‘Well, goodbye until the revolution,’ he said pleasantly. Then he was gone.
It was an hour later that the two Romanovs appeared at Bobrovo to ask if Popov had been there. To make sure they didn’t try to follow Popov, the landowner told them he had not seen him.
The fire at Russka took both the warehouse, another next door, and four of the little row-houses in whose roofs flying embers had lodged. Only the following morning did anyone realize that Natalia and Grigory had gone missing; their charred remains were found hours later.
Because of an interview which took place in the early morning between Savva Suvorin and Mikhail Bobrov, no police investigation of the fire ever took place. It was declared an accident. How Natalia and Grigory came to be trapped inside was never explained. It was remarked, however, that the local police chief and his family all had new clothes a few weeks later.
Varya Romanov had her baby at the end of the year. It was a little girl whom they decided to call Arina. Varya was so attached to the baby, which replaced her only daughter, that the little girl came safely through the winter, entirely unaware that her grandmother and namesake had more than once stood over her cradle and murmured: ‘I know I ought to leave you out there, but I haven’t the heart.’
Nor was the child ever aware of another minor event that had taken place just a week after winter ended.
It was the habit of Misha Bobrov, each spring, to sort out his papers. Since this was a yearly event, there were always plenty to sort. Letters, notes he had made to himself, memoranda from zemstvo officials, unpaid bills… the papers accumulated on the big table in his study, on top of the books that lined the walls, and in the drawers of his desk. He enjoyed this business: it allowed him to survey the previous year of his life and, proceeding in a leisurely fashion, the review often took him three or four days. The letters, in particular, he liked to read over; and many of these he would then tie up with ribbon and store in boxes in the attic. When his wife suggested this was a waste of time he would calmly reply, ‘You never know,’ and continue happily with his work.
There had been much to read and ponder this last year. He had even considered writing up an account of the extraordinary events of the last summer. How strange and interesting for Nicolai’s grandchildren to read about one day, he had thought. However, he had put this task off for the time being – ‘until I’m not so busy’ – and so the only memorial of those days amongst the papers was the letter from Peter Suvorin which Popov had given him. I must certainly keep that, Misha considered. After all, one never knew when it might come in handy against the Suvorins in the future. And since the strange document did not belong with anything else, he tied a piece of red ribbon round it, labelled it ‘Suvorin Fire’, and put it up in the attic with the other letters.
It was the day after he had finished this task that he received an unexpected visitor – young Boris Romanov. The landlord had not seen the young peasant for some time and was surprised that he was not accompanied by his father; but he had him shown into his study, smiled at him pleasantly enough, and enquired: ‘Well, Boris, what is it?’
The speech that Boris had prepared was so slow and convoluted that at first Misha could not make out what he wanted; but there was a look of sullen awkwardness on the peasant’s face that made the landowner uneasy. Carefully Boris reminded him of the family’s poverty, their need for more land, and their loyalty to the Bobrovs. Then, finally, he came to the point. ‘I was thinking about last summer, sir,’ he said.
So that was it. Misha was cautious. ‘Well?’
‘We had an agreement then, sir. About helping my father and giving my sister a dowry.’ Still Misha said nothing. ‘My sister’s dead now, sir.’
‘God rest her soul.’
‘But as you know, we have a new baby in the family.’ He looked at the floor. ‘So I wondered if you could see your way to helping us like you said, sir? Natalia’s dowry could go to the baby Arina, you see.’
Misha gazed at him thoughtfully. In truth, the young man’s speech had touched a raw nerve. Since that terrible night the previous summer, no word had ever been spoken about the evil bargain he had made with the Romanovs; after all, the murder had not taken place, poor Natalia had died, and Misha had tried to blot the whole episode from his mind. Apart from some help with his repayments, Misha had not thought it necessary to give any substantial sum of money to Timofei Romanov, nor had the peasant dared to ask. Yet more than once Misha had secretly thought to himself: It’s we, really, who brought misfortune on the Romanovs. I ought to do something for them one day. Young Boris’s suggestion of a present of money for the child appealed to him. Perhaps, quite soon, he would give one… And because he was turning the matter over in his mind, he did not trouble, at first, to reply to the peasant.
It was then that Boris Romanov made his great mistake. For misunderstanding Misha’s hesitation, he suddenly looked up and announced: ‘After all, sir, what with my sister being killed in the fire, we wouldn’t want you getting into trouble now, would we?’ With which he gave the landowner a nasty grin.
Misha stared at him in amazement, then he blushed. What the devil did the fellow know?
In fact, young Boris knew nothing at all. But had Misha possessed any idea of what the young peasant suspected, he would have been shaken indeed.
For if the authorities had dismissed the fire at Russka as an accident, Boris certainly had not. The memory of his poor sister Natalia seemed to haunt him; and the more he brooded on it, the more sure he was that the whole business was suspicious. Time and again that winter he had challenged his father. ‘If it was an accident, then how come Natalia and Grigory were locked inside?’ he would demand. Why would anyone want to kill them? ‘Maybe they knew too much.’ And the identity of the killer? ‘That redheaded devil, Popov. It must have been.’ Even old Timofei conceded that this last was possible. But it was the next step in Boris’s logic that his father was unwilling to take.
‘For,’ Boris reasoned, ‘there’s still more to this than meets the eye. Think about it.’ He would jab his finger down on the table. ‘Bobrov let us go after Popov, but we never caught him. Who tipped that devil off? Must have been Bobrov himself. Sent a servant, or even Nicolai, round to warn him. And how come Popov escapes – vanishes? And nothing’s ever said about either the fire or Nicolai Bobrov? There has to be something going on that we don’t know about. And that landowner’s hiding it. He knows who lit the fire; he knows who killed my sister – and maybe a lot more besides.’
To which Timofei would only listen sadly, shake his head and reply: ‘I still don’t believe it. But even if it is so, what can you do about it?’
And here Boris was stuck. He had no proof. The authorities would never listen to him. He’d only get into trouble. Yet as the winter months went by, his sullen conviction became an obsession. He could not let it go. And finally, just as the snows were melting, he decided: I’ll shake down that damned landlord, anyway. I bet I can frighten something out of him.
Though he had blushed, Misha collected himself quickly. In a moment, he was outwardly calm. His mind, however, was working rapidly.
The fire… the peasant was insinuating something about the fire. Yet Misha’s only crime lay in concealing the letter that Popov had given him which revealed the culprit. Was it possible the peasant knew about that? It seemed unlikely. With a face which, he hoped, was completely serene, Misha gazed at Boris and remarked: ‘I don’t think I understand you.’