Black and white could lie. She knew that better than anyone. It was no great thing at all to take what was there, cut it out, and put it somewhere else instead, where it meant something entirely different.
Mama pushed her tea aside with a shake of her head and tossed a second newspaper onto the table, disgust in every line of her face—and the lines had deepened in the last month. “Rot and rubbish, the lot of it. Zivon Marin is no murderer.”
“No. He is most assuredly not.” And that, in her opinion, was where whoever had orchestrated this had overplayed their hand. Zivon was many things, capable of many things. She’d glimpsed that soul-deep bitterness in him, yes. But it was the sort that came of being wronged, not of doing the wronging. Of feeling the guilt and shame for being unable to save someone who was his responsibility, not for taking actions against her.
And she understood that bitterness now. She hated this influenza with the same passion he’d applied to the Bolsheviks. And though her hate wasn’t aimed at people, it would still eat away at her if she let it.
She tapped a finger to the second column of the story. “This here, this mention of the evidence they were shown. That sounds like photographic evidence, does it not?”
Mama moved around the table to stand beside Lily and skimmed the paragraph in question. “It does. Do you think Blinker has copies?”
“I don’t know. But there’s one certain way to find out.” She spun for the door.
Mama was hot on her heels. “I’m coming with you. I want to help, if I can.”
They didn’t waste time on conversation as they hurried onto Curzon Street. She avoided looking toward Hyde Park, toward the path she usually walked with Ivy. Instead, they turned to Mayfair, directly toward Whitehall. And as the OB came into view, she also tried not to wonder if her halfhearted hours at work were in part responsible for this wretched article.
If she’d gone in as often as she should have, would Hall have shown her whatever evidence this was? Asked her to authenticate any photographs? Had her grief and bitterness kept her from helping the man she loved?
No. Hall had kept her out of the loop long before Ivy’s death. But if she’d been there, maybe she could have convinced him by now to read her in.
She shoved the useless thoughts aside as they gained the back entrance. Barely slowing on the stairs, she was soon opening the door to her darkroom.
“Oh my. Lilian. I had no idea.”
Only at her mother’s gasp did Lily pause to realize that Mama had never been down here. She hadn’t seen the space, so many times larger than her darkroom at home. The newest equipment, the endless supply of chemicals, the photo archives, and the most frequently appearing faces tacked to the wall.
“No wonder you couldn’t work so well at home. This is—this is . . . well, professional, isn’t it? This is a career.”
“I suppose it is.” She rarely thought of it as such. A calling, yes. And she received a paycheck, but she never even saw those. Daddy always took them to the bank for her.
Mama was wandering to the photo wall. “And these?”
“I keep track of how often the same people appear. The admiral says it has proven useful innumerable times.” Including the last one, with the German officers.
The photo Zivon had given them. She frowned. Hall had promised to tell her what came of that, but she’d scarcely darkened the door of the OB since then. And the mountain of film on her desk awaiting processing told the tale too.
“Lily? Ah good, it is you.” Barclay Pearce stuck his head in with a smile. “Saw the lights as I was heading out the back. Here to help your Russian?”
Lily gave a decisive nod. “If Hall will let me.”
“He just sent me to fetch you, actually. Declared all hands on deck to help clear Marin’s name. I’ll tell him you’re here.”
He vanished again. Mama was still perusing the wall, so Lily occupied herself by ordering the canisters of film while she waited for Hall.
She didn’t have to wait long. And he arrived with an armload of manila envelopes, his expression grim. “I finally convinced one of my reporter friends to bring all these over. And we’ve the ones that were sent to us, of course. They’re on top.”
Seeing no need for small talk, Lily began with those while Mama and DID pulled the others from their envelopes and arranged them on one of her long tables. She switched on a lamp, grabbed her loupe, and turned to the trio of images that had made Hall and Daddy suspicious of Zivon to begin with.
The one of him with Lenin, with You will know a man . . . on the back.
One of him and Evgeni, with . . . by the company . . .
And finally, one of a group that included many men in Russian uniform. She didn’t recognize most of their faces, but she spotted Evgeni in the mix, smiling at the soldier next to him. This one finished out the message with . . . he keeps.
She started with the first one, the one of him bowing over Lenin’s hand, that Hall hadn’t let her get a good look at back when he received it. With the aid of her loupe, she looked at the outline all around Zivon, fully expecting to see a telltale white line or a too-dark one. To find his head had been put on another’s body, perhaps. Or even some evidence that the image was old.
But his hair was cut in the same style. His eyeglasses the pair he was still wearing. And it was without question his lithe runner’s form. One thing, however, was out of place. The ruby ring was missing from his hand. She straightened. “Admiral?”
He was still spreading papers out and had what appeared to be a newspaper clipping in hand. “Yes?”
“Did Zivon ever mention when the czar gave him his ring?”
“Shortly before he abdicated in the spring of 1917, I believe. Why?”
“He isn’t wearing it in this photo—but he never takes it off. Even if he had done so before meeting Lenin, there would be a dent on his finger. But there’s none. This photo must be from before he received it.”
“It can’t be. Lenin was in exile in Switzerland until after the Revolution began.”
“Then . . .” It was clearly Zivon in the photo, and he was seamless with his background. She moved the loupe. And laughed. “Lenin was put in after the fact. Look.” Once Hall had moved to her side, she held a larger magnifying glass in place for him and used the tip of a pencil to point to the faint white line around Lenin’s figure. “Were I to guess, I would say this is a photograph of Zivon meeting the czar, not Lenin.” That would explain the adoration on his face.
Hall breathed a laugh. “Well done, Lily. What of the others? I showed him this second one—he verified it himself. Said it was from the album that he lost in the train accident.”
She reached for the third. “If his enemies found it, that explains how they created these.” She used first a magnifying glass and then the loupe to study the group picture but shook her head. “This one seems to be genuine too. What does that mean? Who are these people?”
Hall’s face looked grim. “Bolsheviks.”
“Even—his brother?”
“So it would seem. According to some of this information, the false passport Zivon traveled under was even given to him by the Bolsheviks—though that would make sense if his brother is among them.” He turned back to the table. “Take a look at these others. I need to find someone who can translate this.” He tapped the article he’d been holding. “It’s in Russian.”