The people who had but a moment ago been a carefree audience of the music hall performance now shrank in fear and loathing from this beast in human form and as they retreated a space opened up between Rasputin and myself. When he caught sight of me he stopped staggering and roaring. Instead he fixed his eyes on me and approached me on slow unsteady legs, the sound of his boots clearly audible on the polished wooden floor in that sea of frightened silence. His eyes were the distillation of evil: it was as though he was a cobra coil sprung to strike and I was his target. I stood my ground and became aware of Cambeuil and Rowbotham standing at my shoulders. The Holy Father spat on the floor and then began to chant, ‘Doctor, Doctor.’ After that performance he boomed with laughter and ran at me. Before he had gone three paces he slipped and a group of policemen caught hold of him and dragged him from the premises cursing, kicking and spitting.
Uproar returned but above it all a young man jumped onto a table and cried, ‘Who has the courage to save us from this beast? Revolution threatens and an obscure starets must govern Russia no longer.’ The crowd cheered its approval but none moved to carry out the entreaty.
‘Words, only words,’ grumbled Cambeuil.
‘Aye,’ agreed Rowbotham.
As they spoke I noticed the door to one of the more exclusive rooms swing open. Inside was Prince Felix, white and trembling with emotion.
January 1st 1917 was a bright sunny day. There had been some heavy snowfalls in the night and the Neva was largely ice but the clear blue sky welcomed the new year with a smile. Petrograd once more had been alive with rumours. Where was Rasputin? Three days before he had been seen getting into Prince Felix’s motor car to go to a late night party, and he had not returned. By mid-afternoon people were hugging each other in the street saying, ‘The beast is dead. Rasputin is no more. Long live the Tsar. We have our Tsar back.’
The report of Rasputin’s end was as spectacular as his life. Prince Felix had lured him to a cellar and with the help of several accomplices had proceeded to poison, beat, shoot and finally drown the Dissolute One.
The next day a cable arrived for me as I packed. ‘Stay until further notice. Mycroft Holmes.’ This was a puzzling order as the greatest obstruction to civil order was now removed. Even Sir George Buchanan’s sensitive political antennae could not pick up the reason for concern, but Mycroft, I knew, did not say things lightly.
Several weeks later I was in the English Club with James Cambeuil and Arthur Rowbotham. Between sips of his Imperial Russia stout Rowbotham confided that things were going from bad to worse with the trains. ‘If they don’t sort it out, there’ll be no food in Petrograd in a couple of weeks.’
‘I shall be away by then, thank Heaven,’ responded Cambeuil looking through the single malt in his crystal glass as though contemplating the future. ‘And yourself, doctor?’ he enquired of me. ‘You’re still under orders, I trust?’
Before I could answer, one of the club stewards rushed into the bar and cried, ‘There’s rioting all over the city. There’s no food in the last train.’
‘Just as ye said, Arthur,’ observed Cambeuil without changing his position. ‘Except you got your timing wrong. A poor habit for a train driver, I’ll be bound.’
Arthur Rowbotham became agitated. ‘Excuse me, gents, but I’d best be off, have to see the wife. She is still not used to Cossacks whipping people in’t street.’
‘I’ll come with ye,’ volunteered Cambeuil and they left quickly. Despite his almost casual air, James Cambeuil was obviously worried — he did not finish his drink before leaving.
How to write of such momentous events which witnessed the fall of a three hundred year old dynasty and replace it with a godless ideology? As far as I can judge the main episodes were as follows: there was a lack of food which led to the people of Petrograd rioting. Troops were brought in but instead of quelling the disturbances they joined it. Even the Tsar’s personal bodyguard at Tsarkoe Selo, who had sworn allegiance to him personally, also defected. Tsar Nicholas II saw that to continue would bring civil war on Russia. Thus he abdicated, but not in favour of his son but his younger brother, Michael. It was this one act that stunned observers. Why deprive the Tsarevich of his right? was the question on everyone’s lips. The reason was of course that the Tsar knew he would be exiled and his son ruled by others at least until his age of majority. Even if he survived that he was still at the mercy of a sudden fall or injury. How could he survive among unsympathetic strangers ruling such a vast empire? In the end it was his family that was empire enough for the last anointed Romanoff Tsar of all the Russias.
The signing of the abdication took place on a train near Pskov and the Tsar was later reunited with his family in Tsarkoe Selo where they were able to be kept as prisoners until the new Duma or Parliament could decide what to do with them.
The community of the ex-Tsar’s family and retainers remained at Tsarkoe Selo for several months. All communications were censored. At all times armed guards surrounded what remained of the household. What had become of them? Rumours persisted of course. Newspapers were full of ‘revolutions’ of Rasputin and the Empress. The Tsar was shown laughing and eating a large meal while political prisoners were done to death and Russian peasants starved before his eyes. My blood boiled at this misrepresentation but what could I do?
Diplomatic activity in the Embassy was intense with telegrams passing between Petrograd and London every single day. Although I was a government agent, Sir George did not allow me to read any of them. Finally, a message arrived for me from Mycroft Holmes. It purported to be a detailed criticism of my report; in fact it was a code which explained the position. It made grave reading.
The King had wanted to do everything in his power to assist the escape of the Royal Family but had been overruled by the Prime Minister who regarded the overthrow of the Romanoffs as a step in the right direction in the progress of man. In the face of this the King did not insist. At least not to the Prime Minister. Instead he referred to Mycroft Holmes, who in turn referred to me. Money was to be made available for whatever scheme I could devise, but as Mycroft pointed out I was on the spot and all final decisions were mine.
This was a weighty task indeed. What would Holmes have done in my place? A series of audacious enterprises, bewildering disguises and a final ‘coup de theatre’ no doubt. But what did I have? Funds, a Rolls-Royce, only a smattering of Russian taught to me by the Tsarevich, and a physique still weak and wasted from its trials. Then there was Cambeuil, Rowbotham and the Tsar’s household, but what could I make of them?
I looked at a map of Russia. Escape by railway to Murmansk and a British ship was the obvious route — so obvious that others would be waiting to intercept us. The Crimea was friendly but could only be reached by rail through some of the most violently anti-Tsarist towns and country in Russia. Having discarded the impossible what remained was improbable but possible. My idea was to take the family to freedom via Japan. In other words travel the entire length of Asiatic Russia thus leaving the revolutionary lands of the European in Russia to look to themselves.
It was a very long shot and I smoked several pipes over it, but I could think of no alternative. With Rowbotham driving the train and Cambeuil lending a hand as well as the Royal Family’s retainers, there was a chance of success.
When they were approached, Cambeuil and Rowbotham readily agreed to help but Rowbotham pointed out that we must avoid Yekaterinberg at all costs because the people there were steelworkers or miners who hated the Tsar more than anyone else in the world.
There remained one great difficulty. How could the Royal Family, its suite, and a complete train be spirited away from Tsarkoe Selo?
The canny Cambeuil listened to my exposition and suggested, ‘If ye have funds why not bribe the guards?’
From what I knew of the revolutionary leaders the guards would be forfeiting their lives if they allowed their charges to escape. ‘In that case, man,’ persisted the little Scot with all the tenacity of his
race, ‘ransom them from the revolutionaries. That way it’s all above board.’
The idea was an attractive one. If made through the correct channels it must surely work. Consultations with Sir George did much to dampen my spirits. He communicated with London but found that attitudes had hardened. The British people, steeped in the belief that the Tsar was a blood-soaked autocrat, would not have him in England. This in turn had made both Government and Monarch not wish to risk unpopularity. Officially the funds were stopped. My telegrams to Mycroft went unanswered. The position was hopeless.
There is much truth in old proverbs, the accumulated wisdom of the countless generations, as was proved to me the next day. It was my darkest hour. I felt that I had betrayed all the trust that had been put in me by both Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, the Tsar, OTMA and the Tsarevich.
When the final telegram from London had arrived which withdrew any offer of asylum from the British Government, even Sir George had broken down and begged me to save the Romanoffs and the honour of our country. The burden of responsibility was intolerable and my health began to suffer. But dawn came in the shape of a small round man with dark thinning hair, sleepy spaniel eyes, and the general air of a mammal approaching hibernation. However, on seeing me he was startled to exclaim, ‘It’s impossible. You look nothing like Dr Watson.’ Sir George reaffirmed my identity.
‘The Strand has been too complimentary, I fear,’ I observed.
‘No, sir, not that,’ he replied excitedly turning to Sir George. ‘It’s almost uncanny.’
‘What are you talking about, sir?’ I exclaimed.
‘Allow me to introduce Mr Sidney Gibbs, the Tsarevich’s English tutor,’ said the diplomatist with a bow.
We exchanged a long look and nodded to each other. An idea had sprung up with the need of words. We both turned to Sir George. He too was thoughtfully nodding. ‘Dr Watson, Mr Sidney Gibbs, English tutor to the Tsarevich and at present one of the few people who has seen the Tsar in the last few days. We can trust his eye.’
‘I think we have some details to thrash out, don’t you, gentlemen?’ he said, the lassitude in his eyes replaced by a burning energy.
II
An hour later a Rolls-Royce emerged from the British Embassy at Petrograd. Instead of a Romanoff eagle on the steering boss there was a brass Union flag. Two other Union flags fluttered on the bonnet as the car, driven by a chauffeur in riding helmet, goggles, driving mask, fur coat and gauntlets and conveying the Tsarevich’s tutor and an eminent Scottish naval surgeon, made its way south on the Tsarkoe Selo road.
Petrograd was ominously quiet. Workers in heavy boots and rough woollen overcoats, peasants in felt boots and coloured padded coats paused to observe its passing. Headscarves flapped in the breeze but their wearers registered no emotion and soon returned to their previous occupations. For the moment they were spent.
As the car drew nearer to Tsarkoe Selo, guards with red armbands began to fill the road. The gates were heavily guarded but when Mr Gibbs spoke up the party was allowed to pass unhindered. Some of the soldiers had the slit eyes and humourless lupine faces of the Asiatic of the Steppes, others the heavy frames and blotchy faces of ex-factory workers. The revolution obviously appealed to more than one race or group.
The car drew up to the steps of the Alexander palace and the small party disembarked. The guards, at first surly, became more respectful when Mr Gibbs addressed them and they saw the flags on the car. Now instead of an absent-minded old Finnish Count with a long beard and moustache, supported by an army of brightly liveried servants there was an army of ex-servants and former factory workers with red armbands, most of whom looked a disgrace to any regiment except one of successful revolutionaries.
The chauffeur looked at his watch. Four o’clock — tea time. The party was directed to the office of the acting commander Colonel Eugene Kobylinsky. He was an imposing figure who walked with a slight limp and he observed something similar in the carriage of the chauffeur. Although only recently installed as commander this twice-wounded veteran of the Eastern Front had done much to shelter the Royal Family from the rude soldiery of their captors. He was a soldier not a politician. He saluted Mr Sidney Gibbs and, when he was introduced, Surgeon James Cambeuil. The chauffeur remained anonymous.
‘You will hurt the Tsarevich, not help him, with all these doctors, Mr Gibbs,’ he said warmly. Neither surgeon nor chauffeur understood the Russian’s words.
Mr Gibbs waited until the guards had closed the doors before he introduced the newcomers. ‘Surgeon James Cambeuil of the British Navy,’ he intoned. The Tsar bowed and the Tsarevich’s companion, the sailor Nagorny, saluted. ‘And may I present our chauffeur . . .’ the tutor continued but putting a finger to his lips and urging silence with a downward gesture of his palm. ‘Tsar Nicholas II of All the Russias.’
The chauffeur removed his helmet, goggles, scarf and driving mask to reveal the double of the displaced monarch. The entire royal retinue let out a gasp except for the Tsar himself who stepped forward and said, ‘Dr Watson, I assumed you had returned to Baker Street.’ Despite all his self-discipline his eyes brimmed and he hugged the famous biographer with passion. Even the Tsaritsa was overcome with emotion and clasped his hand warmly, but she already sensed danger.
‘Your Highness, I am honoured to be in your presence again, and able to repeat my offer of assistance,’ the doctor replied. The Tsaritsa blushed at the reference to the unanswered telegram. ‘We have so little time, sir. We must swop clothes now. You know you can trust me.’
The Tsar and his wife exchanged glances. ‘But I cannot leave my family, doctor. The Colonel Kobylinsky is our friend, as is the Premier Kerensky, so we have nothing to fear. We will soon be saved by our British cousins.’
The doctor’s face grew grim. From within the lining of his gauntlets he withdrew several telegrams, all originating from London. The Tsar’s face became ashen, as did the Tsaritsa’s when they read them. Mr Gibbs outlined the plan as quickly as he could while Cambeuil and Nagorny stood by the door to prevent intrusion. The substitution was effected in a few minutes. Several moments later the door burst open and a group of unshaven soldiers appeared at the door.
‘There they are. The blood-drinking Romanoffs,’ they cried. One approached Watson as though to strike him but the ‘Tsar’ stood proudly and the soldier slunk back muttering oaths as he did so. The others followed him from the room.
‘Well done, doctor,’ said the tutor. ‘He will think twice before approaching you again. I must now help the surgeon to examine the Tsarevich otherwise our mission will be suspected.’
‘There is one question that I wish to ask,’ the Tsar interjected. ‘Am I to believe that I have taken over the role of chauffeur?’
‘Yes, Your Highness,’ replied Gibbs breezily.
‘Then we must prepare ourselves for a shock,’ continued the Tsar. ‘I have never driven a Rolls-Royce in my life.’
The three Britons gasped.
‘But Your Highness,’ stammered Watson, ‘I thought you to be an enthusiast. The note . . .’
‘Indeed, doctor, I am an enthusiast, not a driver. The note and the car were from the Empress.’
It was Dr Watson’s turn to blush but no amount of colouring could obscure the problem. Before anyone’s resolve could sag further Dr Watson stepped in. ‘In that case I shall explain while Gibbs and Cambeuil go about their business.’
The next few minutes were spent in feverish activity with Dr Watson explaining the intricacies of crank handles, advance-retards, clutches, gear changes, throttles, revs and brakes. The Tsar listened intently, well aware that the slightest mistake could lead to the discovery of the deception and dire consequences.
‘First you see Surgeon Cambeuil to his seat,’ the doctor instructed. ‘Next ensure that the gears are in neutral. I left them in first when I parked, so you must release them. The gear lever is the larger of the two levers outside the car which you release by gripping the handle and ratchet lever then
moving the whole stick to the left. Next you prime the petrol, then you must turn the crank handle over. Do not forget to keep your thumb and fingers on the same side of the handle. It is located at the front of the car and it is that which starts the engine. You get into the car via the passenger door and slide across the seat. To move off, you must engage first gear. This is done by depressing the clutch which is the pedal on the floor to the left. Then you move the gear lever to the right. Next release the hand brake which is next to the gear lever. Finally let the clutch pedal up and depress the accelerator. Try not to use the foot brake as it works off the transmission and is only intended for emergency use.’
Notwithstanding his great intelligence it was obvious that the Tsar found the instructions confusing. He was not helped by the anxiety of his wife and daughters writ large on their faces and betrayed by their nervous hands constantly clasping and unclasping. The Tsar tried to repeat the instructions but made several mistakes. ‘It’s no use, doctor,’ he groaned in despair, ‘I will never master it. Perhaps Mr Cambeuil can sit next to me and instruct me.’
‘I am afraid not, sir. He has never driven a car before — in fact that was the first time he had been in a car.’
‘Then all is lost, doctor. We must change clothes again and have faith in Premier Kerensky.’
‘No, sir,’ replied the doctor firmly. ‘Only words directly from yourself can sting the British Government into action.’
‘What you say may be true,’ said the Empress, ‘but it does not turn the Tsar into a chauffeur.’
Dr Watson pondered for a moment, his mind racing. ‘There is a way, sir. I will come with you and show you what to do but it is very simple. Put the gears into neutral and put the advance-retard full on. It is marked on the steering wheel. The engine will start as it is still warm from my journey. Then put it into third gear — do not forget the clutch, and push the accelerator down, but be careful, the car will pick up speed quickly and may backfire.’
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