Lily was silent, her heart and her head with the princess as she plunged on with her denunciation: ‘And perhaps the will to a further war is gathering already? So soon! Your commander has seen this. I admire him but he is no more than a quixotic boy who has blocked a hole in a crumbling sea-wall with his finger.’
These were Lily’s sentiments exactly, so she was surprised to hear herself murmuring: ‘Strong finger, though. What would you have him do? See the danger and selfishly run away from it? That is not in his character. That is not in our tradition.’
A cynical bark of laughter greeted this pious but heartfelt assertion.
‘My dear Lily! You are too much in awe of your cousin and your country. Sandilands is an admirable man but he serves a selfish mistress. Britannia picks and chooses the causes she espouses and completely without sentimentality. When she meddles in the affairs of a foreign nation, it is always in the pursuit of her own interests.’
‘But …’ Lily was struggling with the need for deference and circumspection which Sandilands had impressed upon her when she would have liked to give her hostess a good earwigging. The princess had gone too far. She had dug deep but she had at last found the vein of patriotism that ran through her English guest. Lily wanted to invoke the generous way Russian refugees had been welcomed into the British capital, the way the British army had stood shoulder to shoulder with the Russians against the Germans, the sacrifices made by young men she had known and still remembered, falling in foreign fields for a cause that was not theirs. She murmured her objections, overawed by the older woman’s rank and hobbled by the suspicion that the lady would no doubt be engaged in a telephone conversation with Sandilands the moment Lily had left.
‘Russia? A perfect example of Britain’s patchy and self-interested involvement! Englishmen were there at the moment critique in St Petersburg in their Russian army officers’ uniforms and armed with their Webleys to finish off poor, bungling Felix Yussupov’s handiwork. Oh, yes, the world was well rid of Rasputin but it was no generous gesture on your part. The British secret service had a very particular reason for silencing him. The maniac was about to succeed in persuading the Tsar that he should order the Russian army to stop fighting on the eastern front and retreat back to Russia. It would have spelled disaster for the Allies. It would have left battalions of Germans suddenly released from action and free to dash over to the western front where they would have finished off the British and French forces. Now that was a pistol shot that saved thousands of lives! I do not criticize. I would have pulled the trigger myself and gladly. But the Tsar? Your King George’s own cousin? He asked for asylum in England. His request was refused. Where were your secret service officers when the Tsar needed a passage to safety for himself and his family?’
‘It was tried. I’m sure it was tried.’ Lily’s voice was unconvincing to her own ears.
‘It could have been achieved. The imperial family was under house arrest for many weeks. If diplomatic negotiations had failed — and I am not certain that they were even attempted — they could all have been rescued. The British managed after all,’ she said with a sly smile, ‘to organize a route by which the Tsar’s fortune could be spirited away. Millions of pounds’ worth of gold, jewels and bonds were helped out of banks, strongrooms and palaces on their way out of Russia but it was too much, apparently, to do the same for one small family.’
The princess seemed entertained by Lily’s expression of astonishment. ‘And you are asking yourself, Lily, why we do not see the Tsar, the Tsaritsa, their four beautiful daughters and the handsome Prince Alexei here in London, living their lives in safety? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s very simple. The wife of the Tsar is … was … a German-born woman of difficult character. Alexandra represented the enemy. And she would have been in your midst, this high-handed, manipulative schemer. But, more important, no capital can sustain two royal courts. Especially when the interlopers have a fabulously rich and completely autocratic way of going on. Your royal family, bourgeois, hard working, are entirely worthy but, dare I say it, dull — and they would have been eclipsed by the Romanovs.
‘Your people look at the Windsors and what do they see? They see themselves reflected. They see an undistinguished family, virtuous and industrious, and, if they don’t revere them, at least they honour and accept them. The Romanovs, however, would be a disastrous family to place in exile. They would have attracted their own glittering court about them and expected to go on living lives of decadent splendour. The French saw this clearly. Romanovs were very welcome as high-spending visitors but not as resident royalty. Non, merci! The French had long since rid themselves of their own. And someone in England also saw this clearly. So — not a finger was raised to help them and the whole family, all seven of them, and their servants were slaughtered in Ekaterinburg.’
The princess waited for a beat before adding tormentingly: ‘Though there was one survivor of the massacre. A spaniel, belonging to the Tsarevich, I believe, was rescued and made the journey safely to Windsor where he lives out his life in comfort. The English no doubt breathed a sigh of relief. They do so dote on their animals.’
This was dangerous political ground for which Lily had no map. She murmured her regrets and pleaded an ignorance of domestic and foreign politics. Her only source of information, she confessed, was the interior pages of The Times of London.
‘Who do not interest themselves in the suffering of my country. But why would they when they have their own demons just a short hop across the Irish sea and now a presence in their own capital?’ The princess did not consult her wristwatch but, apparently conscious of the passage of time, changed tack. Her voice lost its earnest tone and she was once again the hostess, speaking lightly. ‘When you call again, you must talk to my young friend Sasha. She liked you. I interrupted your conversation. Don’t mark her down as a social butterfly. She did not quite tell the truth about her escape from Russia. The true story — of which she still bears the physical scars — is vastly more appalling.’ The princess turned her head slightly to hide the quiver of disgust and pain. ‘She will confide as much as she thinks right. It will open your eyes, Miss Wentworth, to the sufferings of countries less well managed — was that your word? — than your own. Make no mistake — I admire and support the work Sandilands is doing to keep the good ship Britannia on an even keel. And if it comes to plugging up a hole or two in the woodwork to keep the deck firmly under our feet, I will do what I can. As will the young refugees I gather about me. It will do Sasha good to talk to someone her own age … someone with understanding who will not run screaming in horror from her revelations. Sandilands tells me you are made of stern stuff, Constable Wentworth.’
Lily responded to the ensuing distancing phrases. The interview was at an end. She was given permission to take away the original handwritten list to check against the Branch’s list back at the Yard. As she put both documents away in her bag and started to move towards the door, the princess called after her.
‘A moment, Miss Wentworth.’ She approached and spoke quietly. It seemed to Lily a prepared speech and one made with regret or some other emotion difficult to place. ‘There is a further name. A woman. Though I’m not sure she fills your criteria. In fact, exactly the opposite. You seek someone who was invited and yet did not put in an appearance. The woman I have in mind was not invited but was, in fact, present last night at the reception … in a manner of speaking … a close relation and very dear friend of mine. She is so completely uninvolved with what we have discussed that I am confident I am not suggesting any villainy when I say you will find her name on my first list but crossed out. That was for my secretary’s information. There was no need to send her an invitation, you see. She told me well in advance not to bother to ask her.’ The princess gave a dry laugh expressive of disapproval and incredulity. ‘She was going to be at the hotel anyway, though not as a guest. Anna Petrovna, her name is. A darling girl, but an eccentric. And a beauty! Wait a moment. You may judge for yours
elf.’
The princess headed towards a bureau, opened a drawer and took out a photograph. ‘Here. You may look at this. I cannot let you take it away — it’s the only photograph of Anna that I have left. It’s not very clear but it may be of help. You’ll see it was taken by an amateur — the grand duchess’s French master, I believe.’
Five young girls wearing long white dresses and ropes of pearls were caught, it seemed, informally, standing about holding croquet mallets in a woodland setting. They were clearly on friendly terms with the photographer; unusually, they were smiling into camera, their posture relaxed.
An idyllic moment of leisured innocence from a world so soon to be plunged into horror.
‘This was taken, oh, it must be eight years ago — you see all the girls are wearing their hair down. Not yet considered adults … still in the classroom.’ The princess began to pick out the Tsar’s daughters with a forefinger. ‘Now, let me see. I’ll try to get this right but they were peas in a pod, those girls. All very like their mother. And all dressed alike and grinning. Which is which? That one is certainly Anastasia. The shortest. Pretty little rascal. Now … Olga? Maria? Maria had fairer hair so the one on the right is almost certainly Maria. No mistaking the two arm-in-arm on the left. They are Tatiana and her friend Anna Petrovna. A spectacular pair, and didn’t they know it! Both tall, you see. It’s hard to tell from a sepia print, which never did Tatiana justice, but she had chestnut hair which contrasted intriguingly with Anna’s mop of jet-black hair.’ The princess’s voice faltered and she looked aside to hide her grief as she said quietly: ‘My niece was a handsome girl, was she not? In those days. Sadly, if you ever confront her, you will see that the years of privation and harsh treatment have taken a hideous toll.’
Lily’s eyes were drawn straight to the one girl who was not a Romanov. Anna’s full-busted figure made her royal friend appear willowy in contrast. A round face — pretty though rather chubby, Lily thought — was being turned away from the photographer in laughing protest but Lily sensed something more in the evasive game. Camera shy? No. The protective sweep of glossy dark hair being teasingly offered to the photographer suggested flirtation and Lily smiled to herself. After all these years, had she guessed Anna’s secret?
‘The French master? Was he attractive?’
The princess looked at her sharply. ‘Many thought so. The girls all adored him.’ She took the photograph from Lily and looked at it intently. ‘You must understand that, with her birth, wealth and royal connections, my niece was destined to make a good marriage. An English duke … a Pomeranian prince … something of that order.’ She sniffed. ‘But today, if you go looking for her, you might well find her working in a hotel kitchen. She is a law unto herself, my Anna. Never will listen to advice. One tries to help — she is one of us, after all, and may count on our loyalty and support to the death.’ She shrugged her shoulders to indicate that she had wasted her time. ‘Perhaps she will listen to you. If you go at once to her lodgings you will most probably find her there.’
She whispered an address into Lily’s ear before ringing for the butler. Her last words to her were murmured: ‘I fear she is something of a loose cannon whose movements are unpredictable and dangerous. Mind your toes, Miss Wentworth, should you find yourself treading the deck alongside Anna.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lily headed off to the north-east, guided by the stern bells of the Russian church in Moscow Court booming out on the far side of Hyde Park. They ceased on a dying peal, leaving an unnatural silence flooding down from the rooftops. This was a moment to enjoy — a moment of rare peace when the streets were empty of motor traffic and pedestrians. It would be short lived. Lily caught in the distance the notes of the military band playing for church parade in the middle of the park. Soon the huge crowds the ceremony attracted would be spilling back on to the streets again, spiritually refreshed and heading home or for the pub in search of bodily restoration.
‘It’s not far,’ the princess had said. ‘In the middle of that disgusting rookery off the Gloucester Road.’ She’d quivered with distaste. ‘They keep promising to knock it down and cleanse the area of riff-raff but what happens? Every year another street of houses is repaired and more ruffians move in. Do have a care, Miss Wentworth. Anna could do better for accommodation. Heaven knows, she’s not without influential contacts. It’s my opinion that she’s in the throes of some sort of self-imposed chatisement. Wallowing in degradation. I’ve offered help but all she will take from me is what I feel least able to give — references to her character when she seeks ever more demeaning posts. She remains in touch with Sasha, though they are no longer as close as they once were, I sense.’
Smells of roasting joints coming from kitchen quarters explained the deserted pavements. After lunch people would flock outside in their hundreds, dressed in their Sunday best. Visiting day in a sprawling capital. Families would be crossing London to see their friends and relations in distant suburbs. Lily wondered how Anna Petrovna — a mentally fragile and lonely Russian woman — was spending her Sabbath. Would she be back in her lair, lashing her tail in fury that her prey had got away? Planning her next assault on the English Establishment? Had Bacchus’s men dragged her off already for questioning? If so, Lily rather hoped their first question might be: ‘Why on earth are you trying to do harm to the country that offers you shelter?’ Or were they somewhere about the place, quietly watching the house?
Lily decided not to confront the woman, even if the opportunity arose. Sandilands wouldn’t thank her for muddying the waters. But there were other useful things she could do, if she could come and go unnoticed. She pulled her hat lower on her forehead.
She was entering a very mixed area. What her father would have called ‘Queen Anne in front, Mary-Anne behind’. Substantial Victorian facades progressed from family houses of some grandeur and single ownership to well-to-do business premises (Lily noted a firm of solicitors and a car dealer’s showroom) to apartment houses with ranks of front door bells and finally to lodging houses.
No vacancies. The signs were strong on the wing. As were English Gentlemen accommodated; No females; No foreigners; No travellers. Lily couldn’t think how a single migrating Russian girl had ever managed to find a toehold on this cliff face of forbidding respectability.
A left turn into Hogsmire Lane answered her question.
Hogsmire Lane didn’t live up to its bucolic name. It conjured up muddy fields and wild hedgerows a-froth with may blossom but here there was not a sign of foliage, flower or farm animal, though this must, at one time in the last hundred years, have defined the western outskirts of the city, its ragged line marking the place where the built-up town ran straight into the fields and hedges. Nor was it a ‘lane’, but a short and run-down street linking two grander ones, a left-over, left-behind, rotting backwater. It was not a thoroughfare in which the princess would ever have set foot and, modestly dressed though she was, Lily hesitated to walk down it herself. A narrow, heat-cracked road separated York stone flagged pavements that abutted the front walls of the narrow terraced houses. One or two of the houses were boarded up with plywood planks at door and window but, for the most part, panes of glass gleamed, a tribute to the elbow grease, newspaper and vinegar of the housewives. Front doorsteps, all nine inches of them, were recently donkey-stoned, proclaiming to whoever was passing that here resided a decent God- and neighbour-fearing family.
Lily thought she knew what to look out for. Bacchus’s men were too professional to be discovered loitering in the street re-tying their shoelaces or propped against a lamp post with their heads in the Racing Times. She decided to watch out for fit-looking men dressed a little too well for the area; encyclopedia salesmen with heavy briefcases; Jehovah’s witnesses in dark-suited pairs. She decided there was no sign of a Branch presence.
Lily crossed the road to avoid a swaggering youth being tugged along by a bulldog puppy on a chain and paused to get her bearings. Honeysett had reported that t
he address he had for Miss Peterson was ‘care of number 42’. And yet the princess had told Lily number 67. What was going on? A quick glance along the street told her that number 42, on her left, the one that would have come in for a certain amount of attention from the Branch, had a brown front door, recently painted and it was still on its hinges. The house had discreet net curtains at its ground-floor window. In front of it, on the pavement, was a group of children out at play. Lily was pleased to see them. In any street the behaviour of the children was the best indicator of unrest or aberration, and these children were playing normally.
They were already dressed for the day in their smartest clothes. Probably expecting a visit from Grandma or due any minute to set off with the family across town themselves. They’d clearly been got ready and sent out of the house with a warning to keep themselves clean and tidy. They had on white collars, pulled-up socks and shiny boots, Lily noted. One boy, the smallest, was even wearing a Little Lord Fauntleroy suit, years old and passed down the family. He appeared ill at ease in it and was sitting cross-legged a few feet away, excluded from the game, Lily guessed, on account of having to keep his frills clean while his three brothers and one sister played hopscotch. They bobbed with subdued energy up and down the number grid chalked on the flagstones.
Number 67 was opposite but not directly opposite. In a confusing old London way the numbers on this street ran consecutively and started back on themselves to complete the tour. Number 67 had a green front door, as did several others in the street, and like number 42 it passed Lily’s clean window test.
With a confident smile, she approached the children. She grabbed Little Lord Fauntleroy from behind and, carrying his slight weight in front of her, she began to hop the chalked grid, bouncing his feet on each of the squares and chanting the rhyme as she went.
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