Death in St. Petersburg

by Tasha Alexander

  “There’s no point in my leaving now,” Sebastian said. “I’ve already changed your dinner reservation to accommodate a party of four, and I don’t want to sit in the lobby for two hours on my own. Now have some vodka. It will warm you up. Kallista looks positively frozen.”

  He handed me a glass, but Colin refused the one he offered. Sebastian shrugged and downed the contents in a single gulp before picking up a salted cucumber from the platter on the table and munching on it.

  “I feel as if I am forgetting something,” he said. “Something with the bread. Is one meant to sniff it before taking the shot? I can’t remember. Perhaps it doesn’t matter.” He squinted and scowled, looking at me. “What on earth can you mean by wearing that hideous brooch? A silver lizard covered with demantoids?”

  “It was a gift from the boys,” I said. “Nanny let them select it. It may not be to my taste, but that is nothing compared to the joy I felt seeing their little faces beaming when I opened it. It is beautiful because it reminds me of them.”

  Sebastian groaned. “Motherhood has not improved you, Kallista.”

  “That’s quite enough, Capet,” Colin said.

  “Very well,” he said. “I have no interest in charming domestic scenes. I shall leave you now and see you at dinner. Madame du Lac always enjoys spending time with me. I won a friend when I returned her earrings all those years ago.”

  “She might have liked you better if you hadn’t stolen them in the first place,” I said. He did not reply, but bowed with excessive flourish and backed out of the room.

  “I’d like to have him barred from the dining room.” Colin went to the door, locked and bolted it.

  “He’d only come in some other disguise,” I said. “And he does amuse Cécile.”

  “I suppose you are right, but I promise you I shall not be civil to the man unless I am in an extremely good mood.” He shot me a knowing look and took me in his arms.

  “Several methods of achieving such an end spring to mind. What a pity we don’t have time to explore them all.”

  * * *

  We were a quarter of an hour late coming down to dinner. Colin was resplendent in his evening kit, and his mood could not have been better. Cécile and Sebastian were already seated when we arrived in the hotel’s restaurant. At the far end of the long, rectangular room an art nouveau stained-glass window boasting a noble image of the god Apollo in his golden chariot covered most of the wall beneath the tall, vaulted ceiling. Below this stood a small stage, where a string quartet was playing. There was an arched mezzanine gallery on one side, under which were private tables, the bases of the arches separating them from each other, which could be curtained off from the main restaurant. Cécile and Sebastian, eschewing privacy, had chosen a table in the center of the room, directly in front of the stage.

  Colin took the chair next to Sebastian. “Might as well settle in for a cozy chat, Capet. You’re stuck with me as your dinner partner instead of my wife.” Sebastian frowned, but said nothing. All things considered, the meal went better than could have been expected. Several ladies approached, addressing Sebastian as Fedya and inviting him to a variety of dinners and parties. He basked in their attention.

  “I had no idea the Cossacks were so popular with the ladies, Capet,” Colin said.

  “I have never better enjoyed a disguise,” Sebastian said.

  “I cannot decide what to do with you, Monsieur Capet,” Cécile said. “Part of me wishes to reform you; the other would prefer to provide you with a list of items I think you should steal.”

  “What a fascinating idea, Madame du Lac.” Sebastian’s sapphire eyes shined even brighter than usual. “A challenge!”

  “You would have to accept my rules, and they would differ from yours,” she said. “Take that lady three tables over. The one in the aubergine gown, the sight of which is enough to tell you everything you should know about her taste.”

  The color did not enhance her complexion, but more alarming was the dangerously low-cut bodice held in place by small, lacy straps that could only be hanging on to her shoulders as a result of miraculous intervention. Her ample bosom—which she clearly felt she was showing off to her advantage—dwarfed her diamond and amethyst necklace, part of a spectacular parure.

  “I have been watching her. The man next to her is her son. Across from her is his wife, whom she has been subjecting to nonstop criticism. Notice how the young lady has very little jewelry. I should like to see her with the amethyst parure instead of her mother-in-law.”

  “It is an admirable start, Madame du Lac,” Sebastian drawled, “but you are not considering what would happen to the young lady should she receive the jewels in question. The toad of a mother-in-law would suspect her of being responsible for the theft. Our innocent friend would feel terrible and no doubt return the parure without even trying it on. It is best if one leaves several degrees of separation between parties in schemes such as these.”

  “I see your logic,” Cécile said.

  His sapphire eyes flashed. “Perhaps you could give me two lists: one of items you think should be taken and one of people you think deserving of a little something special. We could look at the two together and determine how best—”

  “I cannot believe you are encouraging him, Cécile,” I said, interrupting.

  “You don’t like the idea, Kallista?” Sebastian asked. “Say the word and I shall abandon it without regret.”

  “I haven’t the slightest interest in how you choose to spend your time,” I said. The waiter approached, not with our next course, but with a package for me. I removed the plain brown paper to reveal a pink enameled card case, very similar in color to the lilies of the valley imperial egg. Inside the case was a scrap of paper, folded small. On it, written in a faint hand, was a single sentence in English:

  I shall never rest in peace until you stop him from hurting another innocent victim.

  Ekaterina Petrovna

  May 1897

  “But are you in love with him?” Irusya had been asking the question over and over. “He’s not quite handsome, is he, our Mitya, but there is something about him. An intellectual intensity that is surprisingly attractive.” They were on the lawn outside the dacha, having just finished a picnic lunch. Irusya was on the swing, sitting in exactly the spot she had occupied the first time Lev kissed her.

  “Why does it matter if I’m in love with him?” Katenka said.

  “We need to know if we should worry about you becoming entangled with a man of such radical political beliefs,” Lev said. His tone alone told her he was teasing, and if she had any doubt, his laughter would have confirmed her suspicion. “I don’t want to see my sister arrested.”

  “Stop tormenting me. He’s your friend, Lev.”

  “Indeed, and I admire him above any man I’ve ever met. That doesn’t mean I want him for you.”

  “He hasn’t the slightest interest in me,” Katenka said.

  “I like his spectacles,” Irusya said. “They lend him an air of gravitas. But his lips are his best feature.”

  “I did not know you were taking such close notice of him,” Lev said. “Should I be jealous?”

  “You need never be jealous,” Irusya said. “I shall adore you forever, my little revolutionary.”

  Katenka studied her brother’s face. She gave very little thought to his politics and certainly had never considered him to be a revolutionary. “Do I need to worry about you?” she asked.

  “Never.” He grinned. “I don’t like it when you worry, and it isn’t good for your dancing.”

  Katenka pressed her lips together and didn’t reply. She began to pack the remains of their lunch into a large wicker basket. “Look at the clouds,” she said. “I should get this inside before it starts to rain.”

  “You aren’t going to use the weather to distract us from the matter at hand,” Irusya said. “Katenka, are you in love with Mitya? I shall not stop asking until I get an answer.”

  “You shall
grow hoarse before you are satisfied,” Lev said. “My sister is implacable and will admit to nothing.”

  “I despise you both,” Katenka said, and kicked at her brother to get him off the blanket they had spread on the ground. She picked it up, shook it out, and folded it. “Not everyone is so fortunate in matters of the heart as the two of you are.”

  Irusya jumped off the swing and flung herself dramatically on the ground. “It is just as I feared! He has broken her heart!”

  “He has not broken my heart.”

  “Has he insulted your honor?” Lev asked. “Must I challenge him?”

  “He has done nothing of the sort,” Katenka said. “And you, Lev, who count him as your closest friend, should know better than anyone he would not behave dishonorably.”

  “See how she defends him?” Irusya, still lying on the ground, rolled onto her stomach and propped her chin with her hands. “She does love him.”

  “I see your mother coming, Irusya,” Katenka said. “Shall I go distract her, so the two of you can run off to the garden without drawing her attention?”

  “Oh, yes, please,” Lev said. “I don’t think she approves of me, Irusya. She keeps asking why I’m still staying at Mitya’s when he has already returned to Petersburg. I expect to be banned from calling here any day now.”

  “Go, Katenka!” Irusya leapt to her feet in one graceful movement and took Lev by the hand, running as she pulled him toward the lake.

  By the time Irusya’s mother had reached Katenka, the two lovers had leapt into the small boat at the dock and rowed a good distance from shore.

  “Your brother is very energetic,” Mrs. Nemetseva said. “I suppose he would have to be to keep up with our Irusya. I do hope she lets him down well. I don’t dislike the boy, but he must know they will never be a match.”

  “Our family backgrounds are not so different,” Katenka said. “It is true we have fallen on hard times since our grandfather died, but—”

  “My dear child, do not think I meant to insult your excellent family. Your grandfather was a hero, and your mother a model of good breeding. But I know my daughter. She is impetuous and ambitious. This love will not last.”

  January 1900

  9

  After reading the message that accompanied the parcel, I passed it to Colin and scowled at Sebastian. “Is this from you?”

  “No, no it isn’t, but I’m ashamed to admit it.” He reached across the table in a vain attempt to grab the card case from me. “What does the note say?” Cécile had all but torn the paper from Colin’s hand, and Sebastian now rose from his seat and read it over her shoulder.

  “This is brilliant. Messages from beyond the grave!” he exclaimed. “I know Fabergé has the most exclusive clientele, but I had no concept of the true scope of his reach.”

  “Give the paper back to me,” I said, and Cécile complied. “Obviously it was not written by a ghost.”

  “Very odd that it’s in English,” Cécile said.

  “Not so odd,” I said. “I am, after all, English.”

  “Not many people in Petersburg speak the language, Kallista. Nemetseva certainly didn’t.” Cécile always did have a soft spot for a good ghost story.

  “Whether she did is irrelevant,” Colin said. “She did not write the note.”

  “Bien sûr,” she said. “But whoever did isn’t concerned with authenticity, then, is he?”

  “It’s a soft, feminine script, just what one would expect from a ballerina.” I held the paper up to the light, looking for a watermark.

  “Have you had occasion to make a study of the handwriting of ballerinas?” Colin asked. I raised an eyebrow but did not reply. He might rely entirely on hard facts, but I did not shirk from making use of my intuition. In theory, my husband agreed with my methods, but we applied different standards to determine what we deemed appropriate.

  “I wonder if it was written in English to encourage us to think that in death we can all speak every language,” Sebastian said. “May I please see the case? It looks to be an exquisite piece.”

  “No, you may not,” I said. I slipped it into my beaded evening bag. “What can the sender hope to accomplish by giving this to me?”

  “Perhaps he—or she—thinks you are taking too long to solve Nemetseva’s murder and wishes to spur you on,” Cécile said. “You know ordinary people, Kallista. They do not understand the intricacies of what it takes to conduct a thorough investigation.”

  “It is a warning,” Sebastian said. “Someone else is going to come to harm. Your villain is searching for his next victim and only you, Kallista, can keep him from striking again.”

  Normally, I did not agree with Sebastian, but I had to admit he could be correct. Until I knew more about Nemetseva’s death, I could not dismiss the notion that the murderer might pursue someone else. “We cannot allow there to be another victim,” I said, feeling my forehead crease.

  “Do you plan to keep the case?” Sebastian asked. “If not, I have several ideas about what to do with it.”

  I glared at him with such ferocity he did not dare reply.

  * * *

  Despite Sebastian’s strenuous protests—made in three different languages; he never could resist showing off—we refused to let him accompany us for the rest of the evening. The soirée after dinner was too lackluster to merit description. The ball at Yusupov Palace, however, would have dazzled even the most jaded individual.

  The palace faced the Moika River and was only a few blocks from the Mariinsky Theatre. Its bright yellow façade, with majestic columns, glowed over the snowy street and frozen river and its interiors were as ornate as any in the world. Louis XIV would have envied the Yusupovs their residence. The current prince, Felixovich Sumarokov-Elston, was not the family’s heir; he had married her. Zinaida Nikolaevna Yusupov, an elegant beauty with black hair and olive skin, was the sole heiress of the fortune, rumored to be greater than that of the Romanovs. Her refinement, social graces, and kindness, combined with a genuine modesty, endeared her to everyone she met. She was an excellent hostess, and although I had seen enough gilded ballrooms and gleaming chandeliers for a lifetime, I could not deny that she knew how to throw a spectacular ball.

  Her orchestra, playing waltzes, mazurkas, polkas, and more, was the equal of any to be found in the world’s great concert halls. Fresh flowers from her hothouses defied the cruel Russian winter to fill the ballroom with the scent of roses. Champagne flowed freely into crystal glasses, and piles of caviar—black beluga and the smaller, golden starlet—seemed to be replenished as if by magic. No matter how many people dug in with thin, mother-of-pearl spoons, more always appeared.

  Soon after we arrived and were ushered up a majestic staircase to the ballroom, Colin abandoned Cécile and me with a pretty apology. He was here to work; we would have to amuse ourselves. Cécile had been well acquainted with our hostess’s mother and had told me the story of how Zinaida’s parents had allowed her to choose her husband. She had been courted by countless royal princes and important members of the court but was impressed by none of them and fell in love with an officer in the imperial guards. Although they must not have been delighted by her choice, her parents did not stand in her way. I could not imagine my own mother having given me such freedom.

  Cécile sought out Zinaida, and we spent a pleasant interval conversing with her. My friend asked her permission to show me the rest of the house, as she felt I would be particularly interested in one of its famous rooms, and Zinaida, who was even more charming than her reputation suggested, acquiesced at once. Soon we were wandering through a corridor decorated as if it were a villa in Pompeii. Delicate paintings in the ancient style framed the space around sections of the terracotta-colored walls. Within each hung a painting depicting scenes from classical mythology: Daphne and Apollo, Artemis and Acteon, Zeus and Leda, Zeus appearing as a swan. The astute reader may wonder why I use the Greek names rather than the Roman, given the context. As my passion for ancient Greece is well k
nown, I ask to be indulged.

  We descended to the ground floor and entered an astonishing space. Elaborate mosaics covered every inch of the walls and ceiling of the Moorish drawing room. The niches into which candles had been set, casting a flickering, golden light, reminded me very much of those I had seen in Constantinople.

  “This is magnificent,” I said.

  “I thought you would appreciate it, Kallista,” Cécile said. “Now that you’ve seen it, we should return upstairs. We cannot avoid dancing forever. Zinaida would not stand for it.”

  “I have no intention of trying,” I said. I took a last look around the room and had just stepped into the corridor when I heard my husband’s voice. He was nowhere to be seen, in the room or out. Cécile gave me a quizzical look, and I took her hand and pulled her in the direction of the sound. It seemed to be coming from behind a wall. We pressed our ears to it and strained to listen. It was Colin, of that I had no doubt. He was speaking Russian, and from his tone I could tell he was angry; nothing else made him so preternaturally calm. A second speaker, a woman, interrupted him, and he reprimanded her sharply. At least that is how it sounded. I could not hear well enough to understand the words.

  I was leaning against the wall and suddenly felt it begin to move. The panel concealed a hidden door. I motioned for Cécile to stay silent and pushed it open, just enough to reveal a plain, narrow servants’ staircase. Their voices were coming from below. Inching forward, I peered over the banister, careful not to be seen. The woman, dressed in the uniform of a maid, had a look of terror on her face. She was shaking her head, as if in disbelief. I returned to the corridor and pulled the wall panel shut.

  “Monsieur Hargreaves is most fierce when he scolds, even if he does it quietly,” Cécile said. “I should not like to be interrogated by him.”

  “We should go back to the ballroom. We didn’t come here with the intention of spying, but it would be difficult to convince Colin of that if we are caught in a compromising position.” We retraced our steps and had just reached the gallery at the top of the grand marble staircase in the front of the house when we noticed a commotion in the street. Shouts overwhelmed the strains of a waltz coming from the ballroom, and the liveried servants at the door disappeared outside.