The Frozen Circle

by Peter Watt

  TWO

  Archangel

  Northern Russia

  May 1919

  The great blocks of ice reared up against the hull of the transport ship steaming its way into the Russian port of Archangel. Sergeant Joshua Larkin stood at the bow and drew the collar of his greatcoat more tightly around his face to ward off the chill blowing off the ice-logged sea. For a moment he was reminded of the bitter cold winters on the Western Front when the shell fire was made worse by the icy ground allowing the artillery shells to explode on instant impact, scattering shards of red hot steel across a greater expanse of the battlefield. At least when the mud came with the thaw the artillery rounds had a habit of burying themselves before exploding, thereby muffling the deadly effects of shrapnel.

  But this was supposedly summer in the Arctic Circle – a place where the sun was over the horizon for up to twenty-two hours a day – and Joshua was pleased that Elope Force had steamed from England now and not earlier when he resigned from the Australian Army to re-enlist in the British force destined for the Front in Russia.

  ‘I’ve never experienced anything like this,’ Corporal George Littleton said, stamping his feet to keep warm on the frozen deck of the transport steamer. ‘Nothing like this back home.’

  Joshua fumbled in his greatcoat for his battered old pipe. It had been a comfort for the last two years of the war and he had come to see it as something of a lucky talisman. Finding it at last, he thumbed in a plug of tobacco and hunched against the wind to light the pipe. Satisfied that it was drawing well he blew the blue-grey smoke into the frigid air. ‘France could be a bit like this,’ he replied, staring at the approaching busy port. ‘Bloody cold and wet.’

  George Littleton stood beside the man who he had befriended after he too had resigned from the Australian Army to enlist in the British expeditionary force. A condition of their enlistment was that they were forced to relinquish their previously held commissions and enlist as non-commissioned officers. Joshua’s outstanding record in France and Belgium had quickly earned him a sergeant’s stripes, while George’s family connections in England had gained him corporal’s chevrons. Joshua still remained his senior in the army but George was pleased that this was so. Although an odd pair, during their training for the Russian expedition the two men had gravitated together; Joshua, of a working background, combat-experienced and older, George having come from money with connections in the mother country. In a strange sense the friendship was more like a brotherhood for George who looked up to Joshua as one would a respected brother. George’s utter admiration for his friend had been cemented in a London pub one night when he found himself cornered by a couple of cockney toughs whose claim to fame was that they had avoided military service in the war. A comment by George and the blood and beer flowed on the dirty floor of the public house as Joshua, swearing, waded in swinging fists to flatten both men in defence of George.

  Standing over the two badly beaten cockneys, Joshua swung around to challenge any other man in the public bar to join the two on the floor. None accepted and both soldiers left to seek a quieter pub to drink in. Joshua said nothing of the fight but George realised that his friend had unhesitatingly come to his aid. He was grateful; he knew he was no match for the two toughs who had confronted him. All Joshua had said on their walk along the London street was, ‘Careful what you say about a bloke’s service in the war. As far as the people here are concerned it’s all over and who we are is of no consequence to them.’ It echoed the former infantry captain’s statement on the night of the Armistice.

  George’s family ties to England had ensured that when leave came for them both he was able to open some doors. They joined the better landed aristocratic families for weekends of parties, dinners and fox hunts, although Joshua would decline joining the actual hunt, excusing himself as a poor horse rider. He would be simply satisfied to avail himself of the patron’s library and liquor store while the rest rode the countryside, trailing the hunting beagles in pursuit of the fox. George had been intrigued to see his friend scribbling in a journal whenever he had the chance.

  ‘I started this one to record a new campaign,’ Joshua explained when he noticed George watching him. ‘Against orders I also kept a journal recording the war.’

  The war had decimated the ranks of the English aristocracy. Many heirs to the family name and manor now lay as rotting cadavers in foreign soil on the other side of the English Channel. Those left behind recognised that English society had changed forever and a new mood prevailed now that the working class had proved its mettle. So it was accepted that a couple of colonial non-commissioned officers could be allowed to join in the activities of those who once considered that men of their lowly rank should use the tradesmen’s door to the manor. It made it easier for them both that they had, at least, once held the King’s commission before displaying their patriotic zeal in volunteering to fight the growth of Bolshevism now perceived as an insidious threat to all that was still sacred to the remaining traces of the aristocracy. The Bolsheviks had already proved their brutal disregard for the established rules of Western civilisation by executing the Russian royal family. After all, the Russian Czar had been related by blood to their King and that almost made him an Englishman. Comrade Lenin had attempted to deny the outright slaughter but word had gradually spread that he had ordered the dreadful murder of innocents. If the Bolsheviks were not stopped now the creeping disease of socialism might infect the working classes of Western Europe.

  Joshua spoke very little about himself or his past. As close as George had come to his friend he still did not know whether the man was married or single, or why he would even consider remaining in the army to risk his life in another campaign. While he had to prove to himself that he was capable of facing death and acting like a man, Joshua didn’t – he had already done that. George had some while back ascertained that Joshua Larkin was a highly intelligent man, one who had succeeded in teaching himself the French language to the point that he could almost be considered fluent. George’s own school-taught French was no match for his friend’s grasp of the language.

  One of Joshua’s most outstanding characteristics was his ability to lead men who instinctively sensed his courage and compassion. George had also become aware of his friend’s attractiveness to women of all classes, and thought it strange that Joshua seemed to step aside whenever a lady made it known she was interested in him. At those times George was sure he would see an unfathomable pain in his friend’s eyes. Was Joshua Larkin one of those kind of men? He shook his head. No, Joshua’s manner around women did not speak of fawning courtesy.

  As the shoreline of Archangel drew closer Joshua tapped the ash from his pipe on the frozen rail. ‘Time we got ready for the big parade, George,’ he said with one of his cheeky grins. ‘Got to show the Poms and Ruskies we are as good as them.’

  With a tight knot in his stomach Corporal George Littleton followed his friend below to prepare for disembarkation. Several months had passed since the end of the Great War and the letters from home had begged him to return. But here he was, ready to land on the shores of a country still steeped in mystery and revolution. He knew that he was about to go to war when the rest of the Western World knew only the respite of the Armistice. If he had any regrets about his decision to risk it all they were strongest now as he knew there was no turning back. Corporal George Littleton of the Sydney Littletons was about to learn what Joshua Larkin already knew. There was no glory in war – only the chance of surviving to see the fruits of peace ripen on the vine of life.

  1 Melbury Road

  West Kensington, London

  July 1919

  Major James Locksley, DSO flipped open his umbrella against the grey sleet of the London spring. A tall, well-built man in his early thirties, he cut a distinguished figure in his army uniform emblazoned with a row of colourful riband on his chest. Horse-drawn wagons carrying groceries and kegs of beer plodded alongside the fume-spuming cars that now jostled for s
pace on the narrow city roads as he hurried towards the large, red-bricked mansion with the innocuous address of 1 Melbury Road.

  The carefully sealed letter hand-delivered to his exclusive gentleman’s club had intrigued him. It had said little other than offering an invitation to meet with a naval captain. Mansfield Cumming was the chief of a department that Locksley only knew as the Secret Intelligence Service, and having recently returned from the Russian campaign the British major surmised that he was required for some kind of debriefing. Upon reaching the headquarters of the SIS, Locksley closed his umbrella and entered the building to be met by a young man wearing civilian clothes.

  ‘Major Locksley?’

  ‘I am he,’ Locksley replied.

  ‘Captain Cumming is expecting you, sir,’ the young man replied, gesturing for the major to follow him along a dark corridor.

  Locksley shrugged, shaking off some of the sleet, and followed the man to a door. He knocked, and poking his head inside announced Major Locksley’s arrival before turning and nodding to the soldier to enter.

  Locksley stepped inside, noticing that the thickly set man behind the heavy wooden desk was not alone. Locksley immediately recognised an old friend, Captain George Hill sitting in a comfortable leather chair to one side of the room. Neither of the two men in the room bothered to rise when Locksley entered.

  ‘George, old chap,’ Locksley said. ‘My congratulations on your Military Cross. I saw it gazetted only yesterday.’

  George Hill rose to accept the extended hand.

  ‘Thank you, James,’ he said. ‘I should introduce you to Captain Cumming who has asked for you to attend this meeting.’

  Cumming rose with some awkwardness and Locksley was quick to observe that the chief of intelligence had a wooden leg. Formalities aside, Cumming gestured for Locksley to take a chair, placing the three men in a triangular formation.

  ‘Major Locksley,’ Cumming said, ‘Captain Hill is actually the man who has recommended you for this meeting. It appears that he thinks very highly of you and your own experiences in Russia in recent times.’

  So it was a debriefing, Locksley thought.

  For a moment Cumming seemed to be deep in thought. ‘What is about to transpire in this room is not to leave this room on pain of court martial or death,’ Cumming finally said.

  Locksley felt a twinge of apprehension – this was not a debriefing.

  ‘Captain Hill’s MC was recently awarded for his outstanding service in Russia with another one of our people, Sidney Reilly. That is about all I can say on the matter as Captain Hill is for the moment also sworn to secrecy on their mission there. As you can probably surmise you have been summoned by His Majesty’s government for a mission that has political and military ramifications far beyond anything you could imagine. I know that you have been assigned a posting on the Persian frontier but if you are prepared to swear your loyalty to what I may propose I can safely promise a colonelcy for your commitment to the mission. You will command your own regiment.’

  Locksley felt his head swim … mission, colonel rank and regimental command, court martial and death all came together. He shifted in his seat.

  ‘Sir, I am a commissioned officer of the King and am prepared to undertake any mission that the King’s representative should offer,’ he replied dutifully as was expected of him.

  ‘Good,’ Cummings huffed. ‘I expected no less of you, given your sterling record of service in France and Russia. George has been passed certain vital information while in Russia. Only we are privy to what he and Reilly learned from our agents there about the barbaric execution of the Czar and his family last year.’

  ‘Terrible matter,’ Locksley said, agreeing that the execution of royalty was the sign of civilisation – as he knew it – in decline. Major James Locksley DSO was an ardent royalist, devoted to the principles of traditional monarchy no matter where it may be in Europe.

  ‘The world has been told that all the family were executed at the same time but reliable sources have informed us that in fact one of the children was spared – to be used as a bargaining chip should the White Army forces overrun Ekaterinburg. It seems that the man in charge of the execution has filed a false report to his comrades Lenin and Trotsky. Our sources say that the child is on the run, seeking asylum in France.’

  Locksley listened with intense interest. Already the ramifications of what was being said to him were sinking in. If one of the Russian royal family were still alive then that person could be a real rallying point for opposition to the Bolsheviks. From his own experience serving in Russia with the White Forces he knew just how much the news would raise morale in their struggle to defeat Bolshevism. ‘Which of the children is still alive?’ he asked, leaning forward in his eagerness.

  ‘It seems that the Grand Duchess Maria Nikolaevna was spared.’

  ‘The Grand Duchess is also the Grand Princess,’ Locksley said.

  Cumming smiled for the first time in their meeting. ‘No doubt you would know this because of your parents, Major Locksley, or should I say, Sakharov.’

  Locksley smiled sheepishly at the identification of his real family name. His parents had immigrated to England for financial reasons and changed their name and religion to fit in with the establishment. Alexander Sakharov had been able to take some of the family wealth with him and soon made a small fortune in his adopted land. It had been substantial enough to put his son through Britain’s most prestigious schools and finally Sandhurst, where the young officer cadet was accepted as a true Englishman. Locksley very rarely announced to his friends that he was fluent in the Russian language. But the dispatch of British forces to Russia to assist the Royalist White Army in fighting the rebel Bolsheviks had allowed the Russian-speaking English officer an opportunity to see the land of his birth and use his lingual skills.

  ‘Yes,’ Locksley replied. ‘The princess enjoys a high status among those who know something of Russian royal traditions. If we were able to rescue her we would have a rallying point against the damned Bolshies.’

  ‘Captain Hill was right in recommending you,’ Cumming said, picking up a pen of green ink. ‘I am going to authorise you to be attached to us for a short time, Major Locksley. I am sure that we will be able to get permission for you to carry out a mission on behalf of His Majesty’s government, one that will be of vital importance to the very future of democracy in Europe.’ With his words Mansfield Cumming placed one letter on the already prepared paper requesting Locksley’s secondment to the SIS for an unspecified mission. Cumming’s single ‘C’ in green would become renowned in British intelligence.

  Before returning to his digs in London Major Locksley was invited to have afternoon tea with his old friend Captain George Hill. Cumming excused both officers and watched them leave the room. Neither man saw the frown on his face when the door closed to his office.

  The portly, one-legged English naval officer took a deep breath and sighed. He had not briefed the major on every aspect of the mission. Those matters would come in due time. ‘Bloody damned politicians,’ Cumming swore, glancing down at the photograph of a beautiful young woman in her late teens with long flowing hair and huge wide eyes. Even now Grand Princess Maria was somewhere in the deep, dark forests of northern Russia. Alive, she was worth much to the fight against the growing threat of this new thing called communism. Dead, she was worth even more to those in the British government.

  THREE

  Valley View

  Present day

  The thin layer of snow had melted and the earth beneath had turned into a slush in the backyard of the residence, now a declared crime scene, albeit it apparently a very old one. Morgan McLean stood beside Detective Senior Sergeant Ken Barber who puffed on a cigarette, eyeing the two open graves only a few metres apart. A chill still hung in the air but the sun was shining in a clear, blue sky.

  ‘We got back a pretty comprehensive report from our forensics people,’ Ken said. ‘Our first body has been tentatively identifie
d from the World War One identity discs they found in the grave beside him as a bloke by the name of Joshua Larkin. It seems from the military records that he was last reported serving as an Aussie in Russia in 1919 with the British army. I have a copy of his military service records from the War Memorial people for you to have a look at. So far it appears that he had no descendants in Australia. Our crime scene people reckon from the way they found the body that it was buried with some respect for the deceased. They also recovered the bullet that appears to have killed him and think it was fired from an old Scott & Webley revolver.’

  ‘Service issue in World War One,’ Morgan observed.

  ‘Figure with your own military service you would be of great help on this case,’ Ken said, drawing on his cigarette and watching the smoke dissipate in the chilly air. ‘So I have asked the boss to put you on our team. It will be worth a bit of overtime to you.’

  ‘And a few long lunches,’ Morgan added with a grin, knowing the social ways of detectives.

  ‘Could be,’ Ken smiled back. ‘But it is not a case we are ever going to solve, considering the apparent age of the crime. Doubt that there is anyone alive today we could put in the dock.’

  ‘What about the second body?’ Morgan asked.

  ‘Identity not known and buried with little respect for the deceased,’ Ken replied. ‘From what forensics could ascertain it was that of a male aged somewhere between twenty and forty. Also shot through the head. They were lucky enough to find a bullet in the earth taken with the body and ascertain that it was also a .38 – but not from the same gun.’

  ‘Possibly a souvenir smuggled back by a returning soldier,’ Morgan commented. ‘I doubt that I will be much more help on this one,’ he continued.

  ‘Thought you might give the PR officer from Sydney a hand in putting together a press release,’ Ken said. ‘The media are about to descend on the scene. Some bloody idiot in the press is calling it an old serial killer case just discovered. If you ask me it was probably nothing more than a garden variety double killing. But the phrase serial killer gets papers sold so they are going to try and milk this one all they can. If we were to turn up another body I might agree with them, but two bodies does not constitute a serial killer.’