Death in St. Petersburg

by Tasha Alexander

  “I can’t face any of them,” Katenka said. “I want to go home.”

  “Then why did you come here?”

  “Why did you follow me?” she spat back, sounding hardly like herself.

  “You wouldn’t speak to me in church or at the cemetery,” he said. “What did you think I would do?”

  “You’re always telling me it’s dangerous for me to be seen with you. What did you think I would do? Go, go from this place now.” Her voice strained almost to the point of breaking. “This ghost is haunting more than just the theatre, and I cannot bear it. You have no idea how tormented I am, and you have made it clear again and again that I cannot rely on you. So leave me, once and for all. I do not want to know where you go. I don’t want to have any information to hide when I am eventually asked. Because I will, eventually, be asked.”

  Her companion stamped his foot and groaned. “I cannot do what you wish,” he said. “I have my work, too.” I heard a rustle of fabric; he must have embraced her. Then more heavy footsteps and the sound of the door opening and slamming shut. Katenka began to cry.

  I debated my options. Should I confront her? If I did, she was unlikely to reveal the identity of her companion. Furthermore, she would know that I was now aware of his existence. She might even be anticipating me as one of those who would ask her those eventual questions to which she referred. On the other hand, her heart-wrenching sobs revealed her current vulnerability. I might be able to comfort her and convince her to confide in me.

  In the end, I took too long in deciding. Katenka, still weeping, left the room. I counted to thirty in Greek and then followed, but saw no sign of her in the corridor. Stepping quietly, I began to systematically search for her.

  She had gone to the stage. Her shoes sounded louder on its boards than ballet slippers, but she was moving with exquisite grace, dancing something I recognized from the end of Swan Lake, silhouetted against the glow of the electric chandelier above the audience seats. She had not turned on any stage lights. After executing a series of pirouettes I would have thought impossible in her dress, she collapsed, sobbing.

  I would not disturb her private grief. Her wounds were too raw, too fresh. The time for questions could wait.

  Ekaterina Petrovna

  November 1897

  No nobleman would hold in his home a soirée that included ballerinas on the guest list—dancers were not socially acceptable unless they came to perform—so the grand duke had arranged the use of a private room in one of the city’s finest restaurants for his fête. A table laid heavily with an assortment of hors d’oeuvres stood in the center, and waiters circulated with magnums of Roederer champagne, bottled sweeter than that found in the rest of Europe, especially for the goût russe. A small orchestra played in the corner, and some of the guests were waltzing, though there was not really space for it.

  The chamber was crowded and vibrant, sounds of laughter and the babble of excited conversation filling the air, but Katenka wished she had not allowed Irusya to take her to this party. She was having an abominable time, but not for the reasons she had expected. The gentlemen were all extremely polite, if a bit too friendly, but they never veered toward the inappropriate.

  All the while, she was surreptitiously watching Irusya. Her performance in Coppélia had been nothing short of a triumph. Petipa took the unusual step of announcing her promotion to principal dancer from the stage during the curtain calls. Now she stood basking in attention not of the grand duke, as Katenka had expected, but of a younger man.

  Irusya, whose complexion was glowing prettily from a combination of excitement and champagne, smiled wickedly as she pulled her friend to her. “Prince Nikolai Danilovich Ukhov, may I present the dearest companion of my youth, Ekaterina Petrovna Sokolova?”

  He gave a neat bow and kissed Katenka’s hand. “It is a great pleasure, Ekaterina Petrovna. Please call me Kolya, as I know we shall be good friends. Our Irusya is most charming. I do not know how I shall ever tear myself away from her.”

  Katenka forced a smile. “There is no one I love better in all of Petersburg.”

  Kolya leaned close to her, put an arm companionably around her shoulder, and whispered—a false whisper, deliberately loud enough that Irusya could hear. “I find myself holding her just as dear.”

  Katenka’s heart was pounding in her chest. She knew she should not care so much. Irusya could love whomever she wanted; Katenka had no control over her. But her heart ached for her brother, who she knew would suffer if he lost Irusya.

  “I’m afraid I must return home,” Katenka said. “This evening has exhausted me.”

  “I will call for my carriage and escort you myself,” the prince said.

  “You are kindness itself, Kolya,” Irusya said, shocking Katenka by addressing him so familiarly. “And will you take me home, too?”

  “Of course, douchka,” he said. “I would never leave you to find your own way home in this weather.”

  Douchka? Little Darling? Katenka was even more shocked, so stunned, in fact, that she hardly noticed Irusya bustling her toward the cloakroom without even pausing to say goodbye to the grand duke. Before she knew it, she was sitting in the prince’s carriage, across from him and Irusya. They were leaning close together, their shoulders touching.

  “Irusya’s flat is not far from here,” Katenka said. “If you turn at—”

  “We shall drop you first,” Kolya said. Katenka knew better than to reply. She sat in silence for the rest of the trip, watching him and Irusya steal knowing looks at each other. When they reached the front of her building, Katenka all but fell out of the door, saved from landing in a half-frozen puddle by the prince’s liveried footman who had stepped down from his perch to assist her.

  She watched the carriage until it disappeared. The sleet, which had been falling for hours, started to turn to a wet, heavy snow. Her feet were soaked and her teeth were beginning to chatter, but she could not force herself to go inside. Instead, she ran all the way to Nevsky Prospekt, not stopping until she reached the store in which Lev worked. It was closed, but she knew he would be there, in his tiny room in the back, hardly large enough for a narrow bed. She banged and banged on the door until he opened it, concern writ on his face.

  Seeing him, she burst into tears. “I must tell you something,” she cried, and flung herself against his chest. He put his arms around her and embraced her.

  “Come, Katenka, you are soaked and frozen. Mitya is here and some of our other friends as well. We will see you warm and comfortable.”

  They were gathered, not in Lev’s little room but in the shop itself, next to a warm stove around which they had pulled wooden chairs. An empty bottle of vodka and a second, half-empty, along with a jar of salted cucumbers, sat on the floor in the center of their circle. Each man held a shot glass. Only Mitya rose when Katenka entered, the other men nodding to acknowledge her and mumbling greetings.

  Mitya handed her a glass of vodka. “Drink this. You must warm up.”

  She obeyed, but not even the harsh liquid could break through the cold paralyzing her chest. Yes, she was wet; yes, the temperature was freezing. But neither had caused her chill. She wanted to speak with Lev privately but did not see how she could. He had disappeared with her wet coat and hat for a moment but had already returned, carrying the worn blanket from his bed. He wrapped her in it.

  “What are you doing wandering the streets at this time of night?” he asked.

  “I needed to talk to you, but now is not the time. You are busy.”

  “We are,” Mitya said. “We are dreaming of a new country. If that doesn’t warm you, I don’t know what will.”

  How could he be so infuriating? Could he not see how upset she was? Katenka bit back the reprimand on her lips and shook her head. “I am afraid I am not suited to politics,” she said. “I should go.”

  “You must warm up first,” Mitya said. “You’ll get sick.”

  “No, I have class early in the morning and should have be
en in bed hours ago. I will find a droshky,” she said.

  “I will hail one for you,” Mitya said.

  “No,” Katenka said. “Let Lev, please. I need to speak with him privately.”

  Mitya frowned. “He can come to you tomorrow. I will do it.”

  “No,” she said, more sharply, and Mitya turned on his heel and went back to his seat without another word. Lev looked confused but followed her to the door. He did not let her step outside, where the snow made it impossible to see even to the far side of the street, until he had a droshky waiting for her.

  “You must talk to Irusya,” Katenka said as her brother handed her into the small carriage. “She is losing her way, and I fear you will lose her in the process.”

  “I saw her this afternoon and things could not have been better between us,” Lev said. “You are concerned over nothing.”

  “I have seen something.” She stopped. “I do not think you can trust her any longer. She—”

  “Say no more, Katyurushka. You are upsetting yourself unnecessarily. I am going to propose tomorrow and then you will have nothing left to worry about.” He shut the carriage door and waved as the droshky pulled away. Katenka, tasting bile in her throat, fell against the hard back of her seat, tears soaking her cheeks.

  January 1900

  14

  I walked back to the hotel, contemplating the conversation I had overheard. Katenka sounded so unlike herself, frightened and afraid. Who was the man who had followed her into the theatre? If I confronted her about it, would she answer me truthfully? My instinct told me she would not. By the time I reached our suite, I had decided I would have to take a different approach with her. I unlocked the door and found Colin inside. He looked far less tired than he had of late, rather refreshed, in fact, and the warmth of his greeting—not to mention the relish with which he removed my coat—told me his work had taken a turn for the better. I said as much to him.

  “You are correct,” he said. “I am hopeful that we may be in a position to disrupt the activities of the violent faction within the league.”

  “Do you really believe the others are not violent?”

  “They won’t shy away from violence should it become necessary, but they are intent on starting their campaign in a peaceful manner.”

  “That is noble of them,” I said.

  “Perhaps,” he said. “Or it could be nothing more than a strategy to strengthen their support should they later adopt another approach. They will be able to say they tried to seek change without violence, and no doubt attract more support from the public as a result.”

  “But as for the others—’

  “I should say no more, Emily.”

  “Then I shall press you for nothing further.” I called downstairs for tea and a tray of cakes and told him about the funeral and its aftermath while we waited for them to arrive.

  “Again with the ghostly dancer,” he said. “The masses are captivated by the ridiculous notion that the great Nemetseva has refused to leave the city until her murderer is brought to justice. The newspapers are full of it, and it’s all I hear on the streets.”

  “She shouldn’t be called an apparition, let alone a ghost. It’s perfectly obvious she’s a living, breathing person.” Logic had very little influence in these sorts of situations. Time and again I had watched people choose to believe something utterly irrational but emotionally satisfying instead of accepting a difficult truth. I pulled the crimson scarf from my bag and passed it to my husband. “Is there any way we could determine where the scarves came from?”

  Colin inspected it and asked me to bring him the others. He laid the three of them out on a long table in the sitting room of our suite. They were identical in dimension and color, and looked as if they had been cut from a single piece of cloth, expertly hemmed to ensure the ends would not fray.

  “I doubt we can source either the material or the scarves themselves,” he said. His dark curls tumbled onto his brow as he bent over the table. “This sort of thing can be found in any larger store. The quality is not striking, although the silk isn’t bad. The stitches are machine worked, not done by hand.”

  “Which might suggest they were purchased rather than made at home?” I asked.

  “Not necessarily,” he said. “Plenty of people have a sewing machine at home. Furthermore, there are more than a few of them in the costume department of the theatre.” He had draped my coat over a convenient chair and now went to hang it in the wardrobe. “I’ll leave your gloves on the table as you never think to look for them in your coat. It’s most amusing, how—” A slip of paper fluttered to the floor as he pulled them out of the pocket. He held it up between two fingers. “Something you need?”

  “What is it?” I took it from him, unfolded it, and read aloud. “Beware the evil hail that follows a bad death.” The handwriting was a perfect match for the note that had accompanied the Fabergé card case. I paused and tried to remember everything I could about the woman standing beside me at the grave who had talked about bad deaths. “I wish Cécile had stayed with me. She knows many more people here than I. Even if she didn’t recognize the woman, she might have known some of the others around me and could have asked them.”

  “The concept of a bad death leading to subsequent disasters is quite common in Russia, so there’s no reason to consider her the only possible culprit. Anyone could have slipped it into your pocket,” Colin said. “You said the church was quite crowded.”

  “It was,” I said, frowning. “And I was distracted both there and in the cemetery, trying to watch for anyone engaged in suspicious behavior.”

  “But you saw nothing that triggered your intuition?”

  “No. I was surprised Prince Vasilii was not present, but I suppose he would not have thought it appropriate.”

  “We were both in the same meeting at the Winter Palace this morning,” Colin said. “It was not something he could have missed, regardless of the reason. There are rumblings of revolutionary activity, and we believe there may be someone inside the palace involved. Vasilii’s tasked with trying to root out anyone deemed disloyal.”

  “Poor man,” I said with a sigh and then looked at my husband, feeling most grateful that we had never had to keep our love secret. I stood in front of him, took his strong hands in mine, and looked directly into his eyes. “Are you at leisure for the remainder of the day? Or have you another meeting than cannot be missed?”

  “You are well aware, Emily, how serious my work here is,” he said, touching my cheek lightly. “There is never a moment during which I could not be applying myself to some task. However, if you were to alert me to something even more pressing that requires my immediate attention…”

  I stood on my toes, threw my arms around his neck, and kissed him.

  “Yes, quite, well … that does seem even more pressing,” he said.

  “Vital urgency,” I replied, still kissing him. “The tsar himself would have you arrested if you didn’t tend to it without delay.”

  “Is that so?” He was backing me up toward the bedroom. “Ambivalent though I am about monarchs in general, I am never one to shirk my duty…”

  “You could spark an international incident if you ignored this,” I said. “What would Her Majesty say if she learned that her most trusted agent had offended the tsar?”

  This made him snort. “My dear girl, don’t ever mention the queen again in such circumstances. Promise me.” He took my face in his hands. I could feel his breath on my cheeks. Just then the sharp sound of a knock caused me to start and Colin to scowl. “This is unconscionable.” He straightened his jacket, adjusted his tie, and went to the door, opening it to reveal a most distraught Prince Vasilii.

  “Forgive me, Hargreaves,” he said. “I ought not to have come unannounced. I was hoping to speak with your wife.” He handed Colin a slim wooden box. “This was on the floor outside your door. I presume it was meant for you.”

  Colin took the box, ushered him in, and poured whis
kies for them both before sitting. I declined a glass of my own, preferring instead to wait for the tea, which had not yet been delivered.

  “A productive meeting this morning,” the prince said. “I am most grateful for your support.”

  “It is nothing,” Colin said, picking up the box from the table on which he had laid it. He opened it and shut it almost immediately, hearing another knock on the door. The tea had arrived. My husband asked Prince Vasilii about military maneuvers during the Napoleonic Wars while the tray was delivered. Only once the staff member had left did his tone take a more serious bent.

  “You both should see this.” He opened the box again and turned it toward us. Inside was a long, sharp dagger encrusted with dried blood.

  “Nemetseva?” I asked, rising and covering my mouth with my hand. No matter how many times I faced it, the grisly evidence of violent death at human hands pierced my very soul. I would never be inured to it.

  Vasilii stood as well, unsteady, all color draining from his face.

  “It’s a naval dirk,” Colin said. “There are no markings on it that might indicate to whom it belongs, but it is possible I can determine something about its origins. Did you see anyone else in the corridor when you approached our room?”

  “No, not that I remember,” he said. “I cannot claim to have been paying any particular attention. Foolish of me to be so unaware of my surroundings.”

  “You had no reason to think you should be on alert,” I said.

  He gripped the back of a chair and closed his eyes. “I cannot bear to see it.” The poor man looked as if he were about to faint. Hearts can mend, but I wondered if he would ever recover from this blow. Humans have an amazing capacity to adapt to even the worst circumstances; that does not mean they are left unscathed.

  “Was anything else in the box?” I asked.

  “This.” Colin passed me a small slip of paper, folded into a small square. On it were two words: Help me. After reading it, I showed it to Vasilii.