The Killing of Anna Karenina

by Richard Freeborn

  Twinges from his ribs made him pause. He sat on the stile to have a rest, facing the way he had come and the phrase “a gap in nature” suddenly came to mind. Why had he felt there was “a gap in nature”? Why, though, should he have experienced “a gap in nature” on that particular date? He had explained to himself the boat and what it signified, or so he thought, and yet the threat of the unknown or even the supernatural implied by the phrase seemed as real as ever. The very idea that Anna Karenina should be alive was in itself unnatural. He found it equally unnatural that here, in the apparent tranquility of rural England, he should feel such a sense of menace. The feeling of being observed, of eyes covertly watching, of being pursued, became exceptionally strong, due no doubt to his unfamiliarity with the very rural quiet of the place, and he had literally to shake himself out of such a silly mood before continuing on his way.

  The small field on the other side of the stile sloped towards a dense hedgerow interspersed with trees that stood silhouetted against a blue sky. Recently it had been cut and piles of hay lay about. Otherwise there was no real sign of a path as such. He hesitated. He had a fear of trespassing. In Russia he had been used to wandering freely. In England he knew it was sheer foolhardiness to tempt a farmer’s lethal anger by trespassing on his land. Looking keenly round to see if there were someone he might ask, or indeed if the sense of being covertly observed actually amounted to anything, he could see no one. The sun came beating down on the piles of hay that emitted an attractively warm smell. The only sound apart from birdsong was a distant crackling not unlike the chatter of foliage in a light breeze.

  He would go where the signpost pointed. He would make his way through the dry, ploughed field in the hope it was the shortest way to Irmingham. The slope of the field, if nothing else, seemed to suggest a path and until he was about half way across everything was normal. Then suddenly the air was filled with clouds of smoke. It took him completely by surprise. Billowing from behind him with a strong bonfire smell, it forced him to press a handkerchief close to his nose and start running quickly towards what looked like a gate into an adjacent field. He had no sooner reached it and pushed it open than more smoke funneled through the gap. Momentary panic made him rush onwards until, to his horror, he came face to face with an inferno. Flames and smoke leapt into the air and filled it with particles of burning straw.

  All of a sudden he seemed to have no choice. The smoke rose so thickly that it made his eyes smart and virtually blinded him. He could not see where he was, let along turn back. A moment later came the sound of a shot. Disbelief was instantly followed by a panic sense that he was a target. Guns were obviously being fired close by. He dived for the ground and lay flat. All pain from his ribs vanished momentarily. Something whistled very close to him. Then there were more shots. Just as frightening was the crackle of burning straw. His lungs ached from the inescapable, ground-hugging smoke. In its swirling motion it seemed to creep and weave like an animal among the charred stalks.

  He simply could not imagine what had happened.

  Stubble-burning, yes, but gunshots?

  Was he somehow again at war with the Turks?

  A handful of soil fell on his hair. He was sure now he was a target. If it weren’t for the smoke the shooter’s aim would be a lot more accurate, because there was no doubt that one set of gunshots came from somewhere very close indeed. Then it shocked him to find a rabbit crouching beside his face. He exchanged one brief glance with it before it dashed away. Despite smoke, bruised ribs and loss of dignity, the shock made him follow the scared rabbit’s example. He instantly scrambled back towards the hedge. Luckily he found a ditch and tumbled gratefully into it.

  Silhouetted against the white smoke and the sky was the figure of a man. Foreshortened as he appeared when viewed from ground level, he could have been any height. He was certainly wearing a peaked cap and had a scarf over the lower part of his face. He was carrying what looked like a twin-barreled shotgun.

  The prince held his breath. The man had only to look slightly to his left to see him. Their two pairs of eyes would meet. The gun would be leveled. Icy shivers ran along his scalp. Or perhaps the man was simply shooting rabbits. Nothing worse. The thought was consoling but hardly reassuring.

  With a crackling much like Chinese firecrackers, the line of dry stalks just above the ditch caught alight and burned furiously. In an instant the smoke hid the man. A breeze played with the flames for a while, made them flare and dance and the stalks crackled until, just as suddenly, the smoke cleared and direct sunlight beat down. The prince tried hard not to attract attention by coughing. He pressed the handkerchief to his lips. Nothing happened. The acrid smoke burned in his lungs and his eyes were streaming.

  Panic was quickly replaced by resentment at his own apparent cowardice and anger at the whole ridiculous situation. To be intimidated by anything was irksome. To have been disabled by the pain from his ribcage after his accident was one thing; being panicked by gunshots and rabbits was almost more hurtful. Not only had the prince’s dignity suffered, his common sense had been affronted and, worse still, his white linen suit had been smudged and stained.

  Peering above the level of the ditch, he saw that the stubble farther down the field was still burning vigorously. It caused clouds of dense smoke, although closer to him the light breeze did no more than ignite little points of fire that flared into brief life and ended in quickly dispersed wisps. There was no sign of the man with the gun. Although he could not deny he was shaken, he knew a Russian prince could not do otherwise than put a brave face on things. He picked up his Panama hat and placed it on his head in defiance of caution and good judgment. If he were going to be shot at, he wanted to be a presentable target. Having brushed his clothes free of straw, twigs and soil, he looked round with wary dignity and saw little more than a sloping field darkened by burnt patches. Apart from the continuing crackle of stubble as it caught alight nothing was audible; nor was anything visible save for smoke and hedges. Not a soul about. It was cause for mild relief.

  Unsure whether to return the way he had come, or indeed where to go, he was alarmed by a noise of rapid hoof beats and crunching wheels. A head and cap similar to Oswald Holmcroft’s could be seen bobbing along above the hedge on the far side of the field. The cap had no peak or was worn reversed and was therefore unlikely to belong to the man with the gun. In a moment it had vanished.

  Had Oswald Holmcroft been shooting at him? The idea seemed absurd, but a doubt lingered. If he had been, why? Why should Oswald Holmcroft want him dead or injured? The whole idea was as absurd as his present situation. All he did know now beyond a shadow of doubt was that on the other side of the hedge there must be a lane. He stumbled quickly off in that direction.

  The hedge was at right angles to the ditch and he followed it until it curved sharply and revealed another gate. Three men were leaning on it. They were so absorbed in talking that his approach caused them to stare as if he were an apparition out of hell. The prince knew his appearance could be theatrically devilish, the soil matting his hair, his face streaked with sweat and his white clothing smudged by a combination of soil, grass stains and burnt stalks.

  ‘I am looking for Irmingham,’ he said in his most Russian-accented tones and confessed he had lost his way.

  ‘Where you bin, sir?’ said one of them, removing a pipe from his mouth. ‘You bin burned? You looks like you bin in the burnin’! You shouldna bin in the burnin’, sir!’

  ‘I agree with that. But I’ve also been shot at, you know…’

  ‘You shouldna bin in the burnin’, sir! No, sir, not in the burnin’!’

  ‘I am fully aware…’

  ‘Did un say shotart?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Did un say shotart, sir? You bin shotart, you said.’

  ‘Oh, shot, yes…’

  ‘Varmint’s wot’s shotart! Rarbits! Varmint’s wot’s ’em are! Good for eatin’, mind. The gentry, sir, wot’s shotart the rarbits.’
/>   ‘Would Mr Holmcroft have been shooting?’ the prince asked as politely as possible.

  ‘’Olmcroft. ‘Olmcroft. Oo-arrgh, oo-arrgh, ‘ee were un!’

  ‘Thank you. Which way is it to Irmingham?’

  ‘Yarnder, sir.’

  ‘Oh, thank you.’

  They drew open the gate for him and gave directions. He was told he would be able to see the church tower after a short walk. So he followed their directions and went down a well-used lane that sloped towards the river in a meandering, gentle way and was replete with the usual fairly tall hedges, overhanging trees, butterflies, birds and countryside detritus, such as an old leather boot without a sole and a scrap of cloth attaching to a twig in a hedgerow. It was all manifestly English, manifestly rural, manifestly peaceful. The very idea of being shot at was so incongruous it was hard to believe he could have been caught in crossfire only a short while before.

  Approaching the church and the line of houses which he took to be the main street of Irmingham, he began to be seriously worried about his dishevelled appearance. To appear before the beautiful Lady Helen Swanning looking so grubby would be a repeat performance and perhaps give her the impression he was incorrigibly accident-prone. He thought of turning back. Too late. There she was, walking towards him carrying a sickle.

  ‘Good heavens, what have you been doing with yourself, prince? Anyhow, it is very nice to see you again.’ She asked after his health, listened politely to his brief account and then said: ‘I have been very busy, you see. I have just been bonking.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Rural Herefordshire seemed to offer a treasure trove of fanciful agricultural expressions.

  ‘Bonking,’ she said, wielding the sickle lightheartedly. ‘Thistle bonking. In the churchyard.’

  ‘You mean the churchyard is…’ The churchyards of his native Orel region did more for local procreation than countless stove-tops or bath-houses.

  ‘Full of thistles. And rabbits. Much worse than last year. Father disapproves of killing them, so there’s been a plague. They’ve got to be controlled somehow.’

  ‘I see. By the way, your father asked me to give you his love. He hopes to see you at tomorrow’s soiree.’

  ‘Oh, how nice of him! Yes, I’ll be there. But you… you say you’ve been shot at?’

  ‘As I said, I have been through “the burnin”, as it’s called.’

  ‘I heard them shooting rabbits not long ago, but surely, prince, they weren’t shooting at you?’

  ‘I wish I were sure.’

  ‘What you need is a good clean-up. Come on. I’ll see what I can do.’

  He loved her practicality. It was so different from the kind of instant soulfulness, not to say soulful coyness, a Russian girl might have brandished at him as a mark of her concern. In her cotton blouse, through which he had no difficulty seeing well-formed breasts and solid pink nipples, and in her long worsted skirt, to which burrs and thistle-heads still remained attached, Lady Helen had such a practical, outdoor, efficient look she seemed wantonly to downplay her attractiveness. It was hard to disregard this because her workaday clothes simply enhanced her natural beauty and yet left her apparently quite unaware of its allure. He was suddenly stabbed by the naughty idea that she was at heart quite cool, even scheming. She studied him, he saw, from the shade of her wide-brimmed hat.

  ‘I think your ribs may still be hurting.’

  He explained that the need to escape smoke and gunfire at first quelled all the pain, only for it to reawaken once he was on his feet again.

  ‘Are you sure they were really firing at you?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘The local people don’t mind if the rabbits get shot. They stick lighted straw down the burrows. The idea is to smoke them out. Of course, it tends to mean all the stubble catches alight. After a couple of hot days round here everything’s tinder-dry. What exactly were you doing in “the burnin’”?’

  ‘Your nephew, Master Charles, told me to come this way.’

  ‘You were coming to see me, then?’

  ‘Of course. Is there any other reason why I should come here? Except, of course, to retrieve my bicycle.’

  She laughed and pushed open the gate to her front garden. ‘Come in, prince. We’ve only met twice and on both occasions you’ve been in need of assistance. You must try and break the habit. As a matter of fact, I asked about your bicycle yesterday and they said it would be ready today. I sent word this morning.’

  By the time he had been led into the hallway, past the temporary consulting-room, he was so exhilarated at seeing her again in her familiar surroundings he was scarcely listening any more. The sweetly perfumed atmosphere of the low-ceilinged sitting room where he was offered a chair remained exactly the same. This time, however, there was no likelihood of sudden rainfall. She flung herself down in an armchair with a flower-printed cover, giving the first signs of exhaustion, and let her hat and the sickle drop to the floor.

  She sat there and they looked at each other. The prince flattered himself with the sense of being welcomed by her and the possibility that she was glad to see him and had perhaps even thought about him as he had thought about her. For some moments of silence it felt very pleasant just to sit and rest.

  He had not realised how tiring the morning’s events had been. The surrounding quiet, interrupted only by the buzzing of an insect, was a delightful substitute for conversation. After a minute or so he tried hard to think how he could broach the question of the smashed headstone without mentioning Anna Karenina. She, perhaps amused at his embarrassment, allowed herself a private smile while he could not help thinking how readily he and his dear Alisa usually talked about all manner of things, as is customary among Russians and makes them so different from the usually withdrawn English. The number of times he had sat in English train compartments with not a word spoken for hours at a time was amazing. This time he plucked up courage and asked what made her smile.

  ‘It was odd about Oswald,’ she said. ‘I showed you his history of Cromwell, didn’t I?’

  He asked what she meant.

  ‘I don’t mean about the history, but odd he should have found you there, prince. I was thinking, you see, that hardly anyone uses the old ford nowadays. I can’t imagine what he was doing there.’

  ‘Shooting rabbits. He said he had been shooting rabbits, or “rarbits” as the local people apparently call them.’

  ‘Ah, local talk! Yes, well…’

  ‘I found some broken stones in the lane, you know,’ he said. ‘I think they must have caused my accident.’

  ‘Stones?’ There was hardly anything remarkable about finding stones in a lane and he scarcely expected her to respond, but she suddenly exclaimed: ‘Oh, yes!’

  ‘There was some kind of memorial stone…’

  ‘A horse was killed,’ she said quickly. ‘I think it tripped or something crossing the ford. It was all quite some time ago.’

  ‘Her horse?’ he asked pointedly.

  She ran her tongue round her lips. ‘I think my grandfather had a little tablet erected. The horse was a beautiful animal. As I say, it was all quite some time ago.’

  ‘And was she hurt?’

  ‘I don’t know who you mean.’

  She spoke the words quite coldly, deliberately turning away as she said them. The subject was apparently not to be discussed. He was diplomatic enough not to pursue it. A warm invitation to stay for lunch was gratefully accepted, which allowed her to re-assume her practical manner and suggest they should both tidy themselves in preparation for it. Jane was ordered to provide a jug of water in the consulting-room so he could wash and she would change her clothes upstairs. An atmosphere of amiable compliance neatly hid the certainty that the invitation to lunch was a distraction quickly devised by Lady Helen to avoid any mention of the lady in the tower.

  The prince recognised this and was quite ready to acquiesce. He was not going to betray his promise to Giles. No, he would simply enjoy Lady Helen’s company ov
er lunch, provided of course he made himself presentable for it. The mirror above the basin in the consulting-room mirror showed him all he needed to know about his messy appearance, so the soap and the jug of water were most welcome. He washed as vigorously as young Dr Parkinson had washed, but had to wait a short while for Jane to return with his jacket which she had taken to brush and then sponge to remove the worst stains.

  It was not exactly the prince at his smartest who stood in Lady Helen’s sitting room that lunchtime, although he felt his appearance was a great deal better than in ‘the burnin’. Grateful for the renewal of the wash and brush-up, he stared through the open French window at the sunlit garden. Lawn, roses, far trees and bright star-like flashes from the glass panes of a greenhouse where light filtered through the flickering movement of high foliage – that was what he saw, but it was the sound that caught his attention, the faint sound of a train whistle. His thoughts turned back to Lady Helen. He ran through the likely reasons for her talking about Oswald Holmcroft.

  Intuitively he felt she did not talk about Oswald Holmcroft as someone with whom she seemed to be emotionally involved, although he knew he could be wrong. There were other reasons, the prince told himself. They seemed related chiefly to her father and his belief in the simple vegetarian and pacifist ideals of Tolstoyanism; whereas Oswald Holmcroft seemed far less seriously committed to them. He had another agenda. It could well be, of course, that the memorial to a dead horse had been smashed for some good reason. The suspicion suddenly spurred him to wonder whether Oswald Holmcroft’s connection might become clear from his work as a historian.

  The prince looked round the sitting room and saw what he wanted. In its smart binding with gold embossing the history of Oliver Cromwell enjoyed pride of place on one of the bookshelves. He opened it and, a little to his surprise, the thick pages fell open at page 117 and his eye was immediately caught by a footnote. He drew in a long breath. It was part of the answer, if not the complete answer, to the riddle of the headstone and perhaps the reason why it had been smashed.