special investigator’s voice was reflective, his eyes fixed for a moment on the middle distance. There was the same sickly pallor in his cheeks, his skin drawn tighter across the bone.
‘Have you tried to imagine how you would behave if you were the condemned man?’ Again the curious cold tight-lipped smile. ‘Or woman?’
‘Is it possible to imagine?’
‘You are fortunate you will not have to try. But your friend Anna Petrovna…’ Dobrshinsky’s voice tailed off suggestively. ‘Of course, you know she is a prisoner here,’ he added. ‘Is it your child? I thought so.’
‘Has she seen a doctor?’ Hadfield asked, trying hard not to betray any emotion in his voice.
‘Would you like to examine her yourself?’
‘And the price for this act of humanity?’
Dobrshinsky winced and lifted a trembling hand to his temple as if to soothe a stab of pain.
‘The old problem?’
The special investigator frowned and dropped his hand behind his back. ‘I am quite well, thank you, Doctor. We are still in need of a little help — an address, two addresses actually. Vera Figner and the printing press.’
‘And you want me to ask Anna? I took you for a more astute fellow.’
‘You would need to tease it from her. Do you have any conception of what will happen to your baby if you don’t?’ And he explained that the infant would be taken from Anna and placed in a state orphanage with no name and no registered parents.
‘But the baby is mine and I am a British subject!’
‘I believe the state prosecutor will take the view that it is only possible to be certain of the baby’s mother.’
Hadfield rose angrily to lean across the table. ‘That is an ungentlemanly slur.’
‘You have become involved in an ungentlemanly business, Doctor,’ said Dobrshinsky coldly. ‘Your own conduct is hardly above reproach. I can help Anna Petrovna, but only if you can offer me some assistance. Believe me, I have no wish to condemn a child to misery before it is born but my hands are tied. Reflect, Doctor, I beg you. We will talk again.’
Hadfield spent a long night brooding upon the collegiate councillor’s words, grasping first the hope he was being bullied by an idle threat then slipping back into a pit of misery. In the early hours his thoughts turned to the vigil the condemned were keeping and he felt sure Anna would be watching through the night too. Close to dawn, he fell into an exhausted sleep, but was woken after only a short time by boots on the landing outside his cell. Before he could rise, the door opened and a warder stood before him, silhouetted against the gaslights on the wing: ‘Wake up, Doctor, we’ve a surprise for you.’
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
