Barbara Cleverly - The Blood Royal

‘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 crime 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 …’