Rasputin's Revenge (33 page)

(Would that Sherlock Holmes would lift that stricture! Some of the cases in which Auguste assisted his father, such as the Adventure of the Tiger’s Paw, or the curious affair of the glass blower’s apprentice, were textbook studies of the art of deduction.
^*
)

But here there was no discussion of the niceties of detective theory. Auguste, Giraud and Holmes were wrestling with a cunning murderer who had almost done them all in.

Reluctantly, Giraud had finally acknowledged some doubt as to the innocence of Elena Ripley though I sensed that it was only his respect for Auguste’s powers that had taken him that far. Before he would truly be convinced, he would need, as indeed we all would, a motive.

The Czarevitch had been a silent witness to the continuing discussion about Elena Ripley. Slight, with an extremely sensitive face, he sat upright on the couch across from me, listening intently. He wore a purple robe with the royal lions crest above the breast pocket, beneath which peeked the legs of a pair of flannel pajamas. There was a brace of some kind on his left foot, but it didn’t appear to hamper him. For one so young, he already projected a regal bearing.

Auguste had just finished outlining the facts to his father when Alexis interrupted. “Excuse me, I gather you are talking about my sister’s governess?”

Giraud, sitting next to the boy, turned to him. “Yes. Elena.”

“She was here, you know, earlier this evening.”

Holmes and Auguste shared a glance. “Miss Ripley was in these apartments tonight?”

Alexis nodded. “She brought me the news about your escape.”

“Is she all right?” Giraud asked.

But Auguste was more forceful. “How did she hear about our escape?”

The boy straightened up at the interrogation. He would not be rushed, though I could see it wasn’t a matter of protracting the theater. He wore the mantle of future Czar, and wasn’t about to be manipulated.

“Monsieur Giraud, she looked as though she’d been beaten up. There was a swelling in her jaw, an abrasion on her cheek, and one eye was beginning to blacken. She said she’d fallen while running here to warn us. She was very upset.”

Holmes put in, “Upset as though she was worried about our safety?”

He thought a moment. “No, I would not say that. Perhaps worried about her own. She said you, Monsieur Giraud, might try to come and kidnap me, that you were extremely dangerous and I should be on my guard.”

“Elena told you I was dangerous?”

Alexis nodded, and Giraud hung his head.

“Did she think you’d already seen us?” Auguste asked.

“I don’t think so, but it’s possible. Everyone knew I’d been trying to block your execution. I don’t believe you are traitors.”

“I assure you we are not,” Auguste said, “and we are very grateful. But how did she find out about the escape so soon? Was there a general alarm?”

The boy leaned forward. “Oh, there’s no mystery there. Rasputin had his contacts keeping him aware of your situations. When Rasputin was informed, she was with him.”

Giraud nearly leapt from the couch. “Rasputin?”

But Auguste interrupted. “Why was Rasputin informed? What’s his interest in all of this?”

The Czarevitch shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“But why was Elena with Rasputin? She hates Rasputin.” Giraud was in shock.

“Oh no, Monsieur Giraud. In fact, she has moved to his building.” The corners of his mouth turned down with displeasure. “The women seem to have a weakness for him. My own mother has …” But he let that hang.

“Elena Ripley is living with Rasputin?” Auguste asked. “There is no doubt?”

“I have said it.”

Sherlock Holmes took his pipe from his mouth. He’d been quietly taking in this entire exchange. “Your Highness,” he said, “why was Rasputin informed about our escape? Do you have any idea?”

“No, sir, I’m sorry.”

For a moment, all was silence. Then Giraud, almost in a whisper, asked, “Did Elena get her job as governess through Rasputin?”

Alexis Romanov nodded. “All of the tutors were recommended to my mother by him. Including you, if you remember. And Monsieur Giraud?”

“Yes?”

“Do you remember asking me to intercede with Tatiana on behalf of Miss Ripley?”

Giraud nodded.

“Well, I never got the chance to tell you before you were arrested, but I talked to Tati about it and she said you must have been mistaken. She doesn’t remember any fight with Miss Ripley.”

“They’ve never had a fight?”

“No. At least not according to Tati.”

“Jules …?” Auguste began.

“You’re right, Auguste. You’ve been right all along, and I’ve been a fool.”

But Holmes was like a dog on a scent and couldn’t be bothered with irrelevancies. “Never mind that,” he said. “Let’s review what we have. For some reason, Rasputin seems to be deeply involved in all of this. He obviously had a great stake in seeing your executions carried out, and one of his lackeys informed him immediately when we escaped. He flew into a rage, perhaps beating Miss Ripley because she was nearest to hand, then sent her to see if she could locate us.”

“That’s how I see it,” Auguste said.

“Further,” Holmes continued, “I think we can assume that Rasputin directed Miss Ripley in the murders.”

Again Auguste nodded in agreement.

“Isn’t that rather a substantial jump, Holmes?” I ventured.

“Our problem all along with Elena has been motive,” Auguste replied. “Now that it’s established that she is involved with Rasputin, it’s at the very least worth exploring the possibility that she’s acting under his direction.”

Giraud couldn’t see it, either. “But why would Rasputin want to weaken the Czar? And that was the effect of the murders. Surely he has everything he could want. Sukhomlinov and Paleologue both think he’s the most powerful man in Russia, and it all rests on his proximity to the crown. It makes no sense.”

“Unless,” Auguste said, “the Czar’s reaction to the killings was incidental.”

“What do you mean?”

Auguste stood up, pacing in the small room. “I mean, Jules, that early in our investigation we were forced to consider the possibility that the murders were not politically motivated at all, that there was a personal motive behind them. At the time, we thought it was jealousy.”

“Yes?”

Sherlock Holmes leaned forward, his eyes sparkling under their hooded lids. “Revenge.”

“Exactly,” Auguste said. “Assuming he’s not a madman—and I’m convinced he is not—why did he visit me in prison? Is there any other possible meaning to the word ‘
rache’
?”

“And why did he use that word?” Holmes asked.

“Yes,” Auguste agreed. “As you said, it’s very singular.”

“It is more than that,” Holmes retorted. “I can think of few single words in any language that are so closely linked to my own career.”

“Your career?” Giraud asked. “I don’t understand.”

I spoke up. “In the very first of Holmes’ adventures that I had published,
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the word ‘
rache
,’ scrawled in blood on the wall at the site of a murder was one of the principal clues Holmes discovered. That word itself was on the frontispiece of the first edition of the published book.

“Gregson and Lestrade thought the victim had started to write the name Rachel, but Holmes reasoned correctly that …”

“Thank you, Watson,” Holmes said. “I think we see the connection. The point is that the word is closely affiliated with me.”

“And almost more importantly,” Auguste added, “only with you. Alone, it has little significance.”

“But that’s impossible!” Giraud exclaimed. “Rasputin doesn’t know you.”

Holmes lifted his brows, his eyes flashing black in their deep sockets. Something had excited him. But to Giraud, after that brief flash, he only smiled mildly. “Still, it is an interesting avenue for conjecture.”

He leaned over and struck a match against his heel, bringing the flame up to his pipe. “It is worth considering that though I don’t know Rasputin, he may know me.”

“There’s another thing,” Giraud said, finally warming to the idea. “Why has Rasputin been working so hard to see our sentences carried out? And why was he so enraged at our escape? You never met the man, did you, Auguste?”

“Only the night Alexandra let me borrow the egg.”

Giraud scratched his chin pensively. “And later that night, I swear he was at his apartment celebrating something.”

Auguste stopped pacing and sat down again, his lips pursing in thought. Giraud leaned back on the couch, looking to Alexis as though the boy might provide some answer.

Sherlock Holmes refired his pipe and sucked on it reflectively. “Let us assume,” he began, “that revenge may have been the motive for the killings.”

“But revenge for what?” Giraud asked.

Holmes waved away the objection. “Let’s ignore that for now. We must use the clues we’ve been given, even if they don’t mean anything yet. Rasputin used the word ‘
rache
‘. That has to mean something.” Holmes looked at his son. “When were you called here?”

“After the third murder.”

“And who …?”

“Yes,” Auguste said, “I see what you’re getting at. Alexandra requested that I come …”

“And the idea may have been Rasputin’s.” I finished the thought.

“Capital, Watson! Capital!” Holmes exclaimed.

“But wait.” Giraud, showing his fatigue, put up his hand. “All this is fine theorizing, but isn’t it rather far-fetched? What you’re saying is that, for some unknown reason, Rasputin began murdering the Czar’s friends so that there would be a situation where he could convince Alexandra to summon Auguste. And once he was here he would be lured into a trap.”

Holmes fixed Giraud with a cold stare. “The trap was very nearly sprung.”

And at that truth, we were all silent.

Never before in my long experience with Sherlock Holmes had I seen such a test of his primary deductive theorem: When all possibilities have been exhausted, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Here we were breathing in the rarefied ether of pure deduction, and father and son were in their element. It was as though Holmes read my thoughts. “Should this bear out, Watson, you might have to take me out of retirement another time. There is much that is instructive in this for the true student of deduction.”

“I think first we should make sure we get out of this alive,” Auguste responded. “And I think I know how to begin proving our theory”—he looked to the Czarevitch—“if you will continue to help us, your Highness.”

The boy looked at Giraud briefly, as though asking for permission. Then, his face aglow with anticipation, yet with the most solemn expression, he addressed Auguste. “I will do anything to help my country.”

Auguste nodded. “Thank you. You are a brave young man.” The son of Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair for a moment, closed his eyes, and pursed his lips in that distinctive way of his. “All right,” he said, “then here is my plan.”

After another hour, we retired to bed. Holmes and I stayed where we were off the boy’s bedroom, while Giraud and Auguste made do on makeshift bedding in the prince’s chamber. Holmes was gracious enough to insist that I take the settee, where I could stretch out somewhat, while he remained slouched in his chair, his pipe barely glowing, no doubt rethinking his son’s plans.

Outside, the wind shrieked from time to time. Snow from a new storm flung itself against the window. I knew that it was morning, but there was no trace of the sun, or of any light. In fact, the darkness was so complete
that I felt I had never before been so surrounded by night. My eyes burning, my mind weary, I turned my back on my friend and to the room.

But for some reason sleep wouldn’t come. Wonder over the day’s events, and excitement and apprehension over those to come, conspired to keep me from the arms of Morpheus.

Suddenly I heard the slight creak of the door to Alexis’ room, followed immediately by Auguste’s whispered voice. “Father?”

There was a pause; then the door creaked again. Perhaps Holmes had fallen to sleep and hadn’t heard him. But then, finally he spoke. “Yes, I’m here.”

Auguste must have entered. “May I bother you?”

“It’s no bother. I’m awake, come in.” In spite of the blizzard, within the room, all at once it was quiet as death. I could hear Holmes suck on his pipe. “Is the plan …?”

But his son stopped him. “I haven’t come to discuss the plan.” Another pause, and I heard a chair being pulled over the floor. “I came to ask you why you’re here.”

Holmes let out a heavy breath. “You’re my son.”

“I’ve always been your son. What makes this different?”

“What do you mean, different?”

“You are here, with me. That hasn’t always been the case.”

“You needed me. They might have killed you.”

“I have needed you before.”

Feeling like an intruder, I wanted to announce that I wasn’t sleeping, that I was hearing it all, but I couldn’t make myself move. As their silence continued, I lay with my eyes open, staring at the back of the couch. A match flared as Holmes restoked his pipe, stalling for time. It was a moment fraught with personal danger for both of them—two towering titans of reason struggling within the snares of emotion. The coal fire settled with a hushing sound in the grate, and still no one spoke. One of them sighed. One of the chairs creaked.

Finally, Sherlock Holmes whispered in a strained voice, “When I saw you, when you were a boy, it was too hard. It reminded me too much of your mother. I became immobilized. I couldn’t afford that too often.”

“And so you abandoned me?”

“I didn’t abandon you. I saw you as often as I could bear it. We had a few summers.”

“Yes, we had that.” There was a flat harshness to Auguste’s voice. “We did have a few summers.” Then his voice softened. “Did you hate my mother so much? Was she that bad?”

I heard the hollow suck of the pipe. Then, at last, “No. No, I didn’t hate her so much. I’m afraid I loved her so much.”

I don’t know whether the idea had never occurred to Auguste, or whether he’d chosen to create his own rationale for his father’s distance. As his best friend, I had some inkling of the pain Holmes had endured through losing the only woman he’d ever loved. Of course, he never dwelt upon it, never even referred to it except obliquely, but it was his constant companion after ninety-four, and I knew for a fact it haunted him still.