Death in St. Petersburg

by Tasha Alexander

  “This will not happen again,” she said.

  Katenka bit down hard on her lip to keep silent. The next morning, they made another mark on the chest at the foot of her bed.

  January 1900

  3

  I breakfasted alone the next morning. Colin had departed early, and after no more than three hours of sleep, leaving me to peruse the newspapers brought to our rooms every day. Under a bold headline on the front page of the Petersburg paper was a large photograph of Nemetseva posed prettily in costume, a thick, black border around the image. The accompanying article contained nothing I did not already know, so I turned my attention to the international edition of one of the New York papers. It was outdated, and large blocks of black ink covered everything the Russian censors had deemed inappropriate, but at least I could read what remained.

  I was halfway through an inane story about some controversy over rowdy ice skaters in Central Park when a knock sounded on my door. Having left my maid in England, I opened it myself and saw Prince Vasilii on the other side. He bowed low, very handsomely, his military cap in his hand, and apologized for coming to me unannounced.

  “You were so kind last night to invite me to speak with your husband,” he said in his deep, warm voice after I’d settled him onto a wing-backed chair in the sitting room. “I am afraid I refused without giving the matter enough thought.”

  “And I am afraid that you’ve missed my husband,” I said.

  “Yes, I am aware of that. I pray you do not find this too forward of me, Lady Emily, but I came here hoping to see you, not him. Forgive me for abandoning ceremony altogether, but I feel the unusual circumstances allow me to do so. I understand you have a reputation as an investigator. I heard rumbles about it as soon as you arrived in Petersburg—gossip always follows one, doesn’t it? Cécile confirmed your skills, and I find them to be most impressive after hearing her descriptions of your past successes. It is what prompted me to call on you with this bold request. Would you consider looking into Nemetseva’s death for me?”

  “I appreciate the compliment,” I said, “but I’m afraid I can’t be of much help to you in the matter. I have learned very little about the murder and am not involved in the investigation.”

  “I figured as much,” he said. “I spoke with the officer in charge this morning. Unfortunately, he is a rather uninspired man.”

  “I find that is often the case with official investigators.”

  “I imagine so, given your line of work. May I smoke?” I nodded and he leaned forward to light the cigarette he had removed from a blue enameled case with the letter V formed from small diamonds on the top. He smoked, sitting quite still and looking at the ceiling for some time before, at last, he sighed. “It would be naive of me to think you have not deduced that I have a special interest in seeing Nemetseva’s murderer brought to justice.”

  “Your reaction to the news of her death struck me as sincere, but I also suspected it betrayed a closer relationship to the deceased than you were willing to admit.”

  “Your intuitive skills are all that I hoped.” He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray on the table next to him. “I—forgive me, I realize the inappropriateness of what I am about to say but trust that you are sophisticated enough not to be put off.” He met my eyes, and I saw a profound sadness in his.

  “You were in love with her.”

  “I was.”

  “And…” I paused, searching for the right words. “Your love was returned?”

  “Just so,” he said. “We’ve been lovers for more than a year.”

  This did not shock me. As the prince suggested, I am nothing if not sophisticated, and I was well aware that many young gentlemen are prone to indulging their baser instincts outside the bonds of matrimony.

  “Does your wife—”

  He interrupted. “I have no wife. Had I a wife, I would never—” He closed his eyes. “I should have liked nothing better than to marry Irochka, but there were many impediments to my doing so.”

  “Irochka?” I asked.

  “Forgive me. I mean Irusya, of course. Irochka is the more intimate diminutive. She asked me to call her by it soon after … but that is not relevant. As I said, I wanted to marry her, but there were many impediments to my doing so.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Pressure from one’s family and society can be overwhelming.”

  “Indeed. I hope you do not judge me too harshly. I love her—loved her—so very dearly, and I cannot bear thinking that whoever struck her down is walking free this morning. I know enough from my position at court to have little faith in the judicial investigators. Even with the best intentions, they are unlikely to be able to penetrate Nemetseva’s world so well as you could.”

  His countenance was very serious, and his words persuasive. Sincerity all but streamed from his pores. I wanted to help him, but how much could I do? “I know nothing about the theatre and have no connections there.”

  “Yes, but your rank gives you ready access to any social circles you wish to enter. Will you help me? I have no one else to turn to.”

  “I should like nothing better,” I said, “but I am afraid I may be hindered by not being able to speak Russian fluently. My husband—”

  “Your Russian is more than serviceable, and I would prefer if Hargreaves did not know of the favor I am asking you.”

  “That, Prince, is impossible. I keep no secrets from my husband.”

  “He is a fortunate man.” He pulled another cigarette from his case and tapped it against the enameled top. “He will allow you to do as I ask?”

  “Allow is a word I do not much like,” I said. “Colin respects my abilities and would never stand in my way.”

  “Then you are a fortunate woman.”

  “Quite.” I could not deny his request appealed to me. I had wanted to insert myself into the investigation as soon as I saw the fallen dancer’s body, and he was presenting me with the opportunity to do just that. Furthermore, when had I ever refused to do what I could in the name of justice? “I shall happily do whatever is possible. To start, you must tell me everything you know that might prove useful. Are there any individuals who Nemetseva might have considered enemies?”

  “None. There was always competition and jealousy in the company, but the dancers loved her. She was generous and kind. There is a man, not from the theatre … but I do not think he could be involved.”

  “Who?”

  He fidgeted in his seat. “One of the grand dukes. I do not like to name him and impugn his reputation. He had made numerous overtures to her, but she rejected them all. She was devoted to me.”

  “A name would be helpful.”

  “Masha will tell you. I realize I seem foolish not to do so myself, but in principle I do not like to betray the innermost feelings of my friends. If I believed you could not get the information elsewhere, I would give it to you, but beg you to allow me to retain what little honor I can in this situation.”

  I raised an eyebrow. Prince Vasilii was a fascinating case of contradictions. His perfect manners and erect carriage should have made him appear suave, but instead they made him stiff. “I shall speak with Masha. Is there anything else?”

  “Would that I knew more.” He put the cigarette, still unlit, back in his case, slipped it into his pocket, and clasped his hands together. “I should like us to meet regularly so that you might give me updates on your progress. How soon will you have something to tell me?”

  “That depends on what I learn and how quickly. I shall send you a message when I’ve something to report.”

  “I think, Lady Emily, it would be best if we planned our meetings in advance. Were you to start sending messages to me, people might draw the wrong sort of conclusions. If, instead, we were to be seen, on occasion, in a café, no one would give it a second thought.”

  To me, this sounded like madness, but I went along with it, deciding the poor man had suffered enough. If he believed this scheme would pro
tect his reputation, it would harm no one to go along with it. “Very well. Do you have a place in mind?” I asked.

  “Literaturnoye Café on the corner of Nevsky Prospekt and the Moika River Embankment. It is the place where Pushkin stopped for refreshment on the way to his fatal duel.”

  “Not a promising provenance.”

  “It will not end so badly for us,” he said. “We’ve already had our fair share of death. And I’ve no stomach for duels.”

  Ekaterina Petrovna

  August 1896

  Now that she was about to enter her final year at the Imperial Theatre School, Katenka could hardly recall a time when she did not consider it home. She loved the small room she shared with Irusya ever since they had grown out of the dormitory that housed the younger students, loved the spacious rehearsal rooms with their enormous windows, even loved the classrooms in which they studied all subjects not ballet, though they represented her least favorite part of the day.

  Lev, who had long since graduated from the Nikolayev Naval Academy, still walked her to the cathedral every Sunday, but they no longer met their mother and grandfather there. Both had died the previous year. Katenka had mourned more than Lev, who had loathed being sent to the academy. The navy held no fascination for him. He would have preferred to study literature and philosophy, and had often skived off class to sit in cafés with like-minded individuals discussing the works of Dostoyevsky and Gogol.

  Their grandfather had spoken to him sternly on more than one occasion, making it clear that successfully completing his studies at the academy was essential to the family. Lev acquiesced, not wanting to upset the elderly man, but in private, later, he told Katenka that he would never have a career in the navy. He refused to serve the tsar.

  Katenka was glad he had never said such things to their mother, who viewed the imperial family as sacrosanct. Now that she and Lev were alone in the world, her brother had more freedom to express his views, but he was careful always to be discreet, at least in front of her. Once, she asked him if he felt he couldn’t confide in her, to which he smiled and shook his head, telling her that some opinions could endanger everyone around the person who held them. Seeing her face cloud with concern, he smiled and embraced her and told her never to worry.

  Their summer had been perfection. They spent languid afternoons on boats on the Neva, roamed the halls of the Hermitage, and strolled along Nevsky Prospekt, inventing fictional backgrounds for the people they passed. Lev made most of them revolutionaries. Katenka saw them as quiet individuals secretly yearning for love.

  The final fortnight before she was due to return to school, Irusya invited them both to join her family at their dacha. Perched on a hill in the countryside overlooking Lake Ladoga, the house provided an idyllic respite. They swam in the cool waters of the lake, read books to each other, and laughed from a distance when Lev got into boring political discussions with Irusya’s father. Katenka could not imagine a happier time.

  One night, when sleep eluded her, she crept out of her room and across the corridor to Irusya’s, but her friend was not there. Walking softly, she made her way downstairs and out the front door. There, on the lawn in front of the house, she saw Irusya and Lev, sitting on the wide wooden swing that hung from a tree. They were leaning close to each other, the moon illuminating their faces, and appeared to be captivated by their conversation. Katenka started to walk toward them but stopped when she saw her brother place his palm on Irusya’s cheek. Irusya smiled and reached for his hand, pulling it down and kissing the tips of his fingers.

  Katenka froze.

  Lev lowered his hand and kissed Irusya on the lips.

  Katenka turned around, knowing she should not watch. Careful not to alert them to her presence, she made her way back to the house and up to her room, where she could hardly contain a whoop of joy. Now she and Irusya could be sisters!

  January 1900

  4

  Colin’s work kept him unexpectedly late that evening and left him rumpled and rather dusty. Myriad questions sprang to mind when I saw him, but I vocalized none of them. He bathed and changed into his evening kit at a pace that would have shamed the fastest sprinter. When we stepped outside the hotel, the dark curls visible below his fur hat were still damp and started to freeze in the frigid air. We climbed into a carriage and set off for Masha’s, where we would be attending what she had billed as an evening of entertainment. En route, I shared with him my decision to investigate Nemetseva’s death on behalf of Prince Vasilii.

  “If you say he is grieving and in search of justice, I shall trust your judgment on the matter,” he said, as we came to a stop in front of the house. “But let us not forget he is an adjutant to the major-general in charge of court security. Surely he knows someone who would be better suited to his purpose. Only because of connections in Petersburg, my dear; I do not suggest anyone is in possession of better deductive—let alone intuitive—skills than you.”

  Masha worked hard to earn—and maintain—her reputation as one of the best hostesses in Petersburg. Her stated goal was to never throw a party that could be described as ordinary. All of society waited in a state of agitation when she sent invitations. Unlike Mrs. Astor in New York City, whose guest lists must be capped at four hundred due to the size of her ballroom, Masha had no such constraints. She chose to limit her invites, including only those individuals whom she deemed essential to enhancing the occasion. Sometimes that required only twenty or thirty people; other times, thousands. For this particular evening, she had hired singers from the Imperial Theatre to perform excerpts from a new Puccini opera, Tosca, that had only just premiered in Rome. It was quite a coup, but, despite the powerful music, her guests could hardly be persuaded to listen to a single note. They were talking nonstop about Nemetseva’s murder until their attention was diverted by one among them describing a brazen theft that he had discovered earlier that day.

  The victim, Count Grigorii Maratovich Kosyak, a portly gentleman well past his prime, struck me as a singularly unattractive individual. Evidently he was dangerously handsome in his youth (his words, not mine), and still had a reputation with the ladies. This I found incomprehensible, but it could not be denied that his colorful character and brazen sense of humor was an asset to the gathering. He explained to us all that, upon waking at approximately two o’clock in the afternoon—he paused to note a deeply held belief that rising any earlier than this was an affront to all things good and decent—he noticed that his most prized possession, a fifteenth-century icon depicting the archangel Michael, was missing from where it hung above his bed.

  “The miscreant who removed it left a note in its place, pinned to the wall, saying that a man of my moral decay had no business owning such a thing. I don’t know whether to be insulted or to take it as a compliment. I almost didn’t report the theft, as I was afraid certain members of the government might misinterpret moral decay as an indictment of my political views, but my wife assured me no one could ever suspect me of revolutionary tendencies.”

  “If she is not worried, there’s no need for you to be,” Masha said. “Should the secret police come for you, they’d probably take her as well, and she would never do anything that might lead her to Siberia.”

  “You are fortunate the piece is gone,” Cécile said, frowning. “This habit of keeping pictures of saints in one’s home is, to my mind, morbid. Would you live in a church?”

  “I most certainly would not, madame,” he replied. “Particularly now that I know you do not approve. Perhaps I could leave a note of thanks for the burglar. Does anyone know how I might get word to him?”

  “But this is too strange,” Masha said. “Last week, a young lady of my acquaintance found an emerald necklace and a note on her dressing table. Subsequent investigations revealed it to belong to the Grand Duchess Maria Pavlovna. The note implored her to wear it at the next imperial ball, as the color would highlight her eyes far better than they would the grand duchess’s.”

  Colin gave me
a pointed look and lowered his head to whisper in my ear as he pulled me into a quiet corner of the room. “There can be no doubt this is the handiwork of your old friend Sebastian Capet. Have you had any contact with him?”

  “None at all,” I said. I had encountered Sebastian Capet, as he liked to style himself, first in London, years ago, when he had caused a sensation by stealing a shocking number of items that had belonged to Marie Antoinette. Later, in France, our paths crossed again. No longer looking for objects owned by the ill-fated queen, he had embarked on what he viewed as a noble mission, painting his illegal activities not as theft but as the righting of wrongs. He was no Robin Hood, stealing from the rich and giving to the poor; his goals were more subjective. If he felt someone owned but did not truly appreciate a work of art, jewelry, or anything else he deemed interesting, he would (as he said) liberate it and give it to someone he judged more deserving. I could well imagine him setting his sights on the imperial collection. He had decidedly mixed opinions of royalty.

  “No doubt he will be in touch before long,” Colin said. “I shouldn’t be surprised to find he’d followed you all the way from London.” Sebastian, alas, clung to the delusion that he was in love with me, and over the years had left me a series of notes—always written in Ancient Greek—with roses and other little trinkets. He was not a favorite of my husband’s.

  “Following someone is too easy, Hargreaves,” came a low voice, just behind me. “I should hope you would not think me amenable to using such a tired device.”

  I turned around to see a man, dressed in the robes of a Cossack and sporting a beard that perfectly mimicked the tsar’s.

  “They would not let me wear my hat inside, no matter how much I pled. Without it, the look is entirely spoiled.” He grabbed for my hand and began to raise it to his lips. I pulled it away.

  “What a shame for us all,” I said. His disguise, though expertly crafted, did not alter his unmistakable sapphire eyes, and his lazy drawl was all too familiar. “Mr. Capet, I will not—”