‘Ah, yes. Well, there are indeed several versions of the events of that night circulating, you know,’ said Edward. ‘And I too have had my ear bent. But I say it’s always interesting to hear from a chap who was on the spot.’ His blue eyes sparkled with mischievous invitation.
Gustavus smiled. ‘In the end, it took a company of us to dispatch the terrible old ox. He had survived previous assassination attempts, that was well known. The man was indestructible, it was rumoured, and rumour further had it that his strength came from a source beyond the natural. We took no chances. He received and accepted an invitation to a drinking party at the palace of Prince Yussupov on the river in St Petersburg. A merry, unbuttoned evening among like-minded chaps. First we poisoned him — three times — then we shot him — four times — and finally we clubbed him about the head, seized him and threw him into an ice-hole in the freezing river Neva. We watched as he sank under.’ He smirked with secret knowledge. ‘At least, that’s how the story goes.’
This was hardly dinner-table talk, but the audience was eager for more. The death of the Tsarina’s sinister influence had taken on a quality of dark farce that made it an acceptable topic of conversation. Rasputin, the much-feared and meddlesome evil genius, had been reduced, in death, to a pantomime villain.
‘The pathologist.’ Gustavus gave a rumbling laugh. ‘You have to feel for the poor chap. He must have been puzzled indeed to come up with a cause of death amongst so many possibilities. Stomach full of poisoned cake and red wine, body riddled with a mixture of Russian and English lead, skull cracked, lungs full of river water and the whole body frozen stiff! I do believe your revered Spilsbury would have been somewhat challenged.’
‘English lead?’ Connie Beauclerk protested. ‘What are you suggesting? The man was shot by a fellow Russian. Prince Yussupov. Everyone knows that. The Tsarina had him put under house arrest. Poor Felix! My brother was up at Oxford with him. A sweetie! Did the world a favour is what my brother says …’
Gustavus paused, making a show of filtering the information he could safely allow an English lady to hear. ‘Rasputin was, indeed, shot by Prince Yussupov, Miss Beauclerk. Shot, but not mortally wounded. His Highness is not one of nature’s assassins. Willing enough but, as you probably know, he has the reputation of being — as you remind us — Oxford educated and something of a fop. And the rumours are true. The revolver he chose for the task proved not to be of a calibre sufficient to fell the monster. When Yussupov approached what he assumed to be a corpse to check on his handiwork, Rasputin reared up, bellowed and seized his would-be murderer by the throat. The prince was extricated from the situation by another gentleman who happened to be at the scene. A gentleman wielding a higher calibre weapon.’
‘Ah,’ said Rupert, nodding his head sagely, ‘the good old Enfield revolver.’
‘No. A Webley. Of the kind used by … well, you know who uses them, Fanshawe. A.45 unjacketed bullet fired by the steady hand of an Englishman, an Englishman who rid the world of a meddling villain. One bullet in the centre of the forehead.’ Gustavus drilled an imaginary hole in his own head with a forefinger. ‘One bullet which changed the course of the war-’
‘Well, well,’ Rupert interrupted loudly. ‘A word of advice, Your Highness: ladies present. Not too keen on hearing about the war, you know. We try to avoid any mention. More wine?’
‘Oh, don’t be a killjoy, Rupert!’ Connie complained. ‘It’s a jolly good story. I love a bit of Grand Guignol! Prince Gustavus, I’ve got one more question. There are those who say’ — her voice took on a tentative tone — ‘that Rasputin — or his spirit — did in fact survive even those extremes of punishment. There was a hideous scene, I’ve heard, and one reported by many reliable men who were present at his cremation?’