The Blood Royal(131)

The men glanced at each other in dismay. ‘Um … yes … ah …’

‘Don’t look at me!’ said Fanshawe.

‘I’ll do it,’ Lily said. ‘Just give me time to read through these letters of Tatiana’s and get the flavour and an ear for the phrasing. Can anyone tell me what sort of girl she was? I suppose I ought to know that if I’m going to pretend to be her.’

It was Bacchus who replied. ‘We hear plenty about the others but not a great deal about this one. Mother’s favourite … reserved … stand-offish and squashing. Her pekinese dog was shot dead in the bloodbath. Sorry, I’m not being very helpful. Now if you wanted Maria we could supply – people are only too pleased to talk about her and they smile when they speak. A true Russian beauty, open and friendly. It was the little one no one could stand – Anastasia. Even her mother called her a devil. Mischievous little troublemaker seems to be the general opinion. Sorry, Wentworth, this isn’t of much use, is it?’

‘Just tell me how long I’ve got.’

Bacchus smiled. ‘That’s what I like to hear. I’ve got Sam standing by, pen in hand, but a job of this complexity is going to take him a while … An hour? That long enough for you to turn yourself into Her Imperial Highness?’





Chapter Thirty-Seven




     The Branch men went off, muttering of arrangements to make, plates to develop and arms to twist and promising to return at eleven to pick up the text of the letter. Joe was left behind to supervise Lily. He occupied himself with agitatedly sifting through the Romanov relics, glancing every thirty seconds at the constable who was calmly reading her way through a pile of correspondence. Had she any idea how infuriating she was being?

Finally, she looked up at him. ‘Sir? Am I allowed to use my own knowledge? I mean, if Tatiana really were alive, she’d make some mention of the place she’s been living in for the last few years, wouldn’t she? She might even say something to tempt our Anna … her Anna … to pack up and go over to find her.’

‘Sounds reasonable. What do you know of San Francisco, Wentworth?’

‘Not much. But probably more than Anna Petrovna knows. At least I read the popular magazines, sir.’

‘Go to it, Wentworth. But keep it brief. You can say too much, you know. We don’t want to gild the lily.’

‘Then I’m ready to have a shot at it. Will you pass me a sheet of writing paper? And Sam might be instructed to set it out on his page as closely as he can to my effort.’

‘He’ll be using some American writing paper we’ve supplied him with.’ Sandilands took a sheet from his briefcase. ‘Here’s one. Use this for practice. The heading should be … let’s call her …um … Miss Theresa Robinson, care of the British Consul-General, One Sansome Street, San Francisco. Off you go!’

He knew he was being annoying but he couldn’t restrain himself from prowling about the room as she wrote, passing behind her and making her flinch when he tried to sneak a look at her production.

My dearest, darling Anna! he read before she put an arm over it like an embarrassed schoolgirl. A further patrol revealed: I may not sign my name but – you said it! – ‘by my hair shall you know me!’ Less lustrous than it once was – the sunshine out here is unkind to complexion and hair!

After a bit of pen-chewing she followed with: I had thought you dead. And now word comes to me that you live! And are safe among friends. I have news of my brother and sisters, though I know you will be sad to hear that my parents have succumbed to old age and disease. At least they died together.

After a few sighs: I have before me as I write a photograph that has travelled half the world with me. I look at it every day. Taken in the shade of a tree in the summer time. Yalta? 1916? You will remember! You are beside me, gazing with commendable attention at our handsome French master who, I think I remember, is trying to drum the subjunctive into our skulls. Attention? I think there is something more in your look, Anna! I have news of Pierre also.

‘Wentworth, how do you know …?’

‘It says so on the back. In pencil in an English clerkly hand. Bacchus? The girls are identified, along with “Pierre Gilliard, Fr. Master”.’

‘Keep it short, Wentworth. Every single letter is a work of art for our chap, remember.’

She finished with a rush. If I thought a command would influence you, I would say: ‘Come! At once!’ But I now beg you, dearest Anna, to come to me and complete my happiness. And here in this delightful place I know I have the means to make yours. Leave that drab and violent continent to its death-throes and sail into the sunshine! We are waiting with our arms outstretched! Silent, upon a peak – in Darien! Your devoted friend, T.