The Price of Power

Chapter Eight.

Describes a Mysterious Incident

Two days later, the ugly bandages having been removed from my head, Natalia was seated in the afternoon in my den.

Exquisitely neat in her dead black, with the long crape veil, she presented an altogether different appearance to the radiant girl who had sat before me on that fatal drive. Her sweet face was now pale and drawn, and by the dark rings about her eyes I saw how full of poignant grief her heart had lately been.

She had taken off her long, black gloves and settled herself cosily in my big armchair, her tiny patent-leather shoe, encasing a shapely silk-clad ankle, set forth beneath the hem of her black skirt.

“I was so terrified. Uncle Colin, that you were also dead!” the girl was saying in a low, sympathetic voice, after I had expressed my deepest regret regarding the unfortunate death of her father, to whom she had been so devoted.

“I suppose I had a very narrow escape,” I said cheerfully. “You came out best of all.”

“By an absolute miracle. The Emperor is furious. Twenty of those arrested have already been sent to Schusselburg,” she said. “Only yesterday, he told me that he hoped you would be well enough in a day or two to go to the Palace. I was to tell you how extremely anxious he is to see you as soon as possible.”

“I will obey the command at the earliest moment I am able,” I replied. “But how horribly unfortunate all this is,” I went on. “I fully expected that you would be in England by this time.”

“As soon as you are ready, Uncle Colin, I can go. The Emperor has already told me that he has placed me under your guardianship. That you are to be my equerry. Isn’t it fun?” she cried, her pretty face suddenly brightening with pleasure. “Fancy you! dear old uncle, being put in charge of me – your naughty niece!”

“His Majesty wished it,” I said. “He thinks you will be better away from Court for a time. Therefore, I have promised to accept the responsibility. For one year you are to live incognito in England, and I have been appointed your equerry and guardian – and,” I added very seriously, “I hope that my naughty niece will really behave herself, and do nothing which will cause me either annoyance or distress.”

“I’ll really try and be very good, Uncle Colin,” declared the girl with mock demureness, and laughing mischievously. “Believe me, I will.”

“It all remains with you,” I said. “Remember I do not wish it to be necessary that I should furnish any unfavourable report to the Emperor. I want us to understand each other perfectly from the outset. Recollect one point always. Though you may be known in England as Miss Gottorp, yet remember that you are of the Imperial family of Russia, and niece of the Emperor. Hence, there must be no flirtations, no clandestine meetings or love-letters, and such-like, as in the case of young Hamborough.”

“Please don’t bring up that affair,” urged the little madcap. “It is all dead, buried and forgotten long ago.”

“Very well,” I said, looking straight into her big, velvety eyes so full of expression. “But remember that your affection is absolutely forbidden except towards a man of your own birth and station.”

“I know,” she cried, with a quick impatience. “I’m unlike any other girl. I am forbidden to speak to a commoner.”

“Not in England. Preserve your incognito, and nobody will know. At His Majesty’s desire, I have obtained leave of absence from the service for twelve months, in order to become your guardian.”

“Well, dear old Uncle Colin, you are the only person I would have chosen. Isn’t that nice of me to say so?” she asked, with a tantalising smile.

“But I tell you I shall show you no leniency if you break any of the rules which must, of necessity, be laid down,” I declared severely. “As soon as I find myself well enough, you will take Miss West, your old governess, and Davey, your English maid, to England, and I will come and render you assistance in settling down somewhere in comfort.”

“At Eastbourne?” she cried in enthusiasm. “We’ll go there. Do let us go there?”

“Probably at Brighton,” I said quietly. “It would be gayer for you, and – well, I will be quite frank – I think there are one or two young men whom you know in Eastbourne. Hence it is not quite to your advantage to return there.”

She pouted prettily in displeasure.

“Brighton is within an hour of London, as you know,” I went on, extolling the praises of the place.

“Oh, yes, I know it. We often went over from Eastbourne, to concerts and things. There’s an aquarium there, and a seaside railway, and lots of trippers. I remember the place perfectly. I love to see your English trippers. They are such fun, and they seem to enjoy themselves so much more than we ever do. I wonder how it is – they enjoy their freedom, I suppose, while we have no freedom.”

“Well,” I said cheerfully, “in a week or ten days I hope I shall be quite fit to travel, and then we will set out for England.”

“Yes. Let us go. The Emperor leaves for Peterhof on Saturday. He will not return to Petersburg until the winter, and the Court moves to Tzarskoie-Selo on Monday.”

“Then I will see His Majesty before Saturday,” I said. “But, tell me, why did Your Highness write to me so urgently three days ago? You said you wished to see me at once.”

The girl sprang from her chair, crossed to the door, and made certain it was closed.

Then, glancing around as though apprehensive of eavesdroppers, she said:

“I wanted to tell you, Uncle Colin, of something very, very curious which happened the other evening. About ten o’clock at night I was with Miss West in the blue boudoir – you know the room in our palace, you’ve been in it.”

“I remember it perfectly,” I said.

“Well, I went upstairs to Davey for my smelling-salts as Miss West felt faint, and as I passed along the corridor I saw, in the moonlight, in my own room a dark figure moving by the window. It was a man. I saw him searching the drawers of my little writing-table, examining the contents by means of an electric-torch. I made no sound, but out of curiosity, drew back and watched him. He was reading all my letters – searching for something which he apparently could not find. My first impulse was to ring and give the alarm, for though I could not see the individual’s face, I knew he must be a thief. Still, I watched, perhaps rather amused at the methodical examination of my letters which he was making, all unconscious that he was being observed, until suddenly at a noise made by a servant approaching from the other end of the corridor, he started, flung back the letters into the drawer, and mounting to the open window, got out and disappeared. I shouted and rushed after him to the window, but he had gone. He must have dropped about twelve feet on to the roof of the ballroom and thus got away.

“Several servants rushed in, and the sentries were alarmed,” she went on. “But when I told my story, it was apparent that I was not believed. The drawer in the writing-table had been reclosed, and as far as we could see all was in perfect order. So I believe they all put it down to my imagination.”

“But you are quite certain that you saw the man there?” I said, much interested in her story.

“Quite. He was of middle height, dressed in dark clothes, and wore a cloth peaked cap, like men wear when golfing in England,” she replied. “He was evidently in search of something I had in my writing-table, but he did not find it. Nevertheless, he read a quantity of my letters mostly from school-friends.”

“And your love-letters?” I asked, with a smile.

“Well, if the fellow read any of them,” she laughed, “I hope he was very much edified. One point is quite plain. He knew English, for my letters were nearly all in English.”

“Some spy or other, I suppose.”

“Without a doubt,” she said, clasping her white hands before her and raising her wonderful eyes to mine. “And do you know, Uncle Colin, the affair has since troubled me very considerably. I wanted to see you and hear your opinion regarding it.”

“My opinion is that your window ought not to have been left open.”

“It had not been. The maid whose duty it is to close the windows on that floor one hour before sunset every day has been closely questioned, and declares that she closed and fastened it at seven o’clock.”

“Servants are not always truthful,” I remarked dubiously.

“But the intruder was there with some distinct purpose. Don’t you think so?”

“Without a doubt. He was endeavouring to learn some secret which Your Highness possesses. Cannot you form any theory what it can be? Try and reflect.”

“Secret!” she echoed, opening her eyes wide. “I have no secrets. Everybody tells me I am far too outspoken.”

“Here, in Russia, everyone seems to hold secrets of some character or other, social or political, and spies are everywhere,” I said. “Are you quite certain you have never before seen the intruder?”

“I could only catch the silhouette of his figure against the moonlight, yet, to tell the truth, it struck me at that moment that I had seen him somewhere before. But where, I could not recollect. He read each letter through, so he must have known English very well, or he could not have read so quickly.”

“But did you not tell me in the winter garden of the Palace, on the night of the last Court ball, that Marya de Rosen had given you certain letters – letters which reflected upon General Markoff?” I asked.

She sat erect, staring at me open-mouthed in sudden recollection. “Why, I never thought of that!” she gasped. “Of course! It was for those letters the fellow must have been searching.”

“I certainly think so – without the shadow of a doubt.”

“Madame de Rosen feared lest they should be stolen from her, and she gave them over to me – three of them sealed up in an envelope,” declared my dainty little companion. “She expressed apprehension lest a domiciliary visit be made to her house by the police, when the letters in question might be discovered and seized. So she asked me to hold them for her.”

“And what did you do with them?”

“I hid them in a place where they will never be found,” she said; “at a spot where nobody would even suspect. But somebody must be aware that she gave them to me for safe-keeping. How could they possibly know?”

“I think Your Highness was – well, just a little indiscreet on the night of the Court ball,” I said. “Don’t you recollect that you spoke aloud when other people were in the winter garden, and that I queried the judiciousness of it?”

“Ah! I remember now!” she exclaimed, her face suddenly pale and serious. “I recollect what I said. Somebody must have overheard me.”

“And that somebody told Serge Markoff himself – the man who was poor Madame de Rosen’s enemy, and who has sent both her and Luba to their graves far away in Eastern Siberia.”

“Then you think that he is anxious to regain possession of those letters?”

“I think that is most probable, in face of your statement that you intend placing them before the Emperor. Of course, I do not know their nature, but I feel that they must reflect very seriously upon His Majesty’s favourite official – the oppressor of Russia. You still have them in your possession?” I asked.

“Yes, Uncle Colin. I feared lest some spy might find them, so I went up to my old nursery on the top floor of the Palace – a room which has not been used for years. In it stands my old doll’s house – a big, dusty affair as tall as myself. I opened it and placed the packet in the little wardrobe in one of the doll’s bedrooms. It is still there. I saw it only yesterday.”

“Be very careful that no spy watches you going to that disused room. You cannot exercise too much caution in this affair,” I urged seriously.

“I am always cautious,” she assured me. “I distrust more than one of our servants, for I believe some of them to be in Markoff’s pay. All that we do at home is carried at once to the Emperor, while I am watched at every turn.”

“True; only we foreign diplomats are exempt from this pestilential surveillance and the clever plots of the horde of agents-provocateurs controlled by the all-powerful Markoff.”

“But what shall I do, Uncle Colin?” asked the girl, her white hands clasped in her lap.

“If you think it wise to place the letter before the Emperor, I should certainly lose no time in doing so,” I replied. “It may soon be too late. Spies will leave no hole or corner in your father’s palace unexamined.”

“You think there really is urgency?” she asked.

I looked my charming companion straight in the face and replied:

“I do. If you value your life, then I would urge you at once to get rid of the packet which poor Madame de Rosen entrusted to you.”

“But I cannot place it before the Emperor just at present,” the girl exclaimed. “I promised secrecy to Marya de Rosen.”

“Then you knew something of the subject to which those letters refer – eh?”

“I know something of it.”

“Why not pass them on to me? They will be quite secure here in the Embassy safe. Russian spies dire not enter here – upon this bit of British soil.”

“A good idea,” she said quickly. “I will. I’ll go home and bring them back to you.”

And in a few minutes she rose and with a merry laugh left me to descend to her carriage, which was waiting out upon the quay.

I stood looking out of the window as she drove away. I was thinking – thinking seriously over the Emperor’s strange apprehension.

Two visitors followed her, the French naval attaché, and afterwards old Madame Neilidoff, the Society leader of Moscow, who called to congratulate me upon my escape, and to invite me to spend my convalescence at her country estate at Sukova. With the stout, ugly old lady, who spake French with a dreadfully nasal intonation and possessed a distinct moustache, I chatted for nearly an hour, as we sipped our tea with lemon, when almost as soon as she had taken her departure the door was flung open unceremoniously and the Grand Duchess Natalia burst in, her beautiful face blanched to the lips.

“Uncle Colin! Something horrible has happened; Those letters have gone!” she gasped in a hoarse whisper, staring at me.

“Gone!” I echoed, starting to my feet in dismay.

“Yes. They’ve been stolen – stolen!”

Chapter Nine.

The Little Grand Duchess

In the golden September sunset, the long, wide promenade stretching beside the blue sea from Brighton towards the fashionable suburb of Hove was agog with visitors.

A cloudless sky, a glassy sea flecked by the white sails of pleasure yachts, and ashore a crowd of well-dressed promenaders, the majority of whom were Londoners who, stifled in the dusty streets, were now seeking the fresh sea air of the Channel.

I had dressed leisurely for dinner in the Hotel Métropole, where I had taken up my abode, and about seven o’clock descended the steps, and, crossing the King’s Road to the asphalted promenade, set out to walk westward towards Hove.

Many things had happened since that well-remembered afternoon in July when Natalia had discovered the clever theft of Madame de Rosen’s letters, and I had, an hour later, ill though I was, sent to His Majesty that single word “Bathildis” and was granted immediate audience.

When I told him the facts he appeared interested, paced the room, and then snapped his fingers with a careless gesture. The little madcap had certainly annoyed him greatly, and though feigning indifference, he nevertheless appeared perplexed.

Natalia was called at once and questioned closely; she was the soul of honour and would reveal nothing of the secret. Afterwards I returned to the Embassy and summoned Hartwig, to inform him of the Grand Duchess’s loss. The renowned police official had since made diligent inquiry; indeed, the whole complicated machinery of the Russian criminal police had been put into motion, but all to no avail.

The theft was still an entire mystery.

As I approached the Lawns at Hove, those wide, grassy promenades beside the sea, I saw that many people were still lingering, enjoying the warm sunset, although the fashionable hour when women exercise their pet dogs, and idle men lounge and watch the crowd, had passed and the band had finished its performance.

My mind was filled by many serious apprehensions, as turning suddenly from the Lawns, I recrossed the road and entered Brunswick Square, that wide quadrangle of big, old-fashioned houses around a large railed-in garden filled with high oaks and beeches.

Before a drab, newly-painted house with a basement and art-green blinds, I halted, ascended the steps and rang.

A white-whiskered old manservant in funereal black bowed as I entered, and, casting off my overcoat, I followed the old fellow past a man who was seated demurely in the hall, to whom I nodded, and up thickly-carpeted stairs to the big white-enamelled drawing-room, where Natalia sprang up from a couch of daffodil silk and came forward to meet me with glad welcome and outstretched hand.

“Well, Uncle Colin!” she cried, “wherever have you been? I called for you at the ‘Métropole’ the day before yesterday, and your superb hall-porter told me that you were in London!”

“Yes. I had to go up there on some urgent business,” I said. “I only returned to-day at five o’clock and received your kind invitation to dine,” and then, turning, I greeted Miss West, the rather thin, elderly woman who for years had acted as English governess to Her Imperial Highness – or Miss Gottorp, as she was now known at Hove. Miss West had been governess in the Emperor’s family for six years before she had entered the service of the Grand Duchess Nicholas, so life at Court, with all its stiff etiquette, had perhaps imparted to her a slightly unnatural hauteur.

Natalia looked inexpressibly sweet in an evening gown of fine black spotted net, the transparency of which about the chest heightened the almost alabaster whiteness of her skin. She wore a black aigrette in her hair, but no jewellery save a single diamond bangle upon her wrist, an ornament which she always wore.

“Sit down and tell me all the news,” she urged, throwing herself into an armchair and patting a cushion near by as indication where I should sit.

“There is no news,” I said. “This morning I was at the Embassy, and they were naturally filled with curiosity regarding you – a curiosity which I did not satisfy.”

“Young Isvolski is there, isn’t he?” she asked. “He used to be attached to my poor father’s suite.”

“Yes,” I replied. “He’s third secretary. He wanted to know whether you had police protection, and I told him they had sent you another agent from Petersburg. I suppose it is that melancholy man I’ve just seen sitting in the hall?”

“Yes. Isn’t it horrid? He sits there all day long and never moves,” Miss West exclaimed. “It is as though the bailiffs are in the house.”

“Bailiffs?” repeated the girl. “What are they?” I explained to her, whereupon she laughed heartily. “Hartwig is due in Brighton to-night or to-morrow morning,” I said. “I have received a telegram from him, despatched from Berlin early yesterday morning. But,” I added, “I trust that you are finding benefit from the change.”

“I am,” she assured me. “I love this place. I feel so free and so happy here. Miss West and I go for walks and drives every day, and though a lot of people stare at me very hard, I don’t think they know who I am. I hope not.”

“They admire your Highness’s good looks,” I ventured to remark. But she made a quick gesture of impatience, and declared that I only intended sarcasm.

“I suppose Miss West, that all the men turn to look at Her Highness?” I said. “Englishmen at the seaside during the summer are always impressionable, so they must be forgiven.”

“You are quite right, Mr Trewinnard. It is really something dreadful. Only to-day a young man – quite a respectable young fellow, who was probably a clerk in the City – followed us the whole length of the promenade to the West Pier and kept looking into her Highness’s face.”

“He was really a very nice-looking boy,” the girl declared mischievously. “If I’d been alone he would have spoken to me. And, oh, I’d have had such ripping fun.”

“No doubt you would,” I said. “But you know the rule. You are never upon any pretext to go out alone. Besides, you are always under the observation of a police-agent. You would scarcely care to do any love-making before him, would you?”

“Why not? Those persons are not men – they’re only machines,” she declared. “The Emperor told me that long ago.”

“Well, take my advice,” I urged with a laugh, “and don’t attempt it.”

“Oh, of course, Uncle Colin; you’re simply dreadful. You’re a perfect Saint Anthony. It’s too jolly bad,” she declared.

“Yes. Perhaps I might be a Saint Anthony where you are concerned. Still, you must not become a temptress,” I laughed, when at that moment, old Igor, the butler, entered to announce that dinner was served.

So we descended the stairs to the big dining-room, where the table at which she took the head was prettily decorated with Marshal Neil roses, and, a merry trio, we ate our meal amid much good-humoured banter and general laughter.

As she sat beneath the pink-shaded electric lamp suspended over the table, I thought I had never seen her looking so inexpressibly charming. Little wonder, indeed, that young City men down for a fortnight’s leisure at the seaside, the annual relaxation from their weary work-a-day world of office and suburban railway, looked upon her in admiration and followed her in order to feast their eyes upon her marvellous beauty. What would they have thought, had they but known that the girl so quietly and well-dressed in black was of the bluest blood of Europe, a daughter of the Imperial Romanoffs.

That big, old-fashioned house which I had arranged for her six weeks ago belonged to the widow of a brewery baronet, a man who had made a great fortune out of mild dinner-ale. The somewhat beefy lady – once a domestic servant – had gone on a voyage around the world and had been pleased to let it furnished for a year. With her consent I had had the whole place repainted and decorated, had caused new carpets to be provided, and in some instances the rooms had been refurnished in modern style, while four of the servants, including Igor, the butler, and Davey, Her Highness’s maid, had been brought from her father’s palace beside the Neva.

For a girl not yet nineteen it was, indeed, quite a unique establishment. Miss West acting as chaperone, companion and housekeeper.

Seated at the head of the table, the little Grand Duchess did the honours as, indeed, she had so often done them at the great table in that magnificent salon in Petersburg, for being the only child, it had very often fallen to her lot to help her father to entertain, her mother having died a month after her birth.

Dinner over, the ladies rose and left, while I sat to smoke my cigarette alone. Outside in the hall the undersized, insignificant little man in black sat upon a chair reading the evening paper, and as old Igor poured out my glass of port I asked him in French how he liked England.

“Ah! m’sieur,” he exclaimed in his thin, squeaky voice. “Truly it is most beautiful. We are all so well here – so much better than in Petersburg. Years ago I went to London with my poor master, the Grand Duke. We stayed at Claridge’s. M’sieur knows the place – eh?”

“Of course,” I said. “But tell me, Igor, since you’ve been in Brighton – over a month now – have you ever met, or seen, anybody you know? I mean anyone you have seen before in Petersburg?”

I was anxious to learn whether young Hamborough, Paul Urusoff, or any of the rest, had been in the vicinity.

The old fellow reflected a few moments. Then he replied:

“Of course I saw M’sieur Hartwig three weeks ago. Also His Excellency the Ambassador when he came down from London to pay his respects to Her Imperial Highness.”

“Nobody else?” I asked, looking seriously into his grey old face, my wine-glass poised in my hand.

“Ah, yes! One evening, three or four days ago, I was walking along King’s Road, towards Ship Street, when I passed a tall, thin, clean-shaven man in brown, whose face was quite familiar. I know that I’ve seen him many times in Petersburg, but I cannot recall who or what he is. He looked inquisitively at me for a moment, and apparently recognising me, passed on and then hurriedly crossed the road.”