the club and straight into Militza’s waiting car.
It was two in the morning.
‘The Yusupov Palace,’ said Militza to her driver.
‘Really?’ asked Rayner, sounding more than a little anxious.
‘Absolutely,’ came her firm reply.
They all sat in silence as they drove through the side streets of Petrograd. The moon and stars were hidden, the streets empty save for a few drunks weaving their way home. It was a still night, not a breath of wind to stir the snow-covered pavements.
It was the perfect night for a murder.
‘What were you doing back there?’ asked Rayner eventually as they edged towards Moika. ‘In the kitchen?’
‘A smoked barrel never misses,’ said Militza frankly, as she stared out of the window. ‘Here!’ she said to the driver. ‘We don’t need to park outside the palace, it is a good night for a walk.’
‘A walk, Your Imperial Highness?’ asked the driver.
‘Yes,’ she stated flatly. ‘It’s an excellent night for a walk.’
The three of them headed along the two blocks to the palace at 94 Moika. It was hard going in the thick snow, in silk shoes with leather soles, but neither of the sisters noticed. They were calm, focussed on what they were about to do. They slowed just as they reached the railings to the courtyard at 92 Moika, adjacent to the Yusupov palace. They glanced up and down the road and across the canal. There was no one on the street. Militza nodded at Rayner and he slowly nodded back at her, tapping his top pocket where he’d placed his gun.
Suddenly they heard a door bang and spun around. Through the darkness they could see a figure staggering away from the side of the palace and running towards them. It lurched left and right, its knees buckling, falling and scrambling up again. It was roaring and yelling, screaming in pain like a mortally wounded animal. Suddenly another two figures burst out of the small door at the side of the palace in hot pursuit. One fired a gun and a bullet whistled through the air, landing in a puff of snow. The next clipped the arm of the first figure, who screamed again in agony. Bang! came another. And finally the first figure skidded and slipped, only to fall right in front of them.
Rasputin lay flat on his back in the snow, blood seeping from his arm, blood seeping from his chest. His eyes were wide open.
‘Mamma,’ he whispered as he caught sight of Militza staring down at him. ‘You came.’
‘Shoot him!’ she said quite calmly to Rayner.
‘Me?’