‘Damn it, enough of this nonsense!’ said Dobson, throwing his script on to the couch. Both men were dressed for dinner after an expensive evening at the Palkin, although the correspondent had discarded his frock coat ‘the better to perform’. ‘What possessed Hamilton to choose this drivel? And why do I have to play the butler?’
‘Because you’re an inky hack, George,’ Hadfield replied with a tipsy grin. He was slumped in a leather armchair in front of the journalist’s desk, with a glass of brandy in one hand and his lines in the other.
‘You snob, Hadfield. Your egalitarian principles are skin deep, aren’t they?’
‘Grub street reporters are in a class of their own.’
Dobson grunted and turned to pluck the brandy bottle from a silver drinks tray balanced on a table beside the fire.
‘You know, I have it on good authority that Count von Plehve will be at the embassy,’ he said, flopping on to the couch. ‘It will be worth playing a fool if I can inveigle myself into his circle.’
‘Von Plehve?’
‘Don’t you read the papers? He’s the chief prosecutor,’ said Dobson. ‘Tipped to be a government minister in time. And absolutely the man to tell me more about this new nihilist group.’
‘Is there one?’
Lifting a plump thigh on to the couch, the correspondent shuffled round to face Hadfield, his eyes sparkling with interest. ‘Narodnaya Volya. “The People’s Will”. An army friend introduced me to a comrade of his called Barclay, a major in the gendarmes, who told me there was a gathering of revolutionaries in Voronezh last month and the militants – I thought they were all militant but it appears not – the militants have united behind a new banner – “The People’s Will”. Barclay says the police are expecting more outrages. Damn thing is – I can’t print a word of it.’ Dobson shook his head angrily. ‘The bloody censor. When they decide the time is ripe everybody will get it – the Russians, the Germans, even that lazy hack from the Daily Telegraph.’
‘What is the point of cultivating this von Plehve if you can’t print what he says?’
Dobson gave an almost Russian shrug. ‘You never know.’
But the next time Hadfield saw the correspondent he was – to judge from the stream of invective he launched at the wardrobe master – feeling less philosophical about life’s vicissitudes.
‘For God’s sake, man, haven’t you got something that fits?’
The dresser from the Mikhailovsky Theatre was struggling with the butler’s buttons. The drinks tray was close by and Hadfield gestured to it.
‘A stiff nip to help with first and last night nerves? Remember your Count von Plehve is in the audience.’
‘Ha bloody ha, Hadfield.’
The performance was managed with just enough aplomb, and the audience entered into the spirit by applauding buffoonery whether it was intended or not. ‘Wonderfully British,’ the ambassador declared in his vote of thanks. The loudest applause was reserved for the young master of revels, Lord Frederick Hamilton, who had played the part of the fierce grey-haired ‘Countess Gorgonzola’ with great panache.
A light supper was then served in the splendour of the embassy’s White Hall, where Tsar Alexander I had danced the quadrille before meeting his generals to plan the defeat of La Grande Armée. A masterpiece of the Russian baroque in white and gold, fit for the visit of the heir to Byzantium, the tall pier glasses reflected an exuberant plaster tableau of ‘Plenty’.
‘Magnificent,’ said Dobson, gazing at the life-size carvings of Pan’s followers above the frieze. ‘I doubt there is anything to touch it in England.’
‘And a fine view to the Peter and Paul Fortress too,’ said Hadfield, waving his champagne glass at the windows.
‘What a joy you are to be with, old boy. You should have left your socialist baggage at the door. Look,’ he said, nudging Hadfield lightly with his elbow, ‘there’s that wily old bird Gortchakov.’
The grey head of the Russian foreign minister was bent in conversation a few feet from them, peering at the ambassador over his spectacles like an indulgent father. He wore a broad blue sash across his chest and diamond stars on his coat, the glittering honours of twenty years’ service in the courts of Europe.
‘A shocking flirt, you know,’ Hadfield whispered. ‘He likes to know if a new ambassador has a pretty wife. If the answer’s no, then he says the ambassador will fail at court because he’s already lost the most important argument.’
‘Goodness, patients tell their physicians everything, don’t they,’ said Dobson with a cynical little shake of the head. ‘And does he think Lady Dufferin pretty or is your source silent on the subject?’
‘She’s the wife of the British ambassador. Of course he thinks she’s pretty. Don’t you?’
Dobson laughed: ‘You’re wasted in the medical profession.’
‘Quite right. A born actor,’ said Hamilton, stepping up to them with a broad smile. ‘It went swimmingly, don’t you think?’
‘You looked very comfortable in that dress, Your Lordship,’ Dobson replied.
Hamilton inclined his head graciously. The young third secretary was a little effeminate, tall, curly-haired, strikingly handsome and amiable enough, if rather too full of his family connections.
‘A jolly good turnout,’ he declared, with an extravagant flourish to the room. ‘French, German and Italian ambassadors, Baron de Budberg, and over there,’ he nodded discreetly at an elderly gentleman sitting serenely by the window, ‘Prince Davidov – he was educated in Edinburgh. He knew Walter Scott. A little deaf.’
The crème de la crème of summer society drifting with the practised ease of profession and class about the hall. Ladies in black satin dresses and diamonds, the men in a glittering array of court uniforms and frock coats, the murmur of diplomatic French, the clink of champagne flutes and the comfort of a small string orchestra: counts, princes, grand dukes and barons, a timeless display of wealth and privilege. As the third secretary rattled through the names of more guests, Hadfield wondered why a doctor, the son of a doctor, had been invited.
It became clear enough minutes later when Lord Dufferin touched his arm. ‘There’s someone I would like you to meet, Hadfield,’ he said, and led him across the ballroom to where a man with the gold Star of the Order of St Vladimir at his breast was confidently holding forth to a lady.
‘Your Highness, here is the gentleman I was speaking of,’ said Dufferin with a little bow. ‘My wife is adamant he’s the best young doctor in the city.’ And turning to Hadfield: ‘The Princess of Oldenburg and Count von Plehve.’
Hadfield bent low over the gloved hand the princess offered him then gave a stiff bow to the count.
‘Lord Dufferin tells me you’re a nephew of General Glen’s,’ the princess said with a patronising little smile. She was rather a plain woman of middle years, but there was a rich confidence in her manner, her poise, the way she held her head, that a man might find fascinating, even attractive. She was dressed in a fashionable Parisian gown boldly cut off the shoulders.
‘Of course the count knows your uncle too,’ she said, turning to von Plehve. The chief prosecutor inclined his head a little by way of affirmation, scrutinising Hadfield carefully.
‘The count was just telling me of these madmen . . .’
‘And mad women, Eugénie Maximiliovna . . .’
‘Yes, mad women too,’ said the princess with a little laugh. ‘Poor Madame Volkonsky, what will become of her?’
The count stroked his moustache thoughtfully with his forefinger. ‘Women are such dangerous creatures, Eugénie Maximiliovna. So much more dangerous than men, don’t you agree, Your Excellency?’
‘I do,’ replied Dufferin with a polite smile.
‘Actually, we’re looking for one woman in particular,’ von Plehve continued. ‘A revolutionary called “Romanko” who a witness places in Palace Square when the attempt was made on His Majesty’s life. An associate of a fellow called Mikhailov.’
Von
Plehve told them a little of Alexander Mikhailov, of his privileged background, and that he had given agents the slip only a few weeks before. ‘We know he attended a gathering of nihilists in Voronezh in June and that he was one of those who championed a campaign of terror.’
‘This new group,’ said the princess, ‘what do they call themselves?’
‘“The People’s Will”.’
‘You are so fortunate, Lord Dufferin,’ the princess said, ‘that you don’t have people like this in your country.’
‘We have our Irish Republicans.’
‘And what is your opinion, Doctor?’ von Plehve asked, turning to fix Hadfield with his curiously intense stare.
‘My opinion of what, sir?’
‘Of our revolutionaries.’
‘I’ve learnt as a doctor to avoid controversy,’ Hadfield said smoothly. ‘My opinion might have a detrimental effect on a patient’s blood pressure, which would be unforgivable – not to mention unprofitable.’
‘Ha! There you are, Count! Admirably discreet,’ said Dufferin, raising his glass to Hadfield.
‘Admirable, I’m sure,’ von Plehve replied with a taut smile. ‘But can you trust a man who refuses his opinion?’
‘You can trust me to give you a frank opinion of your health, Count.’
‘Don’t persecute the doctor,’ said the princess, shaking her finger at von Plehve. ‘I for one applaud his discretion.’
The count smiled and gave a magnanimous little bow.
‘What do these people want, Count?’ the princess asked.
‘The People’s Will? They want to put the government of our country in the hands of illiterate muzhiks.’ Von Plehve paused to consider his next words carefully, a frown creasing his high forehead. ‘If our intelligence is correct, some ruthless fanatics have joined the group – men like Mikhailov – and others.’ Then with a brightness that seemed a little forced: ‘But we have good people working on this case, rest assured, we’ll find them.’
Glancing up at the windows of the candlelit ballroom an hour later, Hadfield smiled to himself. A friend to ambassadors and princesses, as discreet as the pure white plaster figures gazing down upon one more perfectly ordered scene in which they belong and yet remain apart. The disquiet he had felt when the count had so pointedly asked for his opinion was gone, and he was conscious of a certain satisfaction at straddling two mutually hostile worlds.
Dobson had wanted to know everything von Plehve had said. ‘You’re fortunate in your family connections,’ he grumbled.
Hadfield had told him of the chief prosecutor’s fears, of Mikhailov and his associates, and of the new party – The People’s Will – confident his friend would be discreet. But there were pieces of the conversation and thoughts he kept to himself. As he walked along the embankment towards Palace Square they swirled through his mind like the dark waters of the Neva. Where was the woman he knew as Miss Anna Kovalenko?
12
6 NOVEMBER 1879
Anna had visited the cottage a dozen times before, but the winter days were drawing in and by five o’clock the rough path from the cemetery was almost lost in the spectral blue light that lingers after sunset. Walk towards the silhouette of the church tower – it was plain enough to her left – cross the track, then follow the monastery wall away from the village. It was the path the day labourers at the Moscow factories were accustomed to taking home. Half an hour and they would begin emptying from the trains at the local station. She needed to be quick: a young woman struggling with a heavy bag at twilight would arouse interest, even a little suspicion. Anna had lived most of her life in a village and understood that anything remotely out of the ordinary was a cause for comment in a small community – and Preobrazhenskoe was more tightly knit and warier of outsiders than most. It was a poor quarter on the southern edge of Moscow, and for many years a refuge from persecution for Old Believers who scraped a living from small allotments, growing fruit and vegetables to sell in the city markets. They did not welcome strangers. Alexander Mikhailov had given strict orders that movement to and from the cottage should be kept to a minimum. Nothing should be said or done to antagonise their neighbours. Some of Anna’s comrades dismissed the Old Believers as fools and laughed at their strange ways: who in his right mind would account it a sin for a man to shave? But Anna had a grudging respect for the sincerity and dignity with which they clung to their faith and their traditional forms of worship. Surely there would be a place for Old Believers in the Russia the new party was fighting for, freedom from persecution, from prescription? For all that, she was as careful to avoid contact with them as the others. Mikhailov knew he could trust her. Most of the members of the new party had no idea how to make themselves anonymous in a village like Preobrazhenskoe.
At the corner of the monastery wall she stopped to catch her breath, placing the white canvas sack carefully on the ground at her feet. An old man, his grey beard tucked into a belted shirt, was plodding along the track, a wooden hoe in one hand and a bag of vegetables in the other. He glanced sideways at her but walked on without a word or gesture. Beyond the wall, a thick belt of waste ground, a patchwork of small market gardens and spoil heaps, and at intervals, the outline of a tumbledown house, a faint light flickering in the window. The little one-storey cottage the party had bought was at its edge, just a stone’s throw from the main railway track to Kursk and all points south. With no small effort, Anna swung the sack back on to her shoulder and set off again, head bent low over the path of beaten earth. She stumbled on for five minutes, her dress catching on a tangle of brambles, concentrating hard on where she placed her feet, glancing up only to be sure of the dim light at the window of the first house. So anxious was she not to lose the path, she did not hear their footfalls or see the men approach until they were only a few yards from her. As they loomed out of the darkness, the sack almost slipped through her fingers and she gave a little gasp of surprise.
‘Did we make you jump, love?’
Three men. Young men. Railwaymen or tinkers. Their faces lost beneath peaked workmen’s caps.
‘You surprised me, yes,’ she said as calmly as she was able.
‘Where are you going? Here, we’ll help you with that.’ The man nearest to her held out his hand. He was broad, his beard too short for an Old Believer, a thigh-length jacket and boots, and as he bent closer she could smell beer on his breath.
‘Pretty . . .’ one of his companions muttered.
‘My friend likes you, love,’ the first man said. His hand was still open in front of her.
‘Then he won’t mind stepping out of my way, will he?’ This time there was steel in her voice. She was angry. Who were these men to accost a woman at night?
‘I’m sure he would be happy to do more for you than that,’ replied the first man, turning for approval to his companions who were sniggering like smutty children.
‘Let me pass!’ She took a step forward.
‘Now, now. We’re only being friendly.’
They were not going to let her go. What did they want? Was it just the bag? Her heart was pounding but her mind was crystal clear.
‘My husband and his friends are in that house there,’ she said, retreating a step. ‘Hey, Mishka! Thieves! Thieves!’
Her voice split the still night like a knife to the belly of a beast. It was a scream to wake the conscience of a dead man. The first man lunged at her. Swinging the sack from her shoulder, she struck him on the side of the head, throwing him off balance and heavily to one knee. The sack was at her feet now and the second man grabbed at it, pushing her away. But he was smaller and struggled to lift it with one hand.
‘Here,’ she screamed again. ‘Thieves! Murderers!’
‘Shut up or I’ll finish you.’
‘Murderers!’ And she kicked out blindly at the first man rising to his feet. Angry, she was so angry, grinding her teeth with anger.
Then from somewhere a man’s voice: ‘Hey, what’s happening there?’
S
he glanced up to see a lantern swinging towards them. ‘Thieves!’
In desperation, one of them tugged at the sack, lifting it from the ground to hoist it on to his back. She threw herself on him with her fists, bending to sink her teeth deep into his hand. A cry of pain and the sack slipped from him. But someone had her by the hair and was dragging her down. Then she was struck hard in the face, knuckles jarring her cheekbone. She fell backwards, her head bursting with white light. She curled instinctively into a ball. The sack was close at hand, and she reached out to grasp it by the neck. But one of the men kicked out at her viciously, catching her just below the ribs, and she slipped into darkness, heaving for air, conscious of nothing but the pain in her face and side. Then anger and fear kindled inside her again.
‘No, no!’ And with a stubborn act of will, she opened her eyes and clutched the sack tighter and with both hands, tensing in readiness for the next blow. But it did not come. They had gone. She pulled the sack towards her and lay in the long grass beside it, trembling with shock, a film of cold perspiration prickling her skin. Her cheek was throbbing and as she lifted her head, the shadowy world within her circumference began to spin.
‘Hey, is anyone there? Where are you?’ Someone was pushing quickly through the grass towards her.
‘Here.’ How pathetic her voice sounded. ‘Here.’
The ring of light from a lantern and a bent silhouette above her. Her rescuer crossed himself, and she could tell from the two fingers he used to perform his blessing that he was an Old Believer.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, sinking to his haunches and lifting the lantern close to her face.
It took another supreme act of will just to lift one foot in front of the other; every jarring step sent a frisson of pain through her body. She had no choice but to let him carry the sack. Her Good Samaritan was called Vladimir and his home was close to the railway track, a stone’s throw from the newcomers’ cottage. She did not need to tell him where she was going, he led her there without question.
To Kill a Tsar Page 12