To Kill a Tsar

from the bag with his journal. ‘Now perhaps you can tell me what you think the problem may be — your symptoms?’

‘The problem?’ Dobrshinsky gave a little laugh and, with a dismissive sweep of his right hand, brushed a fleck of dust from the knee of his trousers. ‘Please excuse me, Doctor, but the problem is not really with my health but with yours.’

‘Oh?’

‘It seems you’ve been keeping dangerous company.’

‘You mean Anna Petrovna?’ Hadfield interrupted. ‘I explained to Major Barclay: she was an able nurse and I know nothing more about her than that. Naturally I was shocked to hear she was wanted by the police.’

‘Quite so. Quite so. But you didn’t mention to Major Barclay that you attended an illegal gathering, that there were a number of terrorists wanted by the police there, one of them the Kovalenko woman.’

Hadfield leant forward. ‘I’ve never knowingly been in the company of terrorists. I’m a doctor…’

‘We all need doctors, don’t we?’ Dobrshinsky replied with an amused smile.

‘You don’t seem to need me,’ said Hadfield haughtily, ‘but I have patients who do.’ He bent again to his medical bag as if preparing to leave.

‘Aren’t you ready to help our investigation, Doctor?’

‘I can’t see how I can.’

‘Do you know Madame Volkonsky?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you will remember her political salon.’

‘I do remember a rather disagreeable afternoon at her home,’ Hadfield said calmly. And he described briefly the gathering and the discussion, but without mentioning the names of those who were there.

‘So you admit there was talk of the attempt made on His Majesty’s life?’

Hadfield gave a short laugh. ‘There was talk of that in every home in the city.’

‘Do you think of yourself as a Russian?’

‘I think so, yes.’

‘And a loyal subject?’

‘Yes,’ he lied.

There was not a flicker of emotion — anger, disbelief, disappointment — in the investigator’s face. He was a patient man — that much was apparent — but Hadfield detected something else, a certain distance in his manner he could not entirely explain.

‘Would you inform the police if you knew someone was trying to kill His Majesty?

‘Yes.’

‘Who spoke up for the assassin?’

‘A small Jewish fellow called Goldenberg. Red hair. Voluble.’

‘He remembers you too.’

‘I should hope so. We argued about the attempt to murder His Majesty.’

‘But you didn’t see fit to inform the police?’

‘I thought he was a hothead but essentially harmless.’

The investigator clucked sceptically: ‘Goldenberg is a murderer.’ He clearly did not believe a word of Hadfield’s story, and for another half-hour he snapped question after question at him, dismissing his man servant with a wave when he dared to interrupt with the coffee. Did the doctor expect him to believe he had not seen Anna at the salon? What about the meeting at the opera? Questions, questions. Hadfield batted them back with either an angry denial or a sad, incredulous shake of the head: ‘Are you going to accept my word or the lies of a murderer?’ he asked eventually.

‘Don’t you think a murderer capable of the truth?’

‘An interesting question to debate at length, Anton Frankzevich, but you have spent an hour trying to prove I am a terrorist, so there really isn’t time.’

‘Simple questions, that’s all, Doctor,’ Dobrshinsky said, his thin lips twitching with amusement.

‘If you’re not going to arrest me for having had the misfortune to accept an invitation to the wrong sort of party then you must excuse me,’ Hadfield replied. ‘You see, I generally charge for my time.’ He paused. ‘But perhaps you would like me to examine you? You don’t look well.’ He bent again to his medical bag. There was nothing more likely to distract and worry a man than a doctor’s professional concern.

‘That isn’t necessary. I’m in good health,’ said Dobrshinsky irritably.

‘As you wish,’ said Hadfield, easing himself out of the low library chair.

The special investigator rose, too, carefully smoothing the creases from his tailcoat. What a peculiar fellow, Hadfield thought, fastidious, with a lawyer’s eye for detail but — what else? He had a certain louche quality.

‘Have you read Mr Dostoevsky’s The Devils?’ Dobrshinsky asked. His smile was disingenuous.

‘No,’ Hadfield lied again.

‘You must.’ Dobrshinsky walked over to the bookcase to the right of the fireplace and took out two volumes.

‘But I can buy my own copy.’

‘No, I insist. You can return it. I think you’ll find it illuminating. In particular, the ease with which clever people can be tricked by the unscrupulous acting in the name of principle.’

In the street outside, an image began to form in the back of Hadfield’s mind.

At first it was diffuse, like sunlight through a morning mist. By the time he had hailed a cab, it had sharpened into the recollection of an evening in Zurich in the company of a young man with a pallor and distance very like the collegiate councillor’s. As the evening had progressed the student had become agitated and his thin body had begun to shake uncontrollably.

Hadfield’s exclamation so alarmed the driver he brought his cab to a halt.

‘Is something wrong, Your Honour?’

Of course, he had treated cases since; Dobrshinsky clearly exhibited some of the symptoms. If he was a betting man he would have placed money on his diagnosis — the tsar’s special investigator was addicted to opium.

28

5 FEBRUARY 1880

‘It’s ready.’

‘It’s ready?’

‘Didn’t I say so,’ Khalturin snapped at her.

‘Then what do we do now?’ Anna asked, turning to the figure at her side.

‘We wait.’ Andrei Zhelyabov’s voice shook a little with excitement. He took a deep breath to steady himself. ‘You may have to go back with Stepan to the tavern. His friends are expecting his fiancee.’

After weeks of living on his nerves Stepan Khalturin was unable to keep still for a second, treading the snow about them into a hard crust. Anna could not see his face. Both men had pulled their hats low over their eyes and Khalturin was muffled in a black woollen scarf. They had met close to the workman’s entrance to the Winter Palace and she had watched as they hurried across the square towards her, their heads bent low against the driving snow. It had barely stopped in three days, shaping a new monochrome cityscape with peaks of snow and ice rising from the rivers and canals, the streets unfamiliar, the smallest journey a trial.

‘How long?’ Anna asked.

‘Five minutes at most,’ said Khalturin, his voice strained and unhappy.

‘Did anyone see you in there?’ Zhelyabov asked, resting a large gloved hand on the carpenter’s shoulder.

‘There was one man looking for some tools. The rest are in the tavern waiting for me.’