Death on the Nevskii Pros

by David Dickinson

  David Dickinson was born in Dublin. He graduated from Cambridge with a first-class honours degree in classics and joined the BBC. After a spell in radio he transferred to television and went on to become editor of Newsnight and Panorama. In 1995 he was series editor of Monarchy, a three-part examination of its current state and future prospects. David lives in London.

  Praise for The Lord Francis Powerscourt series

  ‘A cracking yarn, beguilingly real from start to finish … you have to pinch yourself to remind you that it is fiction – or is it?’

  Peter Snow

  ‘A kind of locked bedroom mystery … Dickinson’s view of the royals is edgy and shaped by our times.’

  The Poisoned Pen

  ‘Fine prose, high society and complex plot recommend this series.’

  Library Journal

  Titles in the series

  (listed in order)

  Goodnight Sweet Prince

  Death & The Jubilee

  Death of an Old Master

  Death of a Chancellor

  Death Called to the Bar

  Death on the Nevskii Prospekt

  Death on the Holy Mountain

  Constable & Robinson Ltd

  3 The Lanchesters

  162 Fulham Palace Road

  London W6 9ER

  www.constablerobinson.com

  First published in the UK by Constable,

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2007

  This paperback edition published by Robinson,

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2008

  First US edition published by Carroll & Graf Publishers,

  an imprint of Avalon Publishing Group, Inc., 2007

  This paperback edition published by SohoConstable,

  an imprint of Soho Press, 2008

  Soho Press, Inc.

  853 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  www.sohopress.com

  Copyright © David Dickinson, 2007

  The right of David Dickinson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication

  Data is available from the British Library

  UK ISBN: 978-1-84529-671-1

  US ISBN: 978-1-56947-551-5

  eISBN: 978-1-78033-416-5

  Printed and bound in the EU

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  For Alan and Heather

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE: THE WINTER PALACE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  PART TWO: THE TRANS-SIBERIAN RAILWAY EGG

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  PART THREE: THE TSAR’S VILLAGE

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  PROLOGUE

  Alexander Palace, Tsarskoe Selo, August 1902

  Any minute now, she knew, the proper contractions would start. It was not, after all, the first time she had given birth. Even this evening, when her family knew what was happening, she could hear the excited sounds of her four daughters as they gossiped outside in the corridors. This time it would be different. This time she would give birth to a son. Had not Philippe, her mystic Frenchman from Lyons, promised her this while he hypnotized her soul and stroked her face with those long slender fingers of his? This time, the gunners at the Fortress of Peter and Paul, over fifteen miles away on the other side of St Petersburg, would have to sound out a three-hundred-round salute for a boy rather than one hundred rounds for a girl. This time the people of St Petersburg would have to clap and cheer rather than mock and sneer as they had done so often in the past. The woman looked into her tiny private chapel with its single icon of the Virgin Mary. Mary would be with her on this journey too. Philippe had promised.

  Outside the door stood an enormous Negro dressed in scarlet trousers and a gold embroidered jacket with a white turban. Lurking in the passages downstairs were policemen on duty against the arrival of an assassin, regarded as almost as likely as the arrival of a son. Sentries marched continually up and down around the perimeter of the palace. More soldiers were guarding the grounds and searching every visitor who came to call. Around the high fence of the imperial park bearded Cossack horsemen in scarlet tunics and black caps galloped in ceaseless patrol, twenty-four hours a day. Theirs was a watch that would last till eternity. For this was Tsarskoe Selo, the Tsar’s Village in English, some fifteen miles from St Petersburg. It was at this time the principal residence of the Tsar of All the Russias and his wife Alexandra and their family. Alexandra was the expectant mother, anxious to bring forth an heir to her husband’s throne. The threat of terror was so great that the imperial family could feel safe only here. They were too exposed in the vast expanses of their main residence the Winter Palace in the heart of their capital, St Petersburg. Two Tsars had been assassinated the previous century. Nicholas the Second, the latest target, had watched his grandfather bleed to death in the Winter Palace after a terrorist bomb ripped open his stomach and scattered bloody fragments of his body around Palace Square. Government ministers, provincial governors, Ministers of the Interior were regularly blown up by terrorist bombs. Russia did not lead the countries of Europe in many things, except for her size. But she was the terrorist capital of the world, her young people almost queuing up to die in assassination attempts, the reign of terror imposed by the secret police, the Okhrana, the despair of liberals in Moscow and St Petersburg.

  Black, Alexandra thought bitterly, black was the colour she had brought to her new home from Coburg in Germany all those years ago. Black, the colour of ravens, black the colour of crows, black the colour of death. She remembered one of the courtiers at home reminding her to pack her mourning clothes when she set off to join her fiancé in the Crimea where his father Tsar Alexander was dying. Nicky, or Nicholas the Second, to give him his formal title, had wept not just for his dying father but for himself, unprepared, unfit and unwilling to sit on the throne of the Romanovs. Even then, even before she was married, Alexandra had known that a major part of her role would be to support him, to try and give him the strength he needed to rule his vast empire that covered one sixth of the world’s surface. As she watched him give way to his mother, to his uncles, sometimes, it seemed to her, to the last person who talked to him, Alexandra often felt that she would have done the job much better herself. Black, she remembered again, she had worn the black of mourning when she was inducted into the Russian Orthodox Church as family members arrived in droves from all over Europe to pay tribute to the dead Alexander the Third. Black on that long, slow train journey from the Crimea to St Petersburg, and the sad stops in the major cities on the way for the populace to pay their last respects to the dead Tsar and stare at the woman from Germany who had come to marry his son.

  She remembered the worst week of her life which should have been the best, the week of her coronation in Moscow. Hundreds if not thousands of people had been crushed to death in a stampede at Khodynka Field outside Moscow, a crowd that had gathered to receive traditional coronation presents from the Tsar
and panicked when told there would not be enough to go round. In the stampede towards the front to grab things before the supply ran out, people had fallen into ditches, or simply tripped and been trampled to death. Even now, she could still see the miserable carts they had used to take the bodies away, the corpses covered by rough tarpaulins or sections of dirty blankets. Cart after cart had lined up to take the dead away for burial, their relations weeping into the summer air, the stench of death inescapable. That night she and Nicky, against her instincts, had gone to a ball at the French Ambassador’s and been condemned as heartless by almost the entire nation. The uncles had pointed out how much money had been spent on the ball with thousands of flowers imported by special trains from the Riviera. They had pointed out how insulted the French would be. The cleverest uncle – the competition was hardly of Olympic standard – said they had to attend or the French bankers would cut off the loans that were the mainstay of the Russian economy. After that, she knew, they stopped calling her the English whore because Queen Victoria was her grandmother. Now they called her the German bitch instead. And every time she produced another daughter they called her the useless German bitch.

  Philippe from Lyons would change all that, Philippe Vachot who had brought so much hope into her life. She and Nicholas had met him at the home of two Montenegrin princesses who were interested in the occult, in seances and spiritualism. Philippe was a hypnotist who was sometimes possessed of spirits and talked to them in voices of the dead come back from the other side. The room for these ceremonies was quite small, two walls lined with icons of Christ and the Madonna, pairs of sad eyes sucking you into their embrace. The Montenegrins had hundreds of candles on the walls. Sometimes they had singers in the next room so that ghostly Vespers floated through the walls. The singers were all peasants from the Montenegrins’ estate in the country and were said to live in a hut at the bottom of the garden. Alexandra had misty memories of what Philippe said to her when she was coming out of hypnosis or appearing as one of her long-lost Coburg relations about whom he was prodigiously well informed. First he told her she would have a son, that there would spring forth a rod from the stem of Jesse. Then he told her she was pregnant. Now she was here on her bed, waiting for the most joyous moment of her life. Philippe had told her not to tell any of the normal imperial doctors what was happening. Let God’s work be a surprise to the unbelieving men of science, he had told her. Let them not pollute your body with their examinations or your system with their medicines of modernity. Rather let God work his will and his changes in the temple of your womb. But things seldom remain secret in a royal palace. Even as the Empress lay wreathed in her dreams of glory, the official doctors were pacing up and down in the corridors of the palace downstairs.

  Outside it was raining heavily, great drops splattering on to the lakes and soaking the cloaks and the fur caps of the Cossacks on their endless patrol outside the walls. Upstairs was quiet now. The four daughters had gone to sleep. She could hear the faint steps of the guards as they patrolled the hallway on the lower floor. Suddenly Alix began to bleed, as she had not bled for months. There was no child. As one of the Montenegrin sisters put it, a tiny ovule came out. Then her abdomen deflated, the pains stopped. The palace doctors confirmed that she was not pregnant. She was suffering from an amnesia-related condition and should rest in bed, they told her. As they left her room she began to weep as though she had never wept before and would never be able to stop. On and on into the terrible future, a future where she had thought there was hope but now there was only despair, her tears would flow. She might be able to staunch them for her children but it would not be for long. This was the worst day of her life, in a life that had so many contenders for the position. She was humiliated. Alexandra had no doubt that word of what had happened would reach St Petersburg in a day or two, and how society would laugh at her. They had never taken to her, those aristocratic women of the capital, and she had never taken to them. Now the story of her troubles would shoot round the salons and she would be laughed to scorn. And inside the palace, she knew, there would be a campaign against Philippe, orchestrated by the doctors, amplified by the courtiers, prosecuted by the uncles. She hoped her husband would hold firm. But you could never tell. She prayed through her tears, she prayed to the icon of the Madonna in her tiny private chapel: Mother of God, hear my prayer, Mother of God hear my prayer. Don’t let them take Philippe away. Please don’t let them take him away from me. He’s my only hope.

  Wells, England, Spring 1903

  Lord Francis Powerscourt was lying on the ground at the junction of the nave and the transept of Wells Cathedral, staring upwards. He was inspecting one of the most dramatic features of any cathedral in Britain, the famous scissor arches that curved and swung and swept upwards towards the roof.

  ‘My goodness me, Lord Powerscourt,’ said the Dean, inspecting his prostrate visitor. ‘I know you asked me if you could lie on the floor, but I didn’t think you meant it. Are you all right down there?’

  ‘Perfectly happy, Dean, thank you very much. I thought I could get a better idea of what things must have looked like when your tower began to lean and crack open back in thirteen hundred and something or other.’

  ‘Thirteen hundred and thirty-eight,’ said the Dean with a faint note of irritation in his voice. He liked people to do their homework properly. ‘Anyway, I think you’ll find the cracks were more apparent higher up than they were at ground level.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Dean,’ said Powerscourt, rising nimbly to his feet. ‘I have to go and have a tutorial from your librarian in a quarter of an hour. He’s promised to tell me all about the cracks and your clever master mason William Joy who invented the arches and saved the building. The great curves, I’m told, transfer weight from the west, where the foundations sank under the tower’s weight, to the east where they remained firm. I’m going to write it all down in my little black book.’

  And Powerscourt patted one of his pockets which gave out a dull thud of reassurance. The Dean sighed as he looked around his kingdom of space and light.

  ‘I envy you, you know, Lord Powerscourt. You come here and you work hard and then you move on to another cathedral for your book. We’re left here with all the problems of the damp and the lack of money and the lack of interest. I sometimes wish I’d stayed where I was as Vicar of St George’s in Bristol.’

  Powerscourt looked closely at the Dean. ‘I think you’re wrong there, Dean,’ he said quietly. ‘Your problems may be formidable, the lack of money difficult, but you are charged with the upkeep in fabric and liturgy and service of one of the most beautiful buildings in England. It is I, and many others, who envy you, you know.’

  The Dean patted Powerscourt on the shoulder in a gesture that might have been a sign of friendship or a truncated blessing. He moved off towards the Chapter House.

  Lord Francis Powerscourt had not intended to become a historian of cathedrals. He was just under six feet tall, clean-shaven, his head crowned with a set of unruly black curls, his eyes blue, inspecting the world with irony and detachment.

  For many years Powerscourt had worked in Army Intelligence in India. When he left the military he and his great friend and companion in arms Johnny Fitzgerald had embarked on a successful career as investigators, solving murders and mysteries right across Britain. The year before, in 1902, he had been shot and very badly wounded at the end of a murder case involving one of London’s Inns of Court. For days he had been on the brink of death, his wife Lady Lucy and a team of doctors and nurses in constant vigil by his side. Several months after the accident, when he was well enough to travel and to climb a few hills, she took him away to a hotel in Positano in Italy to convalesce. Powerscourt loved Positano, hanging on to its cliff above the blue water, the streets often replaced by stairs as you climbed towards the top, the foundations of the houses horizontal rather than vertical, or so the natives said, and the legends of pirates and abductions of Black Madonnas that peopled its turbulent hi
story. And then, on the fifth morning, in a scene Powerscourt later referred to as The Ambush, Lucy sat him down on the balcony of their sitting room that looked out over the sea and took both of his hands in hers. Powerscourt had replayed the scene in his mind virtually every day since.

  ‘Francis, my love, I cannot tell you how happy we all are to see you getting better. I want to ask you something today. It is important, it’s very important to me.’

  She paused and Powerscourt could see that she must have been rehearsing this speech in her mind for days if not weeks. ‘I don’t expect an answer today, Francis. I don’t expect an answer tomorrow. Only when you’re ready.’

  Powerscourt thought she was delaying the heart of her message. Only when he looked into the steadfast courage in Lucy’s blue eyes did he know that she was trying to spare him. He thought he knew what she was going to say. He had been expecting it for some time.

  ‘Francis, I want you to give up detection, investigations, murders, mysteries, all of it. You know I have never tried to stop you in the past, I have never asked you and Johnny to abandon a case because it was dangerous. But that last case with the bullet wound in the chest nearly killed you. You were unconscious for days. You didn’t see the agony for our children, for Thomas and Olivia as they thought their Papa might be dead. Children don’t want that at the age of nine or seven. The twins would have had to grow up without a father at all. You’re a very good father, Francis, no mother and no child could ask for better. But surely the greatest gift a father can give his children is to stay alive for them, to be there as they grow up, to help and bless them on their way into the world. Dead fathers may be heroes, they may even be martyrs, but they don’t help their children with their homework or teach them how to play tennis or read them bedtime stories. Children need fathers built into the brickwork of their lives, into the patterns of their days and the weeks of the passing years. They don’t want that contact to be with some stone monument in a cemetery with rotting flowers lying at the side of the grave.’