The Witches of St. Petersburg

³⁴ 16 December 1916, Petrograd

It was chance. Or was it?

How many things in life happen by chance? How many paths are preordained? How free is our own will? And how much is down to the Fates?

It had been over a year since the sisters had seen each other. With Nikolasha relieved of his post and sent south, Stana had been living in Tchair, their house in the Crimea, while Militza and Peter had been based in Petrograd and of course Znamenka. In normal times, the sisters would have managed to see each other, but times were anything but normal. There were riots in the streets, strikes in every province, rebellions in the cities, food shortages and power cuts everywhere; none but essential travel was advised, especially among members of the aristocracy – the stories of those who’d succumbed to banditry were too numerous to mention.

But a year in the Crimea, while lovely and most certainly full of charm, had left Stana desperate to see her sister and her nieces and nephew, so she finally made it to Petrograd in the middle of December, despite the war, the misery and the constant fear of attack. Militza was beside herself with excitement.

‘Are you sure it is open?’ asked Stana as they sat, muffled together, holding hands, in the back to the car.

‘I heard it was,’ said Militza. ‘Although nothing is sure these days.’

‘If not?’

‘If not the Yacht Club, then I am not sure if anything else will be open – all the nice restaurants are shut because there is not much food in the city.’

‘It looks very different,’ said Stana, staring out of the window at the grey, intimidating streets.

‘Yes – and it is dangerous to go anywhere alone at night,’ said Militza. ‘You never know who you might bump into.’

They pulled up outside the club and looked up at the windows; a few rays of light seeped hopefully through the tightly shut curtains. There was a smell of boiled cabbage in the street as they picked their way through the salted slush on the pavement. Militza knocked on the door and it was opened a crack; a pair of eyes looked her up and down.

‘Grand Duchess Militza Nikolayevna,’ she announced, and the footman opened the door.

Upstairs in the dining room the place was packed. In comparison to the gloom and misery outside, here life was joyful; there was laughter – and most importantly of all, there seemed to be a fully functioning kitchen and plenty of wine. The textile workers might be on strike across town due to the shortage of bread, but here there was sturgeon, morels in a cream sauce, pommes dauphinoise and braised cabbage leaves, plus plenty of fine Bordeaux and even a small glass or two of champagne.

‘He is unstoppable,’ said Stana, eating a little fish off her fork. ‘Nicky came to Kiev and both Nikolasha and Minny told him to get Rasputin out of the palace.’ She leant forward, her eyes glancing left and right. One never knew who was listening. ‘And Ella went to Tsarskoye Selo to plead with her. Her own sister – a nun – and she still didn’t listen.’ Stana shook her head. ‘Apparently she drove her away like a dog! It is so so sad.’

Little did anyone know that it was the last time the Tsarina would ever see her sister, Ella, again. Both would be brutally murdered, one day after the other, in less than eighteen months’ time.

‘But there is nothing to be done,’ continued Stana. ‘If the Tsar persists in being ruled by his wife and his wife persists in being ruled by him—’

‘Your Imperial Highnesses!’

Militza looked up. ‘Mr Rayner?’ she asked, a little unsure, for the light was behind him and the man appeared to have slicked back his hair. ‘Mr Oswald Rayner?’

‘Lieutenant Rayner now,’ he said, with a little nod. ‘How very charming to see you again.’

‘Absolutely,’ agreed Militza.

‘And how is your friend Yusupov?’ enquired Stana.

‘Well. Prince Felix is even entertaining tonight, I believe,’ he said.

‘I can’t believe people still have the energy to entertain,’ said Militza, ‘with all that is going on around us. And fear standing at every street corner.’

‘Indeed, Madame, it’s not quite the city it was, is it?’ he replied, with another nod.

‘No,’ agreed Militza a little wistfully.

He looked from one Grand Duchess to the other. There was a pause and they all three looked at each other. ‘Well, good evening to you both.’ He nodded. ‘I am on my way home.’

And that could have been that. A chance meeting in the Yacht Club, a brief conversation, a quick crossing of paths. And nothing. They could have all disappeared into that grey night without consequence. Except Militza said something. Quite why, neither of the sisters ever knew. The Fates? The Gods? Spirit? Perhaps it was all preordained… She was compelled to speak, she said later, didn’t have time to think. The request just came flying out.

‘Do join us, Lieutenant Rayner,’ she said. ‘It is awfully cold out there and the brandy here is delicious. I demand you stay and have one before you leave!’

Except Lieutenant Rayner did not have one brandy, he had three. And during the process of his drinking he recounted Prince Felix Yusupov’s last few meetings with Rasputin.

‘He’s been “curing” him,’ said Rayner, his eyes shining over the rim of his crystal glass.

‘I thought Felix couldn’t stand Grisha?’ said Militza.

‘That much is true. He says Rasputin’s “eyes are like two phosphorescent beams of light, melting into a great luminous ring”.’ Rayner smirked. ‘“They drew him nearer and then further away, he was powerless, powerless, in the full beam of his hypnotism”!’ Rayner laughed loudly and the sisters smiled briefly; they liked Lieutenant Rayner. ‘He is with him at the palace tonight!’

‘The palace?’ asked Militza.

‘On Moika,’ nodded Rayner, taking another sip of his drink. ‘Rasputin’s gone to meet Irina – apparently he’s madly in love with her! As is everyone in Russia, of course. What’s not to be in love with?’

‘Irina Alexandrovna Yusupova?’ asked Stana.

‘Yes, that’s right. He’s desperate to meet her apparently! Weak at the knees! The old dog!’ He laughed again.

‘But that’s impossible,’ said Stana.

‘Why?’ Rayner’s smile disappeared.

‘She is in the Crimea,’ said Stana. ‘I dined with her just before I left. And I arrived only today, so she can’t possibly be here.’

‘Oh,’ he said and then scratched his head.

‘Well, that is odd,’ said Militza. ‘Why would Prince Yusupov lie?’

Oswald Rayner of the British Secret Intelligence Service was remarkably garrulous for a man whose job it was to keep secrets. Maybe, as a British spy, he didn’t take the plot seriously. The idea that the effete, spoilt prince he’d met at Oxford, the man he’d befriended at the Bullingdon Club, the man he’d spent wild nights with, drinking and dancing, watching him dress up in women’s clothes and flirt outrageously with fellow students, the idea that he – a ponced-up peacock of a prince – could possibly be the perfect candidate to pull off the political assassination of the century, was clearly some sort of joke to him. And the method? Some poisoned cakes laced with cyanide. Cakes? Only children dreamt of killing people with poisoned cakes! It was the stuff of fairy tales.

‘They’re all there,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘About now!’ He drained his glass. ‘Him and a few cronies, hoping the Beast is going to eat a few madeleines and keel over!’

‘Well, that won’t work,’ said Militza, picking up the decanter and replenishing Rayner’s glass.

‘I know, I’ve told him!’ agreed Rayner, taking another rather large slug of brandy. ‘If you want to kill someone, you really have to shoot them.’ He tapped his top left-hand pocket. ‘You need a bloody gun!’

‘No, I don’t mean that,’ said Militza. ‘Rasputin is immune to cyanide. He’s been eating apple pips, apricot and peach kernels for years.’

‘Mithridatization,’ said Rayner, sitting up straight in his chair, suddenly very serious indeed. ‘Well…’ He shrugged and scratched his head again.

Militza looked at her sister. Their time was now, right now, and they both knew it.

‘Your gun?’ asked Militza quite simply. ‘Is it loaded?’ Rayner nodded. ‘Then come with me,’ she said, getting slowly up from the table. ‘Don’t hurry,’ she said with a wide, generous smile, beaming around the room. ‘There is no need for any fuss.’

Militza led the others straight into the kitchen. If this were to be their one and only opportunity, then there could be no margin for error. It was difficult to explain to the kitchen staff that they wanted herbs. Lots of herbs. Smoking a pistol with a bunch of sage was not a usual request. But the commis chef was Italian and viewed such bizarre Russian behaviour as none of his business. Besides, the country was at war, anything was possible. So Rayner looked on as the two sisters burnt the sage over the stove and let the smoke curl around the muzzle of his pistol. They began to chant and mumble and mutter strange words in a language he did not understand; all he knew was something momentous was about to happen and that he, somehow, was going to have a part in it.

They walked out of the club and straight into Militza’s waiting car.

It was two in the morning.

‘The Yusupov Palace,’ said Militza to her driver.

‘Really?’ asked Rayner, sounding more than a little anxious.

‘Absolutely,’ came her firm reply.

They all sat in silence as they drove through the side streets of Petrograd. The moon and stars were hidden, the streets empty save for a few drunks weaving their way home. It was a still night, not a breath of wind to stir the snow-covered pavements.

It was the perfect night for a murder.

‘What were you doing back there?’ asked Rayner eventually as they edged towards Moika. ‘In the kitchen?’

‘A smoked barrel never misses,’ said Militza frankly, as she stared out of the window. ‘Here!’ she said to the driver. ‘We don’t need to park outside the palace, it is a good night for a walk.’

‘A walk, Your Imperial Highness?’ asked the driver.

‘Yes,’ she stated flatly. ‘It’s an excellent night for a walk.’

The three of them headed along the two blocks to the palace at 94 Moika. It was hard going in the thick snow, in silk shoes with leather soles, but neither of the sisters noticed. They were calm, focussed on what they were about to do. They slowed just as they reached the railings to the courtyard at 92 Moika, adjacent to the Yusupov palace. They glanced up and down the road and across the canal. There was no one on the street. Militza nodded at Rayner and he slowly nodded back at her, tapping his top pocket where he’d placed his gun.

Suddenly they heard a door bang and spun around. Through the darkness they could see a figure staggering away from the side of the palace and running towards them. It lurched left and right, its knees buckling, falling and scrambling up again. It was roaring and yelling, screaming in pain like a mortally wounded animal. Suddenly another two figures burst out of the small door at the side of the palace in hot pursuit. One fired a gun and a bullet whistled through the air, landing in a puff of snow. The next clipped the arm of the first figure, who screamed again in agony. Bang! came another. And finally the first figure skidded and slipped, only to fall right in front of them.

Rasputin lay flat on his back in the snow, blood seeping from his arm, blood seeping from his chest. His eyes were wide open.

‘Mamma,’ he whispered as he caught sight of Militza staring down at him. ‘You came.’

‘Shoot him!’ she said quite calmly to Rayner.

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you! Now!’

Rayner whipped his British standard issue Webley .455 calibre pistol out of his pocket and aimed it at the man lying in the snow. There was nowhere for Rasputin to run, nowhere for him to hide; he was cornered like a rat and about to die like a dog. Rayner’s hand shook and Rasputin whimpered.

‘Shoot!’ shouted Militza. ‘Shoot him! In the name of the Tsar and all of Russia – kill him!’

Rayner took aim. He held his breath, closed his eyes. He squeezed the trigger. And then… he couldn’t. This was cold blood. An assassination. An execution. His shoulder relaxed for a second. Immediately, Militza grabbed the gun. Rasputin’s eyes narrowed as he stared at her.

‘Naughty girl,’ he whispered, just as she shot him straight through the forehead.

The screaming was unbearable as it ricocheted about the courtyard. Militza dropped the gun in the snow and covered her ears. The noise in her head and the pain in her heart were unbearable. The crows that had been nestling in the trees behind launched off their branches at the sound of the gun and dived and bombed and screeched around her. She covered her head as she slowly sank into the snow.

It was done.

‘Good shot!’ shouted Yusupov, as he ran over to join them. ‘You?’ He stopped in his tracks, looking stunned. ‘Militza Nikolayevna, you shot him! You shot Rasputin!’ He smiled broadly as he looked down at her in the snow. ‘Good shot, good shot indeed!’ He patted her on the shoulder and then turned to look at the body lying on the ground. ‘Do you think he’s dead? Oswald?’ he looked quizzically at his friend. ‘You’re a man of the world, you know about these things.’

‘He looks dead to me,’ replied Rayner, his voice quiet.

Felix slowly leant down and ripped the golden cross from around Rasputin’s neck. ‘He was no man of God. He was the Devil himself. The Devil incarnate. Harder to kill than a rabid dog. Twice we tried – and twice he rose again! For you, Madame,’ said Felix, handing Militza the cross. ‘A small trophy for your pains.’

‘Drown him,’ mumbled Militza.

‘But he’s dead,’ said Rayner.

‘Drown him!’ Militza was still kneeling in the snow. ‘Drown him.’

‘There’s no need,’ said Prince Dmitry Pavlovich, who was standing behind Prince Yusupov. He moved forward and kicked the body for good measure, his young, fresh face beaming with delight. ‘He’s dead. The beast is dead, all right! Long live the Tsar! Long live Russia!’

‘Drown him,’ said Militza as slowly and as emphatically as her quivering lips would allow.

‘Just to make sure?’ queried Rayner.

‘No,’ said Stana, looking down at her sister. ‘You cannot canonize a drowned man. You can’t make a saint out of those who perish in water. A soul drowned in water can never come back. So do as my sister says – drown him.’

‘Where?’ asked Prince Dmitry, looking at Yusupov.

‘I don’t know,’ said Felix, who suddenly shivered and retched dramatically. ‘I can’t bear to look at him. He’s the Devil. Satan himself. Even now, lying there…’

In silence they all stared at the corpse, unable to take in what they had done. They were an unlikely group of murderers – two Grand Duchesses, two princes, a deputy from the Duma, a doctor, an army officer, accompanied by a British secret agent.

Suddenly, there was a quiet thud and Militza looked to her left to see that Prince Yusupov had passed out cold in the snow. It was all clearly too much for him. It was going to be up to her to think of a way of disposing of the body.

It would be dawn soon. People would start to ask questions and Rasputin’s followers would be knocking on his door. Even the secret police might start searching the drinking dens of Novaya Derevnaya, looking for their charge. There was no time, no opportunity for depth of deception or any finesse.

‘Throw him into the canal,’ suggested Rayner. ‘The ice should hold the body for a few days; that way we can clear our tracks.’

‘But where?’ asked Prince Dmitry, looking from one to the other.

‘Petrovsky Bridge,’ suggested Militza. ‘It is not far and the water is deep.’

‘We can use my car,’ offered Vladimir Purishkevich.

So first they bound Rasputin’s hands and feet with a cord they found in the back of Purishkevich’s car. Next, they took Rasputin’s fur coat out of the basement salon where, earlier in the evening, he’d been fed cakes laced with cyanide and wrapped him in it. And then finally, in a panic, they tore a blue velvet curtain off the wall in the Yusupov Palace and rolled him up inside it. They placed the body into the boot of Vladimir Purishkevich’s car and drove slowly, constantly stalling, with the body bouncing around, to Bolshoi Petrovsky Bridge. Prince Yusupov, who was not deemed well enough to come in the car, retired to the palace in the company of his valet. Militza also insisted that Rayner take Stana home; her car had been waiting on the corner for some two hours now and was surely about to attract attention. Frankly, the fewer involved in the disposal of the body the better.

It was still dark when they finally arrived at the bridge. The moon was hiding its face, almost as if it did not want to bear witness to the heinous crime going on below. However, the wind was up, blowing a dank and bitter cold off the Neva.

Militza and Prince Dmitry watched as Purishkevich, Lieutenant Sergei Mikhailovich Sukhotin and Dr Stanislaus de Lazovert, struggled to throw the corpse over the side of the bridge into the Malaya Nevka below. They removed the blue curtain but still they strained and pulled and tugged. Eventually, finally, they raised the body high enough to mount the barrier and they pushed it off the wooden railings into the icy water below. As the body fell through the ice, Sukhotin realized a galosh was missing. He scoured the bridge and, finding it, picked it up and, in a panic, he hurled it the air. It landed on the bank, missing the river entirely.

The body refused to sink. Prince Dmitry had forgotten to load the corpse with the heavy chains he’d packed into the car. So it floated. The fine fur billowed out in the freezing cold water, like some sort of sail.

Militza stared. Rasputin looked as if he were sleeping, his eyes closed as he lay on the surface.

‘God forgive me,’ said Militza. ‘Forgive me, Grisha.’

Her hand was shaking over her mouth as she stood, shivering, on the bridge. The relief, the loss, the horror of what she had done was so overwhelming that she ceased to feel anything. It was all too much to take in. She was numb. She looked down into the deep, dark water. Through the ripples, the cord around Rasputin’s wrists appeared to loosen, his pale grey eyes gently opened and stared up at her as he sank, finally weighed down by his fur coat, his right hand moving slowly up and down, making the sign of a cross.