The Blood Royal Read online

  ‘Ekaterinburg! I had no idea. That’s the city? It’s just a name … a rather terrifying name … the place where the royal family was murdered.’

  ‘It’s terrifying for the poor souls who work there and for those who make their way through it – in shackles. It’s in the Ural mountains – the division between Europe and Asia. Ekaterinburg is the gateway to the prison camps of Siberia. Thousands of the Tsar’s prisoners were sent from jails in Moscow and Petrograd to walk with shackled feet and bound hands on their way across Russia to a miserable death. Men, women and children tramped through. And still do. But now they tramp in greater numbers and these prisoners have the benefit of no legal process. They’re condemned for no good reason by the Bolshevist butchers who rule the empire now. It’s enough to be intelligent, skilled, outspoken, unpopular with a neighbour – any of those qualities or none will have you arrested and obliterated.’ Joe gave a sharp grunt of laughter. ‘You and your father wouldn’t last two minutes in the new Russia, Wentworth. But in Ekaterinburg in 1918, the Tsar and his secret police force were hated. The “Crowned Executioner” they called him … or “Nicholas the Bloody”. This was the last place on earth he would have wished to be sent himself as a prisoner. He knew that he and his family could expect no mercy at the hands of the Ural Regional Soviet.’

  ‘But who sent them there? They were doing no harm where they were held in detention in … Tobolsk, was it? Siberia?’

  ‘As long as they were alive, they were always going to be a focus for the royalist party. In 1918 the White Army was still active and making progress. They’d joined forces with a rather effective Czech contingent and were fighting their way towards the city. In the last days, you could hear the guns getting closer. It was undoubtedly Lenin, back in Moscow, who gave the order – by telegraph – for the guard to carry out the assassination of the whole family before they could be rescued. He was wily enough not to sign his name on any incriminating documents.’

  ‘Lenin? It was reported that the local Ural Soviet took matters into its own hands.’

  ‘A cover story! The whole affair has his fingerprints – if not his signature – all over it. Never forget who sent them to the Urals in the first place. And to whom did the executioners dash to report success? To Lenin in Moscow. All part of a larger plot. Many other Romanovs were executed in various unpleasant ways at about the same time. The Bolsheviks were making certain that Russia would never be in thrall to the imperial family again.’

  ‘And this is where they shot them? In the forest?

  ‘No. They were executed in the cellar of the house in which they’d been imprisoned. A villa requisitioned from a local industrialist called Ipatiev. The bodies were transported by lorry into the countryside some miles away, we’re told. To just the place you see here,’ he added thoughtfully.

  ‘And this pit isn’t a broad allegorical reference to the death of Russia at all? It’s very specific? To one family?’

  ‘Yes. Highly specific. It’s the Romanov grave. And geographically specific, too. Do you see the light in the sky?’

  ‘Ah, yes. Yellowish – white. Too pale to be sunset. Dawn? The light’s breaking on the left of the picture, so that must be the east.’

  ‘So where does that place the city in relation to the artist’s viewpoint?’

  Lily thought for a bit, moving her hands about, and then she said: ‘It would be to the south-east. So this grave is … um … ten miles or so north-west of Ekaterinburg.’

  ‘Well done! It is – to be exact – a particularly depressing corner of the Koptyaki Forest, a place called the Four Brothers, after four tall pine trees that grow hereabouts. That could be one of them, there, on the right. It’s a quagmire underfoot and riddled with old mine workings. Just the place to lose eleven bodies.’

  ‘Eleven, sir?’

  ‘The Tsar and his wife, their five children and four of the household. Maid, valet, footman and the loyal family doctor – Botkin – all went to their deaths with the imperial family. But there’s something else we can glean from the picture. Take this magnifying glass. Go and see what you can find carved on the surface of the crosses. I’m sure I noticed something.’

  ‘There’s an A, an N, and smaller – an O, another A, an M and a T and a third A. You could easily miss them. These are crosses for the Tsar Nicholas and his wife, Alexandra, and their five children, aren’t they? Olga, Tatiana, Maria and Anastasia. And this smallest cross here is for the youngest, the boy Alexei, the heir to the throne.’

  ‘Aged only thirteen when he died.’

  ‘Are you thinking, sir, that this was done by an eyewitness? Now I see the precision …’

  ‘Yes. Or by someone who was given a detailed description by an eyewitness.’

  ‘Sir? May I ask you how you come by all this knowledge? You seem to know more than I’ve managed to glean from the news reports. I’d expect that, but … well, this is a remote place we’re talking about. It’s thought that no one really can be sure what happened to the Romanovs. Their death was announced on three different occasions by the British press in the months before that July. By the time they really died, people were shrugging their shoulders – it sounded like old news. But I was the same age as one of the girls and my nephew was thirteen at the time like little Alexei – I felt for them. I read and was convinced by each account of their massacre. Like the rest of the nation. But, then, I found myself equally convinced by the stories that it was all a smokescreen and that the family had been taken to safety. Who’s to say this isn’t all a pack of lies? That this grave in the forest story isn’t false? A bumbling amateurish set-up. Who could possibly have witnessed this scene? Lived to record it? And got it out of the country?’

  ‘Witnesses?’ Joe gave a sarcastic grunt. ‘This apparently godforsaken spot was crawling with ’em. One behind every bush. Local villagers, fishermen, White Army officers reconnoitring ahead of their advance on the city, and even the odd British secret service officer. All watching in disbelief as a cut-throat crew of drunken, power-crazed incompetents crashed about noisily in the forest in trucks and bulldozers, trying to bury the evidence of their butchery. And the murdering thugs – can you credit the indiscipline? – met up with their mates in the city afterwards and spent a jolly drunken evening at the smelting works social club bragging and singing about their exploits. Paying for their beer with jewels snatched from the pockets and the underwear of the imperial family. Not much of a secret!’

  ‘Deliberately, showily incompetent are you saying, sir? A set-up?’

  ‘One does rather wonder.’ Joe was silent for a moment. ‘I’ve weighed the evidence. A workmanlike investigation was undertaken – is still being pursued, by a man who seems to know his trade – into what they’re calling the “Romanov Murder Case”. We were graciously sent a copy. I rather think it was aimed at foreign consumption, to put an end to speculation. It ended up on my desk. It’s a good report. Credible and professional. I dutifully ploughed my way through it. I have to say, though, they’ve turned up a pitifully small amount in the way of human remains. Not enough to satisfy a British coroner. And all burned and broken beyond recognition. Our man Spilsbury would have laughed them out of court. But what they have dredged up is a truly impressive quantity of Romanov possessions – jewellery, icons, buttons … everything from the Empress’s huge diamond pendant to the Tsarevich’s belt buckle.’

  ‘I saw pictures of those in the papers.’

  ‘And again, one wonders. What sort of execution squad in a starving country leaves the contents of an Aladdin’s cave littering the forest floor? But, as so often in a murder inquiry, it was one small detail that trumped all others. One detail that confirms for me that executioners did indeed perform their grisly task in Ekaterinburg … The doctor’s false teeth.’

  He smiled to see her puzzlement. ‘Dr Botkin’s upper plate. It was found at the edge of the pit in which they initially stashed the bodies overnight. Yes,’ Joe sighed. ‘My Russian confrères have three cri
me scenes to work on. Nightmare.’

  ‘If you were laying a false trail, it would be easy enough to scatter pearls and buttons about, but what kind of mind would think of asking a man to relinquish his false teeth?’

  ‘Exactly. You have a pretty devious mind yourself, constable, but would it have occurred to you? No. Nor to me. In the quest for verisimilitude, Wentworth, this would be a step too far. And I’ll tell you something else. The last telling detail was the caking of mud between the front teeth, consistent with a grisly scenario where the doctor’s body was dragged by the heels, face down, towards the pit. The teeth scraped along the ground and became detached.’

  ‘Now there’s a subtlety. A convincing detail, as you say. So – unless some overarching malign intelligence was running this show …’

  ‘Bacchus was engaged elsewhere at the time. I checked.’

  ‘… the massacre must be a true bill. They died there and were buried in the forest. Poor creatures! But you mentioned a British presence. How on earth did his majesty’s agents fetch up here in the wilderness?’

  ‘Ekaterinburg may be a far-off outlandish sort of place, but where there’s money about, and in enormous quantities, there you’ll find international interest also. There’s a whole boulevard taken up by embassies of one sort or another. The British have an outpost there. And we have in our consul, Thomas Preston, and vice-consul, Arthur Thomas, two active, intelligent, Russian-speaking officials of the highest calibre. Bold too, I may add. The vice-consul went along to bang on the table and make demands of the local soviet concerning the security of the Romanov family once too often. He was almost shot on the spot by a gun-toting official. They did what they could and kept the villa where the Romanovs were held under very close surveillance, remaining in touch, telegraph permitting, for as long as possible. And then, of course, we have our man Lockhart out and about and up to mischief. I can say no more. Just accept that we know far more than ever appears in the pages of the London Times.’

  ‘I’m thinking this is a puzzle of a painting I’ve been handed.’

  ‘Yes. Intriguing possibilities here … A potentially dangerous work, though. It could cause difficulties for you if it got about.’ Joe began to pad about the room. ‘You see – it’s empty, the grave. It’s been dug but there are no bodies. Not a sign of one. Do you think the artist would have been able to restrain himself from adding a symbolic smear of blood-red staining the oily puddles of the taiga floor if …’ He was muttering almost to himself as he stared again at the painting. ‘I wonder if I could use this to our advantage? The uncertainty?’ He took a few more steps about the room and then: ‘Look here – I think you should leave the picture with me. It was addressed to you, care of Commander Sandilands after all. I’ll put it away in my cupboard.’ He watched as her expression changed. ‘Oh, all right. Let’s agree to wrangle about that later. Come and sit down. I need to hear your female opinion. Let me move your chair round here; you’ll want to take a look at this file with me. Bacchus managed to come up with something he thought we might find useful. It’s all we have on Anna Petrovna. Now, come on, constable! She’s in here … the woman and her motives. We have to get into her skull. We have to understand what she’s up to and why on earth she’s turned assassin. And, most importantly, how much further does she intend to go?’ He opened the file with a flourish. ‘First let’s take a look at her. Not much in the way of photographs but here’s what we have.’

  He found two sepia prints and laid them out on the desk. ‘First, a line-up of nurses. Hair concealed under those white headdresses they wear. The imperial ladies, led by the Empress, rolled up their sleeves and did some pretty basic nursing work in military hospitals during the war. The older girls, Olga and Tatiana, worked like Trojans apparently. Tatiana, the sprightlier of the two, inevitably, having led such a sheltered life, fell hopelessly in love with a White Army officer under her care. Her first and only love,’ he added. ‘Bacchus’s gossip … not sure that’ll be in the notes.’

  ‘Oh, dear! I can’t imagine much good would have come of that,’ Lily said sadly.

  ‘No indeed. He must have been a spectacular young man, however. Even the Empress – the fussiest and most snobbish woman on earth – liked him and was reported to admit he’d have made a wonderful son-in-law, if only …’

  ‘An imperial archduchess would be destined for one of the European royal heirs. Our own Edward? Oh, goodness – now, there’s a thought. Well, I’m glad to hear the girls had a taste of real life before …’

  ‘We think this girl here, the tall, full-bosomed one, is our Anna. Hard to be certain. Some of their friends did join them on the wards. And then there’s this snapshot, in different mode. A rather distant and blurred shot of five girls on a summer’s day – the imperial daughters plus Anna and, honestly, she could be any one of them. They all look alike to me. A froth of white lace, a glimmer of jewels and a gallery of sulky faces. Has a Romanov ever been observed to smile?’

  ‘That one’s our girl, sir,’ said Lily, pointing without hesitation.

  ‘Now how do you know that?’

  ‘The princess showed me a photograph. She wouldn’t part with it. But I can remember her features well enough to be able to identify her from this. She’d be the one standing next to Tatiana. Beauties, both.’

  Sandilands peered. ‘We can’t use this for identification. Not clear enough and five years out of date. They all look alike to me though I think I can spot Tatiana! What a girl.’ He looked again. ‘Her raven-haired friend is spectacular too. The face is similar but she looks … heavier … than the taxi girl, Miss Hampshire.’

  ‘Puppy fat, sir? Some girls are blessed with it and lose it with age. And after all, there was a war on over there in Russia too.’

  ‘As you say. But then … Anything to reveal about her character before I open these pages and find out what she’s really been up to?’

  ‘Quite mad, the princess would have us believe. “A loose cannon” she called her. Utterly devoted to the imperial family. A Royalist to the core. But there are other things we can work out for ourselves, sir.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘She’s clever. She got the better of Bacchus, after all. She doesn’t act on instinct – she plans ahead. Six weeks ahead in the matter of her preparation for the Prince of Wales’s assassination. She’s ready to get her hands dirty in the pursuit of her aim – as Hopkirk, was it, said, she must be a strapping lass to survive the kitchens of a London hotel. And the address she gave … it was carefully chosen. She was always going to have early warning of interest from the Special Branch. Any strangers coming calling would receive a hostile and probably noisy reception where she sent them. The children would act as her guard dogs. She knew she’d have time for a quick exit round the back.’

  ‘So – resourceful and tough.’

  ‘But there’s another side to Anna. I sense her people are genuinely fond of her and would go to some lengths to protect her. Even to the extent of sending the forces of law and order on a fruitless chase around London while she goes into hiding. And the children – the street kids in Hogsmire Lane … I know she bribed them with lollipops but there was something more. Kids aren’t easy to deceive. And these ones really truly liked her and were concerned for her welfare. If they’d known I was a policewoman on her trail, I do believe they’d have turned their father on me!’

  ‘So what are you saying?’

  ‘That we’re looking for a girl of good character who’s been diverted – cut loose from her moorings like a ton of bronze cannon to crash about the decks – by some apparently overwhelmingly strong force that’s turned her mad. She now has a mind to murder and nothing’s going to stop her trying. Again and again.’

  Joe’s nod said that he had already reached this point. ‘Let’s see if we can identify the force that turned her loose on us, shall we, Wentworth?’

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘Born 1897. Which makes her twenty-five these days. High class family. Mothe
r a lady-in-waiting to the Tsarina. I expect the little Anna was considered a suitable companion for the royal children. They had few enough of those. English is her first language, with French, German and Russian, of course.’

  ‘Who compiled these notes, sir?’

  ‘None of this is from the lady herself, you understand. It’s a résumé of snippets of information from various Russian sources put together by the Branch, with additions from other interested parties. She’s known to have arrived in London and signed her entry papers under her real name of Anna Petrovna with the joint sponsorship of the Princess Ratziatinsky and the captain of an English naval cruiser who seems to have been ready to vouch for her.’ He paused for a moment, deep in thought. ‘All too ready, perhaps. He was the naval gent who welcomed her aboard his vessel in Murmansk and brought her over here to England. The girl was in a poor state – reduced to skin and bone apparently – when the British consul enlisted Captain Swinburne’s help. He dropped her off with her friends, then she promptly went to ground in the capital. She had no intention of becoming better known to the authorities, it seems.’

  Joe gave Lily time to absorb the brief notes on the first page before turning over.

  ‘This is interesting, sir, wouldn’t you say? It’s only an aside scribbled between the lines but it may be significant.’

  ‘A close and tender relationship appears to have been established between Miss Petrovna and the crown prince Alexei. The heir to all the Russias, poor little boy.’ Joe’s voice had softened. ‘What a weight to place on those thin shoulders.’

  ‘Are all the stories true, sir?’

  ‘Yes. I can confirm that the press and rumour had it right all those years – he was indeed very ill. Terminally ill. Haemophilia. Inherited from his mother’s line and untreatable. The only relief from debilitating pain and the constant threat of death from uncontrolled bleeding seems to have been administered by the foul Rasputin. The Tsarina firmly believed so. The prince led a sheltered life, his every movement monitored by family members and servants.’