London and St Petersburg

The omnibus rattled onwards, carrying them through the old City, past the great dome of St Paul’s. Joe watched as trees and buildings flashed past, certain that the woman from The Daily Picture would soon get off the bus – but she kept on sitting quite still in her seat, looking straight ahead of her.

In spite of himself, Joe found his heartbeat quickening. They were on the edge of the City now, and the omnibus was carrying them closer and closer to the streets of the East End where he’d grown up. But the once-familiar landmarks now seemed haunted by the ghosts of the past. It was easy to imagine Jem, leering out of the dark, whispering ‘Hello, Joey Boy’ – or Red Hands Randall, reaching out a hand in a red leather glove. And then the Baron himself like a shadow – the phantom of childhood stories, the villain from his nightmares. He tried to shake them away. Jem and Randall were locked up in prison; and the Baron was dead and gone, he reminded himself. These streets did not belong to him anymore.

At long last the woman from The Daily Picture made ready to get off the bus. Perhaps she was catching a train from Liverpool Street station, Joe thought, as he slipped off the omnibus after her.

But instead of turning towards the station, the woman kept on walking at the same measured pace. Night was beginning to fall now, and Joe felt as twitchy as a nervous cat, as he followed her past dirty little shops and down-at-heel inns. She looked completely out of place here in her trim suit and neat hat, her handbag over her arm. Where on earth could she be going? Joe wondered.

She turned off the main street, down a narrow, disreputable-looking alley – past some barefoot kids playing with a grizzled old dog, past a couple of fellows sitting on a doorstep, swigging from a beer bottle. Joe followed at a careful distance, keeping his pace brisk. He didn’t like the way those two fellows were staring at him. He’d got too used to Piccadilly Circus and the West End: this side of town was different. In the distance, he could hear footsteps coming along the alley behind him, and he sped up again, catching a flashing glimpse of the bow on the back of the woman’s hat, as she turned left, and then right, and then left again, and then –

Joe was all alone, at the end of an alley. Nothing lay ahead of him but a blank brick wall. The woman had gone, as though she had vanished into the air. There was nothing left but a skinny cat, nosing around an old dustbin. It was a dead end.

Footsteps were coming towards him, faster and faster. His heart beating more rapidly now, he spun round, to see a figure coming towards him down the alley – blocking his way out.

He’d been a fool, he realised – a wave of horror breaking over him. The whole thing had been a trick: the woman must have known he was following her all along. She’d led him here deliberately, to these back streets of the East End – and now he was cornered and alone.

He took a step back. It was growing dark now, but even in the dim light, he could see the glint of something. He knew at once it was a revolver.

Sophie thought fast as Viktor waved the revolver closer towards her, in a shaking hand. ‘Give them to me – now,’ he said again, a sharp note of desperation sounding in his voice.

He didn’t really know what he was doing, she realised. ‘What are you playing at?’ she demanded sharply, trying to take control of the situation. ‘Who’s put you up to this? Don’t you see that they’ve tricked you?’

But Viktor only came closer, still waving the revolver. ‘I know what you’re trying to do – but you won’t succeed! Your underhand spy tricks won’t work on me!’

Spy tricks? Sophie stared at him in surprise as he went on: ‘I know who you are. I know you’re in St Petersburg undercover – and that Alice Grayson is not your real name. I know you’re a spy, working for the British government. I know that the British are in league with the Tsar and his men – and I know that Orlovs are helping you with your schemes! Gold has told me everything. I know you’re planning to seize the secret weapon and hand it over to the authorities, so they can use it against the masses. To crush the workers, and keep them down!’

So that was what the Fraternitas had told him to convince him to come after her. ‘Viktor, this is all wrong –’ she began, but his speech seemed to have given him new confidence, and he pointed the revolver at her more steadily now.

‘Be quiet!’ he hissed. ‘Not another word! Give them to me – or I will shoot you right this minute!’

But there was no way she would give the notebook and spyglass up to the Fraternitas. And there was nowhere else she could run. She would have to knock the revolver out of his hand, she decided, gripping the broom handle more tightly and making ready to spring.

But all at once, she heard footsteps on the cobbles, and a voice yelling out her name: Lil’s voice. Viktor glanced over his shoulder in surprise, and seizing her moment, Sophie struck out hard with the broom handle. He gave an agonised yelp, the revolver slipping from his fingers and skidding across the yard. Almost at the same moment, Lil was on him, kicking out at his knee, bringing him crashing down on to the cold, frosty ground.

Carruthers appeared in the pantry doorway, a dark silhouette, a gleam of light catching on his horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded sharply.

‘He was trying to shoot Sophie!’ Lil panted, still grappling with Viktor. ‘He’s the one working for the Fraternitas!’

Carruthers looked at her, and then at the revolver. Sophie had already started out towards it, but it was closer to Carruthers, and now she felt a sudden chill of fear. If Lil was right in her suspicions, would Carruthers side with Viktor and turn the revolver against them? She stared at him and for a moment, he stared back. Then, all at once, he dived forward – ignoring the gun, and instead helping Lil to wrestle Viktor to his feet.

Viktor was shouting angrily about traitors and spies as together, Lil and Carruthers pinned his arms behind his back, and frogmarched him towards the house. Sophie grabbed the revolver and followed them, her hand still clenched tightly around the notebook and spyglass in her pocket.

They found the hallway empty and the front door wide open. Morozov stood outside the house, supervising his men as they dragged Nakamura, Hanna and the Count outside after Mitya. Lights were coming on in nearby houses, and neighbours had gathered to whisper in shocked voices at their doors.

‘Let go of him, you brutes!’ Sophie heard Vera screaming, chasing after the two officers holding Mitya, as Boris tried to pull her back.

Carruthers surveyed the scene for a moment, and then took a deep breath. ‘Right then,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Time to make the old man proud.’

Puffing out his chest, he declared in a loud and extremely English voice. ‘Officer Morozov? Are you the fellow in charge here? I am Captain Samuel Carruthers of the British Army – here in St Petersburg on government business.’

Morozov turned and stared at him in surprise. Carruthers might not be wearing a uniform, but at that moment, there was no mistaking him as anything but a British Army officer – especially when he reached into his pocket and presented Morozov with an identity badge. Carruthers repeated his remarks in crisp, efficient Russian, so that everyone present could understand them, before he went on: ‘I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding. These people you are arresting are innocent!’

‘But Captain,’ said Officer Morozov, looking very confused as to where this commanding British gentleman had suddenly appeared from. ‘They are anarchists – revolutionaries! They are the ones behind the plot to assassinate His Imperial Majesty, the Tsar. We have information that it was planned in this very house – and that they are storing illegally smuggled guns here.’

‘Guns?’ repeated Carruthers. ‘No, I’m afraid that cannot be possible. You have been misinformed. There are no guns in this house. Your men have not found any evidence of them, have they?’

Morozov looked embarrassed. ‘Well . . . er . . . no,’ he admitted. ‘But –’

Carruthers interrupted before he could say any more. ‘However I have found a gun,’ he said, taking Viktor’s pistol swiftly from Sophie. ‘Just now I removed this unpleasant weapon from this young man – who I’m sorry to say was using it to threaten this young lady. Now, I’m not sure how things are done here, but I must say that in England we would not stand by and let ruffians menace innocent, defenceless young ladies with a gun.’

Morozov gaped like a surprised fish. ‘I can assure you, sir, in Russia such a thing would never be permitted,’ he began – but Carruthers had not finished yet. ‘It is quite clear that this house is anything but a hotbed of revolutionary activity!’ he swept on. ‘I can see that you are a sensible man, Officer – surely it must be clear to you at any rate, that this is a perfectly ordinary lodging house, and nothing more. Look – up there on the wall behind you – a picture of the Tsar’s children! Now, tell me, is that what you would expect to find in the headquarters of a revolutionary cell?’

‘But we have information!’ exclaimed Morozov. He pointed to Mitya. ‘This man was seen at the circus tonight. He was part of the plot against His Imperial Majesty!’

‘This young man may have been at the circus tonight,’ said Carruthers. ‘Several of us were. I was there myself, as a matter of fact. But he did not shoot anyone, nor was he in possession of a weapon. And simply being present does not necessarily make him a part of the plot against the Tsar, does it? Not unless you plan to arrest half of St Petersburg society, that is.’

‘But he ran!’ protested Morozov. ‘When my men went to arrest him – he fled! And we found books in his room, here in this house. Books containing dangerous and subversive ideas!’

Carruthers gave a wonderfully dismissive snort. ‘Books! Of course you found books. This man is a student at St Petersburg University – a most promising young fellow. Of course he must educate himself by reading all kinds of literature. As for the rest of these people your men are arresting, they are nothing whatsoever to do with any plot. They are performers from the Circus of Marvels. May I remind you that the circus is here on His Imperial Majesty’s own personal invitation? Think of the embarrassment that would be caused if he were to discover that you had mistakenly locked up several of the star performers, especially after the ordeal they have already faced tonight?’

‘He’s right!’ Sophie heard one of the policemen whisper to another in a doubtful voice. ‘That’s Miss Hercules – I know it! I saw her in the ring. Surely we can’t really be going to arrest her?’

‘Furthermore,’ Carruthers concluded. ‘As a representative of the British government, I will vouch for each of these individuals personally. If they are arrested without due cause, I’m afraid I shall have no choice but to go straight to the British Embassy to raise the matter with Sir George Buchanan himself.’

At the name of the British Ambassador, Officer Morozov turned a little pale. ‘There’s no need to do that, Captain,’ he murmured at once. ‘We understand that a terrible mistake has been made.’

Behind him, his men were already letting go of Hanna, Nakamura, the Count and Mitya, murmuring uncertainly to each other. Vera darted towards Mitya and flung her arms around him.

‘Thank you, Officer,’ said Carruthers, with a respectful and approving bow. ‘I could see you were a man of sense and honour. I would suggest that in their place, you arrest this violent and dangerous young man, before he can cause any further harm to this lady.’

‘Quite right, sir,’ said Morozov hurriedly, summoning two men who at once stepped forward and grabbed the furious Viktor, marching him away towards their waiting motor car.

‘I beg your pardon most humbly, madame,’ said Officer Morozov to Vera, performing a low bow. ‘On behalf of my men, we extend to you our deepest regrets about this evening’s . . . er . . . activities.’

He ordered his men away, leaving Hanna, Nakamura and the Count standing beside Vera and Boris, with Mitya between them. Sophie’s knees were weak with relief.

‘I don’t know who you are – but I thank you from the bottom of my heart,’ said Vera, surging towards Carruthers and kissing him firmly on both cheeks. ‘You have saved our family.’

Carruthers looked pink, embarrassed – and a little uncertain. ‘Well, I’m not sure it was strictly speaking the proper thing to do,’ he admitted, speaking in his usual voice. ‘Forgive me, but you were part of that plot at the circus, weren’t you?’ he said to Mitya.

‘Yes. But it wasn’t what it looked like. There was no intention to hurt anyone. You know I would never agree to a plan to assassinate the Tsar – or to harm his family, or anyone else,’ Mitya said soberly, looking at his father and mother.

‘Viktor pushed Mitya and the others into this,’ Sophie explained. ‘He was the one who changed the plans and arranged for all the guns. Then he had the crate sent here, so that Mitya would be framed for organising the crime!’

‘But Viktor wasn’t really the one behind it all,’ Nakamura reminded her.

‘No. I think he was instructed by Mr Gold – his contact, who he believed to be an important revolutionary leader. He was really the one responsible. He manipulated the students, supplied the guns – and then tipped off the secret police!’

‘And now Viktor and Nikolai and many of the others are behind bars,’ said Mitya anxiously.

‘I would have thought prison was the best place for that Viktor,’ snorted Lil. ‘Waving a revolver at Sophie like that! It serves him jolly well right, if you ask me.’

‘Well, it wasn’t entirely his fault,’ said Sophie. ‘He’d been told all kinds of things about me by Gold . . . that I was a British spy scheming with the Russian authorities, and that you were all helping me,’ she explained, nodding around to Mitya and the rest. ‘Which explains why he helped frame you. He obviously thought you were a traitor to the revolutionary cause.’

Mitya was frowning. ‘There’s much to be done,’ he said, drawing himself up, looking suddenly less scruffy and more purposeful. ‘I’ll arrange a meeting of our group. We must try and help the students who have been arrested and do what we can to secure their release. I’ll set Viktor right about me, and about this Mr Gold too. I have heard stories of these kinds of agitators, stirring up trouble amongst the revolutionary groups, whilst all the time they are really working with the police.’

Sophie nodded. ‘And perhaps then you can set the students on the right path – and make some real change,’ she said.

Mitya smiled at her gratefully and Vera put an arm around Sophie’s shoulders, giving her a little squeeze.

‘What I’d like to know is how you managed to get rid of the weapons,’ said Lil, as Ravi scooped up Shesha who had come slithering back to him, his evening’s performances now complete. ‘Where’s the crate now?’

‘With any luck, at the bottom of the canal,’ said Nakamura, who was looking very relieved to be a free man once more. ‘Which in my opinion is the best place for it!’

‘Yes – no one will be able to use those guns now,’ agreed Sophie, with satisfaction.

‘Which means we don’t have to worry about them. We can go back home,’ said Lil.

Home. Not long ago Sophie had been staring down the barrel of Viktor’s gun; but now all that was over. Whatever else the Fraternitas might have in store, she’d have Lil and Carruthers by her side on the journey home – and before long, she’d be back in London. She felt once again for the now-familiar shape of the spyglass and notebook in her pocket, and smiled with satisfaction and relief.

Home. In London, Joe was back on home turf – but it didn’t feel like home to him any longer. Now shadows loomed and stretched out in the alley, as the dark figure moved closer towards him.

He had to move – he had to do something. There was nowhere to go or to hide, but he kicked out at the dustbin beside him, sending it spinning forward and taking the opportunity to dart past and away down the alley, back the way he had come.

It had begun to rain, running down the collar of his jacket, but he kept on running, splashing blindly through the puddles, through a nightmare labyrinth of twisting alleys. Behind him, he could hear the thud of footsteps, coming after him.

It all felt so familiar. He’d run down these streets many times before. He’d run from Jem and the Baron’s Boys, the knife wound on his arm throbbing in pain. He’d run down streets like these in Limehouse with Lil and Sophie, his heart thumping. Now he was running for his life once more. It was because he knew something, he realised. Whatever he’d stumbled on, whatever the connection was between the Bureau and Norton Newspapers, it was important. So important that they would shoot him to keep him quiet.

He’d been lucky so many times before. He seemed to have been born lucky, he thought – thinking in a flash of everything that had happened to him. He’d have to count on that luck to hold out now. Speeding up, he ducked around a corner, dived around another alley. He’d lost his bearings, but he knew he had to keep on running. It was his only chance.

He turned another corner, but then stopped short.

All at once, his luck had run out.

The alley stopped abruptly – a derelict old house stood at the end, the windows boarded up. He ran towards the door, tugging desperately at the handle, but there was no time to break it open or pick the lock. He could already hear the footsteps, moving towards him.

He turned, shivering in the rain, to face the dark figure. The blood was pounding in his ears as he realised, with a sudden shock, who it was.

‘You don’t have to do this,’ he said in a shaking voice, but it was no good. He cast one last desperate look around for a way out – but there was nothing. No one to rescue him now. He knew that it was too late.

Perhaps it had been too late for a long time, he thought. Perhaps he’d been on borrowed time ever since that night he’d run away from the East End.

The dark figure took another step forward and stretched out an arm. He heard the revolver click.

Joe squeezed his eyes tightly shut. He thought of anywhere but here, anywhere but the dark East End alley, rain on his face and mud beneath his feet. Instead, he thought of the familiar smell of Sinclair’s stables, the way the horses whickered gently to each other, their warm breath and the fragrance of hay. He thought of sitting in the Taylor & Rose office with Billy, eating jam tarts with the fire going, and Daisy lying at his feet.

He thought of fields of buttercups, and Lil when she smiled. He thought of her looking up at him on the station platform, with that look in her eyes that said maybe – just maybe – he had a chance with her after all.

It was the last thought in his mind before the gun went off.