In Son of Holmes, John Lescroart introduced Auguste Lupa, reputed son of the greatest detective of all time... and possessor of a brilliant deductive mind in his own right. Now, in Rasputin's Revenge, Lupa is summoned to the court of the Russian Czar - where, with a bit of unexpected assistance from none other than Holmes and Watson, he untangles a chilling plot that holds the Winter Palace in a lethal grip....
remains accessible. The events recounted in the documents constitute an essential record of the last months of the Romanov dynasty. Beyond that, this story brings down the curtain on one of history’s most incredible vendettas, one whose shadow threatens to hide the sun even up to the present time. * At his request, Vayev’s name and title, as well as the original file name, have been changed to preserve his privacy. PART ONE 1 [KREMLIN FILE NO. JG 0665–4600–4668; PSS ACCESS,
unofficial meeting was unambiguous. It was a summons. I followed the courtier through ornate halls so vast that we walked for nearly twenty minutes before reaching our destination. There appear to be at least fifty separate wings of the Palace, each with ten rooms or more. At last we came to the offices of Vladimir Sukhomlinov, who had been the War Minister until the first shots of the War were fired. That he still had an office in the Winter Palace was surprising, but I was starting to sense
its edge. More impressive were the half dozen vases of flowers that bloomed in all colors on the desk, suffusing the room with their aromas. “How …?” I began. “I mentioned my love of flowers to Alexandra, and she kindly has provided all I could want. They have been changed daily. Wonderful, aren’t they?” I couldn’t deny it, but neither could I understand where they’d come from. He finished his latest beer. “Oh, they arrive twice a week by train from the Crimea. Normally, they are for Tsarkoye
first determining that we were not too late, that Auguste was still alive, we made calls on people who Holmes thought might be able to bring some influence to bear. None of them were heartening, and Holmes began laying the groundwork for his own arrest. Each day, disguised as Sigerson, he would leave our hotel for some underground meeting or another. On the fourth day, Holmes rushed into my room, his eyes flashing. I could hardly recognize this dirty, ragtag musician as my friend. With matted
cracks widened. “… and so your alibi for the night of Kapov’s death is that you were where?” “With Monsieur Giraud.” From behind the door, we heard the murmur of the guests. Though St. Petersburg society was nearly as decadent as that of Paris, lack of discretion could still be cause for scandal. “With the same Monsieur Giraud whom you barely knew to speak to?” “No, you don’t understand. He was …” “At the trial, you said you were with him the entire night. Did you sleep with him?” “No, of