“There is a very special horse in your village, isn’t there? You would love to ride him. He is so beautiful and strong… every day, you see him and admire him.”
“Yes. Misha the horse. I saved him.”
“How did you save Misha?”
“I have seen Cossacks in the woods. They are camping near our village. Cossacks love horses. And Misha is gone… stolen.
There is a very rich man in our village. But he is a greedy miser, no-one likes him. Everyone calls him ‘tight-fisted Shishkin’. Shishkin says the Cossacks stole Misha.”
“What did you do, Grigor?”
“I spoke up. I said ‘Let’s look in that barn’. And Misha was in the barn – which belonged to Shishkin.
Once Misha was discovered, Shishkin gave the horse back to his owner. But we all knew why Misha was in that barn. Everyone in the village realised that Shishkin had seen his chance to steal Misha. He had taken Misha, and hidden him in his own barn, ready to sell him secretly for a high price to the Cossacks.”
“How did you know Misha was in Shishkin’s barn?”
“God showed me. He came to me in a vision. He showed me a picture of a little boy, just like myself, who felt hot and feverish one summer night, and could not sleep.
The boy sat up in bed, and looked out of his window. He saw a man and a horse going through the village in the moonlight, like shadows. They went into the barn. The boy in my vision had seen Shishkin leading Misha into the barn.”
“Who was that little boy in your vision?”
“It wasn’t me. God showed me the boy in the vision, but I don’t know the boy’s name. Perhaps it was Dmitri, my brother who lives with God.”
“What happened after Misha was found in the barn?”
“I told everyone that God had shown me where Misha was hidden. All the village elders smiled at me, and some said I had a gift from God.”
“How did you feel, years later, when you became friendly with Praskovya Dubrovina?”
“She was a beautiful girl. From the beginning, I wanted to marry her. When our children were born, I was so happy… I named the first Dmitri, the second Maria. I told myself that they were my brother and sister, sent back to Earth by God, so they could live with me again.”
“But were you truly happy? What can you remember of that time, Rasputin?”
“We heard rumors, tales of faraway troubles in the cities, but life in my village was good. But I wanted to feel again how I felt when I found Misha, and the village elders smiled at me.”
“Can you still see the river, Rasputin? The river that took away Dmitri and Maria?”
“Yes.”
“Look down into the water. It’s calm now, the rushing current has gone. The sun is shining, the air is warm. You are on a little island, like a stepping-stone, in a lake. Green grass and silver birch trees line the shore. Tell me about what you see. Tell me about Tri Tsarevny.”
“There is a woman there. Tall and slim, with long dark hair; a strong, resolute face. She is a noblewoman of Sweden. But under her fine white dress, I will find out that she is a woman like every other.”
“Have you talked to her?”
“I spoke to her. I said ‘Your house, on your little island in the lake. It is close to mine. I can come to you, along the causeway, at night.’ But she told me she would not meet me until a man, an English friend of hers, came to Tri Tsarevny. She did not want to meet me alone.”
“It is a warm, sunny afternoon, Rasputin. The woman is in her house on the island, the little house with the silver dome that they call the Second Princess. Where are you?”
“I am in my house – the Third Princess, with its golden dome. I look across to the other islands. I see the woman: she is sitting on the porch, in a wicker chair. I feel the blood running through my body. I look out across the lake, and I ask God for guidance. God speaks to me, as He always does. He says ‘Go to the woman. She dreams of you, Rasputin. She longs for your touch, your embrace.’”
There’s a noise: the door swings open. Rasputin’s eyes swivel in their sockets; his blank gaze is replaced by a shocked stare, as if he has suddenly woken. We all turn to look at our visitor, who peers at us through his pince-nez.
“Esteemed Mr Rasputin – please, excuse me. Professor Axelson, Miss Frocester; I am so sorry to intrude, but I’m afraid that I need to see you both in my office – immediately.”
8
A very large prison
Our little carriage stands on the street outside the Neva Bath House. Bukin gets into a different carriage. It’s as if he doesn’t want any conversation with Axelson and me, until he is in the security of his office. A few minutes later our carriage pulls up outside the familiar neoclassical façade, and an man appears at the door and ushers us into a small, empty wood-panelled room. Then the official leaves us, saying hastily “Mr Bukin will join you a few moments.”
We look around the room. On a table are a bundle of papers and a large book, like a ledger. The professor opens it; it’s full of handwritten entries, with dates and amounts of money. He mutters to me. “This is a record of bribes, paid by Okhrana to their network of informers. With their usual efficiency, they’ve left it lying on a table in full view.”
The other papers on the table draw my attention. There’s a stack of long, brown manilla envelopes, and two piles of leaflets. I can see a piece of paper jutting out of one of envelopes, and part of a heading “Incriminating evidence against Mr—”.
But it’s the leaflets that catch my eye. Some are in a neat stack. They show two bearded men, their chests covered in medals, standing defiantly and facing two other figures: a slouching German soldier in a spiked helmet, and a man in a flat hat carrying a cartoon-style bomb with a burning fuse. The heading is “Tsar Nicholas and King George – the best of cousins! Standing proud against German tyranny, traitors and revolutionaries.” I pick one of the leaflets up, and notice tiny print at the foot of the page “Published by the Anglo-Russian Bureau, Department of Information, London.”
But I can’t help my eyes being drawn by the shockingly crude picture on the other pile. There are only a few of these leaflets, and they are crumpled and torn, as if they have been gathered off the streets. The drawing shows two people: I recognise the face of one from photographs, and the other from real life. They are Tsarina Alexandra and Rasputin. They are both stark naked, and Rasputin’s fingers cup Alexandra’s bare breasts.
The door opens, and Bukin comes in. He’s about to speak, but the professor buts in.
“Mr Bukin. Every time I see you, you tell me another piece of bad news. I am beginning to get weary of meeting you. Or do you have something good to tell us this time?”
Bukin ignores the remark, and starts speaking, as if reading from a script.
“Are either of you aware of Shipping Regulation 15A?”
“No.”
“It’s a wartime requirement. Any foreign national who wishes to embark on any ship at St Petersburg must hold, in addition to their passport, a boarding permit issued by the harbor authorities. I regret to inform you that my office has written to the St Petersburg harbormaster to request that boarding permits should not be granted to either of you, Professor Axelson and Miss Frocester.”
“‘Your office’ has written? You mean, you have written! In God’s name, why?” The professor’s face is purple.
“It was not my personal decision. My superior, General Aristarkhov, oversees all decisions here. You are refused permits to leave Russia because intelligence has been received.”
The professor points at the book on the table and replies, a harsh emphasis in every syllable.
“I’ve seen what’s written in this ledger of yours, Bukin. The ink is still wet on this entry – ‘Twenty roubles monthly war pension bonus for family allowance and maintenance, paid to Boris Mikhailov, war veteran and doorman at Neva Bath House, for information received by Okhrana Security Service. August 21, 1916: Mr Rasputin arrived at the bath house at 5.00pm; two foreign visitors, a man and a woman, arrived to visit him at 6.50pm.’”