“No, no,” he said. “Not here, my dear. Here I am Fedor Ivanovich Dolokhov, but you may call me Fedya. I admit to being wholly charmed of the Russians’ use of diminutives to reflect the closeness—dare I say intimacy?—of relationships.”
“Dolokhov?” Colin asked, raising his eyebrows.
Sebastian immediately returned to character. “My mother was a great admirer of Tolstoy’s and brazen enough to bestow upon her son a name that conjures up such…” His voice trailed and he looked at me, smiling wickedly. “Such complexity.”
“Brazen indeed,” Colin said. “Although complexity is not the first thing that springs to mind when I think of Dolokhov.”
“I admit I haven’t read the book, only flipped through to find a name,” Sebastian said. “Was it a poor choice?”
“Decidedly,” I said. “He’s reckless and dissolute.”
“Quite fitting, I’d say.” Colin glowered at Sebastian. The truce between these two, if one could claim such a thing existed, was uneasy at best.
“Too late to change now, at any rate,” Sebastian said. “And anyway I’m rather fond of it.”
“The man you stole the icon from is here,” I said. “This is reckless behavior, even for you.”
“I already have a reputation as a fierce warrior,” Sebastian said. “And I have offered my services to the count should he find himself in need of defending.”
“That’s quite enough nonsense for one night. I’m going to fetch more champagne, and I expect you to be gone when I return, Capet.” Colin kissed my cheek and slipped away.
I stepped closer to Sebastian and lowered my voice. “Why are you here?”
“I’ve learned that the recipient of one of my … er … delicate attentions has met an untimely end. Nemetseva, the ballerina. You have heard?”
“Of course I’ve heard. I was at the performance that night and discovered the Fabergé egg she was holding.” I sighed. “I should have known you were the one who stole it.”
“My darling girl, you cannot believe there is anyone better capable than I of removing Fabergé’s treasures from the Winter Palace. Have you met another man with the hubris to pull off such a feat?”
“I certainly hope not.”
“It was a crowning achievement and ought to have secured my reputation forever,” Sebastian said. “I am concerned, however, that people may draw erroneous conclusions about my role in the unfortunate incident that occurred.”
“The murder, you mean?” I asked. “I’d hardly call that an incident.”
“I know you don’t believe I am capable of violence, Kallista—”
“Don’t call me Kallista.” The nickname, bestowed on me by my late first husband, was now only used by Cécile, who preferred it to Emily, and Sebastian, who steadfastly ignored my pleas that he stop.
“I shan’t argue the point now,” he said. “I did not harm that poor girl. I admired her greatly—that is why I wanted her to have the egg. But the police may misinterpret—”
“Enough,” I said. “I do not think you murdered her. I know you too well to suspect such a thing. If you are concerned that you may fall under suspicion, however, you should leave Russia at once.”
“I’m not that concerned, Kallista. So far as I can tell they don’t have the note I left with the egg. The papers haven’t reported anything about it, but I should like to be sure. That wretched husband of yours can find out anything he wants. Would you be so good as to persuade him to inquire—discreetly, of course—about it? I helped you when you required it and humbly beg you to do the same for me.”
He had me there. In difficult straits, I had summoned him to my parents’ house in Kent a few Christmases ago, when a rare jewel belonging to the Maharaja Ala Kapur Singh disappeared. Not only had Sebastian offered his assistance, he had subtly tormented my mother in a manner that brought me incalculable happiness. Should this admission horrify you, you have never met my mother.
“I shall ask him,” I said, “but can make no promises.”
“My darling girl, you never disappoint.” He bowed low and kissed my hand with a wholly inappropriate flourish. “I shall be in touch again before you know it.” He winked, turned to the crowded room, and called for vodka. His Russian, accent and all, was flawless.
* * *
The next morning, I collected Cécile, having recruited her as my assistant of sorts, and we went to the Imperial Theatre, where together we nimbly charmed our way backstage. The manager, Mr. Chernov, an imposing man in the prime of life, showed us into his small office.
“I must say again how terribly sorry we are for your loss,” I said, sitting in one of the two chairs across from his desk.
“It is a blow, of that there is no doubt. Artistically, of course. Nemetseva might well have been the greatest ballerina of the next century. Her talent and her passion combined as I have never before seen. But she was also a friend, not just to me, but to everyone who worked with her. We will miss her heart even more than her dancing.”
“I know you have already spoken to the judicial investigator,” I said, “but Madame du Lac and I have taken a special interest in the case. As I have already explained, my experience puts me in a unique position to assist in bringing this terrible criminal to justice.”
“We all know not everyone is comfortable talking freely to government officials,” Cécile said. “They can be so insensitive to the delicate nature of people’s situations. We have all heard stories of their brutality. No one wants to risk saying something that could be misinterpreted.”
“It would be a gross miscarriage of justice were Nemetseva’s murderer to remain at large because someone was afraid to speak freely,” I continued. “I would like to conduct interviews with each of the members of the company, away from the judicial investigators, and away from any chance of misunderstanding.”
“I cannot imagine anyone would object to a conversation with you,” Mr. Chernov said. “We’re hiding no political radicals here. Please, start with me. I will tell you everything I can. I knew her very well. She sent my children gifts on their name days and told me many times that she credited no small part of her success to a well-run theatre.”
For half an hour, he regaled us with stories of the dancer’s kindness, and while I did not doubt his sincerity, I feared that he loved her too well to have noticed anything negative about her. Even if he had, he would never admit it now that she was dead. I doubted anyone could be so angelic in every facet of her life, but the stagehands to whom he introduced us waxed no less enthusiastic. It was only when we made our way to the costume department that Nemetseva began to seem human.
Nataliya Nikolayevna Zhdanova explained, in the gravest of tones, that she had come to work in the theatre when she was only twelve years old, more than fifty years ago. Her mother, a seamstress, had taught her to sew, and over the years Madame Zhdanova had worked her way up to the position she now held as costume mistress.
“I loved Nemetseva like a daughter,” she said before turning and barking a command to one of her underlings, who, in response, brought tea for all of us. “So you know I see all her flaws. A dancer with so much talent can do nearly anything she likes, but not at the start of her career. Nemetseva was too eager.”
“Did the more senior dancers feel threatened by her?” I asked.
“No, no. She was promoted to principal more quickly than anyone I can remember, but not at the expense of those more experienced. They will always have their roles, so long as they want them and so long as they can dance them. Her position in the theatre was good, but she wanted to set herself up in society like our Little K, and she is not quite ready for that.”
“Little K?” I asked.
“Mathilde Kschessinska,” Madame Zhdanova said. “She, too, is a great talent, but other qualities have kept her from being a favorite of Petipa’s. She was the mistress of Nicholas II before he became tsar and has long been entangled with any number of grand dukes. She is more difficult than Legnani, whom
Petipa loves above anyone.”
“And Nemetseva?” Cécile asked. “Is she modeling herself on Little K?”
“I wouldn’t go quite so far, but she certainly was not above flirting when she thought it would get her something. Her youth and inexperience could put her in awkward situations, if you read my meaning.”
I was not sure I did, but Cécile was nodding vigorously. “There is an art to handling such things. I have never seen a lady adept at it before the age of thirty. Thirty-five, even.”
“Ancient by ballet standards,” Madame Zhdanova said, a conspiratorial glint in her eyes as she leaned closer to Cécile. “In the theatre, they have to learn more quickly. I do not say I approve, but that is reality. There is a long tradition of the grand dukes and princes falling in love with dancers. They are enchanted by seeing them on stage, of course, but there are other, more practical reasons as well. The physicians who tend to the ballerinas ensure they are healthy in every regard, if you once again read my meaning.”
This time, I suspected I did, but felt it preferable to confirm with Colin rather than Madame Zhdanova or Cécile. “Had Nemetseva spurned any of those gentlemen?” A jilted lover, thrown over for Prince Vasilii, might have ample motive for murder.
“Not of which I am aware. There was a boy she cared for when she was still a student. I did not know him at the time, but I heard talk of it when she first graduated and joined the company. If he came backstage, I never noticed. At any rate, he was soon replaced with someone more glamorous. And him by someone more glamorous again.”
“Was her behavior out of the ordinary?” I asked.
“Not at all,” she said. “Ballerinas flirt. That does not mean they take things further, at least not all the time. The Grand Duke Vladimir Alexandrovich sent her enough flowers to fill a hothouse and did his best to monopolize her attention during intervals. She encouraged him shamelessly, but I did not see any sign of her especially returning his interest.”
“What did the grand duke think of that?” Cécile asked.
“You would have to ask him,” she said. “I know nothing more, nor is it likely anyone else in the theatre does. If you really want to delve into her private life, you will have to speak to Ekaterina Petrovna.”
“The understudy who took over for Nemetseva?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “They were great friends for years, going back to their days as students.”
I noted her use of the past tense. “Did that change?”
“Nemetseva was a star, already promoted to principal. Ekaterina Petrovna is only a coryphée, dancing a few solos and hoping to be noticed. Do you suppose they would still be friends?”
“They never stopped being friends.”
The interruption came from the door to the costume department. In it stood the man who had danced the part of the Prince in Swan Lake. “Nemetseva would have done anything for Katenka. They were closer than sisters.”
Madame Zhdanova shrugged. “The most vicious fights I have ever seen were between sisters. Talk to her. See for yourself.”
I turned around, wanting to ask the man what else he knew, but he had vanished.
“Don’t bother searching out Yuri,” Madame Zhdanova said. “He will have nothing else to say.”
Ekaterina Petrovna
February 1897
From that fateful day at Irusya’s dacha, Katenka had known a happiness she had never before imagined possible. She did not begrudge her friend for diverting Lev’s attention from her, but rather rejoiced that the three of them were now almost like a family. Back at school, Irusya could not join them when Lev collected her for Sunday services, but she never failed to send a letter to him via Katenka, and Lev, in return, always had a small gift and note for Irusya.
The girls were busier than ever, preparing for their graduation performance, an occasion that would be attended by the imperial family. Dancing well would mean a glorious start to a career on the Mariinsky stage, and Katenka and Irusya were both expected to shine. They worked hard in class, and harder still when they returned alone to the rehearsal room in the evening. Taking turns, one playing the piano while the other practiced, they worked and worked until they had mastered their choreography.
Because they were both graduating with firsts, they were allowed to choose their pieces. Katenka selected a solo from Riccardo Drigo’s La forêt enchantée, a work that had been composed more than a decade earlier for the school. It was so well loved that it moved almost immediately to the Imperial Theatre and had been in the repertoire at the Mariinsky ever since. Irusya picked the pas de deux from La Fille mal gardée, a piece long associated with the greatest ballerinas. Mathilde Kschessinska, whom they both admired, had danced the same at her own graduation performance eight years earlier, and Irusya told Katenka she did not think she could do better than by emulating Kschessinska.
“She caught the tsarevitch’s attention with her dancing that night,” Irusya said one night as they stretched to warm their muscles before beginning to rehearse. “I’ve asked Madame Zhdanova to find me the costume Kschessinska wore. It’s blue, which suits me well, don’t you think? Sprinkled with little forget-me-nots. Could anything be more fitting?”
“You don’t need flowers to avoid being forgot,” Katenka said. “Your dancing is sublime on its own.”
Irusya was not willing to take any chances. She had selected as her partner for the piece Yuri Melnikov, the best male dancer at the school. He groused about the extra rehearsals upon which she insisted, but he knew he was lucky to dance with her. Her grace, her elegance, and the weightless way she glided across stage en pointe were ethereal. No one doubted that she would someday be named prima ballerina assoluta.
Katenka leafed through the music she had placed on the piano. “You’re playing the beginning a bit too fast. Could you slow it down this time?”
Irusya sighed. “Whatever you wish. I take it this means you want to dance first?”
“Your powers of observation are extraordinary, Irina Semenova. I think you are destined for greatness!”
“Focus on your steps, Ekaterina Petrovna, or I will find a cane to beat you with.” Their first teacher relied on his cane to encourage his students, though he did stop short of beating them. A little prodding, however, and a quick whack, he considered perfectly within the bounds of acceptability.
At the sound of Irusya playing the opening notes of Drigo’s score, Katenka transformed. She stood taller, perfectly poised, and moved her arms in port de bras with impossible fluidity. Irusya danced regally, with great elegance, her body so pliable it was as if she did not have bones, but Katenka infused her every movement with an unmistakable energy and passion. Her adagios strained against refinement while never straying from technical perfection. Some of her teachers implored her to hold her feelings in check, to not reveal so much emotion, but Katenka could no more do that than she could choose to stop breathing.
“Watching you I wonder that anyone bothers to dance when they can never match your skill. What a pity we will have no tsarevitch in the audience to impress. He would be taken with you in an instant,” Irusya said.
“I would not wish for such a thing, particularly as rumor says he stays away because of ill health,” Katenka said. “Should I try that last bit again?”
“You are already a study in perfection. Let me have a turn.”
Katenka wrapped a soft shawl around her shoulders and wiped the sweat from her face before sitting in front of the piano. “Are you nervous at all?” she asked. “Don’t you feel that whatever happens at this performance will mark the course for the rest of our lives?”
“I think both of us will be welcomed into the company,” Irusya said.
“Yes, but I am convinced there is something profoundly symbolic about this last time we dance as students. If I do well, I shall find success. If not, my road will always be a difficult one.”
“What a lot of nonsense. We will both have spectacular careers.”
“Unti
l you marry Lev and retire to have a house full of babies.”
“It will have to be a very small house,” Irusya said. “I have never been much fond of babies.”
January 1900
5
Interviewing all the members of the Imperial Ballet took hours. None of the dancers admitted to seeing anything out of the ordinary. I had started with the principals, some of whom felt Nemetseva had taken roles from them, but they did not show signs of anything beyond ordinary professional competitiveness. From there, I made my way down the ranks, uncovering little things that piqued my interest: a coryphée whose bitterness took me by surprise, a first soloist who admitted to sometimes borrowing costumes for private performances at parties without first securing Madame Zhdanova’s permission, and a member of the corps de ballet who did not try to hide her disdain for Nemetseva.
“She got promoted because she was good at choosing protectors,” the corps girl, Larisa, said. “I cannot admire that. She was good enough to deserve them. I’m not saying she wasn’t, but I prefer dancers who don’t take aristocratic lovers. Although it doesn’t seem like she had one anymore, but she’d already been promoted, so it doesn’t matter.”
The person with whom I was most interested in conversing, Ekaterina Petrovna Sokolova, was not in the theatre. After getting her address from Mr. Chernov, Cécile and I set off for her house. She lived across town, far from the glamorous surroundings of the Mariinsky. When I had speculated about Colin taking rooms in a neighborhood that would have seemed right for Raskolnikov, this was what I had imagined. The architecture and colors of the buildings matched those in Petersburg’s more genteel areas, but here the grand façades were covered in flaking paint, their walls cracked, their windows grimy, and their courtyards filled with all manner of refuse.
Nevsky Prospekt, in front of my hotel, was full of court carriages driven by liveried coachmen decked out in crimson and gold. An atmosphere of bustling chaos pervaded the area. On the wide pavements, the fashionable set strolled, bundled in the most extraordinary furs, beneath which they wore the finest European clothes. Officers dressed in immaculate uniforms and mounted on beautiful stallions charged through the street at speeds that would have left the inhabitants of London aghast. I loved best the proud men, standing tall like Roman charioteers, who commanded the gaily painted troikas, sleighs pulled by three horses. The bourgeoisie preferred carriages, no doubt because they were more European, and workers kept the snow on the streets packed down enough that their wheels would not get stuck in even the worst winter weather. I could not fathom how anyone would choose such a conventional and uninspired mode of transport when one had at one’s disposal a troika.
Death in St. Petersburg Page 4