Authors: Andrew Williams
‘The tsar lives.’ She paused to let her words resonate, then said, ‘He fired five times but by some miracle . . .’
‘Five times.’
‘. . . and they have taken him. He’s alive and they have taken him.’ Her voice cracked a little with emotion.
Then a flurry of questions. Quietly, calmly she told them of what she had seen, of the tsar stumbling towards his palace, of shots fired at almost point blank range.
‘Will he speak to the police?’
‘He will say nothing.’
For almost an hour they talked of what happened in the square. What filthy luck. Was it the gun or simply fear that caused him to miss? Only when they had examined every detail did Alexander Mikhailov remember to offer her some refreshment. Mikhailov served tea from the brass samovar bubbling in the corner of the room. Fine Indian tea. He made it in a silver teapot and poured it into glasses delicately decorated with gold leaf. Settling back at the table, he was reaching for his own when there was a hammering at the door.
‘The police!’ he hissed at her. ‘You were followed!’
Jumping to his feet, he reached into the drawer of the desk behind him and took out a revolver. His comrades were too shocked to move.
Then from the stair they heard the voice of the dvornik: ‘News, Your Honour! News!’
He was wheezing on the step, his little eyes bright with excitement, clutching at his straggly beard.
‘Murder! They tried to murder His Majesty. This morning in the square. A madman. There are soldiers everywhere.’
When the door had closed Mikhailov turned to her. ‘Go. Go now.’
Gendarmes were stopping the horse-drawn trams in the Zagorodny Prospekt and emptying their passengers on to the pavements. A security barrier had been placed at the edge of the Semenovsky Parade Ground and she joined the crush of people edging slowly towards it. Red-coated Cossacks trotted down the prospekt from the direction of the station, their swords at the ready. There was an air of collective hysteria as if the
city was preparing to repel a foreign army. She could see it in the faces of the people about her, the peasant clutching the ragged bundle of food he was hoping to sell in the Haymarket, a priest in a long black robe muttering a prayer, the old lady with frightened children at her skirts.
Opposite the railway station, the bells of the new cathedral were chiming frantically as if to summon divine retribution. At the barrier, a harassed-looking lieutenant in the green and gold of the Semenovsky Regiment was inspecting papers.
‘And why aren’t you in your classroom this morning, Miss Kovalenko?’
‘I was visiting a sick friend in the city.’
The young lieutenant examined her face carefully then smiled, captivated for a moment perhaps by her eyes: ‘All right, let Anna Petrovna pass.’
And slipping through the barrier and past the soldiers on the pavement, she hurried into the ticket hall of the station.
In the House of Preliminary Detention across the city, the would-be assassin was stretched full length on a prison pallet, eyes closed, his breathing a little laboured, a rough grey blanket pulled to the chin. There was an angry graze on his left cheek and some bruising about his eyes but nothing that could account for the pain that was drawing his lips tightly from his teeth in an ugly grimace. A prison guard stood against the bare brick wall close by, and, at the door, two men in the dark green double-breasted uniform jackets and white trousers of the Ministry of Justice. On the left breast of the shorter man the twinkling gold star of the Order of St Vladimir and at his neck its red enamel cross.
‘He says he’s a socialist revolutionary and an atheist.’ The city prosecutor’s voice was thick with contempt. ‘A proud enemy of the government and the emperor.’
In his twelve years at the ministry Count Vyacheslav von
Plehve had acquired a reputation as the state’s most brilliant and ruthless young lawyer.
‘His name is Alexander Soloviev,’ he continued. ‘And this will amuse you, Dobrshinsky: he was a law student. Yes – a law student.’
The count’s companion was of lower rank, a Class 6 civil servant, his name familiar to only a few, but those who knew of Anton Frankzevich Dobrshinsky’s work as a criminal investigator spoke of him with respect – if not with warmth.
‘Will he cooperate?’
‘As you can see, he’s not in a fit state to be questioned properly.’ Von Plehve turned away from the prisoner to beat on the door with a chubby fist: ‘All right.’
It swung open at once and both men stepped out on to the first floor of the wing. The prison was built on the new American model, with cells opening on to a concertina of wrought-iron landings and steps about a central five-storey hall. A vast whitewashed, echoing place that in the four years since it had opened had held political prisoners from every corner of the empire.
The count took Dobrshinsky by the elbow and began to steer him gently along the wing. ‘He tried to kill himself. Cyanide. They managed to remove the phial. He’s sick but he’ll live. His Majesty has let it be known he’s going to ride through the city in an open carriage to show himself to his people. He’s convinced God has saved him . . .’ He stopped for a moment and put his hand on Dobrshinsky’s arm, ‘. . . but this is just the beginning. Believe me. Soloviev was not alone.’
Dobrshinsky nodded slowly. He was a tall man in his early thirties, thin with a pinched face and sallow skin, small dark brown eyes and an unfashionably modest moustache. There was something watchful, a little vulpine in his manner.
‘. . . it’s already been agreed.’ Von Plehve turned to make eye contact. ‘You will take charge of the investigation. It’s simple enough to state: find who’s behind this.’
Dobrshinsky frowned and pursed his lips.
‘Of course,’ said the count, ‘I know what you’re thinking. Yes, it’s like fighting a Hydra. But there will be new security measures.’
‘As Your Worship wishes.’
‘My dear fellow, it’s not my wish. It’s the wish of the emperor’s council.’
The barred gate at the end of the wing swung open and the guards stepped aside to let them pass. The count’s carriage was waiting at the bottom of the prison steps. In the far distance, the sun’s rays were breaking through cloud, bathing the blue and white baroque facade and domes of the Smolny Cathedral in a rich golden light.
‘Perhaps the Almighty did come to the aid of His Majesty,’ said the count as he settled on the seat of the open carriage. ‘But will he next time?’ He paused then leant forward earnestly, his left hand gripping the door: ‘Who are these terrorists, Dobrshinsky? Who are they? What kind of fanatic tries to murder his emperor then kill himself?’
A snap of the driver’s whip, and his carriage pulled away from the pavement. Dobrshinsky watched it turn right in front of the munitions factory on to the Liteiny Prospekt and disappear from view. What kind of fanatic? He felt sure he knew: a new kind who would stop at nothing, a terrorist who was prepared to take his own life and the innocent lives of others. The count was right: Soloviev was not alone. Somewhere in this city of almost a million souls there were others intent on murder in the name of freedom and progress. In time they would be hunted down, but how much time did he have?
I
t was only a short cab ride from Dr Frederick Hadfield’s apartment to his uncle’s house, and an even shorter journey by boat, but neither could be hired for love nor money. The morning after the attempt on the tsar’s life the city was paralysed by police patrols. From the end of the street he could see the gendarmes stopping traffic on the bridges across the Neva. He had been woken by shouted orders and the clatter of their boots and weapons in the street. The city’s university and many of its best academies were a short distance from his home and, as every Class 14 clerk in the police department knew, places of learning were full of dangerous radicals. Students and intellectuals and foreigners had lived in Vasilievsky Island’s numbered streets or lines since the days of Peter the Great. Hadfield considered himself to be fortunate to have joined them at a reasonable rent in one of the smarter lines at the eastern end of the island. Line 7 was bohemian but not enough to frighten his wealthier patients or excite the opprobrium of his family.
His uncle’s large town house was on the south bank of the Neva, almost directly opposite the end of his line. It had been home to four generations of the Glen family; Hadfield’s mother was born in a bedroom on the second floor. Older and less fashionable than the houses at the other end of the English Embankment, it was still one of the most desirable addresses in the city. Anglo-Russians had lived on the embankment for more than a hundred and fifty years. The Cazalets were at Number 6, Clarke the grain merchant at 38, the Warres at 44, and the physician to three tsars, Sir James Wylie, had once lived
at Number 74, his old blue and white mansion one of the most prominent on the river. Hadfield claimed Wylie as family on his father’s side, and his mother’s people were still pillars of this little community. There were two types of Englishmen in St Petersburg: the old families who spoke the language and lived and worked among the Russians all their lives, and the new families who mixed only with their own kind. Embankment families belonged to the former.
On the Nikolaevsky Bridge, Hadfield managed to hail a droshky, only for it to be stopped by blue-coated gendarmes before it had travelled a hundred yards. The young officer in charge eyed him suspiciously and demanded proof of his identity. Hadfield’s Russian was good but he was young, a foreigner and flamboyantly dressed for a city where almost all the best doctors were sober-suited Germans. Beneath his heavy black coat with its fur collar he was wearing a brown tweed suit with a high-buttoned waistcoat and a raffish blue Ascot tie in an extravagant soft bow. He was twenty-seven years old, tall – a little over six feet – with fine, regular features, warm hazel eyes, a neat closely cropped beard and light auburn hair – the gendarme officer would have described it as ‘radical’ shoulder length – and instead of sweeping it back carefully it flopped across his forehead in an unruly fringe. His younger female patients considered him handsome, the older ladies charming, but it was a charm that was lost on the gendarmes. Hadfield need only have mentioned his uncle’s name and he would have been allowed to pass without question, but in the weeks since his return to the city he had been careful not to exploit his connection. It was ten minutes before the officer in charge was satisfied enough with Hadfield’s papers to let the cab pass.
At the end of the bridge the driver turned right on to the embankment and a moment later pulled up in front of the yellow and white building that served discreetly as the English Church. Hadfield paid the driver and walked on a little further.
Five doors down from the church stood Baron Stieglitz’s recently refurbished mansion – the grandest at the west end of the embankment – and in its long shadow, Number 70 – General Glen’s home.
A footman in an old-fashioned uniform coat answered the door. Alexei Petrov had served the general in the army and then the family for more than thirty years.
‘Your Honour.’ He bowed his grey head respectfully.
‘Are you well, Alexei?’
‘Yes, Your Honour. And your mother, is she well?’
‘Yes. Thank you. Quite well.’
The old man led Hadfield up the white marble stair with its fine wrought iron filigreed banister to the first floor and knocked politely on the polished mahogany doors. They opened at once, throwing the startled servant off balance.
‘Frederick!’
Alexandra Glen ran forward to kiss her cousin on the cheek: ‘Why are you so late? Father was very grumpy.’ She pouted at him flirtatiously.
‘I’m sorry. I had to walk.’ He smiled at her.
‘You should have walked a little quicker.’
She took him by the hand and led him into the drawing room. His Aunt Mary was sitting ramrod straight on a plum velvet sofa beneath a picture of the Holy Family, severe in a black woollen dress, her grey hair gathered tightly in a bun. She greeted him with a warm smile and stretched her hands out to him. He held them for a moment and bent to kiss her cheeks.
‘How lovely to see you, Frederick,’ she said in Russian. ‘And you look so well. I’m afraid you’ve missed your uncle. He was called to his ministry. This terrible business . . .’
‘Has something . . .’
‘Frederick! Are you the only man in the empire who hasn’t heard of the attempt on the life of His Majesty?’
‘I was almost arrested for the crime a few minutes ago, Aunt.’ Alexandra laughed and pushed his arm playfully: ‘I told you, Mother, Frederick is a dangerous revolutionary. He was a student in Switzerland – Father says that’s where all the worst ones live. There – I’ve found you out, Freddie!’
‘Really, darling, that isn’t funny,’ said his aunt. ‘Frederick?’ She inclined her head to indicate he should sit beside her.
Mary Glen was in her early fifties, small and plain with a long oval face and thin lips unkindly scored by age. On first impression it would have been easy to take her for a dour Scottish minister’s wife but she was a bright, good humoured woman with an infectious laugh and a Presbyterian contempt for airs and graces. General Glen had met and married her on a visit to Fife thirty years before and he had chosen wisely. From the first she had thrown herself into her husband’s life, spoke faultless Russian and to the family made a point of speaking nothing else. Her daughter Alexandra was an only child, eighteen now and as petite and pretty as her mother was plain, with the fine features of the Glen family, green eyes and auburn hair. Hadfield was very fond of both of them, the more so because his warmth was so openly reciprocated.
‘Your uncle says there are to be new security measures. Military governors, something close to martial law.’ Mary Glen shook her head. ‘We’re all going to be inconvenienced because one or two madmen want to kill the emperor. What on earth are they hoping to achieve?’
Hadfield frowned and dropped his head a little in a polite show of incomprehension.
‘But tell us of your visit to the south,’ she continued after a moment. ‘We were so frightened something would happen to you.’