The People's Will

by Jasper Kent

  She had come to ask him to show her the second body that had been laid there. Richard gladly obliged and on this occasion she seemed to have prepared herself, to have stiffened the sinews and summoned up the blood, and no amount of detail on Richard’s part had made her show any desire to flee. Even so, after they had left the deadhouse together and stood facing each other, shaded by the pale stone wall of the church, Richard had noticed a stiffness in her movements and a shortness in her speech that hinted she was still hiding her emotions. It was most enjoyable to observe.

  And then, quite unaccountably, he kissed her. From where inside him the urge arose he could not say, but it could only be related to her terror. For a moment she remained very still, her fear now augmented by surprise, but then he felt her hands on his head. Her mouth opened and he felt the moisture of her tongue on his own lips. It was a kiss that he had begun, but which she had taken over. It lasted only a few seconds and then she pulled away. She looked at him, smiling, her hands still cupping his head; then she giggled and ran off. Even a century on, it remained a pleasant memory.

  Richard had now gathered enough information to be able to recreate the wounds on the murder victims. Their most notable feature was that, in all the mess and devastation of the attacks, there were always two points of incision. Richard quickly came up with a mechanism to mimic the injuries. He took two knives and placed them side by side, so that their handles touched and their blades sat parallel, pointing in the same direction. He bound them together with twine. The first animal he practised on was a rabbit. The reproduction of the wounds was remarkably accurate.

  Richard chose a much simpler pattern in which to lay out the corpses of the animals with which he baited his trap, one that would be easy for the genuine killer to understand. In terms of ‘when’, Richard followed the same calendar – always killing at weekends. The ‘where’ was in a circle, a much smaller circle than the killer used. This one had a radius of just a furlong, and its centre was his father’s church.

  Each weekend Richard would kill an animal and place its body somewhere on that circle. Then he would return to the church and place a lighted candle in one of the arched vaults of the crypt that just managed to peep above the level of the ground. He would hide in the branches of the great yew tree that hung over the churchyard and wait.

  If the killer had been only what Richard was expecting – some deranged lunatic with a lust for blood – then it was madness for a fourteen-year-old boy to try to capture him on his own. If Richard had understood what he was truly dealing with, a supernatural creature with strength ten times that of any man, he would have fled, knowing his task was hopeless. But his ignorance robbed him of fear. Perhaps on a thousand other occasions it would have been hopeless; in a thousand other worlds Richard would have lain dead, the blood sucked from his body, and he would not have grown to be the creature he was today; perhaps some malign spirit was watching over him. Whatever the cause, Richard was lucky.

  It was on the seventh weekend, on the Friday night, that Richard observed the figure of a man skulking through the undergrowth, heading, by a twisting path, towards the candle that had been set to trap him. When a few yards from the opening to the crypt, the figure paused. It shouted in French: ‘Are you there?’

  With no response forthcoming, the figure moved a little closer to the crypt, crouching almost on its hands and knees, and called again. It crawled further, so that it was now peering into the space beneath the church, its hand perched on the ledge. Richard moved. He covered the ground between him and the church in seconds and charged the figure with the full force of his shoulder. It was taken quite by surprise and tumbled forward into the crypt. The fall was only six feet or so, and was unlikely to harm even a man – but by the same token, even a man might quickly escape. But Richard was prepared. He slammed down the old iron grate that he had propped open when placing the candle and slipped the lock back into place. His prisoner was secure.

  He peered down into the dark crypt. The candle had been knocked over and extinguished in the tussle. Outside the light of the half-moon was bright enough, but it did not penetrate far into darkness. It didn’t need to. Seconds later hands gripped the iron bars and a face appeared, twisted with rage, its lips bared in a ferocious snarl which revealed to Richard its long, sharp pointed teeth.

  And at that moment, although he might not yet fully appreciate the import of the word, Richard knew that he was looking into the face of a vampire.

  That had been eighty-nine years before, and now Richard preferred to call himself Iuda, and now he was a vampire, and a prisoner in a cell with only one small window high up in the wall. But he would not climb up there and snarl at those who passed by – it would do no good. Iuda had better plans for escape, perhaps even for rescue. But to get help he must be able to call for help, and there the continual tapping of the prisoners on the pipes would be his salvation.

  He had analysed the signals and observed that the smallest unit of communication was a pair of numbers – tapped against the pipe with some metal object and separated by a pause. The first number was never greater than five and the second never greater than six. This gave a combination of thirty possibilities – close enough to the thirty-seven of the Russian alphabet, within which there were a number of letters that were rarely if ever used, being virtual duplicates of other letters. The whole system was ripe for revision. Thus ‘І’ could be replaced by ‘И’, ‘Ө’ by ‘Ф’, ‘Ѣ’ by ‘Е’ and ‘Ѵ’ by ‘В’. At a push, even ‘Щ’ and ‘Ш’ could be treated as a single letter. The hard and soft sounds – ‘Ъ’ and ‘Ь’ – could be ignored, and that reduced the number of letters to thirty. Iuda arranged them alphabetically on a grid.

  Originally he drew it in the dust of the floor, but it was easy enough to memorize and he soon wiped it away so that no guard would see. Any letter could be transmitted by a pair of taps. 3 and 5 would signify ‘П’; 4 and 6 gave ‘Ц’. Iuda’s own name was 2,4 – 4,3 – 1,5 – 1,1. He listened to the messages coming through the pipes and analysed them. They all made sense.

  Iuda picked up the tin mug that the guards had given him and threw the water from it on to the cell floor. Then he squatted down beside the pipes and began to tap out a message of his own.

  CHAPTER X

  SATURDAY BEGAN MUCH as friday had done, with a short walk to Maksimilianovsky Lane, a nod to the dvornik at number 15 and a march up the stairs to apartment 7. This time the door was opened by a familiar face – familiar from a photograph and from one passing glance in the Summer Gardens the previous day.

  ‘Mihail Konstantinovich Lukin, I presume,’ said Luka, opening the door wider to allow Mihail in.

  There was no one else in the apartment. Mihail had half expected to see Dusya there, or one of the two men he had observed leaving the previous day, but he was alone with his half-brother.

  ‘How do you know my name?’ asked Mihail. The answer was obvious enough. He had told Dusya his name; somehow she had seen him.

  ‘How do you know my address?’ countered Luka.

  ‘We have a mutual friend.’

  This much appeared to pique Luka’s interest. He gestured towards a chair, which Mihail took.

  ‘Tea?’ Luka asked.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Luka went over to the samovar, which was already hot, and drew two glasses. Mihail glanced around the apartment. The sitting room, on to which the front door opened, was quite large, with two further doors opening off. Three or four cheap watercolours provided the only real decoration. The room was well furnished with seating for over a dozen people, either on the divan or on a number of padded chairs or even more hard ones, none of them matching. Mihail knew that one thing these revolutionaries did like to do was meet and talk, and this place seemed quite suited.

  What the room lacked was any hint of written materials. The shelves on the walls were empty. There was a desk but apart from the samovar its surface was bare. He could not see in the drawers, but guessed that
they would be the same. There would be no clues if the place was raided by the Ohrana.

  ‘And who is that?’ asked Luka, sitting on the divan and leaning back. He seemed calm – almost amused.

  There Mihail was at something of a loss. The identity of the mutual friend – mutual acquaintance – was simple enough: Iuda. But Iuda was a creature of so many aliases that it would be a challenge to hit upon the right one. ‘Iuda’ itself seemed unlikely and though Tamara had told Mihail of others – Richard Cain, Vasiliy Denisovich Makarov, Vasiliy Innokyentievich Yudin – there could be many more besides, by any one of which he might be known to Luka.

  There was, of course, another connection between Mihail and Luka – another who was closer than any friend: they shared a mother. But Mihail had decided not to reveal that – not until he knew just where his brother stood with regard to Iuda. He thought back to what he had heard Dmitry and Iuda say, back in Geok Tepe. There was very little, just Dmitry’s words: ‘We know you’ve befriended him … much as you befriended me.’ Iuda had befriended Dmitry when he was just five years old, and had been his hidden guardian as the boy had grown into a man. How close was the similarity with Luka?

  ‘I take it you know you’re adopted,’ said Mihail, approaching the issue obliquely.

  ‘Of course.’ If Luka was surprised at Mihail’s knowledge he hid it well. ‘My parents never lied to me about that.’

  ‘What happened to your real parents?’

  ‘My father died in the cholera epidemic in ’48. My mother went mad. They had to take me away from her.’

  It was brutally close to the truth; perhaps it would have been kinder for them to invent a lie.

  ‘Any brothers or sisters?’ asked Mihail.

  Luka shook his head. ‘My parents couldn’t have children of their own.’

  ‘It must have been lonely.’

  Luka allowed a little of his irritation to seep through. ‘Look, what’s all this about? You said we had a mutual friend.’

  Mihail continued with his line of attack, a plan forming in his mind.

  ‘I’m an only child too – and brought up just by my mother. But I was lucky enough to have a benefactor.’

  ‘And who was that?’ Was that a little flicker of acknowledgement in Luka’s eyes? Had Iuda played that same role for him?

  ‘He was shy about using his full name – he liked his good deeds to remain anonymous.’ It was wild guesswork – a parallel of the way Iuda had worked on Dmitry. ‘I usually just call him “Uncle Vasya”.’ Of the pseudonyms that Mihail knew, Vasiliy was the only repeating factor.

  Now Luka showed an even greater reaction. He leaned forward in his seat. ‘Vasya? Vasiliy?’

  ‘That’s right. I can tell the name means something to you.’

  ‘Perhaps. Tell me more about him.’

  ‘Well, he was a friend of my mother’s,’ explained Mihail. It was all extemporization now, but it did not matter – Luka was hooked. This was mere reeling in. ‘I don’t mean there was anything like that going on; Vasya’s not like that. But he saw immediately that I missed my father, and tried to take on the role – when he was in town.’

  Luka nodded, sharing the experience.

  ‘He used to buy me toys, and books when I was older, and tell me of history and of the world.’

  ‘What does he look like?’ Luka asked eagerly.

  ‘Striking. You wouldn’t fail to recognize him. He’s quite tall – a little taller than me. And he’s got blond hair; it’s very distinctive. He wears it long – at least for a man of his age.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘His eyes; grey. Some people think they’re cold, but not when you get to know him.’

  Luka nodded, his hands at his mouth, hiding his joy. ‘It’s him,’ he said. ‘The same man. Vasiliy Grigoryevich Chernetskiy.’

  Another alias to add to the list. ‘How do you meet him?’ Mihail asked, trying to reflect his brother’s joy.

  ‘My story’s much the same as yours – except that Vasya knew my father rather than my mother. But whenever Papa had to go away on business, Vasya always kept an eye on us. And I know that Papa once got into debt, and Vasya made him a loan which saved him. He’s got money – from land, I presume – and he knows how to do good with it. The country would be a better place with more like him.’

  Mihail nodded. ‘You’re not wrong.’ In some ways it would be sad to finally prick the bubble of the man’s affection for Iuda; in others a joy. It would have to be done sooner or later.

  ‘And so … what?’ asked Luka. ‘Vasya told you about me? Said you should look me up?’

  ‘Not quite. I’ve known about you for some time. But as fate would have it, Vasya and I found we would both be travelling to Petersburg at the beginning of the year. We planned to meet up and then call on you together.’

  ‘You mean …’ – Luka was excited now – ‘he’ll be here soon?’

  Mihail allowed his face to fall. ‘That’s just the problem. I’m quite unable to find him. He should have arrived in the city before me, but I’ve been to the hotel where he said he’d be staying and his club, and there’s no sign. I wondered if he’d contacted you.’

  And there it was: the reason for Mihail’s coming to Petersburg; the hope that there might be some thread of a connection whereby he could find Iuda.

  Luka threw himself back on the divan and raised his hands in despair. ‘I’ve heard nothing. He hasn’t even written to announce his visit, which would be usual. You think he might be in trouble?’

  ‘That’s my fear.’ It was more than a fear. Iuda was Dmitry’s captive. There was no reason to suppose he had escaped, but there was plenty to suggest they had come to Petersburg – not least that Luka himself lived there.

  ‘What can we do?’

  ‘Keep our ears to the ground. You know Petersburg better than me. Does he have an apartment here, or anywhere else he might be able to stay?’

  Luka thought, perhaps for a little too long, then shook his head. ‘Nowhere that I know of – nowhere fixed.’

  ‘He mentioned a place on Great Konyushennaya Street.’ It had been Aleksei’s home once, but Iuda had managed to acquire it, along with Aleksei’s wife and son.

  Luka shook his head. ‘No, he sold that years ago – and even then he never lived there.’

  ‘Then all we can do is wait. If he is here and something has happened to him, you’ll hear of it I’m sure.’

  ‘How shall I get in touch?’

  ‘Here’s where I’m staying.’ Mihail handed him a card with the address of his hotel. ‘And I’ll find you here if I learn anything.’ He stood, preparing to leave.

  ‘One more thing, Mihail Konstantinovich,’ said Luka, standing also. An edge had crept into his voice.

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘You said we had a mutual friend – in Vasya – but it seems we have another.’

  ‘Another?’

  ‘Dusya.’

  ‘Dusya?’

  Luka tutted. ‘Don’t play the idiot. We know you followed her yesterday. I saw you in the Summer Gardens.’

  ‘Ah!’ Mihail tried to blush, but did not know if he succeeded. ‘You saw me. That’s a pity.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know how much Dusya may have told you, but we met on the train from Rostov a few days ago. I couldn’t help but find her a very attractive young lady – she did nothing to encourage it, I assure you. You’ll imagine my surprise when I saw her paying a call on the very house where I knew you to live. But all the same, I felt the desire to become reacquainted with her.’

  ‘And so you followed her. Why not just speak to her?’

  ‘That would have been wiser. But Vasya’s disappearance has got me worried. When I saw her with you – not that I knew then who you were – I realized she already had a beau, and I gave up all inclinations in that direction.’ Mihail paused. He should have reacted to the apparent coincidence earlier. ‘I hope she’s not going to come between us. Vasya woul
d be so disappointed.’ Mihail resisted the urge to chuckle – that last comment was below the belt.

  Luka held out his hand with a smile that didn’t quite convince. ‘I don’t see it being a problem.’

  They shook hands and with that Mihail departed. There was no immediate lead to Iuda, but he had not expected one. Luka, however, was not a man without associates. If Iuda was anywhere in Petersburg, perhaps the People’s Will would hear of it. If not, there was always that other connection, through Dmitry. It was unlikely that Luka even guessed at the existence of his uncle, and Mihail was not going to overplay his hand by mentioning it just yet.

  He turned on to the street and headed back to his hotel. It was getting on for lunchtime. He passed the tavern where he had eaten the previous day, but chose not to partake of its cuisine again. There must be a hundred better places to eat in the city. As he walked past the door, a man stepped out dressed in a heavy brown overcoat and with his ushanka tied tightly under his chin. He looked down the street away from Mihail, but then set off in the opposite direction, bumping into Mihail heavily, almost knocking him over in the slippery snow. Both men apologized and continued on their way.

  It was only a dozen or so paces later, as Mihail replayed the minor incident in his mind, that he recalled the slight unnecessary pressure to his chest. He turned, but the man had vanished. He ripped off his glove, slipping his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, where he had felt the pressure. With relief he found that his notecase was still there. He pulled it out and opened it. None of his paper roubles were gone. It was inconceivable that a pickpocket could have taken them and replaced his empty wallet, but still he’d felt the urge to check. He returned it to his pocket, and it was then he noticed the extra slip of paper that had been planted there. The man had possessed the skills of a cutpurse, but he had used them not to take but to give.