The Blood Royal

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘I’m invited to the funeral on Saturday. I shall make time and space for a heart-to-heart chat with the admiral’s killer. There’s an Indian poet I’ve got fond of – Rabindranath Tagore. He has something to say on the subject of punishment. “He only may chastise who loves.” Well, I can’t claim to love the bloke but I think he sensed he had my friendship and respect before all this. And at least, I don’t think he’ll fail to notice the warmth of my concern! I shall name his victims one by one – I may go so far as to write out their names and head it Butcher’s Bill. I’ll note that it is, for the moment, unpaid.’

  ‘And leave him wriggling in excruciating suspense?’

  ‘Something like that. I agree, it sounds a bit feeble. He may not care. May just take me for a pompous fool and laugh in my face.’

  Lily considered for a moment. ‘Then he would be the fool, sir. But we know that he’s not a foolish man. He is, though, hardened. It would take more than a gentlemanly ticking off from you to penetrate his armour. You’ll have to pierce him in his soft part …’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Wentworth?’

  ‘One short sharp stab is all it will take.’

  Joe swallowed. ‘What exactly are you proposing?’

  ‘I’d say the thing that mattered most to him in the world is the ready-made family he coveted, the respect and affection the boys have for him. I’m glad they’re able to give it and it pains me to say it but sitting over here makes it possible – he’s usurped the place of their father. Snatched it without a by-your-leave, killed four men and ruined many lives to achieve his end. If he puts a foot wrong from this moment, or fails in the domestic duties he’s taken upon himself, he should be quite certain that the boys will be given the true facts of their father’s death. They love him all right – they’d be in a position to chastise him. You might have had your hands tied but you can always do a little fancy footwork. Put the boot in, sir.’ She looked at him quizzically. ‘Not sure you’re tough enough. I could do it. I will if you like.’

  ‘Good Lord! What a scurrilous suggestion. A decision worthy of Sir George Jardine,’ Joe said faintly. ‘Come back over this side at once.’

  ‘I’m out of my depth, sir,’ she said, reclaiming her place with relief. ‘Does this sort of thing happen … Has this happened …?’

  ‘Oh, yes. The ship of State is a cumbersome but sometimes skittish vessel. It takes many skilled hands to keep her on course. And, in stormy weather, the crew have to work together and obey the single voice of the captain.’

  He watched her roll her eyes at his histrionics and grin.

  ‘Something amusing you, Wentworth?’

  ‘I was just trying to decide where my position was on this ship of yours – rolling about in the bilges or getting sick in the crow’s nest.’

  ‘I think I see you in the brig, Wentworth. Yes … alongside Long John Silver in manacles in the brig. And that reminds me …’ He dug about in his desk drawer. ‘Got a pen, have you? We have some pretty filthy business to conduct here tomorrow morning and you’re going to be up to your ears in it. We’ve accounted for the Morrigan but the Morana – goddess of ice and death – is still out and about and seeking a victim. And there’ll be half a dozen assorted royal lives on the line next Saturday. I need to know you’re on side.’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Bacchus and Fanshawe arrived at the ops room at eight thirty on Monday morning to find Sandilands already installed. The Commander’s face lit up at the sight of the large cardboard box Fanshawe was carrying. He didn’t try to hide his relief.

  ‘You’ve got it! I won’t embarrass you by asking how on earth you managed to get your hands on it, but well done!’

  Bacchus grimaced. ‘Had to take a hostage for it, sir. The Home Secretary gets his granny back at noon today if she behaves herself.’

  ‘I expect you’ve already had a rummage around?’

  ‘Who could resist? Fascinating stuff. I think, with a touch of imagination, we can make something of it.’ Bacchus seemed unusually positive.

  ‘And my other request? Did you manage to get the tickets?’

  He put an envelope down on the table. ‘No problem there. Except for the cost of course which made my eyes water. But then I thought you were most probably expecting it to be accounted for by your department. I’ve sent in the usual chit. And I have the news item you asked for.’ He took a sheet from his inside pocket and put it next to the envelope. ‘We have our forger standing by. Name of Sam Scrivener. All we need is the text of the letter and we’re off.’

  ‘And the postman,’ said Fanshawe. ‘Is everyone quite happy about this aspect of the scheme? I mean – couldn’t I or Bacchus or even the post office delivery man take care of that? I can’t see why we have to involve Wentworth again.’

  ‘I wonder whom you prefer for this duty, Fanshawe? We could send you but they’d just drag you in, subject you to heavy flirting and tell you nothing. The menace of Bacchus’s moustache would silence them. These are women who have narrowly escaped summary execution at the hands of the Bolshevik not-so-secret police. They know what it is to have a price on their heads. They know they are still, in a foreign land, pursued. They’re jittery. The princess – quite rightly – trusts no one. Especially the people’s police force – that’s you and your minions, Bacchus. I do believe she regards you as a sort of Cheka-on-a-leash. But she has declared herself ready to accept Wentworth as go-between … ambassador if you will. We’re not the only shadowy organization to keep this house under surveillance. A young girl paying a visit here is not in the least remarkable – there’s a constant stream of them passing through as you are aware. Miss Wentworth has established a relationship of sorts with them and she is, after all – and this cuts some ice with these people – the girl who danced with the Prince of Wales in such amity the other night. She would appear to be in his confidence.’

  ‘They’ll know by now that it was Wentworth’s interference that saved his life, sir. And thwarted them.’

  ‘Not them, Fanshawe. I don’t believe we’re dealing with a conspiracy. These are people who define themselves by their reverence for monarchy. The British strand may be in bad odour with one of them at the moment but they are and always will be impressed by royal favour. They accept Wentworth as a sort of chargée d’affaires, the effective and unthreatening mouthpiece of our establishment. And so, gentlemen, like it or not, she is!’

  Bacchus produced the camera bag he’d slung from one shoulder. ‘Not sure what you want me to do with this?’

  Joe walked over to the easel he’d installed by the window and flung back the covering sheet.

  ‘Lord!’ Fanshawe exclaimed, recognizing it. ‘Not that again! It’s the God-awful Russian painting. What are you doing with that daub, sir?’

  ‘It has its part to play in the little show I’m putting on. Hocus pocus, Fanshawe. Never disregard it. The picture belongs to Wentworth. A thoughtful gift from HRH for services rendered. I’ve examined it closely – more closely, I’d guess, than the Russian contingent have. It’s sending us a message. One that I think we can interpret in our own way and call to the attention of the princess and her coterie. Can you take a snap of it in this light with your equipment, Bacchus?’

  The Branch man appeared delighted to be challenged and set about putting his camera pieces together, muttering happily of lenses and focal lengths and distances as he worked.

  The preliminaries complete, the men looked at each other in satisfaction.

  ‘Do we have to wait for the constable or shall we set about it now and present her with a fait accompli? She is, after all, just delivering the package,’ Fanshawe wanted to know.

  Joe appeared to be choosing his words. ‘The princess will interrogate her – in the most civilized way, of course. And our would-be assassin will most likely be listening in. One would hope so. I would like Wentworth to be familiar with the facts and sufficiently in command of the strategy to be able to improvise if necessary. She has to unders
tand the importance of the offer she is about to extend to the Russians. I want her to be listening when we put it together. Wentworth is not to be regarded as cannon fodder – she’s a well-aimed bullet.’ He looked at the clock. ‘I asked her for nine … though her time-keeping seems to be a bit erratic. So …’

  One minute later they heard the tap on the door.

  * * *

  ‘It’s a confidence trick, sir!’

  ‘You have it, Wentworth. I put my hands up to it. A deceitful piece of chicanery! A dirty bit of business!’

  ‘The end justifies the means, then, you’d say?’

  ‘Don’t be tedious!’ Joe responded to her cross face with a flash of impatience. ‘This is not a debating society. This is a police force. And a national protection unit. It will take considerable nerve and a degree of low cunning to pull it off. You, I observe, are not short of either, so stay with the stroke I set, will you? We’re anticipating no less than the removal – the permanent removal, one hopes – of this menace to the lives of the prince and the rest of the royal family. When it’s removed, gone abroad, they’ll be able to go about their daily business once more without the constant fear of assassination.’

  ‘You say “it”, sir.’ Lily spoke hesitantly. ‘We’re talking about “she” – a strong-minded woman who will object to being manipulated. She may refuse to accept a suggestion that she simply leave the country.’

  ‘I would expect so. And that’s why we have to make her an offer that is irresistible to her. One that will give more satisfaction than sticking a knife in HRH or whatever she has planned for him next time. We have to thank some ancient Greek for an old military proverb: If you wish to get rid of your enemy, build him a golden bridge to flee across.

  ‘Aristides’ advice to Themistocles, I believe, sir,’ Bacchus chipped in. ‘Concerning the Persian retreat back across the Dardanelles.’

  ‘Thank you, Bacchus. I believe you’re right. And we’re going to take it again. It’s exactly what we’re going to do. With the utmost politesse we’re going to show our enemy to the border and offer a passage out. The golden bridge in question is a first-class berth on a luxury liner – the Hirondelle did you say, Bacchus?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The pride of the French fleet,’ he announced. ‘She starts on Friday from Cherbourg where she takes on board a few chefs de cuisine and a chanteuse or two. Then she nips across to Southampton where she picks up the English contingent and goes in one hop to New York. Dancing and dining and entertainment all the way. From there, first class again on the transcontinental railway … Chicago and the sunset route west to San Francisco.’

  They all fell silent, imagining the luxury, the adventure, the wide horizons. Someone sighed.

  ‘May I ask what Anna Petrovna is supposed to do with herself once she gets to California, sir?’ Lily asked.

  ‘Ah, yes! The whole point of the exercise! Now – what would constitute an impulse strong enough to counter the urge to kill? I’ll tell you: friendship, a reunion, the promise of a fresh start and a wonderful climate, they tell me, in California. And a thriving Russian colony to welcome her. Got your cutting, Bacchus?’

  The Branch man showed it around the table and began to read out salient details. ‘This appeared a week ago so it’s very fresh. There’s a good chance that she’s not seen it. It’s an eye-witness report. A woman recognized as the archduchess Tatiana has been sighted in the city of San Francisco. Several times. Climbing aboard a cable-car … dancing at Governor Stephens’s fund-raising event for Asiatic orphans … sipping champagne in a night club … You can imagine.’

  ‘Well, you know how it is,’ Joe said with a smile. ‘An odd thing, but anyone who disappears is reported to have been sighted in San Francisco.’

  ‘Your hero, Oscar, responsible for that little insight, I believe?’ Bacchus commented.

  With an impatient sigh, Lily burst in: ‘San Francisco? But that’s halfway round the world! What would a Russian princess be doing in San Francisco? What would any Russians be doing there? It’s a nonsense!’ Her voice was amused and disbelieving.

  Fanshawe, for once, concurred. ‘Another one. For dead girls, the Tsar’s daughters don’t half get about the globe. The last sighting was in Rome. Another one in Japan. And then there was that novice who turned up in a Greek nunnery last year … That was supposed to be the religious one – Olga. There’s an Anastasia or two doing the rounds in Germany … that one they fished out of a canal in Berlin last winter seems to be putting on a convincing act. They’re all over the show. Anywhere but in the Koptyaki forest buried under a ton of railway sleepers. They’re dead. The whole lot of them. And we don’t have to guess – the Bolshies have held up their bloodstained hands for this one.’

  ‘Many would think twice before accepting evidence or even a confession from those duplicitous thugs,’ Sandilands reprimanded. ‘This identification is not so easily dismissed, Fanshawe. And it’s one we really could wish had not surfaced. I have to tell you … it is supported by other evidence of survival.’ He pursed his lips and fidgeted with his tie.

  Oblivious of the exchange of scathing glances and a snort of disbelief, Joe went to stare at the painting, absorbed by dark thoughts. ‘I agree – there are bodies buried under the taiga. That much I accept. Unfortunately, in spite of our best efforts, no one has been able to establish exactly whose bodies they are. Burned, rotted by acid, crushed by bulldozer and scattered, they could be remains filched from the refuse bins of the local hospital for all we know. Or corpses simply swept up from the streets – heaven knows there was no shortage at the time – starvation and disease were rife. Impossible ever to be sure. I’ll tell you now and the story is not to be mentioned outside this room.’

  He caught a nervous glance from Bacchus and responded to it: ‘We can speak freely. No listening equipment, Bacchus. I haven’t authorized it in the ops room.’

  Unusually serious, even hesitant, he caught and held everyone’s eye, each in turn.

  ‘There are indeed Romanovs buried in the forest near Ekaterinburg. But not all. The Tsar and his son, the heir, were shot and bayoneted to death along with their doctor who tried to intervene. Poor old Botkin. Loyal to the last. The Empress? It’s less clear at this point – we really don’t know – but it’s thought she succumbed and died of natural causes. She had been very ill for some months. Her body may lie there also. It’s possible.’ He was weighing his words, not wishing to say more than he could verify.

  ‘Uncouth and dangerous though they were, the guards appointed by the Ural Soviet could not bring themselves to shoot the girls, of whom they had got quite fond during their three-month incarceration. They’d appreciated the way they put on no airs and graces but rolled their sleeves up and cooked and cleaned for the household. And kept the peace. In a cramped space with a sick little brother, an increasingly deranged mother and an ineffectual father, the girls were up against it but they made the best of their imprisonment, remaining good natured and friendly with the young lads who were guarding them.

  ‘These were only too pleased to look the other way when a diesel truck turned up one night at the Ipatiev villa with papers granting permission to separate the women from the men and take them away. The family had travelled this way before, as a matter of convenience, and made nothing of it. But this time the Empress – with foresight perhaps? – refused to leave her husband and son. And that’s where we lose track of her. The four girls were bundled off. They were driven to the relative safety of the estate of an old marshal of the Tsar’s at Lysva which was by then in the hands of the advancing White Army. We have a touching confirmation of this from the villa itself. Our eagle-eyed man in Ekaterinburg during his inspection of the premises after the murders noticed a word scrawled backwards in haste across a mirror … the letters spelled out LYSVA.

  ‘It cannot have been until much later that the girls heard of the deaths of the Tsar and Tsarevich. By then, they had been split up. A quartet of pretty girls with aristocratic ways tra
velling about Russia would not have got far. They were moved about singly with escorts, dressed in nun’s clothes or as nurses. Now, from our geographical perspective we see Russia as Moscow and St Petersburg – a sort of exotic but civilized offshoot of Europe. We forget that thousands more miles of it run east, right over to Japan. And Ekaterinburg is in the middle of this land mass. With access to the Trans-Siberian railway … The Romanovs didn’t go west to the capital – they went east, further into the wilderness.

  ‘There was a British frigate – yes, we did not abandon the family’ – he flicked a quick glance at Lily – ‘patrolling on the China station – you will know the one, Bacchus – and it made a pick-up later that year at Vladivostok on the east coast. Thirty-nine packing cases of Romanov goods and a few passengers. It sailed away. To Hong Kong? Possibly. I’ve not been able to track it. Its log is mysteriously under wraps even to men with more clout than I have. But you can probably see that if you plot a straightish course across the Pacific ocean, you fetch up in California. San Francisco. The shipping port for the armaments that were being sent by the Americans to Russia in support of the Czech contingent and the White Army. Having unloaded their guns, the ships often returned to the home port with a human cargo – refugees. The Vladisvostok–California route has been a very busy one.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ Bacchus breathed. ‘So that accounts for … But how the devil …?’ Frowning, he turned a mutinous face on Sandilands, incredulity, resentment and deference doing battle for his tongue. Joe well understood his officer’s dilemma. Bacchus was aware that Sandilands, with his Military Intelligence background, had access to sources he would never reveal. The information he came by was as likely to be acquired over dinner at the Vineyard or lunch at Buck’s as garnered from official files.

  Resentment won. ‘You can’t possibly know this!’ Bacchus spluttered. ‘That’s the log of HMS Kent you’re on about … How did you get access to it? Sir, you exceed your … Who’ve you been talking to?’