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repressed fury and she made no effort to lower it. ‘He is the kindest man I know. He knew he would be taken.’
    The murmur of voices seemed to die away and heads turned towards them.
    ‘He has given his life for the people.’ Reaching for her lace handkerchief, Evgenia pressed it in a trembling hand to her mouth. The drawing room was quiet enough to hear the chink of cups being married to saucers.
    ‘The tragedy is that he missed.’ An unusually high-pitched voice broke the silence. ‘I wouldn’t have.’
    There was a gasp of surprise. The steely determination in the would-be assassin’s voice left no one in doubt he spoke in deadly earnest. Hadfield turned to find him standing in front of the fire only a few feet away. He was a singular-looking man: Jewish – Hadfield was sure of that – in his early twenties, short and slight, with a thin face, wispy red hair and a small goatee beard. He was wearing a belted chemise of red cotton.
    ‘I applaud his courage, of course.’ The would-be assassin stared at Hadfield defiantly as if daring him to make some sort of riposte. After a few awkward seconds, one of the students at the chimney piece came to his rescue.
    ‘What purpose would it serve – the death of one man?’ he demanded. ‘Is that going to win freedom for the people? Of course it isn’t.’
    ‘An active attack on the government – a blow to the centre,’ the would-be assassin countered forcefully.
    Vera Figner leant forward to whisper: ‘Goldenberg. Grigory Goldenberg from Kiev.’
    Incensed that anyone should seek to justify the assassination of the emperor in her house, Madame Volkonsky weighed boldly into the debate: ‘He freed the serfs from bondage – the Tsar Liberator, the people love him!’
    ‘He is the persecutor of the people,’ Goldenberg countered hotly.
    ‘He is badly advised by those around him . . . he, he . . .’ So great was their hostess’s indignation she was unable to speak for a moment. In desperation, she cast about her drawing room for an ally and her gaze settled on Hadfield. Too late he realised her intention and looked away – to no avail. ‘Doctor, what do you say as an Englishman?’
    All eyes turned to him again.
    ‘I believe in democracy and education, good healthcare, a fairer distribution of wealth,’ he said, after a moment’s thought,‘but I think terror will set back the cause of reform by frightening liberal opinion – just as it’s done in Ireland.’
    There was a gentle murmur of assent in the room and, emboldened a little, Hadfield added: ‘And I am a doctor, Madame Volkonsky, it is my duty to save life not take it.’
    ‘You’re afraid! Afraid.’ The young woman’s voice was dripping with scorn. She was standing behind a sofa opposite. ‘What do you know of the suffering of our people?’
    Again, gasps of surprise. Hadfield flushed hot with anger: ‘I have spent . . .’
    She cut across him. ‘You talk of change but you aren’t prepared to do anything to bring it about!’ Her blue eyes flashed angrily about the room as if her challenge were to them all. ‘Alexander Soloviev loves the people and has sacrificed himself for them. But you cannot understand, you are a foreigner . . .’ And she turned away from him in a show of disgust.
    Hadfield stood there for a moment, dumbfounded, as the debate washed round him like the tide about a rock. He felt humiliated, and his cheeks were burning with self-conscious indignation. He watched his persecutor bend to speak to a well-dressed man with lazy eyes who was sitting on the sofa. They must have spoken of him because she looked up to catch his steady gaze upon her. She frowned and looked away again but not before he registered the startling lightness of her eyes, their profound sunshine blue, and he sensed great energy and purpose. Five feet four or five, he thought, petite, dark brown hair tied back without care, very white skin, a small round face with full pink lips and an elegant neck. She