'Why?'

'I got a better offer.'

'Doing what?'

'I'll be working for an aid organization in Denmark called Uddanne Afrika. I start next week.'

'In Denmark?'

'That's right.'

'Well, I...' Gemma shakes her head in wonderment and sips her spritzer. 'Congratulations.'

'Thanks.'

'Does this...' She frowns thoughtfully. 'Does this have anything to do with Pernille Madsen?' She carries on before he can devise an evasive answer. 'It does, doesn't it? This isn't just about a job.'

'Maybe not.' He shrugs diffidently. 'We'll see.'

Gemma's astonishment has by now turned to delighted disbelief. She smiles broadly. 'In that case, I wish you all the luck in the world.'

Two hours later, Eusden is sitting alone in a coffee shop in the Fountain Arcade, sipping an americano and watching the quayside world go by before boarding the Southampton ferry. Gemma is long gone. There is nothing to keep him here now, on this island where he and Marty were born. He will return occasionally, of course, to visit his sister and her family. Or maybe they will visit him, wherever he may be. Either way, it will be a long time before he is here again. That much seems certain.

A bus from Newport pulls in as he gazes through the open doorway. The past does not arrive with it. His boyhood self does not step off into the mellow sunlight. And Marty is not waiting for him, chewing gum, hands in pockets, lolling against the nearest pillar. The memory of those times is so close he can almost touch it. But it will never be quite close enough. That much is also certain.

The ringing of his phone plucks him back to the present. He takes it out of his pocket and smiles when he sees who the caller is.

'Pernille?'

'Hi.'

'Hi, yourself.'

'Where are you?'

'Fountain Quay. Waiting for the ferry.'

'So, it's done?'

'Yes. It's done.'

'Did it... go well?'

'Yes. I think it did.'

'Good.'

'I'm looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.'

'I'm looking forward to seeing you too.'

'Is everything all right?'

'Everything's fine. Though...'

'What?'

'I have some news for you. It's not urgent. It can wait until tomorrow if you like.'

'Not sure I could bear that. What is it?'

'Something Michael found while he was sorting through Tolmar's things. I was happy he finally did it. And I guess I should be happy he wanted to share this thing he found with me.'

'And this thing is?'

'A telegram. A very old telegram. Kept in a locked drawer of the desk in Tolmar's study. It was sent to Paavo Falenius in Helsinki from somewhere in Russia. I can't read the name of the place. It's in the Russian alphabet. But the message and the sender's name are in English. It's dated twenty-fifth September, 1918. Falenius must have given it to Tolmar as... some kind of proof, I guess. Though it doesn't prove anything actually.'

'Is it from Karl Wanting?' Eusden asks, knowing already there really is no one else it could be from.

'Yes. It is.'

'What's the message?'

'Just one word. And the sender's name. Found. Wanting.'

AUTHOR'S NOTE.

None of the universally acknowledged facts concerning the ultimate fates of Tsar Nicholas II, his wife and their children have been misrepresented in this novel. The same is true of the life of the woman who later claimed to be their daughter, the Grand Duchess Anastasia. Readers who care to consult the archives of the Isle of Wight County Press will find a contemporary report there of the visit of the Russian imperial family to Cowes in August 1909. As to what really happened at the Ipatiev house in Ekaterinburg in the early hours of 17 July 1918, the most accurate statement that can be made is that those who believe they know the course of events for certain can surely never have seriously attempted to learn what the course of events truly was.

I am indebted to Andrew Roberts for suggesting it was time I tackled the subject of this novel. For help generously given to me while I was planning and writing it, I am very grateful to my good friends Susan Moody and John Donaldson, to their good friend Iver Tesdorpf and to my wonderful Danish translator, Claus Bech (whose family secret regarding Tsar Alexander III's walking stick I have vowed to keep). Thanks to them, location research was not merely fruitful, but a lot of fun into the bargain. Skal!.

Robert Goddard.

end.