David Oldman - Dusk at Dawn

‘Who’s she?’

‘Gorky’s mistress.’

‘Gorky the writer?’

‘Yes. Gorky’s well in with the Bolsheviks although not above criticising them if he feels like it. He’s got a big reputation. Very popular with the workers and peasants — well, those that can read, I suppose — so the Bolsheviks have to watch their step with him. Even so, we had a report that they’ve closed down Novaya Zhizn , his newspaper.’

‘So how would you get in touch with Lockhart? If you needed to?’

‘Either through Ransome or Sydney Reilly.’

‘The journalist, Ransome?’ The memory that had eluded Paul the previous day now came back. ‘Browning said Ransome was having an affair with Trotsky’s secretary. Are you sure we can trust him?’

‘Arthur?’ Valentine laughed. ‘Of course. That’s just the way the game’s played. You have to chum up with people who can be useful no matter how distasteful you might find it. He’s pretty chummy with Lockhart, actually. Lockhart’s arranged a British passport for her. Shelepina, Ransome’s girlfriend.’

Paul was wondering if, since both Lockhart and Ransome were involved with women close to the Bolsheviks, the same sort of behaviour would be expected of him as well. No doubt the kind of women that moved in Bolshevik circles were the outspoken, forward types; the kind that the newspapers said advocated free love and that sort of thing. Just the kind he’s never been comfortable with. He always preferred to be properly introduced and have time to get to know a girl.

‘Reilly’s an odd bird,’ Valentine was saying. ‘Not Irish at all. He’s a Jew from Armenia or somewhere. A useful cove to know if it’s skulduggery you’re up to.’

‘And is it? What exactly was it you did there?’

‘I worked at the Putilov factory.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘South of the city. It’s an armaments factory. A useful place to get inside. I’m known there as Olyen , by the way, if you can remember that.’

‘ Olyen ? Isn’t that Russian for a deer?’

Valentine grinned. ‘Or a Hart. It was C’s idea that I got a job at Putilov. He was rather hoping I could get myself elected as a workers’ deputy to the Petrograd Soviet. Perhaps I laid it on a bit thick but some of the men got suspicious. Salt of the earth, your average Russian, but you don’t want to make him suspicious. It’s the peasant in him, it makes him wary.’

‘What happened?’

‘Thought I’d better make myself scarce. When the powers that be decided to recall the ambassador and send Lockhart out again, I took the opportunity to go home.’

‘Are you’re going back to the factory?’

‘I’ve got this story about being in the army. I’m going to try to pass myself off as a soldiers’ deputy. The thing is, back before the Bolsheviks took power, anyone could just wander into the Soviet off the street. They were based in the Tauride Palace then and all sorts of people drifted in and out all day. The Bolsheviks have tightened all that up now. The government’s in Moscow, of course, and the real power in Petrograd is at the Bolshevik HQ. They appropriated a palace on the Petersburg side from some ballerina. She was once the tsar’s mistress, apparently.’

‘Kshesinskaya?’

‘Yes,’ Valentine said, ‘that’s right. Did you know her palace?’

‘You could see it from where my family lived,’ Paul said. ‘Across the Neva.’

‘Better show my face up top,’ Valentine suddenly decided, looking at the empty plate of sandwiches and then at his watch. ‘Someone must be wondering why no alarm has been raised yet.’ He went to the door. ‘Remember, not too early for lunch.’

Paul hung around the cabin for a while until, bored, he convinced himself it was safe to go up top. The weather had moderated although a strong swell was still running. To aft a deckhand was securing a coil of rope but no one else was on deck. He peered in through the dining room window and between the faded curtains saw the captain and Mrs Hogarth at the top of the table. The Russians were there, one sitting in Pinker’s seat and, across from them he glimpsed Valentine. He was trying to angle his head to get a better view when the Reverend Pater walked around the corner of the deck house.

‘Mr Filbert,’ he said. ‘Up and around.’ He bent towards Paul like a predatory bird.

Paul stepped back warily.

‘Did I startled you?’ Pater asked. ‘Are you coming in to lunch?’

Paul’s stomach growled. ‘I was feeling a little delicate,’ he said, ‘but I thought I’d better try a little something.’

‘Nourishment for the body and the soul,’ intoned Pater. ‘What about Mr Pinker, is he feeling better?’

‘I presume so. Did you not see him at breakfast?’

‘I rarely eat breakfast,’ Pater said. ‘I find one meal a day usually sufficient for my needs. Gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins, after all.’

Somewhat further down the list than murder, Paul thought, then remembered that was the Ten Commandments. He put a little more space between himself and Pater.

‘I’ve not seen Mr Pinker since yesterday evening,’ Pater said. ‘Are you not sharing a cabin?’

‘Yes. He was sick last night. By the time I got up though he’d already gone.’

‘Feeling better, no doubt. It’s a little calmer today. Shall we?’

Pater led the way to the saloon door and through into the dining room. Everyone looked up as they walked in. Paul studied their reactions although by the time he had looked at every face they were merely looking back at his expectantly. He thought Ragna Andresen looked a little uncomfortable but he suspected that was more to do with Valentine’s proximity than any sense of surprise.

‘I say,’ Paul said, feigning his own as arranged, ‘anyone seen Pinker?’

‘Pinker?’ Valentine replied, on cue. ‘He wasn’t at breakfast, was he? I assumed he still felt unwell.’

‘He wasn’t in our cabin when I woke up,’ Paul said taking a seat, ‘and I didn’t see him on deck.’ He looked pointedly at the two Russians. ‘He must have been feeling rough last night because he slept in my bunk.’

The Russians remained unmoved.

‘Well he wasn’t at breakfast,’ Valentine said again, looking around for corroboration.

‘You say you haven’t seen Mr Pinker since last night?’ Captain Nordvik asked.

Paul shook his head.

‘Anyone?’ Nordvik addressed the assembled company. Receiving a negative response he stood up, dropping his napkin on the table. ‘Mr Gunnarson,’ he said to his first officer, ‘please check below decks. We will look up top.’

He started for the door followed by Gunnarson and Valentine. The Russians glanced at each other, stood, and were joined by Pater.

Mrs Hogarth turned to Paul. ‘It was so rough last night… you don’t think…?’ She took her niece’s arm. ‘Oh Ragna, I don’t believe I could eat another thing. Please, take me to our cabin.’

Turner, who had just entered carrying a serving dish, turned on his heel and returned to the galley.

Paul remained at the table by himself but no lunch was forthcoming. He looked in the bread basket for a roll although it held nothing except crumbs. There were no serving dishes on the sideboard. In frustration he got up and followed the others out.

The steamer circled for several hours. The crew searched below deck while the rest of them milled about on top, Paul staying close to Valentine. The only trace of Pinker to be found was his trilby hat, wedged between the raised edges of the for’ard hold and a ventilation shaft. How it had got that far Paul couldn’t imagine.

‘What do you think?’ he asked Valentine standing at the rail and staring down into the grey water after the search had been abandoned. ‘Did any of them react?’