Russka

by Edward Rutherfurd

  ‘Hello, Nicolai,’ he called. ‘They’ve locked me in. You’d better let me out.’

  At first, it seemed to Misha, it was clear what they should do. And so it would have remained, but for Boris.

  It had only taken a few words, whispered by his son, to make the confused Timofei fully understand the danger Natalia was in from the leaflets; and once he understood, he was ready to do anything.

  Certainly it was in all their interests that they should take care of the whole business themselves. ‘I don’t want him talking to outsiders, or even my own coachman,’ Misha frankly confessed, ‘because there’s no knowing what this accursed Popov might say about any of us.’ It was agreed, therefore, that before dawn the two Romanovs would come in their cart, collect the red-headed student, and take him all the way to Vladimir. ‘I’ve a stout club,’ Timofei remarked, ‘and we’ll strap him to the cart if necessary.’

  ‘When you get to Vladimir, you’re to put him on the Moscow train. And don’t go until you’ve watched it out of sight.’ This would complete Suvorin’s instructions and after that, Misha fervently hoped, he would never see the loathsome young man again.

  At this point, it had occurred to Misha that perhaps he ought to lock Popov in his room. Fetching the key and going upstairs had taken several minutes. He was surprised, however, when he came down, to find both the Romanovs looking as if they had decided something separately between themselves.

  It was Boris who took the lead.

  He had a sharper mind than either of the older men. He had not given up hope of making some money from the landowner; and he also saw some real danger to all of them in the plan. His reasoning was simple. ‘After all, Mikhail Alexeevich, we’ve all seen what this fellow’s like. Even threatened with the law and Savva Suvorin, he refused to go. And if that’s so, then what’s the use of us putting him on a train to Moscow when he can just get off at the next station and be back here in a day or two?’

  Misha couldn’t deny this. ‘But what can we do?’ he asked.

  Boris paused, thoughtfully. ‘The fact is,’ he said coolly, ‘I’m worried about my sister, sir. She’s mixed up with this Grigory because she’s no dowry. And that’s because of my father’s debts.’ He looked at Bobrov politely but with meaning. ‘You’ve always been very good to our family, sir. You gave Natalia and me our education. Do you think you could see your way to helping us again?’

  Misha frowned. ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘Maybe I could arrange for this Popov to make a long journey, so he’d be sure not to bother us again, sir.’

  ‘A long journey?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Very long.’

  Misha felt himself tremble. The proposition was unthinkable. Yet – it was useless to deny it – he was tempted. At this moment there was nothing in the world he wanted more than to be rid, for ever, of Popov’s evil presence.

  ‘I could never countenance …’ he began.

  ‘Of course, sir, we’d just be doing what you said,’ Boris said calmly, ‘taking him to Vladimir.’ He looked at Misha carefully. ‘No one’s waiting for him, are they?’

  ‘No.’ There was a long pause. Then Misha shook his head. ‘Just put him on the train,’ he said. ‘Come back before dawn.’ And though Boris looked doubtful, he waved them away.

  After they had gone, he sat in the salon for several minutes. Boris’s argument had worried him. It was perfectly true: there was nothing to stop Popov returning and no knowing what new troubles he might start for them if he did. And what of the young revolutionary? As far as Misha knew, no one was expecting him to turn up anywhere. The fellow was a wanderer. He might just go off into the country, of his own accord, for the rest of the summer. If he disappeared, it could be months before any enquiries were made about him. And by then …

  He shook his head. It’s people like me, he reflected, decent people, who are always helpless when faced with vicious beasts like this Popov. In my place, I don’t suppose he’d hesitate for a second.

  And it was just at this moment that Boris Romanov suddenly reappeared.

  ‘Popov’s gone, sir,’ he said. ‘He was seen going through the village towards Russka. What shall we do?’

  Misha leaped up. ‘Impossible!’ He rushed upstairs, but unlocked the door to find the room empty. The devil! Suvorin had told him to keep Popov in the house. Now he’d probably gone to warn his associates or start some new trouble, and then what would Savva Suvorin do? Was there no limit to the danger this red-headed fiend could cause them? ‘You’ve got to stop him,’ he cried. ‘Quickly!’

  But Boris did not move.

  ‘If we catch him today, he’ll be back tomorrow,’ he pointed out quietly. ‘What’s the point, Mikhail Alexeevich?’

  ‘Just stop him, for God’s sake,’ the landowner almost pleaded.

  Still Boris did not move.

  ‘About my sister, sir,’ he said gently. ‘And my father.’

  For a long moment both men were silent. Then at last, staring down at the floor, Bobrov murmured: ‘I’ll give your sister a dowry. As for your father – I’ll help. Will that do?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’

  ‘And …’ Misha did not know how to go on.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir. We’ll take the young gentleman to Vladimir. You won’t be troubled with him any more.’ He turned to go, only pausing for a moment to remark: ‘He’ll be needing his luggage if he’s travelling. If you could pack his bags, sir, we’ll collect them before dawn.’

  Then he was gone.

  It was unfortunate that, though they hurried, the two Romanovs were just too late. By the time they came to the end of the wood opposite the monastery, Popov had vanished. The path leading across the fields and over the bridge into the town was empty.

  ‘God knows where he is,’ Timofei muttered. There was nothing to be done. But one thing was certain. ‘We’ll catch him on the way back,’ the peasant said.

  Timofei had a club, Boris a knife. Their plan was easy enough. ‘When we’ve killed him,’ Boris had explained, ‘you hide with him in the woods while I go and bring his luggage in the cart. Then we just put him in the back, like he’s sleeping, and drive off towards Vladimir. Later we’ll bury him and his luggage somewhere.’ It should be straightforward. There was nothing but forest and a few hamlets on the way. ‘Plenty of room in which to bury him,’ Timofei remarked cheerfully.

  The spot where they chose to wait was the little clearing by the old burial mounds, with its clear view to the monastery. Even if Popov chose to return after dark, they would be able to see him by starlight as he came along the path.

  They settled down to wait.

  Yevgeny Popov waited patiently by the old springs along the path to the skete. He had not wished to go into Russka by daylight, but fortunately he had met a boy by the monastery and given him a few kopeks to deliver the note. He had only waited an hour before the young man he had summoned came in sight.

  Peter Suvorin was in a state of some excitement. What could the urgent summons mean? But when Popov gravely told him, he positively trembled. ‘The message from the Central Committee was very clear,’ he explained. ‘We have only hours. Are you ready to suffer for the cause?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Very well.’ They ran over all the details together. Young Suvorin had money. He quickly made a plan. Indeed, faced with a crisis, Popov noticed with interest that the young idealist was surprisingly practical. ‘How will you leave?’ he asked.

  Peter considered. ‘My grandfather has a boat he uses for fishing. I’ll take that.’

  ‘Excellent. Go at dusk.’ Popov embraced the young man. ‘We shall meet again,’ he promised.

  The light was just fading as Yevgeny Popov made his way back along the path from the springs towards Russka. When he found a good vantage point, he sat down in the warm shadows and watched the river. The pale stars had begun to shine in the turquoise sky. He waited as the turquoise deepened to indigo. There was no one about.

&n
bsp; Then he saw the little boat. It was scudding along, hugging the bank. He watched as it slipped away, southwards, with the gentle flow of the stream. It would be at the River Oka in the morning. And as he watched, he smiled to himself. He had judged young Peter Suvorin well. He had fallen completely for the story that the police were coming to arrest them all the next day. He had genuinely supposed that the invented Central Committee wanted at all costs to preserve him. And he had at once volunteered to go into hiding for a few months. But underneath all this was another motive, of which perhaps young Peter himself was not fully aware. I just gave him his excuse to escape from his grandfather, Popov thought. He was seldom wrong about people.

  And now that Peter was safely gone, it was time to begin.

  Popov moved carefully. Pulling his hat well down on his head, he did not enter the town by the main gate, but skirted it and came in by the open lane on the side away from the river. There were a few people about, but no one paid any attention as he walked quietly by in the darkness.

  As he expected, the narrow street by the warehouse was deserted. When he reached it, he first unlocked the little storeroom where he had hidden the printing press and then entered the main warehouse. After moving about for a while, lighting a match now and then, he found exactly what he wanted: against one wall, bales of straw were piled high; in a corner were some empty sacks; and on some shelves were a dozen lamps in which, heaven be praised, there was still some oil. Carefully, without hurry, he took bales of straw from the pile and arranged them round the walls. Then he twisted the sacks into several large torches and collected the oil into two containers. Finally, just for good measure, he carried half a dozen bales of straw round and placed them against the walls in the storeroom. Even taking his time, he was done in under half an hour.

  Now, however, came the daring part of his plan. Inside the little storeroom, he carefully unearthed the parts of the printing press and the packet of leaflets. Then, checking to make sure the street was empty, he went outside.

  The streets were silent. Keeping to the shadows, he made his way past the church by the market place and into the broad avenue that led to the little park and the esplanade. Three houses lay on the right-hand side, behind fences. The first of these was Savva Suvorin’s.

  There were no lights at the window. The Suvorins did not retire late. Gingerly, looking about him, Popov opened the gate in the fence and went into the yard. Though the house was made of stone and masonry, the entrance, on one of the end walls, consisted of a stout wooden staircase, covered over, which rose some six feet up to the main floor. It was to the space underneath these stairs that Popov went, and deposited his things.

  It was necessary to make this journey twice. The second time, as well as the leaflets and part of the hand-press, Popov brought with him a trowel from the storeroom.

  Then, on his hands and knees beneath Suvorin’s staircase, he set to work.

  So far, all was going to plan. Indeed, he had only made one mistake that evening, of which he was not aware. For when he left the storeroom for the second time, he did not pause to lock the door, but only pulled it to. He did not look back, a few moments later, and did not therefore see that the door, improperly fastened, was swinging open again.

  Popov worked silently. The earth under the staircase was not too hard. In a few minutes he had made a hole nearly a foot deep. Steadily, careful to make no noise, he went on. As he did so, he smiled to himself.

  It was the perfect symmetry of this business that he liked. By the end of the evening, Savva Suvorin and Misha Bobrov would neutralize each other. He would be in the clear. Young Peter Suvorin would be the criminal. And the printing press and revolutionary leaflets would have been buried, apparently by Peter, under the house of Suvorin himself. This last, he had to admit, was an artistic flourish; but he could not resist it. I have completely outmanoeuvred them all, he thought.

  True, there were a couple of loose ends. Young Grigory and Natalia for instance. He had no special plan for them. But they were harmless. All they knew was that Peter Suvorin gave them the leaflets.

  No, his scheme was perfect: he was infinitely superior to them all.

  It was when the hole was nearly two feet deep and he was about to stop, that the trowel struck something hard and that, reaching down, Popov felt a smooth, rounded surface. Curiously, he scraped the earth away from it and after a minute or two he was able to pull it up. The object looked pale.

  It was a skull. God knew what it was doing here. He examined it. He had enough knowledge of medicine to notice that the shape suggested it might be Mongolian rather than Slav. A Tartar perhaps? He shrugged. He couldn’t imagine what it was doing buried by Suvorin’s house.

  Soon afterwards the printing press and the packet containing the leaflets were in the ground. He spread earth on top and patted it down. Then, taking the skull with him, he slipped out and made his way back towards the warehouse.

  A little before he got there, he passed a street corner where a small well had been sunk. He paused only a second to drop the skull into this, hearing it splash into the water far below. And so it was that the skull of Peter the Tartar, the unknown founder of the monastery, found a new resting place in the waters under the town.

  Natalia and Grigory had lingered by the dormitory until after dark, talking. She had warned him about her father’s attitude but told him: ‘He’ll soon get over it.’ And anyway, as far as she could see, Grigory did not care about her father’s opinion. Her campaign had been so successful that indeed the young man had only one thought now – how to enjoy her body. When, therefore, some time after dusk, she suggested that they go somewhere to be alone, he raised no objection.

  It was the custom of young couples seeking privacy, in the warm summer months, to walk in the woods outside the town. They were just making their way towards the lane that led out of Russka when, passing the warehouse, they noticed that the door of the little storeroom was open. Looking inside, they saw to their surprise that it contained a number of bales of straw; and it occurred to Natalia that this was a fine and private place. It was the work of only a few seconds to make a little bed of straw in one corner. Then, motioning to her lover, she closed the door. Soon, she promised herself, very soon, she would be pregnant, and married.

  When Popov reached the warehouse he went straight to the main building. Quickly he poured the oil over the torches he had made out of the sacking. Lighting one of them, he put it against the main pile of straw. One after another he lit the rest of the torches and put them against the bales he had prepared round the walls. Then, when he had just two torches left, he ran round to the storeroom.

  He had not realized how quickly the fire would take. He had only put the straw in the storeroom because, since it was locked, it would be hard for anyone to put a fire out in there. Yet even as he reached it, the flames were licking the rafters in the main building. He must hurry. Quickly he opened the door, lit the two tapers and tossed them on to the nearest bales of straw. Then he pulled the door shut again and locked it. Since it had never occurred to him to look, he did not see the two young people in the corner who, a few minutes before, had sunk into sleep.

  Rapidly, he sped away through the shadows and out of the town. It was time to return to Bobrovo.

  Misha Bobrov sat in the salon alone. Upstairs, Nicolai was fast asleep, and the landlord thanked God that he was. For if his son had come into the room just then, he was not sure he could have faced him.

  The landlord had spent a terrible few hours. He had done as young Boris suggested and packed up Popov’s things. Then, by himself, he had brought them downstairs and placed them in the yard. Now he was waiting.

  What had he done? Nothing, he told himself. The Romanovs were just going to seize Popov and take him to Vladimir. That was what they had said, wasn’t it? For nearly half an hour he had clung to this absurd pretence until finally, disgusted with himself, he gave it up. He had paid them to murder the young man: that was the truth. No doubt, b
y now, he was dead.

  Murder. He recalled that time, almost twenty years ago, when he had been tempted to kill Pinegin at Sevastopol. He had been a murderer in his heart then; but he had not done it. Was he a less moral man now? Or was it just that, this time, he had others to do the deed for him? Filled with fear, and with self loathing, he at last put his head in his hands, and murmured: ‘Lord my God, what have I done?’

  It was with a mixture of astonishment, relief and terror therefore that, some time after midnight, he heard a sound, glanced up, and saw Popov standing before him, staring at him curiously.

  Misha opened his mouth, but could not speak.

  Popov had had an uneventful journey back. Not wishing to be seen, he had once again slipped out through the rear exit from the town. By the time he reached the river, he could see a red glow over the roofs and hear shouts within. Instead of crossing the main bridge and the open ground by the monastery, therefore, he had decided to take the path by the springs, follow the winding river downstream, and finally cross the little footbridge at Bobrovo. It was a long way round, but completely deserted.

  As he approached the manor house, it had been impossible not to feel a sense of satisfaction, even glee. Everything was in place. And in his pocket he had the two letters.

  It had not been difficult to copy Peter Suvorin’s handwriting. He had a talent for that sort of thing anyway. But it was the tone of the two little compositions that he was so proud of. From the long revolutionary essay that Peter had given him, he had caught not only the young man’s turns of phrase, but the way his mind worked. I’ve got his very soul, he had thought with a smile, as he wrote the two letters. Their authenticity was wonderful.