The whole room erupted into laughter which did not improve the holy man’s humour. He spat on the floor and ran from the room.
Prince Felix rose from his sofa, his movements languid despite the animation of his face, and held out his hand to me. ‘Congratulations, doctor. You have managed to rid us of one of our less popular guests.’ It was not until later that Sir George revealed the joke to me. The monk was not Gregory Efimovich but his hated rival Iliodor who, it was rumoured, was writing a book in which he hoped to blacken the name of his rival and that of the Empress. He had not appreciated my error of identification.
By now we were back at the British Embassy enjoying a glass of crusted port before we retired for the evening. I urged Sir George to tell me more of the leading players in my case. He reflected for some moments, measuring his response in the way characteristic of all fine diplomatists. ‘Russia is undergoing profound changes and those in the key positions are not suited to their roles.’ With that he fell silent.
Thus it was that I spent the summer months trying to find out for myself. That there was unrest among the factory workers was undeniable and that food supplies were at best sporadic was equally undeniable, yet the people seemed happy with their Tsar if not their lot.
It was not long before I discovered that Russia was a land of rumour. Incidents which happened many miles away and in the utmost privacy would be the gossip of café society in St Petersburg within hours. This was possible because of the telephone and the secret police who seemed to be everywhere. One even followed me.
Prince Felix proved to be a charming host and we got on famously. As we sipped lemon tea from Lalique glasses he would answer my questions with a frankness I had not expected. He revealed that the Tsar was very popular but his wife, the Empress, was not. ‘There are two reasons for this,’ the prince said. ‘The first is not her fault, but the second is that she allows herself to be used by that devil Rasputin.’ At the mention of the name the prince became noticeably excitable and the spoon rattled in his cup as his hand quivered with emotion.
‘Did you know, doctor, that everyone who has criticized that devil has fallen from favour? Even the Empress’s own sister is shunned by her because she dared speak out against him. She is besotted with him. Poor Nicky. How I feel for him.’ The languor had left the prince to be replaced by a steely quality that I would have thought him to have been incapable. ‘Rasputin must be removed,’ he said in a hoarse whisper, apparently oblivious of my presence.
‘Are they lovers?’ I asked boldly.
‘Who knows for sure? He boasts that he has kissed the Empress in her daughters’ rooms. He tells people that he can get them positions at court for certain considerations — and he does. He can only manage it through the Empress’s patronage.’
Wherever I went the story was the same. The man Rasputin had bewitched the Empress and Russia was the loser. Yet nobody knew for certain what hold he had over her. The theories I will leave to your imagination.
Although the season was not in progress there were a great many people who had remained in the capital instead of joining the usual annual migration to the warmth of the Crimea. That seemed to be the only concession that Petrograd Society had made to the war.
Much to my surprise there were a great many English people in the city. They tended to be engineers on the railways and in the mines. There were several English clubs which could have been in Pall Mall except that the English newspapers were up to a month out of date.
One evening the surgeon from HMS Torquay, James Cambeuil, appeared and we chatted cordially enough. It turned out that he was a regular visitor and knew many of the members. Invariably our group was made up by Arthur Rowbotham, a railway engineer from Lancashire. A broad-shouldered man with thick brown/black brindled hair and an accent as broad as his shoulders, he was a convivial fellow who was in great contrast to his ‘old pal’, as he called him, James Cambeuil.
Cambeuil was on leave and having no family in England or Scotland he lived with the Rowbotham family in Petrograd. We all became good friends and I was able to enquire about conditions in Russia for the people.
‘Not unlike Blackburn,’ Rowbotham informed me. He did not elaborate — he was too interested in railway engines. ‘There’s hardly a one that works right int’ whole of Russia, Dr Watson. Them’s as do I drive me’sen.’
I was to be grateful for their friendship more than once in the months ahead.
Finally, at the end of the summer I was summoned to Tsarkoe Selo, ‘the Tsar’s Village’, to meet the Russian royal family.
Situated a short distance from St Petersburg, Tsarkoe Selo consisted of the Imperial Park which contained two palaces, the Catherine and the Alexander, and outside the gates of the park a small village had grown up, rather squalid-looking in comparison with the exotic gardens of the Imperial Park and its graceful palaces.
The exact reason for my summons was unclear, to all intents and purposes it was purely social based on my letters of introduction and our previous slight acquaintance, but I could not help speculating if there was a deeper reason.
My carriage took me through the Imperial Park, past the proud Cossacks on their magnificent black horses and the company of foot soldiers on permanent guard. The doors to the palace were opened by two servants in crimson livery who took me to an ante-room where they handed me over to the next servants who wore a different garb. This whole process was repeated for each room and corridor that I passed through. Eventually I was met by a stooping old man with a fine drooping moustache and waist-length beard who held onto a long staff which was obviously for ceremonial purposes but was necessary for him to grasp for support. He introduced himself as Count Vladimir Fredericks, the seneschal of the Royal Court who would act as my guide to the royal presences. However, instead of leading me off to meet them he simply stood where he was as though in a catatonic trance. This was rather embarrassing but the moment passed and he looked back at me and said, ‘Yes? Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?’ obviously forgetting the letters of introduction and invitation that were in his hand which had already explained my identity.
My next surprise was soon to follow. The doors behind the Court swung noiselessly open and there stood two enormous Negroes in gaudy uniforms of baggy silks, large white turbans held by gold clasps and equally white long curved pointed shoes.
‘Behold, the Tsar’s household, doctor,’ beamed the larger of them. It was the silent Negro who had been on HMS Torquay. ‘I thought we would meet again, Dr Watson. Your presence is urgently required.’ His eyes were not laughing now.
We moved through the Tsar’s chambers as fast as protocol would allow, the Count making sure that we observed the priorities. Instead of the gaudy orientalism that I had expected, the decor was just like an English country house. Before I could recover myself, the giant Negro was ushering me through a double door of linen-fold pattern, his solicitousness a veneer for his genuine concern.
‘Dr Watson, the Tsar of All the Russias,’ cried Count Vladimir, his voice cracking with intensity.
Was this the blood-drenched oppressor of peoples? The tyrant who ruled by the knout, and the Cossacks’ whip? His deep brown eyes brimmed with emotion as he held his hand to me. ‘Thank you for coming so quickly, Dr Watson,’ the warmth of his words matched by that of his handshake. ‘Quickly.’
We hurried to the door on the far side of the study which was already being opened by the giant Negro, whose bow was not one of subservience but respect. In several moments we were in the ante-room of the bedroom of Tsarevich Alexis where five men stood, heads bowed, hands behind their backs. They stood to attention as the Tsar arrived. He waved a hand and they relaxed.
‘Dr Botkin, Dr Derevenko, Dr Ostrogorsky, Dr Fedorova, Surgeon Rauchfuss — Dr John Hamish Watson of Baker Street,’ announced the Tsar. We bowed to each other and Dr Botkin stepped forward to shake my hand — or so I thought. Instead he knelt and kissed it.
‘Thank God that you have arrived. We
knew that you were in Russia but could not hope to believe that it was true.’
Dr Botkin was interrupted by Dr Derevenko. ‘Please, sir. You must help us. We are powerless. The Tsarevich is dying. You must save us all.’
I did not understand what his last words meant but was aware that there was a profound significance in them for them all. The doctors were desperate men. The Tsar simply looked at the doctor his eyes registering more in sadness than in conflict. He turned to me but looking to the parquet flooring as he considered his words. ‘Were you aware that my son is very ill, Dr Watson?’
It was not time for dissembling. ‘Yes, sir,’ I replied. ‘That is why I am here.’
‘In Tsarkoe Selo, or Russia?’ he enquired. His perspicacity took my breath away.
‘The latter, majesty,’ I found myself replying boldly.
He nodded, and smiled to himself. ‘Come.’ We moved towards the sickroom door. ‘Just Dr Watson, gentlemen.’ My fellow medics looked to each other in exasperation expecting a lead from Dr Botkin who merely shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of impotence.
I shall never forget the scene as we entered the Tsarevich’s room.
The curtains were drawn and the only light was from a multitude of candles, their flickerings catching on golden icons, giving the scene the appearance of a chapel limned by Rembrandt. Incense hung heavily in the atmosphere. The room was in complete contrast to the rest of the apartments, like a remnant of Russia contained in an island sea. It seemed to sum up Russia, that no matter how much the sophistication and European outlook of her rulers there was always Mother Russia at the heart of it all.
The large four-poster bed that contained the ailing prince was attended by his mother, the Tsaritsa Alexandra, a wraith of white lace and drawn features, her hair once red-gold was now liberally shot with silver grey. She rose as I entered, her face both regal yet imploring. Here she was not the proud German that I had heard cursed, but a distressed mother. I approached the Tsarevich to see for myself.
The Tsarevich, despite the warm glow of the candles, was ashen. His eyes were circled with heavy black rings and his lips were blue. Perspiration glistened on his forehead. At my approach his eyes widened, his breathing quickened, and he seemed to search my face. It was evident that he did not find what he was looking for, as he cried out in Russian and collapsed back onto his crumpled cushions.
I drew back the coverlets and saw the blood-gorged knee dark and distended against the sheets’ silken whiteness.
‘How did this happen?’ I asked.
‘He tripped on the stairs, doctor,’ his mother replied.
It was obviously a case of haemophilia — Mycroft had been right on that point, but the youth was not in any condition to be tested as to his sanity.
When I gave my diagnosis the Empress shrugged in despair. ‘We know what it is; we have our specialists. What we want to know is can you cure our son?’
There was no other answer but that the complaint was incurable. With this the Empress’s expression became almost triumphant. ‘So, not even the world-famous Dr Watson can cure my son. Are all the doctors happy now, Nicholas? There is only one who can cure him — Our Friend. Father Gregory.’
The Tsar silently nodded his assent. Out of the shadows stepped a powerful figure. Perhaps there was a secret door but whatever it was the effect was startling. His thick black hair was greasy with an irregular centre parting. His beard was long and tangled. He was of middle size and wore simple peasant homespun clothing which gave off a pungent agricultural aroma. Two things caught my attention — his hands and his eyes. His hands were long and well-shaped but also manly. The effect was rather spoilt by the black dirt under the fingernails. By contrast nothing detracted from his eyes. Set close together they were dark and hypnotic and seemed to be looking straight through me. So this was the Dissolute One, Gregory Efimovich.
The Empress looked imploringly at the starets who bowed deferentially and approached the sick child. He raised his hand in benediction and murmured what I took to be a prayer. The child opened his eyes and smiled. Father Gregory looked at the Tsarevich, his eyes seeming to grow larger and more powerful. The Tsarevich’s breathing grew more regular and he became calm. The starets spoke slowly in a very deep voice that was full of strength and to my ears, unused to the Russian tongue, kindness. Russia was indeed a land of mysteries. How was I to solve these riddles and act in accordance with Mycroft’s directives? But the first enigma was, did Father Gregory have the ability to cure haemophilia, and it was to that that I turned my attention.
I observed this rough peasant bring about a miraculous transformation in the Tsarevich and his mother. Gone was the despair and the dread of a moment ago. Hope and serenity now filled them and acted as a magic balm.
After half an hour we all withdrew from the sick chamber, the starets returning to the mysterious void from which he had originally appeared but not before giving me a look of triumph and contempt. In that instant I determined my course of action. Tea was served. ‘The biscuits are from England, Dr Watson,’ observed the Empress.
‘Yes, my cousin George knows that I like them,’ added her husband.
Despite the civilities the atmosphere was tense. The Empress spoke first on the subject that filled our thoughts.
‘Our friend is the only one who can help our beloved son, Dr Watson. Your journey has been wasted.’
The initiative was understandably the Empress’s but there were questions that needed answers and duty that needed discharging.
‘Might I ask how Father Gregory was able to help the Tsarevich when he was ill at Spela despite being many miles away?’
‘He sent a telegram, doctor,’ the Tsar informed me.
‘What did it say?’
The Empress was quick to respond. ‘Although I do not have it on my person I can remember the words quite clearly. “God has seen your tears and heard your prayers. Do not grieve. The Little One will not die. Do not allow the doctors to bother him too much.” And the very next day the bleeding stopped. Alexis was saved.’ Her face glowed at the memory of it all.
My next words had to be weighted carefully, but they were based on Mycroft’s deductions and my own ‘on the spot’ observations. It was best to lead up to them slowly.
‘What does Father Gregory say when he speaks to the Tsarevich, your Highness. Special prayers, perhaps?’
‘Indeed the Holy Father does pray for our son, but he does that in his own chamber. When he sees Alexis he blesses him and then tells him Russian and Siberian folk tales.’
The last piece in the jigsaw was complete. How I wished at that moment that I was Sir George Buchanan with his great gifts of tact and diplomacy but it was no time for faint hearts.
‘What do you wish to say, doctor?’ the Tsar asked, his tone soft and encouraging, noting my hesitancy.
‘Your Highness, I stand by what I said. The Tsarevich has haemophilia and haemophilia is incurable. Not even Father Gregory has cured him. He alleviates the disease’s recurrences but he does not cure the Tsarevich.’
‘He does far more than any doctor,’ the Empress firmly interjected. Despite its large contribution to my recreation, gambling has never had a place in my medical ministrations but I gambled then as I faced the Empress.
‘I will make the Tsarevich well again, your Highness.’ My tone was determined and the Tsar responded immediately.
‘What makes you so confident, Dr Watson?’ he asked.
‘Because I have seen through the starets.’
The Empress became so irritated that she dropped her teaspoon with a clatter into her saucer. ‘So you too wish to denounce him.’
‘No, your Highness. I wish to clarify his methods for you. Having seen him and heard what you have said it is clear to me that he spoke sensibly when he advised you not to let the doctors disturb your son. Too much disturbance can cause the slowly forming clot to dissipate, thus prolonging the Tsarevich’s agony. When he is afflicted he needs calm and quiet. The sig
ht of too much worry and fussing will adversely affect his recovery.’
‘But I have nursed him myself,’ cried the mother within the Empress.
‘With respect, that has been one of the problems, your Highness.’
‘Explain,’ she commanded coldly.
‘Yes, doctor, you have insulted my wife,’ added the Tsar, his voice hardening. The stakes were getting higher.
‘Your distress has been conveyed to your son by your very presence thus causing him more anxiety. Anxiety is the greatest enemy to the afflicted haemophiliac. However, when you received the telegram from Father Gregory his words filled you with reassurance which acted through you to save your son.’
‘That is true, Alicky,’ the Tsar said. ‘Don’t you remember saying that you had lost all your anxiety when Father Gregory’s cable arrived?’
The Empress grudgingly admitted that it was so. She turned to me. ‘You have one week, Dr Watson. Save Alexis or leave Russia.’
The gauntlet was offered and accepted.
I went to work immediately. If my theories concerning Father Gregory’s success in this case were correct, I was going to need allies. The five doctors obviously had no love for the starets and there was also M Gilliard whom Mycroft had mentioned to be contacted. On another level were two sailors who accompanied the Tsarevich wherever he went, keeping a watchful eye on their charge; these men also needed to be befriended. However, there were four allies whose loyalty and affection I believed could be relied upon. They were the Tsarevich’s four sisters whom I had met as young girls at St Petersburg and Cowes several years before. My recollections pictured them as fresh-faced girls of great natural charm whose high spirits were only just held in check by their sense of duty and their love and respect for their parents. We renewed our acquaintance at teatime that afternoon.
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