It was a little after eleven o’clock when he reached the pier below Line 7 and climbed unsteadily to the embankment. At the top of the steps, he slipped and almost fell back, grasping the wall, his heart racing. Bloody fool. A broken neck wouldn’t help. He took a deep breath and walked on, anxious to reach home and bring the day to a close, head bent, concentrating hard on an imaginary line. For once he did not take the precaution of walking in the middle of the street, and after a few paces he was startled by a man who stepped sharply from the darkness of a doorway into his path. Sober in an instant, his body tensed in readiness to fight. Then he recognised the slight figure of his police shadow and he laughed with relief.
‘You!’ How absurd. ‘Dobrshinsky won’t thank you for frightening me to death, my friend.’
The informer took a step closer. He had a thin face, serious, clean-shaven, with large brown eyes, his long hair swept back from his forehead. He was dressed in what may once have been a student uniform.
In the seconds it took to look him up and down Hadfield recognised he had made a foolish mistake.
‘In the name of the executive committee of The People’s Will, you are . . . you—’ The student’s voice shook uncontrollably with fear. He was fumbling in his coat pocket. A knife? A gun? Hadfield threw himself forward, driving the student to the ground, punching his face with his right hand, pinning his arm to his side with his left. The young revolutionary cried out in pain as his head struck the icy pavement. And Hadfield grabbed at his hair, swinging his head and banging it down hard again.
‘You hopeless bastard!’ he snarled through gritted teeth, enjoying the power, the excuse to punch, hurt, make the man cry out in pain. ‘You hopeless, feeble little bastard.’ And he struck him in the face again and felt his nose fracture.
‘Does she know?’ he shouted, his voice husky with rage. The student began to whimper. ‘Shut up, you coward. Does she know?’
But his words were lost as a wave of incandescent pain broke behind his eyes and washed through his body. He must have crashed sideways on to the pavement because, as the pain began to recede, he saw the student lying curled in a ball at his side. Then someone kicked him in the chest and for a second his heart skipped a beat. Voices – two, three men, working men.
‘Go on. Finish it.’
Rolling away, Hadfield tried to rise but was thrown back by a crushing blow, a fist like a hammer. One of them aimed another kick at him and in desperation he grabbed the man’s boot, trying to drag him down.
Fight. Fight. Don’t die. But one of the others kicked him in the back and he let go, gasping for air. Don’t die. Don’t. It beat in his mind through the pain. And with the strength of fear he began to rise again, clutching at someone’s legs, head bent against their fists. They want to crush me. Blow after blow, his head, his sides. They are going to murder me. I’m going to die on the pavement outside the House of Academics. The will of the people. No fear, no pain now, only the jarring of his body and a struggle for breath at the edge of consciousness. And he began to float with Anna, with her playful smile and blue, so blue eyes. But a moment later she was lost to a dazzling light. And then the light was lost to darkness.
‘Is he dead?’
‘As dead as it is possible to be, Your Honour.’
‘Let me see.’
The heavy iron door opened with a squeak and the warder stepped inside with his lamp, the circle of light creeping up the back wall of the cell. Grigory Goldenberg was hanging from the bars of the little window, his head twisted to one side, his tongue lolling thick and blue from his mouth, wispy red hair plastered across his forehead. His eyes had rolled upwards in his last moments, as if he was beseeching his god. He looked like a badly made marionette.
The party’s little puppet, Collegiate Councillor Dobrshinsky thought with distaste, a dangerous enthusiast with a craving for active service and an inflated sense of his importance. It had taken time, but he had been able to turn him to good effect. A list of over a hundred names, descriptions, addresses and pages and pages of evidence. Yes, the little fanatic had done him a very good turn. Drenteln had gone but Dobrshinsky stayed, and the new man in charge of the Third Section had given his investigation fresh impetus.
‘When?’ he asked, turning to the warder.
‘No more than two hours ago, Your Honour.’
‘Does anyone know why?’
‘He heard of the arrests from one of the other prisoners. He said he’d been tricked. Guilt, Your Honour. Guilt.’
Dobrshinsky took a step closer. Goldenberg’s life had been choked from him. Only great despair and a supreme act of courage could have driven him to it. A prison towel torn into strips to make a rope, dangling from the bars, his hands loose at his side, his feet only inches from the floor.
‘Cut him down and clean up the cell,’ Dobrshinsky said, turning his back on the corpse. ‘It could have waited until the morning.’
But it was not the end of the collegiate councillor’s day. Just as his carriage was drawing to a halt in front of his home, the porter came scuttling down the steps to greet him with a note.
‘I was to deliver it as soon as you returned, Your Honour,’ he wheezed asthmatically. ‘I’ve been waiting these last two hours.’
‘Before I’ve had a chance to step from my carriage and take off my hat and coat?’
Dobrshinsky pulled off his gloves and, with a hand that seemed to tremble a little, he took the letter and broke the seal. He read it, then sat back in the carriage for a moment, his eyes closed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
‘You did the right thing,’ he said at last, and he took a few kopeks from his pocket and dropped them into the porter’s hand: ‘For your trouble.’
Major Vladimir Barclay was waiting for him in the office of the assistant superintendent of the Nikolaevsky, dozing at the stove, an empty glass of tea balanced precariously on the arm of his chair. Dobrshinsky took the precaution of removing it before he shook him gently by the shoulder.
‘Anton Frankzevich, Your Honour,’ he said, rising blearily to his feet.
‘Where is our doctor?’
‘His Excellency General Glen was here, and the first secretary from the British embassy,’ said Barclay, doing up the buttons of his jacket.
The assistant superintendent had informed him Hadfield was suffering from a severe head injury, broken ribs, bruising to the chest and back and broken fingers. The head injury was causing particular concern.
‘And where is the general?’ asked Dobrshinsky.
‘He’s gone home, spitting fire, and says he’ll be back in the morning.’ Barclay grimaced at the thought. ‘He’s going to speak to His Excellency, Count Loris-Melikov, and to His Majesty too. He’s convinced the terrorists want to murder him and his family. He’s insisting on a police guard. He seems to blame us.’
The special investigator smiled at the aggrieved note in his voice. ‘My dear Barclay, surely you didn’t expect anything else?’
‘Some gratitude, Your Honour. They would have stuck his nephew like a pig if our fellow hadn’t stepped in to save him. I tried to tell His Excellency—’
‘Tell me.’
Agent Sudeikin of the Third Section had been following the doctor since the explosion at the palace but had lost him that night on the Nevsky Prospekt.
‘Not for the first time,’ Dobrshinsky observed dryly.
Sudeikin had noticed that a student was following the doctor too but he had not had the wit to associate him with The People’s Will.
‘And to be fair to Sudeikin, he doesn’t look the sort of fellow they would trust with this sort of task,’ said Barclay. But the student had three burly factory workers with him who were more than capable of kicking a man to death. Agent Sudeikin had come upon them as they were preparing for the coup de grâce, and had fired his revolver, wounding one in the arm and driving all but the student away.
‘The doctor gave the fellow such a beating he was not in a fit state to run. He’s in a cell
at the Preliminary. He hasn’t said more than that he’s an agent of The People’s Will.’ Barclay chuckled: ‘Looks as if he’s been kicked by a horse.’
Dobrshinsky frowned thoughtfully, his head bent a little, staring at nothing in particular.
‘It’s puzzling,’ Barclay offered. ‘I was sure he was one of them.’
‘Yes,’ said Dobrshinsky, turning his sharp little eyes upon his colleague again. ‘He was one of them and he was one of us. He’s a lucky man.’
‘Lucky indeed – they almost finished him off.’
‘No, no, Barclay, I don’t mean that,’ the investigator replied with a sardonic smile. ‘My dear fellow, he’s lucky because who would dare to arrest him now?’
32
30 MARCH 1880
78 MOIKA EMBANKMENT
The pianoforte was in a drawing room on the floor above but the door was ajar and the deliberate melody of the prelude was ringing on the marble stairs and in the hall. Anton Dobrshinsky stood and listened with pleasure and surprise, for a highly accomplished performance of Chopin was not what he expected to hear in the count’s house.
‘The fellow from the Conservatory. My wife’s invited some guests for a musical soirée.’ Von Plehve had come to stand beside him at the foot of the stairs. ‘Do you think he’s good?’
‘He plays beautifully.’
‘I’m glad you think so. Her Highness Princess Dolgorukaya will be here, and the British ambassador and his wife.’ Von Plehve touched Dobrshinsky’s elbow and led him across the hall into his study.
Yellow evening light was pouring through the windows overlooking the Moika, shifting in the swirling smoke from the fire and softening the cold gilt edges of the room. It was expensively but unimaginatively decorated with delicate but uncomfortable furniture and dark Flemish pictures with Old Testament themes.
‘I want you to see this before my man delivers it,’ said von Plehve, picking up a letter. ‘Please,’ and he indicated with a casual wave that Dobrshinsky should take the library chair in front of his desk. The letter was marked ‘Strictly Confidential’ and carried that day’s date.
To the Chairman of the Supreme Security Commission, His Excellency, General Count Loris-Melikov
Your Excellency,
I have the honour to report that I visited this morning The Earl of Dufferin, the British Ambassador, and spoke with him for nearly an hour. In the course of our meeting, the ambassador asked his military attaché, Colonel Gonne, to join us. I inquired after the health of the English doctor, Frederick Hadfield, and was assured he was making good progress. As Your Excellency will no doubt be aware, Dr Hadfield is recuperating from his injuries at the home of his uncle, General Glen.
Turning to the matter of Hadfield’s contacts with the terrorists, in particular the woman, Romanko, Lord Dufferin wished to repeat his confidence in the doctor’s innocence. He also asked me to reassure Your Excellency that the British government was not involved in a conspiracy to undermine His Majesty or the Russian government, and would do all it could to prevent and condemn terrorist violence. The military attaché, Colonel Gonne, has spoken to the correspondent of The Times newspaper in the city. It is the opinion of Mr George Dobson that the doctor is nothing worse than a liberal. He described the doctor as a little naïve, and raised the possibility that he had become infatuated with the Romanko woman while he was working beside her at a clinic for the poor.
It seems unlikely the doctor offered any material assistance to the terrorists and in view of their attempt to murder him there can be no question of his maintaining any further contact. Mr Dobson has undertaken to keep Colonel Gonne informed of the doctor’s state of mind and movements. It is the firmly held view of Lord Dufferin that the doctor should be allowed to continue with his work and that an attempt to bring a case against him based on the flimsiest of evidence would damage relations between our two countries. Furthermore, it would be the cause of some consternation in diplomatic and expatriate circles in the city.
Your Excellency may wish to consider the doctor’s family connection and close association with a number of influential people. I believe His Majesty met the doctor when he was visiting the survivors of the explosion at the palace and has sent him a message expressing his sympathy and appreciation.
To conclude, I emphasised to Lord Dufferin the unofficial nature of my representations and was assured by him that our conversation would go no further. It was agreed in the circumstances that it would be in everyone’s interests if the political nature of the assault on Dr Hadfield were suppressed and newspapers encouraged to report that he was set upon by common thieves. As Your Excellency observed, ‘This is a small cloud that might be left to pass.’
I have the honour to be, with the highest respect, Your Excellency’s humble and obedient servant,
Count Vyacheslav Konstantinovich von Plehve
Dobrshinsky looked up from the letter and caught the count’s eye.
‘It was a delicate business, as you can imagine, but I pride myself that no one could have managed it with more finesse,’ said von Plehve. ‘You can question the Englishman again, of course.’
‘I have, already. He had nothing more to say,’ Dobrshinsky replied.
‘I hope the terrorists have beaten some sense into him.’ The chief prosecutor reached across the desk to offer Dobrshinsky the cigarette box. ‘No?’ The count took one himself, rubbed it gently between his fingers then lit it, drawing in the sharp smoke with pleasure. ‘His Excellency, Count Loris-Melikov, is satisfied that we are making some progress at last, thanks to the Jew’s testimony.’
Dobrshinsky frowned and lifted an unsteady hand to his temple. ‘We’ve made arrests but most of the members of their executive committee are still at liberty.’
‘But not for long, Anton Frankzevich, I’m sure, not for long. I’ve told His Excellency that you have them in your sights,’ said von Plehve.
Dobrshinsky did not reply but gazed impassively across the desk at him. Was there a more unscrupulous cultivator of connections and influence than the chief prosecutor? he wondered.
‘I didn’t mention your fear that the terrorists have a well placed informer in the Third Section,’ von Plehve said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. ‘I judged it something His Excellency does not need to be troubled with. I am confident you will find him soon.’
Dobrshinsky continued to stare at him, watching as he picked up his pen and put it down again then ground his cigarette into a brass ashtray.
‘Well?’ von Plehve said, irritably.
‘I can offer little hope of detecting the informer at present.’
‘Didn’t Goldenberg give you clues? What about the other prisoners?’
‘The little I have been able to tease from them adds nothing to our understanding. Goldenberg was able to help a little.’ Dobrshinsky paused and closed his eyes for a second, pressing two fingers against his temple again. ‘No. You see, I think there is only one man who knows the identity of the informer and that is Alexander Mikhailov.’
The chief prosecutor grunted crossly. ‘Well, can’t you find some way to trap the informer?’ he asked.
‘We’re looking into possibilities. Major Barclay is monitoring the activities of some of our agents,’ said Dobrshinsky, choosing his words carefully. Then, after a moment’s thought, ‘But Mikhailov is the key.’
‘I see.’ Von Plehve returned his gaze for a moment then rose abruptly to his feet to indicate the interview was over. But he paused at the study door with his chubby hand on the knob. ‘You speak a little Polish, Anton Frankzevich, don’t you?’
‘A little, yes.’
‘Are you familiar with the proverb, Nieznajomość prawa szkodzi? Ignorance is no sort of excuse. No? Actually, I think it is a peculiarly Russian sentiment.’ An easy little smile was playing on the count’s lips. ‘It pays for those of us in the tsar’s service to bear this proverb in mind at all times. I will inform His Excellency of your confidence that the investigation is progres
sing well.’
A footman helped Dobrshinsky into his coat and handed him his hat. A carriage was waiting on the street to take him to Fontanka 16 but he lingered in the count’s hall with an amused expression on his face. The pianist was still rehearsing for the soirée but he was now playing with seditious passion Chopin’s ‘Revolutionary Etude’.
33
OCTOBER 1880
The weeks Anna Kovalenko was to have spent in Kiev became months. The empress passed away, the emperor married again and the trees in the Tavrichesky were autumn oak brown, the birch and larch a rich yellow, by the time she was summoned to the capital once more. They had been lonely months, but months of activity. Student meetings, factory committees, speaking to the party’s programme, and always only one step ahead of the authorities. While she had been away The People’s Will had changed almost beyond recognition. Many old comrades had gone, arrested on information supplied by Goldenberg. In confusion and fear the party had become lethargic, its time and funds spent replacing those awaiting trial in the House of Preliminary Detention. The revolution seemed no closer than it had ever been and the death sentence against the tsar no more than an idle threat. Comrades with experience and fire like Anna and Vera Figner had been summoned back to the capital.
The printing family had abandoned the apartment on Podolskaya, after a neighbour began to grumble of strange banging and shunting noises, and rented rooms at the less salubrious end of the same street, close to the open sewer that was the Obvodny Canal, a stone’s throw from the gasworks.
To Kill a Tsar Page 28