by Evelyn Weiss
“Why is that? I thought they existed to support the Tsar. The imperial family want the Håkansson murder solved.”
Buttermere shrugs. “Look out of the window – not at the hospital, but over there, along the main road.”
“There’s nothing – except a line of telegraph poles.”
“Something happened here in Ivangorod last year, Miss Frocester.” I feel an odd chill, like a premonition that Lord Buttermere’s story will end grimly.
“It began when our agents in Germany sent intelligence to me in London. Their message told me about a secret naval mission that the Kaiserlicht Marine were planning, using a U-boat. The German submarine was to travel to the Baltic coast near Ivangorod. At a lonely spot on the shore, the U-boat would drop a supply of explosives, which would be picked up by anti-Tsarist revolutionaries. They would then use the explosives to destroy railways supplying the Russian front line.
So I contacted my liaison officer in this area. By strange coincidence, he is an old friend of yours.”
“Really?”
“Yes – but don’t raise your eyebrows at me like that, Miss Frocester. I’m not going to tell you my agent’s name! Anyway, I sent him my information, and he passed it on to his Russian contacts.
Immediately, Okhrana rounded up fifteen workers at the cotton mills on the Narva River. Those men were known to be members of the Communist Party. But there was no actual evidence – nothing to suggest they had been in touch with the Germans, or that they were planning any sort of terrorism or sabotage.
Okhrana made no investigation of any kind. The men were all taken to the old castle in Ivangorod. And the next morning, they were led out to that road, and hung from those telegraph poles.”
I shudder. Lord Buttermere continues. “Russia is governed like this: if you are in power, you find a few people who might or might not be your opponents. Punish them very publicly, and hope that everyone else will be terrified into submission. Ivan the Terrible and Peter the Great ruled like that, and nothing has really changed.”
“That’s horrible. But even though you may not be able to collaborate effectively with Okhrana, what about the imperial family itself? The professor and I were given a letter from the Tsarina; she wants Svea Håkansson’s killer found.”
“I have had no help from the imperial court. They are obsessed with secrecy. The Tsarina and her retinue, and Rasputin too, have a passion for secret communications – cyphers, codes, even schoolboy nonsense like secret phrases and invisible ink...” He carries on, as if musing to himself. “Ironically, the only person assassinated at their private palace was a neutral foreigner.”
“And now, someone is trying to kill Professor Axelson and me. Lord Buttermere – I’m scared. And I don’t trust anyone.”
“I think you can trust your bodyguard, Captain Sirko.”
“Do you think so? He’s told me nothing about himself. But I found his name listed among those who were at Tri Tsarevny.”
“That’s in his favor. If he was there, then the Tsarina trusts him. Sirko has probably told you nothing, because he doesn’t yet trust you.”
“Thank you, Lord Buttermere. That’s a positive thought. Because I’m so unsure…”
“I have great faith in your abilities, Miss Frocester. You and the professor have given me invaluable help in the past. But this time, you should simply focus on your own safety. This situation in Russia is beyond control.”
“You mean, we should do exactly as they tell us, and leave the country?”
“Most definitely. Travel as soon as you can to St Petersburg, and board the ship for Sweden. Would the professor’s condition allow that?”
“It might. He seems to be merely in a deep sleep. I’m sure they could make up a simple bed on the train.”
“Then get out, while you can. Over the past few years the allied powers, and influential neutral nations such as Sweden, have all tried our best to put right the situation in Russia. But now, we realise the truth. It is too late to save this country.”
Lord Buttermere seems to muse again, gazing out of the window. Then he looks sharply at me. “Russia is like an express train, speeding on tracks towards a tunnel, and no-one can divert or brake it. Over the tunnel is written one word – ‘Hell’.”
6 Rasputin’s proposal
I gaze out of the train window. Forests and farmland flash by. I look across our compartment at the professor, and he smiles back at me.
“It was a great surprise, Miss Agnes, to wake up in a hospital bed. The last thing I remember was the meal at the cottage in the woods.”
“I’m glad you’d woken by the time I got back to the hospital. It meant we were just in time to catch this afternoon train. The next one would have been tomorrow.”
Our companion also looks relieved. Yuri points out of the window at the scenery; we are passing lawns, formal ponds and statues. We see the outline of a colossal, ornate building, and the parkland goes on and on, as Yuri says “This is Prioratsky Park, part of the grounds of the great imperial palace at Gatchina.”
I laugh. “Yet another palace! How many palaces do the Romanovs have?”
“More than they can ever use, I think! Until the war, when they were converted to hospitals, most of the imperial palaces stood empty and unvisited for years. But Gatchina is a useful landmark on our journey. It shows that we’re now only about twenty miles from St Petersburg.”
The train slows and pulls into a station. I look out of the window onto a small, empty platform. The professor dozes a little; the drug is still wearing off. After a few minutes I hear him snore.
We wait, and time passes, but no-one comes to explain what is happening. Axelson suddenly wakes again, and looks around, slightly dazed. Yuri pulls out a newspaper, sighs, and begins to read. An hour goes by, then he looks at the professor and me.
“You have both travelled widely. There is a saying, is there not, that the character of a country is reflected in its railroad system? American trains are huge and powerful. Swiss trains run perfectly on time, like clockwork. The Italians make amends for their inefficiency with friendliness and charm: German railways follow absurdly strict rules. What would be said about Russia?”
The professor doesn’t want to offend. “I’m sure there is a good reason for the delay.”
“Maybe. You know, don’t you, that every railroad built in Russia has to be approved personally by the Tsar? In Siberia there is a hundred-mile stretch of dead straight track, interrupted by two sharp, unnecessary bends. Nicholas II, they say, took a ruler and drew the line of that track on a map. Two of his fingers overlapped the edge of the ruler, so there were two kinks in the line. No-one challenged him. The railroad was built precisely along the line he drew.”
The professor and I smile politely, but Yuri puts his head out of the window, craning his neck to see. Then he stands, shaking his head. “I’m going to find a member of staff and ask him what is happening. If we are stuck here overnight – which can happen, believe me – then I will have to sort out a safe hotel in Gatchina for us. Don’t open the compartment door to anyone. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
Earlier in the journey, a tea tray was delivered to our compartment. The empty pot and cups sit on a little table, along with a bowl of sugar lumps and a small jug of lemon juice. Something Lord Buttermere said stirs in my mind.
“Professor, do you have a match or a lighter?”
“Yes. Here it is. Why?”
I take out the Tsarina’s list and unfold it. I flick the lighter and hold the flame below the paper.
“Miss Agnes! Are you burning that paper?”
“I’m not burning it, Professor. I’m heating it.”
And magic happens. Alongside the dark ink of the Tsarina’s writing, faint yellow-brown shapes begin to appear on the white paper.
“Miss Agnes – you have found invisible ink!”
“Yes. A secret message written in lemon juice, like schoolkids do for fun. Lord Buttermere said that the Tsarina likes this kind of th
ing. So I thought it was worth a try.”
The professor stares at the emerging letters. Two names are appearing under the heading of First Princess, alongside the already visible name of Captain Yuri Sirko. I know both names. Mr Vasily Bukin, and General Evgeny Aristarkhov.
I hold the lighter a little longer. Something else is appearing. There’s a bracket around all three names, and one word written next to the bracket. A word I’m now very much aware of: Okhrana.
There’s a knock at the compartment door. “Hello! It’s me, Yuri. And I have a visitor for you.”
The door opens. I just have time to fold the list and slip it into my dress pocket. Alongside Yuri stands the familiar dark-suited figure of Mr Bukin. He smiles his usual smile.
“Professor Axelson and Miss Frocester – thank you both for your patience. The delay to your journey is my fault. The train had to be held up, in order that I might board it. Unfortunately, I was over an hour late in my journey by motor-car to Gatchina Station. Please accept my apologies.”
“Of course.”
“I’m also very sorry, Professor and Miss Frocester, to hear of the accident at the cottage in the forest. Kaspar Sepp is a foolish young man; he no doubt left the stove on. The only consolation is that neither of you was hurt.”
Yuri towers behind Bukin, gazing at us. It’s impossible to read the expression on his face. The professor looks sharply at Bukin.
“It depends what you mean by ‘hurt’, Mr Bukin. I was in hospital for several hours. Are we now proceeding straight to St Petersburg?”
“Of course. This is a direct train, with no more stops.”
Yuri and Bukin both sit. The professor glances at me. We are in a train compartment, alone and vulnerable, with two members of the Russian secret police. We can only breathe easily again when we reach St Petersburg. But for the moment, there is nothing we can do, except trust these men.
The train starts up, and clouds of steam blow past the window. The four of us sit in silence as the train rattles on.
The faces around me are the same: Bukin smiles blandly, Sirko is expressionless, Axelson watchful and wary. But we’re no longer in a train compartment; we’re in a horse-drawn carriage, trotting along cobbled streets. Outside Vitebsky station in St Petersburg, I was relieved to hear Bukin asking the carriage driver to take us straight to the harbor, and we got into this cab. As we rattle along, the professor tries to be polite.
“Thank you for organising this, Mr Bukin. We do appreciate it, even if we might appear impatient at times. But, I have one last question before we go. I ask simply out of sheer curiosity.”
“Do ask, please! I will tell you anything I can.”
“We have heard a name – ‘Nestor’. To me, that is the name of an ancient Greek king, renowned for his wise words. But could it also be a Russian name?”
I notice a slight pause in Bukin’s manner.
“It is an Estonian surname…”
“But it means something more to you, doesn’t it? Does that name have any connection to Tri Tsarevny?”
Bukin seems to consider his words. “I may as well tell you, Professor, since you are leaving Russia anyway. Nestor was a private tutor for Prince Alexei, during the holiday at Tri Tsarevny. But I never met the tutor, who stayed up at the main Dacha, preparing lessons and teaching.”
“But you must know something about him?...”
“The Tsarina personally vouched for Nestor’s credentials. So it would have been imappropriate for me to make my own checks about the tutor. But I do know one fact. After the Tsarina and Alexei returned to St Petersburg, I heard that Nestor had been dismissed. I don’t know why: only the Tsarina could tell you. And that is all I know.” As he finishes speaking, Bukin raps with his fist on the roof of the carriage.
“Driver! Can you make a slight detour? I need to call in at my office, very briefly. It’s off to the left – just here.”
I feel the carriage swerve, then pull to a halt. Bukin gets out, and looks at Yuri. “You too, Sirko. Come with me for a moment. New orders may have arrived at the office for us from our commanders. It makes sense for us both to call in, when we are passing so close.”
As soon as the carriage door shuts, I ask the professor. “What is going on now? Both of them belong to the secret police…”
“This stop is yet another annoying delay. But although Bukin and Sirko are assigned to Okhrana, that is not necessarily sinister. The Tsarina, who after all invited us to Russia, trusted both these men enough to have them staying at Tri Tsarevny, to ensure security.”
“I’d hardly call it ‘security’. One person got murdered there, and look at what’s happened to us.”
“Well, just a few minutes more, Miss Agnes, and we can board our ship and forget it all. By the way, have you still got that list, with the invisible ink? An excellent piece of detective work. Where did you find that piece of paper?”
“You discovered it, Professor. It was in the bag with your clothes, at the hospital. I thought you’d picked it up at Tri Tsarevny.”
Axelson looks at me, bemused. I repeat to him. “I didn’t find that list. You found it.”
“No I didn’t, Miss Agnes. I never saw that paper, until you took it out of your handbag, on the train just now. I didn’t find it – you did.”
“No, Professor –”
“You are both wrong.”
Our heads turn at the sound of a deep voice at the door of the carriage. It’s Yuri. He’s alone.
“Neither of you found that list. I found it, and I threw it on the floor in the hospital room so that you would spot it, Agnes.”
We both look at Yuri in surprise.
“I found the paper at Tri Tsarevny. In the Tsarina’s bedroom, in fact. She left it behind, when they all abandoned the place after the murder.”
The professor stares. “What in the world?…”
“Mr Bukin will not be back for several minutes. He likes to spend a lot of time in that office, bowing and scraping to his superior officers. So I have time to explain – by telling you a story. In Russia, you know, we are fond of telling stories.”
He climbs up into the carriage, and continues, smiling at us. “I must begin my tale with an apology. I have deceived you, Agnes. When we had tea at the hospital, I let you believe I was a regular Russian cavalry officer. Now, I must tell you the truth.”
Is he about to admit he’s a secret agent? I stare at him.
“Look at my uniform. You’ve seen Russian soldiers. All those bright shiny buttons. My uniform doesn’t have them.”
I realise: that’s what was odd about the uniform I saw through the crack in the wall at the cottage. It had no buttons. Just a plain, practical front of blue-grey serge. Exactly like the one that Yuri is wearing now.
Axelson is grinning, like a schoolboy who has solved a puzzle. “Captain Sirko. You are a military man – and I think you have been drafted in to help Ohkrana. Which shows you are highly trusted. Yet you operate independently from the regular Russian Army.”
Yuri nods as the professor continues. “I can deduce only one conclusion. Captain Sirko. You are a Cossack.”
“Well done, Professor! You are exactly right. I am Captain Yuri Sirko of the Astrakhan Cossack Host. Since the beginning of the war, I and my regiment have been working alongside the main Russian Army.”
I interrupt. “Forgive my ignorance. I know the word Cossack – and I have a picture in my mind of what a Cossack should look like. But –”
Yuri laughs. “Outside Russia, hardly anyone knows what Cossack means – even though you all have these same pictures in your heads! It’s like this. In America, you have your western states – frontier lands. Hundreds of years ago in Russia, it was the same. People moved from different parts of the Tsar’s empire to settle the southern border lands. They formed into groups based on areas. Each group is a Host, and although they owe allegiance and military service to the Tsar, the Hosts govern themselves. They elect a leader – an Ataman. But on any decision
, the Ataman can be outvoted by the members of the Host.”
The professor looks from me to Yuri. “Cossack men all serve in the Tsar’s army for many years. As you have, Captain Sirko?”
“Indeed – since long before the war started. I was stationed in several places across the Empire, and I enjoyed it. But two years ago, when the war came, everything changed. We fought in the Battle of Tannenberg. The Germans overwhelmed us with better equipment and better tactics. I learnt the literal meaning of the word ‘bloodbath’. Cossacks do not readily surrender, but thousands of my kinsmen did, to avoid certain death. Since then, I have seen ceaseless fighting. Battle after battle, and every single one has ended in defeat for us.
One month ago, I was stationed on the Daugava River near Riga. The German Army was dug in on the opposite bank of the river, and spent their time firing shells at us. We didn’t fire back, because we had no ammunition, which is typical. Then I received orders that I did not understand. That too is typical, in the Russian Army. But this was most odd. I was told to travel to St Petersburg, alone, and report to a Mr Bukin, at that very office there.” He points out of the carriage window.
“Meeting Mr Bukin was also odd. He was not a military man. In fact, when I met him I thought he was some kind of petty bureaucrat. Which he is. Except that his bureaucracy’s work is to protect the imperial household from plots and terrorism. His job is to keep the Tsar’s family safe. My job is to run errands for him.
I like my new work. On the front line I’ve been shelled, attacked with chlorine gas and shot at with machine guns. Not for days or weeks, but constantly, for years. Do you know the most useful piece of kit for a Russian soldier?”
I shake my head; Sirko smiles ruefully at us. “A shovel. A big shovel, for burying one’s fallen comrades. I have helped bury more than one hundred men.
So working for Bukin is a holiday. But then – I found another dead body. It was me, you see, who found Miss Håkansson. She had been a beautiful woman, but she was sitting there on the porch on that island with a hole in her head. Her eyes were still looking out at the scenery.
