The Killing of Anna Karenina

by Richard Freeborn

  He was gazing at the sick man’s face. What he saw, as the prince now saw, was the sardonic smile, the lips curled back as far as the gums, the features contorted in pain and the sweaty pallor. They were all characteristic symptoms. There had been faces showing the same symptoms during the war against the Turks. What he was seeing, the prince realised, was the spasmus cynicus of tetanus poisoning. It was unforgettably a sign of what Hippocrates called the disease of wounding.

  ‘Lockjaw,’ he muttered, peering down with the lapel still held firmly over his nose and mouth.

  ‘What?’ asked James Parkinson.

  ‘Lockjaw. Isn’t that what you call it? Look at the jaw.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’

  ‘You didn’t know?’

  ‘To be honest, I didn’t know what it was. I tried various antidotes.’

  ‘I’ve seen it before. Curare.’

  ‘Curare?’

  ‘You have to use curare.’

  ‘Oh, my God, of course! Why the hell didn’t I think of that!’ A series of rapid, remorseful gestures culminated in the young doctor striking his forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘I think I might have some, you know. I studied the use of curare…’ He explained that he been interested in tropical medicine during his medical training. He picked up his medical case and said he would go back to his consulting-room at once. ‘Thank you, prince. I’m very, very grateful to you.’

  The prince assumed he meant he would be returning to Lady Helen’s. He seized his arm for an instant. ‘He’s been shot, hasn’t he?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Surely he’s been shot?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I heard a shot. He must have been shot! Surely it was because of him you were brought here? I mean, at tea-time at Lady Helen’s?’ He was certain the lockjaw victim was the man he had seen hopping about in the water. ‘Remember? When it suddenly started to rain…’

  ‘No. Sergius here…’

  ‘That’s his name?’

  ‘Sergius or Sergei, yes. It was his mother I came to see first of all. He only complained of feeling ill a bit later. You’re right, he thought he might have been shot. I checked him thoroughly, I can assure you. But there was no sign of a pellet wound or anything like that.’

  ‘No injury of any kind?’

  ‘Perhaps a small cut on the sole of his foot, but otherwise only a few ordinary scratches. Ah, lockjaw, of course… Boris,’ the doctor said, turning to the elderly retainer, ‘Boris, this is Mr – sorry, no – Prince Rostov. Please, tell him in Russian,’ he implored, ‘that I must go and get some medicine at once.’

  The prince obliged and added a question of his own. ‘Had he,’ indicating the sick man, ‘been down at the river the previous day?’

  The old man leaned forward like an unwieldy bird and, as if pecking his way into the lamplight, opened and closed his mouth several times. Judging by the way he peered at the prince, he obviously noted the crest embroidered on the dressing-gown pocket. His expression slowly transformed itself into one of servile and awesome wonderment.

  ‘Your excellency,’ came the breathy, quavering voice, ‘your excellency,’ and bending low, to the prince’s dismay, he seized his right hand and kissed it. Yes, he had been down by the river, the young master had been, the old man conceded. So he had heard Russian spoken on the banks of the “sylvan Wye”!

  ‘Thank you. That explains…’

  But all explanations came to nothing when the old man, still holding his hand, persisted in addressing him as if he were heaven-sent: ‘God be with you, sir, God bless you, sir, God keep you! You are an angel come to save us! The soul… the soul of our poor young master, sir, is about to fly into the highest heavens, and I see you are an angel, sir, come to our aid, our saviour… Our dear mistress will bless you, sir, our mistress, sir, will bless you everlastingly… everlastingly… for coming to our aid!’

  If this were not embarrassing enough, the old woman fell on her knees at that moment and joined in the supplications. James Parkinson shrugged his shoulders, raised the oil lamp and raced from the room. Practically at once the sick man was convulsed by a further spasm, but was soon calm again when the old woman resumed her gentle wiping of his features.

  ‘Who?’ the prince asked in the silence. ‘Who is your mistress? Is it Lady Irmingham?’ There was a muttered response that the prince could not hear.

  ‘Who?’

  Boris hung his head. ‘She has ordered the windows closed, your excellency. I cannot say. Forgive me. I will light your way downstairs.’

  6

  The prince had to assume it was his hostess, Lady Isobel, who was being referred to as the ‘mistress’ and the victim of lockjaw was therefore her ‘son’. Boris refused to answer any other questions. He led the prince determinedly out of the sickroom and went slowly ahead of him, step by step, down the curved stairs, holding a candle shakily aloft and sprinkling ‘excellencies’ over him like so much holy water.

  Puzzled as he was by the strangeness of it all, the prince quickly fell into an unbroken asleep when he returned to his bedroom until woken by Cotton’s arrival with his breakfast the next morning. Had he heard anything about other Russians at Stadleigh Court? No, Cotton hadn’t. Did he know if Dr James Parkinson was at Stadleigh Court? No, Cotton didn’t; he had no idea there was a doctor at Stadleigh Court. As for the tower and its inhabitants, he knew nothing about it or them. But he did know one thing for certain.

  ‘And that is?’

  The prince looked steadily at his manservant as Cotton straightened himself a little stiffly after having failed to answer the previous questions.

  ‘Lord Irmingham,’ he announced, ‘has informed me that he would be most grateful if you could call on him at ten o’clock. In his study, sir. Can I run some hot water for you, sir?’

  ‘Thank you, Cotton, I’ll…’

  So it very likely meant, the prince supposed, that Lady Isobel – and no doubt Giles as well – wanted to keep the sickroom secret, because the victim of lockjaw was very likely a cause of shame to the family, although why this ‘son’ should have been Russian and allowed to fester in such an unhygienic state, with windows closed and two such elderly, incompetent servants in charge, was outrageous. He felt in duty bound to protest at such a state of things and, once bathed and dressed, he went down the main staircase fully prepared to express his outrage to his host.

  Maybe it was the stained glass in the window at the head of the stairs, or maybe the elaborately carved griffins and dragons on the newel posts that suddenly reminded him of Lady Helen and made him wonder what she had made of these things as a child. She must have come down these stairs. Had she played on them as the prince had enjoyed playing on the stairs of his grandmother’s house in St Petersburg? Had she played at sleigh-riding down these stairs on tin trays? Had this been a treat of her childhood as the St Petersburg stairs had been a treat of his? He fantasised happily over these questions as he went slowly down step by step. Suddenly the fantasies stopped just as he found himself facing the doorway to the Gothic hall.

  ‘Ah, prince!’

  It was a woman’s voice. He saw his hostess approaching down the hallway at that moment carrying a wicker basket. The fact that it was Lady Isobel gave him what he hoped was the chance to ask about the victim of lockjaw, but she anticipated him by inquiring about his health: ‘You’re probably still recovering, aren’t you? I noticed you were probably not at your best last evening at dinner. I think you probably shouldn’t have accepted Giles’s invitation. We’d have understood perfectly well, you know.’

  ‘My ribs, Lady Isobel, are feeling much better, and so is my arm.’

  ‘Good. That is such good news.’

  Her manner was sympathetically well bred, authoritative and trim, very like her slightly severe English good looks. The prince dismissed any idea she could be Russian. In any case, she was far too young to have an adult son, which made him anxious not to cause offence by asking about the sick man’s health. So he
excused his failure to be at his best during last night’s dinner by saying he had been tired.

  ‘You slept well, I hope?’

  This gave him an opportunity to mention the sickroom. She stared back in utter bewilderment.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your son, Lady Isobel. He’s sick, isn’t he?’

  ‘My son!’ She gave him the sort of fixed, strained look that a near-sighted person gives when spectacles have been mislaid. ‘Sick! Good heavens, no! I have no children, prince!’

  He apologised. Naturally he was shocked by her fierce denial. He explained that the doctor had mentioned a mother.

  ‘Oh, that is too much!’ Then she checked herself. ‘I think I know now why Giles invited you here. Really there are times when…’ She seemed to lose her train of thought for a moment and then quickly offered apologies of her own. ‘I’m afraid my husband and I do not see eye to eye over certain matters.’ She smiled weakly at sharing such a disreputable confidence.

  He again apologised for jumping to the wrong conclusion. It was hardly surprising that a raw nerve might have been touched with the mention of the sickroom, something that might best be left unmentioned, and was grateful to her for changing the subject.

  ‘As you may have gathered from last night’s dinner,’ she went on, gesturing rather casually with her free hand. ‘Our guests, you see… Giles is not as selective as he should be. I hope you were not offended.’ A guardedly feminine look followed this. ‘Oh, about Dr Parkinson’s patient – yes, well, they are your compatriots, prince, and he, Dr Parkinson, I mean – such a nice young man, isn’t he? – He would naturally come to you. I think he’s found a cure.’

  He said he was delighted.

  ‘That was the news this morning, prince’.

  ‘The news… You mean the doctor said there had been an improvement? Then it may have been my suggestion.’

  ‘Yours, prince?’

  ‘I said I thought the patient had lockjaw.’

  ‘Really! Is that infectious? I wish some of our guests had locked their jaws last night!’

  The prince smiled, but his reply was serious. ‘No. It can be alleviated and cured. It is known as the disease of wounding and has very unpleasant symptoms.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  He explained briefly about his experience during the Turkish campaign and reiterated that he thought he had seen the man with lockjaw shot two days previously.

  ‘I thought you said you might have been mistaken about that. We are very pacifist now, you know. No guns or anything military in the Gothic hall.’

  ‘Lady Isobel, I admit I may have been wrong about a gunshot. But Dr Parkinson’s patient displays all the symptoms of the disease of wounding at an advanced stage.’

  ‘Good heavens! Surely it can’t be wounding!’ She frowned, touching a finger to her lips. ‘I wonder whether…’

  ‘Who is he?’ the prince asked curtly, annoyed by her apparent ignorance. ‘And who are those two elderly servants? It may seem rude of me to ask, Lady Isobel, but I find myself involved. Who is his mother? The man is dying…’

  She conceded that much but cut short all further discussion for a moment or so. They had passed through the hallway and were already in warm sunshine at the head of the steps by the front door. She again raised her free hand, this time to shade her eyes.

  ‘My husband,’ she said quietly, speaking as much to herself as to her guest, ‘has many Russian associates, you know. Some have stayed here for long periods. They often only speak Russian or French and I have no head for languages. By the way, prince, you yourself are obviously an exception.’ She had turned and looked at him rather artfully. ‘You speak the most perfect English.’

  ‘Not altogether perfect,’ he had to admit.

  ‘Yes, well…’ Aware she might be embarrassing him, she gave a second smile. She seemed to smile by numbers rather than spontaneously. ‘There are exceptions to any rule and you are one. Tell me a little about yourself, if you would. Are you beset by guests when at home, for example?’

  It was an odd sort of question. The prince had to admit that the Tula estate had had its share of hangers-on, but it was his brother’s problem, not his. He had business interests. Timber, for example.

  ‘Do you go back often?’

  ‘Oh, at least once a year. In the summer. I regard England as my home, though.’

  ‘That is very nice to hear. How often nowadays one hears English people decry their own heritage! I think a heritage is essential. We Irminghams have the heritage of this place and it is our solemn duty, I feel, to preserve it and hand it on intact to the next generation.’

  He found the claim a little trying. ‘It must cost a lot – keeping up appearances, I mean.’

  ‘Prince, you are right! Poor Giles is at his wits’ end trying to find ways and means. Of course, we do not see eye to eye exactly over certain things. My husband is an idealist, you know. He would prefer to live very simply if he could in the manner of your great writer…’ she flicked her fingers in a way that was hardly lady-like, ‘…dear me, who am I thinking of? I am getting so forgetful.’

  ‘Tolstoy,’ he reminded her.

  ‘Ah, yes. Thank you. My memory for names gets worse and worse.’ She announced she was taking the basket to help with gathering roses. ‘Oh,’ she added, startling him by suddenly exclaiming: ‘I thought it was! There’s Gerald!’

  She lowered her voice and confided that the prince had met him at dinner. There he was, Gerald Kempson, striding towards them across the wide shingle forecourt. He had an energetic, brisk step that made him seem to dance in his riding boots and jodhpurs. In the bright morning sunlight he displayed his sister’s looks more clearly than at dinner the previous evening. It was the shape of his face that struck the likeness. The well-defined pink lips and curved eyebrows were part of it, but its square-ish structure and the brilliance of the eyes were the real identifying features, although the removal of the peaked cap he was wearing on seeing his stepmother and the prince showed the reddish stubble on his jaw-line along with his copper-red hair, banishing all suggestion of femininity from his general appearance and manner.

  ‘Gerald dear, have you been riding?’ Lady Isobel asked. The question was rather unnecessary in view of his jodhpurs and she at once made a grand introductory gesture towards the prince. ‘You remember our Russian guest, Prince Rostov, don’t you?’

  Gerald shook his hand politely. The sensual Monna Vanna gaze of the eyes sent instantaneous, covert messages so immodest they seemed to implicate the prince in knowing more about the sexual gossip at Stadleigh Court than anyone. He flinched slightly and responded to a polite query about horse riding by mentioning that his bicycle was being repaired. ‘The prince had an accident while bicycling. That’s why he’s here,’ Lady Isobel pointed out.

  ‘Ah, yes, of course. Do please excuse me.’ Gerald kissed his stepmother lightly on the cheek. ‘I’ve just come over to have a word with Hannah.’ Why this explanation sounded false the prince could not say. The speaker dry-washed his hands a little awkwardly and concluded with: ‘So nice to meet you. I mustn’t keep you waiting.’

  He nodded and left. The prince had the distinct impression he was a little wary of both of them. Lady Isobel herself, perhaps detecting her companion’s puzzlement, rather self-consciously seized the prince by the arm and made sure he accompanied her to gather roses.

  They crossed the forecourt towards the rose garden and in a very short while, in an impulsive rush of confidentiality, she divulged that she came from a county family. He had no precise idea what this meant, but it was clear she simply adored being Lady Isobel Irmingham of Stadleigh Court.

  ‘Ah, I see my helper’s already at work.’

  Entering through wrought-iron gates, she indicated someone stooping among the rose bushes, but the first person they came across was the previous night’s birthday boy, Master Charles Kempson. Dressed in corduroy trousers obviously too short for him, he was crouching down and
studying something very closely. When Lady Isobel cried out cheerily ‘Hello, Charles dear, more creepy-crawlies?’ he answered by holding up a glass jar.

  ‘He was given a fishing rod for his birthday. Collecting worms, I imagine,’ she said. ‘The dear boy is terribly curious about nature. Ah, Julie dear, how kind of you!’

  Julie Mayhew-Summers, in a large straw hat and white dress, was busy cutting roses and laying them carefully on the brick path. As soon as Lady Isobel arrived, she took the basket from her and began heaping roses into it.

  ‘I started before you came,’ she explained from her kneeling position and not looking up. ‘Sorry I’ve got dirty hands. Can’t do the polite thing, I’m afraid. Can’t shake hands.’

  ‘Julie,’ said Lady Isobel with a light laugh, ‘is known as the Unruly. She is devoted to my husband’s ideas.’

  ‘Communes,’ said Julie the Unruly, snipping. ‘Love the idea of communes. Absolutely love them. Living communally and working communally – what a difference it would make, wouldn’t it? And true cooperation. That’s the secret. Anarchism. One has to go the whole hog, in my opinion. Do you know Prince Kropotkin?’ Glancing sideways at the prince, she snipped off a long stem.

  ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t.’

  ‘A little gnome of a man. Such a charmer. Your roses are lovely this year, Lady Isobel. I just love work. No one should be idle, should they? It’s what your Tolstoy teaches. He is so right. I adore him.’

  ‘My love is like a red, red rose,’ came a fluting American voice. Montgomery Coulsham in a large floppy hat and a reefer jacket was walking towards them, accompanied by his mother. She wore a long green silk dress cut to flare out below the knee and matched her son with a wide-brimmed hat trimmed with feathers. A few paces away he stopped and pointed statuesquely towards a remoter part of the rose garden.