“Well – ” I feel him take my hand. “I’m rather hoping the United States Immigration Department may look favourably on a man who can ride horses and drive trucks. I just hope they will not suspect me as a Bolshevik spy, when I tell them I must write regular letters to my mother in Astrakhan. I think my skills would be useful in the western States – cattle ranching, perhaps?”
I realise that my face is beaming with joy, as he carries on.
“But if I am given my own free choice of where to live, Agnes, there is a particular place I have in mind. A small town, with a thriving, well-run corner drugstore, in rural Connecticut.”
I look up into Yuri’s face. The sky behind his tousled hair is dizzyingly blue, like a dream of Heaven. But I hear a polite cough – and the voice of Lord Buttermere, back from his walk around the deck.
“Yesterday, you were prisoners. Today, we are all on holiday. I suggest a picnic.”
“On the battleship?”
“The battleship will be anchoring in the harbor in a few minutes. We have permission to use one of the ship’s boats. So we can row out to the shore of the island of Lemnos. We even have a hamper of food for our picnic. A dinner was held on board last night for the ambassadors of Britain and Turkey. There are quite a lot of leftovers.”
An hour later, Yuri and Lord Buttermere row our boat ashore, amid gently rippling waves. This place is called Fanari. Between rocky headlands crowned with cypresses and olive groves, a perfect curve of sand is dazzlingly white. The water is crystal clear, pale where it shelves onto the beach, deepening to a cobalt-blue horizon. We unpack the wicker picnic hamper, and Lord Buttermere opens a bottle of champagne. We clink our glasses together, and call a toast “To Peace!” As Axelson sips his drink, he looks at Buttermere’s slim, slight figure.
“I did not think of you as a rower, Lord Buttermere!”
“When I was a student, I was cox of the Cambridge boat. We had three victories over Oxford; happy days. So I don’t usually row, but I know a little of the technique…”
I see another small boat among the waves, rowing towards us. It appears to have come, like us, from HMS Agamemnon, which I can see anchored in the distance.
The boat pulls up on the sand next to ours. Four men hold oars; I recognise the all-too familiar uniforms of Red Guards. But they remain seated. Out of the boat get three other people. I recognize the first straight away: it’s General Aristarkhov. Following him closely, and once again smartly dressed, is Mr Bukin.
But it’s the third figure to emerge from the boat that surprises me. It’s Emily.
I greet her warmly, and open my arms to give her a hug. She responds with a cool handshake and a thin smile. But I can’t help grinning at her.
“I’m so pleased to see you, Emily! Why on earth are you in Greece?”
There are introductions all round. But none of our party have any idea why these three people are here. Despite the warmth of the Aristarkhov’s and Bukin’s smiles, there’s an atmosphere, a kind of frost of suspicion, between our two groups. But when General Aristarkhov proffers his hand to me, I shake it politely. He explains Emily’s presence.
“Miss Neale is here as my personal assistant, as is Mr Bukin.”
“I’m surprised.”
“As you will recall, Miss Frocester, at the end of your stay at the Yermak Estate, Miss Neale was called aside, in private. She was given a letter from me, which asked her to explain her actions. For example, you yourself witnessed her causing the death of a man called Horobets – a former sergeant of the Siberian Cossack Host, who I knew to be an unstable and treacherous man.
Miss Neale travelled to St Petersburg to meet me. She explained to me all her actions and motives during the events of 1917. Her explanations were entirely satisfactory – so much so that I appointed her to work for me.”
I stare at her. “Emily, is this true? You’re a supporter of the Bolsheviks? Of Lenin?”
“Yes I am, Agnes. I have realized that there is only one way forward for Russia, and Lenin is the architect of our destiny. I admit that I was confused, groping for answers, when the revolution first happened—”
“Emily, you were one of the people who made the revolution happen!”
“I was involved in some street protests in February 1917. But those demonstrations weren’t organized or authorized by the Bolshevik Party. So they weren’t the true revolution. Only when the Bolsheviks swept away the so-called Provisional Government at the Winter Palace was there a real revolution.”
“I can’t believe you’re saying this…”
“History proves, Agnes, that the revolution, the triumph of communism predicted by Marx, has come to fruition under Lenin’s leadership. It just took me a little time before I could see it that way. That was my own fault. Now, I’ve learned from my mistakes, and I’m here to help General Aristarkhov. He has an important mission here in Greece.”
Mr Bukin is standing by, waiting politely to shake my hand. “Miss Frocester! I am so grateful to you. I thank you with all my heart for the letter you wrote for me in Moscow, to the general. It took some time – but two weeks ago, he contacted me, saying he remembered my loyal and unquestioning service to him before the Revolution. He has now appointed me to be clerk of his new office in Moscow.”
“So why are you all here in Greece, Mr Bukin?”
“I don’t know. The general said it was important… Ah – Captain Sirko!”
Mr Bukin is thanking Yuri profusely for the money he gave him in Moscow. But I’m listening to another conversation. I overhear Aristarkhov talking to Lord Buttermere and the professor, both of whom reply to him, with one voice.
“That’s completely impossible! We cannot agree to your request.”
I look over at them. Lord Buttermere goes on. “We have no problem with Captain Sirko returning to Russia, if he wishes to. But as your prisoner, on a charge of murder!…”
I step over to them in a instant. “What on earth is going on?”
Aristarkhov looks at me. With an air of annoyance, he explains again.
“Our leader, Comrade Lenin, wants friendship between Russia and our near neighbour Sweden. He also wants to investigate and punish crime – even crimes that were committed before the Bolshevik government came to power. For both those reasons, I have come to arrest Captain Sirko, for the murder of Svea Håkansson in July 1916.”
I’m stunned. But Aristarkov continues. “Miss Frocester, I have already spoken to the captain of HMS Agamemnon, and to the senior British officials aboard the battleship. They are all rather busy today. They told me that if I needed to arrest a Russian citizen, for a crime that was committed in Russia, I should simply go ahead.”
I look at Aristarkhov, then at Bukin, then at Emily. My words come slowly.
“You want to investigate and punish crime, you say. So you need to find the murderer of Svea Håkansson. Captain Sirko is innocent. I can prove it, beyond any possible doubt.”
The General gives a short, low laugh. “How can you prove it?”
“Because I know who the real murderer is. And I have conclusive, irrefutable evidence.”
I look at the general, then at Emily, before carrying on. “The first piece of information I should share with you is one that you have both seen. It was there on the table inside a manilla file, General, when you interviewed me and Emily at the Winter Palace. It's a letter written by Prince Alexei, in the form of a diary.”
Emily looks at me. “Alexei’s letter doesn't say who killed Svea.”
“No. But it does go into very exact detail about something Alexei was given, while he was staying at Tri Tsarevny.”
Aristarkhov shrugs. “You mean the binoculars?”