Murder and Revolution
Page 1
Copyright © Evelyn Weiss 2018
Murder and Revolution
“I am confident that the whole history of the human race contains no other episode as horrible as this.”
Henry Morgenthau Sr.,
United States Ambassador
Contents
List of fictional characters
The Greek gift
Three princesses
An unexpected accident
The Tsarina’s list
The butterfly collector
Rasputin’s proposal
At the Neva Bath House
A very large prison
Whispers of the stars
The lowered rifle
To the Finland Station
Revolution in October
The wrong sort of communist
At the Hotel Metropole
Footsteps in Red Square
Brave new world
On the Trans-Siberian Express
Xanadu
A reluctant secret agent
The House of Special Purpose
The little prince
Gunfire and smoke
Out of the frying pan
At the Stone Gates
Faith in Comrade Lenin
The Astrakhan Host
Texas, Russia
Letters of passage
Death in September
The memory of bones
Through the trapdoor
East of Ararat
The valley of the shadow
The Persian Road
A quiet Ulysses
The Happy Isles
Author’s statement
List of principal fictional characters
Professor Felix Axelson, Swedish: a celebrated hypnotist and private detective
Agnes Frocester, American: the professor’s companion and assistant
Vasily Bukin, Russian: the professor’s host and guide in Russia
General Evgeny Aristarkhov, Russian: a senior military commander
Captain Yuri Sirko, Russian: a cavalry officer
Lord Buttermere, British: leader of British Intelligence
Emily Neale, American: a freethinker and journalist
Andrei Sokolov, Russian: manager of the Yermak Estate, a place of exile for Russian dissidents
Rufus du Pavey, British: a former pilot and writer
Mariam Sarafian, Armenian: an orphan
Commander Kılıç Pasha, Turkish: a senior military officer of the Ottoman Empire
1 The Greek gift
“‘Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.’ That is an English saying, is it not?”
“It is, Professor, but I think it comes from the story of the Trojan Wars.”
Professor Axelson and I are sitting by an open window in the professor’s home, a beautiful apartment on Gamla Stan, the island at the centre of Stockholm. A warm breeze blows in off the harbor, which is crowded with ships. The rippling white sails of a four-masted barque are reflected in glittering waters. It’s late summer, 1916, and I’m here on a holiday. Half the world is at war, but in neutral Sweden, there is peace.
“Miss Agnes, I am like the Trojans. I have received a gift – but I suspect that, like the Trojan Horse, it may contain something hidden and unwelcome.”
He shows me a letter. I notice the crest, the royal insignia. I scan it quickly, but I don’t understand Swedish. The professor explains.
“It is a personal letter from the king of Sweden, Gustaf V. He wishes to make me a Commander of the Royal Order of the Polar Star. The Swedish equivalent of a knighthood. He says he wants to confer the honor ‘for your services to police investigation, and your pioneering use of hypnosis to solve crime.’”
“That’s marvellous!”
“The Trojan Horse probably looked marvellous, Miss Agnes. It would indeed be gratifying to be honored in this way. But the final line of the letter may be a sting in the tail. It says ‘Professor, I would be delighted to welcome you, and a companion of your choice, as guests at my home at Drottningholm Palace, before the award is conferred formally at the Sveriges Kungahus. There is a delicate matter on which I would like your advice.’”
“That sounds fine. He’s only asking for advice.”
“I have tangled with royalty before, Miss Agnes. My experiences in Germany…”
“But Gustaf V is hardly the Kaiser.”
A small, elegant ship is anchored by the quayside of Gamla Stan. It’s the royal launch. The professor and I walk down the gangway. A few minutes later, we are watching the buildings of the city slip by as we sail up the narrow waters of the Riddarfjärden into Lake Mälaren. Stockholm is a city built on a hundred islands, and soon we see the green, wooded island of Lovön and the Drottningholm pleasure grounds. A few minutes later, the palace itself comes into view. It’s a dignified, cream-colored edifice, fronted by gardens that slope gently down to a low parapet on the waterside.
The launch anchors alongside the parapet. I notice a genteel figure in late middle age, wearing a frock coat, at the centre of a group of courtiers. He’s noticeably taller than any of his companions. As Professor Axelson steps from the gangway, the man comes forward and shakes his hand. The professor bows low; the man smiles in return. Under a high forehead, the king’s keen eyes are framed by thin gold-rimmed glasses, and he wears a carefully-trimmed mustache. His figure is broad-shouldered, but slim and athletic, and I recall that, not so many years ago, he ranked among the world’s top tennis players.
“Welcome, Professor Axelson; welcome, Miss Frocester. The professor and I will speak in English, so as to fully include you in our conversation. Although I gather you are something of a linguist – like the professor, you speak Russian, I believe?”
I try my best at a curtsey. “I don’t speak Swedish, your Majesty, but yes – I have picked up a little Russian. In my hometown in the United States, I worked weekends for a Russian tailor.”
“You hometown is?...”
“Putnam, Connecticut. My father runs the town drugstore. But I came to Europe soon after the war started. I’ve been working as a nursing assistant for the British Red Cross.”
The king nods. “That’s very admirable. I’m glad you have the opportunity of a holiday in Sweden. You are seeing Stockholm at its best, in this fine summer weather. Our Swedish winters are quite a different matter.”
“I’m sure they are, your Majesty.” The little exchange of small talk has put me at ease, as the king continues.
“We’re quite informal here at Drottningholm. I thought that the three of us could walk, enjoy the grounds. We can wander towards the Chinese Pavilion.”
The palace gardens are a blaze of color. Vivid red and yellow beds of August flowers form geometric patterns. But they soon give way to a park of open lawns and patches of woodland. As we stroll along in the sunshine, the king and the professor both surprise me: they quickly move to a business-like conversation.
“Thank you for responding to my invitation, Professor Axelson. Loyal subjects like you are precious to me – especially in these difficult times. So I will come straight to the point. What are your thoughts on the murder of Svea Håkansson?”
“I wish I knew more about it, your Majesty. I have read only the press reports of her death in Russia. There seem to be very few established facts. The newspaper articles are padded out with vague speculation.”
“As you will know, Professor, Miss Håkansson was the eldest daughter of the oldest noble family in Sweden. What you may not know is that she was a key diplomat in our difficult relations with Russia.”
“No, your Majesty. I was not aware of that.”
“It is a mark of Svea Håkansson’s skill in diplomacy that her name is not more widely known. The most effective power i
s wielded behind the scenes.”
“Indeed.”
“But what you will be well aware of, Professor, is that the situation in Russia is on a knife-edge. In the war with Germany, they have suffered catastrophic defeats. They have conceded great swathes of territory, and worst of all, their casualties are on an astronomic scale. A whole generation of young Russian men are being slaughtered like cattle. That is on top of Russia’s many other problems – poverty, industrial backwardness, and the threat of violent revolution.”
I look across the green lawns to the graceful outline of the Chinese Pavilion. In our idyllic setting, the king’s words of doom seem hardly real. But he carries on.
“Alongside this catalog of disasters, the monk Rasputin casts a spell over the Tsarina. We know he is trying to persuade her and her husband to beg the Kaiser for peace.”
I look at the king. “Your Majesty – peace would be a good thing, wouldn’t it?”
“Rasputin wants the Tsar to buy a cease-fire with Germany, by handing over to them lands that are currently part of the Russian Empire – Poland, Finland, Belarus, Latvia, Lithuania and Estonia. Germany would completely dominate the Baltic region. That would be disastrous for Sweden.
Now, I must speak very frankly to both of you. Rasputin pretends to be a man of religion. In fact, he is quite the opposite. His name is a byword for sexual adventuring, drinking and bribery. In fact, it has become commonplace in Russia to say: if you want anything done, pay Rasputin – he will make it happen for you. The man has a controlling and corrupting influence on everyone around him.”
The professor is listening carefully. “Your Majesty, I had heard such rumors myself. If they are true, why do the Tsar and Tsarina have such faith in him?”
“The Tsarina believes Rasputin to be a genuine mystic, a kind of faith-healer for her young son Alexei. The boy suffers, as you may know, from the blood disease hemophilia. She and her husband seem blind to Rasputin’s vices.
However, Svea Håkansson had found conclusive evidence against him. I don’t know the details – but she assured me it was sufficient to topple Rasputin from power.
In late July, Miss Håkansson visited the Tsarina at the imperial palace at Ivangorod, on the Gulf of Finland. On July 29th, at two o’clock in the afternoon, a servant found Miss Håkansson’s body. She had been shot in the side of the head. Apart from confirming that she died instantly, we have received no other information from Russia about the details of the murder.
The Russian police concluded, for reasons known only to them, that the murderer is a member of one of Russia’s revolutionary factions. Revolutionary violence in Russia is increasing at an alarming rate, and the police see this as just one more example.”
The professor wrinkles his brow. “But your Majesty, surely the Russian authorities must suspect certain individuals?”
“No, Professor. The police are content to put the responsibility collectively on the revolutionaries. You see, they have no concrete evidence, and it suits them politically to lay blame in this way. They have already closed their investigation.”
Axelson frowns. Is it to shade his eyes in the sunshine, or a mark of concentration? There’s a silence before he responds.
“Your Majesty. You asked me to come to Drottningholm Palace to give you my advice. But is it really advice that you seek?”
“You are indeed a gifted psychologist, Professor. You see straight through me. You, and I, already know what would be the most useful action in this situation.”
“You mean, your Majesty, that you would like me to investigate this murder?”
“As you have mentioned the idea, Professor, I will indeed be so bold as to ask for your assistance. You are to become a Commander of the Royal Order of the Polar Star – but some Swedes may ask why you should receive such an honor. You have a most impressive string of achievements – in America, England and France. Some may say: ‘What has Felix Axelson done for Sweden?’ But of course, the choice whether you take on the case is entirely yours.”
“There is an obstacle, your Majesty. The Russian police are hardly going to permit foreign interference.”
“I have something to show you, Professor.” The king holds out a letter; it flutters in the gentle breeze. The professor and I hold it still, and we read.
“Dear Gustaf
I write to express my most sincere condolences for the death of Svea Håkansson. Please accept my deepest sympathy.
As you will know, the Russian police have already concluded their investigation, and have found no culprit. I am aware that this is not a satisfactory conclusion. It must be frustrating for you, and for the whole nation of Sweden, to know that justice has not yet been done.
In view of the strange circumstances of Miss Håkansson’s death, I can understand that you might wish to send your own representatives to investigate the case. If you do decide to send agents from Sweden, I would personally ensure that they receive the fullest support from all the relevant authorities in Russia.
Her Imperial Majesty Alexandra Feodorovna
Tsarina, Empress of All The Russias.”
Axelson nods to himself as he reads the letter. Then he looks at the king. “I know why she has sent this. She has her own purpose: she wants to quell rumors. You will be aware, your Majesty, that the Swedish newspapers are full of speculation about the Håkansson case. They say that no-one has been arrested for the crime, because the murderer is in fact Rasputin himself.”
We’ve reached a grove of oak trees, and we walk through patches of light and shade under the green canopy, as Gustaf V replies.
“Yes, Professor. I am aware of what the papers are saying. They say that Rasputin was in Ivangorod, visiting the Tsarina, at the time of Miss Håkansson’s death.”
“Indeed, your Majesty. If Svea had evidence that would bring about Rasputin’s fall from power, that would give him a strong motive for murder. But the Russian police haven’t arrested him. Perhaps they have evidence against Rasputin, but they dare not put him on trial, because he is too powerful?”
The king absent-mindedly pulls down an acorn from a low-hanging branch. It’s tiny: the first sign of the coming fall. He rolls it between his fingers as he looks at Axelson.
“Rasputin is a spider that weaves many webs. Naively, the Tsarina believes that he could not possibly be behind this murder. She thinks a Swedish investigation will clear his name. But I am not so sure that it will. So if you do decide to go to Russia, Professor – tread carefully. Tread very carefully indeed.”
2 Thre e princesses
A large Swedish flag, showing our neutrality, flaps lazily above the professor and me as we lean on the rail of a small passenger steamer. Smooth ripples stretch out from the prow of the moving ship. The Baltic, under a warm early-morning summer sky, is like a dream. I’ve seen no sea like it: the calm water is still, like blue glass. But on both sides I notice that the horizon, which an hour ago was empty, is now lined with dark pines.
“We are entering the Gulf of Finland, Miss Agnes. On either hand we have provinces of the Russian Empire: Estonia to the south, Finland to the north.”
“How long until we arrive, Professor?”
“Just a few hours. By noon, we should be sailing up the Narva River to Ivangorod.”
As the sun climbs in the sky, the shoreline grows nearer. I see fishing boats on the water, and little villages among the trees, but my mind drifts off into thought. I recall the words of that conversation with Gustaf V. The feeling that I had in Stockholm comes back to me: that the king lured Axelson into this mission. The professor and I are pawns, who do not understand the game being played around us.
It’s now midday. Just as the professor said, we are approaching our destination. The Narva River is a wide, calm inlet of the sea, narrowing as we sail along. Ahead of us, like a pair of bookends, two ancient castles stand on either bank of the river. The professor says that Narva Castle is on the right, Ivangorod on the left. Our ship pulls towards the left-hand bank.
Below the towering walls of the fortress, Ivangorod harbor is a mass of movement; ships are docking, men hailing, throwing ropes to the arriving vessels. Other men trundle bales and boxes along the quayside in handcarts. Horses pull wagons; I see no motor vehicles anywhere. As we descend the gangway, a round-faced man with a pince-nez extends his hand to the professor, and bows low to me.
“Miss Frocester, Professor Axelson! Welcome to Russia! I am Vasily Bukin, your companion for your visit to our land.”
His friendliness has an old-fashioned air; he smiles broadly at the professor, but lowers his eyes respectfully at me. He’s dressed in a sober suit that would be twenty years out of fashion in the States or Europe. His age is maybe early forties, or even late thirties, but his formal air makes him seem much older. His words of greeting and well-wishing go on for several minutes.
Finally, he shows us a boat. It’s a kind of low-hulled sailing yacht, pulled up against the quayside behind our steamer. The single member of the boat’s crew stands in the shadow of the sails, waiting for us. Mr Bukin bids us to get on board.