The Killing of Anna Karenina

by Richard Freeborn

  ‘Et in Arcadia ego…’

  He muttered these words as he went out through the front door on to the forecourt and into a warm summer morning of glistening, still wet, surfaces and brilliant blue cloudless sky. Again no one was about. His only companion was the voice of his conscience. Leave well alone, it urged. Let Anna Karenina die a natural death in her bed. Let it be as Giles wished it to be. Yes, let well alone… On the other hand, his conscience also urged him to seek the truth. What had caused the marks on her neck, the discoloration? If she had been murdered, who was the murderer? And if Giles refused to entertain any alternative, either because he refused to believe his son was responsible, or because he already knew something from Hannah that entirely justified his son’s role, then the prince felt he had a duty to find out what that alternative might be.

  Inspired by this inner debate, his pace quickened. All other considerations apart, he was glad to get right away from Stadleigh Court, more than ever aware of the need to find answers. A servant had directed him to the stables as the most likely place to find Gerald Kempson. He had to be questioned, the prince felt, if only to satisfy himself that Lord Irmingham’s son and heir was very unlikely to have killed Anna Karenina.

  The pleasant morning air was refreshing and invigorating as he went up the long straight driveway towards the stables. Tall trees on either side laid regular bars of shadow across the pebbled surface. The sunlight coming through the leaves was already warm enough to make him feel hot as he passed rapidly from light to shade, so much so that he pushed his Panama hat towards the back of his head in a jaunty fashion and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. His arm still raised in the act of wiping, he saw a figure emerge from the entrance to the stables adjoining the main gates.

  ‘Papa, I want to! You said I could!’

  He recognised the bare legs of Master Charles. The boy had his back to him and appeared to be arguing. Holding a fishing rod with a small fisherman’s wicker basket slung over one shoulder, he was shouting. The response, presumably from his father, was inaudible.

  ‘You said I could! And it’s always best when the sun’s just up! Mr Cotton said so!’

  The mixture of injustice and reasoned pleading gave the boy’s voice a shrill edge. He then turned abruptly, blinded by the sun as he faced into it, and began running. Practically immediately he bumped into the prince.

  ‘Oh, sorry, sir!’

  His straw hat fell off. Rather shamefacedly he stooped, picked it up, shook it and began to excuse himself by mentioning that Mr Cotton had arranged it.

  ‘You’ll be going fishing with him, I imagine,’ the prince conceded, utterly unaware what arrangement was, adding that he had come to see his father.

  The boy clapped his straw hat back on his head and gazed up with deep blue eyes that showed a great deal more awe for the prince than for his father.

  ‘Mr Cotton says you’re really a prince. Are you really a prince, sir?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Charles!’ Gerald Kempson shouted exasperatedly as he came out into the driveway. ‘Come back here!’

  The boy showed no sign of obeying. ‘I’m going to see Mr Cotton now, sir!’ he cried out, as if the presence of a real prince acted in his favour, and dashed off up the avenue, leaving his father flushed with annoyance.

  ‘I give up! I can’t control him! I’m sorry, Prince Dmitry, you’ve had to…’

  The prince looked the speaker straight in the face and smiled understandingly. Judging by his jodhpurs and riding coat, Gerald Kempson appeared to be preparing to go riding, but it took only a moment to read the strain in his face and to note the way he used his right hand to feel the small of his back. The prince guessed something at once.

  ‘A strained back?’ he inquired pleasantly. ‘You’re not riding this morning?’

  ‘No, no… I, er… How did you know?’

  ‘I knew you probably had a strained back.’

  ‘You did? Why?’

  ‘What puzzled me was your motive.’

  ‘I don’t quite understand…’

  ‘Your motive for doing what you did.’

  The answering look was defensive, even a little defiant, except that it was clear enough to the prince, as it must have dawned on Gerald Kempson himself, that he would never prove a master of deception. He tried to divert attention by smiling as ingratiatingly as possible to his inquisitor.

  ‘My dear prince, my motive for what?’

  ‘For killing.’

  ‘Killing?’

  ‘If the police – the local police, I hasten to say – were to ask where you were last night, you would have to answer, wouldn’t you? Knowing, if I may put it this way, what I know now.’

  A guilty pink rose slowly up the handsome face as he tried to rebut the challenge.

  ‘Knowing what?’

  It was a blunt enough question that the prince rebutted in turn by simply saying: ‘You were seen entering her bedroom.’

  ‘Oh, this is ridiculous! How can you accuse me? I mean this is unspeakable, I mean I’d never have dreamt…’

  ‘You were seen entering her bedroom.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand!’

  ‘So presumably you were the last person to see her alive. In a court of law, given the circumstances, you’d have difficulty proving your innocence. As I say, the puzzling thing is the motive.’

  ‘The motive?’

  ‘The motive. You had the opportunity, of course. The motive makes no sense.’

  ‘A bit beyond me, that. Are you accusing me of… of… No, I’m not going to say a word! Not a word!’

  ‘I have spoken to old Boris,’ the prince said quietly, ‘and I believe what he says. He would not give false testimony.’

  All the pinkness vanished. Gerald Kempson had gone pale. He swung on his heel and tried walking away across the cobblestones of the stable yard. Half-a-dozen horses watched from the open upper halves of their stable doors and a couple of boys were busy with besoms brushing away surplus rainwater. He had unmistakable difficulty in walking though he tried to conceal the pain in his back. The prince walked beside him, speaking quietly: ‘I have been wondering. Why, I wonder, should you have wanted to kill her? Boris told me, you see, that only you and she had keys to her bedroom. You could easily let yourself into the tower with one key and then enter her bedroom with the other. So you had the opportunity. Last night, after the soiree, that is, you went to see her, didn’t you?’

  ‘I am not saying another word!’

  ‘You went to see her, but I don’t imagine you found her in her bed. You very likely found her in the bathroom.’

  They had come to a gateway into a garden. Gerald Kempsom leaned on the gate and gave the prince a look of deep dejection. Perhaps he knew he was cornered. He tried to turn away, had second thoughts, opened the gate and led him into a kind of rose bower. He flopped down on to a bench, his hand pressed to his spine.

  ‘You’ve seen Hannah, have you?’

  The prince nodded and sat down beside him.

  Gerald Kempson looked down at the tips of his riding boots. ‘Then she must’ve told you. I can’t deny I was there, of course.’

  There was no point in pressing him. Nor did the prince feel the need to admit he was guessing. He waited patiently during the pause that followed, a silence filled with the sound of a wheeled vehicle being prepared in the stable yard with a certain number of shouted commands. Hooves struck cobblestones, horses neighed.

  ‘But I didn’t do it!’ He was suddenly defiant. The accusations had stung him. ‘I would never, never have hurt her! Never!’

  ‘Tell me.’

  He seemed trapped and desperate. He sniffed and spoke directly to the ground.

  ‘I was her lover. I am not going to deny it. In any case, I don’t suppose it’s a secret. We had a very close, loving relationship. You may think what you like, but it was what my wife wanted. She would do anything – anythi
ng, I mean it – to please Anna. Anna saved her, saved Hannah, you know. And then Hannah was able to do the same for her.’

  The self-control and candour were impressive. There seemed no point in prompting him to say more. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath and continued.

  ‘I fell under her influence. Just like Hannah. She had that kind of power. I never felt ashamed. You must believe me, it’s like that… was like that… Can you understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘After the soiree I went to see her. She liked to hear about events at the Court and things like that. I would tell her in English. She understood most of what I said, I think, though I wouldn’t always understand her. Mostly it didn’t matter… Well, I let myself into her bedroom. You’re right, I’m the only person who’s got a key and she always locks herself in at night. Do you know the layout of the tower?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My father had a special bathroom made for her. It used to be a separate room, but it was converted.’ He licked his lips. ‘Well, she didn’t answer me when I called her name, but I thought I’d just glance in the bathroom. There was a light in there. I looked in. It was all steamy as if she’d just run a bath. And she was in it. She was lying there in the bath. The water was right over her face and she wasn’t moving.’

  The sound of a carriage rattling slowly over cobblestones and the clatter of hooves came from the stables. Gerald Kempson seemed to be roused by the noise.

  ‘This is the truth, you’ve got to believe me!’ He had raised his voice. ‘I was shocked. I didn’t know whether she was dead or not. I tried lifting her up. The water was still quite hot, but she slipped back again. I thought what the hell do I do, do I get the doctor, do I just leave and say nothing? What the hell do I do?’ He clenched and unclenched his fists. ‘I knew I’d probably been seen – Boris, you know, he’d probably seen me – and so I knew I’d be thought responsible. So I panicked! I couldn’t help myself! I knew I had to make it seem… Oh, God, I knew I probably wouldn’t be believed if I said I’d just found her like that!’

  Suddenly, very quietly, he was crying. He had bent forward, his hands over his eyes, and all the prince could see was his shock of red hair and his heaving shoulders. ‘I loved her, you see! How could I do something like that?’

  Fully in the sun as he was, the prince began to feel hot. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face.

  ‘Shall I tell you what I think you did?’ he asked after a short pause.

  Gerald kept his hands over his eyes. His response was a slow, reluctant nod.

  ‘You thought you must make it look like suicide, so you carried her down the curved staircase and then you…’

  The hands were removed from the eyes. ‘How do you know that?’ he cried. ‘Did Hannah tell you?’

  ‘No. My guess is that it was more or less pitch dark. You carried her down the stairs and as you went down all the pictures on the walls were knocked sideways. First of all, though, you must have dressed her in that kimono.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I did. I couldn’t let her be found without any clothes. But I panicked. As I told Hannah, I simply didn’t think! I carried her downstairs and didn’t lock the bedroom door. It was raining cats and dogs. I took her outside and laid her down… That was when I did my back in… Oh, how silly, completely silly! I thought then how silly I’d been and I knew the best thing would have been… it would’ve been best if I’d just put her in her bed… but by then, you see, I couldn’t lift her again… my back, you see… So I left her there…’ He made gestures suggesting utter hopelessness and lack of sense. ‘After that I came back here. This is where we live.’ He pointed to a cottage at the end of the garden. ‘It was raining, you see, and I was soaked to the skin.’

  ‘So you didn’t see the marks?’

  ‘Marks?’

  ‘Marks on her neck?’

  ‘I didn’t see any marks. It was pitch black! I couldn’t see anything at all!’

  ‘And then you came back here?’

  He agreed, shaking his head as if trying to shake himself free of his own stupidity. He ran his tongue round his lips. ‘It’s the truth, you know. Believe it or not, it’s the truth.’ Then he recollected himself: ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. What marks are you talking about?’

  It was harder to answer that question than to believe his confession. The prince would be compromising himself, he realised, if he admitted seeing Anna Karenina lying where he’d found her. So he did what he knew Giles Irmingham expected him to do, like a good English gentleman.

  ‘You don’t need to worry,’ he said softly. ‘She died in her bed.’

  The words did not sink in at once. Suddenly he found his wrist seized in a tight grip and tear-stained eyes turned fiercely on him.

  ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’

  ‘Oh, I believe you.’

  ‘Hannah wouldn’t believe me at first. When I told her last night, I mean.’ The prince’s arm was shaken furiously. ‘You must believe me, it’s the truth!’

  ‘I do believe you. The trouble is you mustn’t.’

  ‘I mustn’t?’

  ‘You’ve got to believe she died in her bed.’

  ‘Don’t talk in riddles! You’re always talking in riddles! Oh, my back! Last night you said about Frou-Frou…’

  The prince then explained as briefly as he could what had happened in the tower that morning and how it had been agreed that Anna Karenina had died in her bed. As he spoke the belligerence and fright gradually faded from the other’s face.

  ‘Father really told you that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. The relief was so great he stared ahead of him.

  ‘You better know something. Father’s never thought me strong enough – mentally, you know, in terms of my brain – to take over from him. I am a dunce, I know. I’m a weak person. I’m easily led. I mean, what I’ve just told you – I had to tell it to someone.’ He blinked and looked away.

  The prince cleared his throat. ‘Believe me, I am not going to tell anyone. Because there is no need for anyone to know. She died in her bed. A Russian lady died in her bed. She did not throw herself under a train and she did not commit suicide last night. She died in her bed.’

  He stood up, raised his hat and walked away.

  16

  It rang true. Gerald Kempson could hardly have concocted it. He may have been a dunce and easily led, but he had enough foresight to know he could have explained none of it without admitting the most indiscreet secrets and making himself appear disreputable, scandalous, discredited and suspect. So he panicked. He would divert suspicion. He would make it seem she had killed herself as she was once supposed to have killed herself. All of which his father already knew. So no one need know any different: a Russian lady had died naturally in her bed.

  Vzdor! Vzdor! The prince knew this was nonsense. The marks on her neck and the discoloration were incontrovertible proof she had died before Gerald Kempson found her in the bath. She had been ‘held down’.

  The prince was so convinced of this as he walked back across the cobbled area of the stable yard that he knew he should act on it, but tiredness intervened. Maybe he should leave things as they were. He should return to London as he had planned. It seemed the most sensible thing to do. He could debate the issue of truth versus convenience as much as he liked, but he would probably in the end be none the wiser. So he gave up thinking about it and strolled back towards Stadleigh Court in the wake of two carriages that had just disappeared through the main gates.

  By the time he reached the forecourt he found the carriages already drawn up outside the front door. One was being piled with luggage. Mrs Emerald Stephenson had seated herself in the other. She wore a wide-brimmed turquoise hat adorned with large yellow ribbons, a pleated frill over her ample bosom and a long-handled parasol that she was on the point of opening. Beside her was her son, Monty.

  ‘Have you heard, pr
ince?’ she called out.

  ‘Heard what, Mrs Stephenson?’

  She beckoned for him to come close and from the shade of the now open parasol she imparted the confidential news that there had been a death. ‘Did you know that, prince?’

  He looked solemn. ‘No. Who is it?’

  ‘A lady.’

  ‘A Russian lady,’ added Monty in a slightly louder voice and smirked. ‘Fare thee well!’ he sang out to Julie the Unruly standing alone on the entrance steps at that moment and blew her a kiss.

  ‘A Russian lady,’ the prince echoed. He had to express amazement but was secretly alarmed. ‘Who told you?’

  ‘It’s just…’ Mrs Emerald Stephenson made a show of extreme confidentiality, moving her eyes to left and right and gesturing with her gloved free hand ‘…what I’ve been told. Did you know there was a Russian lady here at the Court?’

  ‘No.’

  The pretence of ignorance could not be sustained for long and it was a relief when she dismissed the matter.

  ‘No, well, it’s for Lord Irmingham to let you know, my dear prince, not for little old me to spread gossip.’ She gave a pert smile. ‘Montgomery and I are leaving, you see. It is all a mite urgent. But we are both of us more and more dedicated to your great Leo Tolstoy and his ideas, isn’t that so, Montgomery?’

  ‘Sure is! Fare thee well!’ he sang out again. ‘And if for ever, still for ever fare thee well!’

  Julie called back something, waving a handkerchief, but her words were drowned in Mrs Emerald Stephenson’s delighted exclamation: ‘Oh, here’s my companion, what you might call my pro-tezh-jay! He’s such a… such a…’

  Looking a great deal paler in the bright sunlight than he had done the previous evening, the kitchen boy with the beautiful voice came running through the front door. Mrs Emerald Stephenson patted the seat opposite her and he jumped breathlessly into the carriage. Giles Irmingham appeared in the doorway a moment later.

  ‘Oh, I’m so grateful to you, Lord Irmingham! I predict a great, great future. Why, he’s such a great find, isn’t he?’ She looked to the prince for confirmation. ‘Don’t you agree, my dear prince? I intend to promote him, let the entire world know what a remarkable voice he has! That’s right, Arthur, just settle down, there’s a good boy! Goodbye, Lord Irmingham! Goodbye, prince! Goodbye, Julie, my dear! You be in touch now! You be in touch!’