Duncan Kyle - The King's Commisar

'I was saying there is a special account at this bank. It's number is X253.'

'An X account is it? Well, well. First time I've encountered any business with one of those. So these -' he held up the two envelopes - 'go to the account holder.'

'The cheque does. The deeds are to be inspected by you. And in return there should be some papers.'

'I see.' O'Hara rose. 'You'll excuse me a moment?'

He came back two or three minutes later, a deed box in his hands. 'The old and held file, that's what we call this, Mr Graves. Real mystery stuff. Now -' He found a key on a big ring and turned it in the lock. There was a fat foolscap-sized envelope in the box. It was sealed with wax, which O'Hara broke. He took out a sheet of paper and read it, then looked across the desk. 'Very well, Mr Graves.' From inside the envelope he took another, its shape familiar by now to Graves. 'I am to give you this. Perhaps you'll sign for it?'

Graves took out his pen. 'Yes. Oh, by the way.'

'Hmmm?' O'Hara glanced across.

'Whose account is it?'

A slow smile spread across the Irishman's features. 'Oh, now, Mr Graves! You know I can't tell you.'

'Then I'll just have to find out,' said Graves.

'Do. If you can.' O'Hara laughed. 'We're as tight as the Swiss here, and twice as difficult!'

'You wouldn't care to make it easier?'

'No.'

Graves put the new packet of papers into his document case, and left the manager's office. Outside, in the main business area, he picked up a copy of the Financial Times and took a seat, from which he had a good view of the whole floor. Carefully, he surveyed the staff of the Irish Linen Bank. Quite a number, he knew from experience, would regard an offered chance of a move to Hillyard, Cleef as one of life's great wonders. Few, however would have access to information about secret accounts. But somebody must - in case, for instance, O'Hara dropped dead on the golf-course. As Graves profoundly wished he would. The question was, who? The assistant manager, the accountant? O'Hara, meanwhile, was at his desk. The deed box still stood open before him. The foolscap envelope which had held the packet had also held something else: another envelope. His sheet of instructions told him to post it. He looked at the address before placing it in his out-tray. It was addressed to Coutts & Co., The Strand, London.

All very mysterious, O'Hara thought.

But he was more concerned with another mystery: O'Hara was in line for promotion, that much he knew. The question was: would it be to London or Dublin? It occupied his mind. Later his eye fell upon the envelope again as it lay waiting for his secretary to take away. Coutts, it occurred to him, were the royal bankers, and O'Hara enjoyed little flights of fantasy. Could this be a royal mystery?

CHAPTER SIX

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Third instalment of the account, written by LtCdr H. G. Dikeston, RN, of his journeyings

in Russia in the spring of 1918

I have observed before in these papers that to set eyes upon the Grand Duchess Maria Nikolaevna was to be aware on the instant that here was a human being of the finest. Something curious was there in the face and one can always tell ; one can look at a man of position and know him at once for a rascal, at a tramp and know him for a decent fellow. Some people are incapable of giving importance to words over which they labour long; there are others whose lightest remark is worth attention. All this is difficult to convey, and indeed there is no real need to attempt to do so, for all of us know the truth of it. Thus when, in the corridor of the train, moving through the night between Kulomzino and Tyumen, the door of the royal compartment opened and the Grand Duchess spoke, her words, though simple, conveyed much.

'May I talk to you?' was all she said. Yet I at once understood much more from certain subtleties of emphasis. I understood that she felt disloyal in leaving her parents even briefly; that such a brief escape was none the less necessary to her; that she sensed a future in which free talk would be rare for her. Many things.

'Of course. Your Royal -'

'Oh no!' she protested. 'I'm not a royal anything.' Then she laughed quietly. 'Except perhaps a royal relic. My name is Marie.'

I found myself smiling. 'Very well, ma'am.'

'Marie. Say it.'

I said it.

'Good. And you are Henry, I know that. Oh, so English a name! I've been there, you know. To England, I mean.'

'I know.'

'Father says you are a sailor. I met a young English sailor once - Prince Louis of Battenberg. You know him?'

'No. But I know of him.'

'I liked him. I think I like the English. Do you like Russians?'

'Some more than others."

'Oh yes.' She laughed. 'Some much more! You know, Henry - this is very wrong.'

'What is?' Though I knew.

She giggled. 'Why - standing in the dark talking to a sailor. Oh, shameful! And unique, I think.'

'Unique. A girl talking to a sailor? Hardly that.'

'Not an opportunity much granted to me,' she said. Then: 'Have you seen the world?'

'Some of it.'

'Tell me. I have seen so little. Have you been to China?'

'Yes.'

'Tell me about China.'

I can remember every second of it, that hour we passed in the Siberian night. In her lay a magical gaiety and attention and time went like the wind. How she could be so disposed, at a moment when only the most dangerous uncertainty lay ahead, is hard to understand, except that it was her nature. She wanted to know: I had seen and could tell. She was full of questions and swift insights following upon my answers. Nor would she allow talk of the present or the future: it was the wider world she wanted to know about; the world and the bright and exciting things in it. And so for a time we chattered and laughed, until she said suddenly. 'I must go,' and spoke my name. 'Good night, Henry.'

'Good night - Marie.'

She paused. There was scarcely any light, but I could dimly see the pale outline of her face. She said softly, Thank you.' And kissed me on the cheek. And was gone. I stood for a while beside the closed door. Much of the magic of the night had departed with her, and realization that there was a dangerous time ahead came flooding back to me. I went at last to find Ruzsky: if nothing else, he could tell me about the city of Ekaterinburg and so keep from my mind the suddenly-gathering and fearful images which now crowded in. But he was asleep and snoring. I lay on my bunk and tried also to sleep, but could not. Then, for I must have been more weary than I knew, I did indeed doze for a little while, only to be awakened when the train halted. Yet I had given orders that it proceed without stopping to Ekaterinburg, and this was only Tyumen! And while I was still rubbing sleep from my eyes, the train was boarded by a dozen or so men and I recognized some of them as part of the Ekaterinburg detachment which had been at Tobolsk. They recognized me too, and just as quickly. Before I could move from where I stood, there was a pistol in my ribs and a voice snarling at me: 'Commissar Yakovlev, you are under arrest!'

'By whose orders?"

'On the authority of the Urals Soviet.'

I began my ritual protest. I was an emissary of the Central Executive Committee. Death awaited anyone who impeded 'Keep it for your trial!' I was told.

I was shoved roughly back and the door of the wagon-lit was slammed. Thus imprisoned, I came to Ekaterinburg. They opened my door as the train halted jerkily, and I was pulled into the corridor. Through the carriage window I could see that there was a jostling crowd around the train; a noisy one too. There were yells of 'Bring him out!' 'Hang the German bitch!' 'Show us Bloody Nicholas!' Truly it was a most frightening sight.

A moment later I was pushed to one side by the bearded lout who was guarding me, and as I turned my head I saw the Imperial Family coming towards me along the corridor, Nicholas first and carrying his own luggage, his face set.