Death on the Nevskii Prospekt Page 16

  ‘All right, all right!’ he said. ‘Women wouldn’t know about him. Bastard Dobrynin was head of mathematics in the lycée out at Tsarskoe Selo, place where Pushkin went to school,’ the last bit said condescendingly as if even a flibbertigibbet like Natasha must have heard of Pushkin, ‘and if you didn’t get your sums right, he would beat you and beat you and beat you until you did. Very painful subject, mathematics, for most of his pupils, even to this day.’

  He peered again at the photograph. ‘Dead, did you say? No? Pity. Lost, that’s nearly as good.’ His arm shot out once more. Natasha moved away. So seriously did they take this witness that Natasha checked with the school when she was back at the Alexander Palace in Tsarskoe Selo. There had indeed been a Mr Dobrynin at the lycée. He was retired now, she was told. But he still lived in the village, just a few minutes’ walk from the palace. If Natasha or any of her friends needed help, Mr Dobrynin still offered coaching in mathematics.

  7

  They left Roderick Martin in the Imperial Yacht Club. Or rather they left his photograph, attached to the noticeboard with a message and quite a large reward for accurate information about him. Mikhail Shaporov’s father had been responsible for the reward, apparently telling his son that it would be enough for a down payment on somebody’s gambling debts.

  Powerscourt was delighted about the replies to his messages to London. From Sir Jeremiah Reddaway, for the present, there was no news. From Johnny Fitzgerald there was a cheerful message, saying that he looked forward to working with his friend again. It would, he said, be like the old days up Hindustan way in India. Powerscourt had already cleared Johnny’s arrival with the Ambassador and de Chassiron. He had also sent a note to all the ministries where he had called, to the Interior Ministry, the Foreign Ministry, even the Okhrana, advising them of Fitzgerald’s coming.

  But it was Rosebery who excelled himself in the despatch of messages to the Okhrana. Rosebery the politician had always been touchy, difficult, mercurial. He was notorious for it. He would angle for high office and then agonize for weeks over whether he would accept the position or not. Scarcely had he sat down in his Cabinet Ministry than he would be thinking of resigning. Indeed, his critics said that he took more pleasure from leaving office than most normal people did in accepting it. Morbid, over-sensitive, ever quick to take offence, prone to long fits of depression, Rosebery was said to be more highly strung than his strings of racehorses. But on this occasion he had served his friend well. Powerscourt wondered if he had divined that he was writing, not to the Foreign Office or to Powerscourt, but to the Russian secret police.

  His message was addressed to the Foreign Secretary himself, with copies to Sir Jeremiah Reddaway and to Powerscourt at the British Embassy.

  ‘Dear Foreign Secretary,’ he began. Powerscourt suspected he had no intention of paying any attention to government directives about the high costs of international telegraph messages. ‘Please forgive me, as a previous holder of your distinguished office, for troubling you in these difficult times. I find, yet again, that my role in events just past is being misinterpreted, and that my position on some delicate events of recent weeks is in danger of being misconstrued.’

  Nine out of ten on the pompous scale so far, thought Powerscourt with a grin. In his role of injured party, this was vintage Rosebery.

  ‘I propose to place on record my role in the unfortunate affair of Mr Roderick Martin for the elucidation of posterity and lest there be any misunderstandings in the present. The facts are clear. I was informed of the demise of Mr Martin by the Prime Minister and by yourself, as you will recall, at a meeting in Number 10 Downing Street late last year. On that occasion I was not told anything of Mr Martin’s mission or of his intentions in St Petersburg. To this day I know nothing of either of those matters. Rather I was consulted about the likelihood of Lord Francis Powerscourt being persuaded out of retirement to inquire into the death of Mr Martin. I undertook to use whatever capital and whatever credit I possessed in that quarter on the Government’s behalf.

  ‘To that end, I called, not upon Lord Powerscourt himself, but on his wife, who I believed was the principal obstacle to his returning to his former career as an investigator. I pointed out to Lady Powerscourt that she was hindering her husband in his career and probably making him a sceptic to the question of his own courage: that men of quality in the public sphere have no right to refuse to carry out their work merely because it might be dangerous: furthermore, that the nation would be ill served indeed if men like her first or her second husbands were to cower at home because of the off-chance of a bullet abroad. I believe my arguments may have had some purchase with Lady Powerscourt. She grew agitated and asked me to leave. At no point in our conversation did we discuss Mr Martin. That was not the point of my visit.

  ‘That, in short, is a full recapitulation of my role in this unfortunate affair. It grieves me more than I can say when it is rumoured abroad that I had inside knowledge of Mr Martin’s objectives or of his mission to the Russian capital. These rumours are an insult to the dead and an affront to the living. I had no such knowledge. I trust, nay, I have every confidence, sir, that you will do everything in your power to ensure that the truth prevails and that the reputation of the British Foreign Office and its servants for upright and honourable behaviour is upheld with as much vigour today as it has been in former times. Yours sincerely, Rosebery.’

  Powerscourt smiled as he read the telegraph for the second time. He had, he felt, advanced a knight into the heart of the Okhrana defences, and the knight was well protected. He wondered what General Derzhenov would make of it when his decoders finally presented it. He wondered idly if they operated on a daily basis, the mathematics professors and the chess masters, transcripts of Embassy messages available to read on the day they arrived in St Petersburg. Would this be enough to persuade the old sadist Derzhenov, as Powerscourt mentally referred to him, that he, Powerscourt, knew nothing of what had brought Martin to St Petersburg?

  Two days later Natasha Bobrinsky and an Embassy guard called Sandy escorted Powerscourt to the Bobrinsky household and the Bobrinsky grandmother in Millionaires’ Row near the Embassy. Ever since Powerscourt’s abduction by the Okhrana thugs, the Ambassador had decreed that he should be accompanied wherever he went. Natasha, looking very demure in her lady-in-waiting clothes, told Powerscourt a brief life history of her elderly relation on the way.

  ‘She’s my mother’s mother, Lord Powerscourt, so she started life as a Dolgoruky back in 1830 or something like that.’ Powerscourt thought the girl made the date sound as if it belonged to a different era altogether, Iron Age rather than Bronze, as it were.

  ‘She married quite late by Russian standards, Elizabeth Nicolaievna,’ Natasha went on. ‘She must have been twenty-three or twenty-four. Her husband was a cavalry man, very tall, very handsome, they say. My granny says to this day that he was the best-looking soldier in St Petersburg.’ The girl fell silent, as if trying to remember her grandfather.

  ‘What became of him?’ asked Powerscourt.

  ‘It’s all rather sad, Lord Powerscourt. They had two children, my mother and her sister, and then my father was killed in a training accident. Some explosives went off when they shouldn’t have done, just when he was inspecting them in fact, and he was blown to smithereens.’

  Powerscourt thought, but did not say, that it sounded as if her grandfather had encountered by accident the same fate that was now being meted out on purpose to the ruling elite by the revolutionaries.

  ‘Anyway, Lord Powerscourt, there she was, this Elizabeth, with two little girls, heaps of relations to help with the children, and plenty of money. I’m sure she looked quite hard for another husband, though she would tell you, if you dared to ask, that she was far too busy looking after the children.’

  They had entered the Bobrinsky Palace now, a slightly smaller version of the Shaporov, but with the same profusion of enormous mirrors and paintings on the walls. Sandy, the Embassy guard waited in
the entrance lobby. ‘What she did, my granny,’ Natasha went on, ‘was to pursue an interest in etiquette, who stands where on military parades, what kind of dances are suitable for the unmarried, all that sort of stuff. Soon the foreign embassies were asking her for advice. Her library grew bigger and bigger with books of deportment and all that junk. Then the imperial courtiers began checking things with her. By fifteen years ago she was the unquestioned expert on decorum and etiquette in St Petersburg, invited to every social function in the calendar. That’s why she may be able to help. If our friend Mr Martin showed up at any of those dances or parties, she’ll have seen him. Let’s just hope she remembers him. She’s bedridden now, poor old thing, I don’t suppose she’ll go to any more grand balls in this life.’

  Natasha was now knocking firmly on a pair of very solid double doors. As they obeyed the instruction to enter, Powerscourt saw that they were in an enormous chamber, with three sets of huge windows looking out towards the Neva. Two vast fires were burning in enormous grates, set in elaborate and ornate marble fireplaces. At one end, at right angles to the river, stood a huge bed, surrounded by tables with books and newspapers, tables with drinks and cigarettes and one table totally covered with small notebooks which Powerscourt suspected might be the records of the balls or the diaries of the social years gone by.

  ‘Natasha, my dear, how nice to see you, and you, young man, you must be Lord Francis Powerscourt, come from England to share in our troubles.’ Elizabeth the grandmother had a thin voice that cracked from time to time. She was sitting up, resting on a profusion of pillows, in the centre of the bed. She was wearing what might once have been a white lace gown, with elaborate work at the cuffs and around the neck. On top of that she had a dark grey jacket and her throat was circled with pearls. Elizabeth’s face was lined now, the grey hair receding slightly across her forehead and tied in a bun at the back, each hair clearly visible under the surrounding lamps and reminding Powerscourt of an old lady’s hair under a white cap, painted by Rembrandt, that he had seen in a gallery in Amsterdam some years before. It seemed appropriate in this most elegant of cities that life should imitate art.

  Natasha’s granny pointed firmly to a tall silver jug. Natasha refilled the old lady’s glass, carefully avoiding Powerscourt’s eye as she did so. Powerscourt wondered if she drank all day, lying here with the view and the flames in the fire and her memories.

  ‘Now then, Natasha, show me the picture of this man you want identified. You know him as Mr Martin from London, but he could be called anything here in St Petersburg.’

  ‘Well remembered, Granny,’ said Natasha, and drew the photograph from her bag. The old lady inserted a long Turkish cigarette into her holder and sucked in the smoke as she inspected her victim.

  ‘Pity he’s wearing his gardening clothes, my dear,’ she said, frowning at the nondescript features. ‘You don’t have any more, I suppose?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Grandmama,’ said Natasha.

  ‘Young man,’ the old lady took a fearsome swig of her glass, and peered closely at Powerscourt, ‘have you ever been to any of our grand balls or court balls here in St Petersburg?’

  ‘I regret to say I have not had that privilege,’ said Powerscourt, bowing slightly.

  ‘I am going to have to paint a picture for you,’ the old lady said, taking in a further lungful of smoke, ‘a picture of what they’re like, to remind myself, and to see if I can remember your gardener.’

  She took another deep draught from her glass and waved at Natasha for a refill from the jug.

  ‘He was here in January last year and the two years before that, according to your information, this man Martin, Lord Powerscourt. Forget the dates of his other visits for the moment. Something tells me he is dead, but we will leave that for a moment. Now, then, close your eyes, I want you to imagine Palace Square at night in January, my children. All of the three vast blocks of the Winter Palace are blazing with light. Up above you can see the stars in a clear night sky.’ Elizabeth Bobrinsky held up her hands as far as they would go. ‘Around the Alexander Column in the centre of the square, braziers are burning in defiance of the winter cold. There is a vast queue of carriages arriving in an unbroken line in front of the Winter Palace, and open sledges bringing the young officers who do not fear the cold, their horses’ harness covered with blue netting to stop the snow blowing into their passengers’ faces. And from across the square, my dears, you can just see the silhouettes of the women as they hurry across the few steps between the arriving carriage and the entrance to the Winter Palace. Everywhere tonight there is fox, sable, silver fox, arctic fox, all are on parade with their human friends. Up the staircases of white marble they go, the male guests in their uniforms of cream and scarlet, spreadeagle helmets of gold and silver, Hungarians and Caucasians bright in their national dress, diamonds and emeralds and pearls glittering on the princesses and the beautiful women.’

  The old lady paused, absentmindedly polishing off her glass. Powerscourt suspected it was some form of vodka cocktail. She peered out at the flames in the fire opposite. ‘I cannot see him yet,’ she said, ‘but I have not given up hope. Even a gardener may dance with a princess after all.’ There was another pause. She began to screw up her eyes in concentration and waved rapidly at her glass with her right hand. Natasha poured the refill.

  ‘There are so many sorts of balls, my children, but let us pretend for a moment that this is a bal blanc such as my Natasha might attend, one for the young ladies who are not married with rows of chaperons like me lining the walls, watching to see that no girl dances twice with the same partner.’ The old lady cackled suddenly. ‘Many times I have broken the rules in these bals blancs. I would do it for you, Natasha, if you wanted, but don’t tell anyone I told you. I can’t see him here, your gardener, at a dance where waltzes are forbidden, the two-step is regarded as not quite proper and most of the evening is spent in quadrilles with the young people advancing and retiring and forming circles over and over again. No, I’m sorry, Mr Martin is not here.’

  Silence, save for the crackle of the flames, filled the great room. ‘Would you like to have a rest, Granny?’ asked Natasha.

  ‘Rest, child? I’ve only just begun. I’m just getting into my stride. I think my glass is empty, mind you.’ The old lady closed her eyes and stared as hard as she could into the past. ‘There were all sorts of balls at the Winter Palace, of course, concert balls and Hermitage balls.’ She paused. ‘I danced with the Tsar, not the present one, his father, a great bear of a man but very light on his feet, every year from ’87 to ’92 at a Hermitage ball. There was a young Dane with lashings of blond hair, I remember, attached to the Embassy, who danced with me at a concert ball in 1900, the best dancer I ever knew in my entire life. I even danced with Bismarck once, my children, at a Nicholas ball in the 1880s. He trod on my feet. I can still remember that.’ She stopped, waiting, perhaps, for the memories to keep coming.

  ‘Some things were always the same of course, the flowers, the baskets of orchids, the thousands of palm trees, the exotic plants from the Crimea, the masses of lilac and tulips and roses sent specially from the Riviera.’ She paused again, the look on her face abstracted as she swept through her recollections. ‘The food, the elaborate pastries, the special ices to cool the dancers down, the plates of cold sturgeon, the chicken creams, the stuffed eggs, the three different kinds of caviar, the great blocks of ice standing about with holes cut in them filled with tubs of champagne . . . And sometimes, when the numbers weren’t too big, you could walk with your partner away from the ball, my children, and go deep into the empty rooms of the Winter Palace. The gentleman would take his partner on his arm – a famous admiral took me once – ’ Elizabeth Bobrinsky smiled at the memory of her naval escort, ‘and you could wander through countless empty suites and end up in magical half-lit rooms with only the odd orderly officer to be seen somewhere in the distance, and those enormous windows, as high as a cathedral, looking out over the Neva sparkling in
the cold and the moonlight with maybe a light fall of snow come to dust the outside of the Winter Palace.’

  Powerscourt and Natasha dared not speak a word. They waited. Elizabeth took another absentminded gulp of her vodka.

  ‘Where is he? The gardener?’ She spoke very fast, looking around her now, as if some faint memory was stirring. ‘He was here in St Petersburg in the January of 1903, that’s not very long ago. Natasha, my dear, do you remember the famous ball of 1903? It was the two hundredth anniversary of the founding of St Petersburg and that was the last ball held in the Winter Palace what with these common little assassins blowing up Ministers of the Interior and the war with those horrid yellow Japanese.’

  She stopped suddenly as if she had lost her way. A sad, abandoned look came over her face as if she was six years old and lost in a strange park.

  ‘Natasha?’ she said quietly. ‘Natasha? Are you still here?’

  ‘Of course I’m still here, Grandmama,’ said the girl gently, reaching out to take her grandmother’s hand, ‘You were just telling us about the anniversary ball in 1903. Maybe Mr Martin was there.’

  Elizabeth Bobrinsky paused once more. She looked as though she might have used up all her strength. ‘Early January,’ she said, speaking very slowly now, ‘there was a performance of Boris Godunov in the Hermitage, then, two days later, the costume ball in the Nicholas Hall in the Winter Palace. Three thousand people, marshalled by those giant troopers of the Chevalier Guards in white, silver and gold at every entrance and along all the staircases, and Cossack Life Guards in their crimson and blue, the Negro footmen dressed in scarlet from head to foot.’ She stopped again and took a tiny sip of her drink. ‘Half past eight, the ball started. The guests were waiting in the Nicholas Hall as the Grand Master of Ceremonies appeared and tapped three times on the floor with his ebony staff, embossed in gold with the double-headed eagle of the Tsar. The crowd fell silent as the great mahogany doors, inlaid with gold, swung open and the Ceremony man called out “Their Imperial Majesties!” and fifteen hundred ladies curtsied in unison.’