Death in St. Petersburg

by Tasha Alexander

  I turned around and headed back in the direction of the Neva, passing Gostiny Dvor, a large covered marketplace where one could buy nearly anything, and crossing two more canals, the bridge over the first of which provided an excellent view of the not-yet-complete Church of the Savior on the Spilled Blood. Alexander III had ordered its construction over the precise spot where assassins bombed his father’s carriage. Scaffolding covered much of it, but I could see the tops of the onion domes that crowned the magnificent building. This, to me, looked like Russia.

  Prince Vasilii was sitting at an upstairs table when I entered the Literaturnoye Café. He rose to his feet and hailed me, asking if I could join him or if I already had plans to meet someone. Despite feeling his subterfuge to be unnecessary, I managed to reply that I was merely taking a break from shopping and would be delighted to have a cup of tea with him.

  “You should try harder to appear sincere, Lady Emily,” he said, giving me a half smile as I sat down across from him. “Your eyes give away your true thoughts. I am very glad I am not your lover. Your husband would be onto us before our first kiss.”

  “That situation would never occur,” I said.

  “Not as such, but in your work surely there is a certain value to being able to willfully mislead people.”

  “Yes, there is, and when that is required I have no trouble accomplishing it. In this case, however, I find no need for it.”

  “Then I thank you for indulging me.” He was a vision of soldierly perfection, with his spotless uniform and well-groomed appearance, but his hazel eyes were dull, no doubt from grief. Nothing else betrayed the pain he must be feeling. We talked about stuff and nonsense until the waiter brought my tea and a napoleon pastry. Only after his departure did the prince ask what I had learned.

  “Not a great deal, I am afraid,” I said. “Nemetseva’s fellow dancers and the stage hands at the theatre had nothing but kind words to say about her. I find it odd that she was able to leave the theatre wholly unnoticed in the middle of a ballet, but no one admits to seeing her exit.”

  “It is impossible that no one saw anything,” he said. “People idolize ballerinas here. No one would want to admit to having seen something that eventually led to her death. I imagine guilt is the motivation for the lie.”

  “A person telling me he observed something out of the ordinary is a far cry from admitting guilt.”

  “No, but if you cared for someone who had been murdered, and you realized that you saw that person doing something out of the ordinary just before her death, wouldn’t you regret not having intervened in the moment? If a stagehand or a dresser who saw her had inquired as to where she was going, for example, it might have stopped her from continuing on. It might have saved her.”

  He clenched his left hand, which had been resting on the table, until the knuckles were bone white. I placed mine over it. “There is nothing you could have done to stop this,” I said. “A casual word from a passerby would not have kept her from going to her dressing room or wherever she was headed. And you, who were not even backstage, certainly couldn’t have changed the course of events.”

  “You see through me too easily.” He tipped his head back and looked at the ceiling. “I never went to her backstage, during the interval or otherwise. I feared it would draw attention to our relationship. But if I hadn’t been so concerned with my bloody reputation…”

  “It would have made no difference. Think it through rationally. She left the stage, and instead of chatting up the dukes and princes and whoever else was backstage, she headed for her dressing room, ostensibly to fix a ribbon. I believe that was her true intention, as I noticed one loose on her slipper when I saw her body. Between the stage and the dressing room, she changed her course.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “Because she wound up outside, not far from the stage door, with not so much as a cloak covering her costume. She must have had a very particular reason for going to the door. Either she had planned to meet someone there all along, or she received a message telling her to go there.”

  “I feel most tormented. It seems there is no hope for finding her murderer.” His brows knit together and his countenance darkened. I had braced myself for him to bring up the imperial egg, but his emotion had got the better of him before he did, something for which I was thankful. As I knew Sebastian was responsible for the theft and, more to the point, that he was not involved in the murder, I had come up with several schemes for diverting Vasilii’s attention from it. None of them seemed adequate, and I was grateful not to have needed to employ any of them.

  I reached across the table and put a hand on top of his. “You must not lose heart. This afternoon I’ve a meeting with the investigator in charge and will see what he and his colleagues have learned from her body and any other evidence they have gathered. No one can commit so violent a crime without leaving behind some sort of calling card.”

  “How did you manage to convince him to speak with you?”

  “I am nothing if not resourceful,” I said. “And I promise you I will do everything I can to bring the perpetrator to justice.”

  * * *

  Prince Vasilii might have been less impressed by my meeting with the judicial investigator had he known that my husband organized it. I walked from the café to Palace Square, where Colin was waiting for me under the towering red granite Alexander Column. We hired a sledge to take us to the dingy office in which we met a surly detective.

  “It is, of course, my delight to help you,” he said, not bothering to mask the dripping sarcasm in his voice. He spoke no English and only a little French, so I had to rely on Russian to communicate. To say he had agreed to the meeting gives the wrong impression; his superior, after a brief word from his superior (to whom Colin had spoken the day before), told him to do it, and in imperial Russia, one did not question one’s superior. That did not mean, however, one must approve of what one was asked to do. He did his best to ignore me altogether, looking at Colin whenever he spoke.

  The slight did not offend me in the least. It allowed me to peruse the case while he talked to my husband. The stark photographs of Nemetseva’s broken body warranted close study, but looking at them was difficult, and I felt bile rise in my throat when faced with the full horror of the gashes on her neck and chest. They had not been visible when I saw her body as it lay facedown in the snow. I had been in no position to analyze them and determine the details of the weapon used, but Colin confirmed, through the detective, my suspicion that the blows had come from someone taller than the diminutive ballerina.

  Even more interesting was something I spotted on a picture of the bodice of her costume. Much of it was saturated with blood, but a long, dark shape that seemed out of place drew my attention. It did not look to be part of the garment. The detective disagreed with me, insisting it was one of the feathers sewn onto the silk, and that blood made it appear irregular. I pressed and pressed until I frustrated him so much that he slapped his hands on his desk, stood up, and motioned for me to follow him.

  We went into a room full of crowded shelves. He pulled a box down from one of them, slammed it onto a nearby table, and flung off the lid. The metallic scent of blood assailed me. Inside was Nemetseva’s tutu and the rest of the physical evidence collected at the scene. He removed it, spread it on the table, and then handed me a slim wooden baton of sorts, indicating that I could use it to prod as I saw fit.

  It was ugly work. The blood, stiff and brown, had cemented the feathers on the bodice together, but those on one side of the skirt were relatively unscathed. Using the baton, I poked at the area just above the waist. There, caught between tight rows of beading, was a shredded bit of fabric decidedly different from anything used on the costume. The detective grunted, but did not sound displeased. He tugged at it, removing it from the bodice and lay it on the table. It was dark blue velvet, the sort often used in evening cloaks. A few stray strands of fur clung to it.

  “She wouldn’t have pulled
on a cloak unless she intended to go outside.” I examined the remaining contents of the box, heavy with sadness at the sight of the little satin slippers, their ribbons crumpled. There was no sign of the note Sebastian had left with the imperial egg or the egg itself. The investigator explained that the latter had been returned to the Palace as quickly as possible. He squirmed when I questioned him about it, making it clear that the theft had caused the security forces in the palace a great deal of embarrassment and that everyone preferred it be mentioned as little as possible. I took this as a rare example of a time when protecting the nobility had good, if unintended, consequences. We thanked him and stepped back onto the icy street, where our sledge was waiting, and ordered the driver to take us to the Mariinsky.

  The investigator had told us his men had searched (I use the term loosely) the area around the theatre for clues, to little avail. I was not so naive as to think I would locate the cloak. If it had been discarded somewhere obvious, they would have found it. I had come to study the area around the theatre.

  Fresh snow had long since covered the bloodstains where the ballerina had fallen, but we had no trouble finding the exact spot. It was not terribly far from the stage door, at a great enough distance from the front of the theatre that it would have been quiet even during the interval. Anyone who had stepped outside for a breath of air (unlikely on a frigid January night) would have left through the lobby. The stagehands were all accounted for during the time in question, and none of the dancers would have wanted to subject themselves to the cold before going back on stage.

  There was a wide snow-covered pavement that stretched from the edge of the theatre to the parallel side street. Across it stood the usual Petersburg apartment buildings. I was staring at their neoclassical façades when the motion of a curtain in one of the windows caught my eye.

  “I saw nothing in the records of the investigation to suggest anyone has spoken to the residents of that building,” I said, pointing.

  “And you would now like me to serve as your translator should you encounter any unfamiliar idioms when you interview them?” Colin asked.

  “You do, I hope, know how much I adore you.”

  He grinned and took my hand. We crossed the street engaged in a lively debate over how best to gain access to the building.

  Ekaterina Petrovna

  March 1897

  “They’re here,” Irusya said, peeking through the edge of the curtain. “All of them. I can see the tsar.”

  “Stop looking,” Katenka said. “They will see you!”

  “Isn’t that the whole idea?” Irusya’s brown eyes were sparkling. The shawl she carried to keep her warm while she wasn’t dancing was dragging on the floor, hanging from her shoulder. “I don’t know how I shall stand waiting another moment to begin!”

  There wasn’t long to go. Katenka pulled her backstage, and they huddled together, pressing themselves up against the wall to give room for the dancers up first to pass them en route to the stage. They were doing a scene from The Little Humpbacked Horse, one of Katenka’s favorites. Petipa had choreographed it to music from Cesare Pugni and Riccardo Drigo. It was a charming folk tale, familiar to every Russian child, and one that Katenka’s mother had told her frequently. She had always liked the idea of a magical horse helping a man win the hand of the lady he loved, and it didn’t hurt that the man wound up becoming tsar.

  Next up were selections from Paquita, which included some lovely solos as well as a mazurka. The latter was danced by students who had excelled at character dancing. They moved brilliantly, stomping their feet and clicking their heels, but would never be great classical dancers. Katenka held her breath as she watched them from the wings, grateful that she did not share their fate.

  Irusya danced next. Her eyes flashed like diamonds as she prepared to take the stage. She squeezed Katenka’s hand one last time, smoothed her dark hair, and as soon as she heard the first strains of music, she floated out of the wings. Katenka watched closely, knowing Irusya would want to parse every step of her performance when they were home in bed that night. They both knew perfection could not be attained if one did not pounce on every possibility to improve.

  No one could have found the smallest mistake in Irusya’s dancing that night. The sternest teacher would have had no correction to offer. She was sublime: musical and precise, fluid and strong. She transcended the art, and the audience knew it from the moment she appeared before them. Katenka could feel their energy. It was as if they were all sitting forward on the edges of their seats, unable to breathe until Irusya had taken her final bow.

  Triumph was not a word extravagant enough for Irusya’s success.

  Katenka was waiting in the wings with her friend’s shawl. Irusya glowed, not just from exertion but from the innate pleasure that came from knowing she had acquitted herself well. She let Katenka wrap the soft cloth around her and then embraced her, tight.

  “You will be even better,” she said.

  Next came a variation from Sleeping Beauty and then the Dance of the Little Swans from Swan Lake. Then, at last, it was Katenka’s turn.

  She stood in the wings, extremely still, poised, full of purpose and confidence. She had mastered her choreography and knew she could bring it to life. She had worked for almost her entire life to reach this moment, and now that it had come, she was ready. She lifted her right arm, pointed her foot, and stepped onto the stage.

  Nothing in particular went wrong. She hit all her steps and landed her jumps gracefully. Her face perfectly expressed the correct emotions at the correct times. Her port de bras were admirable, her arabesque flawless. But something was off. The energy was not right. She could not find her passion. She heard someone in the audience cough, and she knew she had lost them. In this final performance as a student, she had not managed to bring magic to the stage.

  Katenka took her bows, curtseying to the imperial box and to each side of the audience, but she hardly heard the applause. She felt numb, knowing technical proficiency alone did not make one great.

  Irusya knew it, too. She was waiting in the wings with Katenka’s shawl, and draped it over her friend’s shoulders, but she said nothing. They leaned against the wall, waiting for the rest of the program to finish, but neither of them felt even the slightest joy. Their paths would diverge after this. No longer would they be two brilliant pupils, their teachers’ greatest hopes. One would be a rising star and one a very competent corps dancer.

  They might always remain friends, but they would never again be equals.

  January 1900

  7

  Colin rejected outright my suggestion that we pretend to be looking for accommodation in the neighborhood because we were dedicated balletomanes. I explained this would give us the chance to ask pointed and direct questions as to just how much one could see from apartment windows, but he was unmoved.

  “Simple, Emily, is generally best. We will tell them the truth about why we are here,” he said, and rang the bell of the flat he determined to have the best view of the theatre. A maid opened the door and led us to her mistress, an ancient woman who, even if she had showed the slightest interest in looking out her windows, could not see far enough to make out a single detail on the far side of the street. Above her was a young couple who had gone to a play at the Alexandrinsky Theatre the night of the murder. Below her we found a very eager gentleman, desperate to help. He told us story after story of watching ballerinas come and go through the stage door, but in the end admitted that, although he had been home on the night in question, he had seen nothing, adding that the street had been remarkably quiet until Nemetseva’s body was discovered. He had heard the screams that alerted all of us to the murder. “I was sitting here”—he leapt up from his seat and crossed to a chair near the window—“reading. A newspaper, if that matters.”

  “It does not,” Colin said.

  “I say it only to communicate that it was not something engrossing. I would have heard any sort of commotion outside. When I
realized something serious had happened, I ran downstairs to inquire what it was—we humans are morbid, aren’t we?—and when I saw her body … I was very much struck that I had been sitting so close, in clear view of so heinous a crime and yet had no idea what was transpiring until it was too late. I found it most humbling. I wish I had more to say.”

  “Thank you,” Colin said and rose, giving me his arm and starting for the door.

  “Wait,” he said. “Before you go, I do recall hearing someone walking beneath my window—his boots crunched in the snow.”

  Colin thanked him again and we took his leave. Once outside, my husband shook his head. “He couldn’t possibly have heard footsteps. Screams, yes, but the crunch of snow through those double windows? Never.”

  “Then why did he say—”

  “He wants to be involved, wants to help,” Colin said. “People like that are often the most useless. It is why I prefer hard evidence to human. Even a good witness, with the best of intentions, is fallible.”

  We continued to make our way through the building. On the top floor, we encountered a tiny bird of a woman. The deep lines on her face looked like they might have been carved in stone, as on the wall of an Egyptian tomb. She stood a good foot shorter than I, and despite her age, bore no sign of the slightest stoop, although she moved so slowly it hurt to watch her. She told us her name, Agrippina Aleksandrovna Minkovski; invited us inside without hesitation; and insisted on giving us tea from a tarnished samovar, which she served in glasses held in remarkable champlevé enamel podstakanniks, their handles fashioned as dragons. In each saucer she placed three lumps of sugar and two small cookies.

  “You have come about Nemetseva,” she said, lowering herself into a chair next to the window. Her furniture was all quite battered—the upholstery nearly worn away in spots—but the pieces were good quality and had probably cost a great deal when new. Heavy curtains were pulled back from the windows with golden ties, and framed watercolors depicting dancers in old-fashioned costumes covered the papered walls.