‘There was a clamp-down on their correspondence once they were at the Ipatiev house,’ said Bacchus. ‘It must have been suppressed and kept. Here’s a notecase full of letters received.’ He handed it to Lily. ‘See what you can find.’
Lily was instantly absorbed by the task. After a few moments, her voice trembling slightly, she said: ‘I’ve found a letter from our girl — Anna Petrovna. And it’s addressed to Tatiana. 1917. Before all the nastiness burst over them. Oh, she’s put … there’s a hank of hair in here.’
‘Hair? Yuck!’ said Fanshawe. ‘Well, I suppose they were very young things in 1917.’
‘It’s dark hair,’ said Lily, holding it to the light. ‘Blueblack, you’d say. Your Morana, sir? I think we’ve found her.’ She skimmed the letter quickly. ‘Not much of note. Grumbles and complaints and — oh, talk of patients. A handsome officer she’s fallen for … they were all at it … leg amputations … disease … She was nursing, of course, following the imperial example of devotion to patriotic duty. The hair is mentioned at the end … “By my hair shall you know me!” Strange thing to say?’
‘From the Bible. Matthew’s gospel. “By their fruits shall ye know them …” something like that. Religious lot, the Romanovs. And their correspondence was probably even at that time being monitored by the Red factions,’ said Bacchus. ‘They found ways of getting round the surveillance. Cocking a childish snook at the enemy. They didn’t know then how serious it was all going to get.’
‘Prepare to yuck again, Fanshawe,’ Joe said with satisfaction. He’d been passing a hand around the bottom of the bag following its turn-out. ‘Here it is. Yes! This is what I’d heard mentioned.’
He brought out, wrapped in brown paper, a wild flower album. When he opened it, no collection of dusty stalks and petals fell crumbling from the stiff pages. On each was glued a specimen, but not a botanical specimen. One after another, thick hanks of hair appeared, five in all, ranging in colour from fair to dark brown. Sandilands looked at the date in the front of the book. ‘Gathered up and stuck in the day all the children had their hair cut off. They caught some disease or other — measles, I believe — which necessitated a shaven head. But — this is it. This is something we can use. Wentworth — pick out Tatiana’s hair, will you?’
Lily took the book from him and leafed through it. ‘Here’s a fine, brownish-blond that must have been the Tsarevich’s hair … and … Ah! Here it is, sir. It’s a wonderful rich red. Dark red. Titian, would you say?’
‘That’s the one.’ Joe reached for it and began to smooth a forefinger along the still-gleaming tress. ‘Celtic ancestry. This lady could trace her line back to Ivan the Terrible, let’s not forget. And a selected lock of this is about to make its way from California in a letter, written in Tatiana’s hand, and it will say at the end, what was it? — “By my hair shall you know me!” Can we arrange for an envelope from the States, Bacchus? Stamps and suchlike? Evidence of diplomatic clearance?’
‘Nothing easier,’ Bacchus told him. ‘I’ll get straight on to it. Not sure I can compose the text of the letter though, the phrasing. I mean, I’m a thirty-five-year-old bloke. This is a twenty-five-year-old woman who’s meant to be speaking. Hand me a written version of what you want said and I’ll get our forger to do it.’