Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

“Yes!” Matriona Pobednyeva said grimly, nodding at the wriggling bottom. “Just so that he could poison her in peace, you mean.”

“Masha, please!” her husband groaned in despair. “All the blood is rushing to my head.”

Madame Pobednyev fastened the last of her buttons on the high necked blouse and smoothed down the front of her creased skirt. With a last look round to see if she had forgotten anything, she bent stiffly at the waist and, grasping the foot of the iron bedstead, pulled the whole bed six inches towards her. It wasn’t much but it was sufficient to allow Pobednyev to struggle to his feet and shuffle unsteadily out of the narrow defile in which he had been trapped. As he emerged at the end of the bed, his movements hampered by the voluminous folds of his trousers that concertinaed around his ankles, she shook her head despairingly.

“Look at it. My husband the Mayor!” she jeered. “If only the council could see you now.”

Hastily, he bent down and pulled up his trousers in an attempt to salvage some shred of dignity.

“Now look here, Matriona,” he began angrily.

“No!” she interrupted him, advancing on him as she waved an accusing finger at him. “You look here! Because of all your high jinks, I’m all behind with the preparations for dinner. Though why I should be expected to feed that monster is beyond me. So don’t waste your time dreaming up any more of your fine speeches. I want you downstairs as soon as you’re dressed and ready to meet the Beast. Until then, I won’t feel safe from him.”

Turning to go, she glanced meaningfully down at his unbuttoned fly and added, “Or from you.”

Anatoli Mikhailovich stared glumly at her retreating back. As soon as she had closed the door behind her, he made an obscene gesture at the wall and sat down heavily on the side of the bed.

What a tongue that woman has, he thought. It would serve her right if Tolkach does poison her.

All the same, it was useful to be reminded that a cloud of suspicion still hung over the Hospital Administrator. And his dear wife wasn’t the only person to nurture a secret desire for civic recognition. Ever since Kostya Izorov had informed him about the convoy, he had felt that the time had come to put a long nurtured plan into operation. A plan that was in every sense of the word monumental. And Modest Tolkach was just the man to help him.

Chapter Eight

Friday 2 February 1907

Great Tobolsk Highway