The Man from St. Petersburg (29 page)

They went into the house. Papa said: “Come into the drawing room.”

Pritchard followed them in. “Would you like some sandwiches, my lord?”

“Not just now. Leave us alone for a while, would you, Pritchard?”

Pritchard went out.

Papa made a brandy-and-soda and sipped it. “Think again, Charlotte,” he said. “Will you tell us who this man is?”

She wanted to say: He’s an anarchist who is trying to prevent your starting a war! But she merely shook her head.

“Then you must see,” he said almost gently, “that we can’t possibly trust you.”

You could have, once, she thought bitterly, but not anymore.

Papa spoke to Mama. “She’ll just have to go to the country for a month; it’s the only way to keep her out of trouble. Then, after the Cowes Regatta, she can come to Scotland for the shooting.” He sighed. “Perhaps she’ll be more manageable by next season.”

Mama said: “We’ll send her to Walden Hall, then.”

Charlotte thought: They’re talking about me as if I weren’t here.

Papa said: “I’m driving down to Norfolk in the morning, to see Aleks again. I’ll take her with me.”

Charlotte was stunned.

Aleks was at Walden Hall.

I never even thought of that!

Now I know!

“She’d better go up and pack,” Mama said.

Charlotte stood up and went out, keeping her face down so that they should not see the light of triumph in her eyes.

TWELVE

A
t a quarter to three Feliks was in the lobby of the National Gallery. Charlotte would probably be late, like last time, but anyway he had nothing better to do.

He was nervy and restless, sick of waiting and sick of hiding. He had slept rough again the last two nights, once in Hyde Park and once under the arches at Charing Cross. During the day he had hidden in alleys and railway sidings and patches of waste ground, coming out only to get food. It reminded him of being on the run in Siberia, and the memory was unpleasant. Even now he kept moving, going from the lobby into the domed rooms, glancing at the pictures, and returning to the lobby to look for her. He watched the clock on the wall. At half past three she still had not come. She had got involved in another dreadful luncheon party.

She would surely be able to find out where Orlov was. She was an ingenious girl, he was certain. Even if her father would not tell her straightforwardly, she would think of a way to discover the secret. Whether she would pass the information on was another matter. She was strong-willed, too.

He wished …

He wished a lot of things. He wished he had not deceived her. He wished he could find Orlov without her help. He wished human beings did not make themselves into princes and earls and kaisers and czars. He wished he had married Lydia and known Charlotte as a baby. He wished she would come: it was four o’clock.

Most of the paintings meant nothing to him: the sentimental religious scenes, the portraits of smug Dutch merchants in their lifeless homes. He liked Bronzino’s
Allegory
, but only because it was so sensual. Art was an area of human experience which he had passed by. Perhaps one day Charlotte would lead him into the forest and show him the flowers. But it was unlikely. First, he would have to live through the next few days, and escape after killing Orlov. Even that much was not certain. Then he would have to retain Charlotte’s affection despite having used her, lied to her and killed her cousin. That was close to impossible, but even if it happened he would have to find ways of seeing her while avoiding the police … No, there was not much chance he would know her after the assassination. He thought: Make the most of her now.

It was four-thirty.

She’s not just late, he thought with a sinking heart: she is unable to come. I hope she’s not in trouble with Walden. I hope she didn’t take risks and get found out. I wish she would come running up the steps, out of breath and a little flushed, with her hat slightly awry and an anxious look on her pretty face, and say: “I’m terribly sorry to have made you wait about. I got involved in …”

The building seemed to be emptying out. Feliks wondered what to do next. He went outside and down the steps to the pavement. There was no sign of her. He went back up the steps and was stopped at the door by a commissionaire. “Too late, mate,” the man said. “We’re closing.” Feliks turned away.

He could not wait about on the steps in the hope that she would come later, for he would be too conspicuous right here in Trafalgar Square. Anyway, she was now two hours late: she was not going to come.

She was not going to come.

Face it, he thought: she has decided to have nothing more to do with me, and quite sensibly. But would she not have come, if only to tell me that? She might have sent a note—

She might have sent a note.

She had Bridget’s address. She
would
have sent a note.

Feliks headed north.

He walked through the alleys of Theatreland and the quiet squares of Bloomsbury. The weather was changing. All the time he had been in England it had been sunny and warm, and he had yet to see rain. But for the last day or so the atmosphere had seemed oppressive, as if a storm were slowly gathering.

He thought: I wonder what it is like to live in Bloomsbury, in this prosperous middle-class atmosphere, where there is always enough to eat and money left over for books. But after the revolution we will take down the railings around the parks.

He had a headache. He had not suffered headaches since childhood. He wondered whether it was caused by the stormy air. More likely it was worry. After the revolution, he thought, headaches will be prohibited.

Would there be a note from her waiting at Bridget’s house? He imagined it. “Dear Mr. Kschessinsky, I regret I am unable to keep our appointment today. Yours truly, Lady Charlotte Walden.” No, it would surely not be like that. “Dear Feliks, Prince Orlov is staying at the home of the Russian Naval Attache, 25A Wilton Place, third floor, left front bedroom. Your affectionate friend, Charlotte.” That was more like it. “Dear Father, Yes—I have learned the truth. But my ‘Papa’ has locked me in my room. Please come and rescue me. Your loving daughter, Charlotte Kschessinsky.” Don’t be a damned fool.

He reached Cork Street and looked along the road. There were no policemen guarding the house, no hefty characters in plain clothes reading newspapers outside the pub. It looked safe. His heart lifted. There’s something marvelous about a warm welcome from a woman, he thought, whether she’s a slip of a girl like Charlotte or a fat old witch like Bridget. I’ve spent too much of my life with men—or alone.

He knocked on Bridget’s door. As he waited, he looked down at the window of his old basement room, and saw that there were new curtains. The door opened.

Bridget looked at him and smiled widely. “It’s my favorite international terrorist, begod,” she said. “Come in, you darling man.”

He went into her parlor.

“Do you want some tea? It’s hot.”

“Yes, please.” He sat down. “Did the police trouble you?”

“I was interrogated by a superintendent. You must be a big cheese.”

“What did you tell him?”

She looked contemptuous. “He’d left his truncheon at home—he got nothing out of me.”

Feliks smiled. “Have you got a letter—”

But she was still talking. “Did you want your room back? I’ve let it to another fellow, but I’ll chuck him out—he’s got side-whiskers, and I never could abide side-whiskers.”

“No, I don’t want my room—”

“You’ve been sleeping rough. I can tell by the look on you.”

“That’s right.”

“Whatever it was you came to London to do, you haven’t done it yet.”

“No.”

“Something’s happened—you’ve changed.”

“Yes.”

“What, then?”

He was suddenly grateful for someone to whom he could talk about it. “Years ago I had a love affair. I didn’t know it, but the woman had a baby. A few days ago … I met my daughter.”

“Ah.” She looked at him with pity in her eyes. “You poor bugger. As if you didn’t have enough on your mind already. Is she the one that wrote the letter?”

Feliks gave a grunt of satisfaction. “There’s a letter.”

“I supposed that’s what you came for.” She went to the mantelpiece and reached behind the clock. “And is the poor girl mixed up with oppressors and tyrants?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so from the crest. You don’t get much luck, do you?” She handed him the letter.

Feliks saw the crest on the back of the envelope. He ripped it open. Inside were two pages covered with neat, stylish handwriting.

Walden Hall
July 1st, 1914

Dear Feliks,

By the time you get this you will have waited in vain for me at our rendezvous. I am most awfully sorry to let you down. Unfortunately I was seen with you on Monday and it is assumed I have a clandestine lover!!!

If she’s in trouble she seems cheerful enough about it, Feliks thought.

I have been banished to the country for the rest of the season. However, it is a blessing in disguise. Nobody would tell me where Aleks was, but now I know because he is here!!!

Feliks was filled with savage triumph. “So that’s where the rats have their nest.”

Bridget said: “Is this child helping you?”

“She was my only hope.”

“Then you deserve to look troubled.”

“I know.”

Take a train from Liverpool Street station to Waldenhall Halt. This is our village. The house is three miles out of the village on the north road. However, don’t come to the house of course!!! On the left-hand side of the road you will see a wood. I always ride through the wood, along the bridle path, before breakfast between 7 and 8 o’clock. I will look out for you each day until you come.

Once she decided whose side she was on, Feliks thought, there were no half measures.

I’m not sure when this will get sent. I will put it on the hall table as soon as I see some other letters for posting there: that way, nobody will see my handwriting on an envelope, and the footman will just pick it up along with all the rest when he goes to the post office.

“She’s a brave girl,” Feliks said aloud.

I am doing this because you are the only person I ever met who talks sense to me.

Yours most affectionately,
Charlotte

Feliks sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. He was so proud of her, and so ashamed of himself, that he felt close to tears.

Bridget took the letter from his unresisting fingers and began to read.

“So she doesn’t know you’re her father,” she said.

“No.”

“Why is she helping you, then?”

“She believes in what I’m doing.”

Bridget made a disgusted noise. “Men like yourself always find women to help them. I should know, bechrist.” She read on. “She writes like a schoolgirl.”

“Yes.”

“How old is she?”

“Eighteen.”

“Old enough to know her own mind. Aleks is the one you’re after?”

Feliks nodded.

“What is he?”

“A Russian prince.”

“Then he deserves to die.”

“He’s dragging Russia into war.”

Bridget nodded. “And you’re dragging Charlotte into it.”

“Do you think I’m doing wrong?”

She handed the letter back to him. She seemed angry. “We’ll never be sure, will we?”

“Politics is like that.”

“Life is like that.”

Feliks tore the envelope in half and dropped it in the wastepaper bin. He intended to rip up the letter but he could not bring himself to do it. When it’s all over, he thought, this may be all I have to remember her by. He folded the two sheets of paper and put them in his coat pocket.

He stood up. “I’ve got a train to catch.”

“Do you want me to make you a sandwich to take with you?”

He shook his head. “Thank you, I’m not hungry.”

“Have you money for your fare?”

“I never pay train fares.”

She put her hand into the pocket of her apron and took out a sovereign. “Here. You can buy a cup of tea as well.”

“It’s a lot of money.”

“I can afford it this week. Away with you before I change my mind.”

Feliks took the coin and kissed her good-bye. “You have been kind to me.”

“It’s not for you. It’s for my Sean, God rest his merry soul.”

“Good-bye.”

“Good luck to you, boy.”

Feliks went out.

Walden was in an optimistic mood as he entered the Admiralty building. He had done what he had promised: he had sold Constantinople to Aleks. The previous afternoon Aleks had sent a message to the Czar recommending acceptance of the British offer. Walden was confident that the Czar would follow the advice of his favorite nephew, especially after the assassination in Sarajevo. He was not so sure that Lloyd George would bend to the will of Asquith.

He was shown into the office of the First Lord of the Admiralty. Churchill bounced up out of his chair and came around his desk to shake hands. “We sold it to Lloyd George,” he said triumphantly.

“That’s marvelous!” Walden said. “And I sold it to Orlov!”

“I knew you would. Sit down.”

I might have known better than to expect a thank-you, Walden thought. But even Churchill could not damp his spirits today. He sat on a leather chair and glanced around the room, at the charts on the walls and the naval memorabilia on the desk. “We should hear from St. Petersburg at any time,” he said. “The Russian Embassy will send a note directly to you.”

“The sooner the better,” Churchill said. “Count Hayes has been to Berlin. According to our intelligence, he took with him a letter asking the Kaiser whether Germany would support Austria in a war against Serbia. Our intelligence also says the answer was yes.”

“The Germans don’t want to fight Serbia—”

“No,” Churchill interrupted, “they want an excuse to fight France. Once Germany mobilizes, France will mobilize, and that will be Germany’s pretext for invading France. There’s no stopping it now.”

“Do the Russians know all this?”

“We’ve told ‘em. I hope they believe us.”

“Can nothing be done to make peace?”

“Everything is being done,” Churchill said. “Sir Edward Grey is working night and day, as are our ambassadors in Berlin, Paris, Vienna and St. Petersburg. Even the King is firing off telegrams to his cousins, Kaiser ‘Willy’ and Czar ‘Nicky.’ It’ll do no good.”

There was a knock at the door, and a young male secretary came in with a piece of paper. “A message from the Russian ambassador, sir,” he said.

Walden tensed.

Churchill glanced at the paper and looked up with triumph in his eyes. “They’ve accepted.”

Walden beamed. “Bloody good show!”

The secretary went out. Churchill stood up. “This calls for a whiskey-and-soda. Will you join me?”

“Certainly.”

Churchill opened a cupboard. “I’ll have the treaty drafted overnight and bring it down to Walden Hall tomorrow afternoon. We can have a little signing ceremony tomorrow night. It will have to be ratified by the Czar and Asquith, of course, but that’s a formality—so long as Orlov and I sign as soon as possible.”

The secretary knocked and came in again. “Mr. Basil Thomson is here, sir.”

“Show him in.”

Thomson came in and spoke without preamble. “We’ve picked up the trail of our anarchist again.”