Natasha's Dream (15 page)

‘Oh, but she is the Grand Duchess,’ said Natasha in an impulsive outburst.

‘That is a feeling you have?’ smiled Frau von Rathlef.

‘It’s—’ Natasha swallowed. ‘Yes, a feeling, but a very sure feeling.’

‘That will please her,’ said Frau von Rathlef. ‘Herr Gibson, I’ve made copies of some of my notes concerning the comments and actions of relatives and other people. I think they might help you with your conclusions. If you’ve a few moments to spare, I will fetch them.’

‘I’ll come and get them,’ said Mr Gibson.

‘I will wait outside,’ said Natasha, her emotions distressing her. She left the clinic and
waited on the steps outside, drawing in the cold damp air as if she had been robbed of breath.

‘Good afternoon, Natasha Petrovna.’

Natasha jumped and turned. Count Orlov stood at her elbow, his austere countenance wearing a thin smile. He took her by the arm.

‘Let me go,’ she said.

‘A few words with you first,’ he said. ‘You have nothing to worry about, except perhaps the welfare of your lover.’

Colour suffused her at that assumption, but the implied threat behind the remark was enough for her to go back into the clinic with him. He took her into a small consulting room on the left of the hall. Another man was there, a man in a grey overcoat, whom she thought she had seen before. Count Orlov closed the door.

‘What is it you want of me?’ asked Natasha. ‘My friend will be looking for me soon.’

‘What have you told him?’ asked the count.

‘Nothing. Nothing. I have kept my promise to you, I have kept silent. The Englishman—’

‘The gentleman you’re living with?’

‘He is not my lover,’ she breathed.

‘He is here, of course, to help establish a myth as the truth on behalf of our late Tsar’s
English cousins. You are too close to him, Natasha Petrovna. You are to be taken away for a while.’

‘Never! I will not go!’

‘The decision has been made. You are an emotional and miserable peasant in collusion with an interfering busybody from England. You will not keep silent for ever. So you are going away for a while.’

‘I am not a peasant,’ said Natasha angrily, ‘it is you who are a disgrace to life – you tried to murder me – yes, I know you did – and my friend too – at a restaurant one night—’

Coldly and deliberately, Count Orlov slapped her face. It hurt her and outraged her. She opened her mouth to scream, to bring Mr Gibson, but the sound was smothered at birth as a hand clapped itself tightly over her lips. Fingers dug cruelly into her flesh.

‘You are leaving Berlin. You are going away. You will be looked after, never fear. We have no wish to kill you, or your lover. Only to separate you. Where are you going, you will ask. A quite comfortable place.’

His eyes were coldly impassive, like other eyes of years ago. And Natasha knew they were going to have her locked up. The place
would be an asylum. They had never wanted her to leave Berlin, but to have her where they could always keep an eye on her. Now they had decided to take her out of Berlin themselves and to put her where her story would be treated as the ravings of a lunatic. She knew she was in possession of information that could tip the scales in favour of the claimant. But people like the Dowager Empress and the Grand Duke of Hesse, for some incredible reason, were totally unsympathetic to the possibility that a miracle had happened, and they were the people whose word was law to the monarchists.

Natasha, her wrists held by the other man, who was behind her, felt anguish and heartbreak. A little less than three weeks ago, when the soup kitchens of Berlin were her only mainstay, she had been as far down as she could go. There had seemed to be nothing at all to live for. She had been in silent, desperate prayer when walking over that bridge after a long fruitless day trying to find work. And God, suddenly, had sighed for her and answered her. A man had come into her life, a man of strength and kindness, a man whom she had come to love passionately and devotedly. If Count Orlov
had her locked up, she would never see Mr Gibson again, never. She would never meet his wife and children, never sun herself in the glow of their family happiness or be a friend to all of them.

Desperately, she writhed and kicked, her teeth trying to bite the smothering hand. Behind her, the other man released her right wrist. For a few moments she clawed and scratched with her free hand. Then her mouth was suddenly uncovered. She gasped and sucked in breath, breath with which to scream. But again her mouth was smothered, this time by a thick cotton pad. It smothered her nose also. Convulsively, anguishedly, Natasha breathed in chloroform.

Mr Gibson, having collected Frau von Rathlef’s notes and been detained for several minutes while she enlarged on a few points, left the clinic to pick up Natasha. He expected to see her waiting on the steps outside the front door, or at least to be within sight. But she was not within sight. He frowned, and sudden worry set in. About to make a quick search of the grounds, he checked. No, she would not be wandering around. She had said she would wait outside for him, and he felt he knew her well enough to know she would do exactly that, unless unexpected circumstances prevented it. She had been very emotional. That, he thought, was why she had elected to wait out here, so that she could pull herself together, although she was not as self-conscious about showing emotion as the English.

There was an ambulance standing on the forecourt, with two motor cars. He made a fast inspection. All three vehicles were empty. He went back into the clinic and looked around the hall. A nurse appeared. He spoke to her. No, she not seen any young lady in a blue coat and hat. The door of a room opened, and a man put his head out. He glanced up and down. Seeing Mr Gibson and the nurse, he gave the nurse a friendly nod and withdrew his head. The door closed.

‘Who was that?’ asked Mr Gibson. He had not recognized the man, but felt there was something a little familiar about him.

‘A visitor,’ said the nurse.

‘What was he looking for?’ Mr Gibson did his best with his passable German.

‘Mein Herr, I really don’t know.’ The nurse looked slightly disapproving. ‘They have permission to use that consulting room for a while.’

‘They?’

‘I am sorry, but—’

‘Who are they? And what are they using it for?’ Mr Gibson was clutching at straws, and there was one straw worth taking hold of. The head that had shown itself, the quick look up
and down, and the immediate withdrawal.

‘You must ask the administrator,’ said the nurse stiffly, and moved on.

Mr Gibson strode to the consulting room and opened the door without knocking. The room was empty. His nostrils twitched, picking up the trace of a sweet and sickly odour. He saw another door. He opened it. A corridor showed itself, with rooms on either side. His alarm acute, he ran. Other corridors appeared at right angles. He took a swift look down each of them as he passed. Nothing. At the far end he saw a sign indicating the direction of a rear exit. He moved fast. He passed a doctor and a nurse, who stared at him as he sped by. Outside, behind the commodious clinic, motor cars were parked. One was just moving off. The passenger door of a second car was open, and a man in a grey coat and hat was bundling the limp form of Natasha on to the seat. Mr Gibson knew he had seen that grey coat before. He broke into a pounding sprint, and his subconscious reminded him that he had made a similar sprint over a dark bridge not too long ago. The man in the grey coat looked up. He shoved at Natasha, then slammed the door shut and rushed around the car. He wrenched open
the driver’s door. Mr Gibson, arriving in a pell-mell rush, made effective use of a long leg and a firm foot. He kicked the door shut. The man rounded on him, his face dark with temper, and his hand dived into his coat pocket. Mr Gibson did not wait to be knocked out or shot dead. He swept the man aside with a flailing arm, pulled the car door open again and jumped in. He found the horn button and pressed it. The horn came to life, pumping out loud, musical toots. The sound shattered the quietness of the environment. The man shook his fist at Mr Gibson, then turned and ran. The other car had stopped. The man reached it, jerked open the passenger door and scrambled in. The car was driven off at speed, turning right out of the exit gates and heading for the centre of Berlin. A frowning doctor appeared, gazed at the vanishing car in obvious annoyance, judged its driver to be the man guilty of an inconsiderate use of a horn, and went back inside.

Mr Gibson, having taken his finger off the button the moment the other car had sped off, turned to Natasha.

She was a little while coming to, and when she did her nostrils twitched at their retention of the smell of chloroform.

‘Natasha?’ Mr Gibson’s voice was concerned.

She lifted her head and gazed in confusion. Her face felt bruised, and her eyes felt unsteady. It was difficult to focus for a few moments. It came into being then, the face of Mr Gibson, and although her mind was still cloudy, the thickest barrier of fog could not have kept out the rush of joyous relief.

‘Oh …’ It was a long sigh.

‘Young lady,’ said Mr Gibson, immensely relieved himself, ‘I hope they weren’t about to operate on you.’

‘Mr Gibson?’ His name came on another sigh.

‘Take your time, dear girl. You’ve been drugged.’

‘Mr Gibson … Mr Gibson …?’ Her tongue felt lazy, sweetly lazy. The rapture in her mind communicated its message to her physical being, and in slow, languorous response she lifted her arms and wound them around his neck. Her head rested against his shoulder.

His smile was affectionate. She would come to in a moment.

Her anaesthetized brain cleared slowly, although the sickliness of the chloroform lingered. She raised her face. She saw the warm
brown eyes of Mr Gibson close to her own. His body was also warm, and so firm. Her swift colour crimsoned her face. She unwound her arms and drew away.

‘Better?’ said Mr Gibson.

‘Oh,’ she said.

‘What happened?’

‘There were two men,’ she said.

‘Who were they? One, I think, was the gentleman we saw before, in a grey overcoat. Who was the other?’

Natasha looked down at her gloved hands. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. She thought a mention of Count Orlov might provoke Mr Gibson into taking action. That would put him at greater risk. She could tell him nothing, for he would ask more questions of people, many more. He would want to know exactly why she had been told never to repeat her story. He was a man of calm and fearless resolution, but that would not necessarily save him. He would count for less than nothing in the eyes of some monarchists. The Supreme Monarchist Council would not countenance murder, but individuals would. ‘I don’t know who the other man was.’

‘Natasha, I don’t think you’re telling me the truth.’

‘Oh!’ It was a little cry of pain, pain from knowing he would be in contempt of lies from someone to whom he had given so much help. ‘Mr Gibson – sir – oh, there are things I cannot tell you. Please don’t ask me to, and please don’t think badly of me. I could not bear it. They took me into a room, saying they wished to speak to me for my own good. Then they chloroformed me. That is what they said, and that is what they did, truly.’

‘I know they chloroformed you,’ said Mr Gibson, regarding her with the wryness of a man who wished she would place her complete trust in him. ‘I could smell it, in that consulting room. You realize we were followed to this clinic, Natasha, and that someone of influence received permission to use that room privately for a while? I wonder, if you hadn’t been alone for a few minutes, would you and I have both received an invitation to step inside? By someone whom we knew, like Count Orlov. I think we might. But as they didn’t wait for me, as they seemed quite satisfied with bagging you—’

‘Bagging?’

‘Acquiring. I presume, therefore, you were the one they were mainly interested in. What is it you know that seems to worry them so much?
Let me see – it’s not assumption, it’s a fact, isn’t it, that your monarchists support Grand Duke Kyril or Grand Duke Nicholas. Some are for one, some for the other. But none support the possibility of a reborn Anastasia. Is that correct, Natasha?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered, longing for him to smile at her.

‘And is it also correct that you represent a thorn in their side?’

‘Oh, they think everyone is a thorn except other monarchists.’

‘Never mind,’ said Mr Gibson, and gave her a sympathetic smile. Her heart flooded. ‘I think I understand. I think, whatever you know, they want you to keep your mouth shut, and will take steps to ensure that you do. Heavens, they do take themselves seriously, these gentlemen who want a new Tsar of Russia after failing the previous one. However, for the moment we’ve done them in the eye. So cheer up – or are you still feeling a little sick from the chloroform?’

‘Thank you, I am much better.’ Natasha hesitated, then said, ‘One day, perhaps, I will tell you everything. But it is really much the best thing all the time you are in Berlin not to be able to say you know the lady is the Grand Duchess
Anastasia. It is not too dangerous for you to say you
think
she is, but it is very dangerous to say you
know
she is. How do you know? That is what you will be asked. How do you know? You have never met any of the Tsar’s daughters, they will say, so how do you know? And if you are able to answer that, they – they—’

‘They’ll know someone gave me a piece of incredible information? Who could possibly own that kind of information? Someone who curtseyed to her and called her Imperial Highness?’

‘One day, perhaps, I will tell you who that person is,’ said Natasha. Wanting to change the subject, she asked, ‘Why are we in this motor car?’

‘You were carried to it, and I managed to take possession of it.’ Mr Gibson smiled. ‘Well, why not? It happens to be a car of British manufacture, a Riley. The owner, our friend in the grey overcoat, decided to leave it in my hands and go off in another car, one belonging to his confederate, I imagine. I also imagine his confederate preceded him out of the clinic in order not to become involved in any awkwardness if the gentleman carrying you had been stopped and questioned. Certainly,
he was already driving away while you were being bundled into this car. However, to return to the case still in hand. Having met the claimant and having been fascinated, there are just two more people I feel I must talk to. One is Anastasia’s aunt, the Grand Duchess Olga, who’s in Denmark, and the other is Pierre Gilliard, the Swiss tutor, who’s living in Lausanne. Gilliard first, I think. That means a trip to Switzerland.’