5 October 1881

This morning, David Campbell came around when Sasha licked his face. An inscription on an antique gold watch in his trousers pocket proved he truly is the lost English officer. Bloodletting has gone out of fashion these days, but Dr. Bell decided to take a pint of his blood to reduce the amount of lead in his body.

It did seem to help. He can now walk a few steps and no longer holds his head in pain. Marya has taken over his nursing care, and when she takes breaks, we have resumed our delightful language lessons.

There is still no sign of Mr. Tatum. It would seem something awful has happened to him. I visited the embassy, spoke with the ambassador’s secretary, and made enquiries at the Hotel Europa. No one has heard from him.

Just before dinner, the footman ushered Inspector Koivisto with two uniformed policemen into Dr. Bell’s sitting room.

“I regret to be here under these circumstances,” the inspector said.

“Is it about Mr. Tatum?” I asked.

“Yes, very likely. You must come and identify the body.”

The police cab, drawn by two aged hacks, took us to the waterfront near the western end of Vasilyesky Island. We alighted and, led by the inspector, walked to the very end of a wooden wharf where two officers and several sailors in high boots and thick sweaters stood by a canvas-covered corpse.

“We don’t have all day. Remove the canvas,” Koivisto brusquely said.

Without ceremony, a young policeman pulled the rough canvas aside. The body was bloated from immersion in the sea, and part of the face had been gnawed away by fish. I instantly turned away and did my best not to vomit. Dr. Bell remained stolid and studied the corpse.

Most of the corpse was intact and it was indeed our valet, or rather, our friend, the British secret agent we knew as Mr. Tatum. I had become very fond of Tatum with his quiet good humor and common sense.

I refused to look at the dismal body and choked back a sob. This whole trip was just a bloody awful mess and I yearned to go back home and try to forget it all. I just prayed that Tatum’s life, and the lives of the others who had died, were given for the sake of a lasting peace in Europe and not in vain!

Dr. Bell, in his usual professional manner, knelt and continued to inspect the remains. “Where was he found?” he asked.

“A fisherman discovered his body, tangled in old cables, immediately beneath this wharf.”

“When?” Dr. Bell asked.

“Just before noon,” Koivisto said.

Dr. Bell consulted a small, black notebook, turned several pages, and marked the place with his finger. “I last saw Mr. Tatum on the morning of October the first. He was at the embassy during the mid-afternoon and did not show up on the morning of the second as was his usual habit. He disappeared sometime during the early evening or night of the first.”

He again consulted his notebook. “There was a full moon that night which would have produced an exceptionally high tide early on the morning of the second. During the late evening, up to perhaps two a.m., there would have been a strong incoming current.”

One of the onlookers spoke up in Russian and said something that sounded like he agreed with Dr. Bell about the strong tide currents over the past several days.

“Tell me, please, what is the direction of the incoming current at the end of the wharf?” Dr. Bell asked.

The fisherman pointed. “Go to the end of that dock and see for yourself.”

He was indeed correct; flotsam and bits of seaweed drifted our way from the end of a dock where two vessels were moored side by side, perhaps a half a mile away.

Dr. Bell snapped open his watch and intently observed the floating debris for a full five minutes until Inspector Koivisto impatiently broke the silence. “Come, come. It is getting late. We shall deliver the body to the morgue for an autopsy in the morning. We shall be happy to deliver you to your rooms.”

“Nay.” Dr. Bell waved him away. “We shall remain for a while. Come, Doyle, let us walk. This clean, fresh, sea air will clear our minds.”

It was a classic example of Dr. Bell’s perfectly innocuous statements that were loaded with foreboding and gravity. I was not surprised when we set off at a good pace along the sea wall towards the dock with the two moored ships.

The nearest vessel was a screw-propelled warship of the latest design with forward and aft turrets, each with powerful cannons. German colors flew from her stern.

The dock extended five hundred feet from the embankment, and the second ship was partly hidden from view. She appeared to be an older cargo vessel with both sails and steam. A peculiar, tattered ensign fluttered in the dying breeze from her aft mast.

I made out a black cross with a circle containing the figure of an eagle in the center and an anchor in the lower left hand corner. “Ah, it is the ensign of the German commercial fleet,” Dr. Bell exclaimed.

Two blank-faced guards stamped back and forth from one side of the wharf to the other, blocking our way to the pair of ships.

“We are visiting friends,” Dr. Bell said.

The guard halted and held his rifle squarely in front of his chest. “Verboten.”

“Why?” I responded in German.

“Eintritt untersagt,” the second guard replied, in a most unpleasant, surly manner.

“Seems like we are forbidden,” I muttered to Bell. He nodded, and I realized that he spoke better German than me and I should let him do the talking. I was all for barging past the guards, but Dr. Bell thought otherwise. “They are up to no good. It is best we leave now,” he muttered, in English.

We strolled, chatting in French, appearing to be aimless sightseers, but we were fully alert and surreptitiously observed the German ships. The sun was nearly at the horizon, casting long shadows, but we made out crewmen scurrying about the two ships and more rifle-toting guards. “There must be a way to get close to those vessels,” Dr. Bell said.

“I shall nip around and see my friend with the sailing yawl,” I said.

Later, that evening, I called on good old Dicky Ferguson. We shared a bottle and a bit of cheese. He said he would be more than happy to take us for a sail tomorrow. So, we have a plan and now need a good night’s rest.

I cannot not know for sure, but I have a feeling that the fate of the tsar - and all of Europe, for that matter - rests with our little sea journey on the morrow.