Death on the Nevskii Prospekt

4

Lord Francis Powerscourt decided he had spent too much of his time in Russia listening to people. Listening to the Ambassador and the cynical Secretary at the Embassy, listening to the translations of his young interpreter from policemen and bureaucrats in the Interior Ministry. Now, the day after Epiphany, they were in a rather different waiting room of a very different section of the Russian bureaucracy, waiting for another interview, this time with a senior official of the Russian Foreign Ministry.

The Interior Ministry, Powerscourt had decided, looked rather like one of those vast mental hospitals the authorities built round the fringes of London towards the end of the previous century, enormous complexes where the mad could get lost finding their way back to their own ward, and where a man could forget what few wits he might have left trying to work out how to find the front door. The Foreign Ministry, however, looked like a French Second Empire hotel that had once known better times, a resort that had lost its raison d’etre perhaps, Vichy without the water, Bath without the spa. The place had certainly once had considerable stylistic ambitions, but now the gilt was falling off the mirrors and the imitation Watteaus on the walls had lost whatever lustre they once possessed, the dancers and the musicians exhausted. Mikhail had told him on the way that while the people in the Interior Ministry saw it as their mission to pacify the interior of Russia, the mission of the people in the Foreign Service was to join the foreigners, preferably somewhere rather warmer than St Petersburg, as quickly as possible. Some of the diplomats, Powerscourt was told, spent almost their entire lives abroad, only returning at the end of their careers to advise on the foreign policy of a country they no longer knew and whose nature they were not now equipped to understand. Combined with the abilities of the Tsar, Mikhail had said savagely, this was a system guaranteed to produce one of the most incompetent foreign policies in the world. Hence, Mikhail shrugged an enormous shrug, the unbelievably stupid decision to go to war with Japan.

A flunkey in a stained frock coat told them in bad French that they were expected inside. The Under Secretary, a man who had risen effortlessly through the hurdles of Deputy and Assistant, greeted them warmly.

‘Ivan Tropinin at your service, gentlemen. Please sit down.’

Mikhail had said the man would probably speak French. France after all was the favourite posting of most of these would-be foreigners. It was astonishing, he said, how many little Russian diplomatic missions were peppered along the south coast from Biarritz to the Riviera to Nice and the Italian border. But Tropinin was speaking in his native tongue. Powerscourt wondered if it was to throw him off the scent, whatever the scent might be.

‘Please, Lord Powerscourt, your reputation precedes you, we are delighted to see you here.’ Tropinin ushered them on to two very decorative French chairs, as uncomfortable as only the French knew how to make them. ‘I know you are in St Petersburg about the affair of Mr Martin.’ Tropinin was a small thin man with a tiny beard and very delicate hands which he inspected from time to time in case they were going coarse.

Powerscourt nodded. Mikhail was looking intently at the fading portrait of a semi-naked lady on the opposite wall. Perhaps these badges of status came to those who reached the rank of Under Secretary. He wondered what happened when you were promoted above the level of Under Secretary. Maybe there were no clothes at all then.

‘I am most grateful,’ Powerscourt began, ‘for your time. I know how busy you all must be here in the ministry.’

Tropinin laughed. He leaned forward and looked Powerscourt firmly in the eye. ‘You will have to talk to many people in this city, my English friend. More than you would like, I suspect. Most of them will be lying to you. I am not going to tell you lies.’ Powerscourt had a sudden vision of men from Crete and people telling lies and long undergraduate arguments in his rooms in Cambridge. ‘I am going to tell you the truth. Why? Because I like England and I like Englishmen. I have spent some time in your country, Lord Powerscourt. They took me to some of the great houses like your Blenheim Palace. To a Russian, of course, it is scarcely bigger than a hunting lodge, but it is very fine. The park is beautiful. And I know the father and the family of your young translator here. I have known them for years.’ The Under Secretary nodded vigorously. Powerscourt wondered if there was some secret code at work, some private language of bribery or obligation he did not understand.

‘I am most grateful for your assistance,’ Powerscourt put in with a smile, keen to get back to business.

‘Of course,’ the diplomat said, checking his hands once more. ‘Let me come to the point.’ Tropinin paused and looked at his two visitors.

‘It is a very little thing I can tell you, but believe me when I tell you it is true. Many people will try to tell you that your Mr Martin was not here a couple of weeks ago, that his body was not found by the Nevskii Prospekt, that as there is no body there can be no crime and as there was no Mr Martin, Lord Powerscourt, there is nothing for you to investigate, and as there is nothing for you to investigate you may as well go home and leave St Petersburg to its fate. This is what some people want you to believe.’

‘Are you saying that that is not the truth?’

‘I tell you, Lord Powerscourt, he was here, he was killed here. That is all I can say.’

‘Did you see him, Mr Tropinin? Did you have a meeting with him as you are now having one with us?’

The little man held his hand up. ‘I told you I had one thing to say. That was it, I cannot tell you anything else.’

‘Do you know why Mr Martin came to St Petersburg? Can you tell us that much?’

‘I have nothing further to say.’

‘Do you know if he succeeded in his mission, whatever that was, Mr Tropinin?’ This was Powerscourt’s last throw.

‘I cannot help you. I have nothing more to say.’

Lord Francis Powerscourt was standing on the roof of the Stroganov Palace at twelve o’clock on Sunday morning, wearing an enormous borrowed coat in dark grey that brushed the ground as he walked. He liked to think it had belonged to some military man in the distant past, a campaigning Shaporov perhaps, commanding the artillery in battles long ago and far away. On his head he wore a thick Shaporov Russian hat. Beside him, Mikhail was wearing a similar coat and had two very expensive pairs of binoculars wrapped round his neck. By his side, wearing the warmest coat and gloves that London’s Jermyn Street could provide, stood Rupert de Chassiron, Secretary to the British Embassy, who had been invited to share the view and the spectacle from the top of the palace. The three men had come to watch the great march of workers that was going to set out from different points of the city and converge on Palace Square, site of the Tsar’s residence, the Winter Palace, where their leader, Father Georgy Gapon, was to hand in a proclamation to the Tsar. While they waited for the marchers to appear, Mikhail told Powerscourt about his recruitment of Natasha and her news from the palace about the boredom and the rituals and the vanishing eggs and the sick little boy.

Below them, diminutive people strolled along the Nevskii Prospekt in their Sunday best. Late worshippers were going in to a service at the Kazan Cathedral to their right, a favourite place for prayer and meditation of the Empress Alexandra. The trams rolled on their tracks towards the Alexander Nevskii Monastery. On their immediate left was the Moyka river and beyond that the great expanse of Palace Square flanked by the General Staff Building, the Hermitage and the Winter Palace, the winter sun glistening off its golden domes. Across the frozen Neva, slightly to the north, the forbidding Fortress of Peter and Paul, burial ground of the Romanovs and prison fortress for their enemies. Further round to the north-west, Vasilevsky Island, home to the university and cabbage soup. To the north-east behind the Finland station, the Vyborg side, home to many factories and unimaginable squalor. To the south-west, beyond the Yussupov Palace and the Mariinsky Theatre, lay the Narva Gates, built to commemorate victory over Napoleon, and behind them the Putilov factories where the current wave of strikes began. From all these different districts the great columns of marching people would be snaking their way towards the heart of St Petersburg.

Today, both Mikhail and de Chassiron had told Powerscourt, might be a key date in Russian history.

‘Today could change everything,’ de Chassiron said, waving a hand expansively across the city spread out in front of them, glad to be able to embrace historical change in person. ‘Autocracy could be banished. The will of the people could bring about a constitution. Of course it depends whether the Tsar pays any attention to them. He’s perfectly capable of ignoring the whole thing.’ And with that he screwed his monocle back into his left eye and continued his close inspection of the fashionable ladies down below.

‘I believe that the Tsar is not even in St Petersburg at the moment,’ said Mikhail Shaporov, whose connections with the imperial household were better than most, ‘and I don’t believe he is intending to come here at all today. Quite what the marchers will do when they hand their petition in to the Chief of Protocol rather than the Tsar of All the Russias, I cannot tell you. I dread to think how cross it could make them, unless, of course,’ Mikhail peered over towards the Winter Palace as if the Chief of Protocol might be rehearsing his welcome even now, ‘he manages to convince them that the Tsar is inside and will consider their point of view.’

‘How do you know that, about the Tsar not being here today?’ De Chassiron was on the scent of the source like a bloodhound.

‘I can’t tell you that, I’m afraid,’ said Mikhail cheerfully, ‘but believe me when I say it is totally accurate.’

‘Can I ask you a question, Mikhail?’ said Powerscourt. ‘This palace here, the one we’re standing on, it belongs to one of your cousins, you say?’

‘It does,’ said Mikhail. ‘My mother came from a very large family so I think we are related to half the aristocracy in the city. My father complains that you cannot drink tea in the Yacht Club without falling over three or four relations, all of them asking you for money.’

Powerscourt saw, to his enormous delight, that the mother Shaporov would have to make the acquaintance of Lady Lucy as quickly as possible. They could start comparing notes on numbers of second cousins and impoverished younger sons.

‘And was the Beef Stroganov invented here? That dish with beef and onions and mushrooms and sour cream and so on? Was it so called because the original chef was employed in this palace?’

‘It was named after a General Pavel Alexandrovich Stroganov, of the family of this palace,’ said Mikhail. ‘That must have been about twenty-five years ago. It has made my father very sad.’

‘Why is that?’

‘My father is very competitive. You will see what I mean when you meet him. “Why should this useless family of Stroganov have a dish named after them”, he said, “when they have not done anything for a hundred years except ride their horses and sleep with other people’s wives and drink their vodka? We have done lots of things. We are rich. Why should there not be a Veal Shaporov or something like that?”’

The young man shook his head. ‘It’s all passed now, the obsession for a recipe that would bear the family name. But for a while it was bad, very bad. We had new cooks coming all the time as the old ones whose new recipes did not find favour were thrown out. I was quite young, so I missed out on most of these strange dishes. There was roast chicken with rhubarb and peaches, I remember. Caviar with chestnut and dill sauce. Christ!’

The marchers were intending to meet in Palace Square at two o’clock. In the side streets down below Powerscourt could see groups of soldiers, rubbing their hands together to keep warm, rifles slung across their backs. Some distance away, over by the Admiralty, he could see the cavalry trotting slowly along in perfect formation. What this city needs today, he said to himself, is not soldiers or cavalry but a properly trained detachment of the Metropolitan Police, led by officers with experience in controlling large crowds.

Mikhail was glancing through a roughly printed paper.

‘They’ve written a proclamation, gentlemen, a letter to the Tsar. Would you like to hear some of it?’

Dim memories of great petitions in English history floated across Powerscourt’s brain. The Chartists, hadn’t they marched to London bringing some great petition with innumerable signatures asking for reform? Hadn’t there been a Petition of Right from the Lords and Commons to the King in 1628 that pointed the way to the English Civil War? Not a good omen for the Tsar, Powerscourt thought, King Charles the First in his impeccable white shirt being led to the scaffold outside the Banqueting House in Whitehall.

‘I’d love to hear it, Mikhail,’ he said, raising his binoculars to his eyes and staring out to the south.

‘“A Most Humble and Loyal Address of the Workers of St Petersburg Intended for Presentation to His Majesty on Sunday at two o’clock on the Winter Palace Square,”’ Mikhail began. ‘“Sire: We, the workers and inhabitants of St Petersburg, our wives, our children, and our aged, helpless parents, come to Thee, O Sire, to seek justice and protection. We are impoverished; we are oppressed, overburdened with excessive toil, contemptuously treated. We are not even recognized as human beings, but are treated like slaves who must suffer their bitter fate in silence and without complaint. And we have suffered, but even so we are being further (and further) pushed into the slough of poverty, arbitrariness and ignorance. We are suffocating in despotism and lawlessness. O Sire, we have no strength left, and our endurance is at an end. We have reached that frightful moment when death is better than the prolongation of our unbearable sufferings.”’

Way off in the distance Powerscourt thought he could hear singing. He strained his head towards the noise but nothing was clear.

‘Christ,’ said de Chassiron, peering at the Russian characters over Mikhail’s shoulder, ‘I shouldn’t think anybody’s talked to the Tsar in that tone of voice in his entire life. I shouldn’t think even his bloody wife talks to him like that. What do you reckon, Mikhail?’

‘I’m sure you’re right, Mr de Chassiron,’ said Mikhail tactfully, his eyes skimming further sections of the proclamation. ‘I suspect the great ruler would be furious if he ever read this.’

‘I wonder if it isn’t always the same question,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Why this great march now? Why today? Are things much worse now than they were before? Much worse than the day before yesterday or last month? If marches and proclamations today, why not last year? Perhaps you’d better translate a bit more, Mikhail.’

‘“And so we have left our work,”’ Mikhail was frowning slightly as he spoke, as if the gap between his life and those described here was almost too great to cross, ‘“and told our employers that we will not go back to it until they have agreed to our demands. Our first request was that our employers discuss our needs with us. But they refused, they would not allow us the right to talk about our needs, because the law does not recognize such a right for us. Our requests also seemed to them to be illegal: reducing the hours of work to eight per day; drawing up a schedule of wage rates for our work along with us and with our agreement; investigating our disputes with the lower management of the factories; increasing the wages of unskilled workers and women to one rouble per day; abolishing overtime; treating us with attention and without abuse.”’

Powerscourt thought you could have taken the language and the sentiments and applied them to any industrial dispute in any country in Europe. The poor and the working classes of Birmingham or Bologna or Berlin would feel at home with this proclamation. Truly, Peter the Great’s ambition to make Russia European had been realized, but not in ways he would have welcomed. Carried in by subversive pamphlets posted from overseas, brought in by hand by the more daring or least known revolutionaries, maybe even hidden in secret compartments or lining the bottoms of hollow suitcases in the trains and ferries that linked Russia to the West, the seditious thoughts of Europe had come to Peter’s capital as surely as the great columns and pilasters of his baroque architects two centuries before.

‘Look, Lord Powerscourt!’ Mikhail shouted. ‘Down there to the south! My God, there’s thousands of them!’

Staring through his binoculars Powerscourt could see a great column, led by a priest in a long white cassock carrying a crucifix. He was surrounded by a primitive bodyguard. At the front, just behind the man of God, there marched two young men, one with a portrait of the Tsar, the other with a huge icon of the Virgin. Behind them was a large white banner with the words ‘Soldiers, do not shoot at the people!’ A new sound rang out to join the singing. The church bells were ringing to bless people on the way to meet their Tsar.

‘That’s the Russian National Anthem they’re singing, Lord Powerscourt.’ Up there on the roof Mikhail gave his own special version in an attractive tenor voice.

‘God save the noble Tsar!

Long may he live, in power,

In happiness,

In peace to reign!

Dread of his enemies,

Faith’s sure defender,

God save the Tsar!

Faith’s sure defender,

God save the Tsar!

Faith’s sure defender,

God save the Tsar!’

‘God knows why you have to repeat the last bit three times, gentlemen,’ Mikhail apologized for the reprise, ‘but people get very cross if you don’t.’

‘It’s not that different from our own National Anthem, actually,’ said Powerscourt. ‘God, faith, death to the enemies, all the usual stuff.’ De Chassiron was staring through his binoculars at the great column that snaked its way forward behind the priest. Many of them carried their children with them, cradling the little ones in their arms, the fathers holding them on their shoulders for a better view. The old were at the back, shuffling slowly along the ice. They walked with an air of great purpose, as if on this day they walked with destiny. Now Mikhail was tugging his arm again and pointing to the other side of the river. Another vast army from the Petrograd district was approaching the Troitsky Bridge that would bring them very close to Palace Square itself. Further east again the people of Vyborg, behind the Finland station, were also approaching the river. Powerscourt found himself wondering how many of the marchers could be locked up inside the Peter and Paul Fortress. The church bells were ringing out all over the city now for the hour of one o’clock, sixty short minutes before all the marchers were due to arrive in Palace Square. Down below them a group of students, dressed in black from head to foot, were advancing very slowly, taking it in turns to read from the proclamation.

‘My God, Powerscourt,’ Mikhail was bright with excitement, ‘they’re not mincing their words, the people who wrote this proclamation. They’ve dropped all the weasel words and all the weasel sentiments. They’re asking the Tsar for the vote. The vote! People have asked for it before but not tens and tens of thousands of them, all heading for the Winter Palace!’ He began translating again:

‘“Let there be here capitalist and worker, official, priest, doctor, teacher: let them all, whoever they are, elect their representatives. Let everyone be equal and free in their right to vote, and to that end decree that the elections to the constituent assembly be carried out under universal, secret and equal suffrage.”’ Mikhail stared at Powerscourt. ‘Assemblies, votes for everyone, not just the rich, I reckon the Winter Palace will fall down if that petition gets anywhere near it.’

Powerscourt was thinking that these Russian radicals were asking for a wider franchise than that applying in his own country, supposedly a cradle and mother of democracy.

‘Do we know anything about that priest? The one leading the column towards the Narva Gates?’ asked Powerscourt.

De Chassiron laughed bitterly. ‘I have spent quite a lot of time investigating this man, Powerscourt. Forgive me, Mikhail, if I sound unsympathetic to some of your fellow countrymen. It does not apply to you or your family.’ He peered over the balcony, small sections of plaster falling off the parapet as he leant forward to inspect the students beneath. ‘The priest’s name is Gapon, Father Georgy Gapon.’ De Chassiron paused for a moment. ‘Let’s suppose you are the secret police, Powerscourt. You’re quite smart in this country if you’re a secret policeman. After all, some of the time they’re the only thing keeping the imperial family alive. Anyway, you look at all these new factories with their horrible working conditions and their pathetic rates of pay springing up in all the great cities. The lessons from abroad tell you that, at some point, the Russian worker will join a trade union like the German worker or the British worker or the French worker. Fine, you say. Then you have your brainwave. Wouldn’t it be much better, a senior secret policeman called Zubarov thought, if we controlled these trade unions, not the radicals or the revolutionaries or the undesirables. Let’s have Tsarist trade unions without any of the members knowing about it. So lots of these stooges are put in place all over the country briefed to run the trade unions the way the government tells them. Including Father Gapon here in St Petersburg. It’s as if the last French King had not just Danton on his payroll but St Just and possibly Robespierre as well. And what happens? The government gives these Gapons money to set up their union. After a while they go native, or they may go native. They join the opposition. I have reason to believe that our Father Gapon had a meeting with the authorities yesterday but I am sure his heart is with the marchers today. They say he wrote sections of the proclamation after all.’

Down below the student reader changed. A deep bass voice now soared up into the sunlight.

‘What we need are, one: immediate release and return for all those who have suffered for their political and religious beliefs, for strikes and peasant disorders.’

‘Empty the Peter and Paul Fortress,’ Mikhail said to Powerscourt and de Chassiron in wonder, ‘bring all those exiles back from Siberia. It’s unbelievable.’

‘Two: immediate proclamation of liberty and inviolability of the person, freedom of speech, of the press. Three: universal and compulsory education at the state’s expense. Four: equality of all, without exception, before the law.’

Centuries of European protest, of reform movements, of radical parties, of revolutions were distilled into a few pages of Russian and shouted through its capital on a sunny January day. Powerscourt wondered about the dead man, Roderick Martin. Was his death in some way connected to the events of today, or to the causes behind the events? Were there clues to his death down there on the streets, somewhere between the marchers and the military? The column approaching the bridge had burst into song.

‘Oh Holy Spirit, One in Power,

With God who reigns in highest heaven,

Come to our waiting souls this hour

And let thy Heavenly aid be given.’

Powerscourt thought to himself that the demonstrators were going to need all the help they could find, divine or human. He was beginning to feel very fearful about the outcome. The marchers were not going to turn round and go home. Would the authorities allow this vast army into Palace Square? He doubted it.

‘Thou art light of radiant glow

And thou canst fill our souls with cheer.

Come then thy glorious gift bestow

And with thy presence bless us here.’

They heard great shouts from behind them as Father Gapon worked his column into a religious fervour, using the same tactics he had employed at his mass rallies in the days before the march.

‘Do the police and soldiers,’ Gapon bellowed, ‘dare to stop us from passing, comrades?’

‘They do not dare!’ hundreds of voices shouted back.

‘Comrades, it is better for us to die for our demands than live as we have lived till now!’ Gapon again, at full volume.

‘Do you swear to die?’ he shouted at the faithful.

‘We swear!’ Hundreds and hundreds of people raised their hands and made the sign of the cross.

The marchers were much closer now. Peering through their binoculars, the party on the roof could make out individual faces very clearly, their unkempt beards, their dirty hair, the rough clothes and even the calloused hands. Most were wearing white shirts. The colour red had been banned by the march organizers as too provocative. The children, sitting on their fathers’ shoulders, seemed to think they were as safe as they would be at home. Older children climbed up lamp posts for a better view and screamed encouragement to their parents. Father Gapon’s column was probably less than fifteen minutes from Palace Square, the column approaching the Troitsky Bridge a little longer.

Then they heard a different sound. Powerscourt checked his watch. It was twenty past one. At first he did not know what it was but Mikhail had swung round to stare at the marchers from Putilov.

‘Oh, my God! Oh, my God!’ he said, grabbing Powerscourt by the arm and pointing dramatically to the south. He crossed himself three times. ‘It’s the cavalry, Lord Powerscourt! By the Narva Gates! They’re going to charge! The horses’ hooves make a different noise on the ice,’ he went on hopelessly, as if that was going to change what was just about to happen. ‘And look! Forming up behind them at the top end of Narva Square, lines and lines of infantry with their rifles at the ready. There’s going to be a massacre! God help them all! God help Russia!’

Powerscourt remembered for the rest of his life the strange way the events seemed to unfold to his little party up there on the roof of the Stroganov Palace. He remembered people who had nearly drowned telling him about their lives passing before their eyes in slow motion. The initial charge of the cavalry, sabres drawn to slash at their victims, seemed to take about half an hour. He watched in horror through his binoculars as the dragoons hacked at the faces of the marchers. They seemed to prefer the uncovered flesh to the more obstinate resistance of greatcoats and trousers. Soon the blood, bright and fresh, was staining the ice red. Many were killed on the spot, their heads half hacked off, arms almost severed from their trunks, faces mutilated, necks severed. Some of the marchers turned and fled. Others carried on. Powerscourt thought he could just hear the voice of Father Gapon, shouting through the screams, ‘Do you swear to die?’ and the answer, still audible in the midday air, ‘We swear!’ For too many of them, those were the last words they said in their lives. Their last wish was granted. For the infantry, the first rank kneeling in the snow, fired two rounds over the heads of the marchers. Then they lowered their sights. Volley after volley crashed into the protesters. Powerscourt saw one little boy lifted off his father’s shoulders and flung back ten or fifteen feet into the crowd, blood cascading from a great wound in his chest. Powerscourt hoped he was dead. He felt his arm being pummelled and the word ‘bastards’ being shouted over and over again as Mikhail Shaporov wept for the destruction of his city. The commander of the infantry was giving his orders as if he was on parade, ‘Reload! Take Aim! Fire!’ and every volley brought another round of death to the hallowed ground round the Narva Gates. They might have been built to commemorate Napoleon’s defeat in 1812. Today they were present to witness another, less glorious, moment of Russia’s history.

Eventually, when Powerscourt thought he could bear it no longer, the firing ceased. The dead and the dying were lying all over the square. Battalions of crows began circling overhead as if they were unsure what sort of carrion might await them down below. The cavalry, not content with the shattered faces dying on the ground, pursued the marchers as they slouched back towards the working class quarters of the city, their own districts where they might hope to find a place of greater safety. Many fell with wounds across their backs or slashed viciously across the neck to die on the bloodied streets of St Petersburg.

Then it was the turn of the marchers approaching the Troitsky Bridge. Mikhail Shaporov was sobbing uncontrollably now, his hand still clasping Powerscourt’s arm. De Chassiron had gone pale, almost white. This time the military performed their massacre in reverse order. Volley after volley of infantry fire tore into the head of the column, making its way deeper and deeper into the press of men as the first ranks turned and ran or died where they stood. Then, when the march had turned into a rabble of confused and wounded people, some still trying to advance on the doomed mission towards Palace Square, others wishing to flee back to their homes, the cavalry charged, the lancers screaming their hatred as they cut into the flesh and bones of men of a different class. Powerscourt watched through his binoculars as one dragoon slashed at his victim, cutting him open from his eyes to the chin, and then, his teeth clenched in a grin and the hairs of his moustache standing up on his elevated lip, let out a terrible shriek and spat at the dead man as he fell to the ground.

The remnant of the marchers, those not yet bloodied by the Tsar, and the stragglers of the other columns met up on Nevskii Prospekt, and made a last doomed effort to reach Palace Square. A huge body of cavalry and several cannons had been drawn up at the edge to blast or slash any marchers impertinent enough to reach it into eternity. But the crowd, swollen now by students and onlookers, began to push forward once again. Soldiers were ordered to disperse the marchers using whips and the flats of their sabres. When that proved unsuccessful, they began firing once more. Powerscourt watched in horror as a young girl who had climbed on to an iron fence was crucified to it by a hail of bullets. The screams of the wounded and the dying carried up to the roof of the Stroganov Palace. A small boy who had mounted an equestrian statue was hurled into the air by a volley of artillery. Other children were hit and fell from the trees where they had been perching to get a better view. It was twenty to two, just a few short minutes before their intended rendezvous with the Tsar. The great crowds, sullen now and silent, their anger growing, began to trudge home, many of them helping wounded comrades on their way. Only when the dead lay thick on the ground and the shattered stragglers turned to retreat back up the Nevskii Prospekt did the firing cease. The lancers harried them on their way, slashing the faces of any brave or foolhardy enough to press onwards towards the Winter Palace. Powerscourt watched one cavalryman collect a great mass of papers at the end of his lance. Powerscourt had no idea what he was doing until two of his colleagues dragged a dying man towards the paper. The lancers smeared it with his blood. Then they made a hole in the ice of the Neva and thrust the remains of the proclamations down into the swirling waters beneath. The demands for the vote, for freedom of speech, for a constituent assembly, for equality before the law, all the dreams of Father Gapon and his hundred and fifty thousand supporters ended up stuffed down a hole in the river. The ink would have gone long before the proclamations made landfall, if they ever did.

‘They’ll never forgive him for this,’ Mikhail said. ‘Never. As long as this city survives, as long as the last of the marchers survive, as long as their children and grandchildren survive, the people of St Petersburg will remember this day and hate the man who caused all the suffering.’ He was still holding on to Powerscourt. His face was wet with tears.

‘Mikhail,’ said Powerscourt, ‘perhaps we could provide some help for the wounded down below. The palace here must have some bandages, we could bring water, vodka perhaps as a disinfectant, whatever the women in the palace think would be best. But I think we should do it quickly.’

And so, as the afternoon wore on, a small party tried to bring what help they could to the dying and the wounded, an Irish peer, a Russian aristocrat and a fastidious diplomat who cared nothing for his appearance as he tried to bring some comfort to the dying. Powerscourt made himself one promise that afternoon: that, whatever it took, he would get to the bottom of the strange death of Roderick Martin.

That evening, out at the Alexander Palace in his village called Tsarskoe Selo, the Tsar did not disturb his routine for the unfortunate events in his capital. He had his afternoon walk, and tea as usual with his family. Then they all spent a busy half-hour sticking their latest photographs into their albums. That evening after supper he read aloud to them from a book his librarian had ordered specially from London. Every evening when he could, the Tsar read aloud to his wife and children. He had not bothered to tell his family about the terrible events in St Petersburg. Much better, he thought, to take their imaginations to a different country altogether, to the West Country of England, to the strange case involving an enormous dog and Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson and a treacherous bog.

Later that evening there were sporadic disturbances in St Petersburg. Barricades were set up, slogans shouted at the soldiers who continued patrolling the streets. When the workers reached their homes, many of them bleeding to death from their wounds, or carried to their pathetic hovels on makeshift stretchers, they realized the full horror of what had happened. Fathers, husbands, sons, wives, daughters, so many were lost in the massacre. Hope, the hope that had led them on to the streets, the hope that tomorrow might be better than today or yesterday, that hope had died with the blood on the ice. The more perceptive understood that night what else they had lost. Faith in the Tsar, the father of his people, the protector of his flock, the true shepherd of his subjects, all that had gone with the sabres and the bullets and the corpses littering the streets that led to the Winter Palace. A new watchword went out, travelling round the streets behind the Narva Gates where Father Gapon had marched from, to the Vyborg side with its factories and its squalor, to Petrograd and to Vasilevsky Island. Men spoke the slogan only to those they knew they could trust. ‘Death to the Tsar!’ The marchers had already decided what to call this day. They christened it Bloody Sunday. The blood was the blood of their comrades who lost their lives to death on the Nevskii Prospekt.

That evening the writer Maxim Gorky sent a message to the American newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst in New York. ‘St Petersburg, Bloody Sunday, 9th January 1905,’ the message read. ‘The Russian Revolution has begun.’