Spies in St. Petersburg

by Katherine Woodfine

  Lil watched him go, fascinated. What was it Carruthers had said on the train? Who knows, maybe they have a delightful little sideline in illegal gun-running? Was that what she had just seen? Was the circus being used as a cover to smuggle guns secretly into St Petersburg – and had Rogers just arranged for them to be delivered, even while the Imperial Gala took place?

  Carruthers was staring after Rogers too. ‘What did he say?’ Lil asked him eagerly.

  Carruthers shook his head, as though he was still trying to make sense of what he’d heard. ‘He told him where to deliver the crate – and that was strange enough. But that wasn’t all. At the end he said something like: Now, get out of here. You don’t want to be anywhere near this place when tonight’s performance ends.’

  On the other side of the circus building, Sophie was trailing Viktor back towards the entrance, blazing with electric lights. She stayed well back, keeping to the shadows, grateful for her dark coat and for Vera’s blue scarf, which she slipped up to cover her blonde hair so it wouldn’t catch the light.

  Viktor was making a beeline for a young lady who was leaving the circus performance early and was climbing into a motor-taxi.

  ‘Hotel Europa,’ Sophie heard her say to the driver, in a clear, distinctly English voice.

  ‘Miss – excuse me – Miss,’ said Viktor. ‘Miss – I need to speak with you!’ He put out a hand and grabbed hold of her sleeve, and she turned to look at him indignantly. As she did so, Sophie saw it was Miss Russell.

  ‘Let go of me!’ Miss Russell declared, shaking his hand away and opening the motor-car door.

  ‘But I must speak with you. I have a message. A most important message!’ hissed Viktor.

  ‘A message – for me?’

  ‘No,’ Viktor said, his voice dropping lower. ‘This message is for Mr Gold.’

  ‘Mr Gold?’ Miss Russell stared at Viktor as if she thought he were mad. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know anyone of that name.’

  ‘But you are the English journalist, are you not? Miss Roberta Russell?’

  Miss Russell bristled. ‘Yes, that’s my name. Look, is this about a story? If you’ve got something you want to tell me about, you’ll have to find me tomorrow. I haven’t time now.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Viktor, nodding earnestly. ‘You must leave at once. I understand that. But this is not a story. It is a confidential message – a most important message for Gold. I am his man,’ he hissed meaningfully.

  ‘Gold’s man?’ Miss Russell repeated, obviously baffled. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean. Is Gold’s another circus troupe? I already told you, I don’t have time now. If you’ve got something to tell me, you’ll have to come back tomorrow. I’m writing about the circus, so I’ll be here all day – you can find me here, if you must.’

  She got briskly into the motor car and drove away. Viktor stared after her for a moment, and then muttered something angrily to himself and walked back into the circus building.

  Sophie went inside too. She knew that she should return to her seat, otherwise Vera and the others would wonder what had become of her. A few minutes later, she was back in the gilt and velvet of the circus arena, watching the Fabulous Fanshawes – but although her eyes were fixed on the marvellous horses, her mind was whirring like the intricate workings of a Rivière’s music box.

  Lil was here in St Petersburg. It was almost too wonderful to be real. And yet the reason she was here was because she had thought Sophie was missing. The Chief hadn’t been getting any of her letters. What’s more, Carruthers said he didn’t believe the Chief had sent her that telegram – but if so, who had? There were only two possible explanations, Sophie thought. The Chief was either keeping her correspondence to himself and concealing it from everyone for some mysterious reason of his own. Or someone had been intercepting Sophie’s messages to the Bureau. If this was the case, then they would certainly know she had the notebook – and the spyglass too. A growing sense of dread began to creep over her, and her hand closed tightly around them in her pocket.

  Then there was Viktor, sneaking about her room, asking questions about her and the Count – and then turning up here at the Imperial Gala, absolutely the last place she’d expect him to be. What was he doing, slinking about outside in the dark, talking to that fellow that Lil had said was a circus hand – and then taking a gun from him? Why had he been pestering Miss Russell? And who was the Mr Gold he kept talking about? Was it possible that he was the mysterious contact Viktor had mentioned at the secret meeting with the other students – the one who had given them their ‘orders’. Is that why he’d told Miss Russell that he was Gold’s man? But why would he think that Miss Russell, an English journalist, had any connection with an underground Russian revolutionary?

  There was something else too, something that was bothering her as she stared at the glittering golden chandelier above her – the word Gold itself. She knew that Viktor was not the only one who had talked about someone called ‘Gold’ recently, and now it came to her in a rush. The Count had also used the same name, hadn’t he? He’d said it was the code name of the Countess’s contact in the Fraternitas.

  Around her, the audience gasped and cheered, as the horses waltzed in time to the music. Elena’s eyes were wide with awe, and Luka had obviously lost his heart completely to the beautiful black horses. Even Nakamura was leaning forward in his seat. But Sophie barely saw any of it. She was still thinking hard about Mr Gold, and all at once, she could feel the strands beginning to weave themselves into place, like Vera’s nimble fingers, braiding her hair.

  If Mr Gold was a member of the Fraternitas, then could it be possible that Viktor was too? Or more likely still, had Viktor been led to believe that Mr Gold was an important member of the revolutionary movement, and followed his orders accordingly? Had he been tricked and manipulated? Could the Fraternitas be using him to stir up the revolutionaries? Were they the ones who had intercepted her messages? All at once, she felt as if the Fraternitas were invisibly closing in on her, even as she sat watching the circus. In spite of the warmth of the crowded auditorium, she felt cold inside.

  The performance was coming to an end now – the Fabulous Fanshawes had dismounted and were bowing to the crowd, as the other circus performers joined them in the ring. The ballet girls in their scarlet and gold dresses, Madame Fleurette in her magnificent feathers, the snake charmer with his python glistening around his shoulders beside Miss Hercules – and at the centre of it all, Freddie Fanshawe herself, smiling and bowing. The people were cheering and applauding and calling out ‘Bravo! Bravo!’

  Across the auditorium, Sophie glimpsed Viktor amongst them. He was back in his seat, applauding politely, but at the same time his eyes were darting around him. He looked over at two people sitting not far away from him and gave them a quick nod – and to Sophie’s surprise, she saw they were Mitya and Nikolai.

  Luka had seen them too. He pulled at Vera’s sleeve. ‘Look, Babushka! Mitya made it to the circus after all! He didn’t miss it!’

  Vera looked over in surprise, even as the orchestra struck up ‘God Save the Tsar’ to conclude the performance, and all around the auditorium people rose from their seats. ‘Mitya?’ she exclaimed. ‘But . . . what is he doing here?’

  Luka and Elena grinned and waved across the auditorium – and Mitya saw them at once, his mouth dropping open in astonishment. But he was not merely surprised, Sophie realised – he was horror-struck. His eyes blazed with sudden panic, like a lightning flash, and in that single, heart-stopping moment, Sophie knew why.

  Even as Viktor nodded again to Nikolai, and Nikolai drew a gun from his pocket, she knew what was coming. Students in green caps seemed to have appeared all around the auditorium: many were taking handfuls of leaflets from their pockets, whilst others were producing weapons, and waving them at the Imperial box. This must be the plot she had heard them discussing in the basement: the ‘task’ they had been given. This was why Rogers had handed V
iktor a gun in the alley. They had been planning an attack at the circus – and now it was too late to stop them.

  Secret Service Bureau HQ, London

  Joe stood in the shade of a tree, across the cobbled square from the Secret Service Bureau. It wasn’t the easiest of places to watch and wait unseen – but luckily he’d had plenty of practice at that kind of thing. He’d learned to keep out of the way and out of trouble when he was just a kid on the streets of the East End – and while he’d been sleeping rough, he’d got clever at slipping about, steering clear of the coppers and the Baron’s Boys. You learned a fair bit about hiding in plain sight when your neck was on the line.

  Now, he’d found the right place for what Billy would call a ‘stake-out’ – a dark corner by the wall, shaded by a tall tree, where he had a clear view of the entrance. But although he’d been waiting here for over two hours, there hadn’t yet been anything to see.

  It was a dingy sort of day, and it had begun to drizzle. Joe stifled a yawn and leaned back against the tree. No doubt about it, standing around waiting in the rain was dull. If Billy had been here, he’d probably have brought something to read, but Joe had never been much of a reader – until a year or two ago, he hadn’t known how. Besides, he couldn’t afford to be distracted, he reminded himself. You had to keep your wits about you on a job like this.

  He’d been pondering what to do ever since Forsyth and Brooks had paid their visit to the Taylor & Rose office that morning. This wasn’t much of a plan – but it was better than nothing. There had been something fishy about their visit, and especially the way that fellow, Brooks, had acted. The only thing he could think was that he should watch for him at the Bureau and try and tail him, to see where he went and what he did.

  He knew exactly where the Bureau was, of course. He’d been there plenty of times before, driving Sophie or Lil to one of their meetings with the Chief. But he’d never been inside himself. Looking up at the big stone building now, he felt a prickle of discomfort. Places like this made him feel all wrong – they weren’t meant for fellows like him, but for chaps like Captain Forsyth. The swaggering sort, who were used to having money in their pocket, and telling people what to do, who’d never even come close to sleeping on the streets or begging for their dinner.

  But now, it struck him suddenly that he’d got used to having a bit of money in his pocket too. It was a long time since he’d had to sleep rough. No question about it: his life had changed completely in the last few years. Now, just occasionally, he found himself dreaming of what might come next.

  They weren’t very grand dreams, but he found them exciting, just the same. Sometimes he’d imagine himself rising through the ranks at Sinclair’s, until one day Mr Sinclair would put him in charge of the stables. He’d have dozens of fine horses under his care, and all of the stable lads would look up to him and call him ‘sir’. Other times, he’d picture himself having a house of his own – not a big fancy place, but a cosy little house, something like the Lims’ place out in Limehouse, or perhaps like the house where Billy lived with his mum on the other side of the river. Sometimes, he’d even wonder what it might be like to leave London altogether and live in the countryside. He had vague pictures in his head of a white-painted farmhouse, surrounded by green meadows full of buttercups, and a pond with ducks in it. There’d be woods, and fields, and a paddock for horses of his own.

  Somehow, Lil had a habit of always popping up somewhere in this vision – not doing anything particular, just throwing sticks for Daisy (who, of course, would be there too), or feeding the horses apples and sugar lumps, or keeping him company, wandering through a field of buttercups. Stupid, really, he told himself now. As if a girl like her would ever want to rough it with him, on some country farm. She was made for London and glamour: she ought to always be on the stage, in a fancy frock, with the spotlight shining on her and everyone cheering. He’d always known that she could never really belong with a fellow like him. And yet . . . there’d been a moment on the station platform when they’d said goodbye – a split second, nothing more than that – when he’d almost thought that if he had kissed her, she might have kissed him back . . .

  It was for Lil, really, that he was here. If there was something funny going on, if that fellow Brooks was up to something, then he needed to make sure she knew about it. He didn’t like the idea of her in St Petersburg, alone, with only that fellow Carruthers who he didn’t trust.

  Just then, he straightened up suddenly, seeing that the door was opening at last. A man was coming briskly down the steps: his face was hidden by a large umbrella but the black raincoat he was wearing looked familiar. Was it Brooks?

  Slipping quickly behind the trunk of the tree, Joe watched intently as the man stuck a large envelope inside his jacket, glanced at his watch, and then quickly walked on.

  Joe slipped quietly after him, across the yard, under the archway and out into the street beyond. It was simple enough to shadow him through the narrow streets, and out on to the noisy clamour of the Strand. The rain was falling harder now, and no one was paying much attention to anything but getting inside. Joe wondered whether he might be headed to the ABC or one of the other cafés and eating-houses along the Strand – but instead, he cut down a little lane, going in the direction of the river.

  Joe followed, careful to keep a good distance between them. A moment or two later, the man went through a gate into a small park, and Joe slipped after him, grateful for the cover of the trees.

  The park was quiet after the hubbub of the Strand. There was no sound but the patter of rain on leaves, and almost no one there, besides an old man feeding the pigeons, and a woman pushing a baby in a large black perambulator. The man went briskly onwards, past them, his feet crunching over the gravel, and Joe followed, feeling more and more intrigued. He wished that the fellow would move the umbrella so he could see his face, and know for sure if it was Brooks – but instead, the man stopped abruptly in front of a bronze statue of some old fellow or other – bending down, as though to read the inscription on the plaque beneath it.

  Joe stopped too, sheltered by a large evergreen bush. Peering between the wet leaves, he saw to his astonishment that the man was not merely reading the plaque as he had first thought. Instead he seemed to be slipping the large envelope he had been carrying beneath a loose stone at the base of the statue. A moment later, he had straightened up and was walking rapidly away, without looking back.

  Joe stared after him, uncertain what to do next. On the one hand, he wanted very much to know what was inside that envelope; on the other, perhaps he ought to keep following. Then again, the man had obviously left that envelope for someone else to collect – and there was something about the way he’d walked so briskly, occasionally looking at his watch, that made Joe guess that he was working to a schedule. If so, if Joe went to look at the envelope now, he might risk being discovered by whoever was coming to pick it up. On the other hand, if he stayed back, watching and waiting, he might just be lucky enough to see whoever was coming to collect it.

  Almost the moment that thought had crossed his mind, he heard footsteps approaching, and hurriedly squeezed further inside the evergreen bush, getting very damp in the process. Between the leaves, he saw that a woman was approaching: a rather smart woman in an expensive-looking tailor-made suit, carrying a green silk umbrella. She bent down beside the statue, as if she too was examining the plaque, but from his hiding place Joe could see her gloved fingers quickly lifting the loose stone and whisking out the envelope. She glanced at it quickly, and then dropped it into the handbag she carried, before getting to her feet, brushing off her gloves as though to whisk away even the faintest speck of dirt, and walking swiftly away again.

  This time, Joe knew he must follow. Hastily, he squeezed out of the bush, and went after the woman, who was walking out of the park and straight back up towards the Strand. He dodged after her through the crowds, eager not to lose sight of her – pushing his way between the people as they hea
ded along the Strand until they came to Fleet Street.

  Here, he saw the woman walk up to a large, impressive red-brick building and go inside. Joe stared after her, in some surprise. He knew the place at once – apart from anything else there were great big gold letters running the length of the building, reading NORTON NEWSPAPERS and THE DAILY PICTURE. It was a newspaper office.

  Joe rubbed his eyes for a moment, trying to make sense of what he’d just seen. Was it his imagination or had the man brought some kind of documents out of the Secret Service Bureau and passed them secretly to a woman who had taken them straight to the offices of one of London’s most important newspapers? Could it be part of one of the Bureau’s mysterious assignments – or was it possible that Brooks was leaking secret information to the press? Why would he do something like that – and if he was, what possible connection could that have to the peculiar visit he had paid to Taylor & Rose?

  Omnibuses and motor-taxis rumbled past, and people pushed by on the pavement, but Joe stood still, eyeing the big building beside him. None of this made the least bit of sense, he thought, but he was becoming more certain by the minute that something very strange was going on at the Bureau. He put his hands in his pockets and walked through the rain back towards Sinclair’s, anxious thoughts buzzing in his ears.

  ‘Since I last wrote, something terrifying has occurred here in St Petersburg. The Tsar of Russia, Alexander II, has fallen victim to a dreadful assassination plot. It happened like this: on Sunday, as the Tsar was travelling along the Catherine Canal, a member of a revolutionary group threw a bomb under the wheels of his carriage. The explosion killed and wounded several people, but the Tsar himself was safe – until another man threw a second bomb, and then the Tsar was gravely injured. He was carried by sleigh to the Winter Palace, but he died there later that day.