When Popov reached the warehouse he went straight to the main building. Quickly he poured the oil over the torches he had made out of the sacking. Lighting one of them, he put it against the main pile of straw. One after another he lit the rest of the torches and put them against the bales he had prepared round the walls. Then, when he had just two torches left, he ran round to the storeroom.
He had not realized how quickly the fire would take. He had only put the straw in the storeroom because, since it was locked, it would be hard for anyone to put a fire out in there. Yet even as he reached it, the flames were licking the rafters in the main building. He must hurry. Quickly he opened the door, lit the two tapers and tossed them on to the nearest bales of straw. Then he pulled the door shut again and locked it. Since it had never occurred to him to look, he did not see the two young people in the corner who, a few minutes before, had sunk into sleep.
Rapidly, he sped away through the shadows and out of the town. It was time to return to Bobrovo.
Misha Bobrov sat in the salon alone. Upstairs, Nicolai was fast asleep, and the landlord thanked God that he was. For if his son had come into the room just then, he was not sure he could have faced him.
The landlord had spent a terrible few hours. He had done as young Boris suggested and packed up Popov’s things. Then, by himself, he had brought them downstairs and placed them in the yard. Now he was waiting.
What had he done? Nothing, he told himself. The Romanovs were just going to seize Popov and take him to Vladimir. That was what they had said, wasn’t it? For nearly half an hour he had clung to this absurd pretence until finally, disgusted with himself, he gave it up. He had paid them to murder the young man: that was the truth. No doubt, by now, he was dead.
Murder. He recalled that time, almost twenty years ago, when he had been tempted to kill Pinegin at Sevastopol. He had been a murderer in his heart then; but he had not done it. Was he a less moral man now? Or was it just that, this time, he had others to do the deed for him? Filled with fear, and with self loathing, he at last put his head in his hands, and murmured: ‘Lord my God, what have I done?’
It was with a mixture of astonishment, relief and terror therefore that, some time after midnight, he heard a sound, glanced up, and saw Popov standing before him, staring at him curiously.
Misha opened his mouth, but could not speak.
Popov had had an uneventful journey back. Not wishing to be seen, he had once again slipped out through the rear exit from the town. By the time he reached the river, he could see a red glow over the roofs and hear shouts within. Instead of crossing the main bridge and the open ground by the monastery, therefore, he had decided to take the path by the springs, follow the winding river downstream, and finally cross the little footbridge at Bobrovo. It was a long way round, but completely deserted.
As he approached the manor house, it had been impossible not to feel a sense of satisfaction, even glee. Everything was in place. And in his pocket he had the two letters.
It had not been difficult to copy Peter Suvorin’s handwriting. He had a talent for that sort of thing anyway. But it was the tone of the two little compositions that he was so proud of. From the long revolutionary essay that Peter had given him, he had caught not only the young man’s turns of phrase, but the way his mind worked. I’ve got his very soul, he had thought with a smile, as he wrote the two letters. Their authenticity was wonderful.
The letters themselves were very straightforward. One was to Nicolai Bobrov, his supposed fellow conspirator. It told him that he was leaving, that he was going to try to burn down his grandfather’s factory and that the printing press and the leaflets were safely hidden in Savva Suvorin’s house, where no one would find them.
All that was needed was to give this letter to Misha Bobrov. As soon as the landowner threatened Suvorin with it, the angry old industrialist would be completely neutralized. If he threatens to arrest Nicolai, his own grandson goes too. This was the perfect symmetry he was so pleased with.
The other letter was just a piece of extra insurance for himself, for possible future use. It was from Peter to Popov, telling him that he was about to leave and thanking him for his kindness. Above all, it delivered Popov a wonderful exculpation.
You have been a good friend to Nicolai and to me and I know that you have begged him, as you have me, to stick to the path of reform and give up our ideas of revolution. But you do not understand these things my friend, nor how far this matter goes – and I can’t tell you. I can only hope that one day, when the bright new dawn appears, we shall meet again as friends and that you will see that all has, truly, been for the best.
Adieu.
Having outwitted them all and proved his superiority, it seemed to Popov that he would probably stay a few more days at Russka, shake down the Bobrovs for some money, and then depart.
Only two things had surprised him. Upon entering the yard at the manor house, he had found all his luggage outside the door. Why should Bobrov be so confident he would leave that night? And now, having gone inside, here was the landowner staring at him speechless, as if he had seen a ghost. Yet Bobrov must have known he’d gone out, since his luggage had been packed up.
Popov stared at Misha thoughtfully. His mind was working quickly.
‘Surprised to see me?’ he enquired.
‘Surprised?’ Misha looked flustered. ‘Not a bit, my dear fellow. Why should I be?’
‘Why indeed?’ Why, for that matter, should the landowner be blushing scarlet and calling him ‘my dear fellow’?
And now, as his own mind raced, it occurred to Misha that if the Romanovs had missed Popov, they might turn up at any time now. And then what? Drag him off in their cart and butcher him? No. He couldn’t face that any more. Yet what the devil should he do? Anxiously, without realizing he even did so, he glanced at the door.
It was all Popov needed. He did not know the details but the sense was clear. Someone was coming to get him, and the landowner was terrified. Very well, he would stay ahead.
‘If I could completely neutralize Suvorin for you, what would you give?’ he mildly enquired. And in answer to Misha’s look of desperate hope, told him about the existence of the letter from Peter Suvorin to Nicolai and explained its contents.
‘You have this letter?’ Misha asked eagerly.
‘It’s hidden, but I can get it – for a price.’
‘How much?’
‘Two thousand roubles.’
‘Two thousand?’ The poor man looked flabbergasted. ‘I haven’t got it.’
He was so nervous that Popov thought he was probably telling the truth. ‘How much have you?’ he asked.
‘About fifteen hundred, I think.’
‘Very well. That will do.’
Misha looked relieved; then anxious again. ‘There’s one other thing,’ he said nervously. ‘If I give you money, you must leave right away.’
‘What, you mean now, in the middle of the night?’
‘Yes. At once. It’s essential.’
Popov smiled faintly. It must be as he had guessed, then. Fancy this fool having the courage to have me killed, he thought. And how typical to panic afterwards. Aloud he said, ‘You’ll have to give me a horse. A good one.’
‘Yes, of course.’
That would be worth some money too. It was amazing what power someone’s guilt gave you over them.
‘Go and get the money,’ he commanded.
A quarter of an hour later, he was ready to go. He was riding Misha Bobrov’s best horse. He had fifteen hundred roubles in his pocket, and Misha had the precious letter. Before leaving the house, Popov had paused for a moment, wondering whether to go and wake Nicolai, to say goodbye. But he had decided against it. His friend had served his purpose. He had nothing to say to him. He looked down at the anxious landowner.