To Kill a Tsar (47 page)

His head still thick with sleep, they bundled him out of the cell and down the iron stairs to the visiting room. His own clothes had been laid out on the table, still dusty, the sleeve of his coat torn in the scuffle with the gendarmes. He was ordered to dress quickly, and as soon as he had he was escorted to a closed prison carriage.

‘Where are you taking me?’

But they refused to answer.

It was early, perhaps seven o’clock, but to judge from the street noise, remarkably busy, and before long the carriage horses were obliged to slow to a fast walk. Above the rumble of the wheels he could hear the murmur of a great number of
people, and he realised with a start that they were gathering for the executions. The driver began shouting for a passage, enlisting the support of the soldiers lining the route, but after only a few minutes they came to an abrupt and final halt. Even in the darkness, Hadfield was conscious of the huge crowd swelling round the carriage like the tide about a rock. The doors were flung open and for an instant he was blinded by spring sunshine. Curious faces turned towards him, excited whispers, and rising from the bench, his eyes were drawn across the sea of heads to the scaffold with five ropes hanging from its cross-beam. And as he gazed at it, he was gripped by the breathless fear he was to witness Anna’s death.

‘Why am I here?’

Again the gendarmes did not answer but pulled him roughly from the carriage and began leading him in a catatonic daze towards the platform. The parade ground had been churned by horses and the boots of thousands and, after a few steps, he stumbled, falling to one knee in a dirty puddle before being hauled back to his feet.

‘Why am I here?’ he asked again, making no effort to keep the desperation from his voice. ‘Please tell me.’

The older of the two gendarmes – a sergeant with a bold cavalry moustache – gave an unpleasant barking laugh. ‘Calm down. It’s not your day.’

‘Then why am I here?’

‘Orders,’ and that was all he would say.

He took in the scene as a series of disparate sounds and images only; green and gold uniforms, the cotton-wool sky and domes of the regimental cathedral, six black steps up to the platform, the humiliation posts with chains and manacles, and the red-bearded hangman with the five criminals who were to act as his assistants. In front of the foot guards about the platform was a seated area reserved for the privileged with tickets and police officials, and it was to here the gendarmes
led him. A tall but slightly stooped figure in a German hat stepped forward to meet him. ‘You are in good time, Doctor.’

Collegiate Councillor Dobrshinsky looked deathly pale in the sunshine and in his sombre black suit, as if he had crept from the cells of the Secret House.

‘Why am I here?’ Hadfield asked at once, his voice shaking with anxiety.

‘To help you make up your mind.’

‘So Anna is—’

‘Not this time.’

Relief washed through his body and soul, leaving him reduced and trembling inside. Then, in its wake, a shameful euphoria.

The gendarmes escorted him to the rear of the enclosure to stand with the foot guards at his back. Dobrshinsky sat a short distance from him with a man in the dark green uniform jacket of the Justice Ministry.

‘Fifty thousand people,’ Hadfield heard the gendarme on his right say.

‘Closer to a hundred,’ replied the sergeant on his left. He was shifting his weight restlessly from foot to foot, pulling at the chain about Hadfield’s wrists, clearly delighted to enjoy such a privileged view of the spectacle.

There was a rustle of excitement then a hush as the carriages carrying the priests and coffins rumbled up to the steps of the platform. In the distance Hadfield could hear the strains of the military band marching in front of the carts of the condemned. Closer, closer it came, a jaunty march tune so inappropriate and macabre it made him shudder.

A moment later the tumbrels rattled into view, the five terrorists strapped by the waist to an iron bar and mounted in chairs for all to see. They were dressed in black, with a placard about their necks that bore the single word ‘Regicide’. In the second cart, Sophia Perovskaya’s tiny frame was wedged between two of her comrades. And the savage relief Hadfield
had felt was gone, forgotten, replaced by disgust and guilt that he was to witness their humiliation. Handcuffed, legs fettered, they were helped from the carts then up the steps to the platform where the executioner and his assistants chained them to the posts. The priests offered the condemned the cross to kiss and all of them accepted this small comfort. The tallest – Zhelyabov – was craning his neck about in an effort to speak to Sophia. And as Hadfield watched him straining at the post, he felt a knot like the executioner’s noose tighten in his own throat. The waste. He closed his eyes and groaned: ‘Anna, Anna, Anna.’

An official read the sentence in a voice almost no one could hear and the prisoners were unchained and allowed to exchange kisses. Then they were drawn forward to stand beneath the gallows. A white cowl with a broad slit in the neck for the rope was placed over each in turn. Five white figures on the black platform.

A rumble of muffled drums. At precisely 9.20 a.m. the executioner removed his coat. A small stand of three steps was slipped into place before the first prisoner. Blind and fettered, he was led step by step by step to the top. The rope was drawn tight about his neck.

‘Oh, Anna, Anna.’ Hadfield held his breath. He must watch for her sake. The executioner bent to draw away the steps. There was a sigh like a gust of wind from the crowd as the prisoner hung free, struggling then twitching as life was choked from him. Then it was the turn of the second man, but the drunken sot of a hangman made a mess of it and, after a minute, the victim crashed to the platform. The crowd roared with disgust – but surely this was the entertainment they had come to witness? The condemned man was led up the steps again, but the noose slipped and he fell a second time. The soldiers pressed at Hadfield’s back as the crowd surged towards the platform. This time the prisoner could not lift himself and
the hangman’s assistants had to haul him up with the rope. And as they dragged him aloft, Sophia Perovskaya stood waiting in her white cowl. Hadfield’s mind was blank with the horror of it all. He watched the executioner lead her up the steps, so small, her frame so fragile. And he pictured her at the new year party, her cool hand in his, earnest, demure, those piercing blue eyes through which she viewed her life as a crusade. There was a deathly hush as they slid the steps away and she swung free, jigging like a badly strung marionette. Hadfield clenched his teeth, his body stiff, willing it to be quick, holding his breath, his eyes fixed upon the twisting cowl. Oh, Anna, never.

At half past nine the drummers fell silent. Five white figures were hanging from the beam, the executioner resting on the platform rail below. Hadfield lifted a trembling hand to his brow. Every degrading inhumane detail of the scene would be seared into his memory for ever. He felt deep sadness but also an uneasy sense that something terrible and yet profound had taken place. The country was set on an inexorable course that could only end in more bloody violence. Not tomorrow or next month or next year but soon. As he watched them lower Perovskaya’s limp body, he knew this was her apotheosis. She had trapped them all. Anna would never desert her legacy. Not now. Never.

‘What a squalid spectacle.’ It was the cool voice of the collegiate councillor at his shoulder. ‘You must speak to her.’

‘Is it necessary for me to stay here longer?’ Hadfield asked flatly. The crowd was dispersing behind him, the rough coffins were being loaded on to carts, and some of the privileged ticket holders were negotiating with the hangman for lucky strands of rope.

‘Will you speak to Anna Petrovna?’

‘No.’

Dobrshinsky stared at him for a few seconds then gave a small nod of the head as if this was the answer he had been expecting. ‘Then this is no longer a matter for me. I’m sorry.’
He was on the point of saying more but checked himself and turned to leave.

As Hadfield watched the hunched figure in black walk away slowly, he was reminded of the condemned who had climbed to the scaffold only a short while before. ‘And what about the child?’ he shouted. ‘My child?’

The special investigator stopped and his head dropped wearily, as if considering whether it was worth the effort to answer. But he turned slowly again: ‘Don’t come back, Doctor.’

‘What about the baby?’

‘The baby?’ Dobrshinsky shrugged. ‘How would those who died today have put it – “a sacrifice for the greater good of all”?’

A moment later the collegiate councillor was lost from view in the crowd of soldiers and souvenir-hunters. The gendarmes led Hadfield towards the prison carriage. His mind was empty but he could feel a great weight pressing on his chest. It was not until he was sliding about the bench between the gendarmes that he remembered Dobrshinsky’s ‘Don’t come back, Doctor’.

Surely they would not send him away? He hated the loneliness, the greyness of prison, the banging doors and clatter of heavy boots, but Anna was only stairs and corridors from him. They slept on the same iron bed, their cells were lit by the same dim gaslight, the black floor, the walls the same, everything the same, and in this he had found comfort and the will to endure. There was no liberty on the outside. He would be trapped in a darker place by fear and guilt and grief.

‘I won’t go,’ he said in English.

‘What?’ The gendarme sergeant shook his head a little: ‘Speak Russian. Better still, don’t speak at all.’

And Hadfield did not speak again, even though his heart was sick.

‘Did the doctor witness the executions? Good. He leaves for Berlin tomorrow. It was in no one’s interests for this to become a diplomatic affair with the British.’ The green leather armchair groaned as Count Vyacheslav von Plehve eased his heavy frame to its edge. It was a little low, and from the other side of the desk he appeared to be resting his chin at its edge between the brass ink stand and some red files. ‘You don’t seem surprised, Anton Frankzevich,’ he said, a note of irritation in his voice.

‘I’m not,’ replied Dobrshinsky.

‘Your fellow Barclay didn’t help matters, of course. No matter now. The doctor will be accompanied by the British military attaché. Of course, he’s not to see the woman before he goes.’

‘No.’

The count shifted at the edge of the chair as if in two minds whether to rise. If he was feeling uncomfortable, that was how it should be. Dobrshinsky had no intention of making his task easier.

‘Of course it’s galling we can’t punish him properly,’ said the chief prosecutor.

‘Love, livelihood, family . . . he will lose all those things.’

‘Not enough,’ said von Plehve impatiently, ‘withholding information, consorting with terrorists, and God knows what else he was doing for them.’

They gazed across the desk at each other, the count smoothing his large moustache with his thumb and forefinger. Dobrshinsky had barely set foot in his office at Fontanka 16 before the prosecutor arrived unannounced at his door. He was dressed in his ceremonial uniform and had come directly from a meeting with the tsar’s chief minister, Loris-Melikov, that he described with the slippery understatement of the consummate politician as ‘difficult’. Dobrshinsky was quite sure he knew why. He had been expecting a ‘difficult’ conversation for some while. Perhaps it was only coincidence but it struck him as a
fitting one that von Plehve should choose the hour the tsar’s murderers were to be laid in their unmarked graves. In the morning the English doctor would be gone too. It was like a
roman policier
, with the loose threads gathered in the final pages. And yet the story was not over. How could it be?

‘Of course, everyone is very grateful to you, my dear Anton Frankzevich,’ said the count, breaking the awkward silence at last. ‘His Excellency Count Loris-Melikov was particularly anxious I should say so . . .’ He paused to allow the special investigator to acknowledge this gracious compliment. But Dobrshinsky had no intention of offering him even a sliver of encouragement. Von Plehve cleared his throat a little nervously. ‘We all recognise what a . . . a challenge it has been . . . how difficult . . .’ Again he waited for Dobrshinsky to reply but he was not to be drawn.

Irritated by his watchful silence, the count levered himself from the creaking chair with the intention of putting more than the width of the desk between them. His boots squeaked a little comically on the polished parquet floor as he made his way to the windows. The embankment was busier than was customary at that hour, with servants and tradesmen chatting on the pavement opposite, too excited by the spectacle they had witnessed to settle to their usual chores. ‘The new emperor wants firmer measures,’ von Plehve said, turning back to the room. ‘No accommodation with terror.’ He was almost a silhouette against the window. ‘There is to be a new secret department – the Okhrana – based here, at Fontanka 16.’

‘Same task, new name?’

‘And new methods. Ah, you smile . . .’ said the count tartly. ‘What can there be to smile about?’

‘New methods?’

‘This is a battle for the soul of Russia, Anton Frankzevich. And in such a battle the Okhrana will use all the weapons at its disposal.’ The count spoke with the glibness of one who has
learnt lines but is yet to fully comprehend their meaning. ‘It will be more robust, the ends will justify the means . . .’

‘An interesting perspective from a lawyer.’

‘My dear Anton Frankzevich, I should not have to remind you that the terrorist does not acknowledge the rule of law . . . no, we need new methods . . .’

‘And new people?’

‘Yes.’

The French mantel clock filled the silence again, as it had unfailingly done for the two years the special investigator had occupied his post. At first it had nagged Dobrshinsky but now he found comfort in its inexorable ticking, and he had resolved to take it with him.

‘It is His Excellency’s view that it is important to restore confidence . . . the death of the tsar . . . the bomb at the palace . . . those who were unable to prevent these outrages are to be found other work.’