Evelyn Weiss - Murder and Revolution

Despite that, I enjoy my work: I’m looking forward to getting back to it – as soon as the professor and I can get out of this odd interlude in Russia, I think. The clock on the wall ticks away. It’s now eleven o’clock, and the professor hasn’t moved.

A shadow distracts me. The door has a glass panel, and my eyes are drawn to a large shape looming beyond it. The door opens, and it’s the figure that I recognise, not the face. It’s the man who rescued us.

“You are Miss Frocester, I understand? And the patient is Professor Axelson? I’m Captain Yuri Sirko.”

“Thank you—”

The man smiles. In his woolen uniform, his tall, broad-shouldered figure reminds me of a bear. He’s maybe thirty. A thatch of brown hair crowns a strong face with high cheekbones. Dark eyes look down at the professor.

“Still unconscious?”

“Yes. But it’s not caused by the smoke. He’s been drugged. I think it was the meal we had. We can’t thank you enough.”

“I was just doing my job. I’m a kind of odd-job man for Mr Bukin. Yesterday he told me he had two important guests – a Swede and an American. He asked me to accompany your journey to St Petersburg. He also gave me the errand of going to the railway station and buying three first-class train tickets for us – which I have done. Mr Bukin also gave me directions to that cottage in the woods, and he told me to call on you there this morning. Something… I don’t know what it was, really. A sense of unease. So on my way home last night, I took a detour past the cottage, just to check all was well.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“I plan to do the bodyguard job that Bukin gave me. Which means – I wait here, with you.” He smiles again, and I see a twinkle of humor in his eyes. “Compared to most of my duties, Miss Frocester, this is easy work. The lap of luxury. You never know, the nurses might even bring me a cup of tea.”

“That sounds very English.”

“The English are not real tea drinkers, Miss Frocester! Nor are you Americans – with your Boston Tea Party. You threw it all in the harbor, didn’t you? Oh no – no-one drinks tea like us Russians do. Anyway, I’ll ask. Shall I order a cup for you, too?”

He steps out of the door. The professor sleeps on, and a few minutes go by. To pass the time, I open the bag that the doctor gave me. The professor’s clothes are stuffed clumsily inside. I take them out and fold them neatly, then put them back in the bag. Then I go over to the window. It’s a ground-floor room, looking out onto the street; there is little to see. I go back to my chair.

As I sit, I notice a scrap of paper on the floor. It wasn’t there before.

I bend and pick it up. It’s a single sheet, but folded several times into a tiny packet. It feels like velvet in my fingers: the highest quality paper. I’ve felt paper like this only once before, in the gardens of Drottningholm Palace.

I open my own handbag. Gustaf V suggested we bring the Tsarina’s letter with us to Russia, in case we encountered any unhelpful officials. I find the letter in my bag, and take it out of its envelope. Then I unfold the scrap I’ve just found, and put the two papers side by side. The type of paper, and the handwriting, is identical.

But this new piece of paper is not a letter. It’s some kind of list. I also realise where it’s come from. When I was looking at the painting of Ivan the Fool at Tri Tsarevny, Professor Axelson was examining what I thought was a mirrored dressing-table. But it must have really been a writing-desk; he must have found this paper there. He put it in his pocket, and it fell out when I folded his clothes…

My eyes run down the Tsarina’s list. The list is divided by underlined words, like sub-headings. Main Dacha, Servants’ Quarters, First Princess, Second Princess, Third Princess.

Under each heading is a list of names. They are all the names that Professor Axelson wanted from Mr Bukin. The Tsarina has listed everyone staying at Tri Tsarevny, according to their room. The Tsarina and her young son Alexei Nikolaevich are in the main Dacha, as expected, plus one other name ‘Nestor’. There are about twenty names under Servants’ Quarters. Then I look at the other headings. Under Second Princess, the name of Svea Håkansson jumps out at me. Listed against the Third Princess is another name I recognise: Grigor Rasputin. But I breathe in sharply, when I read the name listed under First Princess.

Captain Yuri Sirko.

Finally, I read the last heading on the page. It says ‘Day Guest’. Underneath it is a curious phrase. ‘The butterfly collector’.

“My mission is successful!” Sirko reappears with a tray. Shall I mention to him what I have just read? No; I’ll wait, and see what else he tells me about himself.

There’s no table in the room: he puts the tray on the broad window sill. There are two chipped cups and two teapots, one large, one small. He smiles broadly at me.

“Do you drink your tea naked?”

My mouth drops open, but no words come out.

“We Russians, we never drink tea naked, if we can find a cake or snack for it to wear. But it’s wartime; the hospital only has these wretched oatmeal biscuits.”

“Thank you. Yes, please, I’ll have one.”

He proffers a plate of broken cookies to me. “Now – the zavarka will be brewed.” He lifts the smaller pot and pours about an inch of thick fluid into each cup, then tops them up with hot water from the other pot. As he passes my cup to me, he says “Call me Yuri, by the way.”

“I’m Agnes.”

“Lemon juice with your tea? Or sugar?”

“Neither, thanks.”

“I’ll have the sugar.” He takes a sugar lump from the tray, and holds it between his teeth. Then he drinks. He says nothing about himself, and he doesn’t ask me anything. He just sits, in a companionable silence. I don’t think he’s being secretive. I sense that this is Russian politeness: he’s simply respecting my privacy.

Can I trust him? I look at his uniform. His military collar is buttoned; there’s no trace of a neck chain. But on the edge of my mind is the intruder’s jacket I saw in the cottage. There was something odd about that jacket: something out of place, or missing.

But if this Captain Sirko was the person who tried to kill Axelson and me, why did he risk his life to save us? I decide to trust him. It will be safe to leave the professor alone with him.

“Yuri – I need to leave the room, for a few minutes.”

His brown eyes look into mine. “My job is to guard both of you. But I can’t be in two places at once; I must stay with the professor. I can’t stop you going out of the room, but – take care. Watch around you and behind you. Even here in the hospital there may be intruders.”

I don’t tell him that I’m not planning to stay in the hospital. I go to the front entrance and step outside. It’s a bright day, but there’s a sharp breeze: I’m glad that Mrs Sepp’s daughter has lent me her coat. Across the road from the hospital is a two-storey building with large windows. I noticed the sign above its door when I arrived this morning, although then I paid little attention to it. But now, there’s a tiny chance that it might be useful. “I’m looking for a needle in a haystack” I say to myself, as I step across the street and up the steps to the doorway. The sign above says “Museum of Natural History”.

In the museum foyer, an elderly man sits at a dusty desk. Even his gray hair looks as if it’s collecting dust. There’s no one else about. I’m surprised that, in wartime, they even bother to open this place. I go over to the man and smile at him.

“I have an odd request, sir. First, I must ask you: do you have a butterfly collection here at the Museum?”