A dutiful bureaucrat, Myshkin knew how to follow orders; and though he personally disliked Alexei Romanov, he had for several months devoted his attentions to discovering the secrets of Prince Oleg. But the Prince had been damnably clever; and Myshkin, despite threats and hints to the contrary, had not been able to discover firm evidence against him. Until that morning when he received a message from a distraught Princess Elizabeth calling him to the palace.
Now, as he stood thoughtfully outside the sitting room where he had recently interrogated the Princess, Myshkin felt the eagerness of a bloodhound whose acute senses told him he was nearing his quarry. Princess Elizabeth had obviously been badly frightened as she poured out the details of Prince Oleg’s affair with Katia Danova and related how the young woman had somehow killed Leo, the Prince’s bodyguard with a sharp stone and then managed to attack the Prince as well. Though he listened attentively as she protested her own innocence in the matter, Myshkin had not believed a word of the Princess’ revelations save the fact that Oleg and Katia were lovers. He had suspected this for some time; but, although the Czar personally disapproved of marital infidelity, he was not a scandal monger and would require proof of worse than this to convince him that Oleg was unfit to hold high diplomatic office.
With a fervour verging on mania, Myshkin wanted Oleg Romanov! All his life he had despised the Prince and his arrogant aristocratic comrades who were so confident in their royal lineage that they believed it gave them the right to behave in any way they wished. Myshkin was the son of a petty bureaucrat who had, by dint of hard work and a willingness to take on jobs considered loathesome by others, risen to a high rank within the government while possessing neither lands nor title. Myshkin had grown up knowing that without a noble title, he was inferior to those men and women with whom he had dealings. He wanted Oleg Romanov now because he knew that if he pleased his Czar, Nicholas would grant to him and his heirs a title that would once and for all wipe away the stain of inferiority that had marked his life. Princes and princesses would no longer despise and snub him or whisper nastily behind their hands when he appeared. They would see him and honour him and—this pleased Myshkin particularly—they would fear him.
Within the sitting room he heard footsteps approaching the door. Quickly, he slipped into the shadows of an alcove and spied as Princess Elizabeth stepped out into the hall. She was dishevelled and highly agitated he could tell from the quick nervous half-running steps she took down the hall. Staying behind and moving stealthily, he followed her as she made her way through the corridors and reception rooms to the study where Myshkin knew her husband was convalescing. When she entered the room and closed the door behind her, Myshkin put his ear to the door and listened to the conversation within.
“You’ve ruined us!” Elizabeth was saying stridently. “You and your philandering have gone one step too far this time; and now that beast Myshkin is going to know the truth finally, once and for all.”
“Shut up, Elizabeth.” Oleg’s voice was weak but venomous nonetheless. “You’re the one who called him here. If you had left it to me…”
“Oh, yes, if I’d left the situation in your hands you would have made a botch of it just as you do everything else. You’re incompetent, Oleg Ivanovich. The heat in your loins has cooked your brain if you think I’ll keep silent any longer. I won’t go down to infamy with you. Not after what you’ve made me suffer. I won’t let the Czar believe I was your collaborator in this disgusting business. I won’t risk everything—my good name, prestige, position—to shield you and your little harlot!” Elizabeth was breathless with rage. “Where is she? Tell me and then tell Myshkin. Cooperate in bringing her in and perhaps…” suddenly the tone changed to one of cajolery “…the Czar will go kindly with you. I’ve told Myshkin nothing about the others and unless I speak he will never know. Give him just a little information, the whereabouts of the girl, and he’ll be satisfied. He’s a commoner. A pig from the country. Offer him money…”
Prince Oleg laughed nastily. “You underestimate him. And anyway, why should I do anything to help you? I repeat, Elizabeth: you are the one who called the bulldog in. You deal with him.” Prince Oleg uttered a long pained sigh. “Get out! I am ill enough without your adding to my discomfort.”
“You bastard! I wish she’d killed you!” Elizabeth’s laugh was a cackle, and Myshkin could imagine how her face contorted with rage as she spoke. “I’ll tell him everything. Everything!”
Oleg grunted angrily and there was the sound of a chair toppling over on the hardwood floor.
“Get away from me!” cried Elizabeth.
Myshkin retreated behind an oriental screen just in time for the door of the study opened suddenly, and Elizabeth ran across the hall. Oleg Romanov stood in the doorwary, steadying himself against the jamb with one hand pressed to his bandaged head. His eyes were shut tight against a spasm of pain, and he could not respond when his wife screamed at him from across the hall.
“I’ll make you pay, Oleg Ivanovich. You won’t drag me down with you!”
When she got to her apartment, Elizabeth had regained her control. She was thinking fast, searching for a plan that would achieve two things: incriminate her husband and, at the same time, make Myshkin deal kindly with her. The vision of a country life of banishment, trapped in some remote place with her despicable husband, haunted her; and she knew that before she could live this way she would see Oleg Romanov dead.
She jumped at the sound of a knock. It was the footman, Karl.
“Myshkin wishes to speak with you again, Your Highness,” said Karl nervously. Like everyone else in the household, he was aquiver with excitement and curiosity over the violent happenings of the last twenty-four hours.
“Let him in then. And bring champagne, you jackass!” When Karl had gone, his young face sullen and angry, Princess Elizabeth hurried to her mirror and rearranged her dishevelled appearance. She just had time to take a seat before the fire when there was a second knock at the door, and a maid escorted Myshkin into the room followed by the still sullen-faced Karl bearing a silver tray with a large bottle of champagne and two tall crystal glasses.
“I thought you might like something to refresh you after all this dreadful business,” said Elizabeth pretending sweetness as she indicated that Myshkin was to sit. Karl hovered nearby waiting to serve the wine. “Get out of here,” she commanded imperiously. “Don’t bother us again.”
When Karl had departed, she poured two glasses of wine and gave one to Myshkin.
“Shall we drink a toast?” she asked pleasantly.
“To what occasion, Your Highness?” Myshkin could barely control his eagerness to reopen the questioning but sensed that Princess Elizabeth would be more forthcoming if he showed less eagerness.
“Let us drink to the truth, Myshkin. That’s what interests you, isn’t it?”
“My interests are insignificant, Your Highness. I am here as an officer of my Czar, please remember that.” He smiled inwardly, watching as Elizabeth tried unsuccessfully to cover her irritation. Her face was drawn and fatigued, the lines of age and ill-humor showing clearly in the dimly-lit sitting room.
“Of course. Of course.” She raised her glass and drank the wine to the dregs. She poured a second glass and then was quiet for a moment, composing her thoughts.
“I want to tell you about my husband,” she said finally. “And I want you to know how terribly it pains me to betray him in this way. Despite everything, the vows of marriage I made long ago still remain fresh in my mind. I promised then to love and honour Oleg Romanov until I died, and only a crisis such as this would make me speak against him. I do so now only because I am loyal, above all else, to my Czar and to Holy Russia.” She paused and eyed Myshkin, calculating the effect her words were having on him; but she could see no change in his countenance unless it was a twitch of humour at the corners of his cruel mouth. “Katia Danova was not the first of my husband’s young lovers. There have been others, many of them. Young girls,
children really. I know where most of them are now. Those still living.”
Myshkin listened as she spoke; and though his face remained carefully expressionless, he exulted in Elizabeth’s revelations. The Czar would despise Oleg Romanov when he heard this tale! The prince would be a pariah and Myshkin would be granted the influential title he passionately craved. Prince or not, Oleg Ivanovich would be nothing and Myshkin would be…
She was saying, “You understand there was nothing I could do about all this. I dared not even confide to my priest for fear the information might in some way reach the wrong ears. Throughout our marriage, Prince Oleg has been involved in many delicate and highly important diplomatic situations, and I could hardly take the chance that my disclosure might in some way affect his work and damage the prestige of the Czar. Until today, I believed that by keeping silent I was doing the only thing possible…” she dabbed her eyes with an appliqued hanky “…for the good of Holy Russia. I need not tell you how this dreadful situation has hurt me. I loved my husband, and I love him still despite all this. I have felt so totally abandoned by him and burdened by the weight of knowledge…”
“Where do you think Katiana Danova is?” Elizabeth’s tears did not fool Myshkin.
“I told you. I don’t know. I have only tried to ignore her humiliating presence in the palace. I love my husband, Myshkin.”
“Under the circumstances, I find that hard to believe, Your Highness.”
She looked at him quickly. “You doubt my word?”
“I did not say that, Your Highness.” Myshkin smiled a little and finished his champagne. He had been watching Elizabeth closely as she disclosed Prince Oleg’s secrets. He did not believe her protestations of love in the slightest. Even without the information he had gathered while eavesdropping an hour earlier, he would have known that Elizabeth Romanov hated her husband and only cared to protect her own reputation. She was sweating profusely. Rings of damp had appeared beneath her arms as she spoke, and drops were beaded on her forehead just below the hairline. She could not keep her hands still and twisted the stem of the champagne glass nervously one way and then the other.
“And I’m sure you understand that in the past Prince Oleg’s affairs involved peasant girls and servants,” she continued. “And he was discreet. It is only now, with this murder, that I realize he must be stopped regardless of personal sacrifice. For the good of Holy Russia.” She added the last phrase in a reverent tone, but Myshkin was not impressed for he caught her looking at him, gauging his reaction to her fealty.
“The bodyguard was killed by a small sharpened stone. I doubt a girl could manage such an unusual weapon.”
“Oh, but she was clever, Myshkin. She probably planned it this way, thinking no one would suspect her.”
“Isn’t it more likely that Alexei Romanov had something to do with this? My informants tell me that before he left Petersburg last night his coach stopped here around midnight.” The surprised reaction of the Princess delighted Myshkin.
“You’ve been spying on us!”
“My dear Princess, I serve our beloved Czar in any way I can.”
“Well, I don’t know anything about Alexei Romanov. What he does or did is his own business!” She emptied the champagne bottle and then pulled roughly on the servants’ bell.
Karl appeared almost immediately.
“Take this away and bring another!” She had drunk most of the champagne herself; and her command, issued with the arrogant rudeness that so enraged Myshkin, was slurred. Myshkin watched the face of the young servant, and noted his scarcely controlled resentment.
“I prefer not to indulge in spirits so early in the day. Your Highness,” he said. He stood up and bowed respectfully. “You have been a great service to me.”
“To the Czar, you mean,” corrected Elizabeth nastily.
“Of course, Your Highness.” Myshkin bowed again and smiled. “You will excuse me now.”
When he had gone, Elizabeth remained for a long time in her seat before the fire. When Karl brought the second bottle of champagne she grabbed it from him and snarled something incoherently. Alone with her thoughts and terrors, she drank until a drowsy nausea overtook her and she slumped into the armchair and fell into a troubled sleep.
Chapter Thirty-three
The Little Father alighted from his carriage a block away from the Romanov palace. He did not wish to draw attention to himself, and so he strolled casually into the courtyard at the rear of the palace, passed the stables and the wash houses.
‘Something has most certainly happened here,’ he thought, noticing the peculiar lack of activity around the blacksmith’s shop, the forge and carpentry huts. The courtyard was deserted but for an ill-tempered goose that honked noisily at his approach and the yapping of a mangy dog tied to a post near the foul run. The kitchen door opened and a grim-faced woman in a food-stained apron and high orthodox headdress stood on the stoop with her hands on her hips.
“Away from this house!” she cried, reaching for a broom to wave him away with. “There be no charity here for vagrants and beggars.”
The Little Father winced at the insult, but his voice was calm and calculated to still the most worried mind. “I am a humble man of God, Sister. I beg neither food nor ruples.”
“This ain’t no place for a holy man.” She started to close the door.
“All the more reason I should be here. Fetch the footman called Karl. He will vouch for me.”
The cook eyed him warily; but after a second’s thought, she nodded and ducked back into the kitchen, slamming the heavy oak door behind her. It was cold in the courtyard exposed to the wind off the Neva. The Little Father wrapped his coat more tightly around him and stamped his feet on the cobblestones. He was cold and impatient. A long thin barn cat passed by him, tail up. It circled, then came back to rub itself caressingly against the priest’s boots. It yowled forlornly.
He reached down to stroke it as the kitchen door opened, and a callow-faced youth wearing the ornate gold emblazoned livery of the Romanov’s peered out. “You wanted Karl?” he asked.
“I am the Little Father.”
Instantly, Karl’s face was suffused with smiles. He knelt and grasped the priest’s huge hand, kissing his ring devoutly. “In my family they still speak of you with reverence, Father. I was only a baby at the time you helped my sister to walk. Now she is a miller’s wife and has three handsome sons and half a dozen pretty daughters. Bless you for bringing joy to her. Father. To all of my family. May you one day sit beside the Lord God himself.”
The Little Father made the sign of the cross on the young man’s forehead. It warmed and gratified him to be loved by simple men and women like Karl and his family. But the Little Father had in mind a higher acclaim than this, a thanks more lucrative than mere words. Nevertheless, he forced himself to patience and took the time to ask solicitously the name of Karl’s village, the name of his sister, the time of year in which the healing had been accomplished. Finally, he asked, “Karl, I come here on a matter of grave importance to the family of Romanov. I must see His Highness, Prince Oleg. Will you tell him that the Little Father awaits his pleasure?”
Karl looked surprised and distinctly uncomfortable. “He is not the man for you to speak with, Father. Oleg Romanov…he looked to either side of him and then leaned forward and spoke in a whisper…is an evil, godless man. The Princess is just as bad. What happens in this house should not be spoken of by Christian folk. Forgive me, sir, if what I say offends you; but I came here from the country just three months ago, and already I regret the change.”
The Little Father found the young man’s sanctimony a trifle irritating. He rebuked him gently. “We cannot understand the way God works, my boy. You are young, but have you not yet learned that appearances can be deceiving?”
“Believe me, Father, when I say that there is trouble in this house.” Karl chewed his lip and looked distressed.
“Fetch your master, my son.”
“B
ut he won’t see you. He is closeted with Myshkin and raging mad.”
The Little Father’s eyes shone with bright intensity. Their brilliance seemed to awe Karl. He stopped talking and stared at the priest as though mesmerized and temporarily without independent will.
“Tell your Prince,” ordered the Little Father gently, “that I am here and that I bring word of the little angel of Troitza Convent. He will understand.”
Karl’s eyes widened in disbelief. He opened his mouth as if to argue, but thought better of it; and nodding and kissing the ring once more, he disappeared into the kitchen, leaving the Little Father to chafe his cold hands in the courtyard. Some time later, the footman returned and bade the priest follow him into the palace, up dark corridors and a steep back stairway to a small room in a remote corner at the top of the palace. The chamber was sparsely furnished and had little to recommend it beyond its isolated position in the palace. There was only one window and that hardly large enough for a man’s head to peer out and view the rooftops and chimneys of the palace.
Karl looked unhappy as he urged the priest to make himself comfortable. “His Highness will be with you presently,” he said, not looking at the Little Father.
“Does your master always hide his callers here, Karl?” asked the Little Father, knowing the young man would be unable to lie. The claustrophobic little room smelled of danger and old betrayals.
“I told you, Father. I am new in the Palace. I am ignorant.” Karl looked around at the cell-like room. “I have not seen this place before.” He shuddered.
“And you hope not to again, eh? Even to you, this place smells of evil, does it not?” The Little Father concentrated and willed the footman to look at him. “Your master has some plot in mind, Karl. That is why he puts me here. He is afraid of the news I bear.”
The Frost And The Flame Page 30
