.”There it was, laid out before Rebecca like a road map. Only the road in question stretched not through space but through time. The contradiction of written history Michael said he had unearthed. Anna Petrovna, the daughter of Catherine and Poniatowski, didn’t die. Sir Charles must have taken her to the mysterious Jewish doctor, who had somehow saved her. But then why did history record her death? Because her family believed she had died? Because Sir Charles had told them she had died and never took her back? He had made Catherine stay behind. He could presumably have said the baby was dead — there would have been no surprise there — and concocted some story about having to bury her quickly because of the fear of contagion. After all, smallpox was rampant then.
So Sir Charles had kidnapped her! But why? He was clearly deranged. Had he believed he was saving the child from enemies at court?
But all that was conjecture. How could she find out, now that Teodor could no longer tell her? She fished the card out of her purse and, on the off chance, dialed the number. It was five o’clock on a Saturday evening. She let it ring a few times and was about to hang up when a man’s voice answered.
“Slavic Studies.”
“Professor Hauer?”
“Speaking.”
His slight accent was not unappealing. “It’s Rebecca Temple. I’m so glad I caught you.”
“Well, I was just about to phone you. The police called and told me about poor Teodor. They said you found the body.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Well, I’m sorry it had to be you. It must’ve been a shock. What a terrible, terrible tragedy.”
“Yes. Well.” What was there to say? “You worked with him. Did he seem despondent enough to take his own life?”
“He was a very strange young man. I cannot say how despondent one needs to be. I think I mentioned his father also took his own life? I can say he was distressed about his thesis. Which was shaky and not up to standard. Perhaps if he had chosen some other career.”
She thought of the unfinished letter of praise to Michael. Perhaps that was where the friction lay between the professor and the student, the difference in philosophy.
“Did the police tell you about the suicide note?”
“No.”
“He seems to be confessing to Michael Oginski’s murder.”
There was a pause. “Good God! Who would’ve thought him capable of such a thing?”
“I expected to find the rest of Michael’s manuscript in Teodor’s apartment, but there was only one chapter. I was wondering, Professor, if I could ask you about some details in the story. I think I’ve found the discrepancy Michael was talking about, the contradiction of written history.”
“May I remind you that Count Oginski was writing a book of fiction,” he said, his voice pitched higher with irritation. “So by definition, it is all a contradiction of history.”
“I disagree, Professor. I think his book is a telling of real history as if it were fiction. The characters and events are historical; he’s just given them back their personalities. He’s written them on a human level and brought out the drama.”
“My dear Doctor, history is a demanding vocation. It is not like writing a romance novel. One cannot suddenly change the facts when one is so inclined. When the Count presumed to turn an important event upside down, he was no longer writing history, but fiction.”
“Are you talking about Anna Petrovna, Catherine’s daughter with Poniatowski?”
“Yes, yes, Doctor,” he said with exasperation. “I see you’ve been doing your homework. The Count spoke to me about this as if he had discovered some new material instead of just conjuring it all up.”
“You mean the part where Sir Charles saves the baby?”
“Purely fiction. The history is well documented. The baby died.”
So the child did survive in the book.
“Though I do give him credit for his artistic talent — it’s a well-written fabrication.”
Stubborn man. “What if I told you there is an artifact that might prove otherwise? A compass.”
“I would say it was another fiction he used to acquire a publishing contract.”
“He wasn’t that sort of man,” she said, affronted. “And he never saw the compass. He said the story was repeated in his family, that the compass would prove they were descendents of royalty.”
“Nonsense! The whole thing’s a sham…”
“I’ve seen it.”
“What do you mean? Seen what?”
“The little silver sundial with a compass set in it. There’s a box with an inscription in French.”
Finally, an uncertain pause. “Well, well. Should I believe you?”
“It’s inscribed to Sophie from Sta.”
A breath in. Silence while he was thinking. “Even if you’re telling the truth, it doesn’t change anything. A compass is just a compass. Unless… unless you found something else.”
“Something else? What do you mean?”
“It doesn’t matter. Even if you found it, he could’ve planted it. Or had it planted.”
What was he talking about? “There’s nowhere to put anything in it.”
“Well, then, you see it’s more fiction. As I said before. The Count told me about… information that the compass would give up. I suppose to tantalize me the way he tantalized his publisher.”
“What kind of information was he talking about?”
“I hesitate to say for fear of promulgating a lie.”
“Did he tell you where to find the… information?”
Another pause. “I might be able to uncover what was there. But I’d have to see the object for myself.”
Her turn to hesitate. She remembered every facet of the box and compass. It seemed impossible that anything could be hidden within either piece. She knew she wouldn’t find it on her own.
“I can show it to you. Tonight.”
A deep sigh. “Shall I come to your house?”
She was meeting Iris at the office at seven. Inflicting the story on her again. What would she do without Iris?
“How about my office? Around seven.”
She drove to Sarah’s, wondering what she would say to persuade her mother-in-law that there was no harm in taking the compass from the house. To her relief, when she arrived, Sarah was out. Though she had never used it, Rebecca still carried David’s old key to the house he had grown up in.
She let herself in and immediately went to the piano. Crouching beneath it, she dropped to her knees and felt above her head with her fingers. The box lay just where she had left it, snug in a corner under the keyboard.
Rebecca drove back down to her office, thankful that Sarah had not come home before she could escape with the compass. She would return it later.
There was no one in the building on a Saturday night. She arrived a few minutes early and headed for her private office, where she placed the box with the compass in her desk, beside the half-eaten Three Musketeers bar.
Hauer arrived before Iris. In the quiet building she could hear his footsteps coming up the stairs to her second-floor office.
She moved into the waiting room just as he came through the door. She had forgotten how large he was. His mouth smiled in the aperture between the neatly clipped moustache and beard. The thick dark hair was tamed with some pomade. He wore the same tweed jacket from the other day.
“Doctor.” He nodded, his round brown eyes observing her. Under one arm, he carried something in a brown paper bag.
He pulled out a bottle, held it up for her approval. “Special Gdansk vodka with flakes of real gold. I thought we should have a drink to the memory of poor Teodor, whose family is overseas.”
She led him into her inner office and went to fetch two drinking glasses from a cupboard above the small fridge.
He stood in front of her desk, gazing into the bottle, whose contents were clear with tiny flakes of gold settled on the bottom. “This is a Polish speciality produced for hundreds of years in the port of Gdansk.” He poured one glass. “It was a favourite of Augustus the Strong, who was responsible for the grandeur of Dresden. It also helps the digestion.”
He started pouring the second glass but took that moment to look up at her and spilled some on the desk.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Clumsy of me.”
She left to get some paper towels from one of the examining rooms. He insisted on cleaning the spill himself. When everything was dry again, she sat down behind her desk. Hauer, seated in front, lifted his glass and waited for her to lift hers.
“To poor Teodor. Let’s hope he’s happier now.” He took a good swig from his glass.
She peered at the gold flakes drifting in her glass. So this was Goldwasser. She remembered it from the manuscript. Very pretty. She took a sip. She wasn’t much of a drinker. Vodka usually had to be mixed with something like orange juice to tempt her. But this was different. This took her back to another century.
“How do you like it?” he asked, downing the rest of his glass.
She smiled and took a few more sips. The historical attraction was irresistible. It went down warm.
“Now, the compass?” he said, sitting forward.
He didn’t waste any time. She opened the drawer and pulled out the blue velvet bag. His eyes were on her as she placed it on the desk and drew out the gold box.
He took in a sudden breath. She understood that. Apart from the elaborate carving on the gold, the sides of the box had been fitted with translucent panels of lapis lazuli, a twilight blue. Breathtakingly beautiful. He picked it up and turned it around in his large pink hands. He seemed more interested in the box than the treasure inside. Finally, he lifted the gold lid and picked the compass up from its velvet bed, placing it in one of his palms.
“Ah,” he said. “Very handsome.”
He had barely looked at it before he put it down. He turned his attention back to the box, closely examining the inside of the lid. “Yes, here’s the inscription,” he said, as if it were of no account. Then propping the lid open against one hand, he began to press the underside firmly with the fingers of the other.
“Now just a minute,” she said. “That’s a delicate…”
Had she heard a tiny click?
His fingers pulled at something. A thin sheet of gold expanded from the inside of the lid to reveal a hidden compartment. She bent forward for a better look. He drew out a folded piece of yellowed paper.
“Good God!” she said.
Carefully he unfolded the thick paper. She jumped up and came around to look over his shoulder. That was when she felt the effect of the vodka, the dizziness. But between the heavy creases of the paper she could make out a letter written in French in a crabbed disturbed hand. Dated November 1, it began, “Ma chère Contesse Oginska.”
“My French isn’t very good,” she said. “How’s yours?”
“Exceptional,” he said. “I’ll translate.”
My dear Countess Oginska,
I was very saddened to learn of the death of your cousin, Countess Konstancja Poniatowska, the mother of my dear friend, Stanislaw Poniatowski. It has been eight long months since the Countess recruited your generous assistance in the rescue of an heiress of Russia. I trust little Anna Petrovna is well. I had several letters from the Countess informing me that the child is a beauty and thrives in your house. She never failed to thank me for making it possible for her granddaughter to be raised in the Roman church. It was Providence that brought little Anna to you after your own daughter was taken from you by cruel fate.
You have been entrusted with a solemn duty: to keep safe a Princess Royal from the machinations of evil men who would use her to gain power. The Pretender and his Jacobite allies, including the French, will stop at nothing, not even the death of a Russian princess, to usurp the throne of England. For this reason, you must keep her identity hidden until such time that the French influence at the Russian court has waned and she can take her rightful place. Her mother will rejoice when all is revealed. It pains me to keep the secret from her, but even she does not have the means to keep her daughter safe in Russia. One day she will be grateful.
It is my misfortune that I will never see that day for I am not long for this world. I have done my duty to my country though my country has never understood the extent of it. My loyalty and patriotism go unrecognized and unrewarded. The King, whom I have always loved, has turned his face against me. I am very weary and can endure no longer.
Now that Countess Poniatowska is dead, only you and I are privy to the secret. And after tomorrow, only you will remain, dear Countess, for I have made my decision. Therefore here is my advice: the war yet rages in Europe. When peace comes, as eventually it must, it is your duty to take little Anna Petrovna back to her mother and reveal her identity. It will not be difficult to convince her mother because of the abnormality of the six fingers on each hand. Her Highness will know her daughter at once. Tell her I regret the pain it must have caused her but that I knew no other way to ensure the child’s safety.
Adieu, dear Countess. God bless you and the princess.
Sir Charles Hanbury-Williams
Rebecca closed her eyes and felt herself sway from the history that had suddenly swept over her. An unmistakeable bridge had fallen into place between then and now, between 1759 and 1979. A time that had seemed so lost in the haze of distance now lay just beyond the door. After everything, Sir Charles had killed himself.
“It’s overwhelming,” she said, staring over his shoulder at the yellowed paper. “Sir Charles kidnapped the princess after she recovered and took her to Poland to Countess Poniatowska, knowing she would want the child raised Catholic. The Countess gave her to her childless cousin Oginska. Who never followed Sir Charles’s advice! She never gave the girl back. Instead, she hid the letter in the compass box. Maybe she told her on her deathbed. Somehow the family suspected. I’m only sorry that Michael didn’t get a chance to see the letter.”
Hauer gave her an abrupt look and folded up the letter, replacing it in the secret compartment in the lid of the box. “It’s all speculation. I have a colleague who’ll be able to say whether this letter is authentic or not. I’ll show it to him on Monday.” He put the box with the compass into his jacket pocket and stood up.
She wavered, suddenly small beside him. And very tired. “I have no doubt about its authenticity. I’ll have to take it back now.”
“You should leave this to the experts. I will let you know if it’s real.”
“I already know it’s real. Can I have it back now please?”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t be stubborn about it. I was hoping you’d be reasonable.”
“Look, Professor, it’s not mine to give. I’m probably already in trouble for taking it out of the house. I’ll have to insist on you giving it back.”
“Does someone know you’ve taken it?”
“No…”
“I’m very much relieved.”
“I appreciate your concern. But I still need it back.”
He stared down at her with an expression that chilled her, his eyes intense but vacant. Something undefined had shifted in his attitude. He leaned toward her.
“Why not?”
His dark eyebrows rose like wings and he closed his eyes. “Because the publisher must never see it. The Count’s book must never be published.”
She fell into the chair he had vacated, suddenly dizzy.
A distant gold shadow came to mind: a smudged flame in the cement near the patio table in Michael’s backyard. The gold flakes from a drink that was poured out.
“This is what you gave Michael, isn’t it?”
She could hardly hold her head up. It kept rolling down onto her chest.
“Your noble Count! He stole my publisher! To whom I introduced him! A common thief.” His round eyes had grown larger, darted around the room.
She tried to think. He must have poured two drinks doctored with some sedative on Michael’s patio, emptying his own onto the ground when his victim wasn’t looking. What had he put into her drink when she went out to get the paper towels? Valium? The drug would work quickly on her empty stomach.
“I was going to be their Polish expert. The book of Polish interest they publish every three years.” He paced the floor in front of her, agitated. “I needed this book. If I didn’t publish in English this year, that was it. The university would let me go. After all the help and information I gave him — I even lent him my research material. And what did he do? He betrayed me. He approached my publisher with a novel on Poland and waved his ancestry in their face.” His spittle landed on her cheek.
“Catherine the Great! The great whore of history. Stanislaw Augustus! The snivelling fool who lost Poland. Yes, Your Highness. No, Your Imperial Majesty. The book was nothing! It was a fairy tale. But the company wanted to say they had published a direct relative of Catherine the Great. How could they choose that drivel over my work? Do you have any idea how long I’ve been writing my book? The research! The scholarship!”
“You killed him because he took your publisher?”
“You don’t understand,” he said, shaking his large bear head. “He took away my future. I searched and searched and finally I found a publisher who was interested in Polish history. In English. The university won’t renew my contract unless I publish a book in English.”
“There are other universities,” she said.
“It’s the only one in the country with a Slavic Studies program.”
“The U.S.?”
“It’s the same there — no university wants me without a book in English. I couldn’t get a green card. I won’t go back to Poland. You must see I had no choice. It was his own fault. He brought it on himself.”
“What about Teodor? Did he bring it on himself too?”
A skewed smile appeared on his lips. “What a bungler he was. With his puny brain I’m surprised he figured it out, but it shows one can be shrewd without intellect. He said if I accepted his thesis he wouldn’t tell the police his suspicions. Blackmail, pure and simple. Accept his thesis? It was a shambles. A piece of trash.”
It was a shambles. In her haze, she thought, The same wording as the suicide note. Which Hauer had written on the typewriter in the office, after everyone had gone home.
“He worshipped the Count, absorbed his view of history. He was poisoned by it, the human-centric position. No objectivity. I wouldn’t accept his thesis.”
“And you overheard him on the phone. When I called to set up a meeting. You were afraid he was going to tell me.” Her energy was ebbing. No strength to stand up.
“I couldn’t allow that. He put me in an impossible position.”
“You were the one who broke into Sarah’s house.”
“If I had found the compass, if I could’ve stopped him from stealing my publisher, I wouldn’t have had to…”
Unsavoury details began falling into place. “He was unconscious from the drink and you had to take off his bathing jacket. That’s how his arm became dislocated.”
“There’s no point, Doctor —”
“And you were the one who put his goggles on… That was your mistake. They were upside down.”
He smiled slyly. “I hardly think that matters now.”
“They’ll find out, you know. The police.” She could barely move. There was a phone on her desk, but it was behind her now.
He chuckled. “I don’t think so. There’s not enough to connect me to the Count. And hardly anything to connect me to you.”
She suddenly opened her eyes, unaware that they were closed. “What are you going to do with me? You’re in a lot of trouble… my assistant, Iris, is meeting me here… any minute now…”
“Don’t upset yourself, Doctor. Nice try, trying to make me think someone’s coming. It’s going to look like an accident. I’m only sorry you didn’t drink more. You’d be blissfully ignorant of what was happening. You see, I don’t enjoy seeing people suffer. I’m not a bad person. I do what I must.”
Ludicrous, she thought in her stupor. What, then, is the definition of a bad person? Keeping her eyes open was a problem.
“They’ll find the drug in my system. They’ll suspect something.”
He smiled, “I’ve heard that doctors are susceptible to using drugs since they’re so readily available. The police won’t be surprised by their presence — they know what a temptation it is. After all, doctors are only human.”
“Resign yourself, Doctor. There is no help.” He pulled the jack out of the wall and picked up the phone.
Where was Iris?
“Where are your supplies?” He turned toward the door. “No, don’t get up, Doctor. I think I can find them.” He left the room carrying the phone.
The idea of her getting up was ludicrous. Ludicrous was a good word. It fit so many things, changing shape to suit. Like odious. And monstrous. She knew she should be trying to get up, but her legs were jelly. Odious jelly. And he didn’t like to see people suffer, so why should she get up? If she was going to die, she preferred not to suffer.
She roused herself. Had to stay awake. No closing of eyes. She tried to hear what he was doing. A vague splashing sound coming from one of the examining rooms. A familiar smell. Familiar but wrong. Something that shouldn’t be splashing. Chemical. Isopropanol. Rubbing alcohol.
Stay awake! What was he doing with rubbing alcohol? How was she going to save herself if she didn’t know what he was doing? If she couldn’t move. If she couldn’t think.
Think! An accident. Going to make it look like an accident. With lots of rubbing alcohol. Why alcohol? What were the properties of isopropanol? Antiseptic. Cleaning wounds. Topical use only. Was he going to make her drink it? Some accident. No, none of the above. It was flammable. He was going to start a fire. Good God! Setting up something in her examining room that would spark a fire. Weakening. Not enough energy to get out. Sit there and asphyxiate from the smoke. No. No, not like that. Would make sure of her death. Pull her into the room and set her on fire. That kind of accident plausible. Christ, do something.
Wake up! Mind over matter. Not going to let it happen. Brain too slow. Brain mush. Panic makes worse. Let instinct take over. Need to get sedative out of system. Remember basic medicine. Lift two fingers. Poke into mouth. Further, further back, as far as can reach. Gag. Quietly. Lean over. Vomit on floor.
Better. Better, but still groggy. What more? Adrenaline. Need adrenaline. Must get to drugs. Must get up.
One step at a time. Get up now. Push out of chair. Hold on to arm. Stand up. All right. Move faster. Faster! Back any minute.
Push leg forward. It goes! Hold onto desk. Stumble. Unbalanced. Hold wall. Creep to doorway. Careful. Mustn’t see you. Tip head out just far enough: there in other room looking through cupboard. His back angled, won’t see. Be quiet. Must be quiet. Sneak steps. Keep going round corner to supplies. Turtle slow. Light-headed.
So hard. So tired. Open cabinet. Pull out box of ampules — epinephrine. Slow motion. Must speed up or run out of time. Fumble with box. Clumsy. Pull out ampule. Get disposable syringe from glass jar. The intramuscular one, longer, quicker. Make sure one cc. Inject too much and dead. Rip paper wrapping with teeth. So hard. So hard. Breathing shallow. So tired.
Go on! Push syringe needle in epinephrine. Draw up, up. Too slow. Keep going. Faster. Okay, most in. Expel air from syringe. Now. Top of arm. Make sure no veins, no arteries. Blurred. Never mind. Plunge needle into skin. Push! All the way. Okay. Okay. Doing fine.
Now need minute for drug absorbed. Sound in hall. Steps. Him moving. Him coming! Not enough time! Coming round the corner. Do something. Instinct. Fall to floor. Play dead. Close hand. Hide needle in fist.
“Doctor, Doctor!” he said. “You must accept your fate.”
Bending over. Arms under her shoulders, pulling, pulling backward. Dragged to other room. Breathing hard. Work for it, bastard.
Then she felt it. A crack of light. Then a window. Her heart began to beat faster, faster. Life began to flicker through her body. She could feel it growing, spreading, the drug coursing through her veins.
He dragged her into the examining room, where, by the smell of it, he had spilled the large bottle of rubbing alcohol. While he pulled her up in a chair, she surreptitiously opened an eyelid. He had turned on her high-intensity lamp. So that was it. His fire starter.
It was a small clamp-on lamp with a metal shade. He dropped it from a standing position into the pooled alcohol and watched it. Nothing. He bent his large frame over to lift it up. He turned the lamp around to examine it. Light pierced her eyes — she shut them tight.
She heard him drop the lamp into the alcohol again, harder this time. She opened an eye. He was bent over the lamp, the back of his large head in front of her. This was her chance. She opened her fist and raised her hand with the used syringe, the long intra-muscular needle. She summoned all her strength, aimed, and brought the needle down hard into the back of his neck.
“Uch!” He fell forward on the lamp. A crunching sound. “You bitch!”
Her legs were trying to push her out of the chair when his hand rose up and grabbed her arm tight.
He was up on one knee, his other hand reaching for the syringe, rooting for it to get it out of his neck. She tried to pull her arm away from his hand. She was still weak, no match for him. Now he had the syringe in his other hand. She watched with horror the rage in his eyes as he brought the needle down into her thigh, slashing, jabbing anywhere he could reach. She cried out in pain.
He stabbed indiscriminately at her leg, the arm she put out to defend herself with. She was bleeding from all the puncture wounds in her leg and arm. The blood! Blood flowed everywhere. She was beginning to pass out from the pain. It would be so easy now, to just let go. What was so important about her life, anyway, that it had to continue? Who would really miss her? Her parents. Her sister in Montreal, who she never saw anymore. Her Uncle Henry. If only she had had children, things would’ve been different. If only David hadn’t died, things would’ve been… no. No. That was too easy. She would miss her. She wasn’t ready to go yet.
He was so intent on jabbing the needle at her, he wavered on the knee he was balancing on. He didn’t notice the flame beginning to flicker around the broken socket of the lamp.
With a great surge of energy, she lifted up her leg and knocked him off kilter so that he fell over onto the lamp. He shrieked and tried to stand up. One of his jacket flaps burst into a small flame. It had dragged into the alcohol when he had fallen over.
She took advantage of his surprise to jump up and make her way to the door. At the same time she realized that the syringe had broken in the struggle — the length of the needle was lodged in her arm. From the corner of her eye she saw something flare up on the examining table: the length of translucent paper on which patients lay. Then the pillow at the head of the table. The roll behind, from which the paper had been pulled, burst into flame. As she flew out the door, she heard a whoosh behind her. Then a chilling scream.
When she turned to look, Hauer’s jacket was engulfed in flames. He bellowed and flapped his arms around, then fell to the floor and tried to roll.
Yes, she thought, with surprising objectivity. That was what one was supposed to do to extinguish the flames if one’s clothes were on fire. But the surface area of the examining room floor was too small for a man his size. And a pool of alcohol fed the fire. Flames leaped from his body and roared to the ceiling. The examining table began to smoulder. He shifted back and forth on the floor for a few seconds, screaming. “Help me! Help me!”
Why should I, she thought, but ran to the other room to see what she could find. As she ran, she picked at the needle embedded in her arm, but it had broken at skin level — there was no end to pull at.
In the next room, she threw open the door beneath the examining table and pulled out a blanket. When she rushed back to where he lay, the room was filled with smoke. She could see the blanket would make no difference anymore. Nevertheless she threw it over the dying fire that still consumed him. The blanket snuffed out the remaining flame.
He was quiet now, his skin blackened, his breathing laboured, the odour of burnt flesh pungent in the air. She stared with horror through the smoke, as he lay dying. This was what he had planned for her. But for a tweak of fate, it could be her lying there.
She wasn’t out of the woods yet. He must have hit an artery with the syringe because bright red blood was squirting out of her arm. She clamped her hand over the spot. That would stop soon enough — the needle in her arm distressed her more.
Suddenly her whole body started to shake. It was the after-effects of the adrenaline. She stumbled into the supply area and retrieved a long bandage. Tremors wracking her body, she struggled to wind it around the pumping wound on her arm. Dragging herself into the waiting room, she slumped down into a chair. She closed her eyes and tried to control the shaking. No. She would have to endure. There were some things one couldn’t control.
“Rebecca!” Iris called out as she opened the door to the office. “You won’t believe the trouble I’ve just had with my car… Why do I smell smoke?” She stopped cold when she saw Rebecca.
“Dial 911,” Rebecca said, the vision of Iris running toward her blurred through her tears.