Nothing should have been capable of silencing the bustle in front of the Mariinsky, but by the time I heard a third scream, this one joined by a voice crying, “Nemetseva!” over and over, it was as if a sorcerer had cast a spell over the entire crowd. Everyone fell quiet and started to move almost in slow motion, following the sound of the cries. Colin, who had taken me firmly by the arm to keep us from getting separated, was the only person moving at full speed. Faster than that, in fact. He knew, as did I, that something was dreadfully wrong. We skirted the side of the building until we came to the source of the screams.
Two elderly women, their programs from the performance still clutched in their hands, were standing next to a delicate spray of crimson blood that colored the snow around the body of a ballerina. Beneath her, the oozing liquid was neither delicate nor crimson; it had pooled thick and dark. She was still dressed in a white tutu, its bodice and its full, stiff skirts decorated with feathers and glittering crystal beads. The ribbon on one of her satin slippers had come undone, but her tiara, pinned to her dark hair, remained perfectly in place.
“Stay back,” Colin said, stepping forward and raising a hand to keep the crowd, now arriving in droves, at bay. He knelt on the ground and bent over her. There was no need to check for a pulse. No one could have survived the loss of so much blood. Someone shouted for the police; someone else began to sob loudly. The ballerina was on her stomach, but her face was turned to the side, visible enough to be recognized by her fans.
“Irina Semenova!” a woman cried, and dropped to her knees, making the sign of the cross. “It is not possible!”
Colin spoke a few words of perfect Russian to the policemen who had now arrived and turned to me, a grim look on his face. “Go home with Cécile and Masha. You may as well stay with them tonight. I shall be late.”
I knew better—rather, I had learned after years of unsuccessful attempts—than to argue with Colin at the scene of a crime. He excelled in his role as agent for the Crown, but I, too, had work of my own, and had proved my mettle as an investigator time and time again. Seeing this beautiful girl drenched in her own blood, I desired nothing more than to apply myself to the task of finding her murderer, but I knew I could not insert myself into the investigation, at least not yet. Patience was a virtue I was doing my best to acquire; the results I achieved might generously be described as varied.
I watched my husband stride purposefully back to the theatre and disappear inside. Cécile appeared seemingly out of nowhere and took me by the arm.
“Come, chérie, Masha’s carriage is here. I cannot bear to look at this for a moment longer.”
I did not do as she bade but pulled away and approached to the dainty figure on the ground. The dancer’s arms were outstretched, and her legs crossed in a hauntingly graceful manner. Even in death she looked a ballerina. I caught a glimpse of something golden beneath her. A burly policeman glared at me, but I ignored him and reached for the object. Now he intervened and stopped me, handling me more roughly than I felt strictly necessary. I gave him a stiff rebuke in his native tongue. Having always had an affinity for languages, I had, over several years, made a casual study of Russian in anticipation of someday visiting St. Petersburg. My command of the language fell far short of fluency, but I was not completely hopeless. Nonetheless, he pretended not to understand when I spoke to him. I switched to French, which was spoken by everyone at the Romanov court, but not by many ordinary Russian people. It was clear his command of that language was far more lacking than my Russian. Giving up, I crouched down, close to the body, and pointed to the bit of gold. He barked something to the other police, one of whom moved it slightly, revealing what lay beneath: a small, oval object, no more than six inches long. He picked it up, pulled out a handkerchief from his coat, and wiped a spatter of blood from its surface.
It was an egg, covered in pink enamel and perfect pearl lilies of the valley, topped with a small, diamond-encrusted imperial crown. I recognized it as the work of Carl Fabergé, but before I could take a closer look, another policeman rudely moved me away. Masha, who had stayed back with Cécile, berated him in loud Russian. He did not appear affected by this in the least and shoved me in the general direction of my friends. Cécile kept me from losing my balance on the icy pavement and bundled me into the waiting carriage.
“He need not have used such force,” I said, only now starting to realize how cold I had grown standing outside in the fierce winter weather.
“It is almost as if he knows you, chérie,” Cécile said. “A stranger would not have expected a lady to force her way closer to a butchered body.”
Masha’s palace on the Moika Embankment was only a short drive from the theatre, and soon we were settled into one of the smaller drawing rooms. By smaller, I mean slightly less enormous than the rest. No fewer than four large crystal chandeliers lit the space, which was decorated in pale blue, white, and gold. The furniture, in empire style, reminded one that although the Russians had vanquished Napoleon, they did not object to adopting his aesthetic sensibilities. An imposing fireplace housed a roaring fire, in front of which Masha had commanded a liveried footman to place three elegant chairs, and we all welcomed its penetrating heat. Physically, that is. Its warmth could not alter our somber mood as we lamented the horrific death of the beautiful young dancer.
“Who would do such a thing?” Masha asked. Every bit as elegant as Cécile—and her contemporary in age, whatever that might be—Masha’s beauty stemmed from an extraordinary pair of chocolate-brown eyes and dimples whose charm refused to succumb to the ravages of time. Her alabaster skin, impossibly smooth, glowed when she smiled. Now, though, it looked hard and gray.
“I saw something that might provide a clue,” I said, and began to describe the egg I had seen. No sooner had I started than Masha interrupted.
“It is one of the empress’s eggs,” she said. “I have seen it in the Winter Palace. The emperor gives her a jeweled egg for Easter every year. Fabergé outdid himself with that one. I believe it is from two years ago, perhaps, and is an absolute favorite of hers. Alix adores lilies of the valley, and the surprise in this one—Fabergé always includes a little something extra hidden in his eggs—miniature portraits of her husband and daughters that pop up from the top, are perfect for a devoted wife and mother.”
“Are there no others like it?” I asked.
“Absolutely not,” she said. “Fabergé would not make a copy for anyone. You may order your own egg, but you may not have one identical to the imperial family’s.”
Cécile laughed. “As you see, Masha is sentimental about her royals. Protective, too. I cannot explain the phenomenon. It is insensible to me.”
The princess raised her eyebrows. “You would feel differently had the French Revolution ended in something other than bloody terror.”
“You know perfectly well I do not discuss the revolution.”
And that was the end of it. I had never been able to discover Cécile’s views regarding her country’s revolution, nor the role (if any) her family had played in it. Everyone close to her knew the subject was verboten.
“Bien, is that my champagne?” she asked a servant who was approaching her somewhat cautiously while holding a tray containing a heavy silver cooler. Almost as soon as we had arrived, this same servant had brought tea for Masha and me and a bottle of champagne for Cécile, having been informed it was the only beverage she considered fit to drink. But Cécile had sent him away without allowing him to open it, objecting to it the moment she saw the label and ordering him to bring one of the bottles she had brought with her from France. “Don’t look so frightened,” she said. “I am never fierce with someone who brings champagne.”
“You were only just fierce with him moments ago, when you rejected his first bottle,” I said.
“He did not bring champagne but rather that vin horrible the Russians love,” she said. “It is too sweet to drink.”
“Are you insulting my people?” A tall gentleman we
aring the dark green jacket of an army officer entered the room, his warm, deep baritone filling the space. “I shall not stand for it, Cécile. I shall challenge you to a duel.”
“And it shall end as badly for you as it did for Pushkin,” Cécile said.
“You wound my country and my pride,” he said in French nearly as good as hers. “Masha, you are as ravishing as ever.” He kissed her hand and glanced at me. “I did not realize you are entertaining. Forgive me for interrupting. I promise I will not overstay my welcome and keep you ladies from whatever you had planned for the remainder of the evening.”
“An interruption from you is always welcome,” the princess said. “This is my new friend, Lady Emily Hargreaves, wife of the extremely charming Mr. Colin Hargreaves, who is even more handsome than you, Vasik. Emily, I present to you Prince Vasilii Ruslanovich Guryanov.”
“The pleasure is entirely mine,” he said, and lifted my hand to his lips. His face, broad and Slavic, was pleasing indeed, and his hazel eyes glowed like that of a contented cat. “I came to see how the ballet finished. Did Nemetseva manage the fouettées as well as everyone hoped she would? Given your long faces I imagine it was quite miserable.”
“Weren’t you there?” Masha asked. “I could swear I saw you in your box.”
He poured himself a glass of champagne. “I was called away after the second act. As an adjutant to the major-general in charge of the gendarmes attached to court security, I must come when summoned, even if it means missing the ballet.”
“Oh, dear,” Masha said. “Then you don’t know?”
“What? That it was a disaster?”
“Quite a disaster, but not due to fouettées,” Cécile said. “Nemetseva’s body was found outside the theatre after the performance.”
“Her body?” He blanched. “Body? You cannot mean—Is she—”
“Dead?” Masha’s directness shocked me. “Yes, I am afraid so. It was horrible. Blood everywhere. She was still in her costume.”
The prince dropped his champagne, the glass shattering on the parquet floor. “Forgive me. This is a shock.” He seemed so unsteady on his feet I worried he might fall over, but he managed to right himself. “Blood? I do not understand. Was she injured dancing?”
“I’m afraid not,” I said. “She was murdered.”
“Murdered?” He swayed again, swallowed hard, and clutched the back of a chair, looking as if he might collapse.
I crossed to him and laid a gentle hand on his arm. “I am more sorry than I can say. Were you acquainted with her?”
“Only a bit,” he said. “She was a favorite of one of the grand dukes.”
I found it difficult to believe he would react so strongly to the death of someone he hardly knew. “I am very sorry. My husband spoke to the police and stayed at the theatre after we left. He’s bound to know more if you should like to speak with him tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Lady Emily,” he said. “I appreciate the offer, but it is not necessary. I cannot claim a close connection with her, but we Russians do take our ballet rather seriously. Nemetseva charmed us all with her talent. Forgive me if my reaction startled you.”
“There is nothing to forgive, Vasik,” Masha said. “Sit. We are all melancholy tonight. Losing such a bright star so young is a dreadful blow.”
* * *
I left Masha’s soon thereafter, not wanting to stay the night as Colin had suggested. I had every intention of being at the hotel when he returned, no matter how late it might be, in order to hear what he had learned about Nemetseva’s murder. Try though I did to remain awake, I did not succeed. One moment I was sitting on a couch reading War and Peace (and coming to the conclusion that Prince Vasilii seemed very like a real life Prince Andrei), and the next I felt myself in my husband’s arms as he carried me to our bedroom.
“Do not think, even for a moment, that I shall go back to sleep before you’ve told me everything,” I said.
“I anticipated as much,” he said and kissed me before lowering me onto the bed. Suspecting his motives were not entirely pure, I pried myself away from him and returned to our sitting room.
“Vodka?” I called out, crossing to a table on which stood an assortment of liquor.
“Whisky,” he said, brushing his dark curls back from his forehead and following me. The man was diabolically handsome; it took a strong woman to resist him. Fortunately, I had strength in spades, at least some of the time.
“You ought to try to adapt to Russian culture. It’s the least—”
“I have spent far more time here than you, my dear, and assure you I can handle my vodka when and as necessary. That I prefer, when in my own quarters, to return to the comforts of home, is something you ought not criticize.”
“If you insist,” I said and poured two fingers of the golden liquid for him. “I shall have vodka.”
“At four o’clock in the morning?”
“As you see.”
“You have no zakuski. No Russian would drink vodka without zakuski, the little snacks that go so well with it. You ought to try to adapt to the culture, my dear. I’m told very reliable sources insist it is the only way to travel abroad.”
“You’re a beast,” I said. “Now stop trying to distract me and tell me what you learned.”
“Not much, I’m afraid.” He sat down and tugged at his white tie, unknotting it. “She was stabbed in the neck. Either her assailant knew what he was doing or his blows fell in a lucky spot.”
I grimaced. “The poor girl.”
“No one saw her leave the theatre,” he said. “She mentioned to some of the girls from the corps de ballet that she needed to fix one of the ribbons on her slippers and walked in the direction of her dressing room.”
“When did they notice she was missing?”
“She did not appear in time for the next act to begin, so the stage manager went in search of her, and when he couldn’t find her, went to her dressing room. She didn’t answer when he knocked, and eventually he opened the door. She was not there. By this point, the performance was already late in starting—this, my dear, is why Cécile had time for that extra champagne at the second interval—and he told the understudy to report to the stage.”
“Did the understudy seem surprised?” I asked.
“You think she murdered a rival dancer for the chance to take the role herself?”
“Don’t be daft. She couldn’t possibly have cleaned herself up in time,” I said. “But she could have arranged for Nemetseva’s untimely demise.”
“Had you met Miss Sokolova, I am certain you would never have suggested the theory,” Colin said. “She is as quiet and meek a girl as I have ever seen. I found it nearly impossible to believe that she was the same person who danced the rest of the ballet with such passion.”
“I didn’t think you were paying attention.”
“My dear girl, one always pays attention during Swan Lake. How else is one to count the fouettées?”
“I had no idea you were such an admirer of the ballet.”
“I never was before I came to Russia,” he said, “but the dancers of the Imperial Theatre cast quite a spell, don’t you agree?”
“I do,” I said and cocked my head to the side, studying his handsome face. “What else have you learned in all your time in Russia?”
“Nothing more that concerns you.” He moved closer to me on the couch and put his arm around my waist.
I removed it, firmly. “You haven’t told me the rest.”
“There’s not much else to say. The judicial investigators assigned to handle the matter will have it in hand.”
“And the imperial Easter egg?”
“You know about the egg?” His dark eyes danced. “Of course you know about the egg. The police mentioned a very pushy foreigner who all but grabbed it from under the body. I should have known it was you. I cannot say how or why Nemetseva came to have it, but I am confident that those charged with investigating the case will be able to answer all your questi
ons when they have completed their work.”
“You are leaving this to the judicial investigators?”
“Of course I am leaving it to them, Emily. It is their job, and I am not here to interfere with ordinary city business.”
“What are you here to interfere with, then?” I asked, holding his gaze.
“You’ll get further hounding the police than you will hounding me, my dear,” he said. “Come now, let’s to bed. I’ve a fiendishly early morning.”
Ekaterina Petrovna
May 1890
By the time winter turned to spring and the sharp cracking of the thick ice on the Neva breaking as it began to thaw punctuated the constant murmur of St. Petersburg’s steady bustle, Katenka had started to feel a bit more comfortable at school. Irusya remained her only friend, but now the older girls—those elegant sylphs who already danced en pointe and were practically real ballerinas—had begun to treat her with unexpected kindness. They complimented her on her turnout. They shared sweets with her. One even gave her a beautifully illustrated volume of Pushkin’s Fairy Tales, not that Katenka had much time to read for pleasure. She did not understand their sudden interest in her until she saw them watching from their windows as she and Lev returned from St. Nicholas’s one Sunday.
She looked up at them and then looked over at Lev, never before having noticed that her brother might be considered handsome. She’d always thought his icy-blue eyes were well enough formed but too piercing; it was as if he could look right through her. And his hair, curly and rumpled, was something of a mess. The giggling girls who were now waving at them made her rethink these long-held opinions.
She told Irusya about it that night, and while her friend agreed Lev was not handsome enough to be a prince, she did admit that she had seen many uglier a boy. This sent them both into a fit of laughter they could barely contain, but, by some stroke of luck, the matron did not single them out when she came to the room to see who had caused the disturbance. She only stood in the doorway, her arms crossed and her lips drawn in a firm, solid line.
Death in St. Petersburg Page 2