Free Red Icon by Sam Eastland Page A

officers. Not only the Tsarina, but her daughters, and even Vyroubova, had been working there as medical attendants. Many times, on his walks in the dove-grey twilight, Pekkala had seen men, their faces pinched with pain, hobbling on crutches across the palace grounds.
    Pekkala bowed, suddenly aware of his threadbare corduroys, his dusty boots and unbuttoned coat.
    ‘You must be wondering why you’re here,’ said the Tsarina.
    ‘I am now, Majesty,’ he replied.
    ‘I thought that you should be the first to know,’ continued the Tsarina. ‘A robbery has taken place. The icon of The Shepherd has been stolen from the house of Grigori Rasputin.’
    Pekkala’s first instinct was to doubt what he had just been told. As far as he knew, nothing had ever been stolen from Rasputin. There was no need to rob a man who gladly made a gift of everything he owned. In fact, thought Pekkala, that’s probably what happened. Rasputin got drunk and gave it away and now that he has sobered up he can’t remember who he gave it to. But, for now at least, he kept his suspicions to himself. ‘Has the Tsar been informed?’ he asked.
    ‘He will be, in due course.’
    Pekkala heard a floorboard creak and turned to see Vyroubova waiting in the doorway.
    Her small eyes glittered.
    ‘Do not stand behind the Inspector,’ cautioned the Tsarina. ‘He is liable to shoot you with that English cannon which he carries beneath his coat. Perhaps you would be kind enough to bring the Inspector some refreshment.’
    Mechanically, Vyroubova stepped back into the hall. A moment later came the sound of her clattering about in the kitchen.
    ‘The Tsar should be notified at once,’ said Pekkala. ‘The loss of that icon . . .’
    ‘The Tsar is very busy with affairs at Mogilev,’ snapped the Tsarina, ‘and I know perfectly well what the loss of The Shepherd means to this country.’
    ‘I’ll go to Rasputin,’ said Pekkala, ‘and find out exactly what took place.’
    ‘I have just told you what happened,’ snapped the Tsarina, ‘and as for you bothering Grigori, I have a better idea.’
    ‘And what is that, Majesty?’
    The Tsarina lifted her hand from where it balanced on her knee. With a careless gesture, she twisted her fingers in the air. ‘Do nothing,’ she told him.
    Pekkala’s eyes widened. ‘Nothing?’
    ‘An investigation now would only draw attention to its loss.’
    ‘Not as much as if it became known that we had taken no steps to recover the icon.’
    ‘That is why,’ continued the Tsarina, ‘we will inform the public that the icon is being restored, and that this work is likely to take some time. No one would find it unusual.’
    ‘That is a lie which will not hold for long, Majesty. The icon could surface again at any time.’
    ‘Agreed, but by then the war may be over and the country will have turned its attention to other things.’
    ‘I really should speak with Rasputin,’ insisted Pekkala.
    The Tsarina breathed in slowly, the air whistling faintly through her nose. ‘Leave him be, Pekkala. He had no role in this.’
    ‘Forgive me, Majesty, but you have just told me that the icon was stolen from his house!’ exclaimed Pekkala.
    ‘So you think our dear friend is the one who stole it?’ The Tsarina smiled faintly at the absurdity of this idea, her expression almost hidden in the flare of sunlight through the curtains.
    ‘No,’ answered Pekkala, ‘but others will. He is very much a part of this, whether he intended to be or not. Surely you would want me to prove his innocence.’
    The Tsarina sighed. ‘Very well. Go then, if you insist. But be careful, Pekkala. These days, there is danger everywhere.’
    At that moment, Vyroubova reappeared from the kitchen. In her hand, she held a glass of water. ‘Your refreshment, Inspector,’ she said quietly.
    ‘Some other time perhaps,’ he told her as he walked out through the door.
    Vyroubova watched him fade away among the trees, until all that remained was the