Death on the Nevskii Pros Read online

  Lady Lucy paused, her hands still locked into her husband’s, her eyes watching his face. ‘Think of the number of times you have nearly lost your life, my love. When you were investigating the death of Prince Eddy, the Prince of Wales’s son, Johnny Fitzgerald was nearly killed because your enemies thought he was you as he was wearing your green cloak. When you looked into the death of Christopher Montague the art critic, you and I were nearly killed in Corsica with mad people pursuing us down a mountain road and firing guns at us. In that cathedral case they tried to kill you by dropping a whole heap of masonry on top of you from high up in the building. A few months ago you nearly breathed your last on the first floor of the Wallace Collection in Manchester Square. It can’t go on, Francis. Please don’t be cross with me, my love, I’ve nearly finished. I don’t know if you remember the day you came back from the dead, when Johnny Fitzgerald was reading Tennyson’s “Ulysses” and little Christopher smiled his first smile at you. We were all hand in hand then, by the side of your bed, you and me and Thomas and Olivia and Christopher and Juliet, all joined in a circle of love. I want you to remember those faces, to think of them on that day, as you make your decision. I know it won’t be easy, I know how much satisfaction you take from another mystery solved, from the knowledge that other people will now live because the murderer has been caught. I just want you to think of your children’s faces and the love in their eyes and the relief in their hearts when their father came back to them. Please don’t let them go through that again. And remember, Francis, you know it’s because we all love you so much.’

  Lady Lucy removed her hands at the end. Suddenly, overcome by the strain and her memories of the days when death seemed so close in Manchester Square, she started to cry. Powerscourt held her in his arms and said nothing at all. He had known it was coming, this request. He hadn’t known how difficult he would find it to give her an answer. For three days he stared at the dark blue waters of the Mediterranean and took little walks along the coast as his strength returned. He was being asked to give up his career. If he had stayed in the army, he told himself, he would have been exposed to much more danger than he was as an investigator. Was it unmanly to give up his own interests for those of his wife and children? He wondered what his male contemporaries would have said about that. He tried to make a comparison, to draw up a balance sheet between Lady Lucy and his children’s happiness and the dangers of an undiscovered murderer roaming the streets of London, and he knew he couldn’t do it.

  He watched Lady Lucy a lot in those three days. He saw the joy in her face when she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t noticing. She’s so happy I’m alive, he said to himself. He saw the grace of her movements as she walked into a room or crossed a street and he knew he was as much in love with her as he had been the day they were married. When he told her he was giving up detection she ran into his arms and buried her face in his shoulder. ‘Francis, I promise I won’t mention it again unless you do,’ she told him. ‘Now let’s go and have a very expensive dinner and an early night.’

  For a long time afterwards Powerscourt was to wonder if she chose her moment when he was still quite weak. Would he have given the same answer if he had been at full strength? For he found life growing more difficult as they returned from Positano and back into their London routine. Only Powerscourt had no routine now. Buying more newspapers in the morning, taking longer and longer walks in the afternoon, was no compensation for the lack of purpose in his life. He didn’t think you could enter your occupation in some survey or census as Father. It wouldn’t do. He began to grow listless. He found it harder and harder to get out of bed in the morning. He drank too much in the evening. Lady Lucy and Johnny Fitzgerald held an emergency meeting with Powerscourt’s brother-in-law William Burke, a great financier in the City of London. It was Johnny who came up with a possible answer.

  ‘Look here, Lady Lucy, William, I’ve got an idea. Remember what happened to me first of all. I used to be a bit wild, drinking too much when I wasn’t working with Francis on a case. Now I’ve got my first bird book coming out soon and they want another two after that. I’m not saying that Francis should start watching the lesser peewit or the great praticole or any of that stuff, but he’s so clever he could write books about lots of things. Maybe he could describe some of his greatest cases – but I suppose they’d be too delicate for that.’

  Johnny paused and took a sip of his glass of William Burke’s finest Chablis. ‘I know,’ he said, leaning forward in his excitement. ‘How about this? Do you remember during our art case there was that character who was arrested for Christopher Montague’s murder and we had to get him off? Buckley, that’s the man’s name, Horace Aloysius Buckley. He was going round the country attending Evensong in every cathedral in England when Francis and the police caught up with him in Durham, I think, no, it was Lincoln. Anyway, after he was acquitted there was a party in that barrister Charles Augustus Pugh’s chambers, and I asked this Buckley person if there wasn’t a book about the cathedrals for the general reader, thinking that he could have stopped home if there was and not spent all that money on the train fares. He said there wasn’t. So there we are. Francis becomes an author. Francis writes histories of cathedrals. He’d like that. He dedicates one of the books to Mr Buckley, maybe. Bloody cathedrals are like bloody birds, they’re everywhere, England, France, Germany, Italy, there’s enough to keep him going for years.’

  So here was Powerscourt, many months after his trip to Positano, travelling nearly six hundred years back in time to learn about the scissor arches that saved Wells Cathedral.

  He had grown to love the strange vocabulary of cathedrals, the ambulatories and clerestories, the chantry chapels and the Angel Choirs, the sacristies and the triforia, the transepts and the cloisters, the choir stalls and the fonts, the Chapter Houses and the stained glass windows, the recent memorials to the dead in the Boer Wars, the tattered flags that had once led soldiers into battle and death. He was still astonished at the sheer size of them, how twelfth-or thirteenth-century men could have built these massive monuments to their God. He had talked to contemporary masons and carpenters and architects about their perspective on the buildings. He had tried to discover what the citizens of the cathedral cities thought of them when they were built, but no records survived. He had talked to the present-day citizens, the shopkeepers, the tradesmen, the lawyers, the publicans, the Deans and Chapters, about what the cathedral meant to them now in the first years of the twentieth century. For the citizens, he discovered, the cathedral was like a remote grandparent with eternal life, part of the fabric of their lives and their families’ lives as far back as their memories extended and the city records survived. The cathedral, in Gloucester or Hereford, in Salisbury or Norwich, brought honour to the city and growing numbers of visitors to inspect its glories. But nowhere was it seen as a beacon of faith, a monument to man’s quest for the eternal or the spiritual. Cathedrals were friendly, cathedrals were beautiful, cathedrals were awesome feats of construction, but they were not the light that shineth in darkness. Even the Deans, like the Dean of Wells, the men responsible for the running of these vast buildings and the scheduling of their daily services, approached their task, Powerscourt felt, in the manner of men organizing the Post Office mail delivery system or planning the transportation of an army across a continent. The cathedral, in Canterbury or Worcester or Exeter, must have seemed to its people at one early point to tower above society, to float next to heaven far above the mundane concerns of the city. Once it was a miracle. Now it was just another cog in the wheel, like the town hall or the public library.

  Sarov, Russia, July 1903

  The film of dust, thicker than the smoke from a cigarette, less dense than a cloud, rose some twenty feet above the road and a long way out on either side. The roads were dusty in the summer of 1903 and not designed to carry so many pilgrims. These travellers had come from all over Russia, mystics from Siberia, Holy Fools from the Crimea, mountain people from
the Caucasus, peasants in their rough clothes from the very heart of Russia. The sick had come as well as the healthy, amputees brandishing their crutches as they limped along, desperate mothers holding pale and diseased children in their arms, or pushing them in home-made handcarts, children who looked as if they might never reach their destination. The pilgrims carried icons of St Serafim or the Virgin, many of them muttering prayers to themselves or their paintings every step of the way. Some carried baskets of food, others had resolved to fast until they saw the relics of the saint installed in glory in the new cathedral. The mad and deranged had come, sometimes shrieking out their private visions at the side of the road, sometimes screaming in pain as the Cossack horsemen or the police beat them into silence. And at the heart of this progression of pilgrims, travelling in their imperial troikas, Nicholas and Alexandra, Emperor and Empress of All the Russias, were bent on the same journey of pilgrimage to the same destination as their subjects. Word of their journey had spread through the villages they passed. Crowds would come out to stare and shout oaths of loyalty to their Emperor, never before seen in these remote parts and never seen since.

  Sarov was the goal, Sarov, home to one of the most famous holy men in Russia whose remains were to be removed from his grave in the convent cemetery and transferred to a new cathedral that was to be consecrated in his name. Serafim was the name of the holy man. He had already been declared a saint on the orders of the Tsar. Everyone, even the babies in the handcarts, knew the story of St Serafim. Many of the pilgrims had shouted out the best known of his prayers to encourage themselves on the road. He had gone as a monk to live alone in a cottage in the forest to be close to nature and closer to his God. For many years he lived the simple life there, alone with his prayers and his Creator. Then three robbers came to his hut one day and demanded money. When Serafim told them he had no money, they beat him senseless and left him for dead. Serafim returned to the monastery near Sarov and refused to let the robbers be punished. Now began his late career as mystic and healer. People believed he could make the blind see and the deaf hear and cure any number of ailments that oppressed the peasants. The numbers of the sick he had cured ran into thousands. That was why the people of Russia marched in such numbers to the consecration of his cathedral.

  All of the pilgrims had their own special reason for their journey: a child to be healed, a parent brought back to health, a husband or wife restored to sight or to sanity. But one woman had a very special cause very close to her heart. In spite of the humiliation of her false pregnancy, in spite of the fact that the Foreign Service had reported that Philippe Vachot was a butcher from Lyons who had been arrested for fraud in France, the Empress Alexandra still believed in him. She persuaded Nicholas to have the offending civil servant who had imparted the news of Vachot’s disgrace in his native land stripped of his position and sent to Siberia. She still believed. The candles and the incense still burned in the Montenegrins’ apartment, the icons still shimmered on the walls as the mystic work went on. In some ways Alexandra was a practical woman. She bought most of the furniture for her palace from that Mecca of the English middle class, Maples department store in London’s Tottenham Court Road. But she seemed to need spiritualism the way other people in St Petersburg needed love affairs or yachts or fine horses. And she carried two messages from Philippe along the dusty roads to Sarov. Among his many powers the saint was said to be able to cure the barren, to give the infertile children. Surely a man who could do that could make her bring forth a son? She was to pray to the saint for a son and she was to bathe in the holy waters of the spring that bore his name. The second message was more cryptic and Alexandra was not sure of its meaning. Philippe had told the imperial couple that he had been sent on a mission and that his mission was almost over. But after his death, he assured them, another man would take over his spirit and his work, a greater man than he, a true holy man who would bring great glory to Russia.

  The first couple of days were spent consecrating the cathedral. The Metropolitan of St Petersburg, an enormous man well over six feet six inches tall, led the prayers. Some of the pilgrims went to the services, standing patiently while the choir and the priests worked their way through the special liturgy for the consecration of a cathedral, crossing themselves with the three-fingered cross of the Russian Orthodox, kissing the icons. But most of them waited. They had not travelled these enormous distances for the blessing of a new church. They were waiting for the moment when the bones of the saint would be moved in their new coffin and installed in front of the chancel. Then the proper business of the pilgrimage could begin. Meanwhile they slept in the fields. The police reported that they were one of the best behaved crowds they had ever seen. Drunkenness, that curse of all Russian gatherings from two to twenty thousand people, had not appeared. The pilgrims rapidly emptied the shops of Sarov of all available food and waited, uncomplaining, for fresh supplies to arrive.

  Shortly after ten o’clock on the fourth day the most dramatic part of the service began. Under the great golden dome the choir and the priests sang one of the opening sections of Matins.

  Choir:

  Lord, have mercy.

  Deacon:

  For the peace from on high and for the salvation of our souls, let us pray to the Lord.

  Choir:

  Lord, have mercy.

  Deacon:

  For the peace of the whole world, for the stability of the holy Churches of God, and for the union of all, let us pray to the Lord.

  Choir:

  Lord, have mercy.

  Deacon:

  For this holy house, and for those who enter it with faith, reverence and the fear of God, let us pray to the Lord.

  Choir:

  Lord, have mercy.

  Outside, the Tsar, his uncle Grand Duke Serge and various members of the imperial family carried the gold coffin with the relics of St Serafim on their shoulders right round the exterior of the cathedral. The peasants who had been leaning against the walls or making pathetic encampments with their few belongings parted before the coffin like the waters of the Red Sea. Then the coffin was carried round the inside of the building before being placed in front of the chancel.

  Slowly at first, then in a trickle, then in a steady stream, came the pilgrims. They limped, they shuffled, they came with their crutches, some of them crawled, one or two ran to kiss the coffin of the dead saint. They knew, these faithful – had not their own priests lectured them about this before they set off on their pilgrimage? – that they were not to expect God’s grace to make itself manifest immediately. It might be days or weeks or even years before the Holy Spirit revealed itself. There was so much hope in the building, irrational hope, unreasonable hope that illnesses, which must of themselves be the work of God, could be halted or reversed by one of his saints. The choir sang on. The Metropolitan Antony blessed the pilgrims in the chancel. Gradually the atmosphere became very tense, as if the entire congregation and those denied entry standing outside were all desperate for a miracle. Some of the pilgrims were praying for one. The anthems and responses of the choir grew ever more hypnotic. Then there was a sign. A madman was brought up, his arms waving wildly, his eyes staring intently at some private reality of his own, two friends or relations guiding him forwards. As he kissed the coffin and received the blessing of the Metropolitan, a peace seemed to descend on him. His limbs returned to normal. His eyes stopped the staring of the deranged and looked about him intelligently. Whether it was the work of the saint or the atmosphere or a fluke did not matter to the congregation. ‘He is healed!’ ‘Thank the Lord!’ ‘St Serafim be praised!’ rang round the cathedral until the Metropolitan himself had to look sternly down the nave for the noise to stop. Later on a dumb child seemed to be cured. After four hours the pilgrims were convinced that their journey was worthwhile, that God and his saint had indeed come to Sarov to cast his blessings on his people and work miracles on their afflictions.

  Late in the evening of the last day of the ceremonie
s Nicholas and Alexandra and some of their party went very quietly to bathe in St Serafim’s pool. A group of Cossacks were on duty, facing outwards, in case of assassins. Staff had brought towels and dry clothes. The cathedral was outlined faintly against a crescent moon. A pair of owls could be heard hooting in the distance. The waters in the pool were very cold. As Alix slipped in and lowered herself until she was almost completely covered, she prayed to St Serafim. She prayed that he would take pity on a poor sinner whose dearest wishes had been denied. She prayed that he would take heed of her husband, a good man denied the one thing he most needed, a son and heir. She prayed that St Serafim would take heed of his own country, that he would ensure that Russia was not left to lawlessness and crime and anarchy and depravity because there was no proper heir to the throne of the Romanovs. This time, shivering slightly now in the evening chill, she knew her prayers would be answered. She knew now that she would have a son. In the end Philippe had not failed her.

  St Petersburg, October 1904

  Ever since she had read Anna Karenina two years before, Natasha Bobrinsky thought of Tolstoy’s heroine every time she was in a railway station. This particular engine driver seemed intent on raising so much steam that any putative suicides would have been completely invisible. She peered, fascinated, at those enormous wheels and wondered what it would be like to be crushed to death beneath them. She shuddered slightly, for Natasha had no intention of dying just yet. The Bobrinskys had come to St Petersburg with Peter the Great and had been rewarded for their loyalty and devotion to his new capital with grants of thousands of acres. Successive Bobrinskys, in their turn, had served their Tsars and been rewarded with yet more grants of land. Natasha’s father had once tried to show her on a map where the family estates were, many of them thousands and thousands of miles away. In the end her parents too had moved thousands of miles away for most of the year, not to the badlands of Siberia, but to the sunnier climes of Paris and the French Riviera. Natasha wasn’t particularly interested in her father’s estates. Surely girls of eighteen couldn’t be expected to be interested in places that far away from civilization, which stopped, as everyone who was anyone in St Petersburg knew, at the end of the Nevskii Prospekt.