To Kill a Tsar (15 page)

‘And Miss Figner?’ he asked. ‘Is she also visiting her sick mother?’

The nurse coloured a little. ‘I don’t know a Miss Figner, Doctor.’

No one knew more or would say. Hadfield had met none of the four women on duty at the clinic before but they knew of him, and he felt obliged to stay. Trudging back to the square at the end of the day, he felt relief, even satisfaction, that he had managed to clear the benches. It had helped to take the edge off the disappointment of knowing Anna was not at his side. Perhaps the attraction, the strange connection he felt between them, would break and she would drift away until it
was impossible to imagine the curve of her hips or the line of her face or the precise blue of her eyes.

This dull thought was with him through the week, and the following Sunday he made his way to the clinic again. The same four women were there but they had heard no word from Anna. And as he ministered to his patients’ cuts and infections, the diseases of hunger and neglect, he reflected that while it was often simple to treat the body, the mind was almost always a lost cause.

The Glen family were at their dacha near a spa town on the Gulf of Riga, where the general was taking the waters to ease his arthritis. Hadfield had declined an invitation to join them. Lady Dufferin had left for England and was not expected to return to St Petersburg before the autumn. In her absence, the third secretary at the embassy had taken on the role of master of revels to alleviate the boredom and isolation of those left in the city. Hadfield found himself pressed into a ‘diplomatic theatrical’, a new piece called
La Belle de Venise
written in French and Russian. Dobson was taking a part, too, and for a week or so they dined together then rehearsed rather drunkenly in the correspondent’s apartment. Neither of them made an effort with their lines until it became clear Lord Dufferin was taking the occasion rather more seriously and had invited a number of ambassadors and senior government figures to the performance.

‘Damn it, enough of this nonsense!’ said Dobson, throwing his script on to the couch. Both men were dressed for dinner after an expensive evening at the Palkin, although the correspondent had discarded his frock coat ‘the better to perform’. ‘What possessed Hamilton to choose this drivel? And why do I have to play the butler?’

‘Because you’re an inky hack, George,’ Hadfield replied with a tipsy grin. He was slumped in a leather armchair in front of
the journalist’s desk, with a glass of brandy in one hand and his lines in the other.

‘You snob, Hadfield. Your egalitarian principles are skin deep, aren’t they?’

‘Grub street reporters are in a class of their own.’

Dobson grunted and turned to pluck the brandy bottle from a silver drinks tray balanced on a table beside the fire.

‘You know, I have it on good authority that Count von Plehve will be at the embassy,’ he said, flopping on to the couch. ‘It will be worth playing a fool if I can inveigle myself into his circle.’

‘Von Plehve?’

‘Don’t you read the papers? He’s the chief prosecutor,’ said Dobson. ‘Tipped to be a government minister in time. And absolutely the man to tell me more about this new nihilist group.’

‘Is there one?’

Lifting a plump thigh on to the couch, the correspondent shuffled round to face Hadfield, his eyes sparkling with interest. ‘Narodnaya Volya. “The People’s Will”. An army friend introduced me to a comrade of his called Barclay, a major in the gendarmes, who told me there was a gathering of revolutionaries in Voronezh last month and the militants – I thought they were all militant but it appears not – the militants have united behind a new banner – “The People’s Will”. Barclay says the police are expecting more outrages. Damn thing is – I can’t print a word of it.’ Dobson shook his head angrily. ‘The bloody censor. When they decide the time is ripe everybody will get it – the Russians, the Germans, even that lazy hack from the
Daily Telegraph
.’

‘What is the point of cultivating this von Plehve if you can’t print what he says?’

Dobson gave an almost Russian shrug. ‘You never know.’

But the next time Hadfield saw the correspondent he was – to judge from the stream of invective he launched at the
wardrobe master – feeling less philosophical about life’s vicissitudes.

‘For God’s sake, man, haven’t you got something that fits?’

The dresser from the Mikhailovsky Theatre was struggling with the butler’s buttons. The drinks tray was close by and Hadfield gestured to it.

‘A stiff nip to help with first and last night nerves? Remember your Count von Plehve is in the audience.’

‘Ha bloody ha, Hadfield.’

The performance was managed with just enough aplomb, and the audience entered into the spirit by applauding buffoonery whether it was intended or not. ‘Wonderfully British,’ the ambassador declared in his vote of thanks. The loudest applause was reserved for the young master of revels, Lord Frederick Hamilton, who had played the part of the fierce grey-haired ‘Countess Gorgonzola’ with great panache.

A light supper was then served in the splendour of the embassy’s White Hall, where Tsar Alexander I had danced the quadrille before meeting his generals to plan the defeat of La Grande Armée. A masterpiece of the Russian baroque in white and gold, fit for the visit of the heir to Byzantium, the tall pier glasses reflected an exuberant plaster tableau of ‘Plenty’.

‘Magnificent,’ said Dobson, gazing at the life-size carvings of Pan’s followers above the frieze. ‘I doubt there is anything to touch it in England.’

‘And a fine view to the Peter and Paul Fortress too,’ said Hadfield, waving his champagne glass at the windows.

‘What a joy you are to be with, old boy. You should have left your socialist baggage at the door. Look,’ he said, nudging Hadfield lightly with his elbow, ‘there’s that wily old bird Gortchakov.’

The grey head of the Russian foreign minister was bent in conversation a few feet from them, peering at the ambassador
over his spectacles like an indulgent father. He wore a broad blue sash across his chest and diamond stars on his coat, the glittering honours of twenty years’ service in the courts of Europe.

‘A shocking flirt, you know,’ Hadfield whispered. ‘He likes to know if a new ambassador has a pretty wife. If the answer’s no, then he says the ambassador will fail at court because he’s already lost the most important argument.’

‘Goodness, patients tell their physicians everything, don’t they,’ said Dobson with a cynical little shake of the head. ‘And does he think Lady Dufferin pretty or is your source silent on the subject?’

‘She’s the wife of the British ambassador. Of course he thinks she’s pretty. Don’t you?’

Dobson laughed: ‘You’re wasted in the medical profession.’

‘Quite right. A born actor,’ said Hamilton, stepping up to them with a broad smile. ‘It went swimmingly, don’t you think?’

‘You looked very comfortable in that dress, Your Lordship,’ Dobson replied.

Hamilton inclined his head graciously. The young third secretary was a little effeminate, tall, curly-haired, strikingly handsome and amiable enough, if rather too full of his family connections.

‘A jolly good turnout,’ he declared, with an extravagant flourish to the room. ‘French, German and Italian ambassadors, Baron de Budberg, and over there,’ he nodded discreetly at an elderly gentleman sitting serenely by the window, ‘Prince Davidov – he was educated in Edinburgh. He knew Walter Scott. A little deaf.’

The
crème de la crème
of summer society drifting with the practised ease of profession and class about the hall. Ladies in black satin dresses and diamonds, the men in a glittering array of court uniforms and frock coats, the murmur of diplomatic French, the clink of champagne flutes and the comfort of a
small string orchestra: counts, princes, grand dukes and barons, a timeless display of wealth and privilege. As the third secretary rattled through the names of more guests, Hadfield wondered why a doctor, the son of a doctor, had been invited.

It became clear enough minutes later when Lord Dufferin touched his arm. ‘There’s someone I would like you to meet, Hadfield,’ he said, and led him across the ballroom to where a man with the gold Star of the Order of St Vladimir at his breast was confidently holding forth to a lady.

‘Your Highness, here is the gentleman I was speaking of,’ said Dufferin with a little bow. ‘My wife is adamant he’s the best young doctor in the city.’ And turning to Hadfield: ‘The Princess of Oldenburg and Count von Plehve.’

Hadfield bent low over the gloved hand the princess offered him then gave a stiff bow to the count.

‘Lord Dufferin tells me you’re a nephew of General Glen’s,’ the princess said with a patronising little smile. She was rather a plain woman of middle years, but there was a rich confidence in her manner, her poise, the way she held her head, that a man might find fascinating, even attractive. She was dressed in a fashionable Parisian gown boldly cut off the shoulders.

‘Of course the count knows your uncle too,’ she said, turning to von Plehve. The chief prosecutor inclined his head a little by way of affirmation, scrutinising Hadfield carefully.

‘The count was just telling me of these madmen . . .’

‘And mad women, Eugénie Maximiliovna . . .’

‘Yes, mad women too,’ said the princess with a little laugh. ‘Poor Madame Volkonsky, what will become of her?’

The count stroked his moustache thoughtfully with his forefinger. ‘Women are such dangerous creatures, Eugénie Maximiliovna. So much more dangerous than men, don’t you agree, Your Excellency?’

‘I do,’ replied Dufferin with a polite smile.

‘Actually, we’re looking for one woman in particular,’ von
Plehve continued. ‘A revolutionary called “Romanko” who a witness places in Palace Square when the attempt was made on His Majesty’s life. An associate of a fellow called Mikhailov.’

Von Plehve told them a little of Alexander Mikhailov, of his privileged background, and that he had given agents the slip only a few weeks before. ‘We know he attended a gathering of nihilists in Voronezh in June and that he was one of those who championed a campaign of terror.’

‘This new group,’ said the princess, ‘what do they call themselves?’

‘“The People’s Will”.’

‘You are so fortunate, Lord Dufferin,’ the princess said, ‘that you don’t have people like this in your country.’

‘We have our Irish Republicans.’

‘And what is your opinion, Doctor?’ von Plehve asked, turning to fix Hadfield with his curiously intense stare.

‘My opinion of what, sir?’

‘Of our revolutionaries.’

‘I’ve learnt as a doctor to avoid controversy,’ Hadfield said smoothly. ‘My opinion might have a detrimental effect on a patient’s blood pressure, which would be unforgivable – not to mention unprofitable.’

‘Ha! There you are, Count! Admirably discreet,’ said Dufferin, raising his glass to Hadfield.

‘Admirable, I’m sure,’ von Plehve replied with a taut smile. ‘But can you trust a man who refuses his opinion?’

‘You can trust me to give you a frank opinion of your health, Count.’

‘Don’t persecute the doctor,’ said the princess, shaking her finger at von Plehve. ‘I for one applaud his discretion.’

The count smiled and gave a magnanimous little bow.

‘What do these people want, Count?’ the princess asked.

‘The People’s Will? They want to put the government of our country in the hands of illiterate muzhiks.’ Von Plehve paused
to consider his next words carefully, a frown creasing his high forehead. ‘If our intelligence is correct, some ruthless fanatics have joined the group – men like Mikhailov – and others.’ Then with a brightness that seemed a little forced: ‘But we have good people working on this case, rest assured, we’ll find them.’

Glancing up at the windows of the candlelit ballroom an hour later, Hadfield smiled to himself. A friend to ambassadors and princesses, as discreet as the pure white plaster figures gazing down upon one more perfectly ordered scene in which they belong and yet remain apart. The disquiet he had felt when the count had so pointedly asked for his opinion was gone, and he was conscious of a certain satisfaction at straddling two mutually hostile worlds.

Dobson had wanted to know everything von Plehve had said. ‘You’re fortunate in your family connections,’ he grumbled.

Hadfield had told him of the chief prosecutor’s fears, of Mikhailov and his associates, and of the new party – The People’s Will – confident his friend would be discreet. But there were pieces of the conversation and thoughts he kept to himself. As he walked along the embankment towards Palace Square they swirled through his mind like the dark waters of the Neva. Where was the woman he knew as Miss Anna Kovalenko?

6 NOVEMBER 1879

A
nna had visited the cottage a dozen times before, but the winter days were drawing in and by five o’clock the rough path from the cemetery was almost lost in the spectral blue light that lingers after sunset. Walk towards the silhouette of the church tower – it was plain enough to her left – cross the track, then follow the monastery wall away from the village. It was the path the day labourers at the Moscow factories were accustomed to taking home. Half an hour and they would begin emptying from the trains at the local station. She needed to be quick: a young woman struggling with a heavy bag at twilight would arouse interest, even a little suspicion. Anna had lived most of her life in a village and understood that anything remotely out of the ordinary was a cause for comment in a small community – and Preobrazhenskoe was more tightly knit and warier of outsiders than most. It was a poor quarter on the southern edge of Moscow, and for many years a refuge from persecution for Old Believers who scraped a living from small allotments, growing fruit and vegetables to sell in the city markets. They did not welcome strangers. Alexander Mikhailov had given strict orders that movement to and from the cottage should be kept to a minimum. Nothing should be said or done to antagonise their neighbours. Some of Anna’s comrades dismissed the Old Believers as fools and laughed at their strange ways: who in his right mind would account it a sin for a man to shave? But Anna had a grudging respect for the sincerity and
dignity with which they clung to their faith and their traditional forms of worship. Surely there would be a place for Old Believers in the Russia the new party was fighting for, freedom from persecution, from prescription? For all that, she was as careful to avoid contact with them as the others. Mikhailov knew he could trust her. Most of the members of the new party had no idea how to make themselves anonymous in a village like Preobrazhenskoe.