Death in St. Petersburg

by Tasha Alexander

  Cécile and I followed. The road in front of the palace was crammed full with the carriages of Prince Yusupov’s guests. All of the drivers were looking across the river. There, perched on one of the stone pedestals dividing the long iron rail that skirted the embankment above the frozen river, stood a slim, pale figure, perfectly balanced on her toes. She wore a ballerina’s costume, the bodice covered with beads and feathers, all in white. In her hands, she held a long, red sash, the color of fresh blood, which she was waving above her head with hypnotic fluidity.

  “Nemetseva!” someone cried. At the sound, the dancer stopped, lowered herself from point, placed one foot delicately behind the other, and curtseyed. Then, in a flash of red and white, she was gone. Two of the drivers leapt from their carriages in pursuit, but by the time they reached the bridge that crossed the river and made their way to where she had stood, all they found was the red sash.

  In the meantime, news of the apparition had reached the guests in the ballroom, and they had started to pour from the house. The air was too cold for most, but a few of the heartier gentlemen raced across the river, eager to see the scarf for themselves. I looked around for Colin, but he did not appear. My teeth were chattering—my azure silk evening gown offered no protection from the cold; further investigation would require a trip back inside. Pulling Cécile behind me, I went to the cloakroom and retrieved our coats and boots. As soon as we were adequately bundled, we joined the growing crowd across the river.

  I elbowed my way through the gentlemen (although I am not certain the word gentlemen could be applied to the men in question; some of them had the audacity to elbow me back) until I reached the one holding the scarf. He was loath to relinquish it but had no palatable alternative. Cécile, a commanding presence next to me, looked as if she might strike him should he not comply, and I do not think he wished to deal with the aftermath of that.

  The crowd began to disperse, their evening kit incapable of standing up to the cold wind and the heavy snow that had started to fall. There was no sign of the mysterious ballerina. She must have disappeared into one of the buildings along the street, but I did not go in search of her. If friends had provided a hiding place, we would not be able to locate her. All she need do was change out of her costume, wash off her makeup, restyle her hair, and she would be unrecognizable. I folded the scarf carefully and put it in my bag, feeling the Fabergé card case against my gloved hand.

  Back inside the palace, the atmosphere in the ballroom was explosive. Far from being concerned by the incident, Zinaida’s guests were delighted. Half of them insisted it was Nemetseva’s ghost. The other half didn’t much care what the explanation was; they enjoyed the excitement regardless of its source.

  The orchestra started to play the waltz from Swan Lake. I felt this was in poor taste and was about to say as much to Cécile when Colin appeared and slipped his arm around my waist.

  “May I have this dance?” he asked.

  “Do you know what just happened?” I asked.

  “The ghostly ballerina? Yes. I suppose she came here directly from the Grand Hôtel de l’Europe after dropping off the card case for you. She seems rather efficient. I am almost impressed.”

  “It’s rather disturbing,” I said.

  “Dance with me.” His eyes held mine with an intensity impossible to ignore. I have never, from the earliest days of our courtship, been able to deny the power waltzing with him held over me. I rested one hand on his shoulder, gave him the other, and we began to move across the floor.

  “The dancer looked very sad,” I said, nearly breathless from the speed at which we were spinning. “It could be one of Nemetseva’s friends.”

  “Ekaterina Petrovna?”

  “No, she might have changed the color of her hair with a wig, but her features were all wrong. It was not she.” I frowned. “Is your evening going well? Getting everything accomplished you need to accomplish?”

  “You know better than to ask me about my work.”

  I felt a slight pang of guilt at not telling him that I had heard him in the stairwell near the Moorish drawing room. “I was not asking for specifics, just inquiring as to your success or lack thereof.”

  “Things are moving at a desirable pace,” he said. “I am satisfied with my progress.”

  I stared into his eyes, lost for a moment in the depths of their liquid darkness. I could never hide anything from him. “I must tell you something…” I hesitated for an instant, just long enough for our conversation to be interrupted. A uniformed gentleman—a high-ranking officer of some sort—stopped us dancing and whispered something to my husband. Colin’s eyebrows drew together, and I saw a hint of displeasure cross his handsome face.

  “Forgive me. I must abandon you mid-waltz. Duty calls. Find Cécile and return to the hotel. There has been a murder belowstairs, one of the servants, and I am called to the scene.” He did not pause long enough even to kiss me before weaving his way through the other dancers and disappearing from sight. No one watching him would have thought anything was amiss. He drew no attention to his departure.

  Cécile was dancing with a tall gentleman in an expensively tailored suit. She seemed to be enjoying his attentions, and I saw no need to take her away from him before absolutely necessary. I had no objection to being kept out of Colin’s work, but the murder of a servant was not something I could ignore. It had occurred during a function to which I was invited. Why should I leave when the ball was still going on without any sign of disruption? Obviously no one felt the guests were in danger, and no harm could come from us staying as well.

  I always endeavor to be candid, and must, therefore, admit that I had only one purpose: I wanted to know if the murdered servant was the same girl I’d seen speaking to my husband on that hidden staircase.

  Ekaterina Petrovna

  July 1897

  Although she had enjoyed her respite at Irusya’s dacha, the feeling of failure that had plagued Katenka from the night of the graduation performance had not faded. She had managed to relegate it from her thoughts while she was at Lake Ladoga, but now that she was back with the company, the pain had only intensified. Irusya’s success thrilled her, and she felt genuine pleasure at the news that her friend had won a plum soloist role in Don Quixote, the ballet opening the summer season in Krasnoye Selo, but the demons that had taken residence in her thoughts would not let her enjoy learning her role in the corps de ballet.

  This did not stop her from executing her steps with flawless precision. Katenka worked hard and earned her placement in the front row, but she could take no happiness from the recognition of her skills. Front row or not, she was languishing in the corps.

  Summer rehearsals were conducted in Petersburg, as the small theatre in the countryside did not have adequate facilities for the company to remain there in residence. On the morning of performances, the dancers would gather at the Baltic Station to catch a train to Krasnoye Selo.

  The new company members buzzed with anticipation as they boarded the train, eager for their first professional performance. The more seasoned dancers gave them wry smiles and tried to remember their own early days. When they reached their destination, many of them paused for lunch at a restaurant across from the theatre, but Katenka was too excited to eat. Afterward, they were assigned to dressing rooms, and Katenka watched as Mathilde Kschessinska, who had one of the best, supervised the hanging of filmy fabric over her walls and directed the placement of bright flower arrangements. Not that she needed to bring her own flowers. She would be showered with them at her curtain call, but she always liked to prepare for performance in a beautifully appointed room.

  During the first interval of the opening night, Katenka hung back when a handful of grand gentlemen—princes, she imagined, or perhaps even grand dukes—left their boxes to join the dancers for conversation on the stage. She was too shy to speak to any of them, although one man, old enough to be her father, did compliment her on her pirouettes. As she had performed no pirouettes, she
knew his pretty words were nothing but pretense, and she understood well his motives. She rebuffed him at once and decided to go to the dressing room she shared with the others girls in the corps.

  She passed Irusya on her way across the stage. A dashing young man in a guards’ uniform was praising her to the skies. Katenka smiled, glad that Irusya’s dancing was appreciated, but her happiness faded when her friend grabbed her by the arm.

  “Ekaterina Petrovna is my dearest friend,” she said, pulling Katenka to face her companion. “Katenka, you must meet Count Anatole Emsky. He is a great fan of the ballet and a connoisseur of Petipa’s choreography.”

  Katenka made a small curtsey. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she said, her voice soft.

  The count nodded at her. “Yours as well.”

  “Katenka is a brilliant dancer,” Irusya said. “Before long you shall see her dancing in all the best roles.”

  “I look forward to it,” the count said.

  “You are very kind,” Katenka said. “Please forgive me, but I must get to the dressing room. One of my ribbons has come loose.” She could feel the count’s eyes on her as she left the stage and hoped she wouldn’t see him again. None of this sat well with her. She did not like being expected to be a witty conversationalist between acts, and she had no interest in entertaining noblemen with a taste for ballerinas. As a student, when she and Irusya had roles in the company’s productions, they had watched the dancers flirt with their admirers, thinking it all looked so very grown up and glamorous. Now it seemed sordid and distracting, taking the focus away from the performance. She would have preferred to stretch backstage and mark her choreography, concentrating on her work before she returned to the stage. The interval should not be a soirée.

  Perhaps, had conversation come more easily to her, Katenka would have felt differently about it all. Her golden hair and pale blue eyes attracted a good deal of attention. During the second interval, two princes asked if they might look for her in the park when they were next out driving. She had not known how to reply to either of them, and had looked for Irusya, hoping to summon her assistance, but she was at the front of the stage basking in the count’s open admiration of her.

  After the final curtain, Lev and Mitya surprised the girls, waiting for them at the stage door. Katenka embraced her brother fiercely while Irusya teased Mitya about his suit, which she viewed as wholly unsuitable for an evening at the theatre.

  “Have you nothing better to concern yourself with than my inadequate wardrobe?” Mitya said. Katenka expected he would reprimand Irusya more severely, but he seemed to be in a fine mood that night, and he took her criticism in the spirit intended: the harmless ribbing of a good friend.

  Petersburg’s famous white nights, the stretch of weeks when the summer sun barely set, were not yet over, and the sky remained bright long after the ballet had ended. The city’s citizens would pay for the extra hours of sun in the winter, when the golden orb would all but disappear, but they made the most of the light, staying out almost until morning. The four friends roamed through the village’s pretty gardens, stopping to buy ice cream. Lev and Irusya lingered behind, wanting some semblance of privacy, leaving Katenka with Mitya.

  “Lev is doing very well at the bookstore,” Mitya said in a careless tone, as if a beautiful, bright midnight ought to be wasted in discussion about one’s brother’s employment. Katenka felt tears smart in her eyes and wondered if he ever thought about anything that mattered.

  “I am delighted to know it,” she said.

  “I tell you only so you know that he will soon be in a position to propose to Irusya.”

  “That will make her very happy.”

  “Will it?” he asked.

  “Are men all so daft as you?” Katenka turned to face him and spoke in a tone she did not know herself capable of. “Of course she will be happy. She has loved him since she was fifteen years old. Or perhaps you haven’t noticed that? Do you notice anything, Mitya? Has even the brilliance of the white nights escaped you?”

  He stood before her, flabbergasted. “I did not expect this sort of reaction. I thought you were happy about their relationship.”

  “I never thought you were stupid, Mitya. I believed you to be an intellectual, but now I wonder that I ever held you in such high regard when you have no ability to see what is right in front of you.” Katenka could not entirely understand why she felt so full of rage, but she knew she wanted to direct all of it at Mitya, whether he deserved it or not. She raised her hand to slap him, not caring whether her action was just. He grabbed her by the wrist, his eyes wide, and searched her face.

  “Katenka … can it be that you…” His voice trailed. “You speak of the midnight and remind me of the magic that exists in our northern summers…”

  “You are talking nonsense,” Katenka said, looking away from him and directing her gaze to the hard pavement beneath their feet.

  “Then came a moment of renaissance, / I looked up—you again are there, / A fleeting vision, the quintessence / Of all that’s beautiful and rare,” he said, quoting Pushkin. Without giving her time to reply, he took her face in his hands and kissed her.

  Behind her, she heard Irusya whoop. “It’s about time, Dmitri Dmitriyevich! I thought I would die waiting!”

  January 1900

  10

  The instant the waltz finished, I tore Cécile from her partner almost before he had thanked her for the dance. Sometimes, propriety is an unnecessary inconvenience, and I had already waited long enough to find out who had been murdered. Cécile understood the urgency as soon as I explained the situation. We needed to get belowstairs, and the only access of which I was aware was the hidden staircase near the Moorish drawing room. Perhaps this was the Russian equivalent of the green baize door?

  We descended the narrow staircase, at the bottom of which was a long, well-lit passageway. At the end of that we reached a junction. Following the sound of voices, we turned left and soon came to the servants’ domain. There, a group of individuals—all of whom, by the look of their stained aprons, must work in the kitchen—stood, huddled, their voices agitated and loud. How I wished I could understand them, but their dialect was incomprehensible to me. Further down the hall, I could see three men in livery; they might know some French. We approached them. They looked horrified to see us (the staff never do like their part of the house to be invaded by those they would prefer stay upstairs) and asked if we were lost. I inquired as to the identity of their murdered colleague, but either they did not understand my question or they chose not to answer, as they replied by pointing us to another staircase and offering to escort us back to the ballroom.

  I heard Colin’s voice and cringed, just a bit. I had been foolish to think I could get a glimpse of the victim without his knowledge, but I had not come this far to leave unsatisfied. Cécile agreed to press on. Colin and a gaggle of military officers and policemen were in a large servants’ hall. We managed to pass the open door without being spotted. I grabbed by the lapels the next liveried footman I saw and demanded, in French, to be taken to the dead girl.

  This bold strategy proved more effective than asking politely. The young man did not look happy, but he led us to a small cellar room with a single table standing in its center. On it was a body covered with a crisp, white bedsheet. Gingerly, I lifted it, and saw the face of the girl who had been talking to Colin. Her neck, bruised and swollen, told me the brutal manner in which she had been dispatched. I silently said a quick prayer for her and thanked the footman.

  * * *

  Colin did not return to the hotel until nearly six o’clock in the morning. I managed to fall asleep, but my slumber was far from peaceful. I tossed and turned, dreaming of the maid and Nemetseva, their dead faces haunting me. Colin shook me awake, more gently than I deserved.

  “I should know better than to expect you would do as I asked,” he said. “Why did you insist on seeing the body?”

  “How did you know?”


  “I questioned every servant in the household. More than a few of them mentioned seeing two ladies from the ball belowstairs. Who else would it be?”

  I propped myself up on my elbows and pulled the bedclothes around me. “You must forgive me,” I said. “I had to see for myself.” I confessed everything to him, passionately imploring him to believe that I hadn’t set out to search for him on the hidden stairway.

  “I do not doubt you,” he said. “I wish, Emily, that I could tell you more, but you know I cannot. Suffice it to say that Anna had been an important source for me. It is a blow to lose her.”

  “I’m very sorry. Did you know her well?”

  “Well enough,” he said. I could read the strain in his face. His forehead crinkled, and his eyes were dull. “She was a valuable asset.”

  “She was so young,” I said. “I never considered that someone like her would be engaged in such dangerous work.”

  “The world is not an easy place for many people,” Colin said. He had flung his jacket and white tie across a chair and was unfastening his stiff collar. “She was a girl of principle, who allied herself with people searching for nonviolent means of achieving their goals. Now…” He sighed, deflated.

  I did not prompt him to continue. “You don’t need to say more.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed. “She trusted me because I convinced her she could. And now…” He took my hand. “We both have chosen taxing work. In order to do it efficiently, we cannot allow ourselves to be consumed by the emotion of it. Have you had any further word from your ghostly ballerina?”

  “No, but I am told dancers generally sleep quite late.”

  He smiled. “Would that I could emulate them.” I could not remember when I had seen him so tired. Ordinarily, it seemed he could work endlessly without sleep, but now his eyes closed and he dropped off almost at once.