FOUR DAYS LATER THAN EXPECTED, BILL, VAL, AND Nicole arrived at the boat dock in Moscow for their sailing to Leningrad. Bill lied that he had been suffering from a stomach upset; their tickets were exchanged and a new cabin allocated. It was lovely to be able to sit on deck and watch the countryside go by, and it gave Val time to discuss with Bill what she had discovered in Ekaterinburg. No wonder her father had been secretive about his past if he had been a guard at the Ipatiev House. He was only nineteen when the Romanovs were killed and it must have been harrowing. Something like that could scar you for life.

After 1918, when he was searching for Maria, he had used identity papers in the names of several of his fellow guards. But if the museum was correct—and she assumed it must be—his real name was Anatoly Bolotov. Since seeing that photo at the house, she hadn’t been able to get the question out of her head: why had he claimed to be Ivan Skorokhodov? And then changed his name to Irwin Scott? It was as if he was running away from something.

They sailed along canals through farming country, sitting out on deck to catch the sun. The boat edged into Lake Ladoga and Nicole listened in awe when Bill told her that during the Second World War trucks full of people used to drive over the ice.

“Why didn’t it break?” she asked.

“They waited until it was eight inches thick and laid down tracks,” he replied. “Then it was strong enough.”

“Could you skate on it?” She looked at the blue water sparkling in the sunlight.

“I don’t think many people tried in the middle of a war,” Bill replied, “but in peacetime they probably do.”

Val’s first impression of Leningrad was of fancy buildings in bold colors decorated with gold trimmings. Every street she glanced along seemed to have its own splendid multi-domed church, and there was a network of canals around the historic district, crisscrossed by bridges flanked with heroic statues.

“It’s like living in a museum!” she exclaimed.

“You can certainly see where the Romanovs spent the nation’s wealth,” Bill agreed.

Their hotel was near the Winter Palace, a mint-green, white and gold building overlooking the River Neva. In every direction there were glorious views.

“I simply can’t believe I’m here!” Val gasped, twirling around. “I’ve read so much about it, but the reality is miles better than I expected.”

Their official guide, a middle-aged woman with dark hair striped with silver like a badger’s, was waiting for them at the hotel. “Tomorrow we start at nine,” she said, “with a walking tour of this district. Please wear sensible shoes. In the afternoon we will tour the Hermitage Gallery.”