Watson's Last Case by Ian Alfred Charnock

Author:Ian Alfred Charnock [Charnock, Ian Alfred]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Endeavour Media
Published: 2015-08-24T04:00:00+00:00

II

An hour later a Rolls-Royce emerged from the British Embassy at Petrograd. Instead of a Romanoff eagle on the steering boss there was a brass Union flag. Two other Union flags fluttered on the bonnet as the car, driven by a chauffeur in riding helmet, goggles, driving mask, fur coat and gauntlets and conveying the Tsarevich’s tutor and an eminent Scottish naval surgeon, made its way south on the Tsarkoe Selo road.

Petrograd was ominously quiet. Workers in heavy boots and rough woollen overcoats, peasants in felt boots and coloured padded coats paused to observe its passing. Headscarves flapped in the breeze but their wearers registered no emotion and soon returned to their previous occupations. For the moment they were spent.

As the car drew nearer to Tsarkoe Selo, guards with red armbands began to fill the road. The gates were heavily guarded but when Mr Gibbs spoke up the party was allowed to pass unhindered. Some of the soldiers had the slit eyes and humourless lupine faces of the Asiatic of the Steppes, others the heavy frames and blotchy faces of ex-factory workers. The revolution obviously appealed to more than one race or group.

The car drew up to the steps of the Alexander palace and the small party disembarked. The guards, at first surly, became more respectful when Mr Gibbs addressed them and they saw the flags on the car. Now instead of an absent-minded old Finnish Count with a long beard and moustache, supported by an army of brightly liveried servants there was an army of ex-servants and former factory workers with red armbands, most of whom looked a disgrace to any regiment except one of successful revolutionaries.

The chauffeur looked at his watch. Four o’clock — tea time. The party was directed to the office of the acting commander Colonel Eugene Kobylinsky. He was an imposing figure who walked with a slight limp and he observed something similar in the carriage of the chauffeur. Although only recently installed as commander this twice-wounded veteran of the Eastern Front had done much to shelter the Royal Family from the rude soldiery of their captors. He was a soldier not a politician. He saluted Mr Sidney Gibbs and, when he was introduced, Surgeon James Cambeuil. The chauffeur remained anonymous.

‘You will hurt the Tsarevich, not help him, with all these doctors, Mr Gibbs,’ he said warmly. Neither surgeon nor chauffeur understood the Russian’s words.

Mr Gibbs waited until the guards had closed the doors before he introduced the newcomers. ‘Surgeon James Cambeuil of the British Navy,’ he intoned. The Tsar bowed and the Tsarevich’s companion, the sailor Nagorny, saluted. ‘And may I present our chauffeur . . .’ the tutor continued but putting a finger to his lips and urging silence with a downward gesture of his palm. ‘Tsar Nicholas II of All the Russias.’

The chauffeur removed his helmet, goggles, scarf and driving mask to reveal the double of the displaced monarch. The entire royal retinue let out a gasp except for the Tsar himself who stepped forward and said, ‘Dr Watson, I assumed you had returned to Baker Street.

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