The Blood Royal Read online

  The challenge amounted to indiscipline and he fell silent, seething with indignation and awaiting the commander’s set-down.

  Joe grinned and playfully poked a finger at his lieutenant. ‘Gotcha! You walked right into it, Bacchus. Well, what do the rest of you make of my story? Easy enough to get a pair of old romantics like Bacchus and Fanshawe worked up, but will the Russian ladies be deceived? What I’ve just handed you is a load of cobbled-together nonsense. A thumping great lie! Full of holes, I confess. But I find the best way of getting someone to swallow a lie is to season it well and stick it between two thick slices of truth. Worth a try?’

  There followed a ruminative silence. Joe followed his audience’s reactions through from sharp anger at being deceived to disgruntlement, puzzlement and finally a cynical acceptance. He pressed on. ‘There you are then – I’ve given you the imaginary skeleton so to speak, now help me put some real flesh on it.’

  ‘Oh, no. Another corpse that’s going to get up and dance,’ Lily muttered.

  ‘Exactly that. We’re going to resurrect a princess of the blood royal. Tatiana lives! We’ve got to make them believe that. Get your box out, Bacchus, and let’s see what we can use. Unless I’ve been misinformed, there’s a very particular relic of the second daughter in there.’

  Mumbling and mistrustful, Bacchus pulled the box into the centre of the table and opened it up.

  Inside was a perfectly ordinary Gladstone bag, its leather stamped with the emblem of the United Kingdom. Bacchus took it out and opened it up. ‘Our man – one of our men – in Ekaterinburg owned this bag. He had it with him when he made a consular call on the villa in the aftermath of the shootings. In the chaos that reigned – there was a squad still mopping up the pools of blood, retrieving shell cases and looting – he quietly helped himself to some Romanov goods. Not the obvious valuables of which there were plenty lying about the place. He went for the more interesting stuff – letters and diaries. He found things hidden behind water cisterns and under the bath – places the guards hadn’t thought to ransack. The outside world had managed to keep in touch with the Romanovs for many a month. Better that such incriminating documents did not fall into the hands of the Bolsheviks, of course.’

  He began to take objects from the bag, laying them out with care on the mahogany surface of the table. Lily noticed that he was beginning to sort them as he picked them out. Medals, rings, icons and lockets were put in one corner, small leather-bound diaries and notebooks in another, photographs and letters in the centre. Lily could not hold back a gasp of emotion as she saw a white lace-edged handkerchief embroidered by a child’s hand in red silk at the corner. The wobbly letter A – Anastasia? Lily reached for it and held it, breathing in the trace of a spicy cologne lurking in its folds. No, this A was for Alexandra – a gift from a child to its mother.

  ‘It’s Tatiana we’re hunting for, remember,’ Joe reminded them, seeing his small group distracted and sinking fast into fascinated absorption. ‘Anything of her in here? We have to reconstitute her from these bits and pieces. We have to breathe life into her … conjure up an image so real that her best friend will be convinced she’s alive and well and calling her to her side.’

  Fanshawe found a sheet of paper. ‘Got something, sir! Here’s her writing. That’s a start. Letter to a friend. In English. Thank God they all seem to have used English, or German. It was never sent, apparently.’

  ‘There was a clamp-down on their correspondence once they were at the Ipatiev house,’ said Bacchus. ‘It must have been suppressed and kept. Here’s a notecase full of letters received.’ He handed it to Lily. ‘See what you can find.’

  Lily was instantly absorbed by the task. After a few moments, her voice trembling slightly, she said: ‘I’ve found a letter from our girl – Anna Petrovna. And it’s addressed to Tatiana. 1917. Before all the nastiness burst over them. Oh, she’s put … there’s a hank of hair in here.’

  ‘Hair? Yuck!’ said Fanshawe. ‘Well, I suppose they were very young things in 1917.’

  ‘It’s dark hair,’ said Lily, holding it to the light. ‘Blueblack, you’d say. Your Morana, sir? I think we’ve found her.’ She skimmed the letter quickly. ‘Not much of note. Grumbles and complaints and – oh, talk of patients. A handsome officer she’s fallen for … they were all at it … leg amputations … disease … She was nursing, of course, following the imperial example of devotion to patriotic duty. The hair is mentioned at the end … “By my hair shall you know me!” Strange thing to say?’

  ‘From the Bible. Matthew’s gospel. “By their fruits shall ye know them …” something like that. Religious lot, the Romanovs. And their correspondence was probably even at that time being monitored by the Red factions,’ said Bacchus. ‘They found ways of getting round the surveillance. Cocking a childish snook at the enemy. They didn’t know then how serious it was all going to get.’

  ‘Prepare to yuck again, Fanshawe,’ Joe said with satisfaction. He’d been passing a hand around the bottom of the bag following its turn-out. ‘Here it is. Yes! This is what I’d heard mentioned.’

  He brought out, wrapped in brown paper, a wild flower album. When he opened it, no collection of dusty stalks and petals fell crumbling from the stiff pages. On each was glued a specimen, but not a botanical specimen. One after another, thick hanks of hair appeared, five in all, ranging in colour from fair to dark brown. Sandilands looked at the date in the front of the book. ‘Gathered up and stuck in the day all the children had their hair cut off. They caught some disease or other – measles, I believe – which necessitated a shaven head. But – this is it. This is something we can use. Wentworth – pick out Tatiana’s hair, will you?’

  Lily took the book from him and leafed through it. ‘Here’s a fine, brownish-blond that must have been the Tsarevich’s hair … and … Ah! Here it is, sir. It’s a wonderful rich red. Dark red. Titian, would you say?’

  ‘That’s the one.’ Joe reached for it and began to smooth a forefinger along the still-gleaming tress. ‘Celtic ancestry. This lady could trace her line back to Ivan the Terrible, let’s not forget. And a selected lock of this is about to make its way from California in a letter, written in Tatiana’s hand, and it will say at the end, what was it? – “By my hair shall you know me!” Can we arrange for an envelope from the States, Bacchus? Stamps and suchlike? Evidence of diplomatic clearance?’

  ‘Nothing easier,’ Bacchus told him. ‘I’ll get straight on to it. Not sure I can compose the text of the letter though, the phrasing. I mean, I’m a thirty-five-year-old bloke. This is a twenty-five-year-old woman who’s meant to be speaking. Hand me a written version of what you want said and I’ll get our forger to do it.’

  The men glanced at each other in dismay. ‘Um … yes … ah …’

  ‘Don’t look at me!’ said Fanshawe.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Lily said. ‘Just give me time to read through these letters of Tatiana’s and get the flavour and an ear for the phrasing. Can anyone tell me what sort of girl she was? I suppose I ought to know that if I’m going to pretend to be her.’

  It was Bacchus who replied. ‘We hear plenty about the others but not a great deal about this one. Mother’s favourite … reserved … stand-offish and squashing. Her pekinese dog was shot dead in the bloodbath. Sorry, I’m not being very helpful. Now if you wanted Maria we could supply – people are only too pleased to talk about her and they smile when they speak. A true Russian beauty, open and friendly. It was the little one no one could stand – Anastasia. Even her mother called her a devil. Mischievous little troublemaker seems to be the general opinion. Sorry, Wentworth, this isn’t of much use, is it?’

  ‘Just tell me how long I’ve got.’

  Bacchus smiled. ‘That’s what I like to hear. I’ve got Sam standing by, pen in hand, but a job of this complexity is going to take him a while … An hour? That long enough for you to turn yourself into Her Imperial Highness?’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The Branch men w
ent off, muttering of arrangements to make, plates to develop and arms to twist and promising to return at eleven to pick up the text of the letter. Joe was left behind to supervise Lily. He occupied himself with agitatedly sifting through the Romanov relics, glancing every thirty seconds at the constable who was calmly reading her way through a pile of correspondence. Had she any idea how infuriating she was being?

  Finally, she looked up at him. ‘Sir? Am I allowed to use my own knowledge? I mean, if Tatiana really were alive, she’d make some mention of the place she’s been living in for the last few years, wouldn’t she? She might even say something to tempt our Anna … her Anna … to pack up and go over to find her.’

  ‘Sounds reasonable. What do you know of San Francisco, Wentworth?’

  ‘Not much. But probably more than Anna Petrovna knows. At least I read the popular magazines, sir.’

  ‘Go to it, Wentworth. But keep it brief. You can say too much, you know. We don’t want to gild the lily.’

  ‘Then I’m ready to have a shot at it. Will you pass me a sheet of writing paper? And Sam might be instructed to set it out on his page as closely as he can to my effort.’

  ‘He’ll be using some American writing paper we’ve supplied him with.’ Sandilands took a sheet from his briefcase. ‘Here’s one. Use this for practice. The heading should be … let’s call her …um … Miss Theresa Robinson, care of the British Consul-General, One Sansome Street, San Francisco. Off you go!’

  He knew he was being annoying but he couldn’t restrain himself from prowling about the room as she wrote, passing behind her and making her flinch when he tried to sneak a look at her production.

  My dearest, darling Anna! he read before she put an arm over it like an embarrassed schoolgirl. A further patrol revealed: I may not sign my name but – you said it! – ‘by my hair shall you know me!’ Less lustrous than it once was – the sunshine out here is unkind to complexion and hair!

  After a bit of pen-chewing she followed with: I had thought you dead. And now word comes to me that you live! And are safe among friends. I have news of my brother and sisters, though I know you will be sad to hear that my parents have succumbed to old age and disease. At least they died together.

  After a few sighs: I have before me as I write a photograph that has travelled half the world with me. I look at it every day. Taken in the shade of a tree in the summer time. Yalta? 1916? You will remember! You are beside me, gazing with commendable attention at our handsome French master who, I think I remember, is trying to drum the subjunctive into our skulls. Attention? I think there is something more in your look, Anna! I have news of Pierre also.

  ‘Wentworth, how do you know …?’

  ‘It says so on the back. In pencil in an English clerkly hand. Bacchus? The girls are identified, along with “Pierre Gilliard, Fr. Master”.’

  ‘Keep it short, Wentworth. Every single letter is a work of art for our chap, remember.’

  She finished with a rush. If I thought a command would influence you, I would say: ‘Come! At once!’ But I now beg you, dearest Anna, to come to me and complete my happiness. And here in this delightful place I know I have the means to make yours. Leave that drab and violent continent to its death-throes and sail into the sunshine! We are waiting with our arms outstretched! Silent, upon a peak – in Darien! Your devoted friend, T.

  Joe snatched it from her the moment she had blotted it. ‘Good!’ he said. ‘That would get me rushing for the boat!’ And, thoughtfully, ‘That’s a neat bit about her brother. It wasn’t in my briefing. Is this a case of “Miss thinks she knows best”? I believe it is. But does it add up? You don’t say that he’s alive or that he’s dead. Just enough to sow doubt. There are rumours about – strong ones, especially in Romanov circles – that the whole family was spirited away. And the promise of a warm welcome over the ocean may well be ultimately persuasive when our girl considers the alternative we have on offer for her here in London.’

  He took a deep breath and came to a decision. ‘Yes! Wentworth, we’ll go along with your scenario. If she’s convinced by this, Anna Petrovna’s reason to stay on plotting mischief over here is removed at a stroke. If only … What do you say to appropriating one of those lockets? There’s one containing a wisp of the Tsarevich’s hair.’

  ‘No, sir. That would be overplaying it. She wouldn’t send something so precious across in the post or even the diplomatic bag. Wouldn’t feel she needed to. This is Her Imperial Highness writing. Enough for anyone to be told, in her handwriting of course, that she survives. She wouldn’t expect to have to supply proof or answer questions. I think you’re right – it should be understated … no one’s impressed by a gilded lily. We should keep it … tantalizing.’

  ‘This reference to the French master … Assuming too much, do you think?’

  ‘Take a look at the photograph again. Our dark-haired beauty is casting what I’d interpret as a decidedly languishing look at the tutor. Whatever she has on her mind, it’s not French grammar. And it’s a pretty safe bet anyway. There weren’t many men under forty and over fourteen in the lives of these girls at this point and Pierre Gilliard was a well-set-up fellow. Every girl falls in love with her French master. Done it myself.’

  ‘It’s a bit of a risk. We’ll have to see what Bacchus thinks of it. I think we have time for a little rehearsal.’

  Bacchus read the sheet and then read it again. He opened his mouth to comment and closed it. Finally, he said, ‘This will do. I note the change of plan. In the Wentworth version the Tsarevich very likely survives also. Another prince saved. That’s two in a week. Well done, miss! But what’s this here about Darien? Will she be familiar with Keats?’

  ‘I think everyone knows this line … the poet’s vision of the conquistadors standing on a height above the bay, rendered speechless by their first sight of the Pacific Ocean. I noticed that the girls liked to scatter literary references about.’

  ‘Now, can we get through the final briefing for Miss Wentworth’s performance tomorrow morning?’ Joe suggested, and without waiting for a response he launched himself into the task. ‘The constable presents herself at St Katharine’s Square at nine sharp. The princess, fully briefed by then, receives her. With a bit of luck, Anna Petrovna will be lurking behind a door listening in. Now, all Russians like a mystery, I observe. So we offer one. The photograph of the painting, Bacchus? Ah, thank you. Still damp? I’ll be careful. You know what you are to say about this first offering, Wentworth?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I suggest that there is a hidden message in it. The grave is empty. There is no attempt to convey butchery, none at all. There are simply – no corpses. The inference the observer is meant to draw is that the family has escaped this burial pit. And gone … where?’

  ‘Right. You plant the question and then supply an answer. This is our first slice of realia.’

  ‘Ah. Well, next comes the bully-beef filling. I offer the letter purportedly from Tatiana. The princess remarks that it has been opened. I say – of course! All communications from our consulates are screened and the interesting ones examined. I say that she will realize, as did our secret service, that this is a letter of some importance. It contains a shattering piece of information that the British government is honour-bound to keep from being broadcast. The first thought was to suppress the letter but wiser counsel prevailed in the present circumstances. I say that with heavy emphasis. I hand the letter over and she reads it, exclaiming the while.’

  ‘Yes, remember to leave plenty of reaction time for the princess. Remember that she is Anna Petrovna’s anchor in an unsafe world. Our girl will place much faith in her advice.’

  ‘When she’s taken this in, I hand over the second envelope containing the tickets to heaven and a British passport in the name of Anna Peterson and say they come with the compliments of the British government who are finding Anna and her activities a bit of a nuisance and would be glad to see the back of her. It’s that or a spell in Holloway jail. Finally, I present the
second slice of something verifiable: the newspaper report.’

  ‘And bring yourself straight back here. That’s a clear order.’ He thought for a moment and added: ‘Make no attempt to deal face to face with Anna Petrovna. It’s our opinion and that of an alienist I’ve consulted that the woman could be dangerously deranged. Suffering a condition not unlike shell shock. She’s primed and ready to explode. She’s failed once and that may well have increased the pressure. We know her targets and I, for one, recognize that she may already have begun to associate you with the forces that gather protectively about them. Do not put yourself into her path.’

  ‘Sir?’ Fanshawe had a question. ‘If we’re giving this deranged criminal a British passport, what’s to stop her turning round and coming straight back into the country when she finds she’s been duped?’

  ‘Our border force, Fanshawe. You know their qualities. Her passport will be flagged and she’ll be arrested at the port.’

  ‘And that’s it. I make my farewells and walk back here,’ Lily finished.

  ‘Then we go on watch,’ said Bacchus with satisfaction. ‘She’ll do her packing, and leave. Either she’ll go north to Norfolk or south to Southampton. To jail or to freedom. It’s her choice.’

  Joe raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘No it’s not! No more than you would have any choice over the card you picked out of a greasy pack offered to you by a conjurer at the Palace of Varieties, Bacchus.’

  ‘That’s it then, sir?’ Lily asked.

  ‘Yes. We can all go home and get some rest while Bacchus goes to work with his forger. Seven o’clock start from here tomorrow. Best of luck, chaps! If there’s really nothing more you want to check …? No? Then you may dismiss now. Oh, Bacchus! Just a quick word if you wouldn’t mind?’ He waited until he heard the others’ footsteps going down the stairs then closed the door and turned to Bacchus, resting a congratulatory hand briefly on his shoulder. ‘I think that went well.’