by Will Thomas
“That I have, Jeremy,” I said, sounding more cheerful than I was.
And so the day began. Very few people ever knew how close the tsarevich came to being assassinated that day. The newspaper mentioned a small commotion in Pall Mall, but claimed it was a runaway horse that bowled through the crowd, which in fact it was. The most believable lie is the truth.
We never darkened the door of the Goat Tavern again. We met Jim at the Cromwell Arms that evening, which did not serve the delicacy, and if they had it would be like shoe leather, if the chop I had there was any indication.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” our client said. “I was certain Nicky’s life was forfeit.”
“It very nearly was,” Barker admitted.
“I think otherwise. You stopped an assassination with a few street urchins and a box of whistles.”
“More than a few.”
“You stopped another attempt by knocking the tsar’s son off his pins,” Hercules added.
“With but a second to spare.”
“You’re not chiding yourself, surely?” Hercules asked.
“Perhaps, but I have nothing with which to compare this enquiry,” the Guv answered, downing the last of his ale. “To whom do I send my fee?” Barker continued. “I’m sure you could not afford it. Will it be the Russian embassy? The American? The Home Office, perhaps?”
The corner of Jim’s mouth tugged to the side.
“I reckon that was my due,” he said. “I regret having hoodwinked you gentlemen, but it was necessary. I respect you, Mr. Barker, or at the very least, your right hook. I can see why McClain chose you as his partner.”
“We stopped the assassination and named the man who was responsible for it,” the Guv said. “However, we were not able to capture the assassin. This will be reflected in the bill. There were a number of expenses in this enquiry.”
“Yes, sir,” Jim said. The smile had gone from his lips.
“Is there anything else you require from us?” Barker asked.
“Nicholas wants to see you, to congratulate you.”
Barker stared. Or at least, I thought he stared. At first, I thought he would refuse the request. No one deserves to be shot, surely, but the tsarevich had done little to be worthy of endangering our lives.
“Very well,” he said.
The three of us took a cab. Barker was at his most adamantine. Jim Hercules looked over at me for some kind of aid. However, it was not a time when I felt generous. I’d liked the fellow well enough, but I was disappointed that we had been tricked. Barker must have been suspicious from the first or he wouldn’t have had Sarah Fletcher involved. It occurred to me belatedly that the girl in Hyde Park who had watched us from a bench was she.
At the front entrance of the palace, we alighted from the cab. I crossed over the very spot where this disastrous case had begun. I followed a path to the palace from which the servants had come with their pitcher and ewer.
“When is the tsarevich leaving?” Barker asked.
“In the morning,” Hercules replied.
The Guv nodded. For a moment I thought he was going to say “good riddance to bad rubbish,” but he didn’t. Inside, we met the butler, Bingham, at his most solemn.
“We are here to see the tsarevich at his request,” Barker said.
“Very good, sir. At the moment he is in the stable mews.”
The thought came to me that one of the man’s duties was to keep a running count and a location for every royal in the building.
“I know where that is,” Jim drawled.
He took us out a side door, through a hedged garden, and into an anonymous hall. Corridors went on forever and I wondered how large the property was. Finally, we stepped outside and saw an outbuilding with shavings and straw. We went inside.
Nicholas was putting a white Arabian gelding through his paces. He circled the ring several times and then jumped him over a low hurdle. He was not a fine horseman. He lacked skill and command. Nicholas had tried every other form of entertainment in the palace and this was all that was left.
“Hello, chaps!” he called at our advent. “Be down in a few minutes!”
He circled and jumped until the horse’s body had a sheen and its rider became bored.
“I’ll be so glad to be back in Saint Petersburg,” he called. “I miss the food and the young people. Too bad London could not be livelier. Your staid reputation is well earned.”
He slowed the horse and a stableman ran out and took the reins before he climbed down into the ring. Nicholas pulled off his gloves and began to walk toward us.
“You could have knocked me over with a feather when I learned it was Sergei who had hired that assassin,” the tsarevich said. “I thought he was a mate. We were members of the Potato Club, after all. Obviously, he’s gone off his chump. He’ll arrive at the Summer Palace any moment now and will be roundly interrogated. I sent him to watch over my mistress and he falls in love with her. What cheek!”
“What shall happen to him, sir?” I asked.
“He’ll be all right. My uncles and cousins are too powerful to allow one of their lot to be sent to a Siberian prison, but he will be put in charge of an artillery division on the Afghan frontier. If he survives that, I suppose I’ll have to forgive him. Sergei and I have known each other since he was in short trousers and I in nappies. Blood is thicker, and all that. However, when he comes back I’ve got a suitable punishment. I believe I shall send him back to Paris and make him look after Mathilde. They deserve each other.”
He turned to the Guv. “You did well enough saving my neck in the tavern across the street. Sergei was nearly too clever for you, I think, Mr. Detective. I forgive you, however, for knocking me to the ground. Couldn’t be helped, I suppose, but you bruised my elbow.”
“Thank you, Your Imperial Highness,” Barker said with frost in his voice.
“Bad form about losing the assassin.”
“Bad luck, sir,” I heard Jim Hercules whisper behind him.
Nicholas turned his head in annoyance. “Bad luck, then. And you! Thank you for the shooting lesson. It was enormous fun. Give Jim one of your cards. I’m sure you’ve each earned yourself a medal.”
A man in a Russian uniform marched up to him, saluted, and spoke to him briefly in Russian. The tsarevich looked perturbed at the interruption. He rolled his eyes right in front of the poor man.
“Yes, in a minute!” Nicholas said, waving him away.
“What has become of Miss Kschessinska?” the Guv asked.
“I pressed Cousin George into service to take care of her. The two don’t really get along, but he’s going to Athens and can escort her to Paris on the way.”
The military man interrupted him again and the tsarevich snapped back in anger.
“I must go, gentlemen,” he said. “My grandmother wishes to see me before I leave London. Good day to you both!”
He turned and left, his boots clicking on the marble floor.
“He never learned our names,” I remarked.
It was starting to rankle, and then a group of men hurried past. I saw a number of bruises on their faces and at least one sling.
“Good-bye, Mr. Rachkovsky!” I called after them.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Things rather fell apart after that. The Russian delegation left England and we had no new cases for a week. The days were hot in mid-July and there were no pockets of cool air to be found anywhere.
Without Rebecca, there was no reason to get out of bed in the morning, save duty. Mac took to rousting me out of bed again, and when I went downstairs the only face I found waiting for me was Etienne’s, which I wouldn’t wish on anybody. Barker was forbearing for several days, leaving me on my own for the most part. My old mantle of melancholy, which had been cast aside for two years, returned like an old friend and wrapped about my shoulders.
My insomnia returned, as well, and I took to walking at night, often for miles. At times I was numb, at others short-tempered. I was
angry with God. We weren’t on good terms. This wasn’t fair, I reasoned. When I was beaten and kidnapped those years ago, I’d been leading a monk’s existence for years. Any relationship I began with a girl quickly fell apart and once or twice a year I’d see Rebecca’s cab go by and I’d yearn. I wanted her from the very day I’d seen her on our first case, in which I invaded the Mocatta household to act as a Shabbes goy, ostensibly to light the fires in the house, but really to get information on a case.
Not fair, I’d said, but as the Guv often tells me, life is not fair this side of the veil, otherwise there would be no need for the other. As for Sofia, I could recall little of our actual time together. She came and went. She changed the ointment on my wounds. She chattered, but I cannot recall what it was about. We did not have long conversations. We did not have a relationship of any sort, though if I remember, her decision to kidnap me had not been part of her father’s plans. I was someone to talk to; someone who needed her, and needed the herbs to heal me, whatever they were. She was broken by her horrible father, a beautiful young woman made a weapon of destruction against his enemies. It wasn’t the tryst that Rebecca thought it was. Far from it.
One night I couldn’t take it anymore. I was wandering aimlessly when I resolved to do something. It was time to screw my courage to the sticking place, to quote the Bard. I would go to Camomile Street to see if Rebecca was there, and speak to her. Surely she could not hate me forever, and either way, I would find out if she was alone or had gone home to her parents. Perhaps I had been a fool and she was waiting for me all this time to come and apologize. The more I walked the more convinced I was that this was the case.
I stood in front of Rebecca’s house, my house, for about five minutes before I got up the nerve to cross the street and knock. Perhaps I hoped that she would see me, fling open the door, run into my arms, and say it was all a misunderstanding. No. She did not.
The door did not open when I grasped the handle. It was locked, so I seized the knocker and rapped. One minute went by. Two. I listened and watched for light in the window. It wasn’t completely dark inside, although the light was low. I rapped again; nothing.
Then I pounded on the door, a good thirty times at least. If there were anyone inside at all they would come, if only to tell me to clear off. Finally, someone did. It was our maid.
“Lillian, is Mrs. Llewelyn at home?” I asked.
She was as cold as a statue and just as formal. She opened the door part of the way and blocked me from entering. I could have kicked it in, but I didn’t want to add assaulting our maid to my list of sins.
“She is not, sir,” she replied.
“Could you tell me where she is?”
“I could not.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You will not say.”
She stared at me with something approaching loathing. “Very well, I will not say.”
“Lillian, this is my house. My property. If she is in there, I demand to see her.”
She stepped back, pulling the door open fully, raising an arm, bidding me to enter.
It was no use. She wasn’t there. Her parents had her. There was no reason to burst in and look through all the rooms for her. Rebecca was not the sort to hide from me.
“Thank you, Lillian,” I said. “Tell her … Tell her I am thinking about her.”
After a few days of solitary walks I stopped into a pub and bought a half. The next night, it became three pints, and five on the third. On the fourth day, I wandered into a gin palace and had to go home by cab. Mac was disappointed in me the following morning.
“Hold still,” he admonished. “Give me that razor, before you slice your head off.”
Then he poured me into a suit. He did a reasonably good attempt at making me look as if I were not shattered.
Barker saw it all, of course, and said nothing. If a man chose to fall apart silently and there was not a pressing case at hand it was not his business. We rarely spoke to each other in the office.
After a week, however, he finally pulled me aside.
“Brighten yourself up a little, Thomas,” he said. “You’re looking morose and slovenly. It reflects poorly on the agency.”
The agency, the agency; everything reflected on the agency. I was walking off a cliff and all he could do was discuss the ruddy agency. No, that’s not fair, but as he always said, who said life was fair?
“Thomas!” a man said in the doorway to our chambers one afternoon, pulling me into a crushing embrace. It was Brother Malachi, my pastor, come to take me out to lunch. By that time I had nearly stopped speaking. It was easier. When we were settled at The Shades, Malachi rattled on about this and that and tried to comfort me, but it only made me clutch my melancholy closer.
One morning I awoke, actually able to shave myself, but I found a stranger in the mirror. I was gaunt, gray, my eyes rimmed with red. After numerous attempts to attach my collar button with nerveless fingers, Mac finally took pity on me.
“This can’t go on, Thomas,” he said.
He’d never spoken to me like that before. He knew my life was circling the drain. He reasoned that every time I crossed Waterloo Bridge in the middle of the night I dawdled and looked over the side into the Thames wistfully.
“There,” he said, settling my suit jacket correctly on my shoulders. He straightened my tie and my pocket square.
“Smarten yourself up, lad, there’s a good fellow,” I muttered.
I went downstairs slowly. They were building stairs steeper those days, I noticed. The only way to keep from stumbling was to actually tap the heel of my shoe against the back of each stair.
Finally, I reached the bottom.
“Thomas.”
I turned and looked at the front door. Rebecca stood there, surrounded by suitcases. My heart nearly stopped. She seemed impossibly beautiful. One would have thought she’d finished a tour of the Mediterranean. Her beauty hurt my eyes. I sat down on the bottom step and pressed a palm to each eye. Later that day, I would learn that Barker had called Philippa the night she left, and she had swooped down on Rebecca like an eagle, or perhaps an angel, and carried her off to Sussex. I love that woman, Philippa, for her service, for all she did for the Llewelyns.
“Thomas,” my wife said again, bending over me.
She tousled my hair and a thought came to me then: something good might actually happen in the universe. It was the last thing I expected anymore. A seed of hope.
AFTERWORD
SERGEI MIKHAILOVICH
Grand Duke Sergei Mikhailovich of Russia remained the protector and provider for Mathilde Kschessinska for the rest of his life. After having his proposal refused by her, he never married. While his relationship with Tsar Nicholas cooled, his last act was an incredibly brave attempt to save the tsar and his family at their execution in Ekaterinburg, by flinging his body in front of them to try to save their lives. He was buried alongside the Romanovs.
MATHILDE KSCHESSINSKA
In 1896, Mathilde became the prima ballerina of the Saint Petersburg Imperial Theatre, with the help and influence of the imperial courts. She gave birth in 1902 to a son, Vladimir, but would not admit if the father was Sergei Mikhailovich or his cousin, Andrei Vladimirovich. She amassed property in Saint Petersburg, and when the Revolution came, she moved to Paris, where she lived quietly until her death, a few months shy of her hundredth birthday. She left behind an autobiography of her personal life and triumphs.
ELEANOR MARX
After a life spent editing her father’s works, speaking at rallies of the Socialist League, appearing on the London stage, and translating various works, Eleanor learned that her lover, Edward Aveling, was secretly married. She poisoned herself with prussic acid and chloroform in 1898 at forty-three years of age.
PRINCE GEORGE OF GREECE AND DENMARK
Aside from the Otsu incident, in which he saved Nicholas’s life, George is best remembered for helping organize the 1896 Summer Olympics and for an unhappy marriage to heiress Marie Bonapar
te, a great-grandniece of Napoleon.
WILLIAM MORRIS
Morris died in 1896, leaving behind a legacy of novels, poetry, translations of Icelandic sagas, a fledgling green movement, a revived decorative textile arts industry, and a number of Democratic Socialist publications. He is considered one of the most outstanding and colorful figures of the Victorian Age.
PYOTR RACHKOVSKY
Rachkovsky was chief of the Okhrana in Paris until 1902. He perfected a system of infiltrating anarchist organizations throughout Europe. He returned to Saint Petersburg to helm the Okhrana there during martial law and was influential in aiding and disseminating the infamous anti-Semitic text The Protocols of the Elders of Zion. He died in 1910, before the Russian Revolution.
JIM HERCULES
Jim Hercules served in his position as bodyguard to Nicholas and Alexandra until the palace was overrun by Bolsheviks. Afterward, he dropped from public record, but it is believed he survived the revolution.
NICHOLAS II OF RUSSIA (NIKOLAI II ALEXANDROVICH ROMANOV)
Nicholas II’s life is one of the most tragic in history. Several ill-informed decisions during his reign contributed to the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917. A happy marriage with Alexandra Feodorovna (Princess Alix of Hesse) and family life with his children, Olga, Tatiana, Maria, Anastasia, and Alexei, were ended with their execution at Ekaterinburg on July 17, 1918.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m staggered by the number of steps that occur between writing “the end” and your reading these lines. There are so many people who worked tirelessly to bring it to you.
First, I’d like to thank my agent, Maria Carvainis, for her time and encouragement, as well as Martha Guzman at the agency for taking care of so many important details. I’d also like to thank my terrific editor, Keith Kahla, as well as the wonderful team at Minotaur, including Hector DeJean and Alice Pfeifer. I appreciate you all.