Rasputin's Revenge (25 page)

“I’m sorry, Jules. I’ll go immediately I didn’t mean this to happen.”

A better man might have taken her cue and let it end there. I do not delude myself. She offered me every opportunity to have nothing come of our embrace, and so I have no one but myself to blame for what happened afterward.

Her flushed, tear-streaked face gazed questioningly up at me, her tremulous expression one of fearful wonder. From her breath came the scent of almonds. Her skin, smooth and fine as porcelain, gave off a sublime glow in the sepia light.

Cast under the spell of her nearness and beauty, I could not let her go, but leaned down—seeing myself as though from a great height—and brought my lips to hers, gathering her back into my arms.

I don’t know how long it lasted. A second or an hour. But (I realize now, looking back on all that’s happened since) it was my own Rubicon. When the kiss ended I was a different man than when it had begun. Any identification I might have felt with the nobler, pre-War values was forfeit. It may be the War has corrupted me, but whatever caused it, I was, I am, now a “modern man,” and any thought that I was somehow cut from a finer cloth than, say, Borstoi, can be seen as the baldest conceit.

Elena, breathless, ended the kiss, ran her fingers lightly over my cheek. “Forgive me, Jules,” she whispered, “forgive me.”

“There is nothing to …” I began, but she stopped me, pressing a finger softly against my lips.

She nodded, as though affirming something to herself. “There is, Jules.” She sighed, hesitated, looked deeply into my eyes. “I love you.” Tears gathered, then fell over onto her cheeks. “I’m sorry, but I love you.”

My head swam. My knees grew weak. Unable to respond any other way, I kissed her again, pressing away the feeble pangs of my conscience in the warm softness of her mouth.

Finally, she pulled away Taking my hand, she led me back to the sofa. “Sit down a minute, Jules. I’ll be right back.”

She disappeared into my bedroom. A few moments later she returned, barefoot, wrapped in one of my robes. She carried two glasses and set them on the table next tome. “If you want me to leave, I will go now,” she said.

“Elena, I need to think.”

“I know it’s …”

It was my time to hold up a restraining palm. “No, please. I don’t want you to go.” She stood in front of me, waiting for some word, but again I was tongue-tied. Finally, she made a decision, leaning over the table, handing me one of the glasses which contained a large drink of vodka. She
raised the other glass, which held a small tot, to her lips. Then she touched her palm to my face and said softly, “You look exhausted. I will sit here across from you and we’ll talk.”

I looked at her gratefully. “I am married. I love my wife. But if I touch you again …”

She hushed me. “Don’t say anything. It’s all right.”

Curling one leg under herself, her hair down, she sat in the same posture as Alexandra had earlier that night. But unlike the Empress, Elena’s whole being glowed with warmth and acceptance.

“Has it been a hard day for you, too?”

And suddenly all the suppressed emotions of the past hours welled up within me. In rapid succession, I remembered my frustration with Lupa, my elation over Fabergé’s egg, my worry over not finding Borstoi at his shop, then the thrill of hunting him down and so completely gulling him, my incredible faux pas with Alexandra, and finally the anguish and joy of Elena’s declaration. For the first time in years, I felt myself on the verge of crying.

Elena, without a word, came and sat beside me. It was not passionate, barely even physical, but she took my tensed shoulders in her hands, turned me toward her, and cradled my head in the fragrant hollow of her neck.

“It’s all right,” she said. “Why don’t you just talk it all out?”

I closed my eyes, and the tension gradually began to ease as she massaged my temples with her fingertips. I started talking, occasionally sipping at my drink. From Foch to Alexis, from Sukhomlinov to Kapov, Paleologue and Lupa, I poured out my soul, sparing nothing.

When I finished, she leaned down and kissed me softly on the lips. “So it is over,” she whispered.

“We still must apprehend Kapov,” I said.

“But you’re sure it’s him?”

I rested my head back against her. “As sure as I can be without other proof. Certainly sure enough to have him arrested and interrogated.”

“And what about this other man, the anarchist Borstoi? Wasn’t he part of it, too? What will you do with him?”

Fatigue was overwhelming me. Still, I wanted to stay awake, to remain aware of Elena’s presence, so I forced myself to speak. “I’m convinced it was Kapov. I’ll turn my information on Borstoi to the regular police, and they’ll deal with him. But the Palace murders—the ones Lupa and I have been investigating—may be laid at Kapov’s feet. I’m all but certain of it.”

She hugged me to her, then stood and pulled me to my feet. “Come, Jules.” She held to my hand tightly.

Like a sleepwalker, I followed her into the bedroom. She came to the side of the bed, her robe hanging open slightly. Turning, she put her arms around me. She was shaking. We lay down on the bed.

And as I lay in her arms, it all became plain. Things would work out somehow. When Alexandra found out the murders had been solved, that Kapov had committed them, she would forgive Lupa and I our deception with Fabergé’s egg, Nicholas would become assured that his personal world was secure, and would regain the strength to continue the war. My mission would end in triumph and glory, the initial step in the Allies’ last and ultimately successful campaign for victory.

Though I don’t recall being asleep, I must have already been dreaming.

16

T
wice while it was still dark, I was awakened by Elena’s movements beside me, and both times she hushed me back to sleep, saying it was the middle of the night.

When I finally awoke to a cup of steaming cafe au lait served by Elena, she had already dressed and rehung my robe on a peg against the wall. She sat easily on the side of my bed, chattering animatedly about the upcoming day—my talk with her last night had convinced her that everything would work out with Tatiana, and she was anxious to go and see her royal charge.

In spite of my fitful awakenings, I felt wonderfully rested from the best sleep I had enjoyed since arriving in St. Petersburg. Staring at her, I felt euphoric, confident, strong. Try as I might, I could not remember anything of the night before after falling into her arms.

I tried to control my expression. Had we not, then, consummated our affair? I could not insult her by asking. Certainly, as she brought in the breakfast the servant had delivered, her face aglow—teasing, familiar, solicitous—she acted very much the satisfied new lover.

The vodka bottle, still on my desk, was nearly empty. Had I drunk so much of it? I remembered having a drink or two when I’d come back from visiting the Empress, and then Elena had brought in a glass that had been nearly full. I strained to recall. Was I still, at least technically, faithful to Tania? Suddenly it seemed terribly important to know.

“Is something wrong, Jules?”

I shook my head, having to smile as I gazed at her lovely, concerned face.
“Rien, chérie. Vraiment.”

“I didn’t keep you awake?”

I shook my head. “I’ve rarely slept better.”

“Except for the dream, you mean.”

I looked at her quizzically.

“I’m afraid I was up most of the night,” she said. “I thought my tossing next to you might have …” Her tremulous look showed a mixture of embarrassment, fear of my reaction, and, I thought, a strong desire not to displease me. “But sometime after two—I remember the bells had just rung the hour—you sat up, not knowing where you were, who I was.” She paused. “I thought you wanted me to leave. You don’t remember?”

“I remember waking up,” I said, “but not wanting you to go. You didn’t go, did you?”

She pouted fetchingly, then smiled. “When I went to put my clothes back on, you wouldn’t let me.” She blushed slightly. “And I am here still.” Serious now, looking into my eyes, she leaned over and kissed me. “It’s all right, isn’t it? Will we see each other again?”

“Of course.” At her questioning glance, I repeated it. “Really, of course.”

She walked out of the room. I reclined in the bed for another minute, pensively sipping at my coffee. Then, like a vision, she appeared once more in the doorway, her face now serious, clouded with some strong emotion. “Please don’t worry, Jules. Everything will be all right. And I still love you.”

Then she was gone.

Lupa had a huge breakfast spread out before him on a table in his room. He listened patiently, chewing and drinking without stop, while I first admonished him for being absent the day before, then told him of my meeting with Borstoi, of the man’s confession and implication of Kapov, and finally of the problem with Alexandra. When I’d finished, his only comment was to ask me if I’d eaten yet.

“Yes. I had a light breakfast with Elena Ripley.” There was no need to go into any further explanation.

His brows lifted. “Indeed. And how is Miss Ripley?”

I was perhaps feeling defensive about her. In any event, I had no patience for his misogynist leanings.

“Why do you show so much interest in Elena? It’s established that she has nothing to do with our investigation. It seems more important to me that we have a confession from Borstoi and a clear culpability from Kapov. Don’t you think we ought to begin trying to apprehend them?”

He munched thoughtfully on a bit of roll. “Hmmm. You are right, I suppose. It’s only that I interviewed Kapov yesterday and he seemed to have alibis for two of the murders. I was going to check into them today.”
He finished a cup of cocoa. “But no, you are correct. There’s no time to lose. And Alexandra must be calmed.”

He stood up and pressed an imaginary wrinkle from the broad expanse of his waistcoat. “By the way, Jules—one last question and then I’ll drop it—during your breakfast with Miss Ripley, you must have been tempted to crow a little about flushing out Borstoi and Kapov?”

“Did I mention them to Elena?” I began heatedly. “Yes, but last night.” At his glance, I dissembled quickly. “I saw her briefly upon returning from Borstoi’s, and I told her then. She was overjoyed.”

Lupa leaned his knuckles against the tabletop, closed his eyes and puckered his lips several times. He remained that way for so long that, had he not been standing, I might have thought he’d dozed off. But then, when I was just about to speak his name, he came back to himself and smiled at me. “Let’s get a guardsman,” he said, “and put Borstoi and Kapov in chains.”

He had just come around the table and had draped a heavy arm over my shoulder, beginning to say something, when the door to the room flew open. It was a captain of the Imperial Guard, out of breath and excited.

“Inspector Lupa, you must come quick. Someone else has died.”

Lupa and I exchanged glances.

“The Czar’s cousin this time,” our messenger gasped. “Ivan Kapov. He’s hanged himself.”

Nothing could be more obvious, I thought, as we ran through the hallways of the Palace. Borstoi had somehow gotten to Kapov, told him of my duplicity and that, because of his admissions to me, the game was over. Kapov, in despair, and knowing that there was no escape—only humiliation and execution—had killed himself.

His rooms were up another flight of steps, at the far end of the Palace from where Lupa and I stayed. As a royal cousin, he of course had his own suite, but it was really merely a small garret just under the roof of the Palace, to be used mostly for sleeping or, perhaps, for romantic liaisons.

Our messenger escorted us through a small group of other guardsmen who were keeping out a growing number of the curious. As we entered the room, I was surprised to see that Kapov wasn’t there. But the guard didn’t hesitate. He led the way to a window that looked out over the inner courtyard. When he threw back the shutter, a blast of cold air stung our faces, but nothing could take our eyes from the ghastly spectacle outside.

The body of Ivan Kapov swung gently back and forth from one of the beams that extended out from the roof. The wind gusted and half-turned him so we could see the swollen tongue protruding from the purple mouth, the eyes white and bulging from a contorted face.