The Price of Power

“At present,” he said, “the papers are fortunately in entire ignorance of the matter. I have been very careful that nothing shall leak out, for the story would, of course, be a grand one for the sensational Press. The public, however, does not know whose identity is hidden beneath the name of Gottorp, and no reporter dreams that a Russian Grand Duchess has been living incognita in Brunswick Square,” he added with a smile. “The Criminal Investigation Department have agreed with me that it would be unwise for a single word to leak out regarding the disappearance. Of course they incline to the theory of a secret lover – but – ”

“You suspect young Drury – eh?” I interrupted quickly.

“I hardly know what theory to form,” he said with a puzzled air: “while the shopgirl in Eastbourne describes the appearance of the man’s back as exactly similar to that of Mr Drury, yet I cannot believe that he would willingly play us such a trick. I know him quite well, and I believe him to be a very honest, upright, straightforward young fellow.”

“He knows nothing of Her Highness’s real identity?” I asked anxiously, as we still strolled down towards the sea.

“Has no suspicion whatever of it. He believes Miss Gottorp to be the daughter of a Berlin brewer who died and left her a fortune. No,” he went on, “I detect in this affair one of Markoff’s clever plots. She probably believed that she was to meet young Drury, and adopted that ruse to pause and speak with him – but – !”

“But what?” I asked, turning and looking into his grave face, revealed by the light of a shop window.

“Well – she was led into a trap,” he said. “Decoyed away into one of the side streets, perhaps – and then – well, who knows what might have happened?”

“You have searched Eastbourne, I suppose?”

“The Criminal Investigation Department are doing so,” he said. “I am making a perfectly independent inquiry.”

“You have reported nothing yet to Petersburg – eh?”

“Not a word. What can I say? I have asked Miss West to refrain from uttering a syllable – also the Finlays have promised entire secrecy.”

“There is a motive in her disappearance, Hartwig,” I said. “What is it?”

“Ah! That’s just it, Mr Trewinnard,” he replied. “Her Highness had no motive whatever to disappear. Mr Drury was always welcome at Brunswick Square, for Miss West entirely approved of him. Besides, his presence had prevented other flirtations. Therefore there was no reason that there should have been any clandestine meeting in Eastbourne.”

“Then the only other suggestion is that of treachery.”

“Exactly. And that is the correct one – depend upon it.”

“If she has fallen into Markoff’s hands then she may be already dead!” I gasped, staring at him. “If so, the secret will remain a secret for ever!”

For a moment the great detective remained silent. Then slowly he said:

“To tell the truth, that is exactly what I fear. Yes, I will try and suppress the horrible apprehension. It is too terrible.”

“Danilovitch is unscrupulous,” I said, “and he hates us.”

“No doubt he does. He fears us, yet – ” and he paused. “Yet a most curious point is the fact that Her Highness deliberately remained behind and sent Dmitri on, in order to be allowed opportunity to escape his vigilance.”

“All cleverly planned by her enemies,” I declared. “She was misled, and fell into some very cunningly-baited trap, without a doubt. Do you believe she is still in Eastbourne?”

“No.”

“Neither do I,” was my assertion. “She went to London, no doubt, for there she would be easily concealed – if death has not already overtaken her – as it has overtaken poor Madame de Rosen.”

“I trust not,” he said very thoughtfully. Then he added: “I have been thinking whether we might not again approach Danilovitch?”

“He is our enemy and hers. He will give us no satisfaction,” I said. “Certainly, whatever plot suggested by Markoff arose in his fertile brain. And his plots usually have the same result – the death of the victim. It may be so in this case,” I added reflectively; “but I sincerely trust not.”

Hartwig drew a long breath. His face clouded.

“Remember,” he said, “it is to Markoff’s advantage – indeed to him her death means the suppression of some disgraceful truth. If she lives – then his fall is imminent. I have foreseen this all along, hence my constant precaution, which, alas! was relaxed last Monday, because I had to go to London to consult the Ambassador. They evidently were aware of that.”

I explained the failure of my errand, whereat he drew a long breath and said:

“It almost seems, Mr Trewinnard, that our enemies have secured the advantage of us, after all. I really feel they have.”

“You fear that the trap into which Her Highness has fallen is a fatal one – eh?” I asked, glancing at him quickly.

“What can I reply?” he said in a low tone. “Every inquiry I can devise is in progress. All the ports are watched, and observation is kept night and day upon the house in Lower Clapton from a house opposite, which Matthews, of New Scotland Yard, has taken for the purpose. Her Highness has not been there – up to now. Markoff is in Petersburg.”

The great detective – the man whose cleverness in the detection of crime was perhaps unequalled in Europe – drew a long, thoughtful face as he halted with me beneath a street-lamp.

People hurried past us, ignorant of the momentous question we were discussing.

“Where is Drury?” I asked suddenly.

“Ah! That is yet another point,” answered Hartwig. “He, too, is missing – he has disappeared!”

Chapter Twenty Seven.

At Tzarskoie-Selo

Just before eleven o’clock that night, accompanied by Hartwig, I called at Richard Drury’s cosy artistic flat in Albemarle Street, and in answer to my questions his valet, a tall, thin-faced young man, informed me that his master was not at home.

“I understand that you have had no news of him since last Monday?” I said. “The fact is, this gentleman is a detective, and we are endeavouring to elucidate the mystery of Mr Drury’s disappearance.”

The valet recognised Hartwig as having called before, and invited us into the small bachelor sitting-room, over the mantelpiece of which were many photographs of its owner’s friends – the majority being of the opposite sex.

“Well, sir, it’s a complete mystery,” the man replied. “My master slept here on Sunday night, and left for the country on Monday afternoon. He had a directors’ meeting at Westminster on Tuesday, and told me that he should be back at midday. But he has never returned. That’s all. They sent round from the office to know if he was in town, and of course I told them that he had not come back.”

“Have there been any callers lately?” I asked. “Has a lady been here?”

“Only one lady ever calls, sir – a foreign lady named Gottorp.”

“And has she been here lately?” I inquired quickly. “She called on the Friday, and they went out together to lunch at Jules’s. She often calls. She’s a very nice young lady, sir.”

“She hasn’t called since Monday?” I asked.

“No, sir. A stranger – a foreigner – called on Tuesday afternoon and inquired for Mr Drury.”

“A foreigner!” I exclaimed. “Who was he? Describe him.”

“Oh! he was a dark, middle-aged man, dressed in a shabby brown suit. He wanted to see Mr Drury very particularly.”

Hartwig and I exchanged glances. Was the caller an agent of Secret Police.

“What did he say when you told him of your master’s absence?”

“He seemed rather puzzled, and went away expressing his intention of calling again.”

“He was a stranger?”

“I’d never seen him before, sir.”

“And this Miss Gottorp – is your master very attached to her?”

“He worships her, as the sayin’ is, sir,” replied the man frankly. “She lives down at Brighton, and he spends half his time there on her account.”

“You say your master left London for the country on Monday afternoon. What was his destination?”

“Ah, I don’t know. I only know he drove to Victoria, but whether he left by the South Eastern or the South Coast line is a mystery.”

I had already formed a theory that Drury had travelled down to Eastbourne and had met his well-beloved outside the shop in Terminus Road. Afterwards both had disappeared! My amazement was mingled with annoyance and chagrin. Natalia had, alas! too little regard for the convenances. She had acted foolishly, with that recklessness which had always characterised her and had already scandalised the Imperial Family. Now it had resulted in her becoming victim of some dastardly plot, the exact nature of which was not yet apparent.

For half an hour we both questioned Drury’s valet, but could learn little of further interest. Therefore we left, and strolled along Piccadilly as far as St. James’s Club, where, until a late hour, we sat discussing the sensational affair.

Was it an elopement, or had they both fallen victims of some cleverly-conceived trap in which we detected the sinister hand of His Excellency General Serge Markoff?

Next day I returned to Brighton and closely questioned Miss West, the maid Davey, and the puzzled Dmitri. I saw the manager of the hotel where Drury was in the habit of staying, and, discovering that Drury’s friend, Doctor Ingram, lived in Gower Street, I resumed to London and that same night succeeded in running him to earth.

He was perfectly frank.

“Dick has disappeared as suddenly as if the earth has swallowed him,” he declared. “I can’t make it out, especially as he told me he had a most important directors’ meeting last Tuesday, and that he must travel up to Greenock on Thursday to be present at the launch of a new cruiser which his firm is building for the Admiralty. He certainly would have kept those two appointments had he been free to do so.”

“You knew Miss Gottorp, I believe?” I asked of the quiet-mannered, studious young man in gold-rimmed glasses.

“Quite well. Dick’s man told me yesterday that the young lady has also disappeared,” he said. “It is really most extraordinary. I can’t make it out. Dick is not the kind of man to elope, you know. He’s too straightforward and honourable. Besides, he was always made most welcome at Brunswick Square – though, between ourselves, the young lady though inexpressibly charming, was always a very great mystery to me. I went with Dick twice to her house, and on each occasion saw men, foreigners they seemed, lurking about the hall. They eyed one suspiciously, and I did not like to visit her on that account.”

I pretended ignorance, but could see that he held Natalia in some suspicion. Indeed, he half hinted that for aught they knew, the pretty young lady might be some clever foreign adventuress.

At that I laughed heartily. What would he think if I spoke the truth?

Next day I put into the personal columns of several of the London newspapers an advertisement which read:

“Gottorp. – Have returned: very anxious; write club – Uncle Colin.”

Then for four days I waited for a reply, visiting the club a dozen times each day, but all in vain.

I called at Chesham House one afternoon and had a chat with His Excellency the Russian Ambassador. He was unaware of Her Imperial Highness’s disappearance, and I did not inform him. I wanted to know what knowledge he possessed, and whether Markoff was still in Petersburg. I discovered that he knew nothing, and that at that moment the Chief of Secret Police was with the Emperor at the military manoeuvres in progress on that great plain which stretches from the town of Ivanovo across to the western bank of the broad Volga.

Hartwig was ever active, night and day, but no trace could we find of the missing couple. Drury’s friends, on their part, were making inquiry in every direction, but all to no avail. The pair had entirely disappeared.

The house of the conspirators in Lower Clapton was being watched night and day, but as far as it could be observed there was little or no activity in that quarter. Danilovitch was still living there in retirement, going out only after dark, and though he was always shadowed it could not be found that he ever called at any other place than a little shop kept by a Russian cigarette-maker in Dean Street, Soho, and a small eight-roomed villa in North Finchley, where lived a compatriot named Felix Sasonoff, the London correspondent of one of the Petersburg daily newspapers.

Our warning had, it seemed, had its effect. Much as we desired to approach the mysterious head of the so-called Revolutionary Organisation – the man known as “The One,” but whose identity was veiled in mystery – we dared not do so, knowing that he was our bitterest enemy.

One morning, in despair at obtaining no trace of the missing pair, I resolved to travel to Petersburg and there make inquiry. I realised that I must inform the Emperor, even at risk of his displeasure, for, after all, I had been compelled by my journey to Siberia to relax my vigilance, though I had left the little madcap under Hartwig’s protection.

What if they had actually eloped! Alas! I knew too well the light manner in which Natalia regarded the conventions of old-fashioned Mother Grundy. Indeed, it had often seemed her delight to commit breaches of the Imperial etiquette and to cause horror in her family.

Yet surely she would never commit such an unpardonable offence as to elope with Richard Drury!

Again, was she already dead? That was, I confess, my greatest fear, knowing well the desperate cunning of Serge Markoff, and all that her decease meant to him.

So, with sudden resolve, I took the Nord Express once more back across Europe, and four days later found myself again in my old room at the Embassy, where Stoyanovitch brought me a command to audience from the Emperor.

How can I adequately describe the interview, which took place in a spacious room in the Palace of Tzarskoie-Selo.

“So your friend Madame de Rosen was unfortunately dead before you reached Yakutsk,” remarked His Majesty gravely, standing near the window in a brilliant uniform covered with glittering decorations, for he had just returned from an official function. “I heard of it,” he added. “The Governor-General Vorontzoff reported to me by telegraph. Indeed, Trewinnard, I had frequent reports of your progress. I am sorry you undertook such a journey all in vain.”

“I beg of Your Majesty’s clemency towards the dead woman’s daughter Luba,” I asked.

But he only made a gesture of impatience, saying:

“I have already demanded a report on the whole case. Until that comes, I regret I cannot act. Vorontzoff will see that the girl is not sent farther north, and no doubt she will be well treated.”

In a few brief words I described some of the scenes I had witnessed on the Great Post Road, but the Emperor only sighed heavily and replied:

“I regret it, I tell you. But how can I control the loyal Cossacks sent to escort those who have made attempts upon my life? I admit most freely that the exile system is wrong, cruel – perhaps inhuman. Yet how can it be altered?”

“If Your Majesty makes searching inquiry, he will find some terrible injustices committed in the name of the law.”

“In confidence, I tell you, I am having secret inquiry made in certain quarters,” he replied. “And, Trewinnard, I wish you, if you will, to make out for me a full and confidential report on your journey, and I will then have all your allegations investigated.”

I thanked him. Though an autocrat, he was yet a humane and just ruler – when he was allowed to exercise justice, which, unfortunately, was but seldom.

“My journey had a tragic sequel in Yakutsk, Sire,” I said presently, “and upon my return to England I was met with still another misfortune – a misfortune upon which I desire to consult Your Imperial Majesty.”

“What?” he asked, opening his eyes widely. “A further misfortune?”

“I regret to be compelled to report that her Imperial Highness the Grand Duchess Natalia has disappeared,” I said in a low voice.

His dark, heavy brows narrowed, his cheeks went pale, and his lips compressed.

“Disappeared!” he gasped. “What do you mean? Describe this latest escapade of hers – for I suppose it is some ridiculous freak or other?”

“I fear not, Sire,” was my reply. Then, having described to him the facts as I have related them here to you, my reader, omitting, of course, all reference to Richard Drury, I added: “What I fear is that Her Highness has fallen victim to some revolutionary plot.”

“Why? What motive can the revolutionary party have in making an attempt upon her – a mere giddy girl?”

“The fame motive which incited the attempt in Petersburg, in which her lamented father lost his life,” was my quiet reply.

His Majesty touched a bell, and in answer Stoyanovitch appeared upon the threshold and saluted.

“If General Markoff is still here I desire to see him immediately.”

The Captain saluted, backed out and withdrew.

I held my breath. This was, indeed, a misfortune. I had no wish that Markoff should know of the inquiries I was instituting.

“May I venture to make a request of Your Majesty?” I asked in a low, uncertain voice.

“What is it?” he asked with quick irritation.

“That General Markoff shall be allowed to remain in ignorance of Her Highness’s disappearance?”

“Why?” asked the Emperor, looking across at me in surprise.

“Because – well, because, for certain reasons, I believe secrecy at present to be the best course,” I replied somewhat lamely.

“Nonsense!” was his abrupt response. “Natalia is missing. You suspect that she has fallen victim to some conspiracy. Therefore Markoff must know, and our Secret Police must investigate. Markoff knows of every plot as soon as it is conceived. His organisation is marvellous. He will probably know something. Fortunately, he had only just left me on your arrival.”

His Excellency probably left the Emperor’s presence because he did not wish to meet me face to face.

Again I tried to impress upon His Majesty that, as Hartwig had commenced an investigation in England, the matter might be left to him. But he only replied:

“Hartwig is head of the criminal police. He therefore has little, if any, knowledge of the revolutionaries. No, Trewinnard. This is essentially a matter for Markoff.”

I bit my lips, for next second the white-enamelled steel door of that bomb-proof room in which we were standing was thrown open, and a chamberlain announced:

“His Excellency General Serge Markoff!”

Chapter Twenty Eight.

The Emperor’s Favourite

For a second the famous chief of Secret Police turned his cunning, steel-blue eyes upon mine and bowed slightly, after making obeisance to His Majesty.

“Why, I believed, Mr Trewinnard, that you were still in Siberia!” he said with a crafty smile. Though my bitterest enemy, he always feigned the greatest friendliness.

“Trewinnard has just revealed a very painful and serious fact, Markoff,” exclaimed the Emperor, in a deep, earnest voice. “Her Highness the Grand Duchess Natalia has disappeared.”

The General gave no sign of surprise.

“It has already been reported to us,” was his calm answer. “I have not reported it, in turn, to Your Majesty, fearing to cause undue alarm. Both here and in England we are instituting every possible inquiry.”

“Another plot,” I remarked, with considerable sarcasm, I fear.

“Probably,” was His Excellency’s reply, as he turned to His Imperial Master, and in that fawning voice of his, added: “Your Majesty may rest assured that if Her Highness be alive she will be found, wherever she may be.”

Hatred – hatred most intense – arose within my heart as I glanced at the sinister face of the favourite before me, the man who had deliberately ordered the commission of that crime which had resulted in the death of the Emperor’s brother, the Grand Duke Nicholas. To his orders had been due that exciting episode in which I had so nearly lost my life in Siberia; at his orders, too, poor Marya de Rosen had been deliberately sent to her grave; and at his orders had been planned the conspiracy against the Grand Duchess which Danilo Danilovitch had intended to carry into execution, and would no doubt have done, had he not been prevented by Hartwig’s boldness.

I longed to turn and denounce him before his Imperial Master. Indeed, hot, angry words were upon my lips, but I suppressed them. No! The time was not yet ripe. Natalia herself had promised to make the revelations, and to her I must leave them.

I must find her – and then.

“Ah!” exclaimed His Majesty, well pleased. “I knew that you would be already informed, Markoff. You know everything. Nothing which affects my family ever escapes you.”

“I hope not, Sire. I trust I may ever be permitted to display my loyalty and gratitude for the confidence which Your Majesty sees fit to repose in me.”

“To your astuteness, Markoff, I have owed my life a score of times,” the Emperor declared. “I have already acknowledged your devoted services. Now make haste and discover the whereabouts of my harebrained little niece, Tattie, for the little witch is utterly incorrigible.”

Markoff, pale and hard-faced, was silent for a moment. Then with a strange expression upon his grey, deceitful countenance he said:

“Perhaps I should inform Your Majesty of one point which to-day was reported to us from England – namely, that it is believed that Her Highness has fled with – well, with a lover – a certain young Englishman.”

“A lover!” roared the Emperor, his face instantly white with anger. “Another lover! Who is he, pray?”

“His name is Richard Drury,” His Excellency replied.

“Then the girl has created an open scandal! The English and French newspapers will get hold of it, and we shall have detailed accounts of the elopement – eh?” he cried excitedly. “This, Markoff, is really too much!” Then turning to me he asked: “What do you know of this young Drury? Tell me, Trewinnard.”

“Very little, Sire, except that he is her friend, and that he is in ignorance of her true station.”

“But are they in love with each other?” he demanded in a hard voice. “Have you neglected my instructions and allowed clandestine meetings – eh?”

“Unfortunately my journey across Siberia prevented my exercising due vigilance,” I faltered. “Yet she gave me her word of honour that she would form no male attachment.”

“Bosh!” he cried angrily, as he crossed the room. “No girl can resist falling in love with a man if he is good-looking and a gentleman – at least, no girl of Tattie’s high spirits and disregard for the convenances. You were a fool, Trewinnard, to accept the girl’s word.”

“I believed in the honour of a lady,” I said in mild reproach, “and especially as the lady was a Romanoff.”

“The Romanoff women are as prone to flirtation as any commoner of the same sex,” he declared hastily. “Markoff knows of more than one scandal which has had to be faced and crushed out during the last five years. But this fellow Drury,” he added impatiently, “who is he?”

In a few brief sentences I told him what I knew concerning him.

“You think they have fallen in love?”

“I am fully convinced of it, Sire.”

“Therefore they may have eloped! Tattie’s disappearance may have no connection with any revolutionary plot – eh?”

“It may not. But upon that point I am quite undecided,” was my reply.

“Let me hear your views, Markoff,” said the Emperor sharply.

“I believe that Her Highness has fallen the victim of a plot,” was his quick reply. “The man Drury may have shared the same fate.”

“Fate!” he echoed. “Do you anticipate, then, that the girl is dead?”

“Alas, Sire! If she has fallen into the hands of the revolutionists, then without doubt she is dead,” was the cunning official’s reply.

Was he revealing to his Imperial Master a fact that he knew? Was he preparing the Emperor for the receipt of bad news?

I glanced at his grey, coarse, sphinx-like countenance, and felt convinced that such was the case. Had she, after all, fallen a victim of his craft and cunning, and were her lips sealed for ever?

I stood there staring at the pair, the Emperor and his all-powerful favourite, like a man in a dream. Suddenly I roused myself with the determination that I would leave no stone unturned to unmask this man and reveal him in his true light to the Sovereign who had trusted him so complacently, and had been so ingeniously blinded and misled by this arch-adventurer, to whose evil machinations the death of so many innocent persons were due.