by Will Thomas
She flipped more pages. “Miss Kschessinska is the favorite of the imperial librettist, a fellow named Tchaikovsky. He is writing a ballet especially for her, they say. She is to appear as the Sugar Plum Fairy in his newest work, The Nutcracker. She was the principal dancer in Sleeping Beauty last season. And of course, her first role, which brought her to the attention of Saint Petersburg, was the title role in La Sylphide.”
The Guv and I both froze. Miss Fletcher’s brows lowered in puzzlement at our response. Barker cleared his throat as if to say to me “We must keep this to ourselves.”
“Thank you, Miss Fletcher,” he said. “You have done very well in such a short time. Send me a bill for your services.”
“That is all you require?” she asked.
“Follow the two gentlemen I described to you. That will be all.”
She rose, clutching her bag, and looked slightly embarrassed. There was a red spot on each cheek.
“Very well,” she said, suddenly brisk and professional. “I’ll be off, then.”
And she was, paying no attention to me as she did so. I didn’t need her approval, but somehow her outright disapproval rankled me.
“Very well,” I repeated when she had gone.
“The Metropole,” Barker said, the slip of paper still in his hand. “Excellent. Let us go speak to Miss Mathilde Kschessinska.”
“Sir, may I make a suggestion?”
Barker turned his head and looked at me. “Yes, Mr. Llewelyn. Of course.”
“Sir, I do not think you should go. Let me go instead.”
“And why would you going alone be better than our going together?” he asked.
“I fear you might intimidate a young ballerina,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “She would close up like an oyster and tell you nothing, whereas if I spoke to her, I would draw her out and get her to reveal her plans. Perhaps they already have a rendezvous in the offing and she’ll give me the day and place. I’ll play to her vanity. I’ll claim to be a liaison from the palace sent by Nicholas. In a way it’s true.”
“You don’t think she will see through the subterfuge, lad?”
“If she does, what harm would it do?” I answered. “She doesn’t know me from Adam.”
“You believe women find me intimidating?” he asked.
Kodiak bears found him intimidating, but now was not the time to tell him.
“No, sir, not under normal circumstances. You are polite, even chivalrous. However, she may be expecting some kind of interference from the palace and you have the look about you of some sort of agent, which in fact, you are. Whereas I do not look in any way like a government agent.”
“Perhaps,” he said, mulling the issue. He did not sound convinced.
“How would you have me go, sir?” I pressed. “Am I to be sympathetic or not?”
He sat back in his chair and looked over my head in thought. “Have her … have her believe you are sympathetic to her plight, one of a small contingent within the palace. However, the queen is aware of her existence and is adamant about splitting the two of them apart so Nicholas can marry her niece. She does not approve of immorality.”
“Or of mistresses, ballerinas, assignations, or impropriety…”
“Which of course she does not,” the Guv said, “and for good reason, as is so obviously illustrated here.”
“That seems simple enough.”
“There’s more,” he continued. “Tell her that the entire matter is political. There is an alliance between our countries and the tsarevich is to be the sacrifice. No one cares how the boy feels. He’s just a pawn.”
“Excellent. And if she presses about some sort of rendezvous?”
“Blame the Okhrana. They sense something is in the wind and are circling him like jackals.”
“I rather like that, sir,” I admitted.
“Most of all, you must make her believe that the tsarevich is cracking under the strain. There is a rumor afoot that Princess Alix is coming here so the two can meet.”
“I assume there is no such rumor.”
“About Princess Alix?” he answered, shrugging his beefy shoulders. “No, the last I heard, she is still holding out against conversion. She is a steadfast young woman and her piety does her credit.”
“Whereas Mathilde is a mere flibbertigibbet,” I remarked.
The Guv nodded. “You are correct, sir. Whatever sort of tsar he will prove himself to be, he is no gentleman.”
In Barker’s mind there could be no greater indictment.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I hailed a cab and made my way to the Metropole, near Oxford Street. The hotel had been built within the last twenty years, but had already endured a scandal or two. Lady Something-or-Other had tried to corner her philandering husband with a pistol but had chosen the wrong room, thereby firing at a curate from Brixton. The hotel seemed an obvious choice for an assignation between Mathilde and the tsarevich.
I climbed the stair and knocked at the door. I expected a maid, if not the ballerina herself, but in her place was a severe-looking Russian aristocrat in a braided uniform. He was losing his hair although he was not yet thirty. He looked cut from the same cloth as the tsarevich, but there seemed to be a lot of that in London these days.
“Good afternoon, sir. Is Mathilde Kschessinska in residence at the moment?”
“I don’t—” he began, but I stepped by him just as a woman who must be my objective entered the room.
“Miss Kschessinska,” I said. “I am a liaison sent from Kensington Palace by the tsarevich. He has enlisted my services to get a message to you.”
She looked even younger than twenty-one or twenty-two. She was a small woman, and more curvaceous than expected for someone who spends half her life en pointe. Rebecca was far more beautiful in my eyes, but this woman was attractive enough to have a future tsar of a good portion of the globe entranced with her.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“My name is Thomas Llewelyn. My partner and I have been hired by the tsarevich to do some duties for him while he is in London.” I turned to the gentleman who was standing next to us, observing our conversation.
He nodded and bowed. “I am Grand Duke Sergei Mikhailovich, sir, and I am not aware of your employment by Nicholas.”
“I was the one who saved him during the shooting in front of Kensington Palace. He called me and my partner in to discuss some matters, including the matchmaking by Her Majesty, who is negotiating a marriage between the tsarevich and Princess Alix of Hesse, who was left behind by the late Prince Albert Victor.”
The dancer’s nostrils flared. “That scarecrow isn’t going to marry my Nicky. It is a damnable lie! That harpy had better keep her pointed nose out of our business or we shall cut it off.”
“I never cared much for the princess myself,” I fibbed. In truth, I had no idea what Alix of Hesse was like. “She’s as cold as a herring and not particularly bright. Bit of a dullard, in my opinion. Certainly not as lovely as you.”
“At least somebody in this country has some sense,” Mathilde said, sitting down in a chair and smoothing the pink folds of her dress.
Just then the strangest animal entered the room. It looked like a fur-covered greyhound. Its face and neck were so long and thin they looked like another limb. As soon as it saw me it came over and stuck its cold, wet nose in my face. Then it tried to climb into my lap. In an instant I had become his deepest friend.
“Kostya, leave the man alone. Go away!”
The dog climbed down again, gave me a look of abject regret at our parting, and slunk away.
“The tsarevich has been raving about your dancing,” I continued. “He called you the Queen of Dancers. Your Sugar Plum Fairy was dainty, he said; your Sleeping Beauty divine. I understand you also danced La Sylphide.”
“I don’t think…,” the duke began.
“Silence, Sergei,” Mathilde ordered. “Let the young man speak.”
I was blathering, I’ll admit. I
hadn’t won over Grand Duke Sergei yet, but I could see Mathilde Kschessinska wanted to believe my story.
“Please sit with me, Mr. Llewelyn. Galina!” she called. “Bring some water! Or would you prefer wine?”
“Water will do, thank you very much. The wine here in London leaves a good deal to be desired.”
A maid appeared with a goblet of water. I used the time to think of the next stratagem.
“This man is a popinjay and a mountebank,” the grand duke insisted. “You should throw him out into the street!”
“Sergei, a fine way to treat a man who has my interests at heart,” she protested. “Leave us to speak!”
“Mische…”
“Leave us!” she screeched. It was so high and shrill, it made both of us jump. The little ballerina had claws. Silently, Sergei Mikhailovich stood, the very picture of wounded honor, and left the room. He’d fared little better than the dog.
“You must forgive him,” she said, smiling. “Sometimes he gets jealous. He wants me all to himself.”
“As any man would, I’m sure.”
She tried to hide a smile, but she was susceptible to flattery.
“Why haven’t I heard of you?” she asked.
“I’ve only known the tsarevich for a short while, but it is my pleasure to make his first stay in our country enjoyable.”
“Quite right,” she replied. One could say she was little more than a petulant child, but so far she had done well by herself. She wanted more and nothing less than to become the first tsarina of Russia without royal blood, and it was still possible that she might succeed.
“Have you seen him yet?” I asked.
“No, not yet,” she admitted. “I’ve been waiting for him to call me. He has promised to slip out of the palace at the first opportunity and send word.”
“He’s been pining for you,” I said.
“Nikolai asked me to come here so he may visit when he can,” she replied. “Russian society understands such things, but you English. Such a scandal! I think you are all hypocrites!”
I tried not to smile and nodded, commiserating with her. Her English was good, with a slight French accent. Paris is the Riviera of Moscow. All the wealthy visit there when it turns too cold.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” I asked. “Perhaps I could get a message to the tsarevich.”
“Could you?” she asked, clapping her hands together. “Could you tell him how desperately I wish to see him? Tell him he must be strong, so that we can be together. My Nicky is not so forceful. He bends with the wind. He must be reminded to stay strong or that fat toad Victoria and her niece will have their way.”
“I certainly will. You could write a note now, mademoiselle.”
“Mische, I am, to all my friends, and you are my newest one,” she replied. “Tell me, Mr. Llewelyn, why is it that your climate is warmer than mine, yet it is wet and windy in a way that not even Siberia experiences?”
“England does not bend to anyone’s rules. It makes up its own.”
“It does not know any better,” she said. She put out her lips, still a petulant child. A girl that age should not be allowed to influence would-be kings.
“So you wait here daily, hoping he will call?” I asked. “That must be terrible for you.”
Mathilde nodded. “That and shopping. I must look my best. Since I cannot eat much due to my training, it is my only vice. Except for cigarettes, but Nicky insists they are not feminine.”
“What do you intend to do if the rumor about a match with Alix of Hesse is true?” I asked, playing with the ferrule of my walking stick.
“It will never happen. It’s impossible.”
“But if it does?”
“I will have no choice but to write to the scarecrow herself.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I will fight to keep what is mine,” she said. “What woman wouldn’t?”
The woman rose the back of her hand to her forehead, a sign of anguish. A sign, that is, in a cheap melodrama. I began to wonder if the Russian arts crowd had any discernible taste. Did Nicholas actually like this little prima donna? Was it some sort of youth’s fascination for his first paramour?
“And what of him?” I persisted. “Surely you would not allow him to cast you over for that German princess. You can’t.”
“Darling, if I can’t have him, Russia cannot have him, either.”
“What do you mean?” I felt a moment of alarm.
She crossed to a fainting couch in a corner of the room, opened a reticule, and withdrew a small pistol.
“I shall shoot us both if I cannot have him,” she said. “She will never be his bride. He is my Nicky, or he is no one else’s. It’s that simple.”
“You would do it yourself?” I asked with a morbid fascination. “With so much at stake? Why, you could become the prima donna of all Europe.”
“I will become a martyr to love,” she said, waving the pistol around as if she might use me for target practice. “What better way to die?”
She was such a child, I thought. She’d had a taste for finery and infamy, and was being spoiled and cosseted by almost everyone. She was desperate and willing to take risks.
“Mademoiselle, I feared when I heard an attempt had been made upon the life of the tsarevich that you had heard the bad news and might, with your broken heart, have hired someone to kill him.”
She looked at me frankly, with no pretense in her voice. “What are you talking about?”
“The attempt upon Prince George’s life yesterday at Kensington Palace was supposed to have been upon Nicholas. It was kept from the newspapers, but there is the truth of it.”
“You are talking nonsense. If it were true, Sergei would have told me.”
“Mademoiselle, I assure you it is true.”
She rose her pistol. “Sergei! Come out so that I can shoot you!”
“Miss Kschessinska, I implore you!” I cried. “Put away that pistol. You will cause a scandal.”
At that moment, Grand Duke Sergei walked into the room. “I am going out for a drink, Mische. You can shoot me when I return.”
She stomped her foot when he left and then turned to me. “You cannot forbid me to shoot Nikolai. Remember Meyerling? I can do no less. I head to my doom and he to his. You must go now. Go, Mr. Llewelyn. It’s a pity you didn’t get to see me dance.”
She looked away pointedly. I rose, nodded, and left.
* * *
“She means Nicholas mischief,” I said to the Guv when I returned to our chambers.
“You don’t think her threat was an attempt to gain sympathy?” he asked.
“The pistol looked real enough,” I replied. “She’s like a child who breaks a china doll rather than share it with her sister.”
“Meyerling,” Barker repeated. “That name is familiar.”
“A few years ago, the prince of Austria killed his young mistress and himself in a hunting lodge when his family tried to force them to separate. I believe it was initially claimed that she had an aneurysm of the heart, but word soon spread. The girl was seventeen, I think.”
“Royals can do stupid things sometimes, Thomas,” the Guv said. “I suppose all young men can.”
“And not a few older ones.”
“You are referring to Sergei Mikhailovich?” Barker asked.
“Yes. He is the one delivering messages between Nicholas and Mathilde. And he is a grand duke, one of the suspects on our list.”
“Those are valid points,” Barker replied. “He deserves to be on the list.”
“Meyerling. She wants them to die as a sort of romantic gesture.”
“While thumbing their noses at the world,” I added.
“Do you consider her a true romantic, or merely opportunistic?”
“If you are asking if she’s more in love with Nicky or with being tsarina of Russia, I would tend toward the latter.”
“That’s good, then,” the Guv said. “She is practi
cal.”
“Practical, sir?”
“Yes. The problem with a romantic gesture is that you’re not alive afterward to enjoy the notoriety.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Barker was seated in a barber chair the following morning, his face swathed in a hot towel. My face was being lathered with a brush.
“We have fallen behind,” the Guv said. “The wedding is a few days away and we have people to interview and questions to answer. I have not time to lie about when a man’s life is at stake, whose death could throw us into a war. I’ll not be accused of fiddling while Rome burns.”
I’d have said “Yes, sir,” if there wasn’t a razor at my throat and my face full of suds, and really, he wasn’t speaking to me.
“Suspects,” he continued. “Name the suspects, Mr. Llewelyn.”
“William Morris, Eleanor Marx, Pyotr Rachkovsky, Mathilde Kschessinska, and the grand dukes of Russia. And an assassin named La Sylphide.”
When our shaves were completed, I paid our barber and we left.
“Tell me about this Morris fellow,” Barker said as we stepped into the road. “You appeared to be familiar with him.”
“I’m rather surprised you haven’t heard of him before, sir,” I replied. “He’s a true artist in many fields. He’s a great poet, a mystic, and a philosopher. He was known as a painter for several years but his latest fascination is textiles. He hopes to drape drab London sitting rooms in textile prints.”
“He makes pretty pictures. He is a poet,” Barker grumbled.
“Not just any poet. He was offered the position of poet laureate after Tennyson died, but he refused it because it took him from his political work.”
“He is a Socialist.”
We were south of our home in Newington Causeway, walking to the Underground.
“One could call him The Socialist,” I continued as we descended the stairs. “He speaks at rallies. He debates and lectures at universities. He edits and writes for a Socialist journal. He supports his political activities from the coffers of his own printing company. At least that’s what I’ve heard.”
