Killigrew’s Run

by Jonathan Lunn

  Before long Pechorin had drawn level, and the next touch would be the decider. Dallaway’s face was the picture of a man trying to rein in his temper; Pechorin’s, an impassive mask. Dallaway rallied, and as the two blades flashed back and forth in the sunlight it looked as though the bout might go either way. The glinting blades moved so fast it was almost impossible for the spectators to keep track. Then Pechorin sprang back with a cry of ‘Touché!’

  ‘Wide!’ Dallaway appealed to Ramsay.

  ‘Difficult one to call,’ said the general, and turned to Bullivant and Killigrew. ‘What do you gentlemen think?’

  ‘I’m afraid it looked to me as though Pechorin touched him,’ said Killigrew.

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Bullivant. ‘I saw nothing of the kind.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree with M’sieur Killigrew,’ said Ramsay. ‘I think that was a touch.’

  ‘What?’ Dallaway protested incredulously. ‘He never touched me!’ He turned to Pechorin. ‘Once more: the decider.’

  ‘There is nothing left to decide,’ Pechorin said quietly. ‘I touched you: you felt it as surely as I did, whether or not the general saw it.’

  ‘It was wide, I tell you!’

  ‘Let it pass, milord,’ Killigrew said softly. ‘You know the rules: the judge’s decision is always final. Now be a good sport, and accept your defeat with grace.’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing!’ protested Dallaway. ‘Damn you, Pechorin! Face me and fight me. The bout has yet to be decided.’

  Pechorin turned away. ‘And I say there is nothing left to decide. Had we been fighting for real, you would be dead.’

  Dallaway caught him by the shoulder and spun him back to face him. ‘Then we’ll do it for real! The sabres, you!’ he called to Renholt.

  ‘You’ll do no such thing!’ snapped Ramsay. ‘This was only intended to be a friendly bout. I think things have gone far enough.’

  ‘General Ramsay is quite right,’ said Pechorin. ‘Let’s call it a draw and shake hands, eh?’ He proffered his hand.

  Dallaway knocked it aside. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Better than you losing face when I beat you!’

  ‘Then I concede,’ said Pechorin. ‘This matter has gone quite far enough.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Count?’ jeered Dallaway. ‘Afraid?’

  ‘Come now, my lord!’ protested Killigrew. ‘There’s no need for that sort of talk. Count Pechorin has been gracious enough to concede. Let the matter lie there, eh?’

  ‘I don’t want his damned charity!’ spat Dallaway. ‘We finish this! Now!’

  ‘There is no point.’ Pechorin crossed to where Renholt stood and handed back his épée, hilt first.

  Dallaway ran across after him, throwing aside his épée and drawing a sabre from one of the scabbards held by Renholt. He slashed at Pechorin’s head, but a cry of warning from Killigrew alerted the count; although in retrospect he would wonder if the count had needed any warning. Pechorin ducked beneath the sword-stroke, drew the other sabre held by Renholt and swung the blade at Dallaway.

  Killigrew and Ramsay were already running to intervene, but both were too late. Dallaway staggered back, his hands pressed to his stomach, blood running between his fingers. Even as they watched, the colour drained from his face. He stared at them with an expression of shock, and then his legs seemed to give way. He dropped down on to his hands and knees, the rent in his waistcoat, shirt and stomach parting to allow the coils of his entrails to flop to the grass below.

  ‘Run for the surgeon, quick!’ Ramsay shouted at Renholt, who dropped the scabbards he held and dodged around the outside of the house.

  Dallaway stared down at the guts spilling from his own stomach in incomprehension. He flopped on to his back and tried to stuff them back through the obscene opening in his abdomen, but it was like trying to push a spring back into a burst mattress. As Killigrew cradled his head, Dallaway clutched at his tailcoat with bloody fingers. He shouted incoherently until the surgeon arrived from the town. Killigrew and Pechorin carried Dallaway into the billiards room and laid him on the table, where a couple of Ramsay’s flunkeys assisted the surgeon in his hopeless task of trying to save the aristocrat’s life.

  Seeing there was nothing more they could do, Ramsay, Pechorin, Killigrew and Bullivant retreated to the general’s study, where Ramsay poured them each a generous measure of white rum from the decanter.

  ‘It was self-defence,’ Pechorin said numbly. ‘You all saw… he came at me… I had to defend myself.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ growled Bullivant. ‘It was cold-blooded murder, damn you! By God, I intend to have some pretty strong words to say to Lord Clarendon when I get back to England. You saw it, didn’t you, Killigrew? This fiend butchered him!’ He levelled a shaking finger at Pechorin.

  ‘It was self-defence,’ said Killigrew.

  Bullivant gaped at him. ‘What? How the deuce can you side with these Russian devils, against one of your own countrymen?’

  ‘Justice knows no nationalities.’

  Bullivant’s face hardened. ‘I might have known you’d side with them! It wouldn’t surprise me if you were a Russian spy, the way you’ve comported yourself these past few days! You’re a disgrace to the uniform, man! A disgrace!’ He slammed down his glass and headed for the door.

  ‘Where are you going, my lord?’ asked Ramsay.

  ‘Someone has to break the news to his intended,’ snarled Bullivant, and slammed the door behind him on his way out.

  ‘My fault,’ said Ramsay. He seemed even more shaken than Pechorin. ‘I should never have agreed to the match. I should have seen what it would lead to.’

  Killigrew shook his head. ‘You couldn’t have predicted that Dallaway would behave the way he did. Pechorin’s right: he had no choice. It was self-defence. My report to Admiral Napier will make that quite clear.’

  ‘Thank you. But it will not help Lord Dallaway, I fear.’

  There was a knock at the door. ‘Come in?’ called the general.

  The door opened and the surgeon entered, his hands and shirtfront alike drenched with blood. He shook his head sorrowfully.

  * * *

  Ramsay was still in a state of shock an hour later, after Killigrew had returned to his billet in town, Pechorin had gone back on board the Atalanta, and the Bullivants had retired upstairs, Araminta bravely refusing a dose of laudanum to help her cope with the shock.

  The general wondered what arrangements to make for the deceased. It would be easy enough to bury him here in Ekenäs, but he probably had an ancestral mausoleum at his home in England. His family would want his body shipped back in a sealed coffin, and that in itself would be difficult to arrange; if instructions came from St Petersburg permitting him to let Lord Bullivant and his family go in exchange for General Bodisco, the coffin could be sent with them. And as much as he mourned the young man’s death sincerely, he would not have been human if he had not wondered how Dallaway’s death would affect his own career. His superiors would be furious, blame him with negligence in allowing a prisoner of war to be killed in so foolish a manner; well, whatever punishment he received, he told himself, it would be no more than he deserved.

  He heard the doorbell ring faintly and wondered who could be calling. Probably an ensign from the barracks to report another crisis – they’d run out of champagne in the officers’ mess again.

  He recognised Renholt’s knock on the library door. ‘Come in.’

  The flunkey entered. ‘A Colonel Nekrasoff to see you, sir.’

  ‘Colonel Nekrasoff? I don’t believe I know any Colonel Nekrasoff.’

  ‘Of the Third Section of His Imperial Majesty’s Chancery.’

  Fear gripped Ramsay’s innards like an iron claw. ‘You’d best show him in,’ he stammered.

  Two men swept into the room, both dressed in an ornate, sky-blue uniform with gold epaulettes. The senior of the two was in his early forties, a dark-eyed, handsome fellow with wavy black hair, a colonel’s aiguillettes hang
ing across his left breast. His companion was a younger man with a pale, thin face.

  ‘Lieutenant-General Ramsay?’ The dark-eyed man extended a kid-gloved hand, which Ramsay shook nervously. ‘Colonel Radimir Fokavich Nekrasoff, of the Third Section. This is my aide, Lieutenant Kizheh. Do forgive the intrusion, but as I’m sure you’ll appreciate we have an unfortunate situation on our hands which the Tsar is very keen to get cleared up as swiftly and painlessly as possible.’

  Ramsay’s first thought had been that Dallaway’s death had brought the colonel, but even in his distracted state he realised that Nekrasoff could not have been alerted to the English lord’s death in time. ‘You’re the Tsar’s envoy?’

  Nekrasoff nodded. ‘Naturally, I’ll require your complete and unquestioning co-operation.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Where are the Bullivants at present?’

  ‘Upstairs. There has been a terrible tragedy—’

  ‘What sort of tragedy?’

  ‘Lord Dallaway… he had a fencing match with Count Pechorin. Pechorin won, and Dallaway lost his temper and struck at the count with a sabre; Pechorin evaded it and mortally wounded him.’

  ‘Lord Dallaway is dead?’ demanded Nekrasoff.

  Ramsay nodded. ‘The count acted in self-defence; the responsibility is all mine.’

  ‘Good!’ said Nekrasoff. ‘One less to concern us. What about the crew of the Milenion?’

  Ramsay was so stunned by Nekrasoff’s attitude, it took him a moment to recover himself and answer the colonel’s question. ‘Under guard in a barn on the outskirts of town, along with Commander Killigrew’s men.’

  ‘Commander Killigrew?’

  ‘The British officer who was sent to negotiate Lord Bullivant’s release. Unfortunately, it seems that one of our batteries fired upon his cutter as he approached the town. He claims he was sailing under a flag of truce at the time. I’m having the matter looked into.’

  ‘Oh dear. That is unfortunate.’ Nekrasoff looked mildly pained. ‘I was not informed of this.’

  ‘It only happened this morning. I sent a telegraph to St Petersburg as soon as I learned of it.’

  ‘Where is this Commander Killigrew now?’

  ‘Billeted in town, along with the other officers who were captured with him. They’ve all given their paroles.’

  ‘How many officers?’

  ‘Just three, including Killigrew. The others are Mr Humphrey Charlton, an assistant surgeon; and a Herre Sten Dahlstedt, a Swede acting as the Ramillies’ pilot.’

  ‘The Ramillies?’ asked Nekrasoff.

  ‘Commander Killigrew’s ship,’ said Ramsay.

  But Nekrasoff had not been addressing him. ‘A third-rate ship of the line,’ Kizheh recited by rote. ‘Sixty guns, four-hundred and fifty horsepower, seventeen hundred and forty-seven tons, crew of six hundred and sixty. Captain Graham Crichton.’

  ‘Hm. General Ramsay, I wonder if you’d be so good as to send a patrol to report on the Ramillies’ current position?’

  ‘That will not be easy. She’ll be anchored offshore, beyond the islands of the archipelago.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I require it. And I’ll need hourly updates.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Commander Killigrew informs me that Vice Admiral Napier is prepared to exchange General Bodisco for the Bullivants and their crew.’

  ‘How very generous of him,’ sneered Nekrasoff. ‘No, I think we can manage without the man who lost the Åland Islands.’ He turned to Kizheh. ‘Find the local telegraph station and signal headquarters. I want all the information we have on Commander Killigrew, and… what were the names of the other two, Lieutenant-General?’

  ‘Mr Humphrey Charlton and Herre Sten Dahlstedt.’

  Kizheh nodded and wrote their names in a pocketbook with the stub of a pencil before leaving.

  Nekrasoff turned back to Ramsay. ‘What about the calotypes Lord Dallaway took?’

  ‘Hold on a moment…’ The general turned back to his desk and took out a wodge of photographs. ‘Here they are.’

  Nekrasoff looked at the first one, a young woman looking bored standing on the deck of a schooner. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Lord Bullivant’s daughter, the honourable Araminta Maltravers.’

  ‘And the ship?’

  ‘We believe it’s the Milenion.’

  Nekrasoff flicked through the rest of the calotypes. There were pictures of Miss Maltravers in the Tivoli Gardens in Copenhagen, of Miss Maltravers on the battlements of Elsinore Castle, Miss Maltravers on the steps of the Royal Palace in Stockholm, Miss Maltravers in the grounds of the Drottningholms Slott, Miss Maltravers in front of a windmill in the Åland Islands. None of them contained any military secrets, and in each and every one she wore an expression of unutterable boredom.

  ‘What about the calotypes taken on Jurassö?’ demanded Nekrasoff.

  ‘They were never developed. The crew of the Atalanta seized the Milenion before Lord Dallaway had had a chance to get his undeveloped plates back on board. Pechorin’s men had never seen a camera before, they didn’t know what they were dealing with: half the plates were exposed, the rest simply shattered before they could be brought back to Ekenäs.’

  ‘So, other than what they tell us, we’ve no way of knowing what they saw on Jurassö?’

  ‘Or what they didn’t see,’ Ramsay added pointedly. ‘You do intend to release the Bullivants, don’t you?’

  The colonel smiled. ‘What happens to the Bullivants is, from now on, no concern of yours, General. Later today they will be moved to a secure location a few vehrsty from here, along with the crew of the Milenion and Commander Killigrew and his men. Where is Lord Dallaway’s body?’

  ‘In the billiards room. Renholt will show you…’

  ‘My men will deal with his body. Oh, I’d also be obliged if you’d let me have any records relating to the capture of the Milenion, and of Killigrew and his men. Including any journal or diary you may keep. Have you mentioned them in any private correspondence?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Splendid. All references to the fact that the Bullivants or Commander Killigrew and his men were ever here are to be expunged from the records. Do I make myself plain?’

  Ramsay felt sick. ‘These are good people, Colonel. A little foolish, perhaps, but they have been guests under my roof…’

  Nekrasoff shook his head. ‘They were never here, General. Their “goodness” is something I shall leave to God to judge. My loyalty is to the Tsar. I trust your own is just as unwavering?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Good. Count Orloff tells me that His Imperial Majesty was very pleased with the way you handled the attack on this town three months ago, given the limited resources at your disposal. It would be a shame if a man of your undoubted abilities were to be assigned to the salt mines of Siberia.’

  Chapter 7

  The Third Section

  3.30 p.m.–5.00 p.m., Thursday 17 August

  Killigrew lounged on his bed in Herre Grönkvist’s house, smoking a cheroot, and wondered if Dallaway’s death would delay the Bullivants’ release. Had it occurred in England there would have been a police investigation – or rather, a provost marshal’s investigation, since the prisoners had been under military jurisdiction – but in either event there would have been a wealth of paperwork to be dealt with before any of the witnesses could be released. And Russia was supposed to be an even bigger bureaucracy than England, if such a thing were possible.

  On the other hand, perhaps the Russians would waive such matters, given how influential the Bullivants were, and whatever the viscount himself might say, the case seemed pretty cut and dried to Killigrew. Perhaps he could use the incident to his advantage: to the Russians it might seem embarrassing, but if he volunteered to stay behind and act as a witness, signing any statements the Russians wanted to the effect that Pechorin had acted in self-defence – provided they were wr
itten in English rather than Russian – then in return the Russians might be prepared to let the others go in exchange for Bodisco.

  Hearing a carriage pull up on the cobbles outside, he stood and glanced out of the window. A telezhka drawn by six horses had pulled up in the street outside, with two gendarmes dressed in sky-blue uniforms seated on the driving board. The police, come to take his statement, he supposed. He wondered if the senior officer amongst them would have sufficient authority to make a deal.

  One of them climbed down from the driving board and disappeared below the window. Killigrew heard the doorbell jangle. He buckled on his sword belt and made his way downstairs to find Herre Grönkvist talking to the gendarme. They both looked up as Killigrew descended the stairs.

  ‘I suppose you want my statement?’

  ‘Commander Killigrew?’ asked the gendarme. Killigrew nodded. ‘I’m Lieutenant Kizheh: I’ve been sent to fetch you.’

  ‘To the local police office?’

  Kizheh shook his head. ‘To meet Colonel Nekrasoff, my superior. He’s been sent from St Petersburg to clear up this matter.’

  Killigrew’s reaction was one of relief. It would be easier to make a deal with a senior officer from St Petersburg, who would be empowered to negotiate. ‘It’s about time too,’ he said, and turned to his host. ‘Thank you so much for your kindness, Herre Grönkvist. When I return to England I shall have nothing but good to report of Finnish hospitality.’

  Ashen-faced, Grönkvist merely stared at Killigrew as if he was looking at a ghost, and made the sign of the cross.

  Frowning, Killigrew followed Kizheh out into the street, where the second gendarme jumped down from the driving board and made his way round to the back of the telezhka. He began to unlock the padlock that secured the door.