The rest seemed to be a confused account of the opposing forces and their deployment. A political summary followed, couched in the usual opaque language of The Times… the Siberian Provisional Government were pledged to convoke a Siberian Constituent Assembly once the country was cleared of the Bolsheviks… they opposed the Legion’s advance under General Horvarth towards Vladivostok…
‘Are you feeling all right, sir?’
Paul jumped. Turner was standing at his elbow and began mopping the spilt tea with a dishcloth.
‘Shall I fetch you another cup?’
Paul turned to page six.
The report had been taken from a statement issued by an organisation called the Presidium of the Ural Regional Council. They had decided to shoot the tsar, they explained, as Ekaterinburg was being threatened by Czecho-Slovak ‘bands’ and because a counter-revolutionary conspiracy had been uncovered. There was a further paragraph or two of self-justification, ending with the announcement that ‘the wife and son of Romanoff have been sent to a place of security’. The date of execution was given as July 16th.
Paul read through it all once more. There was no indication given as to when the news had first reached England, and there was nothing more in the paper about the tsar or the Legion, only a piece reporting news of Allied landings on the Murman coast and the blustering threats made by Trotsky to counter the move.
And a story of a cholera epidemic in Moscow.
Paul crumpled the paper into his lap.
‘Good news, isn’t it sir,’ Turner chirped, returning with a fresh cup and filling it from the pot.
‘What?’
‘The Germans.’
‘What about them?’
‘We’ve pushed them back over the Marne again. Looks like we’ve got them on the run at last.’
Paul leafed back through the creased paper and saw a headlined column on page five he hadn’t noticed:
‘Wonderful,’ he muttered. ‘Wonderful.’
Paul left the paper and his tea and went back out on deck. The sea was oddly calm with a dark oiliness to its surface, as if all the shipping sunk during the war had slowly leaked its fuel and contaminated the water.
He leaned on the rail and stared at it.
The tsar had already been dead for five days while Paul had stood in Cumming’s office listening to a plan to procure Mikhail’s help by convincing him the Legion could free Nicholas if they turned west. According to The Times, although the Legion had secured the Trans-Siberian line they were still headed for Vladivostok. Mikhail was hardly going to be interested if the tsar was already dead. Now what bait would Paul use to enlist his support? Revenge against the Bolsheviks? The Imperial gold reserves? Paul had only just got into the game yet it was difficult not to believe the Bolsheviks had trumped his king before he had even examined his hand.
He didn’t know how long he stood staring into the sea. He was finally roused by the sound of voices. Looking up, he saw the two Russians approaching. They were deep in conversation and didn’t appear to notice him standing at the rail as they passed into the saloon. Behind them were the two women Pinker had mentioned. The first followed the Russians without stopping but the second woman, dressed in black, paused for a moment. A veil flapping around her face in the freshening wind hid her features but Paul was sure she had noticed him. A moment later she followed the others.
Paul glanced at his watch and saw it had gone noon. He supposed they were serving lunch. He flicked his cigarette over the side. The wind had indeed freshened, breaking up the oily surface of the sea and flecking the waves with foam. The horizon had begun to rise and fall with the movement of the boat.
Pinker came along the deck and spotted him.
‘Filbert, there you are. Still taking the air?’
‘Are you going into lunch?’
‘Certainly, old man. Wouldn’t feel I’d done my company justice unless I used everything they’ve paid for. Did I just see the ladies go in?’
There were some still minutes before the doors to the dining room opened. The two Russians were sitting, heads together, as they talked. Still dressed alike, they looked to be in their forties and glanced up as Paul and Pinker entered. Paul saw that his earlier impression of them being a Lenin and Trotsky double act was off the mark by some distance. The Trotsky character was too big, jowly in fact, and didn’t resemble Trotsky at all judging by the photographs Paul had seen of the revolutionary in the newspapers. Lenin was a closer match, as both he and the man in the armchair had a slightly oriental cast to their features. It lent the man an expression of intelligence, the slant of the eyes conveying the notion that the object of his appraisal — Paul in this case — was being assessed and that impressions were being formed.
Paul nodded to them and received an acknowledgement from Trotsky in return. Lenin merely stared at him.
The two women were sitting next to each other on the sofa. He now saw that it was the elder of the two who was wearing black. A plain mourning dress by its appearance, with none of the frills and adornments that had been popular before the war. She had removed her veil and he could see that she was probably in her fifties, with a sharp nose that gave her face the impression of tapering to a point and concluding with disapproval. She peered at Paul through a lorgnette as if she might be wondering if he had just been washed aboard by a passing wave. Her companion, by contrast, was young with rather a pretty face to which the sea air had imparted some colour. A pair of intelligent brown eyes just stopped her prettiness from appearing vapid. Though not dressed in full mourning, she wore a black choker and some black lace on her sleeves to impart the fact the she, too, had lost someone. A book lay open in her lap and she had begun to read as Pinker stepped towards them.
‘Good morning, ladies. Sleep well?’
‘Satisfactorily, Mr Pinker, thank you,’ said the elder of the two.
Her voice bore a trace of an accent Paul couldn’t place. She gave Pinker a sour smile which remained on her lips as her gaze fell on Paul. The young girl looked as if she was about to speak, but then said nothing and she dropped her eyes to her book again.
Paul took a chair and lit another cigarette, only then spotting the other man in the room. The dog collar would have given the Reverend Pater away even if Pinker’s description of him had not. He sat ramrod-straight, his face chiselled from granite. His iron-grey hair had been clipped severely short, except for a single tuft which protruded from the top of his head in a manner reminiscent of a sprouting root vegetable. The man’s attitude, Paul thought, exuded the impression of someone waiting for Judgement Day, the expression on his face intimating he didn’t think he had long to wait. The reverend’s gaze took in the two new arrivals and didn’t change. Paul nodded to him curtly, more to demonstrate a lack of fear of damnation than out of any attempt at cordiality. Pinker though, perhaps harbouring a greater concern for salvation, went over and took the chair next to Pater, saying something to the reverend to which he didn’t deem to reply.
The Russians, conversing in their own language, were making no attempt to keep their voices down. Paul assumed they thought no one else would understand them. The fat Trotsky was talking about the now defunct Russian Constituent Assembly but the other cut him short, and made an obvious reference to Pater, peering in the reverend’s direction to see if it had any effect. Pater, obviously not understanding, didn’t bat a granite eyelid. Lenin turned to Paul.