Sam Eastland - Red Icon

‘What have you got yourself into this time?’ asked Pekkala.

‘Trust me when I tell you,’ answered Rasputin, ‘that even for a man as curious as you, some things are better left unknown.’

*

Two weeks later, Pekkala was summoned again, only this time, it was not by the Tsar.

The old gardener, Stefanov, whose son Ostrogorsky had almost cleaved in half, knocked on the door of Pekkala’s cottage. Then, unsure at what distance to wait, he retreated to the road.

By the time Pekkala came to the door, Stefanov was standing on the other side of the garden gate, cap in hand, his thatch of long grey hair matted down on his head.

‘Yes?’ asked Pekkala. It was a Sunday morning, the time when Pekkala would polish his boots, mend tears in his clothes and oil his Webley revolver. He always looked forward to this time. They were the only few hours of the week when his mind was not focused on his work.

There was something meditative in the threading of needles, in the rustle of the horsehair brush over the toe caps of his boots and in the precise click of metal parts as he carefully disassembled the gun.

Now the Webley lay in pieces on the bare pine of his kitchen table and Pekkala’s fingertips were smudged dark brown, since he did not use a brush to work the polish into his heavy, double-soled boots. He wore a tattered pair of corduroys, the lines partially rubbed out above the knee so that they seemed to spell out Morse-code messages. He also had on a collarless grey wool shirt with buttons made of antler bone, the cloth so worn down that even he, who wore his clothes until they all but vaporised, had consigned it for use only when doing his chores.

‘A message for you, Inspector,’ mumbled Stefanov. He shifted uneasily from foot to foot, his dark eyes darting about.

‘Is everything all right, Stefanov?’

‘Oh, yes,’ lied the gardener. In truth, he was terrified of Pekkala. He was a superstitious old man, and had heard so many stories about the mysterious Finn that he no longer considered Pekkala to be human, but rather some creature conjured into being by the black arts of some arctic shaman.

‘You said something about a message.’ Pekkala wiped the polish from his fingers on to an old dish towel he carried as a handkerchief.

‘Ah, yes. The message is that you should come at once.’

‘Come where, Stefanov?’

‘To Madame Vyroubova’s house.’

‘Is she all right?’

‘Seemed so to me. I was passing by her house when she called to me out of a window. Said to fetch you right away.’

Pekkala nodded. ‘Very well.’

Stefanov replaced his cap and stepped back into the road, heels scuffing in the sandy yellow gravel. ‘That is all I have to say,’ he announced solemnly. Then he paused for a moment, as if to reconsider. ‘No,’ he reassured himself. ‘That’s all of it.’

‘Thank you, Stefanov.’

‘Thank you, sir!’ The gardener smiled, revealing the grey stumps of long-neglected teeth. He raised one finger in a farewell salute, like a man testing the direction of the wind, then set off down the road.

Pekkala did not bother to change. Quickly, he reassembled the revolver, his movements so practised that they required no conscious thought. After loading the gun, he put on his leather shoulder holster, a pattern of his own invention which held the revolver almost horizontally across his chest. With the familiar weight of the Webley resting on his solar plexus, he put on his heavy, double-breasted coat, laced up his boots and set out towards Vyroubova’s.

Her house stood at the opposite end of the Tsarskoye Selo estate. Pekkala neither rode a horse, nor owned a car or bicycle. He preferred, whenever possible, to travel on his own two feet. In spite of Vyroubova’s command to come at once, Pekkala did not hurry. He knew from experience that when Vyroubova wanted something, no matter how trivial, it was always a matter of urgency, requiring that everyone around her drop everything until the task had been completed to her satisfaction. So he took his time, strolling with his hands behind his back, while dust from the path settled on his freshly polished boots, and it was some time before he arrived at the squat stone building which Vyroubova called home.

The door opened just as he was reaching for the brass ring that served as a knocker. Vyroubova, in a lavender-coloured dress with white ruffles at the throat, gazed down her nose at him, eyebrows crooked into chevrons of indignation. ‘I sent for you to come at once! If my house had been on fire . . .’

‘You would not have called on me, Vyroubova, nor sent the gardener to do it.’

She flashed him a humourless smile and stood aside to let him pass. As Pekkala stepped inside, he smelled the cloying fragrance of perfume, mixed with the sharp odour of carbolic soap and cigarette smoke sunk into the curtains and upholstered chairs. Turning the corner into the sitting room, he realised that Vyroubova already had a guest.

It was the Tsarina.

Although Pekkala had not expected this, seeing the Tsarina here did not catch him entirely by surprise. She was often to be found in the company of Vyroubova. This cottage served as her refuge from life at the Alexander Palace, the Romanovs’ own residence on the Tsarskoye Selo estate, where the Tsarina could seldom find a moment to herself. Vyroubova’s house doubled as a meeting place for guests, such as Rasputin, whose presence at the palace might cause complications.

Now Pekkala knew who had really called him to this rendezvous. The only thing he didn’t know was why.

‘Kind of you to join us, Inspector,’ said the Tsarina. She sat straight-backed in a chair by the window. Sunlight through the gauzy day curtains made it difficult to see her face. She wore the long grey dress of an army nurse, with a red cross emblazoned upon the off-white apron which covered her chest and extended the full length of the dress itself. On the Tsarina’s orders, a portion of the Catherine Palace, also located on the estate, had recently been converted into a hospital for wounded officers. Not only the Tsarina, but her daughters, and even Vyroubova, had been working there as medical attendants. Many times, on his walks in the dove-grey twilight, Pekkala had seen men, their faces pinched with pain, hobbling on crutches across the palace grounds.

Pekkala bowed, suddenly aware of his threadbare corduroys, his dusty boots and unbuttoned coat.

‘You must be wondering why you’re here,’ said the Tsarina.

‘I am now, Majesty,’ he replied.

‘I thought that you should be the first to know,’ continued the Tsarina. ‘A robbery has taken place. The icon of The Shepherd has been stolen from the house of Grigori Rasputin.’

Pekkala’s first instinct was to doubt what he had just been told. As far as he knew, nothing had ever been stolen from Rasputin. There was no need to rob a man who gladly made a gift of everything he owned. In fact, thought Pekkala, that’s probably what happened. Rasputin got drunk and gave it away and now that he has sobered up he can’t remember who he gave it to. But, for now at least, he kept his suspicions to himself. ‘Has the Tsar been informed?’ he asked.

‘He will be, in due course.’

Pekkala heard a floorboard creak and turned to see Vyroubova waiting in the doorway.

Her small eyes glittered.

‘Do not stand behind the Inspector,’ cautioned the Tsarina. ‘He is liable to shoot you with that English cannon which he carries beneath his coat. Perhaps you would be kind enough to bring the Inspector some refreshment.’

Mechanically, Vyroubova stepped back into the hall. A moment later came the sound of her clattering about in the kitchen.

‘The Tsar should be notified at once,’ said Pekkala. ‘The loss of that icon . . .’