The romanov code, p.18
The Romanov Code, page 18
‘Jews being blamed for the execution of a major religious figure. Who’d have thought it?’
He ignores my dig and says, ‘The Church’s relationship with the Romanovs is fascinating. The house where the murders occurred was demolished and a place of worship known as “the Church on the Blood” was built on the site. It’s said its altar stands over the exact area that saw the horror unfold.’
Maughan has become more animated and less guarded, so I probe a little deeper. ‘You said you were drawn to the Romanovs as religious figures initially. Where did your interest spread to?’
‘Their incarceration! Their riches! Their treasure! And what on earth happened to it? I read everything I could find. You know how passionate one can be in one’s youth. I interviewed experts and all kinds of academics but . . .’
‘What is it?’
‘Certain points just didn’t add up!’ He’s talking faster now, warming to his subject. ‘There were lies so obvious that it seemed strange no one had questioned them before.’
‘Give me an example.’
‘The incredible amount of jewels the Romanovs kept at Ipatiev House. Pounds and pounds of diamonds were sewn into the girls’ undergarments alone! But the entire family was constantly being checked. Their clothes searched. Their every move scrutinised. How on earth could the guards miss all that wealth?’
‘There’s an obvious answer.’ It’s the solution both Frank and I arrived at separately, and hinted at, when we spoke to Sophie and Stacey in the theatre cafe.
‘Well, maybe I’m being dense, Mr Novak. But how did the Romanovs somehow make their treasure invisible?’
‘They didn’t. Yakov Yurovsky, the man in charge of Ipatiev House, must have known about the abundance of riches. Anything else is unthinkable. So the question is, why didn’t he seize the jewels? I can only think of one reason.’
Maughan impatiently gestures for me to continue.
‘Why do we give anything up, or turn anything down? Ever? Isn’t it obvious? He wanted something more valuable.’
‘What could possibly be more valuable than crown jewels?’
‘Power.’
Maughan gawps at me. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The Romanov Code.’
The priest smiles nervously. ‘I don’t follow . . .’ He needlessly uses the tip of his right index finger to push his glasses further up his nose.
‘What do you know about the Romanov Code?’ I ask.
‘I’ve no idea about any . . .’ He begins. Checks himself. ‘Actually, I suppose you could call it the Romanov Code, or the Code of the Romanovs. It’s the code they lived by. A set of principles. All morally sound. I suspect they liked to think they were defined by it.’
‘So it wasn’t a physical thing?’
‘The code? Oh, no. Unless you mean . . . There’s a legend. That the Romanovs created a book. A single book. In it were notes stretching back centuries. The thoughts of everyone from Ivan the Terrible, their formidable ancestor, through to Peter the Great, Catherine the Great, Alexander I and even Nicholas II. It’s said this book encapsulated the true Romanov Code. But more than that, it not only defined it, in the eyes of believers, it physically encapsulated it.’
‘Would it be valuable?’
‘Oh, utterly priceless. If it existed. Which it doesn’t.’
I stand and walk to his side. ‘Can you be absolutely sure about that?’
As if talking to himself, he mutters, ‘If it did, it would be held by the Court.’ And then louder, with more certainty, ‘It’s just another enigma!’
‘Go on.’
But he remains still, captivated by the statuette’s face. ‘It’s bewitching, isn’t it?’
‘The Madonna or the mystery?’
‘Both!’ He turns to me. Smiles. ‘Let me get you a drink, Mr Novak. Coffee? Tea?’
‘Tea. Well, a large G&T if there’s one going spare.’
Another smile. ‘I’m sure I can rustle one up.’ He disappears for about five minutes and returns carrying a highball glass. ‘Bombay Sapphire. That OK for you?’
‘I’ll force it down. Cheers.’ I take the drink. Raise it in his direction. ‘Your very good health.’
‘Mr Novak, it’s been many years since I spoke about all this. Maybe too many years.’
‘We can remedy that right now.’
‘Yes . . . Yes, I know.’
‘Reverend, I don’t pretend to know Ekaterina terribly well. But this case . . . I can sense there’s more to it than an excitable individual who thinks she’s in reach of some kind of priceless haul.’
‘You’re absolutely right.’
I sip my drink. Take a gamble with the kind of question that could have him ushering me out of the front door in seconds. ‘Ekaterina said you worked with a man called Taras.’
‘Really?’
‘The kind of work that isn’t entirely above board. On the Continent, I believe.’
I can see he’s wavering, torn between truth and the more familiar sanctuary of fabrication.
I prod him a little with, ‘You might have known Taras as Mr Pitkin.’
Maughan smiles at this, and this tiny show of affection serves as an admission – and he knows it. He purses his lips. I wait. He takes a deep breath and says, ‘Do you know why they called him that?’
‘The Norman Wisdom character. Clumsy. Gauche. But likeable. A hero in Eastern Bloc countries.’
Maughan is remembering now. ‘Clumsy, gauche, likeable. Yes, that sums him up. He was a nice chap. But they also called him Mr Pitkin because Wisdom was a character from a world that wasn’t theirs, whom they nevertheless accepted.’
I’m baffled by this last observation and say, ‘Go on.’
‘Are you here to blackmail me, Mr Novak?’
‘If I wanted to blackmail a priest, you’d have to get to the back of the queue. Taras was involved with the transportation of some very high-end artefacts. Missing Romanov treasure. Did you know that?’
Maughan sits down. ‘He occasionally used to imply it. Strongly. I didn’t know if he was being frank or boastful. Until the end. I believed him then.’
I take another sip of my drink, but he’s dried up. ‘The end? Just before he was killed, you mean?’
The mention alone distresses him slightly, but he says, ‘He knew it was coming, of course. Shortly before he died, I met him at his house in Rome . . .’
I want to interrupt. He could afford a house in Rome? But I choose to let the priest continue.
‘He welcomed me in. We drank schnapps. As I left, he said, It was fun, wasn’t it? I just laughed. At the time, I thought he’d meant the shots. Anyway, he gave me a gift and told me I’d been a good friend. Which I had. Not to be immodest, but I’d saved his life when the Carabinieri got a little over-zealous in Turin. Anyway, the very next day . . .’
The very next day, clumsy, gauche and likeable Mr Pitkin was found hanging by his throat above the Tiber.
‘What was the gift?’
Maughan nods to the circular table and the equine figurine. ‘It was a joke. You see, he always said I was a dark horse. And before the cogs start turning and wild theories start forming – it’s worthless. I must confess I wondered if it was part of a lost trove worth millions. But it’s painted alabaster, about thirty years old. Austrian. I’ve had it valued several times, just in case . . . No, if it had been worth anything, we’d be having this conversation in a villa on the South of France.’
‘Or, more likely, you’d have been found dangling under a bridge, just like Taras. Look, you and I need the truth about what happened all those years ago because it’s casting a shadow across both our lives. Let’s try to work together.’
Maughan is gazing at the black stallion and seems to make up his mind. He turns to me. ‘Agreed. I’ve already phoned Martin. Whilst I was mixing your drink. He’s looking after the coffee morning. And I’ve got a rather fine bottle of Château Bélair-Monange in the cellar. It’s not a 2017, but it should be very drinkable. What say I open her up and you and I can talk, man-to-man?’
‘I say fabulous.’
‘Good! Good!’ He starts heading to the door. ‘You quickly finish your G&T so it’s expunged from your taste buds. We really should do the Bélair-Monange justice. Take a seat. I’ll be right back. And Mr Novak . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Bless you.’
I sit down at the oakwood table. Glance at the alabaster horse. Sip my drink. He’s added way too much tonic, but I can still taste the sweet, peppery notes of the Bombay Sapphire. I wonder why Ekaterina wanted me to find this man and why she hadn’t mentioned that she’d known him before they’d worked together for the Russian network. I wonder why Maughan was – and is – suddenly willing to open up. And I also wonder why people insist on drowning perfectly good gin with too much tonic.
I rub my eyes. It’s been a long day. I feel weary. In need of a reviver. And fast. I drain my G&T.
A peal of bells rings out. So close, I assume it’s from Maughan’s church. A celebratory chiming. The sound of Sunday afternoons in sleepy English villages.
Sleepy.
I’m too sleepy. Far too sleepy. Heavy and fatigued. I rub my eyes again. Actually, it’s not been a long day. It’s still early. I shouldn’t feel anywhere near as—
I glance into my empty glass. Sniff it. There’s a slight metallic tang that I didn’t notice as I gulped the bloody thing down. As I place the glass on the table, my hand blurs. Whatever he put into my drink, it’s acting fast. I can barely keep my eyes open and my limbs are like lead. I put my palms on the tabletop, preparing to stand. But before I can, I spot a reflection in the glass.
An individual moving quickly towards me, right arm aloft.
I try to move around and spin out of my chair, but I’m too slow. I turn a little. Enough to see Thomas Maughan closing in on me. He’s brandishing the statuette of the weeping Virgin Mary and even as I try to yell, ‘No!’ he brings it crashing down onto my skull.
-60-
Having seen Maughan’s reflection, I’d normally have been able to dodge his onslaught with ease, but with some kind of poison coursing through my veins, my body is refusing to co-operate. I manage to move a little to one side, so although the Madonna clunks into my skull, it’s only a glancing blow.
But still, the statuette shatters and I’m knocked from my chair. My shoulder hits the oakwood table and sends it crashing over. The figurine of the horse, that symbol of friendship given in another time, smashes as it hits the floor.
I land on the carpet and roll over, trying to push myself up and onto my feet. But the priest is nimble and vicious. Circles me. Delivers a right-footed kick to the side of my head that sends me sprawling.
My arms feel so heavy, but I have to find a way to—
Maughan brings the heel of his shoe down onto the side of my head, grunting with exertion as he repeats the attack twice more. Now he stands back. I look up at him.
The Reverend Thomas Maughan is wearing the traditional garb of a Church of England vicar. A white smock over a black cassock. There’s a dark tippet – the long linen scarf-like item of clothing – around his neck and, of course, an ivory-white dog collar circles his throat. He also wears a silver crucifix on a heavy chain. It’s large and ostentatious, with the body of Christ on the cross, gazing forlornly down, as if he’s looking at me with a degree of sympathy.
Maughan is breathing heavily and there’s a sheen of perspiration across his boyish face, now rendered a deep, angry red. His assault has taken it out of him, but adrenaline floods through his system and he’s fired up. All in.
I manage to gasp, ‘Don’t do this! Don’t cross this line, reverend.’
‘I crossed the line a long time ago, Novak.’
He straddles me, effectively sitting on my chest, his knees either side of my torso. I feel his weight pressing down and although I struggle, I’m far too feeble to shift him a single inch. He removes his tippet. Coils one end around his left palm. Repeats the process on his right hand and then loops it around my throat.
I try to stop him, clawing at the linen, but he’s strong, confident and resolved to finish this thing. He pulls the material sharply so it digs tight into my windpipe. I can’t breathe. I manage to plead, ‘Please . . .’
But looking at this crimson priest, I know there is no chance of mercy. Either I overcome him or I die, and whatever he drugged me with has left my body hopelessly weak. I try to strike Maughan’s face and see my clenched fist barely makes any impact worth a damn.
My head throbs from the kicking and lack of oxygen. My vision blurs.
I turn my face to the left. On the carpet, inches from my eyes, I see the weeping Virgin Mary. Half her face is missing. I reach for the statuette . . .
Maughan shouts, ‘Bastard!’ and, relaxing his grip on the tippet, seizes the Madonna and tosses her to one side, far out of my reach. My fingers try to pull the material from around my throat, but the priest is too swift. Too committed. He tightens the ligature. Now I can’t fight him. I’m just fighting for breath. My skull pounds and my vision gives me nothing but blurred, sliding colours.
I feel myself slipping away, and as if he senses my powerlessness and defeat, Maughan urges me to, ‘Get this over with . . . Just die . . .’
-61-
Will Hay’s Story
London, England. July, 1938
The great British film star, Mr Will Hay, walked into the cinema foyer and paused to acknowledge the cheers and applause of the circle of people, dressed in fancy frocks and dinner suits, who were clustered by the box offices to greet him.
He raised his hand in thanks and as the welcome died down, he cleared his throat, and despite the fact it was a little after seven in the evening, he said, ‘Morning, boys!’
The expression was something of a catchphrase for Hay and his audience rewarded it with a further smattering of applause. He stepped forward and was introduced to the venue’s owner.
Hay’s manager said, ‘This is Mr Leonard Alexander,’ and the two men shook hands.
‘Thank you so much for agreeing to officially open my picture palace, Mr Hay. I’m one of your biggest fans. I saw Oh, Mr Porter! five times. I saw Windbag the Sailor three times.’
The actor smiled and Leonard anticipated a vaguely amusing comeback – Oh, really? And what was wrong with Windbag? But Hay merely thanked him politely.
‘And, Mr Hay, this is my son, George.’
A tall, expectant man in his early twenties stepped forward and began to wring the film star’s hand. ‘It’s an honour to meet you.’
‘You’re very kind,’ Hay replied, gently pulling his arm away. ‘And how many times have you seen Oh, Mr Porter!?’
‘Just the once, sir. But I’ve read Through My Telescope many times. It opened my eyes to the stars.’
‘Oh, I see!’ He sounded impressed. ‘You saw Porter once and read my book quite often?’ Hay looked to Leonard. ‘There’s hope for this young man!’
‘There is indeed!’
Hay leant into George. ‘Thank you, my boy.’ As he was shepherded away to meet other people, he patted him on the arm and said, ‘If we were all astronomers, there’d be no more war.’
-62-
My vision melts into an inky darkness, so when my eyes slip shut, it makes little difference. My lungs feel like they’re on fire, but I have no moves left to escape my plight. I’m too feeble. He’s too strong.
I can still hear Maughan’s voice, and even that’s becoming muffled. His words . . .
‘Think on why we were placed on God’s good Earth . . .’
But . . . Those aren’t being spoken at this moment. They’re from the sermon, when he’d looked down on me from his pulpit and lectured his ‘flock’ about kindness and love.
‘There will be times when the devil has you by the throat!’
His pious proclamation. I feel the rage surge through me.
‘But you must remain strong in your resolve!’
Yeah. Dead right. I really must, padre.
He won’t win. I open my eyes. Not today.
‘We must reach out to our Lord . . .’
I grab his crucifix with my right hand and snatch it to one side. The chain breaks and I’m left holding the cross, gripping it by the vertical section above the head of Christ.
Maughan knows immediately what I’m trying to do. Or, at least, he thinks he does. I hesitate.
He squeals, ‘No!’ and gives into instinct, glancing to his left to see what I’m about to do with his crucifix. That’s the movement I paused for.
I swing the cross in a fast, tight arc, stabbing it deep into his right eye. He screams and falls back, but I don’t relinquish my hold on the crucifix. Finally, the noose of fabric around my throat loosens and as I gulp in fast, deep breaths, I manage to raise my torso slightly. Maughan half sees this and shuffles forward, lunging for his cross.
But this time I’m too swift. Too committed.
With a yell of primal effort, I stab him hard in the left eye, driving the crucifix deep into his orbit, until the horizontal beam of the cross rams into his frontal bone, preventing me from forcing it any further into his head.
I start to push him with my left hand, expecting resistance, but he topples backwards and lands on the carpet with a heavy thud. I know immediately that he’s dead.
For several seconds, I simply lie on the floor, choking at first. Gulping in air. Gradually, my breathing returns to normal and I unwind the tippet from my throat, drag my body over to the oakwood table and use it to haul myself to my feet.
I stand over the eyeless corpse of the Reverend Thomas Maughan. An inordinate amount of blood, pumped through his severed retinal veins and arteries, pours from his orbits and gathers in the carpet. The shattered Madonna lies beside his face.
And it’s only now that I notice it again. The peal of church bells, still ringing joyfully through the cold, blithe afternoon.
