Death on the Nevskii Prospekt (18 page)

‘Natasha! How nice to see you!’ Mikhail Shaporov seemed to cover the hundred yards or so between his chair and the lift in a couple of seconds, switching effortlessly into their
common language of French. ‘Have you just arrived in St Petersburg? How are they all out there in Tsarskoe Selo?’

Natasha strode imperiously across the drawing room and sat down on a French chaise longue next to Powerscourt while Mikhail made the introductions. Powerscourt and Natasha had not met before.
‘Never mind all of them out at Tsarskoe Selo,’ she said briskly, beginning to peel off her black leather gloves, ‘what has been happening here in St Petersburg? My family are away
in the south of France, as you know, so I rely on you to keep me informed, Mikhail. What took place here on Sunday? We heard rumours of marches and hundreds of protesters shot dead by the
Tsar’s troops. That can’t be true, can it?’

Mikhail Shaporov sat down beside her. The pair of them, Powerscourt thought, looked absurdly young, absurdly innocent, absurdly ill equipped maybe to cope with what was happening in their
country.

‘We watched it all from the roof of the Stroganov Palace,’ he began, ‘Lord Powerscourt and I and a colleague of his from the British Embassy.’ He told her of the marching
columns, of the singing of the National Anthem, of the hymns rising up into the sunshine, of the children on their parents’ shoulders, of the portraits of the Tsar and the icons of the
Virgin. He told her how all the different columns began to concentrate on Palace Square where they hoped to hand in their petition with its absurdly optimistic demands for the vote, for free
elections, for a constituent assembly, for laws to regulate the wretched lives of the wretched workers in their wretched factories. He told her of the charges of the cavalry, sabres slashing into
innocent faces, lances cutting into innocent backs. He told her of the round after round of infantry fire, smashing into the bodies of the marchers, reducing them to random chunks of flesh bleeding
to death on the streets. He told her of the red blood staining the ice and the shattered remains of one hundred and fifty thousand protesters whose journey had started with hope and ended in total
despair. He told her of the pathetic attempts the three of them had made to help the wounded as they lay dying on the Nevskii Prospekt. He told her of the aftermath, the corpses waiting for the
carts to take them away, the pathetic children’s toys broken on the ground from the gunfire, the waves of hatred that had flown across the city.

‘How many?’ said Natasha at the end, her face the colour of ivory.

‘Nobody knows,’ said Mikhail gravely. ‘The foreign newspapers have talked of thousands and thousands of martyrs. The authorities here, the police and so on, talk of a couple of
dozen terrorists accidentally killed in a revolutionary incident. Lord Powerscourt, who has seen a number of battles in his time, thinks we shall never know the true figure, but it is probably a
thousand or so. And, of course, hundreds and hundreds more wounded. Russia will never forget Bloody Sunday.’

They all fell silent. The only sound in the room was the ticking of a Sèvres clock at the far end of the room. Mikhail took the girl’s hands and held them in his own. Powerscourt
wondered what the Russian for ‘no longer wanted’ might be.

‘I know what I meant to tell you, Lord Powerscourt,’ said Natasha suddenly. ‘It’s only just come back to me. You remember Mikhail asked me to listen out for any mention
of the name Martin out there in Tsarskoe Selo? Well, I have heard two mentions!’

The girl paused as if she expected instant congratulations. ‘How very interesting,’ was the best Powerscourt could manage. Inwardly he cursed himself for his English reserve in the
face of all this Russian intensity. ‘How did you come to hear it? Who was speaking?’

‘The first time was the day before the march,’ Natasha said. ‘That must have been on the Saturday evening. I was passing the door of the Empress’s mauve drawing room and
I heard her talking to some official or other.’

‘How did you know it was an official, Natasha?’ said Mikhail.

‘Well, I couldn’t work out how I knew it at first. Then I realized the man kept referring to her as Your Majesty.’

‘And the second?’ Powerscourt this time.

‘The second time was Sunday night, quite late. We’d heard the latest episode of
The Hound of the Baskervilles
.’ She stared at the looks of incomprehension of the two
men. ‘Oh yes,’ she said bitterly, ‘in the Tsar’s Alexander Palace in Tsarskoe Selo it is more important that the inmates hear the latest fictional exploits of Mr Sherlock
Holmes than they should hear the facts about what is going on in their own city.’ Natasha paused and concentrated hard, trying to ensure that her memory was perfect. ‘I’d been
talking to the Empress Alexandra and I’d left my bag in the hall,’ she went on, staring intently at Mikhail as if he could help her remember, ‘so I crept downstairs to collect it.
Nicholas and Alexandra were having the most frightful row in the drawing room. I didn’t dare stop because I could hear a sentry coming along the corridor. She was shouting at him about
following the path of his father and his grandfather, about how autocracy was the only path the Russians would ever understand and the path to Western fantasies of democracy and constitutional
government was bound to be a total disaster.’

Natasha stopped, listening perhaps to the voices replaying in her head. ‘And what did he say?’ whispered Powerscourt after a moment or two of silence.

Natasha drew herself up to her full height. ‘He said, I think this is right, how many dead did she want lying on the streets, how many members of their own family had to be buried in St
Petersburg, before she followed the path of the Englishman Martin.’

Outside the windows there came the noise of an enormous steam whistle, like some mighty vessel in pain. Powerscourt stared hard at Natasha. He had no idea what the words meant
and, for the present, no idea how he was going to find the answer. Over fifteen years as an investigator, however, had taught him that often you just have to wait for the answers to appear.

‘Natasha, Mikhail,’ he said cheerfully, trying to convey a confidence about affairs he did not actually feel, ‘I would very much like to talk some more about Mr Martin, the
late Mr Martin. But it must wait for an hour or so, if you will forgive me. I must send some messages to London. I should have done so before.’

Mikhail stared at Powerscourt. ‘Forgive me, my lord, I –’ He broke off suddenly and looked desperately at Natasha, wringing his hands together.

‘Is there something you would rather I did not hear, Mikhail?’ said the girl. ‘Some male secret that we women are not allowed to listen to?’

Her tone was jocular but Powerscourt thought she was on the verge of anger. Mikhail seized the nettle.

‘I should have told you this before, Lord Powerscourt. I forgot. If you want to send a confidential message to London, I would not recommend the orthodox routes. The Okhrana are now able
to decode the telegraph traffic from all the major embassies in St Petersburg. They circulate the key points round the people guarding the Tsar and the ministries if they think it’s relevant.
That is rather a great secret, and I would ask you not to tell your Embassy just for the moment.’

‘Traffic one way? Traffic coming in? Or traffic going out as well?’

‘Traffic going in both directions, my lord. They employed some eccentric mathematics professors and a couple of grand master chess players to work out how to do it.’

‘May I ask how you know this, Mikhail? If you are able to say, that is.’ Powerscourt managed not to use words like ‘one so young’.

‘My father told me,’ said the young man.

Mikhail’s father was beginning to assume legendary proportions in Powerscourt’s mind, somewhere between a Russian J.P. Morgan and George Bernard Shaw.

‘Does he have a couple of tame maths professors and the odd grand master to hand as well, so to speak, Mikhail?’

‘I’m sure he’s got lots of those,’ said the young man loyally.

Powerscourt smiled. Mikhail thought he was enjoying some scheme forming in his brain.

‘So,’ said Powerscourt, ‘if I could send a message to people in London by a different route, warning them that the orthodox channels were being broken, we could then send a
whole lot of false or inaccurate information to the Okhrana and its customers, secure in the knowledge that they would receive it without knowing that we knew what was in it and that it might be
false.’

‘Exactly so,’ said Mikhail, gazing hungrily at Natasha and wondering if there might be a time for love as well as a time for secrets.

‘And how, Mikhail, do I send a secure message to London from here?’

‘Well, my lord, if you give it to me I shall send it by one of my father’s messengers or by his telegraph machinery. It’s perfectly safe. There is a messenger leaving at half
past seven tonight, as a matter of fact, and the telegraph is working all the time.’

‘That would be splendid,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I shall go and attend to my business at the Embassy. Let me make a suggestion. I am sure you two have important matters to discuss.
How would it be if I returned,’ he paused briefly to look at his watch, ‘in a couple of hours’ time, at half past six? We could discuss Mr Martin briefly and then I should be
delighted to take you both out to dinner.’

‘Thank you very much indeed,’ Natasha and Mikhail said in unison and laughed happily at the accident of their response.

‘Take care, Lord Powerscourt,’ Natasha called after him, ‘we don’t want you ending up like poor Mr Martin.’

Mikhail waited until Powerscourt had gone and then he smiled at Natasha.

‘Do you know what this room was designed for, Natasha?’ he asked.

The girl’s eyes flashed back at him, bright with anticipation. ‘For dancing, of course, silly. Do you think earlier Bobrinskys danced across these boards with earlier
Shaporovs?’

She pulled him to his feet and they waltzed at ever growing speed across the floor. Natasha thought how nice it was to be held in these arms and how much more pleasant life would be in this
palace than in her place of exile at Tsarskoe Selo. She could hear the music spinning in her head. She wanted it to go on for ever. Mikhail held her ever tighter, one arm pressing firmly in the
small of her back. They stopped in front of a huge French tapestry of Bacchus and Ariadne. Mikhail kissed her, very gently at first, then with a growing passion as he felt her respond. Natasha
thought she would like it here on Naxos, with the raging seas outside and the smell of the wild flowers on the mountainside and your lips being caressed by Dionysus.

Lord Francis Powerscourt was not thinking of love on a desert island, or even romance in a Russian palace, as he climbed the stairs to de Chassiron’s office on the first
floor of the British Embassy, looking out over the frozen city. He was trying to work out how to exploit the fact that he knew the Okhrana were reading the outgoing and incoming traffic to and from
the British Embassy. He felt sure he and Johnny Fitzgerald had devised some scheme to exploit a similar situation years ago in the Punjab. Not for the first time he wished Johnny was with him.
After Johnny had carried out the requests he was going to send by the Mikhail Shaporov message service, he, Powerscourt, would ask Johnny to join him. That would please Lady Lucy too.

De Chassiron’s enormous desk was covered with telegraph cables, lying in unorganized heaps on the dark green leather. De Chassiron himself was stretched out on the sofa, one hand behind
his back, the other doodling notes on a pad in front of him. He was still very pale, as if suffering from shock.

‘My dear Powerscourt,’ he said, the words slightly slurred, ‘how good to see you on day three of the Russian Revolution. Will you join me in a glass of Georgian brandy? They
say it is good for the nerves.’ He bent to the floor and half filled a tumbler. ‘And how have the travails of the empire struck you today? Have you witnessed any more massacres? Cavalry
charges in the poorer quarters? The Tsar in person with a sabre on a black horse?’

Powerscourt realized that the diplomat was slightly drunk. He must have been drinking for most of the day, for Powerscourt recalled on previous occasions how much alcohol he had been able to
consume without showing any ill effects at all. He told de Chassiron about his encounter with the Okhrana. De Chassiron was fascinated.

‘As far as I know, you’re the first Englishman to go in there at all, Powerscourt, never mind come out again alive. Congratulations.’ He didn’t seem to take on board the
subtler points about the dead Martin.

‘I’ve been a bad boy today, a bad, bad boy,’ de Chassiron went on, shaking his head slightly now. ‘Been told off by His Nibs. He didn’t like my account of what
happened on Sunday. Asked me if I thought I was working for the
Daily Mail
with lurid and sensational’ – he just about managed to get the word out – ‘accounts of the
slaughter of the innocents. He said, the silly old fool, that I was exaggerating what had happened. His Nibs doesn’t seem to realize that some of us here,’ the drunken diplomat was
close to tears at this point, ‘do actually care what happens to this bloody country, that we can’t bear to see it being disembowelled in front of our eyes on such beautiful streets with
such beautiful buildings. Our brother in Christ, the French Ambassador, usually well informed, says the people will probably all go on strike now. Whole country going to close down while the Tsar
plays charades with the family at the Alexander Palace out at Tsarskoe Selo.’

De Chassiron bent down and refilled his glass. Powerscourt thought he should help him upstairs to his rooms quite soon so he could sleep it off.

‘I told His bloody Nibs I’d seen it all,’ he went on, waving his glass at Powerscourt, ‘that I’d held the hands of some of these poor people as they lay dying. No
good. Useless. Ambassador says whole thing has been exaggerated by the liberals. Man in Foreign Ministry had told him so. Foreign newspapers are talking of thousands dead. Italians chief ghouls as
usual. Six thousand dead, some rag in Rome says. Mind you, if they’d had their way, those bloody Italians, Our Lord would have fed fifty thousand rather than five on that holy mountain in
those bloody Gospels. It’s the old story,’ de Chassiron polished off about half of his glass in one enormous gulp, ‘Foreign Office in London meant to represent interests of
foreigners. Foreign embassies meant to represent view of the countries they’re stationed in to His Majesty’s Government, not the other way round.’