‘There’s an A, an N, and smaller – an O, another A, an M and a T and a third A. You could easily miss them. These are crosses for the Tsar Nicholas and his wife, Alexandra, and their five children, aren’t they? Olga, Tatiana, Maria and Anastasia. And this smallest cross here is for the youngest, the boy Alexei, the heir to the throne.’

‘Aged only thirteen when he died.’

‘Are you thinking, sir, that this was done by an eyewitness? Now I see the precision …’

‘Yes. Or by someone who was given a detailed description by an eyewitness.’

‘Sir? May I ask you how you come by all this knowledge? You seem to know more than I’ve managed to glean from the news reports. I’d expect that, but … well, this is a remote place we’re talking about. It’s thought that no one really can be sure what happened to the Romanovs. Their death was announced on three different occasions by the British press in the months before that July. By the time they really died, people were shrugging their shoulders – it sounded like old news. But I was the same age as one of the girls and my nephew was thirteen at the time like little Alexei – I felt for them. I read and was convinced by each account of their massacre. Like the rest of the nation. But, then, I found myself equally convinced by the stories that it was all a smokescreen and that the family had been taken to safety. Who’s to say this isn’t all a pack of lies? That this grave in the forest story isn’t false? A bumbling amateurish set-up. Who could possibly have witnessed this scene? Lived to record it? And got it out of the country?’

‘Witnesses?’ Joe gave a sarcastic grunt. ‘This apparently godforsaken spot was crawling with ’em. One behind every bush. Local villagers, fishermen, White Army officers reconnoitring ahead of their advance on the city, and even the odd British secret service officer. All watching in disbelief as a cut-throat crew of drunken, power-crazed incompetents crashed about noisily in the forest in trucks and bulldozers, trying to bury the evidence of their butchery. And the murdering thugs – can you credit the indiscipline? – met up with their mates in the city afterwards and spent a jolly drunken evening at the smelting works social club bragging and singing about their exploits. Paying for their beer with jewels snatched from the pockets and the underwear of the imperial family. Not much of a secret!’

‘Deliberately, showily incompetent are you saying, sir? A set-up?’

‘One does rather wonder.’ Joe was silent for a moment. ‘I’ve weighed the evidence. A workmanlike investigation was undertaken – is still being pursued, by a man who seems to know his trade – into what they’re calling the “Romanov Murder Case”. We were graciously sent a copy. I rather think it was aimed at foreign consumption, to put an end to speculation. It ended up on my desk. It’s a good report. Credible and professional. I dutifully ploughed my way through it. I have to say, though, they’ve turned up a pitifully small amount in the way of human remains. Not enough to satisfy a British coroner. And all burned and broken beyond recognition. Our man Spilsbury would have laughed them out of court. But what they have dredged up is a truly impressive quantity of Romanov possessions – jewellery, icons, buttons … everything from the Empress’s huge diamond pendant to the Tsarevich’s belt buckle.’

‘I saw pictures of those in the papers.’

‘And again, one wonders. What sort of execution squad in a starving country leaves the contents of an Aladdin’s cave littering the forest floor? But, as so often in a murder inquiry, it was one small detail that trumped all others. One detail that confirms for me that executioners did indeed perform their grisly task in Ekaterinburg … The doctor’s false teeth.’

He smiled to see her puzzlement. ‘Dr Botkin’s upper plate. It was found at the edge of the pit in which they initially stashed the bodies overnight. Yes,’ Joe sighed. ‘My Russian confrères have three crime scenes to work on. Nightmare.’

‘If you were laying a false trail, it would be easy enough to scatter pearls and buttons about, but what kind of mind would think of asking a man to relinquish his false teeth?’

‘Exactly. You have a pretty devious mind yourself, constable, but would it have occurred to you? No. Nor to me. In the quest for verisimilitude, Wentworth, this would be a step too far. And I’ll tell you something else. The last telling detail was the caking of mud between the front teeth, consistent with a grisly scenario where the doctor’s body was dragged by the heels, face down, towards the pit. The teeth scraped along the ground and became detached.’

‘Now there’s a subtlety. A convincing detail, as you say. So – unless some overarching malign intelligence was running this show …’

‘Bacchus was engaged elsewhere at the time. I checked.’

‘… the massacre must be a true bill. They died there and were buried in the forest. Poor creatures! But you mentioned a British presence. How on earth did his majesty’s agents fetch up here in the wilderness?’

‘Ekaterinburg may be a far-off outlandish sort of place, but where there’s money about, and in enormous quantities, there you’ll find international interest also. There’s a whole boulevard taken up by embassies of one sort or another. The British have an outpost there. And we have in our consul, Thomas Preston, and vice-consul, Arthur Thomas, two active, intelligent, Russian-speaking officials of the highest calibre. Bold too, I may add. The vice-consul went along to bang on the table and make demands of the local soviet concerning the security of the Romanov family once too often. He was almost shot on the spot by a gun-toting official. They did what they could and kept the villa where the Romanovs were held under very close surveillance, remaining in touch, telegraph permitting, for as long as possible. And then, of course, we have our man Lockhart out and about and up to mischief. I can say no more. Just accept that we know far more than ever appears in the pages of the London Times.’

‘I’m thinking this is a puzzle of a painting I’ve been handed.’

‘Yes. Intriguing possibilities here … A potentially dangerous work, though. It could cause difficulties for you if it got about.’ Joe began to pad about the room. ‘You see – it’s empty, the grave. It’s been dug but there are no bodies. Not a sign of one. Do you think the artist would have been able to restrain himself from adding a symbolic smear of blood-red staining the oily puddles of the taiga floor if …’ He was muttering almost to himself as he stared again at the painting. ‘I wonder if I could use this to our advantage? The uncertainty?’ He took a few more steps about the room and then: ‘Look here – I think you should leave the picture with me. It was addressed to you, care of Commander Sandilands after all. I’ll put it away in my cupboard.’ He watched as her expression changed. ‘Oh, all right. Let’s agree to wrangle about that later. Come and sit down. I need to hear your female opinion. Let me move your chair round here; you’ll want to take a look at this file with me. Bacchus managed to come up with something he thought we might find useful. It’s all we have on Anna Petrovna. Now, come on, constable! She’s in here … the woman and her motives. We have to get into her skull. We have to understand what she’s up to and why on earth she’s turned assassin. And, most importantly, how much further does she intend to go?’ He opened the file with a flourish. ‘First let’s take a look at her. Not much in the way of photographs but here’s what we have.’

He found two sepia prints and laid them out on the desk. ‘First, a line-up of nurses. Hair concealed under those white headdresses they wear. The imperial ladies, led by the Empress, rolled up their sleeves and did some pretty basic nursing work in military hospitals during the war. The older girls, Olga and Tatiana, worked like Trojans apparently. Tatiana, the sprightlier of the two, inevitably, having led such a sheltered life, fell hopelessly in love with a White Army officer under her care. Her first and only love,’ he added. ‘Bacchus’s gossip … not sure that’ll be in the notes.’