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Authors: David Dickinson
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arranged transport for himself to his palace and for Powerscourt to the British Embassy. They arranged to
meet at the Embassy at nine o’clock the following morning. Powerscourt had made a number of appointments by telegraph before leaving London.
‘Leave your bags here, the porter will take them up.’ The voice was languid but powerful, its owner a beautifully dressed diplomat of some thirty-five years called
Rupert de Chassiron, Chief Secretary to the Embassy. He radiated an effortless charm. From time to time a hand would be despatched on an upward mission to check the status of his hair, which was
beginning to let him down by going thin on top. De Chassiron sported a very expensive-looking monocle which gave him, as intended, an air of great distinction. ‘His Nibs, that’s the
Ambassador to you and me, is off at some charity function with that frightful wife of his. I’m to take you to the feeding station.’
Powerscourt resisted the temptation to ask for further details of the frightful wife. He remembered from his time in South Africa that embassies could become very claustrophobic, always prone to
feud and faction. They were walking past the Alexander Monument, surrounded by the great buildings of the Admiralty and the Hermitage and the Winter Palace, powerful and menacing in the dark.
‘Been here before, Powerscourt? Seen all the stuff?’
‘I came here some years ago with my wife. We saw quite a lot of stuff then.’ So much stuff, he remembered suddenly, that
after four days Lucy could hardly walk and had to spend the next day being ferried round the city in a water taxi.
‘Here we are,’ said the diplomat, ‘they know me here. Booked a private room. Don’t have to eat the Russian food if you don’t want to. Place is called Nadezhda.
Means hope. Always needed in these parts, hope, in as large a helping as you can lay your hands on.’
A nervous young Tatar waiter showed them to their room. There were no windows and the most remarkable feature was the wallpaper. It was dark red with patterns that Powerscourt could only refer
to mentally as vigorous. If you were feeling kind you would have said there were loops and twirls and hoops and arches and circles of every size imaginable. If you were feeling unkind you would
have said the designer was a madman. If you were visually sensitive you might well have felt sick. Powerscourt felt he knew now why this was one of the private rooms.
‘Tatar pattern, Powerscourt,’ said de Chassiron cheerfully. ‘Local traditions not confused down there with six hundred years of design history from Renaissance buildings to
Aubusson tapestries. You want a twirl, you give it a twirl. Not exactly restful, would you say?’ he remarked as a waiter brought him some wine to taste.
‘Excellent, he said, ‘the local rich are very partial to French wine, thank God. This Chablis is first rate.’
As they started on their first course, blinis, Russian pancakes, with caviar, de Chassiron began to talk about Martin.
‘Let me tell you, Powerscourt,’ the diplomat paused briefly to swallow a particularly large mouthful, ‘all I know about Martin. Won’t take long.’ He took a copious
draught of his wine. ‘Came here on a Tuesday. Wouldn’t tell a soul what he was here for, why he had come, what he hoped to achieve. Wouldn’t tell the Ambassador anything, much to
His Nibs’ fury. Went off somewhere, God knows where, didn’t tell a soul where he was going, on Wednesday morning. Next seen dead early on Thursday morning as you know. Not clear if he
died Wednesday night or Thursday morning. Not clear if he died where he was found or somewhere else. That’s it. The last unknown hours of Roderick Martin.’
Powerscourt helped himself to a few more blinis. ‘They’re really very good, these blinis,’ he said. ‘I can tell you one thing, you know one more fact than I do. Apart
from the bit with the Ambassador, that’s all I know too. I don’t know any
meet at the Embassy at nine o’clock the following morning. Powerscourt had made a number of appointments by telegraph before leaving London.
‘Leave your bags here, the porter will take them up.’ The voice was languid but powerful, its owner a beautifully dressed diplomat of some thirty-five years called
Rupert de Chassiron, Chief Secretary to the Embassy. He radiated an effortless charm. From time to time a hand would be despatched on an upward mission to check the status of his hair, which was
beginning to let him down by going thin on top. De Chassiron sported a very expensive-looking monocle which gave him, as intended, an air of great distinction. ‘His Nibs, that’s the
Ambassador to you and me, is off at some charity function with that frightful wife of his. I’m to take you to the feeding station.’
Powerscourt resisted the temptation to ask for further details of the frightful wife. He remembered from his time in South Africa that embassies could become very claustrophobic, always prone to
feud and faction. They were walking past the Alexander Monument, surrounded by the great buildings of the Admiralty and the Hermitage and the Winter Palace, powerful and menacing in the dark.
‘Been here before, Powerscourt? Seen all the stuff?’
‘I came here some years ago with my wife. We saw quite a lot of stuff then.’ So much stuff, he remembered suddenly, that
after four days Lucy could hardly walk and had to spend the next day being ferried round the city in a water taxi.
‘Here we are,’ said the diplomat, ‘they know me here. Booked a private room. Don’t have to eat the Russian food if you don’t want to. Place is called Nadezhda.
Means hope. Always needed in these parts, hope, in as large a helping as you can lay your hands on.’
A nervous young Tatar waiter showed them to their room. There were no windows and the most remarkable feature was the wallpaper. It was dark red with patterns that Powerscourt could only refer
to mentally as vigorous. If you were feeling kind you would have said there were loops and twirls and hoops and arches and circles of every size imaginable. If you were feeling unkind you would
have said the designer was a madman. If you were visually sensitive you might well have felt sick. Powerscourt felt he knew now why this was one of the private rooms.
‘Tatar pattern, Powerscourt,’ said de Chassiron cheerfully. ‘Local traditions not confused down there with six hundred years of design history from Renaissance buildings to
Aubusson tapestries. You want a twirl, you give it a twirl. Not exactly restful, would you say?’ he remarked as a waiter brought him some wine to taste.
‘Excellent, he said, ‘the local rich are very partial to French wine, thank God. This Chablis is first rate.’
As they started on their first course, blinis, Russian pancakes, with caviar, de Chassiron began to talk about Martin.
‘Let me tell you, Powerscourt,’ the diplomat paused briefly to swallow a particularly large mouthful, ‘all I know about Martin. Won’t take long.’ He took a copious
draught of his wine. ‘Came here on a Tuesday. Wouldn’t tell a soul what he was here for, why he had come, what he hoped to achieve. Wouldn’t tell the Ambassador anything, much to
His Nibs’ fury. Went off somewhere, God knows where, didn’t tell a soul where he was going, on Wednesday morning. Next seen dead early on Thursday morning as you know. Not clear if he
died Wednesday night or Thursday morning. Not clear if he died where he was found or somewhere else. That’s it. The last unknown hours of Roderick Martin.’
Powerscourt helped himself to a few more blinis. ‘They’re really very good, these blinis,’ he said. ‘I can tell you one thing, you know one more fact than I do. Apart
from the bit with the Ambassador, that’s all I know too. I don’t know any
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