Part 37 (1/2)

MALAYA ITALYANSKAYA STREET.

ST PETERSBURG.

The well-built young gentleman in the top hat and fur coat was too merry to notice that someone was keeping pace on the pavement opposite. After a convivial evening at a restaurant on the Nevsky Prospekt, he had elected to walk home in the hope cold air would clear the claret from his befuddled brain. At first his pursuer had followed at a discreet distance, but it had shortened when it became apparent from his rolling gait that the young gentleman was very much the worse for wear from drink. Turning into Malaya Italyanskaya Street, he slipped on a patch of ice and, with desperate flailing limbs, fought to stay on his feet. It made his pursuer smile. What would the readers of The Times of London make of such an undignified display? Fortunately, the new mansion block where Mr George Dobson rented his apartment was only a few yards further and these he was able to execute safely with tiny j.a.panese steps.

Dobson was snoozing in a chair beside the fire with a gla.s.s of strong black tea balanced on the arm when the bell rang. It was nearly midnight, he had discarded his jacket and boots, his head was beginning to ache and he was in no mood to welcome visitors. It rang again as he was smoothing his hair in front of the mirror. Muttering profanities under his breath, he hurried into the hall and drew back the locks. It was a woman of perhaps thirty in a heavy brown coat that had seen many winters and was far too big for her small frame. She was wearing a green scarf about her face and a traditional winter hat of rabbit fur. She was better dressed than most peasants, but only a little.

'Mr George Dobson?' she asked in Russian.

'Yes.'

'May I come in?'

'Who are you?'

A gloved finger to her lips, she whispered 'Inside'.

Her face was very thin and white, the skin a little loose over the bone. She had thick dark eyebrows, a broad nose and a small mouth with a full lower lip and a thin Cupid's bow upper. She was not beautiful but striking, and even in the darkness there was a pale brilliance to her blue eyes that startled him.

Flummoxed by her boldness, he stepped back into the hall. She followed him at once but waited until the door was closed and bolted before she spoke.

'My name is Anna Kovalenko,' she said, and she pulled off her gloves and held out her hand in a very English way.

'Hadfield's . . . But you're in prison.'

'No. I am standing in your hall.'

Dobson leant forward a little as if gaping at an unusual zoo animal. 'They let you go?'

'Of course not!' she said shortly. 'Can we talk somewhere else?' And without waiting for an invitation, she set off down the hall in search of the drawing room.

'What are you doing here?' he asked crossly as he followed her. 'Did anyone see you?'

'No one saw me.'

She took off her coat and hat and dropped them on his couch. Her hair was cut short and in the gaslight she looked thin and severe in a plain black dress.

'You should draw the curtains.'

'How can you be sure?'

'Mr Dobson, I have been a revolutionary for a number of years.'

He plodded to the window and closed the drapes while Anna cleared newspapers from an armchair by the fire. 'I expect you know why I've come here?'

'No,' he said, slumping into the chair opposite. 'And frankly I would rather you weren't here. How did you escape?'

'It's not important. At Krasnoyarsk on the way east with the help of the party.'

'Is there still a party?'

She gave a small smile: 'The correspondent with all the questions. I haven't come to talk about the party.'

'What have you come to talk about?'

She turned to look at the fire as if to compose herself, its flickering shadows playing across her cheek and neck. And when she looked at him again there was a sadness in her eyes and in the weary lines of her face that spoke of loss and pain and desperation. He knew why she was there and she knew he knew.

'My comrades have been looking for her,' she said. 'But you will understand how difficult it is for friends of mine to make inquiries.'

'Yes. But what can I do?'

'You know people. The British emba.s.sy . . .'

He stared at her for a moment then, rising from his chair, made his way over to the samovar and began to spoon tea into a pot.

'It would be easy for a correspondent to visit these places without suspicion,' she said.

His back was to her and she did not see his wry smile.

'Is that all?' he asked, turning with the tea tray: 'Why me? There are Russian journalists. I don't know you.'

She coloured a little: 'You've heard of me.'

'Most of St Petersburg has heard of you. Here-' and he handed her a gla.s.s.

'Have you tried?' she asked tentatively.

Dobson did not reply but stood at the fireplace blowing the steam from his gla.s.s, his high pink forehead wrinkled in a thoughtful frown.

'He's your friend,' she added quietly.

'Can't you speak his name?'

She turned to look at the fire again, lifting a small hand to her face but not before he noticed her lip tremble.

'I want to find my daughter. Will you help me?'

'And Frederick feels the same.'

'I know he feels the same,' she said quietly. 'That's why I'm here. My friends tell me you visited the Rauchfus Hospital and the orphanage on the Moika Embankment.'

'Yes. I'm doing what I can to find the girl.'

'Sophia. That's her name,' she said sharply, turning to look at him again.

'The state has given her a name, Anna Petrovna, but we have no idea what.'