by Jasper Kent
They asked her where she was living and Tamara was vague. They asked if she was still working for the government, and she said she was. They asked which department, and she said His Imperial Majesty’s Own Chancellery. They asked which section and she said the fourth. They were pleased – working to help educate the poor was an ideal job for Tamara.
‘I must admit though,’ Yelena had eventually said, ‘to a little surprise that you’ve come back to live in Moscow after all these years. Not that we’re not both delighted.’ She glanced at her husband, as if to verify his agreement. Tamara seized the opportunity to turn the conversation in the direction that she both feared and yearned for.
‘I came to research my parents,’ she said. She almost felt herself flinch in anticipation of their response. She knew how they always reacted, yet still she kept on doing it.
‘“Research” us,’ said Valentin. ‘That’s a nice way of putting it.’ But his laughter was forced – a last-ditch attempt to avoid hearing what he knew she was about to say.
‘My natural parents, I mean.’ Tamara put every effort into making it sound unimportant. Only at the last moment did she manage to say ‘natural’ instead of ‘real’. The mood of the room changed instantly.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Toma, haven’t we been over this enough?’ Yelena stood as she spoke, and began to pace across the room.
Valentin shook his head sadly, and rubbed his hands against his thighs. ‘Insulting. Most insulting,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘Ungrateful.’
Tamara felt like a little girl again. She’d always hated to upset them, but she’d grown to learn it was often a trick. Whenever she was naughty, the easiest way to punish her was to make her feel that she had let them down. She felt the tears rising in her, but held them back. On this occasion they were probably being genuine, to a degree. She was being insulting, and ungrateful – but that didn’t diminish the fact that what she was saying was true.
‘I don’t love either of you any less for it,’ she said, hearing the sudden emotion in her own voice. ‘I probably love you even more.’
‘It’s a madness in you,’ said Yelena. ‘An obsession.’
‘A serpent’s tooth,’ muttered Valentin.
‘All that you’ve done for me counts for even more if I’m not your flesh and blood.’ Now Tamara felt she was pleading.
‘Exactly,’ said Yelena, coming to a halt in front of Tamara. ‘How could we – why would we – if you’re not our daughter?’
‘Because you’re good people.’
‘Ha!’ said Valentin, louder than before. ‘It’s too late for flattery now.’
‘What about Volkonsky’s money?’
‘He is not your father.’ Valentin’s voice was firm.
‘I know that now – he was paying on behalf of someone else.’
‘I’ve explained,’ he replied with forced calm. ‘He knew your grandfather. They fought together in the war. He wanted to do something for you.’
‘For me and not for Rodion?’
‘A man can make his own way in life,’ Valentin persisted. ‘Volkonsky even wrote to you, telling you just the same.’
‘And how would you know that?’ asked Tamara. Valentin looked flustered. The fact that he was such a poor liar was another reason to suspect he was not her father. ‘Anyway – I’ve seen Volkonsky’s papers, and they tell a very different story.’
‘I think you’d better go,’ he said stiffly.
Tamara was taken aback. It was an unusual reaction from him, but perhaps it was all he could think of now she had pushed him into a corner. She looked across the room, but Yelena’s eyes were glued to the floor, daring to look neither at her husband nor Tamara.
‘Very well then,’ she said, standing. ‘Perhaps it’s for the best. Mama. Papa.’ Her looks to both of them were returned by averted gazes. It was a moment before she saw the irony of the words she had used to address them; they seemed so natural on her lips. She turned and left. She was almost at the front door when she heard Yelena’s footsteps catching up with her.
‘Why do you keep bringing it up?’ her mother asked. She was calm now – determinedly rational.
‘Because you keep denying it,’ said Tamara simply.
‘And why would that ever change?’ Her eyes flicked across Tamara’s face, studying it, but also trying to communicate something unspoken. ‘If Prince Volkonsky went to his grave without telling you what you seem so keen to hear, then why do you think we’ll do any different?’
It was the closest thing to an admission that Tamara had ever heard from either of them, but still she wanted more. ‘But how can you both pretend all the time?’
‘We’re not pretending. But if you think we’re capable of it, why can’t you be?’
Tamara nodded. Yelena pulled her close and kissed her on each cheek. Tamara turned and opened the door.
‘You will come again, soon, won’t you?’ said Yelena.
Tamara nodded.
‘And when you do, pretend, for all our sakes.’
‘I’ll try.’
She left, closing the door behind her. She stood there on the stone steps, thinking for a moment or two, and then set off, marching through the snow with a deliberate air of determination and pride that she hoped would fool anyone who saw her. She needed a safe place to run to, somewhere she would feel accepted. Every child should have such a place, even a child of thirty-three. Only an orphan could not run to her parents and ask them to take away all the troubles of the world and to make it stop – whatever ‘it’ might be. And at least an orphan could be consoled by the knowledge that she was a victim of circumstance. For Tamara, it was all down to her own stupidity.
Her cheeks tingled as her tears froze against them.
CHAPTER IV
DMITRY THREW HIMSELF to the ground as a shell exploded not far in front of him. The huge earthworks, so recently and hastily erected, protected him and those nearby from the blast, but he felt the ground shake. He waited only a moment and then pulled himself back to his feet. He peeped through a small hole in the earth towards the enemy beyond. They were French, all of them as far as he could tell, but it wasn’t surprising – the British lines were further to the south. The French had advanced a little way, but were now close enough to be in range of the Russian musket fire. They were making the best use of what little cover there was while their artillery once again attempted to soften up the Russian defences. But despite the twilight their dark blue uniforms stood out unmistakably against the snow, so that even the inaccurate Russian musketeers eventually got lucky. Dmitry watched as first one, then another and then another distant figure collapsed to the ground. It was some consolation to be fighting a mortal foe. He tried to push the thought from his mind, but he could not. It lurked there, waiting to taunt him, that simple, inescapable fact.
There were vampires in Sevastopol.
It was a preposterous idea, but his urge was more to scream than to laugh at it. The thought of it made him feel like a child, desperate to run to his father and be assured that everything was safe. It was more than a regression to a childhood need for security. Dmitry’s father was truly the only person on the planet who would not, quite rationally, laugh at his fears. Even Yudin, whom Dmitry loved almost as a father, would scoff at the very idea of the existence of the voordalak. But Aleksei would not have laughed. He had met vampires before: once in 1812 and again in 1825. That second occasion was when Dmitry too had encountered them, and when Aleksei had told him the horrible truth of it all. For thirty years, Dmitry had hoped such monsters could be forgotten.
There was no way Dmitry could have told anyone here his suspicions as to how the two engineers beneath the Star Fort had really died. Even in his own mind, in the day since the bodies had been found he had fluctuated between the rational conviction that some lunatic had torn out the throats of those two men, and the heartfelt certainty that he had once again seen the scraps of humanity that remained once a voordalak had satisfied its hunger. Dmi
try had no doubt that such creatures existed, but existence was not the same as presence. It had been a long time, just as it had been a long time since Russia had warred with France. But after forty years, the French were back. Perhaps they had brought the voordalak – le vampire – with them.
He and Captain Shulgin had quickly agreed that the killings were the work of a madman. For Dmitry the distinction was moot. A vampire was in many ways just a man with his own particular kind of madness. But at least a madman could die – die by a bullet or a blade. A vampire required more specialist methods. But if Dmitry started suggesting any of those then it would be he who was deemed mad. Instead he prepared, quietly and alone, just as his father had done. All the officers were warned that there was a killer on the loose, and a few chuckled at the thought that one more way of dying would make any difference. Dmitry bit his tongue and did not suggest what a difference it really could make. At least there had been only two deaths. Perhaps the creature had been merely … passing through.
For the moment, Dmitry’s worries concerned a more tangible foe. Since the enemy’s abortive attack across the Chernaya, the tide seemed to have turned a little in Russia’s favour. They had taken the round hill to the south-east of the city just two days before, and it had already been fortified by the men of the Kamchatka Regiment – hence the hill’s newly assumed name of the Kamchatka Lunette. The French apparently called it Le Mamelon, observing immediately, as any Frenchman would, its resemblance to a nipple. New defences had been built close to the hill, the most northern of which was the White Works, and it had been while Dmitry was inspecting these – simply to have some idea of their layout – that the French had attacked. It was a bold move, and the right thing to do – attempting to dislodge the Russians while their defences were still incomplete.
The attack had come two hours ago, and as darkness had fallen Dmitry had had ample opportunities to retire back to the city, but he had not taken them. There was much that he could learn by observing the French tactics – not to mention the faulty tactics of his own side – but that was merely an excuse. The truth was that Dmitry had spent the last half-decade waiting for something to happen, for something to change and make his life interesting. God knew it wouldn’t be at headquarters. Being out here was a throw of the dice. If it ended in death – hateful though it was to admit it – he would not mind. He did not want to die, but it was a gamble he was prepared to take against the prospect of … something new.
Another shell came in, closer, and this time Dmitry’s descent on to the earth was involuntary. He lay there for a moment on his stomach, his face pressed close against the pale clay that had been exposed when the White Works’ defences were dug, giving it its name. He was uninjured. He had escaped death. But still there was nothing new.
‘You promised to tell me of Chopin.’
Dmitry turned his head and couldn’t help but grin. Tyeplov stood over him, looking calm and in control despite the noise of battle around him. He was holding out his hand towards Dmitry. A sensation of embarrassment ran through him, at being discovered in so vulnerable a position. It was hard to discern whether the feeling was better or worse for the fact that it was Tyeplov who towered above him.
‘Now?’ he asked, accepting the hand and letting Tyeplov effortlessly pull him to his feet.
Tyeplov tilted his head to one side. ‘I could ask Prince Galtsin instead.’
Before Dmitry could respond, Tyeplov had begun to climb the rickety wooden stairway that led up to a platform just below the parapet of the earth defences. Dmitry followed him, feeling suddenly invigorated by his presence. At the top, Tyeplov hoisted his gun from his shoulder and positioned himself between two gabions – the earth-filled wicker baskets that made up so much of Sevastopol’s defensive front line. He fired a shot and then stepped back behind the gabion to reload. Within seconds he was ready to fire again.
‘That’s a shtutser!’ exclaimed Dmitry.
‘A Minié,’ said Tyeplov, pulling back to reload once more, pouring both powder and bullet into the barrel in what seemed like a single action and then swiftly ramming them home.
‘Where did you get it?’
‘From a Frenchman,’ Tyeplov explained. ‘A dead one.’
Dmitry laughed, more to please Tyeplov than because he found the idea amusing. ‘Serves him right,’ he said, without quite understanding what he meant by it. He looked through the next gap between gabions. The French were in full attack now, running forward towards the defences. Somewhere to his right, Dmitry could just make out a breach – perhaps blown by their artillery, perhaps not yet fully built in the rush to defend the Kamchatka. That was where the infantrymen were heading. He heard the report of Tyeplov’s gun, and saw one of them fall. Tyeplov ducked in again, but within seconds was once more taking aim. Another man tumbled to the ground.
‘You want a go?’ asked Tyeplov as he loaded.
Dmitry grinned and took the offered rifle. It reminded him of the first time his father let him hold a gun – though then the target had been nothing more dangerous than a pheasant. He leaned out between the gabions and tracked the figure of a running Frenchman, scarcely visible through the gloom. He squeezed the trigger and felt the gun recoil, but the soldier carried on.
‘You’re aiming a little high,’ said Tyeplov as he took the gun from Dmitry and reloaded it before handing it back.
Dmitry had never been a good shot – it wasn’t an essential skill for a horseman – but with a weapon like this, shooting became the sort of skill any officer could aspire to. He tracked another of the enemy, taking Tyeplov’s advice, and fired again. It seemed like the same instant that the man fell. Dmitry could see the blood draining from his neck and staining the snow as his arms flailed, as if trying to drag him onwards in his attack. Dmitry laughed and felt Tyeplov pat him on the back. He handed over the gun again and Tyeplov reloaded.
‘Your father killed quite a few Frenchmen in his time, I hear,’ said Tyeplov as Dmitry aimed once more. ‘A true Russian hero.’
Dmitry let the barrel of the gun drop as he fired and his bullet implanted itself harmlessly in the snow. Realization came to him – and with it disappointment. So that was what it was all about. Tyeplov was fishing, most likely for the Third Section. Tsar Nikolai might claim that the families of Decembrists were guiltless of any offence, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to trap them into revealing their sympathies. But none of that quite explained the depth of Dmitry’s regret at discovering Tyeplov’s true interest.
‘He was for a while,’ said Dmitry, ‘but he ended up disgracing us all.’ It was an absolute inversion of the truth. When Dmitry had thought Aleksei to be a soldier, and worse, a spy, just like Tyeplov, he had had little respect for him. Only when he had discovered that Aleksei was a member of a society dedicated to bringing Russia the government it deserved had he seen him as a hero. Tyeplov offered the gun back to Dmitry, who raised his hand in refusal. He felt sickened at his own actions, at the pleasure he had taken in killing a man in so impersonal a way. That wasn’t Dmitry; he’d done it only to please Tyeplov – to be with him and to be like him.
Tyeplov shrugged and aimed the gun himself. ‘You don’t believe that,’ he said with quiet conviction, then fired again.
‘I do.’ Dmitry knew better than to attempt to play any games. These government agents were not subtle, so he’d heard, though he had never before met one. It was best to counter their suggestions with simple certainties.
The French were in retreat now. Evidently the breach had been successfully defended, and now they had no hope other than to flee the Russian guns. Tyeplov happily fired at their backs, his aim unerring.
‘I have friends who say your father was the bravest man they ever met.’
‘They knew him?’ Dmitry could not hide his surprise, or his curiosity.
Tyeplov fired again, and another man fell. ‘Oh, yes. Long time ago, of course.’ The battle was over now. The French – all but a few stragglers – had gone bac
k to their lines. Tyeplov fired again and there was one straggler fewer. ‘Though he was never much use with a gun, was he – your father?’ Tyeplov stepped away from the gabions and made his way back down the steps, clearly deciding there was no more to be done.
‘What do you mean?’ Dmitry’s voice sounded indignant, even though he knew that his father had always been more comfortable with a sword than with a musket.
‘Because of his hand,’ explained Tyeplov. He turned and aimed the rifle back up the steps at Dmitry. He waggled the muzzle up and down to highlight the odd way he was holding the forestock. The last two fingers of his left hand were curled into his palm, and he allowed the gun simply to rest on his index finger, with his thumb steadying at the side. It was just the way Aleksei held a gun, having lost the last two fingers of his left hand to a Turkish blade.
‘That’s what they used to call him,’ said Tyeplov, still pointing the gun towards Dmitry, ‘long before they knew his real name.’
‘Call him?’ Dmitry came down the steps, pushing the barrel of the gun to one side. It was quiet all around now, and he wanted to get back to the city and away from Tyeplov, but he was fascinated to learn more.
‘Because of his hand,’ Tyeplov said again. ‘That’s where he got the nickname.’
‘What nickname?’ asked Dmitry.
Tyeplov glanced from side to side and spoke softly, almost reverently. ‘The three-fingered man,’ he replied.
To whom it may concern,
Please grant the bearer, Tamara Valentinovna Komarova, full access to the information she requires regarding Prince Volkonsky.
L. V. Dubyelt
Tamara held out her hand and Gribov returned the letter. She did not want him looking at it for too long, lest he notice it was undated. It had once borne a date – 2 October 1852 – but if she had left that on there it might have diluted the sense of urgency that was conveyed. The simple stroke of a knife had removed it from the top of the page. Questions over the date might also have led to questions as to precisely which source of information Dubyelt had been granting access. He had meant the archive in Petersburg, but Tamara could think of no reason why he might not also have meant the one in Moscow. She certainly wouldn’t suggest anything to the contrary to Gribov. Nor would she point out the ambiguity over exactly which Prince Volkonsky was meant – the Decembrist exile, Sergei Grigorovich, or the Minister of the Imperial Court, Pyetr Mihailovich – a distinction she had not made clear even when Dubyelt had originally signed the authorization. Tamara was interested in both princes, and much more besides.
