The King's Commissar

by Duncan Kyle

  'Too thin.'

  'Hope you're right. Thanks.'

  As the messenger left Mr Pratt broke the seal. Inside lay a further envelope and, paperclipped to it, a single sheet of paper upon which was written, 'To be delivered at once to the Senior Partner, Hillyard, Cleef, at 6, Athelsgate, E.C

  Unlike Mr Polly, Mr Pratt was only mildly and momentarily interested. The passing on of papers was part of his job, and he simply took a small pride in doing it efficiently. As the postal service declined, Mr Pratt had searched for replacement means and had recently taken to using a firm which had given itself an extremely unlikely name.

  'Suzuki Highway,' said the girl's Cockney voice on the telephone, when he rang up.

  Said Redvers Pratt: 'This is Dazey, Cheyne, solicitors, of 199 Chancery -'

  'Piss orf, darlin, why doncha?' The girl said amiably. 'Don't waste me bloody time -'

  'We're customers,' said Pratt patiently. 'Look up the account like a good girl. We all know it's a funny name. Dazey, -'

  'Cheyne. Yer, Gorrit. Orl right, I'll have a Crimson Suzuki with you in a minute, okay? Who's he ask for?'

  'Mr Pratt.'

  She laughed. 'By name if not by nature, eh?' And hung up. Pratt, too, was smiling. He was an East Ender himself and enjoyed his occasional contacts with the native sharpness.

  Several Crimson Suzuki motor-cycles were at that moment delivering packages and letters in various parts of the metropolis. Several more, parked in assorted places, awaited the call. It came always by radio.

  Crimson Suzuki 7 stood at that moment outside a Macdonald's Hamburger palace in Shaftesbury Avenue. Its driver-owner, one Dave Legg, dressed in leathers of surpassing griminess, had just purchased a Big Mac and a large Coca-Cola and was settling himself comfortably on the saddle when the loudspeaker behind him squawked suddenly.

  He swore, bent, placed the Coke on the pavement, and picked up the hand-microphone in his gauntleted free hand. 'Yer?' he said.

  'Where are you?'

  He told her.

  'Outside MacDonald's again, aincher,' she said. 'Listen, go to 199 Chancery Lane, right? 'Ere you'll get fat, you will.'

  Dave Legg, in replacing the mike, kicked over the Coke. He swore again. Goo from the Big Mac was dribbling down his leather gauntlet. He licked it off, crammed half the hamburger into his capacious mouth, kicked the starter, and carved up an approaching taxi as he roared through the traffic stream.

  Redvers Pratt greeted him pleasantly a few minutes later. Mr Pratt liked to think of himself as a student of contrasting human behaviour, and it was fascinating to think of this grubby thug entering the refined portals of 6 Athelsgate.

  'This envelope is for the Senior Partner,' Mr Pratt told Dave Legg. 'Don't give it to anyone else, okay? No secretaries - him personally.'

  "Sis 'andle?' said Legg.

  'What? Oh, his name? He's Mr Pilgrim, you got that? Pilgrim. Six Athelsgate, that's in the City.'

  'Do me a fiver, mate?' said Dave Legg mysteriously. He pulled a Mars bar from his jacket and departed, leaving the wrapper on the floor.

  Seven minutes later he faced Sir Horace Malory. Already he had defied the doorkeeper, two junior employees more than willing to accept the envelope, and Pilgrim's secretary.

  'It's only for this Senior Partner geezer,' Dave Legg insisted. 'Swarree said. No secketries, nobody!'

  Malory smiled. 'I'm the other Senior Partner, Sir Horace Malory. You may safely leave it with me.' He could recognize the envelope, even with most of it half-concealed in Dave Legg's greasy gauntlet.

  'Pilgrim, swarree sed. Mr Pilgrim, nobody else!'

  'Oh, really!' Mrs Frobisher came close to stamping her foot. 'Sir Horace is -'

  "E ain't this geezer Pilgrim,' Dave Legg said stoutly, and turned to Malory. 'Are you, squire?'

  'Er, no.' Malory held up his hand. 'Where have you come from?'

  '199 Chancery Lane.'

  'Oh, I see. Dazey, Cheyne.'

  'Dunno what they play, squire,' said Legg with a grin.

  Malory, possessed by now of twin ambitions: to strangle this ghastly lout, and to get his hands on Dikeston's narrative, more or less in that order, was still able to force a smile. 'Perhaps if we telephone them and explain that Mr Pilgrim is out - perhaps from them you would accept different instructions?'

  'Yus, mate,' said Dave Legg.

  Mrs Frobisher telephoned Mr Redvers Pratt and then handed the receiver to Dave Legg with her fingertips. She rather thought he wasn't very clean.

  'Geezer ere says 'e's - worrizit?'

  'Malory,' Sir Horace said softly.

  'Yer, Malory. Okay is it? Right, squire.'

  He hung up, turned to Malory and held out the envelope. 'All yours, mate.'

  'Thank you,' said Malory. 'Very much.'

  CHAPTER TEN

  --------------------------

  Fifth instalment of the account, written by

  Lt-Cdr H. G. Dikeston RN, of his journeyings

  in Russia in the spring and summer of 1918.

  I mend quickly, or at any rate my body does. As my mother used to say, there is a good healing flesh in the family. But in 1918 in Ekaterinburg it seemed too slow. On the second day on which I woke I thought with a sharp pang of the precious paper I had brought from Tobolsk and became desperate as, too weak to move, I lay wondering what might have become of it.

  When the nun appeared again in the whitewashed chamber, and as she fed me more of some nourishing broth, I asked, 'Where are my clothes?' and heard the weak whisper of my voice.

  She smiled. 'Safe. And clean, moreover, which they were not when you arrived.'

  I whispered. 'Sister, this is important -'

  She interrupted me. 'First the broth. It is that which is important.' And she refused to listen until the bowl was empty. 'Now?'

  'In my pocket,' I told her weakly, 'are papers which matter greatly to me. Tell me, please, if -'

  She raised a hand. 'Save your strength. I will go and see.'

  She was back two or three minutes later. She carried a paper bag and as she sat beside my bed, I saw she was frowning with some severity.

  'Here are your things.'

  'Paper,' I muttered. 'In a stiff white envelope. Is it -?'

  She peered into the bag, then put her hand inside. 'This?' she asked, drawing it forth.

  It was no longer so white, nor so pristine. In my immersion, water had reached and stained it, but I would have known that envelope anywhere. I let out a sigh of relief.

  The sister now said, 'You are a wealthy man?'

  'No!'

  The frown remained on her face, despite the gentleness of her tone and manner.

  I whispered, 'Why do you ask?'

  'Because there are jewels here, and trinkets. They must be valuable, and they must have been in your pockets when you were brought here.'

  I had not remembered until that moment, but I remembered now, at once, my shameful behaviour on steamer Rus. Oh God, I thought, how can I explain?'

  But one forgets that true goodness lies in simplicity. Even as I was about to tell her the matter was secret, she said, 'I am so afraid they may be mislaid.'

  'Place the envelope beneath my pillow, please, Sister.'

  So she did, and it was there when Bronard came again. I had strengthened a little in the course of the day and listened to him with interest. The essence of what he had to say was that little had changed in the long month of my illness. The Imperial Family was reunited, but imprisoned together in the Ipatiev House and impossible of access. On the Urals Soviet there were some, possibly a majority, in favour of a violent end to all the Romanovs, it's not enough just to have them off the Russian throne,' Bronard quoted Goloshchokin as saying. 'We must have them under the Russian ground!'

  Bronard, with his catspaw Scriabin, was engaged with the opposite view. Scriabin was, it seemed, having the same difficulty experienced by so many in dealing with the Soviets since. For even then they were men who spoke with a lofty moral tone
and sought only blood. Scriabin, arguing for the justice of a properly-conducted trial, a man making a genuinely moral stand, found his was a very lonely voice.

  Bronard, meanwhile, was weaseling. He was for blood, he told them. Nicholas must pay with his life; furthermore, the entire family shared his guilt and they too must pay. 'But not, I keep telling them,' he said, 'unless it can be presented as Socialist justice.' He grinned that loathsome grin of his. 'You should hear me, Comrade ! I yell for blood, and then I say that we must not besmirch the name of Socialism with murder, however justified. I say that Scriabin is right, but right for the wrong reasons. That what we must show is not mercy but determination and we must show it to the world! How can we contemplate, I ask them, emulating the despotic lawlessness of Imperial Russia?'

  When he had gone I lay flexing my wasted muscles in an endeavour to exercise them, conscious all the time of the paper beneath the pillow, of the jewellery I had stolen which lay with it, and of the rightful owners, who slept no more than a mile or two away and over whom the shadow of doom now stretched. It was clear that, for whatever reason, the new leaders of the Russian nation had made no move in the last month to extend mercy to the Romanovs.

  I said: 'My clothes, Sister, if you please.'

  'Nonsense! You're far too weak.'

  'I have the most urgent business. I insist - my clothes! And if you can get one, a taxi, or a cart even, to the station!'

  'But you can't travel. Not in your -'

  'I must!'

  I browbeat her at last into aiding me - for dressing took more strength than I had imagined. My head was light and I had little sense of balance. When I stood upright I wavered and almost fell several times, but in the end I was walking slowly, leaning upon a stick the sister gave me, out to a cart which waited in the yard of the convent. The back was filled with clean straw, upon which I reclined in no little comfort and directed the driver to take me to the house of Preston, the British Consul, in Vosnesensky Avenue. On the way, I naturally had to pass the so-called House of Special Purpose where the Imperial Family was incarcerated, and the mere sight of it, allied to the thought of the humble circumstances to which a great monarch had been reduced, made me yet more determined upon my journey, foolish or no.

  Preston, in the miserable manner of British diplomats abroad, made endless fuss about the advance of funds. Though he knew who I was and my purpose in the city, when the matter was raised of handing cash to me, I might have been the direst criminal. At last, losing patience, I said, 'Your trade, Preston?'

  He gave me a vinegary look, I am not in trade, sir!'

  'Your work, then? Your qualification, if such you have?'

  He was in Ekaterinburg for the mining, like everyone else. It was silver and copper and platinum that had brought Preston to the Urals, and on that basis, I handed him an item taken from the Rus: a single ruby close to half an inch across in a platinum setting. 'Hold that against two hundred pounds,' I said.

  'Is it yours?'

  'Damn your impudence,' I said, 'and damn your caution, too. There are more important things afoot than provenance and collateral. You want a signature?'

  He did, of course. His kind always do. But fortunately his kind always have money about somewhere and at last he advanced me sovereigns, a hundred and fifty of them.

  The cart now took me to the station, and that place must not be omitted from any narrative concerning Ekaterinburg, for there was nothing there of equality, nothing of to-each-according-to-his-need. If you could pay you could feast, otherwise you starved. I went to the old first-class restaurant, expecting some cloth-capped commissar to deny me entry and preach me a sermon into the bargain; instead I found a head waiter in tails, a string trio and a menu two feet long. It was an extraordinary sight. Here were rough-looking men eating with their hats on, drinking spirits until they fell off their chairs. And shrieking women, too. I saw Beloboradov, even, the chairman of the Soviet, snapping his fingers for a waiter and shouting for champagne. It remained a luxury restaurant. Missing now was ton.

  I ate quietly, my back turned to the room. I needed but had no appetite for food and left as soon as I had finished to seek accommodation on the next westbound train, only to discover that, as in the restaurant, gold spoke authoritatively. No third-class this time: I had a room for two to myself and assurances of privacy!

  The journey took three days and there could hardly have been a better convalescence. I started out weak as a kitten, and came finally into Moscow rested and revived, as nearly filled with strength as I was with determination. And in the ensuing days I was to need a plentiful supply of both, for I was entering into a period of the most intense frustration, which indeed began at once!

  All I needed was sealing wax and matches and matches I had already; but sealing wax was impossible to find. I tramped Moscow from shop to shop, asked in post offices, stationers, anywhere I could think of, but it was near nightfall before a counter clerk in the Finland Bank said he was sure they had some somewhere, went away, and came back not with a stick of the stuff, but with an unopened box of a gross! I almost fell upon his neck in gratitude. Instead I sealed my precious letter with copious quantities of wax, marked it with my initials in several places, and asked the fellow:

  'Are you a Finn?'

  'We all are, sir.'

  Well, I thought, there would be no guaranteeing Lenin's behaviour, or Trotsky's - they'd eat Finland for breakfast if they felt like it. But perhaps they wouldn't and you can usually trust a Finn. They can be wild men, but they're pretty honest, too. I held up the envelope. 'This must be kept secure. You have a vault?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'And how much interference from the authorities?'

  'Very little, sir.'

  'You could keep it for me?'

  'With pleasure, sir.'

  It was done without receipt, but upon a signature -Henry George was the name I used - a sovereign changed hands by way of fee in advance, and I took myself off to the Kremlin in a taxi. As I alighted at the tunnel arch that led through the wall beneath the Spassky Tower, it was immediately apparent that much had changed in the weeks since last I came to the ancient fortress. Then, a levelled machine-gun had greeted me: now it was two Red Army soldiers in smart uniforms, rigid at attention. Neither took the smallest notice of me, but none the less it was only a moment before a corporal was barking at me, yelling to know my business.

  'Is Comrade Sverdlov still in the Kavalersky Building?' I demanded of him.

  'Who wishes to know?'

  'Convey to him,' I said, 'that Dikeston the Englishman has returned to Moscow and wishes to see him.'

  'Many people wish to see him.'

  'Convey it. And quickly.'

  But nothing was quick. That was another thing much changed; for a cold formality had fallen here, and an army of clerks ruled. I was passed from t'other to each quick enough, but made no apparent progress towards my objective ; the universal notion was to be rid of me, rather than to assist, but where in the modern world is it not?

  I was back next morning, having spent the night in a rooming-house that had, until recently, been a lavish private dwelling. It had also been looted, so that though the heavy bed itself was of elaborate gilt, there was no linen and the single blanket was of the roughest. Still, it was clean and free of bugs. I returned early to the Kremlin and began again the curious quadrille with endless petty officials. By two in the afternoon I had reached a waiting-room. It was crowded; a clerk sat at a desk inside the doorway and examined the chit which had brought me thus far; he scowled up at me.

  'What does this concern?'

  'Comrade Sverdlov knows.'

  'He's very busy.'

  'He sent me upon a task of some importance. Do not prevent my giving my report!'

  He scowled further. Prevention was his chosen career. 'You may give your report to me!'

  'Have a care,' I told him, 'or my report will be about you!'

  He gestured angrily towards the waiting people, i
ndicating that I should take my place among them, and I did so. The chairs were hard, the atmosphere sticky with heat, and there was no refreshment. It was hardly a pleasant wait, but at seven in the evening a door was opened with great obsequiousness, and one of the clerks said, 'Comrade Minister, please to receive Commander Dikeston.'

  I entered and he fixed me with a fierce eye. 'What the devil do you want?'

  I was angry, no doubt of it, and spoke too sharply for one in my position addressing one in his. 'Sense,' I said. 'That's what I want! Do you know where it's to be found?'

  He was taken aback, no mistake, and we glowered at each other for a moment or two. It would have surprised me not at all to be arrested then and there, but after a moment he laughed and shouted suddenly, 'There's damned little of it here, you're right!' He gave me a tight grin then, and said, 'Could you stand a drink?'

  I nodded and a second later had a half-tumbler of slivovitz thrust into my hand. Sverdlov lifted his glass in a silent toast, and drained it. I followed suit as is required in courtesy and, feeling the spirit bite at my innards, decided I must take my chance quickly before my senses began to reel. I said, 'You gave me a job and stopped me doing it.'

  'You didn't do it then? The Zaharoff paper's unsigned?'

  'That's right - it's unsigned.'

  'Why? You had plenty of time.'

  'Why!' I said. 'Because you arrested me and locked up Nicholas! That's why?'

  'The Regional Soviet did it.'

  'On whose orders?' I demanded. 'On whose orders was I turned back at Omsk? Tell me that!'

  He frowned at me, then again gave that tight grin. 'Where is your paper?'

  'With Nicholas. If he's still alive.'

  'What do you mean - still alive?'

  'There's a majority in Ekaterinburg in favour of killing him.'

  Sverdlov gave a tiny shake of the head. 'Don't worry,' he's safe.'

  'Is he?' I said. 'Among the wild men you can't control? You gave me a pass, remember. They spat on the pass. Spat at your name. Spat at Lenin's, even!'

  'Nevertheless, they are safe - the Romanovs.'

  'How do you know?'

  'Because I know.' He spoke softly now, his tone intense. I had gone too far and he was making it clear.