The Secret Wife(105)
From Nicholas there was no acknowledgement. Marta’s letter was torn into tiny pieces and sent back to him in the original envelope marked, in Stanley’s handwriting, ‘Return to sender’.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Brno, Czech Republic, 16th October 2016
As she sat in Stansted Airport waiting for her flight to Brno, Kitty listened to all the voicemails that had filled her phone. Most were pleading messages from Tom, left early in the summer, and there was a long, heartfelt one from her friend Amber.
Kitty, I’m so sorry you found out about Tom’s fall from grace the way you did and I wish to God I had told you straight away. It was complete fluke that I saw them together in a bar in Kings Cross station when I was collecting my mum from the train. It was obvious they were more than friends so I charged up to Tom and yelled at him. To give him credit, he was mortally ashamed, said he had made a huge mistake and begged me not to tell you. He promised it was over – in fact, he told the woman in front of me that he wouldn’t be able to see her again. She shrugged and didn’t seem bothered, so it’s not as if it was some big romance. I told Tom I would be watching him like a hawk, that he needed to sort himself out, and if he put a foot wrong again I’d be on the phone to you faster than he could pull up his zipper. But in retrospect I should have told you anyway. We girls should stick together. I’m sorry for getting it wrong. I just didn’t want you to be hurt. Please call me, Kitty.
Her flight began to board just at that moment so she quickly texted Amber: ‘I’m an idiot and don’t deserve a friend like you. Going to Brno for a few days. You’ll have to Google it to find the correct pronunciation, as I had to. Will call and tell all on my return.’
She took her seat on the plane and was about to switch off her phone for take-off when a message came back: ‘I love you. Always have, always will. Text me your return flight time and I’ll collect you from the airport.’
It was late afternoon when Kitty arrived in Brno and caught a bus to the town centre, then a taxi to the address Hana Markova had given. It drew up outside an old-fashioned brick-built house that opened directly onto the street. When Kitty knocked it was flung open by a big-boned woman wearing an apron, who looked to be in her fifties or possibly sixties. She had a ruddy complexion with sparkling blue eyes and short brown hair streaked with grey.
‘Come in, come in,’ she cried, stepping back to let Kitty pass. She gestured for her to go through to an oak-panelled kitchen with windows looking out over a children’s play park. Kitty sat down at an oak table scarred by the scorch marks of generations.
‘I feel as though we are family,’ Hana said, ‘but I can’t quite work out the relationship. Welcome to my home!’
She put the kettle on to boil and produced a plate of apple cake, although Kitty could smell something aromatic cooking in the oven, presumably dinner.
‘It’s very good of you to invite me,’ she said. ‘The mysteries of Dmitri’s life have got right under my skin and I’m desperate to find the truth. It all started when I found this at the cabin.’ She held out the oval pendant she wore round her neck. ‘A jeweller told me it’s Fabergé.’
‘Let me have a closer look.’
Kitty removed the chain and Hana held it by the window to examine the markings on the back in the best light.
‘Do you know what this says?’ she asked.
‘I’m told it is the maker’s mark.’
‘No, above that. It says “Ortipo”.’
Kitty was none the wiser. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Ortipo was the French Bulldog that your great-grandfather gave to Grand Duchess Tatiana back in 1914, soon after they met. She was nursing him in a military hospital in St Petersburg. The piece you are wearing is a ludicrously expensive dog tag.’ She handed it back with a smile. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’
‘Wow! Was Dmitri her lover?’ Kitty’s eyes widened.
Hana smiled. ‘They were in love, yes. But they were not lovers in the physical sense as you and I understand it today.’
‘That’s why he had Tatiana’s diary, then.’ Kitty opened her handbag, pulled the diary out of the padded envelope in which she had been protecting it, and passed it to Hana. ‘I’ve had this translated into English, if you want to see the translation?’
‘No, it’s fine. I speak Russian.’ Hana scanned the pages, then checked the date on the last page: 14th July 1918. ‘I have the diary she wrote immediately after this one. The handwriting, the style of placing the dates above the entries is the same.’
Kitty was puzzled: ‘But she died two days after this was written. Did she write another diary in her final days?’
Hana offered her a slice of cake, but Kitty shook her head, totally captivated by the story. ‘Here is the truth that you have flown all the way over to hear: Tatiana did not die in the Ipatiev House. Dmitri helped her to escape.’
It crossed Kitty’s mind to wonder whether she was visiting a crazy person. There had been many conspiracy theories about the Romanovs, with dozens of impostors popping up through the decades, but scientists had proved categorically that they all died. ‘Surely that’s not possible? I read that forensic scientists have proved the exact number of people who were in the graves, and their heights and ages all fit. They cross-matched bone samples with people who have Romanov DNA, including our Prince Philip. How could the weight of so much scientific evidence be wrong?’