Rasputin's Revenge (35 page)

At the embassy, I revealed myself to the guard and a moment later I was shaking Paleologue’s hand.

“Thank you for staying,” I said. “Are the rest …?”

He nodded, motioning for us to follow him quietly, maneuvering us into a back room. When the door closed behind us, he took the cigar from his mouth and sighed heavily. “I hope you are right,” he said.

We changed from our disguises while he brought us up to date. “They are all in the salon—Grand Duchess Anastasia, Kerensky from the Duma, Prince Lvov, Felix Yussoupov, Grand Duke Dmitry Pavlovitch, Dr. Lazovert, Colonel Sukhotin, half a dozen others, to say nothing of Holmes, Watson, and Mademoiselle Ripley who, need I mention, is enraged.”

“But she stayed?” I asked.

“Of course. She’s maintaining that she’s innocent.”

“And my father is …”

“He began by reviewing your trial testimony for the assembly. They are all rather skeptical,” he added. “What do all those people have in common?”

“Love of Mother Russia,” Lupa said. “It should be enough.”

“Let us hope so. If you’re wrong …”

He didn’t have to finish. We knew the consequences if we were wrong.

Holmes was conducting the actual interrogation, while Lupa, Paleologue and I sat on stiff chairs just behind the door to the salon, listening to it all. Lupa had spent the previous day coaching him while Dr. Watson had written some notes and I had been on hand to supply any missing information. I needn’t have bothered. As Lupa went over the events that had transpired since our arrival in St. Petersburg, I was amazed anew at the power of his mind.

The breadth and clarity of the briefing he gave his father made my reports to him seem, in retrospect, muddled, disjointed, inexact, even confusing. He seemed to have forgotten absolutely nothing of any importance that had to do, however remotely, with his case.

As I listened to him, the suspects and victims once again came alive in my mind—the General and Katrina Sukhomlinov, Boris Minsky, Kapov, Borstoi, Pohl. As he unwound the story, his argument that Rasputin was somehow behind it all became more and more compelling, until we were all convinced that Rasputin was the man who had, albeit indirectly, summoned Lupa to St. Petersburg.

But if Lupa’s powers were impressive, those of Sherlock Holmes were no less so. Paleologue, Lupa and I sat at our stations behind the door marveling at the great detective’s recitation of the facts.

At first, Elena held her own, her anger giving way to calm denials. After all, she thought there was no new evidence, and she’d brazened her way through it all before.

But the cracks did begin to show.

“I understand,” Holmes asked, “that your relationship with Monsieur Giraud began when you had a fight with the Grand Duchess Tatiana?”

“No,” Elena replied, “I’ve never had a fight with her Highness.”

“Never?” There was a pause, which Holmes pressed. “Wasn’t there something about Tatiana’s Cockney accent in a play by Shaw? Would I make up such a detail?”

“You’ve seen Jules,” she said accusingly. “You know where he is.” Evidently she addressed herself to the assembly. “This man is hiding condemned fugitives,” she said.

“Perhaps, Miss Ripley, but that’s not the point right now. The point is your alleged fight with Tatiana. If you never had it, as you say, and Monsieur Giraud never referred to it, how then do you assume I’ve spoken to Giraud because I know what the fight was about? It must have happened as I say.”

“No!”

Holmes let the silence build.

“We may have had a slight disagreement that Jules misinterpreted, that’s all.”

“Ah, well if that’s all,” Holmes said sarcastically, “we can leave it.”

The cracks widened.

“… and so your alibi for the night of Kapov’s death is that you were where?”

“With Monsieur Giraud.”

From behind the door, we heard the murmur of the guests. Though St. Petersburg society was nearly as decadent as that of Paris, lack of discretion could still be cause for scandal.

“With the same Monsieur Giraud whom you barely knew to speak to?”

“No, you don’t understand. He was …”

“At the trial, you said you were with him the entire night. Did you sleep with him?”

“No, of course not. He’s old.”

Stung though I was, I could still hear the irony dripping from Holmes’ voice.

“Whereas Kapov was young.”

“Ivan was …” and then she was quiet.

“Oh, you called him Ivan. And though Giraud was old, you stayed with him the whole night? Why were you there? What did you do there? Weren’t you in his room until he passed out, drugged by you, at which time you went to Kapov’s? Didn’t you use Giraud for an alibi, and that’s all.”

“No, you’re making all that up.”

“Perhaps. But you were at the same party Kapov had attended at Rasputin’s that night, were you not?”

“Yes, that’s true, but earlier.”

“Why had you gone there?”

“I needed help at the court. I was afraid …”

“You were afraid of what? Your falling out with Tatiana that you deny. You are falling back into the excuses you gave Giraud, Miss Ripley. You should keep your parts straight.”

“You’re trying to get me confused,” she said. The pitch of her voice had gone up.

“It’s not very confusing,” Holmes said. “You went to Rasputin to tell him that Giraud and Lupa had decided Kapov was the Palace killer.”

“No!”

“And Rasputin then determined that Kapov should die an apparent suicide.”

“No! It’s all lies.”

One of the assembly spoke up. “It’s not all lies. You were at Rasputin’s late that night.”

Holmes questioned the speaker. “And who are you, sir?”

In a cultured, rather fey voice, we heard the response. “I am Prince Felix Yussoupov.”

“And you attended the party?”

“I did. And so did Miss Ripley We spoke early on.”

“I’ve admitted I was there,” Elena said.

“But you denied that you came back later,” Yussoupov insisted, “and you did. Much later, when only a few of us remained.”

“Was Kapov still there?” Holmes asked.

“Yes, of course,” the Prince replied. “This woman left with him.”

There was a long pause, after which Holmes asked, “You’re absolutely sure it was this woman? Why didn’t you bring this up at the trial?”

“What trial? My good man, I don’t get involved in trials. I am still not even sure what this is all about—Anastasia asked me to come and I’m here. But I am certain this woman went home with Ivan. Look at her—she is beautiful! I wanted to escort her home myself.”

Next to me, Lupa nodded to Paleologue. “
C’est presque l’heure
,” he said. “It’s almost time.”

The Ambassador left us, going around to the front door to the salon.

“Thank you, your Highness. Of course there was no trial for Kapov’s murder—it was declared a suicide. I apologize.”

Holmes kept the pressure on. “And so, Miss Ripley, after Kapov was out of the way, when you heard about Pohl’s new information the next morning, did you have time to go to Rasputin or …?”

“Leave Gregory out of this,” she said determinedly.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to,” Holmes answered. “When did you fall under his power?”

“I’m not, as you put it, in his power. We love each other. I love him. I’ve always loved Gregory. I never pretended otherwise.”

Evidently she had forgotten her audience. The Grand Duchess Anastasia spoke up from where she sat. “But dear, you know that’s not true.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Holmes said. “What’s important is that when Giraud told you about Pohl …”

“Told me what? I never knew anything …”

But I, too, had my role to play, and Lupa nudged me onto the stage. “All right, Jules. Now.”

I walked through the door into the salon. “I did, Elena. I told you about Pohl.”

Her eyes widened in shock or fear. “Jules,” she whispered, not sure whether to inject her voice with relief or dread. Psychologically, Lupa had predicted correctly. The roles were becoming mixed in her mind, and panic had begun to set in.

But she wasn’t ready to give up yet. Her eyes darted from me to Holmes to the small crowd gathered in their chairs, while she evidently decided on her next line of defense, her next role. Then, like a witch out of
Macbeth, she raised an arm at me and shrieked, “There’s your man! He’s the traitor! He’s been condemned to death, for God’s sake. Don’t believe him. He’s lying.”

Lupa had orchestrated it well. Just at that moment, before I could respond or anyone else move, the door to the salon flew open and a shocked Maurice Paleologue burst in.

“I’m sorry to interrupt …”

“Yes, what is it?” Holmes was abrupt.

The Ambassador struggled to regain his breath. “It’s Rasputin,” he gasped, paused, let the silence gather for another long second. “The starets has been killed. Shot by anarchists in the street.”

Chaos erupted among the guests. Everyone was immediately on their feet. “Killed?” “Rasputin dead?” “It can’t be true.” But Paleologue swore that it was.

If Rasputin were dead, it would affect the fortunes of everyone in the room. Of course, Rasputin was not dead. This was Lupa’s last daring gamble, but none of the assembly knew it.

I never took my eyes from Elena. At Paleologue’s announcement, her face went white, but as the questions flew in the room, her color returned, her panic increasing as though she were caged.

“No,” she said in a numb whisper, “no, no, no.” And then, as the fact sank in, her composure began to fall away—it was frightening, like wax melting in the heat. The beautiful face took on the look of a madwoman—deranged, lost, insane.

Suddenly, she bolted from her chair and Holmes shouted, “Watson, stop her!”

“No!” She screamed again and again as Watson’s arms closed around her. Her fists pounded at his face and shoulders as Paleologue, too, went to help try and restrain her—and even the two of them could barely hold her as she kicked and flailed, screaming, crying and swearing violently in Russian and English, “Let me go! Let me go to him, you bastards!”

And then Lupa made his entrance, coming halfway across the room to where she struggled. “Yes, let her go,” he said.

She turned and all the passion in her nature became fused into a blinding hatred for Lupa. “No!” she screamed, again, in fury. “No! You can’t still be alive!”

She turned back to Watson then as if to run from the sight of Lupa. The doctor stood blocking her way, and suddenly the life seemed to go out of her. Her shoulders slumped, she began to swoon. Watson stepped forward and she leaned into him, putting her arms around him for support.

It was done so perfectly no one could have foreseen or prevented it. At one moment, she had nearly collapsed, depending on Watson to hold her up, her arms around his waist, and at the next, she had wrenched the revolver from his belt, no doubt having felt it there during their struggle a minute before.

In a trice, she had turned, cocked the gun, and was drawing a bead on Lupa, not two meters away.

I was still across the room, behind Lupa, and had no chance to stop her, but Watson, his reflexes perhaps sharper than his wits, but no less welcome for that, leapt from behind, knocking Elena’s arm as the first shot broke one of the windows behind us.

The Ambassador, too, jumped forward and knocked the hysterical woman to the floor as she tried to squeeze off another round. Watson, on his knees, now scrambled for control of the weapon. All three grabbed for it, rolling together as Lupa, Holmes and myself stood helplessly awaiting the outcome.

There was another shot, muffled, and then all struggling stopped.

“My God! Watson!” Holmes exclaimed.

The doctor rolled onto his side. Paleologue sat up. Elena lay facedown, motionless, the gun under her.

Lupa went down to one knee, gently turning the woman over. A huge red stain was spreading under her left breast. Watson took off his coat and put it under her head as the rest of the people in the room gathered in a knot around her. Her eyes, those beautiful eyes, opened and, surprisingly, she smiled.

“Now I will be with him,” she said.

Lupa leaned over her. “You did kill them all, didn’t you?”

She nodded weakly, the small smile still playing at the corners of her mouth. “Of course. Just as you said.”

“And it had nothing to do with the War or with Nicholas.”

Her breathing came wet and heavy, but the confession seemed to please her in some way. “Gregory wanted you here so he could disgrace you”—she stopped, taking a painful breath—“so he could kill you.”

Lupa shook his head in disbelief, as though this were the stuff of all of his nightmares. “But why? Why did he want to kill me?”

Her voice had become all but inaudible. “Because the son of Sherlock Holmes had to die.”

“I don’t understand,” Lupa said, “I don’t see …”

She sighed wearily, looking now not at Lupa, but at his father, Sherlock Holmes, who hovered over them both. “To make you suffer as he
has suffered.” She forced another breath. “As you made him suffer,” she said to Holmes.

“How did I make him suffer?” Holmes asked. “I never met the man.”

She shook her head, coughing, and for a moment I believed she had gone and we would never know. But then she opened her eyes again, slowly bringing them back into focus. “He never had a father,” she said. “You killed him at Reichenbach Falls.” She sighed one last time. “His father was Professor Moriarty.”

She closed her beautiful eyes. Dr. Watson felt her neck for a pulse, then took his jacket from beneath her head and unfolded it carefully over her face.

In the light of subsequent events, it is tempting to assign some measure of the blame (or credit) to Lupa, but on reflection, I don’t think that would be fair.

It must be remembered that the group that had gathered at the Embassy was not without great influence. Kerensky and Purishkevich were leaders in the Duma, Prince Lvov controlled the moderate faction of the aristocracy, Prince Yussoupov at twenty-nine was heir to the largest fortune in Russia. Anastasia was the wife of the second most important man in the armed services.

It was a close thing, but Elena’s confession swung the balance of sentiment in the room toward Lupa and myself. Rasputin might have been able to predict that his actions could eventually weaken Nicholas enough to bring down the government, but that had never been his main concern. He had wanted revenge for his father’s death—that had been his driving force ever since the first murder had given him the idea. And Elena had been his agent.