‘I do remember that,’ said Eusden. ‘The Tsar’s missing millions.’

‘Yeah. Well, pounds in the bank or pie in the sky, we’ll never know now. The case was chucked out. Anna’s lawyers appealed. The appeal was suspended because of the outbreak of war. The court papers ended up in the Soviet sector, which effectively blocked all progress. Her lawyers eventually decided to sue the Romanovs for recognition. The chosen defendant was a great-niece of the Tsarina, Barbara, Duchess of Mecklenburg, who happened to live in Germany, making her a convenient target. Hamburg suited all parties as a venue. The case opened in January 1958 and dragged on, thanks to various delays, adjournments and illnesses, for three years. In the end, Anna’s claim was dismissed. Her lawyers appealed – again. Another three years passed waiting for the appeal to be heard and yet another three actually hearing it. It was finally turned down in February 1967. All this time, Anna had been leading the life of an eccentric recluse in a chalet in the Black Forest with half a dozen dogs and two dozen cats. She never came to court. One of the judges went to question her during the first trial, little good that it did him. A year after losing the appeal, she shoved off to the States and married an oddball well-wisher called Jack Manahan, Professor of East European history at the University of Virginia. She spent the rest of her days as Mrs Manahan in Charlottesville, Virginia. A lot of people, including her husband, went on believing she was Anastasia. But the DNA experts tell us she was actually a Polish factory worker called Franziska Schanzkowska, who exploited a physical resemblance to Anastasia to reinvent herself as a Russian princess – with astonishing success.’

‘Did Clem ever say whether he thought she was genuine or not?’ asked Eusden.

‘Not that I can recall.’

‘Do you think he told the judges what he thought?’

‘Must have, I suppose. If they asked him. But we don’t know what they asked him.’ Marty squinted across at the court building. ‘Or what he said in reply.’

They retreated through the smart shopping streets of the city centre to the Jungfernstieg, on the shores of Hamburg’s answer to Lake Geneva: the Binnenalster. Marty steered Eusden into the imposing Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten for mid-morning coffee and cake. He was still making up for his enforced fast, he explained, as he forked down a gooey slice of torte. ‘Besides,’ he went on, ‘this is where Anna’s legal team put up prize witnesses and either licked their wounds or toasted their minor triumphs. I don’t know if Clem stayed here. Depends who was paying his bill, I suppose.’

‘And who might’ve been?’ asked Eusden.

‘Good question. According to Werner, his father said Nydahl’s testimony was called for after the Danish government turned down a request from the court for access to a document known as the Zahle Dossier. Herluf Zahle was Danish ambassador to Germany when Anna first came forward. King Christian instructed him to establish whether she really was Anastasia. I imagine he was trying to decide what line to take on his aunt Dagmar’s behalf if there was any substance to the claim. Anyway, Zahle seemed to think Anna was the real deal at first. He covered all her medical expenses – she was seriously ill with TB for several years – and helped her out on numerous occasions. He only backed off when the Schanzkowska allegation surfaced in a Berlin newspaper and even then he made it obvious he didn’t believe it. The dossier contained all his papers relating to the case. Crucial material, which the Danes held back. Who knows why? Nydahl was a friend of Zahle’s and the courtier charged with looking after Dagmar’s interests. He must have known what was in the dossier. Hence the attempt to get him to testify. But he pleaded illness, which may have been genuine, since he died the following year. Clem was his chosen substitute. A bizarre choice on the face of it. Strings must have been pulled somewhere, though, to ensure he was heard in camera. Clem obviously was the natural choice. For reasons you and I can only guess at. Werner, on the other hand, will probably know what those reasons were, as soon as he has the letters translated. Unless he’s done a crash course in Danish on the sly and can read them himself, which I wouldn’t put past him.’

‘Who’s he meeting off the plane at Frankfurt?’

‘An eccentric American millionaire who’s distantly related to Jack Manahan and is prepared to pay through the schnozzle for evidence that Jack’s wife was the true-blue Anastasia.’

‘But she can’t have been. The DNA evidence ruled that out. You said so yourself.’

‘Ah, Richard, you always were too much of a determinist.’ Marty gave him a benignly superior smile. ‘She can be whatever people persuade themselves to believe she was. The DNA technique they used back in the early nineteen nineties has been discredited now, anyway. It produced far too many false positives and false negatives for comfort. Besides, why trust DNA results which you and I, and everyone else bar a couple of boffins in lab coats, haven’t a hope of understanding over hard physical, visible evidence? Anna Anderson was the wrong height, shoe size, ear size, to be Franziska Schanzkowska, but right for Anastasia. She had a scar on her shoulder exactly where Anastasia had a mole removed. She had the same deformity of the big toe as Anastasia and her sisters. Besides, everyone who met her agreed she was an aristocrat, a difficult trick for a Polish factory worker to pull off. And let’s not get into all the things she knew that only Anastasia could know. A graphologist testified at the trial that there was no doubt Anna’s handwriting and Anastasia’s were those of the same person.’

‘Fine. But why didn’t they have the same DNA?’

‘How should I know? The excavation of the remains at Ekaterinburg was a suspect business anyway. The authorities had obviously known where they were for years – if not the whole time since 1918 – before they chose to dig them up. And DNA only proved they were Romanovs. It was down to pathologists to say which Romanovs. The Tsar and his family, obviously. But unfortunately they weren’t all there. The Tsarevich and one of his sisters were missing, almost certainly the youngest sister, Anastasia, despite attempts by the Russians to prove it was Maria. As for Anna Anderson’s DNA, they extracted that from an intestine sample they found at the hospital in Charlottesville where she’d been operated on a few years before her death. Nobody could say it was exactly tamper-proof.’

‘What are you suggesting, Marty? The KGB crept into the hospital and planted a false sample?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything. I only got involved in this because…’ Marty broke off. He groaned and pressed one hand to his forehead.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. I… get these pains from time to time.’ He grimaced. ‘They’ll get worse, apparently, as the tumour grows. It could affect my vision, hearing, speech. It could trigger fits and God knows what. Oh, there’s a lot to look forward to.’

‘Listen, Marty, I-’

‘It’s all right, Richard. It really is all right. I’m dying. But not today. Or tomorrow. Probably not this week. Or even next.’

‘Even so…’

‘Yes? Even so what?’

‘Why don’t we forget Werner and his machinations? You’ve got your pay-off. Why not spend it… having fun?’

‘It’s spoken for.’ Marty smiled. ‘A debt to a friend.’

‘Forget that too.’

‘OK. If you insist.’

‘I do.’

The smile broadened. ‘We’ll see. But Werner? No. I can’t let that pass.’

‘What can you do?’

‘Try to put a spoke in his wheel.’

‘How?’

‘I’ve got an idea. And you promised to help me, as I recall. It’s time we were moving.’

‘Where’re we going?’

‘A department store, to start with. I can’t be seen with you in that suit, Richard. It’s bad for my image. Besides, I assume you’ll want to put some clean clothes on eventually. After that, the station. We have a train to catch.’