killed here last December. He remembered the fat inspector with the red beard shouting at them in
the police station where his investigations in St Petersburg had begun. Perhaps they’re all liars. But he could see little point in an argument. Better to hear what the man might have to
say.
‘You are being as helpful as anybody could be, Mr Under Secretary,’ said Powerscourt at his most emollient, ‘but I would ask you to consider things from my government’s
perspective. Mr Martin, a distinguished member of his ministry in London as you are of yours here in St Petersburg,’ Bazhenov half rose to his feet and bowed to Powerscourt at this point,
‘comes here last December and holds, we believe, a series of meetings, possibly with the Foreign Ministry, we are not sure. On the evening of the same day he is murdered. The death is
reported by a policeman in the police station nearest to the British Embassy. It is even committed to paper.’ That, Powerscourt felt, should have maximum appeal to the bureaucrat. The spoken
word, it was nothing, worthless as air. Pieces of paper, records, minutes, memoranda, these were his life’s blood. ‘Now the police deny all knowledge. They say the piece of paper must
be a forgery.’ Truly, Powerscourt said to himself, forgery would be the sin against the Holy Ghost of bureaucratic machines everywhere. It could cast doubt on everything it touched. It, or
the suspicion of it, could spread through the files like the Black Death. ‘They say Mr Martin cannot have come to St Petersburg. But he left London on a special mission to the Russian
capital. He has not returned. We have no reason to believe he is alive. We believe he is dead. You gentlemen say he never came here at all. Who or what are we to believe?’
Then Bazhenov produced one of the classic bureaucratic ploys, a Sicilian defence amidst the paperwork. ‘I wish I could help you, Lord Powerscourt. Leave it with me for a day or two.
Perhaps some information has been mislaid. Perhaps one of the other organizations of the state will be able to help.’
Powerscourt was to learn later that other organizations of the state meant the secret police, the Okhrana, or other even shadowier organizations devoted to the safety of state and Tsar.
‘That is most kind of you, Mr Under Secretary. We are very grateful. Permit me to ask one question before we take our leave. You said at the beginning that you had no information concerning
Mr Martin for the year 1905. That implied, maybe I misunderstood you, that you might have information about other months.’
Bazhenov laughed and slapped an ample thigh. ‘I said to my second assistant this morning, Lord Powerscourt, that they are clever people, these English. They will surely ask the right
question to unlock this information.’ Powerscourt wondered how many assistants the man had. Three? Five? Seven? Perhaps he could ask the next time they came. ‘No information for the
year 1905 is indeed what I said. But consider our Mr Roderick Martin or, perhaps, your Mr Roderick Martin. He lives at a place called Tibenham Grange in Kent in your England. He is married. He
works for your Foreign Office. Is this Mr Martin also your Mr Martin?’
‘He is,’ said Powerscourt sensing suddenly that some bombshell was about to arrive that would blow his investigation wide open.
‘Why, then, we have only one Mr Martin between the two of us, not a multiplicity of them, not a flock or a gaggle or a parliament of Martins. We do not believe he came here in 1905, but we
know he came on three other occasions in 1904, three times in 1903 and twice in 1902. We could find out if he came also in previous years by the time of our next meeting. You could say, Lord
Powerscourt, that Mr Roderick Martin of His Majesty’s Foreign Office was a regular visitor to our city.’
3
Lord Francis Powerscourt was trying as hard as he could not to show his astonishment. The knowledge that Roderick Martin had been
the police station where his investigations in St Petersburg had begun. Perhaps they’re all liars. But he could see little point in an argument. Better to hear what the man might have to
say.
‘You are being as helpful as anybody could be, Mr Under Secretary,’ said Powerscourt at his most emollient, ‘but I would ask you to consider things from my government’s
perspective. Mr Martin, a distinguished member of his ministry in London as you are of yours here in St Petersburg,’ Bazhenov half rose to his feet and bowed to Powerscourt at this point,
‘comes here last December and holds, we believe, a series of meetings, possibly with the Foreign Ministry, we are not sure. On the evening of the same day he is murdered. The death is
reported by a policeman in the police station nearest to the British Embassy. It is even committed to paper.’ That, Powerscourt felt, should have maximum appeal to the bureaucrat. The spoken
word, it was nothing, worthless as air. Pieces of paper, records, minutes, memoranda, these were his life’s blood. ‘Now the police deny all knowledge. They say the piece of paper must
be a forgery.’ Truly, Powerscourt said to himself, forgery would be the sin against the Holy Ghost of bureaucratic machines everywhere. It could cast doubt on everything it touched. It, or
the suspicion of it, could spread through the files like the Black Death. ‘They say Mr Martin cannot have come to St Petersburg. But he left London on a special mission to the Russian
capital. He has not returned. We have no reason to believe he is alive. We believe he is dead. You gentlemen say he never came here at all. Who or what are we to believe?’
Then Bazhenov produced one of the classic bureaucratic ploys, a Sicilian defence amidst the paperwork. ‘I wish I could help you, Lord Powerscourt. Leave it with me for a day or two.
Perhaps some information has been mislaid. Perhaps one of the other organizations of the state will be able to help.’
Powerscourt was to learn later that other organizations of the state meant the secret police, the Okhrana, or other even shadowier organizations devoted to the safety of state and Tsar.
‘That is most kind of you, Mr Under Secretary. We are very grateful. Permit me to ask one question before we take our leave. You said at the beginning that you had no information concerning
Mr Martin for the year 1905. That implied, maybe I misunderstood you, that you might have information about other months.’
Bazhenov laughed and slapped an ample thigh. ‘I said to my second assistant this morning, Lord Powerscourt, that they are clever people, these English. They will surely ask the right
question to unlock this information.’ Powerscourt wondered how many assistants the man had. Three? Five? Seven? Perhaps he could ask the next time they came. ‘No information for the
year 1905 is indeed what I said. But consider our Mr Roderick Martin or, perhaps, your Mr Roderick Martin. He lives at a place called Tibenham Grange in Kent in your England. He is married. He
works for your Foreign Office. Is this Mr Martin also your Mr Martin?’
‘He is,’ said Powerscourt sensing suddenly that some bombshell was about to arrive that would blow his investigation wide open.
‘Why, then, we have only one Mr Martin between the two of us, not a multiplicity of them, not a flock or a gaggle or a parliament of Martins. We do not believe he came here in 1905, but we
know he came on three other occasions in 1904, three times in 1903 and twice in 1902. We could find out if he came also in previous years by the time of our next meeting. You could say, Lord
Powerscourt, that Mr Roderick Martin of His Majesty’s Foreign Office was a regular visitor to our city.’
3
Lord Francis Powerscourt was trying as hard as he could not to show his astonishment. The knowledge that Roderick Martin had been
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