by Sam Eastland
For now at least, Pekkala remained on his feet. ‘That woman on the staircase. One of yours?’
Rasputin nodded as he gathered up a handful of olives discarded on a plate by the windowsill. ‘Irina Krupskaya,’ he confirmed, tossing an olive into his mouth.
‘The wife of the Finance Minister?’ asked Pekkala, unable to mask his surprise.
Rasputin held up a finger, begging for patience as he rolled the olive around between his teeth, peeling away the meat, before spitting the stone out of the open window. ‘Deputy Finance Minister.’
Pekkala nodded towards the back room. ‘And this is how you wash away their sins?’
‘Only God can grant her clemency,’ argued Rasputin. ‘What you, and the rest of this spiritually bankrupt city, fail to grasp is that only by sinning can one drive out the devil of sin. Without it, there can be no focus for her repentance and without repentance, there can be no remission of guilt. I have brought her soul to the edge of a great precipice, and now she must throw herself off. Her choice is clear now, in a way it never was before.’
Pekkala shook his head, marvelling at the contortions of Rasputin’s logic. ‘How selfless of you, Grigori.’
‘Irina Krupskaya thinks so,’ Rasputin waved at the doorway, through which the woman had departed, ‘and if she believes it, who’s to say it isn’t true? Trust me, Inspector. You and I are not so different.’
‘We are what time and circumstance have made us,’ answered Pekkala.
‘All the more reason why you should learn to trust me better than you do.’ With those words, Rasputin flopped down on the couch and swung his bare feet on to the coffee table. ‘Sit, for pity’s sake, Inspector! You are making me nervous, standing there as if you have come to make an arrest.’ Then he narrowed his eyes. ‘I take it that’s not why you’re here.’
‘The Tsarina has decided to loan you some artwork.’
‘She has indeed, Pekkala.’
‘Do not accept it.’
‘Too late!’ Rasputin boomed with laughter. ‘See for yourself.’
Pekkala turned in the direction of Rasputin’s stare. There, on the wall behind him, was the icon. Pekkala had never studied The Shepherd up close before, and was shocked at the intensity of the colours. He could not deny that there was something unearthly about this little painting.
‘It arrived this morning,’ Rasputin said cheerfully. ‘Seems as if this was a wasted trip for you.’
‘Not if I can persuade you to give it back.’
‘And this on account of your deep and abiding love of Russian icons,’ Rasputin remarked sarcastically. ‘The Tsar sent you, didn’t he?’
Pekkala nodded. There was no point in denying it.
‘That coward!’ hissed Rasputin.
‘He is a realist,’ replied Pekkala, ‘at least when it comes to his wife.’
‘Curious, don’t you think,’ sneered Rasputin, ‘that a man who would gamble the safety of his country on the power of an icon would not trust that same power to protect the icon itself? But if that is what the Tsar wants, he should come here and ask me himself.’
‘You know what will happen if word gets out that this country’s most sacred object is hanging on your wall like some old family portrait, and that the Tsarina herself ordered it to be delivered to your door.’
‘You think I haven’t considered this?’ demanded Rasputin. ‘I know exactly how much damage this could do.’
‘Then make her see reason, Grigori! You are the only one who can.’
Rasputin breathed in deeply, then exhaled in a long and melancholy sigh. ‘Don’t you see, Pekkala? I can only convince the Tsarina here,’ he tapped a bony finger against his chest, ‘if she is already convinced in here.’ He shifted the finger to his temple, drilling his long fingernail into the skin. ‘My power, if you want to call it that, lies in being able to predict what the Tsarina wants, before she knows herself what it is that she desires. I cannot change her mind once it has been made up. All I can do is convince her she is right. And that,’ grinned Rasputin, ‘is one of the reasons she loves me.’ As suddenly as it had appeared, the playful smile slid away from his face. ‘Go back to your master, the Tsar. Tell him I refused to yield. Tell him it is the will of God. Tell him whatever you like, but make him understand that there is nothing to be done.’
‘What have you got yourself into this time?’ asked Pekkala.
‘Trust me when I tell you,’ answered Rasputin, ‘that even for a man as curious as you, some things are better left unknown.’
*
Two weeks later, Pekkala was summoned again, only this time, it was not by the Tsar.
The old gardener, Stefanov, whose son Ostrogorsky had almost cleaved in half, knocked on the door of Pekkala’s cottage. Then, unsure at what distance to wait, he retreated to the road.
By the time Pekkala came to the door, Stefanov was standing on the other side of the garden gate, cap in hand, his thatch of long grey hair matted down on his head.
‘Yes?’ asked Pekkala. It was a Sunday morning, the time when Pekkala would polish his boots, mend tears in his clothes and oil his Webley revolver. He always looked forward to this time. They were the only few hours of the week when his mind was not focused on his work.
There was something meditative in the threading of needles, in the rustle of the horsehair brush over the toe caps of his boots and in the precise click of metal parts as he carefully disassembled the gun.
Now the Webley lay in pieces on the bare pine of his kitchen table and Pekkala’s fingertips were smudged dark brown, since he did not use a brush to work the polish into his heavy, double-soled boots. He wore a tattered pair of corduroys, the lines partially rubbed out above the knee so that they seemed to spell out Morse-code messages. He also had on a collarless grey wool shirt with buttons made of antler bone, the cloth so worn down that even he, who wore his clothes until they all but vaporised, had consigned it for use only when doing his chores.
‘A message for you, Inspector,’ mumbled Stefanov. He shifted uneasily from foot to foot, his dark eyes darting about.
‘Is everything all right, Stefanov?’
‘Oh, yes,’ lied the gardener. In truth, he was terrified of Pekkala. He was a superstitious old man, and had heard so many stories about the mysterious Finn that he no longer considered Pekkala to be human, but rather some creature conjured into being by the black arts of some arctic shaman.
‘You said something about a message.’ Pekkala wiped the polish from his fingers on to an old dish towel he carried as a handkerchief.
‘Ah, yes. The message is that you should come at once.’
‘Come where, Stefanov?’
‘To Madame Vyroubova’s house.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘Seemed so to me. I was passing by her house when she called to me out of a window. Said to fetch you right away.’
Pekkala nodded. ‘Very well.’
Stefanov replaced his cap and stepped back into the road, heels scuffing in the sandy yellow gravel. ‘That is all I have to say,’ he announced solemnly. Then he paused for a moment, as if to reconsider. ‘No,’ he reassured himself. ‘That’s all of it.’
‘Thank you, Stefanov.’
‘Thank you, sir!’ The gardener smiled, revealing the grey stumps of long-neglected teeth. He raised one finger in a farewell salute, like a man testing the direction of the wind, then set off down the road.
Pekkala did not bother to change. Quickly, he reassembled the revolver, his movements so practised that they required no conscious thought. After loading the gun, he put on his leather shoulder holster, a pattern of his own invention which held the revolver almost horizontally across his chest. With the familiar weight of the Webley resting on his solar plexus, he put on his heavy, double-breasted coat, laced up his boots and set out towards Vyroubova’s.
Her house stood at the opposite end of the Tsarskoye Selo estate. Pekkala neither rode a horse, nor owned a car or bicycle. He preferred, when
ever possible, to travel on his own two feet. In spite of Vyroubova’s command to come at once, Pekkala did not hurry. He knew from experience that when Vyroubova wanted something, no matter how trivial, it was always a matter of urgency, requiring that everyone around her drop everything until the task had been completed to her satisfaction. So he took his time, strolling with his hands behind his back, while dust from the path settled on his freshly polished boots, and it was some time before he arrived at the squat stone building which Vyroubova called home.
The door opened just as he was reaching for the brass ring that served as a knocker. Vyroubova, in a lavender-coloured dress with white ruffles at the throat, gazed down her nose at him, eyebrows crooked into chevrons of indignation. ‘I sent for you to come at once! If my house had been on fire . . .’
‘You would not have called on me, Vyroubova, nor sent the gardener to do it.’
She flashed him a humourless smile and stood aside to let him pass. As Pekkala stepped inside, he smelled the cloying fragrance of perfume, mixed with the sharp odour of carbolic soap and cigarette smoke sunk into the curtains and upholstered chairs. Turning the corner into the sitting room, he realised that Vyroubova already had a guest.
It was the Tsarina.
Although Pekkala had not expected this, seeing the Tsarina here did not catch him entirely by surprise. She was often to be found in the company of Vyroubova. This cottage served as her refuge from life at the Alexander Palace, the Romanovs’ own residence on the Tsarskoye Selo estate, where the Tsarina could seldom find a moment to herself. Vyroubova’s house doubled as a meeting place for guests, such as Rasputin, whose presence at the palace might cause complications.
Now Pekkala knew who had really called him to this rendezvous. The only thing he didn’t know was why.
‘Kind of you to join us, Inspector,’ said the Tsarina. She sat straight-backed in a chair by the window. Sunlight through the gauzy day curtains made it difficult to see her face. She wore the long grey dress of an army nurse, with a red cross emblazoned upon the off-white apron which covered her chest and extended the full length of the dress itself. On the Tsarina’s orders, a portion of the Catherine Palace, also located on the estate, had recently been converted into a hospital for wounded officers. Not only the Tsarina, but her daughters, and even Vyroubova, had been working there as medical attendants. Many times, on his walks in the dove-grey twilight, Pekkala had seen men, their faces pinched with pain, hobbling on crutches across the palace grounds.
Pekkala bowed, suddenly aware of his threadbare corduroys, his dusty boots and unbuttoned coat.
‘You must be wondering why you’re here,’ said the Tsarina.
‘I am now, Majesty,’ he replied.
‘I thought that you should be the first to know,’ continued the Tsarina. ‘A robbery has taken place. The icon of The Shepherd has been stolen from the house of Grigori Rasputin.’
Pekkala’s first instinct was to doubt what he had just been told. As far as he knew, nothing had ever been stolen from Rasputin. There was no need to rob a man who gladly made a gift of everything he owned. In fact, thought Pekkala, that’s probably what happened. Rasputin got drunk and gave it away and now that he has sobered up he can’t remember who he gave it to. But, for now at least, he kept his suspicions to himself. ‘Has the Tsar been informed?’ he asked.
‘He will be, in due course.’
Pekkala heard a floorboard creak and turned to see Vyroubova waiting in the doorway.
Her small eyes glittered.
‘Do not stand behind the Inspector,’ cautioned the Tsarina. ‘He is liable to shoot you with that English cannon which he carries beneath his coat. Perhaps you would be kind enough to bring the Inspector some refreshment.’
Mechanically, Vyroubova stepped back into the hall. A moment later came the sound of her clattering about in the kitchen.
‘The Tsar should be notified at once,’ said Pekkala. ‘The loss of that icon . . .’
‘The Tsar is very busy with affairs at Mogilev,’ snapped the Tsarina, ‘and I know perfectly well what the loss of The Shepherd means to this country.’
‘I’ll go to Rasputin,’ said Pekkala, ‘and find out exactly what took place.’
‘I have just told you what happened,’ snapped the Tsarina, ‘and as for you bothering Grigori, I have a better idea.’
‘And what is that, Majesty?’
The Tsarina lifted her hand from where it balanced on her knee. With a careless gesture, she twisted her fingers in the air. ‘Do nothing,’ she told him.
Pekkala’s eyes widened. ‘Nothing?’
‘An investigation now would only draw attention to its loss.’
‘Not as much as if it became known that we had taken no steps to recover the icon.’
‘That is why,’ continued the Tsarina, ‘we will inform the public that the icon is being restored, and that this work is likely to take some time. No one would find it unusual.’
‘That is a lie which will not hold for long, Majesty. The icon could surface again at any time.’
‘Agreed, but by then the war may be over and the country will have turned its attention to other things.’
‘I really should speak with Rasputin,’ insisted Pekkala.
The Tsarina breathed in slowly, the air whistling faintly through her nose. ‘Leave him be, Pekkala. He had no role in this.’
‘Forgive me, Majesty, but you have just told me that the icon was stolen from his house!’ exclaimed Pekkala.
‘So you think our dear friend is the one who stole it?’ The Tsarina smiled faintly at the absurdity of this idea, her expression almost hidden in the flare of sunlight through the curtains.
‘No,’ answered Pekkala, ‘but others will. He is very much a part of this, whether he intended to be or not. Surely you would want me to prove his innocence.’
The Tsarina sighed. ‘Very well. Go then, if you insist. But be careful, Pekkala. These days, there is danger everywhere.’
At that moment, Vyroubova reappeared from the kitchen. In her hand, she held a glass of water. ‘Your refreshment, Inspector,’ she said quietly.
‘Some other time perhaps,’ he told her as he walked out through the door.
Vyroubova watched him fade away among the trees, until all that remained was the sound of his footsteps crunching on the gravel path.
‘I warned him,’ said the Tsarina.
‘He listened but he did not understand,’ remarked Vyroubova.
‘Oh, he understood me perfectly,’ replied the Tsarina. ‘He is simply doing what he has often done before.’
‘And what is that, Majesty?’
‘Whatever he chooses,’ answered the Tsarina, ‘only this time he will regret it.’
*
Later that same day, as Pekkala entered the gloomy courtyard of Rasputin’s house in Petrograd, he noticed several newly smashed bottles on the cobblestones. The vinegary reek of spilled wine drilled into his senses. Glancing up, he caught sight of a figure staring down at him from one of the windows at the top. That was Rasputin’s floor, and Pekkala recognised the figure as Grigori himself, wearing only a sleeveless white undershirt, his bare arms sinewy with muscle. Although he rarely used it, Rasputin was a man of great physical strength. With a rustle of the curtains, he disappeared back into the room.
Once more, Pekkala trudged up the stairs. At each of the three floors leading up to Rasputin’s apartment, he studied the closed doors which led to the rooms of the building’s other inhabitants. He wondered what they thought of the constant tramp of visitors to the apartment on the top floor. Whatever their suspicions, they had doubtless learned to keep their opinions to themselves. News of any confrontation with Rasputin would soon find its way to the ears of the Tsarina, to be followed swiftly by a visit from special agents of the Tsar’s Secret Service, whose task it was to smooth over, with bribes if possible, by force if necessary, Rasputin’s increasingly difficult reputation. Rasputin himself seemed barely aware of these
gun-toting guardian angels, who often delivered him senseless to his lodgings after a night at the Villa Roda. Waking fully clothed upon his unmade bed, in the early afternoon of the following day, with no idea of how he came to be there, the Siberian would simply consign the missing hours to oblivion and throw open his door to the next group of guests in search of salvation or cash.
This time, however, when Pekkala arrived on the landing, he found the door locked. Gently, he bounced his knuckles off the wood, then, when no one answered, less gently, and finally, he pounded with his fist so that the hinges rattled on their pins.
Eventually, there came the creak of footsteps on the other side, the clunk of a lock being turned, and the door creaked open, just wide enough to show one of Rasputin’s eyes, peering nervously out into the hall. ‘Inspector!’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’
‘You knew it was me,’ replied Pekkala.
Rasputin cleared his throat. ‘Well, it so happens I was just on my way out. You’ll have to come back some other time.’
‘Then I’ll walk you down to the street, Grigori, and keep you company wherever you are going.’
‘No,’ muttered Rasputin. ‘I am very busy. There is no time for talk.’
Pekkala set his toe upon the door and pushed.
At first, Rasputin tried to hold him back, but then, with a growl of surrender, he let go.
In the time it had taken Pekkala to climb the stairs, Rasputin had changed from his white undershirt into a red tunic with black trousers and knee-length, calfskin boots. He was in the process of fastening around his waist a woven horsehair belt with an intricate, silver buckle, fashioned in the Cossack style, like two halves of a scallop shell split open end to end.
The walls, Pekkala noted, had been freshly painted in a particular shade of mauve which was the choice of the Tsarina for her own rooms in the Alexander Palace. ‘An interesting colour choice,’ he remarked.
‘You know perfectly well it wasn’t my idea,’ Rasputin mumbled into his beard.