‘You think the blood could have been in that?’

‘It’s possible, but as you say, that’s only half the story. He would have had to have been bitten by a vampire – and Cain was threatening to kill him with a knife. That doesn’t fit with what you’ve got there.’

‘True enough,’ said Wylie. ‘And I’ve read the whole thing cover to cover. There may, of course, be something in earlier volumes. And I’ve given His Majesty a cursory examination since his return; there is no sign of any physical wound.’

‘Anyway,’ added Aleksei, ‘the tsar’s safe now. Cain is dead and no longer a threat. If His Majesty has been taking quinine, all the better. If not, the blood will eventually leave him anyway.’

Wylie was about to reply, but was silenced by the sound of a horse riding past at high speed. The three men glanced at one another in concern. It was Aleksei who looked out to see what was happening.

Aleksandr tried to sleep. He still felt unwell, but he was certain the worst had passed. If it had been Tarasov’s drug or simply time taking its course, he did not know. Soon they would be on the move again, within two days they would be back at Taganrog, and he would be with Yelizaveta Alekseevna once again.

But the danger had not passed for good. Cain had been only a servant, and his master – his employer, as he had taken such pains to put it – could recruit other servants to do his bidding. Time was not on Aleksandr’s side.

There was a knock at his carriage door.

‘Yes?’ he said.

‘Dispatches, Your Majesty,’ shouted Diebich’s voice.

Aleksandr opened the door and stepped down from the carriage. It was always wise to accept dispatches from the rider in person. The officers who brought them often rode alone over many versts, never to see the face of the dignitary for whom they were carrying such vital documents. For a middle-ranking officer to carry dispatches to the tsar, only in the end to hand them over to one of his aides, did not make a good story to tell his grandchildren. To see His Majesty in person would cheer him no end – and might make him travel a little faster on his next mission.

The fellow was a major. Aleksandr asked his name.

‘Maskov, Your Majesty. They told me at Taganrog that you’d be returning soon, but I thought it best to try to intercept you.’

‘Well done, Major Maskov,’ said Aleksandr, glancing at the various papers. ‘Some of these are most urgent. You’ll be returning with us, I take it?’

‘Yes, Your Majesty.’ The major shifted his stance uncomfortably. He’d obviously been in the saddle for many hours.

‘Can I offer you a place in one of the carriages? You must be exhausted.’

‘That’s all right, Your Majesty. I wouldn’t want to put anybody out.’

‘He can use mine.’ It was Colonel Danilov who spoke. Aleksandr turned to see that he had emerged from his carriage, along with Wylie and Tarasov. ‘I prefer to ride.’

‘Thank you, Danilov. That’s agreed then,’ said the tsar. He began to climb back into his carriage. Ahead he noticed that the final horse had been harnessed to the carriage at the head of the train. ‘I think we’re about to be off,’ he announced. ‘Maskov, I’ll deliver you my responses to these in the morning.’

‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’

Aleksandr closed the carriage door and sat down. Within seconds he felt the wheels begin to turn. He closed his eyes, but the road beneath was too bumpy. He would have dearly loved the blessing of sleep.

On these roads, a carriage was not much more comfortable than a horse. Major Maskov could well understand Colonel Danilov’s eagerness to give up his seat for a junior officer and in other circumstances would have attempted to resist the offer. But this evening he was tired enough that even if he had been on a horse he might have fallen asleep, and thence fallen down on to the road. Dangerous, possibly, but the potential embarrassment, in front of His Majesty the tsar, was of far greater concern.

Maskov was eager to please the tsar, as would be anyone in his position. It was not just the fact that, if the tsar noticed him, it might bring him favour. A soldier who sought promotion would do better to flatter his immediate superiors than one who stood so far above him in the pecking order that he would not even remember Major Maskov in a couple of days. Far more important was that Maskov loved the tsar. It was a realization he had come to back in 1812, on a parade, the first time he had seen Aleksandr in the flesh. He had heard others speak of their love for their leader, but he had thought they were speaking figuratively, of a love for their country that was embodied in the tsar. But one look at that glorious, golden-haired young man had made him think differently. It was not a sexual love – Maskov’s wife and nine children back in Petersburg testified to that – it was almost akin to the love that a monk or a priest felt for God.

Many officers who had felt like Maskov – perhaps not as strongly – had come back from Paris disillusioned, but Maskov had been wounded at Borodino, and had never been to Paris. Today he still regarded Aleksandr in the same way so many had back in 1812. Now his view was in a declining minority, but he knew that he was right and they were wrong. The words ‘Well done, Major Maskov,’ as they issued from the tsar’s lips, had confirmed that to him. How could one so lofty, who still paid so much courtesy to the humblest of his minions, be anything but a great man? Maskov would follow him to the ends of the earth; he would obey any order the tsar cared to issue; would happily die for him.

Major Maskov began to doze, and visions of a battlefield appeared before his eyes. Aleksandr was seated on a white steed with Maskov, now a field marshal, mounted beside him. The sound of a cannon blast ripped the air and Maskov turned to see a cannonball bouncing across the field towards them. He launched himself from his horse and flew through the air in front of his tsar, catching the blow of the cannonball full in his chest as it splintered his ribcage into a dozen bloody fragments. But as he fell to the floor, life ebbing agonizingly from him, he felt Aleksandr’s strong arms cradling him and heard the cherished words, ‘Thank you, Maskov. You saved me.’

Now he was at a banquet, in a privileged position opposite Aleksandr. The tsar was about to drink, but Maskov knew with inescapable certainty that the goblet was poisoned. He reached out and grabbed it from the tsar’s hand, taking down the tainted wine in a single gulp and seeing white smoky vapour rise from his own lips as it seared his throat and corroded his body from within. Now he lay in his coffin as it was lowered slowly into the earth. He knew that he was dead, but he was happy to be dead as he looked up and saw Aleksandr at the head of the mourners, an expression of benevolent wisdom on his face and a tear in his eye. Shovelfuls of earth cascaded on to him, entombing him for ever, but even in death he smiled, hearing through the dirt and soil the muffled words, ‘Thank you, Maskov. You saved me.’

Major Maskov awoke with a start. He was not alone. He had not noticed the carriage come to a halt at any time, but somehow a passenger had got on board. He was stood on the seat opposite, with his back to Maskov, dragging down a bag from the rack above.

‘What the devil?’ muttered Maskov, still half asleep, his hand reaching for his sword.

The figure turned and jumped down to the floor of the carriage. At that very moment the carriage rocked sideways, its wheel bouncing over a large stone. The intruder landed badly, falling to one side and banging his shoulder against the door. Maskov was now on his feet, his sword drawn and at the man’s throat. He glanced back over to the seat and saw that there were already several bags on it, opened, their contents strewn about.

‘What do you think you’re doing, looking through Colonel Danilov’s things?’