The Man From St. Petersburg

by Ken Follett

  He had reached nine hundred and two when the policeman came around again.

  He had about fifteen minutes.

  He attached one end of the hose to the nozzle of the petroleum pipe, then walked across the courtyard, paying out the hose as he went. He paused in the kitchen to find a sharp meat skewer and to relight his candle. Then he retraced his steps through the house, laying the hose through the kitchen, the serving room, the dining rooms, the drawing room, the hall and the passage, and into the library. The hose was heavy, and it was difficult to do the job silently. He listened all the while for footsteps, but all he heard was the noise of an old house settling down for the night. Everyone was in bed, he was sure; but would someone come down to get a book from the library, or a glass of brandy from the drawing room, or a sandwich from the kitchen?

  If that were to happen now, he thought, the game would be up.

  Just a few more minutes--just a few more minutes!

  He had been worried about whether the hose would be long enough, but it just reached through the library door. He walked back, following the hose, making holes in it every few yards with the sharp point of the meat skewer.

  He went out through the kitchen door and stood in the garage. He held his shotgun two-handed, like a club.

  He seemed to wait an age.

  At last he heard footsteps. The policeman passed him and stopped, shining his torch on the hose, and gave a grunt of surprise.

  Feliks hit him with the gun.

  The policeman staggered.

  Feliks hissed: "Fall down, damn you!" and hit him again with all his might.

  The policeman fell down, and Feliks hit him again with savage satisfaction.

  The man was still.

  Feliks turned to the petroleum pipe and found the place where the hose was connected. There was a tap to stop and start the flow of petroleum.

  Feliks turned on the tap.

  "Before we were married," Lydia said impulsively, "I had a lover."

  "Good Lord!" said Stephen.

  Why did I say that? she thought. Because lying about it has made everyone unhappy, and I'm finished with all that.

  She said: "My father found out about it. He had my lover jailed and tortured. He said that if I would agree to marry you, the torture would stop immediately; and that as soon as you and I had left for England, my lover would be released from jail."

  She watched his face. He was not as hurt as she had expected, but he was horrified. He said: "Your father was wicked."

  "I was wicked to marry without love."

  "Oh . . ." Now Stephen looked pained. "For that matter, I wasn't in love with you. I proposed to you because my father had died and I needed a wife to be Countess of Walden. It was later that I fell so desperately in love with you. I'd say I forgive you, but there's nothing to forgive."

  Could it be this easy? she thought. Might he forgive me everything and go on loving me? It seemed that, because death was in the air, anything was possible. She found herself plunging on. "There's more to be told," she said, "and it's worse."

  His expression was painfully anxious. "You'd better tell me."

  "I was . . . I was already with child when I married you."

  Stephen paled. "Charlotte!"

  Lydia nodded silently.

  "She . . . she's not mine?"

  "No."

  "Oh, God."

  Now I have hurt you, she thought; this you never dreamed. She said: "Oh, Stephen, I am so dreadfully sorry."

  He stared at her. "Not mine," he said stupidly. "Not mine."

  She thought of how much it meant to him: more than anyone else the English nobility talked about breeding and bloodlines. She remembered him looking at Charlotte and murmuring: "Bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh"; it was the only verse of the Bible she had ever heard him quote. She thought of her own feelings, of the mystery of the child starting life as part of oneself and then becoming a separate individual, but never completely separate: it must be the same for men, she thought; sometimes one thinks it isn't, but it must be.

  His face was gray and drawn. He looked suddenly older. He said: "Why are you telling me this now?"

  I can't, she thought; I can't reveal any more. I've hurt him so much already. But it was as if she was on a downhill slope and could not stop. She blurted: "Because Charlotte has met her real father, and she knows everything."

  "Oh, the poor child." Stephen buried his face in his hands.

  Lydia realized that his next question would be: Who is the father? She was overcome by panic. She could not tell him that. It would kill him. But she needed to tell him; she wanted the weight of these guilty secrets to be lifted forever. Don't ask, she thought; not yet, it's too much.

  He looked up at her. His face was frighteningly expressionless. He looked like a judge, she thought, impassively pronouncing sentence; and she was the guilty prisoner in the dock.

  Don't ask.

  He said: "And the father is Feliks, of course."

  She gasped.

  He nodded, as if her reaction was all the confirmation he needed.

  What will he do? she thought fearfully. She watched his face, but she could not read his expression: he was like a stranger to her.

  He said: "Oh, dear God in Heaven, what have we done?"

  Lydia was suddenly garrulous. "He came along just when she was beginning to see her parents as frail human beings, of course; and there he was, full of life and ideas and iconoclasm . . . just the kind of thing to enchant an independent-minded young girl . . . I know, something like that happened to me . . . and so she got to know him, and became fond of him, and helped him . . . but she loves you, Stephen, she's yours in that way. People can't help loving you . . . can't help it . . ."

  His face was wooden. She wished he would curse, or cry, or abuse her, or even beat her, but he sat there looking at her with that judge's face, and said: "And you? Did you help him?"

  "Not intentionally, no . . . but I haven't helped you, either. I am such a hateful, evil woman."

  He stood up and held her shoulders. His hands were cold as the grave. He said: "But are you mine?"

  "I wanted to be, Stephen--I really did."

  He touched her cheek, but no love showed in his face. She shuddered. She said: "I told you it was too much to forgive."

  He said: "Do you know where Feliks is?"

  She made no reply. If I tell, she thought, it will be like killing Feliks. If I don't tell, it will be like killing Stephen.

  "You do know," he said.

  She nodded dumbly.

  "Will you tell me?"

  She looked into his eyes. If I tell him, she thought, will he forgive me?

  Stephen said: "Choose."

  She felt as if she were falling headlong into a pit.

  Stephen raised his eyebrows expectantly.

  Lydia said: "He's in the house."

  "Good God! Where?"

  Lydia's shoulders slumped. It was done. She had betrayed Feliks for the last time. "He's been hiding in the nursery," she said dejectedly.

  His expression was no longer wooden. His cheeks colored and his eyes blazed with fury.

  Lydia said: "Say you forgive me . . . please?"

  He turned around and ran from the room.

  Feliks ran through the kitchen and through the serving room, carrying his candle, the shotgun and his matches. He could smell the sweet, slightly nauseating vapor of petrol. In the dining room a thin, steady jet was spouting through a hole in the hosepipe. Feliks shifted the hose across the room, so that the fire would not destroy it too quickly, then struck a match and threw it on to a petrol-soaked patch of rug. The rug burst into flames.

  Feliks grinned and ran on.

  In the drawing room he picked up a velvet cushion and held it to another hole in the hosepipe for a minute. He put the cushion down on a sofa, set fire to it and threw some more cushions onto it. They blazed merrily.

  He ran across the hall and along the passage to the library. Here the p
etrol was gushing out of the end of the pipe and running over the floor. Feliks pulled handfuls of books off the shelves and threw them on the floor into the spreading puddle. Then he crossed the room and opened the communicating door to the gun room. He stood in the doorway for a moment, then threw his candle into the puddle.

  There was a noise like a huge gust of wind and the library caught fire. Books and petrol burned fiercely. In a moment the curtains were ablaze; then the seats and the paneling caught. The petrol continued to pour out of the hosepipe, feeding the fire. Feliks laughed aloud.

  He turned into the gun room. He stuffed a handful of extra cartridges into the pocket of his coat. He went from the gun room into the flower room. He unbolted the door to the garden, opened it quietly and stepped out.

  He walked directly west, away from the house, for two hundred paces, containing his impatience. Then he turned south for the same distance, and finally he walked east until he was directly opposite the main entrance to the house, looking at it across the darkened lawn.

  He could see the second police sentry standing in front of the portico, illuminated by the twin lamps, smoking a pipe. His colleague lay unconscious, perhaps dead, in the kitchen courtyard. Feliks could see the flames in the windows of the library, but the policeman was some distance away from there and he had not noticed them yet. He would see them at any moment.

  Between Feliks and the house, about fifty yards from the portico, was a big old chestnut tree. Feliks walked toward it across the lawn. The policeman seemed to be looking more or less in Feliks's direction, but he did not see him. Feliks did not care: if he sees me, he thought, I'll shoot him dead. It doesn't matter now. No one could stop the fire. Everyone will have to leave the house. Any minute now, any minute now, I'll kill them both.

  He came up behind the tree and leaned against it, with the shotgun in his hands.

  Now he could see flames at the opposite end of the house, in the dining room windows.

  He thought: What are they doing in there?

  Walden ran along the corridor to the bachelor wing and knocked on the door of the Blue Room, where Thomson was sleeping. He went in.

  "What is it?" Thomson's voice said from the bed.

  Walden turned on the light. "Feliks is in the house."

  "Good God!" Thomson got out of bed. "How?"

  "Charlotte let him in," Walden said bitterly.

  Thomson was hastily putting on trousers and a jacket. "Do we know where?"

  "In the nursery. Have you got your revolver?"

  "No, but I've got three men with Orlov, remember? I'll peel two of them off and then take Feliks."

  "I'm coming with you."

  "I'd rather--"

  "Don't argue!" Walden shouted. "I want to see him die."

  Thomson gave a queer, sympathetic look, then ran out of the room. Walden followed.

  They went along the corridor to Aleks's room. The bodyguard outside the door stood up and saluted Thomson. Thomson said: "It's Barrett, isn't it?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Who's inside?"

  "Bishop and Anderson, sir."

  "Get them to open up."

  Barrett tapped on the door.

  Immediately a voice said: "Password?"

  "Mississippi," said Barrett.

  The door opened. "What's on, Charlie? Oh, it's you, sir."

  Thomson said: "How is Orlov?"

  "Sleeping like a baby, sir."

  Walden thought: Let's get on with it!

  Thomson said: "Feliks is in the house. Barrett and Anderson, come with me and his lordship. Bishop, stay inside the room. Check that your pistols are loaded, please, all of you."

  Walden led the way along the bachelor wing and up the back stairs to the nursery suite. His heart was pounding, and he felt the curious mixture of fear and eagerness which had always come over him when he got a big lion in the sights of his rifle.

  He pointed at the nursery door.

  Thomson whispered: "Is there electric light in that room?"

  "Yes," Walden replied.

  "Where's the switch?"

  "Left-hand side of the door, at shoulder height."

  Barrett and Anderson drew their pistols.

  Walden and Thomson stood on either side of the door, out of the line of fire.

  Barrett threw open the door, Anderson dashed in and stepped to one side, and Barrett threw the light switch.

  Nothing happened.

  Walden looked into the room.

  Anderson and Barrett were checking the school room and the bedrom. A moment later Barrett said: "No one here, sir."

  The nursery was bare and bright with light. There was a bowl of dirty water on the floor, and next to it a crumpled towel.

  Walden pointed to the closet door. "Through there is a little attic."

  Barrett opened the closet door. They all tensed. Barrett went through with his gun in his hand.

  He came back a moment later. "He was there."

  Thomson scratched his head.

  Walden said: "We must search the house."

  Thomson said: "I wish we had more men."

  "We'll start with the west wing," Walden said. "Come on."

  They followed him out of the nursery and along the corridor to the staircase. As they went down the stairs Walden smelled smoke. "What's that?" he said.

  Thomson sniffed.

  Walden looked at Barrett and Anderson: neither of them was smoking.

  The smell became more powerful, and now Walden could hear a noise like wind in the trees.

  Suddenly he was filled with fear. "My house is on fire!" he shouted. He raced down the stairs.

  The hall was full of smoke.

  Walden ran across the hall and pushed open the door of the drawing room. Heat hit him like a blow and he staggered back. The room was an inferno. He despaired: it could never be put out. He looked along to the west wing, and saw that the library was afire too. He turned. Thomson was right behind him. Walden shouted: "My house is burning down!"

  Thomson took his arm and pulled him back to the staircase. Anderson and Barrett stood there. Walden found he could breathe and hear more easily in the center of the hall. Thomson was very cool and collected. He began to give orders.

  "Anderson, go and wake up those two bobbies outside. Send one to find a garden hose and a tap. Send the other running to the village to telephone for a fire engine. Then run up the back stairs and through the servants' quarters, waking everyone. Tell them to get out the quickest way they can, then gather on the front lawn to be counted. Barrett, go wake up Mr. Churchill and make sure he gets out. I'll fetch Orlov. Walden, you get Lydia and Charlotte. Move!"

  Walden ran up the stairs and into Lydia's room. She was sitting on the chaise longue in her nightdress, and her eyes were red with weeping. "The house is on fire," Walden said breathlessly. "Go out quickly on to the front lawn. I'll get Charlotte." Then he thought of something: the dinner bell. "No," he said. "You get Charlotte. I'll ring the bell."

  He raced down the stairs again, thinking: Why didn't I think of this before? In the hall was a long silk rope which would ring bells all over the house to warn guests and servants that a meal was about to be served. Walden pulled on the rope, and heard faintly the response of the bells from various parts of the house. He noticed a garden hose trailing through the hall. Was somebody fighting the fire already? He could not think who. He kept on pulling the rope.

  Feliks watched anxiously. The blaze was spreading too quickly. Already large areas of the second floor were burning--he could see the glow in the windows. He thought: Come out, you fools. What were they doing? He did not want to burn everyone in the house--he wanted them to come out. The policeman in the portico seemed to be asleep. I'll give the alarm myself, Feliks thought desperately; I don't want the wrong people to die--

  Suddenly the policeman looked around. His pipe fell out of his mouth. He dashed into the porch and began to hammer on the door. At last! thought Feliks. Now raise the alarm, you fool! The policem
an ran around to a window and broke it.

  Just then the door opened and someone rushed out in a cloud of smoke. It's happening, Feliks thought. He hefted the shotgun and peered through the darkness. He could not see the face of the newcomer. The man shouted something, and the policeman ran off. I've got to be able to see their faces, Feliks thought; but if I go too close I'll be seen too soon. The newcomer rushed back into the house before Feliks could recognize him. I'll have to get nearer, Feliks thought, and take the chance. He moved across the lawn. Within the house, bells began to ring.

  Now they will come, thought Feliks.

  Lydia ran along the smoke-filled corridor. How could this happen so quickly? In her room she had smelled nothing, but now there were flames flickering underneath the doors of the bedrooms she passed. The whole house must be blazing. The air was too hot to breathe. She reached Charlotte's room and turned the handle of the door. Of course, it was locked. She turned the key. She tried again to open the door. It would not move. She turned the handle and threw her weight against the door. Something was wrong, the door was jammed, Lydia began to scream and scream--

  "Mama!" Charlotte's voice came from within the room.

  Lydia bit her lip hard and stopped screaming. "Charlotte!"

  "Open the door!"

  "I can't I can't I can't--"

  "It's locked!"

  "I've unlocked it and it won't open and the house is on fire oh dear Jesus help me help--"

  The door shook and the handle rattled as Charlotte tried to open it from the inside.

  "Mama!"

  "Yes!"

  "Mama, stop screaming and listen carefully to me--the floor has shifted and the door is wedged in its frame--it will have to be broken down--go and fetch help!"

  "I can't leave you--"

  "MAMA! GO AND GET HELP OR I'LL BURN TO DEATH!"

  "Oh, God--all right!" Lydia turned and ran, choking, toward the staircase.

  Walden was still ringing the bell. Through the smoke he saw Aleks, flanked by Thomson and the third detective, Bishop, coming down the stairs. Lydia and Churchill and Charlotte should be here, too, he thought; then he realized that they might come down any one of several staircases: the only place to check was out on the front lawn where everyone had been told to gather.

  "Bishop!" shouted Walden. "Come here!"

  The detective ran across.