conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is a description for a book titled Death on the Nevskii Prospekt about DIV>the, Classics, Cambridge with the genre: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense, Mystery?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: <DIV>the author has an honors degree in Classics from Cambridge. Working for the BBC, he became editor of Newsnight and Panorama, as well as series editor of Monarchy. He is the author of eight mysteries in the Lord Powerscourt series. He lives in Barnes, West London, UK.</DIV>
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first five paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Death on the Nevskii Prospekt
  General Derzhenov looked at him very slowly. He began serious work on another doodle. Peering at the page upside down Powerscourt thought he was drawing people who had lost a limb, in war, or perhaps in his basement. There were spidery figures with only one arm or one leg, or with hands that had disappeared. Two had no heads, perhaps pulled off by Colonel Kolchak in person.
  Powerscourt laughed. 'You don't give up,' he said. 'Why don't you ask Lord Rosebery about Martin? He doesn't know what the mission was either.'
  Derzhenov laughed bitterly. 'If I did not have a suspicious mind, where do you think Russia would be now? If I did not suspect plots and conspiracies, this Emperor would have gone the way of his grandfather and his Interior Minister and his Education Minister and his Governor of Finland, blown into smithereens by the bombs of the revolutionaries. This is necessary in our country, the whips downstairs, the iron bars to break a man's arms, the water torture, the racks, the burnings, all of it. This is not a safe country for its rulers, Lord Powerscourt. All we can do is try to make it a little safer for them. Russia today is a place where the students learn to make bombs in their science classes, not one where they drift up and down the Backs in punts in your Cambridge drinking champagne and reciting the doubtful verses of A.E. Housman.'
  The General shrugged his shoulders. 'You make me grow philosophical, Lord Powerscourt. I need some exercise in the basement to bring me back to reality. Off you go to your meeting. Your young man should be waiting outside. I shall be in touch after I have heard about our discoveries in London. Good day to you.'
  The General picked up another of those dark blue aprons from a peg on the back of his door and hurried down his stairs. As Powerscourt left Number 16 Fontanka Quai, he noticed again the disagreeable smell coming from the basement. Very faintly he could hear the swish of the whips and a noise that sounded like a human head being smashed against a wall. He wondered if the General had rejoined his fellow torturers in his own private underworld of pain and suffering.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The last dishes had been cleared away. The candles had burnt halfway down. A great-great-grandfather of Lady Lucy's, resplendent in a scarlet coat with enormous moustaches and a chest covered with medals, painted by Lawrence, was standing to attention over the fireplace, surveying his descendants. A bottle of claret and a bottle of port awaited the gentlemen's attention. Lady Lucy was sitting at the head of the table with Francis on her right and Johnny on her left. She felt so proud to have Francis home. Olivia had confided to her at bedtime that they were now a proper family once again, and while Lady Lucy might have questioned the assumption that she couldn't cope on her own, she was largely in agreement.
  Once again Powerscourt presented his account of his investigation so far. It was, perhaps, less full than the one he had given to Inspector Clayton that afternoon. He would, he said, confine himself to the facts in the first instance. When they had heard Johnny's report on Mrs Martin, he might speculate. He made no mention of the torture chambers in the basement of the Okhrana headquarters or of the grisly paintings in the special section of the Hermitage. He stressed two things, the differences between the various Russian ministries and the secret service, and the fact that Martin had actually seen the Tsar. He mentioned the tapping of the Embassy telegraphs by the Okhrana and the private system operational between the brothers Crabbe in St Petersburg and London. He said he thought the investigation would now assume less and less importance in the eyes of the Russians. Their thoughts and their agencies would be increasingly devoted to the threat of terrorism and the broader political dilemma of repression or reform. He told of the affair between Roderick Martin and Tamara Kerenkova and the circumstances surrounding her banishment at the time of his last visit. The single most important thing in helping solve the problem, he said gravely, would be an interview with the Tsar. But then, his, Powerscourt's, fate might be the same as Mr Martin's. He said he had tried to think of a message to the British Embassy, ostensibly sent to de Chassiron, but designed to be read by the Okhrana, which might precipitate events that would unlock the mystery. So far he had failed. In any case, he pointed out, he wasn't sure the Okhrana knew any more than he did. He looked forward to hearing Johnny's report but unless there was some firm evidence from the solicitors or the telegraph company, he feared that the death of Mrs Martin would remain a mystery. If they could discover more about the telegraphs sent from the British Embassy on the evening or the night of Martin's death, the situation might become clearer. For if Martin had sent a message to his wife, and if the message contained compromising material, and if the Okhrana read it almost immediately, then that might account for Martin's death, assuming the message was sent after his visit to the Tsar. It would also explain the death of Mrs Martin, killed for the same reason as her husband. They were killed to keep their knowledge a secret. Martin could, he admitted, have sent a message earlier in the day once he knew his business would be concluded by his interview with the Tsar. He also looked forward, he said, to hearing the views of Lucy and Johnny. The only firm plan he had at present, he told them, was to stop off in Paris on his way back to St Petersburg and speak to somebody high up in the French secret service. He passed on de Chassiron's judgement that they were the best informed organization in Europe about Russia and the court of the Tsar.
  Johnny Fitzgerald began his account with the answers, as far as he knew them, to Powerscourt's queries sent from St Petersburg. William Burke, he said, had reported that there were erratic swings in the balances of Martin's bank account, consistent, Johnny now realized, with the visits to Russia and the possible purchases of treats and other delights for la Kerenkova. Martin's train tickets for his various expeditions to the Russian capital had not been bought through the Foreign Office, but through a branch of Thomas Cook round the corner. That was perfectly proper as he was going on private business, or, possibly, spying business. Then he moved on to the life and times of Mrs Letitia Martin in her own village of Tibenham with a very large swig of his port. Johnny looked round happily at his friends. 'I've got one surprise for you all,' he said, 'but as in all the best stories, I'm going to save it to the end. The first thing to say about Mrs Martin is that she was very popular. She always arrived in the village on her horse, never on foot, never in a carriage. The natives seem to like that. She was well known in the few shops. The vicar spoke warmly of her as a regular participant at Communion and a generous giver to the fund for the restoration of his church spire. Stood for four hundred years, could fall down next week, give generously today, as the vicar's sign outside the church proclaims. There's just one slight crack in this perfection. Mrs Martin was always very late in paying her bills. Sometimes, the butcher told me when his shop was completely empty, her suppliers might have to wait over a year to be paid.'
  Johnny seemed to regard discreditable information that reached the ears of the Church as especially trustworthy, almost as reliable as Holy Writ.
  Powerscourt started walking up and down the dining room, running his hand along the backs of the chairs. 'Damn! Damn! Damn! I hate to say it but the really infuriating thing about this case is that so many people are dead. Both Martins for a start. We can't ask them a thing.'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: '. We can't ask them a thing. Both Martins for a start. 'Damn! Damn! Damn! I hate to say it but the really infuriating thing about this case is that so many people are dead.
  Powerscourt started walking up and down the dining room, running his hand along the backs of the chairs.'
  Johnny seemed to regard discreditable information that reached the ears of the Church as especially trustworthy, almost as reliable as Holy Writ. Sometimes, the butcher told me when his shop was completely empty, her suppliers might have to wait over a year to be paid. Mrs Martin was always very late in paying her bills. There's just one slight crack in this perfection. Stood for four hundred years, could fall down next week, give generously today, as the vicar's sign outside the church proclaims. The vicar spoke warmly of her as a regular participant at Communion and a generous giver to the fund for the restoration of his church spire. She was well known in the few shops. The natives seem to like that. She always arrived in the village on her horse, never on foot, never in a carriage. The first thing to say about Mrs Martin is that she was very popular. 'I've got one surprise for you all,' he said, 'but as in all the best stories, I'm going to save it to the end. Johnny looked round happily at his friends. Then he moved on to the life and times of Mrs Letitia Martin in her own village of Tibenham with a very large swig of his port. That was perfectly proper as he was going on private business, or, possibly, spying business. Martin's train tickets for his various expeditions to the Russian capital had not been bought through the Foreign Office, but through a branch of Thomas Cook round the corner. William Burke, he said, had reported that there were erratic swings in the balances of Martin's bank account, consistent, Johnny now realized, with the visits to Russia and the possible purchases of treats and other delights for la Kerenkova.
  Johnny Fitzgerald began his account with the answers, as far as he knew them, to Powerscourt's queries sent from St Petersburg. He passed on de Chassiron's judgement that they were the best informed organization in Europe about Russia and the court of the Tsar. The only firm plan he had at present, he told them, was to stop off in Paris on his way back to St Petersburg and speak to somebody high up in the French secret service. He also looked forward, he said, to hearing the views of Lucy and Johnny. Martin could, he admitted, have sent a message earlier in the day once he knew his business would be concluded by his interview with the Tsar. They were killed to keep their knowledge a secret. It would also explain the death of Mrs Martin, killed for the same reason as her husband. For if Martin had sent a message to his wife, and if the message contained compromising material, and if the Okhrana read it almost immediately, then that might account for Martin's death, assuming the message was sent after his visit to the Tsar. If they could discover more about the telegraphs sent from the British Embassy on the evening or the night of Martin's death, the situation might become clearer. He looked forward to hearing Johnny's report but unless there was some firm evidence from the solicitors or the telegraph company, he feared that the death of Mrs Martin would remain a mystery. In any case, he pointed out, he wasn't sure the Okhrana knew any more than he did. So far he had failed. He said he had tried to think of a message to the British Embassy, ostensibly sent to de Chassiron, but designed to be read by the Okhrana, which might precipitate events that would unlock the mystery. But then, his, Powerscourt's, fate might be the same as Mr Martin's. The single most important thing in helping solve the problem, he said gravely, would be an interview with the Tsar. He told of the affair between Roderick Martin and Tamara Kerenkova and the circumstances surrounding her banishment at the time of his last visit. Their thoughts and their agencies would be increasingly devoted to the threat of terrorism and the broader political dilemma of repression or reform. He said he thought the investigation would now assume less and less importance in the eyes of the Russians. He mentioned the tapping of the Embassy telegraphs by the Okhrana and the private system operational between the brothers Crabbe in St Petersburg and London. He stressed two things, the differences between the various Russian ministries and the secret service, and the fact that Martin had actually seen the Tsar. He made no mention of the torture chambers in the basement of the Okhrana headquarters or of the grisly paintings in the special section of the Hermitage. When they had heard Johnny's report on Mrs Martin, he might speculate. He would, he said, confine himself to the facts in the first instance. It was, perhaps, less full than the one he had given to Inspector Clayton that afternoon.
  Once again Powerscourt presented his account of his investigation so far. Olivia had confided to her at bedtime that they were now a proper family once again, and while Lady Lucy might have questioned the assumption that she couldn't cope on her own, she was largely in agreement. She felt so proud to have Francis home. Lady Lucy was sitting at the head of the table with Francis on her right and Johnny on her left. A bottle of claret and a bottle of port awaited the gentlemen's attention. A great-great-grandfather of Lady Lucy's, resplendent in a scarlet coat with enormous moustaches and a chest covered with medals, painted by Lawrence, was standing to attention over the fireplace, surveying his descendants. The candles had burnt halfway down.The last dishes had been cleared away
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last two paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Berlin express was pulling slowly out of the station. Powerscourt stared out of his window as the outer parts of St Petersburg slid past beyond the steam from the engine. He was going home to Lucy and the children. He was safe. He had not been killed in this, his first investigation since he had nearly died after the encounter in the Wallace Collection. He remembered that he had promised to take Lucy to Paris to celebrate his safe return. Maybe they could call on the elegant M. Olivier Brouzet of the French secret service and his Watteau in the Place des Vosges.
  He thought of the little boy called Alexis, the Tsarevich, growing up in the Alexander Palace, the blood flowing uncontrollably round his body.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Ricky, Crabbe, Lucy, telling, returning.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Berlin express was pulling slowly out of the station. Powerscourt stared out of his window as the outer parts of St Petersburg slid past beyond the steam from the engine. He was going home to Lucy and the children. He was safe. He had not been killed in this, his first investigation since he had nearly died after the encounter in the Wallace Collection. Ricky Crabbe had sent a cable from him to Lucy, via William Burke, telling her he was safe and well and returning to London. He remembered that he had promised to take Lucy to Paris to celebrate his safe return. Maybe they could call on the elegant M. Olivier Brouzet of the French secret service and his Watteau in the Place des Vosges. 
  He thought of the little boy called Alexis, the Tsarevich, growing up in the Alexander Palace, the blood flowing uncontrollably round his body.