“What is it?”Charlotte said.
“What?”
“You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”
“You reminded me of someone. Tell me all about yourself.”
She frowned at him. He seemed to have a lump in his throat, she thought. She said: “You’ve got a cold coming.”
“I never catch colds. What’s your earliest memory?”
She thought for a moment. “I was brought up in a country house called Walden Hall, in Norfolk. It’s a beautiful gray stone building with a very lovely garden. In summer we had tea outdoors, under the chestnut tree. I must have been about four years old when I was first allowed to have tea with Mama and Papa. It was very dull. There was nothing to investigate on the lawn. I always wanted to go around to the back of the house, to the stables. One day they saddled a donkey and let me ride it. I had seen people ride, of course, and I thought I knew how to do it. They told me to sit still or I would fall off, but I didn’t believe them. First somebody took the bridle and walked me up and down. Then I was allowed to take the reins myself. It all seemed so easy that I gave him a kick, as I had seen people do to horses, and made him trot. Next thing I knew, I was on the ground in tears. I just couldn’t believe I had really fallen!” She laughed at the memory.
“It sounds like a happy childhood,” Feliks said.
“You wouldn’t say that if you knew my governess. Her name is Marya and she’s a Russian dragon. ‘Little ladies always have clean hands.’ She’s still around-she’s my chaperone now.”
“Still-you had good food, and clothes, and you were never cold, and there was a doctor when you were sick.”
“Is that supposed to make you happy?”
“I would have settled for it. What’s your best memory?”
“When Papa gave me my own pony,” she said immediately. “I had wanted one so badly, it was like a dream come true. I shall never forget that day.”
“What’s he like?”
“Who?”
Feliks hesitated. “Lord Walden.”
“Papa? Well…” It was a good question, Charlotte thought. For a complete stranger, Feliks was remarkably interested in her. But she was even more interested in him. There seemed to be some deep melancholy beneath his questions: it had not been there a few minutes ago. Perhaps that was because he had had an unhappy childhood and hers seemed so much better. “I think Papa is probably a terribly good man…”
“But?”
“He will treat me as a child. I know I’m probably frightfully naïve, but I’ll never be anything else unless I learn. He won’t explain things to me the way-well, the way you do. He gets very embarrassed if he talks about… men and women, you know… and when he speaks of politics his views seem a bit, I don’t know, smug.”
“That’s completely natural. All his life he’s got everything he wanted, and got it easily. Of course he thinks the world is wonderful just as it is, except for a few small problems, which will get ironed out in time. Do you love him?”
“Yes, except for the moments when I hate him.” The intensity of Feliks’s gaze was beginning to make her uncomfortable. He seemed to be drinking in her words and memorizing her facial expressions. “Papa is a very lovable man. Why are you so interested?”
He gave her a peculiar, twisted smile. “I’ve been fighting the ruling class all my life, but I rarely get the chance to talk to one of them.”
Charlotte could tell that this was not the real reason, and she wondered vaguely why he should lie to her. Perhaps he was embarrassed about something-that was usually the reason why people were less than honest with her. She said: “I’m not a member of the ruling class, any more than one of my father’s dogs is.”
He smiled. “Tell me about your mother.”
“She has bad nerves. Sometimes she has to take laudanum.”
“What’s laudanum?”
“Medicine with opium in it.”
He raised his eyebrows. “That sounds ominous.”
“Why?”
“I thought the taking of opium was considered degenerate.”
“Not if it’s for medical reasons.”
“Ah.”
“You’re skeptical.”
“Always.”
“Come, now, tell me what you mean.”
“If your mother needs opium, I suspect it is because she is unhappy, rather than because she is ill.”
“Why should she be unhappy?”
“You tell me, she’s your mother.”
Charlotte considered. Was Mama unhappy? She certainly was not content in the way Papa seemed to be. She worried too much, and she would fly off the handle without much provocation. “She’s not relaxed,” she said. “But I can’t think of any reason why she should be unhappy. I wonder if it has to do with leaving your native country.”
“That’s possible,” Feliks said, but he did not sound convinced. “Have you any brothers and sisters?”
“No. My best friend is my cousin Belinda; she’s the same age as me.”
“What other friends have you got?”
“No other friends, just acquaintances.”
“Other cousins?”
“Twin boys, six years old. Of course I’ve loads of cousins in Russia, but I’ve never seen any of them, except Aleks, who’s much older than me.”
“And what are you going to do with your life?”
“What a question!”
“Don’t you know?”
“I haven’t made up my mind.”
“What are the alternatives?”
“That’s a big question, really. I mean, I’m expected to marry a young man of my own class and raise children. I suppose I shall have to marry.”
“Why?”
“Well, Walden Hall won’t come to me when Papa dies, you know.”
“Why not?”
“It goes with the title-and I can’t be the Earl of Walden. So the house will be left to Peter, the elder of the twins.”
“I see.”
“And I couldn’t make my own living.”
“Of course you could.”
“I’ve been trained for nothing.”
“Train yourself.”
“What would I do?”
Feliks shrugged. “Raise horses. Be a shopkeeper. Join the civil service. Become a professor of mathematics. Write a play.”
“You talk as if I might do anything I put my mind to.”
“I believe you could. But I have one quite serious idea. Your Russian is perfect-you could translate novels into English.”
“Do you really think I could?”
“I’ve no doubt whatsoever.”
Charlotte bit her lip. “Why is it that you have such faith in me and my parents don’t?”
He thought for a minute, then smiled. “If I had brought you up, you would complain that you were forced to do serious work all the time and never allowed to go dancing.”
“You’ve no children?”
He looked away. “I never married.”
Charlotte was fascinated. “Did you want to?”
“Yes.”
She knew she ought not to go on, but she could not resist it: she wanted to know what this strange man had been like when he was in love. “What happened?”
“The girl married someone else.”
“What was her name?”
“Lydia.”
“That’s my mother’s name.”
“Is it?”
“Lydia Shatova, she was. You must have heard of Count Shatov, if you ever spent any time in St. Petersburg.”
“Yes, I did. Do you carry a watch?”
“What? No.”
“Nor do I.” He looked around and saw a clock on the wall.
Charlotte followed his glance. “Heavens, it’s five o’clock! I intended to get home before mother came down for tea.” She stood up.
“Will you be in trouble?” he said, getting up.
“I expect so.” She turned to leave the café.
He said: “Oh, Charlotte…”
“What is it?”
“I don’t suppose you could pay for the tea? I’m a very poor man.”
“Oh! I wonder whether I’ve any money. Yes! Look, elevenpence. Is that enough?”
“Of course.” He took sixpence from the palm of her hand and went to the counter to pay. It’s funny, Charlotte thought, the things you have to remember when you’re not in society. What would Marya think of me, buying a cup of tea for a strange man? She would have apoplexy.
He gave her the change and held the door for her. “I’ll walk part of the way with you.”
“Thank you.”
Feliks took her arm as they walked along the street. The sun was still strong. A policeman walked toward them, and Feliks made her stop and look in a shop window while he passed. She said: “Why don’t you want him to see us?”
“They may be looking for people who were seen on the march.”
Charlotte frowned. That seemed a bit unlikely, but he would know better than she.
They walked on. Charlotte said: “I love June.”
“The weather in England is wonderful.”
“Do you think so? You’ve never been to the South of France, then.”
“You have, obviously.”
“We go every winter. We’ve a villa in Monte Carlo.” She was struck by a thought. “I hope you don’t think I’m boasting.”
“Certainly not.” He smiled. “You must have realized by now that I think great wealth is something to be ashamed of, not proud of.”
“I suppose I should have realized, but I hadn’t. Do you despise me, then?”
“No, but the wealth isn’t yours.”
“You’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met,” Charlotte said. “May I see you again?”
“Yes,” he said. “Have you got a handkerchief?”
She took one from her coat pocket and gave it to him. He blew his nose. “You are catching a cold,” she said. “Your eyes are streaming.”
“You must be right.” He wiped his eyes. “Shall we meet at that café?”
“It’s not a frightfully attractive place, is it?” she said. “Let’s think of somewhere else. I know! We’ll go to the National Gallery. Then, if I see somebody I know, we can pretend we aren’t together.”
“All right.”
“Do you like paintings?”
“I’d like you to educate me.”
“Then it’s settled. How about the day after tomorrow, at two o’clock?”
“Fine.”
It occurred to her that she might not be able to get away. “If something goes wrong, and I have to cancel, can I send you a note?”
“Well… er… I move about a lot…” He was struck by a thought. “But you can always leave a message with Mrs. Bridget Callahan at number nineteen, Cork Street, in Camden Town.”
She repeated the address. “I’ll write that down as soon as I get home. My house is just a few hundred yards away.” She hesitated. “You must leave me here. I hope you won’t be offended, but it really would be best if no one saw me with you.”
“Offended?” he said with his funny, twisted smile. “No, not at all.”
She held out her hand. “Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.” He shook her hand firmly.
She turned around and walked away. There will be trouble when I get home, she thought. They will have found out that I’m not in my room, and there will be an inquisition. I’ll say I went for a walk in the park. They won’t like it.
Somehow she did not care what they thought. She had found a true friend. She was very happy.
When she reached the gate she turned and looked back. He stood where she had left him, watching her. She gave a discreet wave. He waved back. For some reason he looked vulnerable and sad, standing there alone. That was silly, she realized, as she remembered how he had rescued her from the riot: he was very tough indeed.
She went into the courtyard and up the steps to the front door.
Walden arrived at Walden Hall suffering from nervous indigestion. He had rushed away from London before lunch as soon as the police artist had finished drawing the face of the assassin, and he had eaten a picnic and drunk a bottle of Chablis on the way down, without stopping the car. As well as that, he was nervous.
Today he was due for another session with Aleks. He guessed that Aleks had a counterproposal and expected the Czar’s approval of it by cable today. He hoped the Russian Embassy had had the sense to forward cables to Aleks at Walden Hall. He hoped the counterproposal was something reasonable, something he could present to Churchill as a triumph.
He was fiercely impatient to get down to business with Aleks, but he knew that in reality a few minutes made no difference, and it was always a mistake to appear eager during a negotiation; so he paused in the hall and composed himself before walking into the Octagon.
Aleks sat at the window, brooding, with a great tray of tea and cakes untouched beside him. He looked up eagerly and said: “What happened?”
“The man came, but I’m afraid we failed to catch him,” Walden said.
Aleks looked away. “He came to kill me…”
Walden felt a surge of pity for him. He was young, he had a huge responsibility, he was in a foreign country and a killer was stalking him. But there was no point in letting him brood. Walden put on a breezy tone of voice. “We have the man’s description now-in fact the police artist has made a drawing of him. Thomson will catch him in a day or so. And you’re safe here-he can’t possibly find out where you are.”
“We thought I was safe at the hotel-but he found out I was there.”
“That can’t happen again.” This was a bad start to a negotiating session, Walden reflected. He had to find a way to turn Aleks’s mind to more cheerful subjects. “Have you had tea?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Let’s go for a walk-it will give you an appetite for dinner.”
“All right.” Aleks stood up.
Walden got a gun-for rabbits, he told Aleks-and they walked down to the Home Farm. One of the two bodyguards provided by Basil Thomson followed ten yards behind them.
Walden showed Aleks his champion sow, the Princess of Walden. “She’s won first prize in the East Anglian Agricultural Show for the last two years.” Aleks admired the sturdy brick cottages of the tenants, the tall white-painted barns, and the magnificent shire horses.
“I don’t make any money out of it, of course,” Walden said. “All the profit is spent on new stock, or drainage, or buildings, or fencing… but it sets a standard for the tenanted farms; and the Home Farm will be worth a lot more when I die than it was when I inherited it.”
“We can’t farm like this in Russia,” Aleks said. Good, thought Walden; he’s thinking of something else. Aleks went on: “Our peasants won’t use new methods, won’t touch machinery, won’t take care of new buildings or good tools. They are still serfs, psychologically if not legally. When there is a bad harvest and they are starving, do you know what they do? They burn the empty barns.”
The men were mowing hay in the South Acre. Twelve laborers made a ragged line across the field, stooped over their scythes, and there was a steady swish, swish as the tall stalks fell like dominoes.
Samuel Jones, the oldest of the laborers, finished his row first. He came over, scythe in hand, and touched his cap to Walden. Walden shook his callused hand. It was like grasping a rock.
“Did your lordship find time to go to that there exhibition in Lunnun?” Samuel said.
“Yes, I did,” Walden replied.
“Did you see that mowing machine you was talking about?”
Walden put on a dubious face. “It’s a beautiful piece of engineering, Sam-but I don’t know…”
Sam nodded. “Machinery never does the job as well as a laborer.”
“On the other hand, we could cut the hay in three days instead of a fortnight-and by getting it in that much faster we run less risk of rain. Then we could rent the machine to the tenanted farms.”
“You’d need fewer laborers, too,” Sam said.
Walden pretended to be disappointed. “No,” he said, “I couldn’t let anyone go. It would just mean we need not take on gypsies to help around harvesttime.”
“It wouldn’t make that much difference, then.”
“Not really. And I’m a bit concerned about how the men would take to it-you know young Peter Dawkins will find any excuse to make trouble.”
Sam made a noncommittal sound.
“Anyway,” Walden continued, “Mr. Samson is going to take a look at the machine next week.” Samson was the bailiff. “I say!” Walden said as if he had been struck by an idea. “I don’t suppose you’d want to go with him, Sam?”
Sam pretended not to care much for the idea. “To Lunnun?” he said. “I went there in 1888. Didn’t like it.”
“You could go up on the train with Mr. Samson-perhaps take young Dawkins with you-see the machine, have your dinner in London, and come back in the afternoon.”
“I dunno what my missus would say.”
“I’d be glad to have your opinion of the machine, though.”
“Well, I should be interested.”
“That’s settled, then. I’ll tell Samson to make the arrangements.” Walden smiled conspiratorially. “You can give Mrs. Jones to understand I practically forced you to go.”
Sam grinned. “I’ll do that, m’lord.”
The mowing was almost done. The men stopped work. Any rabbits would be hidden within the last few yards of hay. Walden called Dawkins over and gave him the gun. “You’re a good shot, Peter. See if you can get one for yourself and one for the Hall.”
They all stood on the edge of the field, out of the line of fire, then cut the last of the hay from the side, to drive the rabbits into the open field. Four came out, and Dawkins got two with his first round and one with his second. The gunfire made Aleks wince.
Walden took the gun and one of the rabbits; then he and Aleks walked back toward the Hall. Aleks shook his head in admiration. “You have a wonderful way with the men,” he said. “I never seem to be able to strike the right balance between discipline and generosity.”
“It takes practice,” Walden said. He held up the rabbit. “We don’t really need this at the Hall-but I took it to remind them that the rabbits are mine, and that any they have are a gift from me, not theirs by right.” If I had a son, Walden thought, this is how I would explain things to him.
“One proceeds by discussion and consent,” Aleks said.
“It’s the best method-even if you have to give something away.”
Aleks smiled. “Which brings us back to the Balkans.”
Thank Heaven-at last, Walden thought.
“Shall I sum up?” Aleks went on. “We are willing to fight on your side against Germany, and you are willing to recognize our right to pass through the Bosporus and the Dardanelles. However, we want not just the right but the power. Our suggestion that you should recognize the whole of the Balkan Peninsula from Rumania to Crete as a Russian sphere of influence did not meet with your approval: no doubt you felt it was giving us too much. My task, then, was to formulate a lesser demand: one which would secure our sea passage without committing Britain to an unreservedly pro-Russian Balkan policy.”
“Yes.” Walden thought: He has a mind like a surgeon’s knife. A few minutes ago I was giving him fatherly advice, and now, suddenly, he seems my equal-at the least. I suppose this is how it is when your son becomes a man.
“I’m sorry it has taken so long,” Aleks said. “I have to send coded cables via the Russian Embassy to St. Petersburg, and discussion at this distance just can’t be as quick as I should like.”
“I understand,” said Walden, thinking: Come on-out with it!
“There is an area of about ten thousand square miles, from Constantinople to Adrianople-it amounts to half of Thrace-which is at present part of Turkey. Its coastline begins in the Black Sea, borders the Bosporus, the Sea of Marmara and the Dardanelles, and finishes in the Aegean Sea. In other words, it guards the whole of the passage between the Black Sea and the Mediterranean.” He paused. “Give us that, and we’re on your side.”
Walden concealed his excitement. Here was a real basis for bargaining. He said: “The problem remains, that it isn’t ours to give away.”
“Consider the possibilities if war breaks out,” Aleks said. “One: If Turkey is on our side we will have the right of passage anyway. However, this is unlikely. Two: If Turkey is neutral, we would expect Britain to insist on our right of passage as a sign that Turkey’s neutrality was genuine; and failing that, to support our invasion of Thrace. Three: If Turkey is on the German side-which is the likeliest of the three possibilities-then Britain would concede that Thrace is ours as soon as we can conquer it.”
Walden said dubiously: “I wonder how the Thracians would feel about all this.”
“They would rather belong to Russia than to Turkey.”
“I expect they’d like to be independent.”
Aleks gave a boyish smile. “Neither you nor I-nor, indeed, either of our governments-is in the least concerned about what the inhabitants of Thrace might prefer.”
“Quite,” Walden said. He was forced to agree. It was Aleks’s combination of boyish charm and thoroughly grown-up brains which kept putting Walden off balance. He always thought he had the discussion firmly under control, until Aleks came out with a punch line which showed that he had been controlling it all along.
They walked up the hill that led to the back of Walden Hall. Walden noticed the bodyguard scanning the woods on either side. Dust puffed around his heavy brown brogues. The ground was dry: it had hardly rained for three months. Walden was excited about Aleks’s counterproposal. What would Churchill say? Surely the Russians could be given part of Thrace-who cared about Thrace?
They crossed the kitchen garden. An undergardener was watering lettuces. He touched his cap to them. Walden searched for the man’s name, but Aleks beat him to it. “A fine evening, Stanley,” said Aleks.
“We could do with a shower, your highness.”
“But not too much, eh?”
“Quite so, your highness.”
Aleks is learning, Walden thought.
They went into the house. Walden rang for a footman. “I’ll send a telegram to Churchill making an appointment for tomorrow morning. I’ll motor to London first thing.”
“Good,” Aleks said. “Time is running short.”
Charlotte got a big reaction from the footman who opened the door to her.
“Oh! Thank goodness you’re home, Lady Charlotte!” he said.
Charlotte gave him her coat. “I don’t know why you should thank goodness, William.”
“Lady Walden has been worried about you,” he said. “She asked that you should be sent to her as soon as you arrived.”
“I’ll just go and tidy myself up,” Charlotte said.
“Lady Walden did say ‘immediately’-”
“And I said I’ll go and tidy up.” Charlotte went up to her room.
She washed her face and unpinned her hair. There was a dull, muscular ache in her tummy, from the punch she had received, and her hands were grazed, but not badly. Her knees were sure to be bruised, but no one ever saw them. She went behind the screen and took off her dress. It seemed undamaged. I don’t look as I’ve been in a riot, she thought. She heard her bedroom door open.
“Charlotte!” It was Mama’s voice.
Charlotte slipped into a robe, thinking: Oh, dear, she’s going to be hysterical. She came from behind the screen.
“We’ve been frantic with worry!” Mama said.
Marya came into the room behind her, looking self-righteous and steely-eyed.
Charlotte said: “Well, here I am, safe and sound, so you can stop worrying now.”
Mama reddened. “You impudent child!” she shrilled. She stepped forward and slapped Charlotte’s face.
Charlotte fell back and sat down heavily on the bed. She was stunned, not by the blow but by the idea of it. Mama had never struck her before. Somehow it seemed to hurt more than all the blows she had received during the riot. She caught Marya’s eye and saw a peculiar look of satisfaction on her face.
Charlotte recovered her composure and said: “I shall never forgive you for that.”
“That you should speak of forgiving me!” In her rage Mama was speaking Russian. “And how soon should I forgive you for joining a mob outside Buckingham Palace?”
Charlotte gasped. “How did you know?”
“Marya saw you marching along The Mall with those… those suffragettes. I feel so ashamed. God knows who else saw you. If the King ever finds out we shall be banished from the court.”
“I see.” Charlotte was still smarting from the slap. She said nastily: “So you weren’t worried about my safety, just the family reputation.”
Mama looked hurt. Marya butted in: “We were worried about both.”
“Keep quiet, Marya,” said Charlotte. “You’ve done enough damage with your tongue.”
“Marya did the right thing!” Mama said. “How could she not tell me?”
Charlotte said: “Don’t you think women should have the vote?”
“Certainly not-and you shouldn’t think so, either.”
“But I do,” Charlotte said. “There it is.”
“You know nothing-you’re still a child.”
“We always come back to that, don’t we? I’m a child, and I know nothing. Who is responsible for my ignorance? Marya has been in charge of my education for fifteen years. As for being a child, you know perfectly well that I’m nothing of the kind. You would be quite happy to see me married by Christmas. And some girls are mothers by the age of thirteen, married or not.”
Mama was shocked. “Who tells you such things?”
“Certainly not Marya. She never told me anything important. Nor did you.”
Mama’s voice became almost pleading. “You have no need of such knowledge-you’re a lady.”
“You see what I mean? You want me to be ignorant. Well, I don’t intend to be.”
Mama said plaintively: “I only want you to be happy!”
“No, you don’t,” Charlotte said stubbornly. “You want me to be like you.”
“No, no, no!” Mama cried. “I don’t want you to be like me! I don’t!” She burst into tears, and ran from the room.
Charlotte stared after her, mystified and ashamed.
Marya said: “You see what you’ve done.”
Charlotte looked her up and down: gray dress, gray hair, ugly face, smug expression. “Go away, Marya.”
“You’ve no conception of the trouble and heartache you’ve caused this afternoon.”
Charlotte was tempted to say: If you had kept your mouth shut there would have been no heartache. Instead she said: “Get out.”
“You listen to me, little Charlotte-”
“I’m Lady Charlotte to you.”
“You’re little Charlotte, and-”
Charlotte picked up a hand mirror and hurled it at Marya. Marya squealed. The missile was badly aimed and smashed against the wall. Marya scuttled out of the room.
Now I know how to deal with her, Charlotte thought.
It occurred to her that she had won something of a victory. She had reduced Mama to tears and chased Marya out of her room. That’s something, she thought; I may be stronger than they after all. They deserved rough treatment: Marya went to Mama behind my back, and Mama slapped me. But I didn’t grovel and apologize and promise to be good in future. I gave as good as I got. I should be proud.
So why do I feel so ashamed?
I hate myself, Lydia thought.
I know how Charlotte feels, but I can’t tell her that I understand. I always lose control. I never used to be like this. I was always calm and dignified. When she was a little girl I could laugh at her peccadilloes. Now she’s a woman. Dear God, what have I done? She’s tainted with the blood of her father, of Feliks, I’m sure of it. What am I going to do? I thought if I pretended she was Stephen’s daughter she might actually become like a daughter of Stephen-innocent, lady-like, English. It was no good. All those years the bad blood was in her, dormant, and now it’s coming out; now the amoral Russian peasant in her ancestry is taking her over. When I see those signs I panic. I can’t help it. I’m cursed, we’re all cursed, the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children, even unto the third and fourth generation, when will I be forgiven? Feliks is an anarchist and Charlotte is a suffragette; Feliks is a fornicator and Charlotte talks about thirteen-year-old mothers; she has no idea how awful it is to be possessed by passion; my life was ruined, hers will be too, that’s what I’m afraid of, that’s what makes me shout and cry and get hysterical and smack her, but, sweet Jesus, don’t let her ruin herself, she’s all I’ve lived for. I shall lock her away. If only she would marry a nice boy, soon, before she has time to go right off the rails, before everybody realizes there is something wrong with her breeding. I wonder if Freddie will propose to her before the end of the season-that would be the answer- I must make sure he does, I must have her married, quickly! Then it will be too late for her to ruin herself; besides, with a baby or two she won’t have time. I must make sure she meets Freddie more often. She’s quite pretty, she’ll be a good enough wife to a strong man who can keep her under control, a decent man who will love her without unleashing her dark desires, a man who will sleep in an adjoining room and share her bed once a week with the light out. Freddie is just right for her; then she’ll never have to go through what I’ve been through, she’ll never have to learn the hard way that lust is wicked and destroys, the sin won’t be passed down yet another generation, she won’t be wicked like me. She thinks I want her to be like me. If only she knew. If only she knew!
Feliks could not stop crying.
People stared at him as he walked through the park to retrieve his bicycle. He shook with uncontrollable sobs and the tears poured down his face. This had never happened to him before and he could not understand it. He was helpless with grief.
He found the bicycle where he had left it, beneath a bush, and the familiar sight calmed him a little. What is happening to me? he thought. Lots of people have children. Now I know that I have, too. So what? And he burst into tears again.
He sat down on the dry grass beside the bicycle. She’s so beautiful, he thought. But he was not weeping for what he had found; he was weeping for what he had lost. For eighteen years he had been a father without knowing it. While he was wandering from one grim village to another, while he was in jail, and in the gold mine, and walking across Siberia, and making bombs in Bialystock, she had been growing up. She had learned to walk, and to talk, and to feed herself and tie her bootlaces. She had played on a green lawn under a chestnut tree in summer, and had fallen off a donkey and cried. Her “father” had given her a pony while Feliks had been working on the chain gang. She had worn white frocks in summer and woolen stockings in winter. She had always been bilingual in Russian and English. Someone else had read storybooks to her; someone else had said “I’ll catch you!” and chased her, screaming with delight, up the stairs; someone else had taught her to shake hands and say “How do you do?”; someone else had bathed her and brushed her hair and made her finish up her cabbage. Many times Feliks had watched Russian peasants with their children and had wondered how, in their lives of misery and grinding poverty, they managed to summon up affection and tenderness for the infants who took the bread from their mouths. Now he knew: the love just came, whether you wanted it or not. From his recollections of other people’s children he could visualize Charlotte at different stages of development: as a toddler with a protruding belly and no hips to hold up her skirt; as a boisterous seven-year-old, tearing her frock and grazing her knees; as a lanky, awkward girl of ten with ink on her fingers and clothes always a little too small; as a shy adolescent, giggling at boys, secretly trying her mother’s perfume, crazy about horses, and then-
And then this beautiful, brave, alert, inquisitive, admirable young woman.
And I’m her father, he thought.
Her father.
What was it she had said? You’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met-may I see you again? He had been preparing to say good-bye to her forever. When he knew that he would not have to, his self-control had begun to disintegrate. She thought he had a cold. Ah, she was young still, to make such bright, cheerful remarks to a man whose heart was breaking.
I’m becoming maudlin, he thought; I must pull myself together.
He stood up and picked up the bicycle. He mopped his face with the handkerchief she had given him. It had a bluebell embroidered in one corner, and he wondered whether she had done that herself. He mounted the bicycle and headed for the Old Kent Road.
It was suppertime but he knew he would not be able to eat. That was just as well, for his money was running low and tonight he did not have the spirit to steal. He looked forward now to the darkness of his tenement room, where he could spend the night alone with his thoughts. He would go over every minute of this encounter, from the moment she emerged from the house to that last good-bye wave.
He would have liked a bottle of vodka for company, but he could not afford it.
He wondered whether anyone had ever given Charlotte a red ball.
The evening was mild but the city air was stale. The pubs of the Old Kent Road were already filling up with brightly dressed working-class women and their husbands, boyfriends or fathers. On impulse, Feliks stopped outside one. The sound of an elderly piano wafted through the open door. Feliks thought: I’d like someone to smile at me, even if it’s only a barmaid. I could afford half a pint of ale. He tied his bicycle to a railing and went in.
The place was stifling, full of smoke and the unique beery smell of an English pub. It was early, but already there was a good deal of loud laughter and feminine squeals. Everyone seemed enormously cheerful. Feliks thought: Nobody knows how to spend money better than the poor. He joined the crush at the bar. The piano began a new tune, and everyone sang.
Once a young maiden climbed an old man’s knee
Begged for a story, “Do, Uncle, please,
Why are you single, why live alone?
Have you no babies, have you no home?”
“I had a sweetheart, years, years ago;
Where is she now, pet, you will soon know
List to my story, I’ll tell it all;
I believed her faithless, after the ball.”
The stupid, sentimental, empty-headed damn song brought tears to Feliks’s eyes, and he left the pub without ordering his beer.
He cycled away, leaving the laughter and music behind. That kind of jollity was not for him; it never had been and never would be. He made his way back to the tenement and carried the bicycle up the stairs to his room on the top floor. He took off his hat and coat and lay on the bed. He would see her again in two days. They would look at paintings together. He would go to the municipal bathhouse before meeting her, he decided. He rubbed his chin: there was nothing he could do to make the beard grow decently in two days. He cast his mind back to the moment when she came out of the house. He had seen her from a distance, never dreaming…
What was I thinking of at that moment? he wondered.
And then he remembered.
I was asking myself whether she might know where Orlov is.
I haven’t thought about Orlov all afternoon.
In all probability she does know where he is; if not, she could find out.
I might use her to help me kill him.
Am I capable of that?
No, I am not. I will not do it. No, no, no!
What is happening to me?
Walden saw Churchill at the Admiralty at twelve noon. The First Lord was impressed. “Thrace,” he said. “Surely we can give them half of Thrace. Who the devil cares if they have the whole of it!”
“That’s what I thought,” Walden said. He was pleased with Churchill’s reaction. “Now, will your colleagues agree?”
“I believe they will,” Churchill said thoughtfully. “I’ll see Grey after lunch and Asquith this evening.”
“And the Cabinet?” Walden did not want to do a deal with Aleks only to have it vetoed by the Cabinet.
“Tomorrow morning.”
Walden stood up. “So I can plan to go back to Norfolk late tomorrow.”
“Splendid. Have they caught that damned anarchist yet?”
“I’m having lunch with Basil Thomson of the Special Branch-I’ll find out then.”
“Keep me informed.”
“Naturally.”
“And thank you. For this proposal, I mean.” Churchill looked out of the window dreamily. “Thrace!” he murmured to himself. “Who has ever even heard of it?”
Walden left him to his reverie.
He was in a buoyant mood as he walked from the Admiralty to his club in Pall Mall. He usually ate lunch at home, but he did not want to trouble Lydia with policemen, especially as she was in a rather strange mood at the moment. No doubt she was worried about Aleks, as Walden was. The boy was the nearest thing to a son that they had: if anything should happen to him-
He went up the steps of his club and, just inside the door, handed his hat and gloves to a flunky. “What a lovely summer we’re having, my lord,” the man said.
The weather had been remarkably fine for months, Walden reflected as he went up to the dining room. When it broke there would probably be storms. We shall have thunder in August, he thought.
Thomson was waiting. He looked rather pleased with himself. What a relief it will be if he’s caught the assassin, Walden thought. They shook hands, and Walden sat down. A waiter brought the menu.
“Well?” said Walden. “Have you caught him?”
“All but,” Thomson said.
That meant no, Walden thought. His heart sank. “Oh, damn,” he said.
The wine waiter came. Walden asked Thomson: “Do you want a cocktail?”
“No, thank you.”
Walden approved. Cocktails were a nasty American habit. “Perhaps a glass of sherry?”
“Yes, please.”
“Two,” Walden said to the waiter.
They ordered Brown Windsor soup and poached salmon, and Walden chose a bottle of hock to wash it down.
Walden said: “I wonder if you realize quite how important this is? My negotiations with Prince Orlov are almost complete. If he were to be assassinated now the whole thing would fall through-with serious consequences for the security of this country.”
“I do realize, my lord,” Thomson said. “Let me tell you what progress we’ve made. Our man is Feliks Kschessinsky. That’s so hard to say that I propose we call him Feliks. He is forty, the son of a country priest, and he comes from Tambov province. My opposite number in St. Petersburg has a very thick file on him. He has been arrested three times and is wanted in connection with half a dozen murders.”
“Dear God,” Walden muttered.
“My friend in St. Petersburg adds that he is an expert bomb maker and an extremely vicious fighter.” Thomson paused. “You were terribly brave, to catch that bottle.” Walden gave a thin smile: he preferred not to be reminded.
The soup came and the two men ate in silence for a while. Thomson sipped his hock frugally. Walden liked this club. The food was not as good as he got at home, but there was a relaxed atmosphere. The chairs in the smoking room were old and comfortable, the waiters were old and slow, the wallpaper was faded and the paintwork was dull. They still had gas lighting. Men such as Walden came here because their homes were spick-and-span and feminine.
“I thought you said you had all but caught him,” Walden said as the poached salmon arrived.
“I haven’t told you the half of it yet.”
“Ah.”
“At the end of May he arrived at the Jubilee Street anarchist club in Stepney. They didn’t know who he was, and he told them lies. He’s a cautious man-quite rightly so, from his point of view, for one or two of those anarchists are working for me. My spies reported his presence, but the information didn’t come to my notice at that stage because he appeared to be harmless. Said he was writing a book. Then he stole a gun and moved on.”
“Without telling anyone where he was going, of course.”
“That’s right.”
“Slippery fellow.”
A waiter collected their plates and said: “Will you have a slice off the joint, gentlemen? It’s mutton today.”
They both had mutton with red-currant jelly, roast potatoes and asparagus.
Thomson said: “He bought the ingredients for his nitroglycerine in four different shops in Camden Town. We made house-to-house inquiries there.” Thomson took a mouthful of mutton.
“And?” Walden asked impatiently.
“He’s been living at nineteen Cork Street, Camden, in a house owned by a widow called Bridget Callahan.”
“But he’s moved on.”
“Yes.”
“Damn it, Thomson, can’t you see the fellow’s cleverer than you?”
Thomson looked at him coolly and made no comment.
Walden said: “I beg your pardon, that was discourteous of me, the fellow’s got me rattled.”
Thomson went on: “Mrs. Callahan says she threw Feliks out because she thought he was a suspicious character.”
“Why didn’t she report him to the police?”
Thomson finished his mutton and put down his knife and fork. “She says she had no real reason to. I found that suspicious, so I checked up on her. Her husband was an Irish rebel. If she knew what our friend Feliks was up to, she might well have been sympathetic.”
Walden wished Thomson would not call Feliks “our friend.” He said: “Do you think she knows where the man went?”
“If she does, she won’t say. But I can’t think why he should tell her. The point is, he may come back.”
“Are you having the place watched?”
“Surreptitiously. One of my men has already moved into the basement room as a tenant. Incidentally, he found a glass rod of the kind used in chemistry laboratories. Evidently Feliks made up his nitroglycerine right there in the sink.”
It was chilling to Walden to think that in the heart of London anyone could buy a few chemicals, mix them together in a wash-hand-basin, and make a bottle of dreadfully explosive liquid-then walk with it into a suite in a West End hotel.
The mutton was followed by a savory of foie gras. Walden said: “What’s your next move?”
“The picture of Feliks is hanging up in every police station in the County of London. Unless he locks himself indoors all day, he’s bound to be spotted by an observant bobby sooner or later. But just in case that should be later rather than sooner, my men are visiting cheap hotels and lodging houses, showing the picture.”
“Suppose he changes his appearance?”
“It’s a bit difficult in his case.”
Thomson was interrupted by the waiter. Both men refused the Black Forest gateau and chose ices instead. Walden ordered half a bottle of champagne.
Thomson went on: “He can’t hide his height, nor his Russian accent. And he has distinctive features. He hasn’t had time to grow a beard. He may wear different clothes, shave himself bald or wear a wig. If I were he I should go about in a uniform of some kind-as a sailor, or a footman, or a priest. But policemen are alert to that sort of thing.”
After their ices they had Stilton cheese and sweet biscuits with some of the club’s vintage port.
It was all too vague, Walden felt. Feliks was loose, and Walden would not feel safe until the fellow was locked up and chained to the wall.
Thomson said: “Feliks is clearly one of the top killers of the international revolutionist conspiracy. He is very well informed: for example, he knew that Prince Orlov was going to be here in England. He is also clever, and formidably determined. However, we have hidden Orlov away.”
Walden wondered what Thomson was getting at.
“By contrast,” Thomson went on, “you are still walking about the streets of London as large as life.”
“Why should I not?”
“If I were Feliks, I would now concentrate on you. I would follow you in the hope that you might lead me to Orlov; or I would kidnap you and torture you until you told me where he was.”
Walden lowered his eyes to hide his fear. “How could he do that alone?”
“He may have help. I want you to have a bodyguard.”
Walden shook his head. “I’ve got my man Pritchard. He would risk his life for me-he has done, in the past.”
“Is he armed?”
“No.”
“Can he shoot?”
“Very well. He used to come with me to Africa in my big-game hunting days. That’s when he risked his life for me.”
“Then let him carry a pistol.”
“All right,” Walden assented. “I’ll be going to the country tomorrow. I’ve got a revolver there which he can have.”
To finish the meal Walden had a peach and Thomson took a melba pear. Afterward they went into the smoking room for coffee and biscuits. Walden lit a cigar. “I think I shall walk home, for my digestion’s sake.” He tried to say it calmly, but his voice sounded oddly high-pitched.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Thomson said. “Haven’t you brought your carriage?”
“No-”
“I should be happier about your safety if you were to go everywhere in your own vehicles from now on.”
“Very well,” Walden sighed. “I shall have to eat less.”
“For today, take a cab. Perhaps I’ll accompany you.”
“Do you really think that’s necessary?”
“He might be waiting for you outside this club.”
“How would he find out which club I belong to?”
“By looking you up in Who’s Who.”
“Yes, of course.” Walden shook his head. “One just doesn’t think of these things.”
Thomson looked at his watch. “I should get back to the Yard… if you’re ready.”
“Certainly.”
They left the club. Feliks was not lying in wait outside. They took a cab to Walden’s house; then Thomson took the cab on to Scotland Yard. Walden went into the house. It felt empty. He decided to go to his room. He sat at the window and finished his cigar.
He felt the need to talk to someone. He looked at his watch: Lydia would have had her siesta, and would now be putting on a gown ready to have tea and receive callers. He went through to her room.
She was sitting at her mirror in a robe. She looks strained, he thought; it’s all this trouble. He put his hands on her shoulders, looking at her reflection in the mirror, then bent to kiss the top of her head. “Feliks Kschessinsky.”
“What?” She seemed frightened.
“That’s the name of our assassin. Does it mean something to you?”
“No.”
“I thought you seemed to recognize it.”
“It… it rings a bell.”
“Basil Thomson has found out all about the fellow. He’s a killer, a thoroughly evil type. It’s not impossible that you might have come across him in St. Petersburg-that would explain why he seemed vaguely familiar when he called here, and why his name rings a bell.”
“Yes-that must be it.”
Walden went to the window and looked out over the park. It was the time of day when nannies took their charges for a walk. The paths were crowded with perambulators, and every bench was occupied by gossiping women in unfashionable clothes. It occurred to Walden that Lydia might have had some connection with Feliks, back in St. Petersburg-some connection which she did not want to admit. The thought was shaming, and he pushed it out of his mind. He said: “Thomson believes that when Feliks realizes Aleks is hidden away, he will try to kidnap me.”
Lydia got up from her chair and came to him. She put her arms around his waist and laid her head on his chest. She did not speak.
Walden stroked her hair. “I must go everywhere in my own coach, and Pritchard must carry a pistol.”
She looked up at him, and to his surprise he saw that her gray eyes were full of tears. She said, “Why is this happening to us? First Charlotte gets involved in a riot; then you’re threatened-it seems we’re all in jeopardy.”
“Nonsense. You’re in no danger, and Charlotte is only being a silly girl. And I’ll be well protected.” He stroked her sides. He could feel the warmth of her body through the thin robe-she was not wearing her corset. He wanted to make love to her, right now. They had never done it in daylight.
He kissed her mouth. She pressed her body against his, and he realized that she, too, wanted to make love. He could not remember her being like this ever before. He glanced toward the door, thinking to lock it. He looked at her, and she gave a barely perceptible nod. A tear rolled down her nose. Walden went to the door.
Someone knocked.
“Damn!” Walden said quietly.
Lydia turned her face away from the door and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.
Pritchard came in. “Excuse me, my lord. An urgent telephone communication from Mr. Basil Thomson. They have tracked the man Feliks to his lodging. If you want to be in at the kill, Mr. Thomson will pick you up here in three minutes.”
“Get my hat and coat,” Walden told him.