The Killing of Anna Karenina

by Richard Freeborn

  11

  A house, or one with some of the features he had been told would identify it, came into view at the end of a straight, tree-lined drive. He supposed it could be called vaguely ‘Mediterranean’ in style, or that was as Lady Helen had described it, since it sported at ground level a covered verandah with elegant wooden supports elaborately encased in a lacework of wisteria, above which were the square white frames of bedroom windows peering out of ivy-clad brickwork. Above that was a low-pitched roof looking a bit like an outsize coolie hat that had been pulled down over the stubby ears of chimneys at either end.

  That was as far as the ‘Mediterranean’ style went. A bust of Cromwell on a plinth beside the front door proclaimed it was the house of an admirer, as did a seventeenth-century cannon perched next to a little pyramid of newly painted cannonballs. Such military objects instantly struck the prince as so out of keeping with the other features of the house that they distracted him and made him brake far too loudly after swooping – as he hoped, gracefully – into the gravel forecourt.

  From the outside the house appeared deserted. Although the bust of Cromwell and the cannonballs seemed to identify the owner, closer inspection made the prince hesitate, since there was no name-plate or sign of an address. The lion’s-head knocker on the stout oak front door seemed to suggest an unexpected defiance, not to say hostility. He felt like leaving the cape in the doorway and cycling away at once, except that questions needed asking even in face of the challenge posed by the cannon pointing directly up the driveway and the lion’s head staring at him defiantly. He had not associated belligerence with Oswald Holmcroft. He could of course excuse all his questions as mere guesswork by airily assuming how silly he was in supposing that there was any truth in Anna Karenina’s fear of “enemies”, not to mention the reason why the memorial to her horse Frou-Frou had been smashed. Then the decision was made for him.

  There were loud shouts. A male voice, undoubtedly that of the historian of Cromwell, was issuing instructions.

  ‘Stand clear, please! Please stand clear!’

  The shouts came from the other side of a wall running between the house and what appeared to be stables and a barn. The loud instructions were repeated and drew attention to an archway. The prince quickly steered his bicycle towards it and alighted. As he walked through the arch he was quite expecting to be confronted by a conventional English scene of lawn and flowerbeds and perhaps others like himself who formed the audience for the shouted instructions, only to find himself staring at tawdry wooden structures that might have been in a fairground or offered for sale in an auction of unwanted theatrical props. They so obscured his view that he had to peer round them to see the source of the shouts.

  It was of course Oswald Holmcroft. On a large patch of un-mown grass some twenty or more paces away he was bracing himself against the crozier-shaped object the prince had noticed in his trap. Resting on it was a weapon resembling a thin trumpet with its round mouth pointing in his direction. No one else was visible so far as the prince could see and he naturally wondered what had caused the instructions to be issued so loudly. Another loud shouted instruction followed instantly.

  ‘I say,’ the prince called out, ‘Mr Holmcroft! Oswald!’

  Too late. An ear-splitting blast occurred, something whizzed past his left ear and a lump of wood fell off the wooden structure with a loud rending sound. It knocked both him and the Rudge Explorer to the ground.

  It was not so much the prince’s past life that sped past him as he lay in a momentary daze. His imagination provoked an array of vaguely suggestive reasons why the historian of Cromwell might have wanted to kill him. A loud flapping sound, though, quickly dispersed such concerns. Homemade, slipper-like shoes raced towards him across the grass. A moment later a pair of large red knees came into view. Oswald Holmcroft leaned down, his head and shoulders blocking out the sun.

  ‘My dear fellow, I’m so terribly, terribly sorry! What on earth have I done? Are you hurt?’

  More apologies followed coupled with anxious enquiries about injuries, but it quickly turned out that only the prince’s dignity had been hurt and no damage had been done to the Rudge Explorer.

  ‘My dear chap, I’m so glad! Here, let me help you up!’

  This was far too much like a repeat performance. At their first encounter Oswald Holmcroft had looked down at him in roughly the same way and said roughly the same thing, so the prince preferred to get up on his own. Once on his feet and his clothes straightened, he looked suspiciously and a trifle angrily at the other’s anxious, solicitous, sweaty face, noticed that the schoolboyish cap was worn back to front and added tacit insult to injury by stooping down and untying the cape from the bicycle rack. This was all too much.

  ‘What on earth must you think of me!’ came the chastened exclamation. ‘My dear prince, I never for a moment intended to injure you! And thank you, thank you! Very thoughtful of you to bring my cape back. Your bicycle, I see, is repaired. How is your rib?’ Reassured to hear it was better, he went on to utter more grateful thanks for the return of the cape before concluding in faint justification: ‘But I did shout several warnings, you know. And I didn’t expect you.’

  The prince agreed.

  ‘I always shout warnings, you see. Loud warnings. Even if there’s nobody about. On account of my mother chiefly. Her hearing is, well, not so good. But you are a victim, you see, of an experiment of mine.’

  ‘An experiment?’ The prince asked the question a little shakily. Having been shot at once that day, he felt he had to be doubly cautious. ‘What sort of experiment?’

  It was very hot in the windless shelter of the stretch of grass. He stooped down to retrieve his fallen Panama hat and put it on.

  ‘Yes, yes, an experiment! In the name of historical accuracy! I wasn’t aiming at anyone, you see. Good heavens, I’m a pacifist! After all, your Count Tolstoy teaches not to confront evil with violence. No, no, I was conducting an experiment, an experiment on historically scientific lines, that’s to say. That’s the reason I found you down by the old ford in the first place.’

  ‘What exactly do you mean?’ All manner of suspicions sprang to mind but all the prince could say on the spur of the moment was: ‘So you did shoot him?’ without mentioning Sergius by name.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The man down by the ford.’

  The remark was greeted quite blankly and followed by a frown. ‘Oh, yes, you said something at Lady Helen’s about that.’ Oswald Holmcroft wiped his face with the cape. ‘No, no, I didn’t shoot anyone! Of course not! I was referring to shooting rabbits. I used this, er, support or stand… Here, let me show you.’

  He hurried across the grass towards where he had been standing earlier and urged the prince to join him. It was a preliminary to a little lecture. He began dilating on the need for the right conditions in which to conduct his experiments and the sort of support needed to achieve reasonable accuracy. This involved showing off the crozier-shaped rest. Described as his own invention, it offered reasonably firm purchase for the heavy, ancient weapon perched on it. He showed how he could swivel it with ease in any direction, collapse it to walking-stick size or, as he laughingly admitted, follow the shooting star of a rabbit’s tail dashing over a field.

  ‘I go with my old trap,’ he explained, ‘get this thing out, stick it in the ground and take aim. Sometimes it works well, sometimes it doesn’t. Of course I don’t usually use this matchlock for anything but experiments. I use my sporting rifle for shooting rabbits.’ He adjusted his cap, bringing the peak round to face forwards, pointing out it was easier for him to take aim when worn with the peak backwards. ‘But for my experiments and for shooting generally this is a perfect scientific instrument. It saves my shoulder, you see. Recoil. Know what I mean? I have just been practising with targets.’

  He made the prince look behind him. Standing close by the archway were the dilapidated wooden structures that he had seen when he arrived. One depicted a helmeted foot s
oldier in the act of advancing. His belted topcoat was so shot through with holes that the aggressive pose seemed manifestly foolhardy. It was hard to see how he remained upright. The other target was larger and more elaborate and the evident reason why the prince had been knocked to the ground. It was a wooden figure of a plumed cavalryman on a charging horse brandishing a sword. The tip of the sword had been shot away, something very unpleasant had happened to one of the horse’s legs and there was clearly a recently made half-moon hole in the side of the plume where the wood had splintered.

  ‘There!’ Oswald Holmcroft announced. ‘You see you personally experienced the force of the weapon! Mind you, I don’t imagine that last shot would have been, er, fatal. I wasn’t aiming at the plume. That came off, I’m afraid, by mistake. Sorry about that.’ He turned apologetically to the prince with his hazel eyes literally glistening. He was emerging now in his true role as a historian of the latest kind – accurate, scrupulous, honest – whose technical accuracy over weaponry and battlefield tactics during Cromwell’s campaigns had to be beyond reproach. ‘The role of the matchlock musketeer at the time of Cromwell, prince! Just imagine it! There you are, your weapon primed, taking aim! What you’ve really got is a kind of small cannon, lethal only up to about thirty yards! A matchlock required clement conditions, preferably dry and windless. So you’ve got to be very, very careful to ensure each shot pays off! Now for a number of years I’ve been…’

  He checked himself, looked down, stirred the grass at his feet with the puckered, clumsily stitched tip of his shoe and apologised.

  ‘Sorry. I can become an infernal bore…’

  ‘Please go on.’

  ‘In that case, well…’ Changing his tone, he folded his arms and spoke more formally. ‘For a number of years now, you see, I have been endeavoring to acquire the skill needed to prepare a matchlock and fire it. I think I can say I have mastered the technique. Not without personal injury and many failures, mind you. As a weapon it had poor mobility on the field of battle, which is odd when you think that Cromwell’s great success as a general was due largely to the mobility of his tactics. The great thing was, I believe, that the musket helped to immobilise cavalry. Provided it enjoyed some cover and protection. A horse was a much bigger target than a man, as you can appreciate, and could be scared out of its wits by a musket discharging in its face. I mean, who wouldn’t be? I mean, pardon me for mentioning it, but just now, you know, you came within an ace… I hardly need add anything more, need I?’

  He looked contrite. Again the prince agreed but there was no stopping the explanations, which became even more copious and candid. It transpired that the experiments had been conducted under various conditions and in various situations, all of which were expounded in a little too much detail for the prince’s comfort, especially when it came to a description of the sort of injury that could be inflicted on a horse.

  ‘You say you experimented… on a live horse?’ he asked, frankly shocked. It struck him as very un-English and most certainly not gentlemanly by English standards. In any case, it was in very poor taste.

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose I might be said to have done that.’ An uneasy laugh. ‘No, not really, I really don’t mean that.’ He changed the subject. ‘This morning I had no luck at all. I tried to bag some rabbits on the other side of Irmingham, where they’re burning the stubble, but the smoke got in my eyes and I gave up. Which is why I felt I needed a bit of practice…’

  ‘I see. In that case, can I ask you…’

  The question was interrupted, not at all rudely, but rather surprisingly, by a shrill overloud female voice. So engrossing had been the technical explanation of the matchlock musket and its uses that neither of them had noticed the approach of a small, round-faced woman. In a whisper the prince learned she was Oswald Holmcroft’s mother and that he, as an only son, shared the house with her.

  ‘Oswald dear!’

  ‘Yes, mother.’

  ‘Oswald dear!’ She was advancing on them across the grass carrying a basket. ‘Oswald dear!’

  ‘Yes, mother.’

  ‘Have you stopped firing?’

  ‘Yes, mother.’

  ‘Oswald dear, do answer me!’

  ‘I have, mother.’

  ‘Oswald dear, who are you with?’

  ‘Mother, this is Prince Rostov, a Russian.’

  ‘Who, dear?’

  ‘Mother, please do take out your earplugs. I want to introduce… Oh, let me help.’

  Mrs Holmcroft submitted with an uneasy smile to her son’s not very deft efforts to remove the large cotton-wool plugs from her ears and gave a little cry when they finally both popped out.

  ‘Oh, thank heavens for that! I am so glad you’ve stopped your banging.’ She announced she had just been to the kitchen garden and showed her basket full of vegetables to prove it. ‘Will you be staying to lunch?’ she asked the prince. ‘We are so late today.’

  He explained as courteously as he could that he had already had lunch and wanted to be back at Stadleigh Court shortly.

  ‘Oh, what a pity! Some other time then. Oswald dear, lunch will be ready in twenty minutes.’

  She went off quickly towards the house. Her son took the opportunity to explain that his mother was staunchly opposed to his ‘experiments’ and insisted on protecting her ears. He also explained that she liked to cook lunch for them, with the help of kitchen staff, but was getting slower and more forgetful. ‘You were about to ask me something, prince, weren’t you?’

  ‘I was going to ask you, why were you down by the old ford on the day you rescued me? Was it connected with an experiment?’

  On hearing the question, Oswald Holmcroft stood stock still and put a finger to his lips. The slow sideways swivel of his hazel eyes hinted at a sudden realisation that the question might not be entirely innocent. He looked up at the sky and then down at his fee before removing the matchlock musket from its crozier-like stand.

  ‘What exactly do you mean?’

  ‘I mean a coincidence.’ The prince did not blink. ‘Though I suppose it could also be called an anniversary. The date… am I wrong? I think you know what I mean.’

  The historian of Cromwell shouldered the musket. He had indicated that they should go in the direction of the house across what was not so much lawn as grassland. It was suddenly clear to the prince as they made their way to the house that his question had rattled his host and he pressed home his advantage.

  ‘The anniversary of the accident to the horse Frou-Frou. Remember the horse Frou-Frou?’

  The other did not answer and quickened his pace.

  ‘I know I am guessing, but I’d like you to listen to what I have to say. You probably know there is a Russian lady, a compatriot, who has resided at Stadleigh Court for many years. Did you know that? You must do. Didn’t Lady Helen say something about the Karenins when we were having tea?’

  Oswald Holmcroft gave a slight nod, but avoided the prince’s querying gaze and appeared to be sweating more copiously. He wiped his face with the hem of the cape.

  ‘Some years ago,’ the prince went on, ‘it’s my guess she had an accident on her horse Frou-Frou. It suffered some injury down by the old ford and had to be destroyed. I am guessing, of course.’ The prince looked for some kind of reaction, but his listener just went on wiping his face as he walked. ‘She herself was so shocked – I am guessing, I know that – so shocked she virtually became a recluse and ever since has worn black, on the example, of course, of your own dear Queen Victoria. But she has made a habit of acknowledging the anniversary of the horse’s death. Each year on that date she has conducted a little ceremony and marked the site of her accident with a red rose.’

  This was apparently too much for Oswald Holmcroft. His historian’s professional pride would doubtless be at stake if he did not know about such a special local event.

  ‘Of course, I have heard about something of the sort, prince. You yourself mentioned it at Lady Helen’s.’

  ‘An
d you denied it, in so many words,’ he was reminded. ‘Which was probably unwise, because I believe you know quite a lot about it.’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘A small commemorative headstone was made. I will of course ask her or Giles Irmingham when I next see them…’ As he spoke he noticed a sharp change in Oswald Holmcroft’s expression. ‘It was set high up in the bank of the lane running down to the ford. I wasn’t tall enough to see all the lettering but I saw enough, I think, when I was there this morning. Unfortunately it had been smashed. Pieces had fallen down and become buried in the grass. I am guessing, I know, but I think that must have been why I had my accident. Bang! I hit it with my front wheel… I think you know the rest.’

  ‘So you think that caused your accident?’

  ‘I’m certain.’

  ‘Well, I’m so pleased your bicycle’s been mended. I feel I ought to pay for it. How much…’

  ‘Just tell me,’ the prince insisted, ‘why were you there?’

  Silence. Then truculently: ‘You know so much, you tell me.’

  It was defensive and somewhat ingenuous. There seemed no reason to stop questioning him. ‘You don’t normally go there, do you? You were there, I suspect, because you knew my compatriot – let us call her the lady in the tower – would be there to conduct her annual ceremony at precisely that time on that particular day. You would know it because you were responsible for it.’

  ‘Pardon me.’ The tone was aggrieved and slightly challenging.

  ‘On that particular day, at that particular time, some years ago you were concealed in the shade of the overhanging willow ready to test your musket. You knew when the train would be passing, when the whistle would sound, and at that very instant you would fire. You did fire – and you either killed or seriously injured a most beautiful horse, Frou-Frou. Do you know why I am saying this?’