Barbara Cleverly - The Blood Royal

‘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?’

The Branch men went 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.’