Death in St. Petersburg

by Tasha Alexander

  We thanked her and left the flat. Her duplicity had convinced me that I could not dismiss her as having played a serious role in the murder. Colin, however, had a different impression. He believed her when she claimed to be out of her depth emotionally.

  “Her best friend is dead, and, even if she had nothing to do with it, she’s bound to feel guilty because her career has improved as a result. I shall see what I can learn about her brother through official channels. Most likely he’s some sort of political activist, which would explain Katenka’s reluctance to give us any information. She may, in fact, know very little. The bookstore at which he works is a haven for any number of individuals the government considers to have unacceptable ideological positions. Radical views are not appreciated here, and holding them can be as dangerous for one’s family as for oneself.”

  “Lev was in love with Nemetseva,” I said. “He came to collect the letters he had written to her so that he would not now be suspected of killing her.”

  “Your mind works in the most extraordinary fashion. How did you reach that conclusion?”

  “What other sort of letters would he be after?” I asked. “You can’t suspect that Nemetseva, whose entire life was ballet and her aristocratic lover, was involved in politics, revolutionary or otherwise.”

  “I wouldn’t be so quick to assume that.” He flagged down a droshky and held my hand as I stepped into it. “Politics can seep into the most unexpected places.”

  “The only politics with which Nemetseva would be concerned are those in the theatre and those on the outside that affect the theatre. Any sort of governmental upheaval could threaten the stability of cultural institutions, the ballet included.”

  “A valid point,” Colin said, “but let’s find out more before we start anticipating a revolution.”

  He dropped me at the hotel and continued on to the Winter Palace, where his work would keep him occupied for the rest of the day. I collected the key and our mail from the front desk. There was a thick letter from Anglemore Park. Eager for news of the boys, I ripped it open and started to read as I climbed the stairs to our suite. There was something from each of them. Henry’s portion was a dictated litany about what he viewed as the intellectual deficiencies of his brothers, his evidence being their complete lack of interest in copying Egyptian hieroglyphs from a book that was his own current obsession. Richard and Tom had drawn pictures, Richard’s of a small boy on an extremely large horse, and Tom’s showing three boys fishing in a red pond. Also enclosed was a lengthy update from Nanny on everything they were doing.

  I was so distracted by her missive (she wondered if Henry, always alarmingly precocious, should be sent to school before he turned eight) that I almost didn’t notice the all-too-familiar form, a tall Cossack hat on his head, slouched against the wall just outside our door. I did see him, though, and made no attempt to hide my displeasure at being ambushed by him.

  “Don’t glower at me,” Sebastian said. “You seemed upset last time when I let myself into your room, so I thought you would prefer this. I’ve been waiting a brutally long time for you to return; you might show a little compassion.”

  “I might if I had asked you to come,” I said, folding the letter and returning it to its envelope. “Why are you here?”

  He glanced about furtively. “I don’t like to speak about such matters in public.”

  “Fine,” I said. “You may come to the suite, but if you’re looking to brag about your latest criminal activities, you needn’t bother. I’ve heard all about them already and have no interest in any lurid details you might share.” At current pace, I worried that Sebastian might make off with the better part of the fortunes of the entire Russian aristocracy.

  “You know how rich and profligate they all are,” he said. “This city is the perfect playground for me. But I won’t bore you with the details as it would only give you ammunition should you ever try to turn me in to the authorities. I must say, Kallista, you are looking most fetching. The cold air agrees with you. It’s as if St. Petersburg has turned you into a snow princess. I should like to see you in white fox. It would suit you.”

  “I do wish you would refrain from speaking to me like that,” I said. I unlocked the door, which he made a great show of holding open for me before following me inside. I hung up my coat and my muff, discarded my hat, and pulled off my gloves. “Where is your overcoat?” I asked.

  “I left it in the cloakroom downstairs. I would not let the horrid little man have my hat, though, no matter how much of a fuss he made.”

  “You’ll be shocked to hear that I’m not altogether unhappy to see you,” I said, lowering myself onto a chair opposite the settee in our sitting room. “It saves me the trouble of having to track you down.” Although I knew his theft of the imperial egg was not connected to Nemetseva’s murder, I had wanted to ask him about what he had observed when he left it for her.

  His jaw dropped. He had been walking toward me and stopped so suddenly that his hat flew off his head. He caught it neatly and regained his composure. “This is most welcome news. Shall I send for some vodka, or would you prefer champagne?”

  “We shan’t need either,” I said. “Sit on the settee and tell me, in as much detail as possible, exactly how you got the imperial egg to Nemetseva and why you decided to give it to her.”

  “You know I don’t like to divulge specifics of my methods. They are, in effect, proprietary secrets.”

  “Talk. Now.” I leaned against the back of the chair and crossed my arms.

  He sighed. “I never could deny you anything. Why is the simplest part of your question, so I shall begin there. Nemetseva was an artist of unparalleled skill and the lilies of the valley egg an example of supreme craftsmanship. All ballerinas appreciate flowers, so Nemetseva was a natural choice to receive it. I know the empress enjoys her trinkets, but she has so many that they are all but lost to clutter. Have you ever seen her private rooms?”

  “I have not and there is no need for you to describe how you stole the egg. I shall allow you to defend your proprietary secrets.”

  “You are kindness itself, although I will say it was shockingly simple. Security in the palace is preposterous; a child could gain access with minimal effort. I had hoped for more of a challenge.” Moving with supreme insouciance, he draped one leg over the other. “It would have been too tedious to leave it in her flat while she slept, so I chose to place it in her dressing room during the performance of Swan Lake. What use is my occupation if it does not stimulate even the slightest excitement? Although even that was not so difficult as I had hoped. There’s a shocking crush of people backstage. Nemetseva didn’t dance in the first act, so I hovered in the vicinity of her dressing room, waiting for her to finish her preparations. Naturally, I had made discreet inquiries as to her habits and had learned that once in her costume and makeup, she liked to go to a practice room to warm up. As soon as she did this, I went into her dressing room. I placed the egg—and the note I’d written—into the pocket of her cloak.”

  “You put it in the pocket?” I crinkled my brow. “So we have no way of knowing whether she found it before or after she went to the stage door after the second act, or even if she found it at all. It might have fallen out of the cloak during the murder. Did you notice anything unusual in the dressing room?”

  “Only that she shared it with two other dancers. I should have thought a prima ballerina would merit a private space, but there were three chairs set up in a row along the counter beneath the mirror that runs the length of the wall. A jumble of hairpins and brushes and makeup and I know not what else was at each of the stations.”

  “Who were the other dancers?”

  “I don’t know her name, but one was in the corps. I could tell from her costume. I must have seen twenty other girls dressed the same. The other was Ekaterina Petrovna, who so gloriously completed the role of her dead friend.”

  That Katenka was there came as no surprise, but it did make me consider one thin
g: Could she have managed to dance so well when she took Nemetseva’s place if she knew her friend was dead? It seemed unlikely, and this gave me the strongest evidence of her innocence so far. Still, though, I had many doubts about her.

  “Can you recall any other details?”

  “I may have nosed around a bit.”

  “Don’t make me prod, Sebastian.”

  “You take the fun out of everything,” he said. “There were point shoes and ribbons and needles and thread. Nothing out of the ordinary. Or so I thought, until I found that one of our ballerinas had a stash of some sort of political pamphlets, calling for workers to unite and organize.”

  “This was sitting out in the open?” I asked.

  “No, no, it was in a bag shoved in a corner underneath a coat in what seemed to me a very bad attempt to hide something in plain sight. That’s what made me interested in looking through it. Why bother to cover something of no consequence?”

  “Could you tell if it belonged to Nemetseva?”

  “There was nothing in or on the bag that identified its owner, but the coat was not hers. She had worn a blue velvet cloak—fur-lined, quite spectacular—to the theatre that evening. Naturally, I would never have put the egg in it if I weren’t certain it was hers.”

  “Can you recall anything more about the text of the pamphlets?” I asked.

  “I have no affinity for politics,” he said. “I read only enough to know I’d be bored going on. That’s all there is to say, Kallista. May we have our vodka now?”

  Not wanting to spend more time with him than strictly necessary, I refused to call down for vodka and instead offered him some of Colin’s whisky. Delighted, he accepted with gusto. He had earned his reward, and now I would have to discover which of the dancers had a penchant for politics. Or confirm, really. I had little doubt my suspicions would prove correct.

  Ekaterina Petrovna

  June 1898

  When Lev and Mitya had first abandoned her, Katenka thought she would never recover from the blow, but her ability to adapt surprised her. First, she noticed that she no longer woke up every morning with an ache in her heart. Then she realized that she didn’t even think about them every day. After that, her dancing began to improve. Cecchetti was the first to notice. “You are more focused,” he said. “This is good.”

  Petipa complimented her as well but did not give her any better roles. She knew she would have to work harder still and, almost more important, prove to him—to them all—that she could be relied upon to perform consistently at this higher standard. No one wanted to risk giving a solo to a dancer who might wilt under the pressure.

  Now that she was no longer struggling artistically, she began to enjoy herself more on stage and in the classroom, and this, more than anything else, enabled her to soar. Finally, the passion and the steps began to connect, and she started to understand the words Pierina Legnani had spoken to her, all those months ago at Irusya’s luncheon. For the first time, she felt in control of her talent.

  She did not see much of Irusya outside class anymore. They were both busy rehearsing and taking private lessons, and Irusya spent most of her evenings with Kolya and his set. She always invited Katenka, but Katenka rarely came, half wishing Irusya would stop asking her.

  “Will I see you tonight?” Irusya asked, taking Katenka by surprise in the corridor after class. “I’m throwing a party for the end of the season. You can bring Sofya,” Irusya said. “I should like to get to know her, too. I miss you, Katenka. I don’t want us to grow apart.”

  Guilt stabbed at Katenka. She had been telling herself that Irusya had pushed her away, taken up with her new friends, but the truth was that it was Katenka who had caused the breach. As much as she hated the idea of going to the party, she could do nothing but accept the invitation. No sooner had she done so than she realized that, despite everything, she remained incapable of refusing Irusya.

  It proved easy enough to persuade Sofya to join her, although she admonished her friend not to take any of Irusya’s caviar home with her. This made Sofya laugh and state unequivocally that she was not so uncouth as to steal from a friend. For a while, they had sat with a group of dancers, talking about ballet, but before long the others had been lured away by gentlemen.

  Kolya had spoken briefly to Katenka when he first arrived, but ever since had been firmly at Irusya’s side, with eyes for no one else. Irusya, too good a hostess to let him monopolize her, and, if Katenka knew her at all, which she did, fond of making him just a little jealous, pushed him away good-naturedly. They bantered with each other, and when Katenka saw the affection in Irusya’s eyes, she began to forgive her friend for having broken Lev’s heart.

  The apartment, crowded with guests, had grown quite warm, so she decided to slip into Irusya’s bedroom, wanting to throw some water on her face. If nothing else, it would bring her back to reality. When she cracked open the bedroom door, she heard voices. Irusya and Kolya.

  “Stay with me, just this once. No one will know,” Irusya said.

  “I was not joking, douchka,” Kolya was saying. “We can take things between us only so far. I love you and I respect you, but I will not put you in a position you will eventually come to regret.”

  “You would not say that if I had had other lovers before you,” Irusya said.

  “That would be another situation altogether,” he said. “But it is not the situation we are in. Stop pouting. It will make you lose your beauty, and I could not bear that.”

  Katenka was surprised Kolya was holding her friend at arm’s length, but there had been stories—rumors, nothing more—that the emperor, when he was tsarevitch had made similar statements to Mathilde Kschessinska. Mathilde, as everyone knew, had somehow overcome her lover’s concerns. Katenka had assumed for months that Irusya had done the same. Perhaps she did not know Irusya quite so well as she had thought. She went back to Sofya, told her they had stayed long enough, and together they walked the whole distance back to Katenka’s flat, drinking in the beauty of the white night. Slowly, they climbed the stairs up to the flat.

  “I would much rather face these steps every day than live in Irusya’s apartment,” Sofya said, as they started up the third flight.

  “That reveals a predilection to madness I had not expected to find in you,” Katenka said.

  “No, no madness at all.” Sofya paused to catch her breath. This made Katenka laugh. “You are more used to the stairs than I am! I should not be breathless otherwise. I only have two flights to reach my own flat. But I am quite serious about what I said regarding Irusya. I do not envy your friend her bourgeois trappings. They are pretty and comfortable, but they keep her from seeing what is important.”

  “Now you sound like my old friend Mitya,” Katenka said. They had nearly reached her flat. “Mitya.”

  “Yes, I heard his name the first time,” Sofya said. “Who is—”

  “Mitya!”

  Katenka raced to her door, in front of which Mitya was sprawled, unconscious, on the floor.

  January 1900

  17

  Colin did not return to our room until the next morning, and he devoured the letters from Nanny and the boys as soon as I showed them to him. His reaction to Sebastian’s visit was somewhat less enthusiastic, but he did not begrudge him the whisky I had given him and admitted to being impressed that Sebastian had spotted the pamphlets in the dance bag in Nemetseva’s dressing room. Although he had been up all night, he was alert and full of energy. He had a break in his schedule and suggested we take the opportunity to ice-skate while discussing my next steps in the investigation of Nemetseva’s murder.

  We reached the Angliyskaya Embankment, named for its proximity to the British embassy, and descended the stairs to the patch of ice that had been cleared of snow and smoothed for skaters. Taking seats on one of the benches set up against the tall granite walls built to contain the wide river, we fastened our skates and soon had joined the lively crowd gliding on the ice. The neoclassical building
s lining both sides of the Neva and the bridges spanning it formed an incomparable backdrop, but after we had taken only a few turns around, the tenor of the skaters changed.

  People careened by, losing their balance as they tried to stop too quickly in order to look across the river, to the embankment in front of the Menshikov Palace. There, on the top of the wall, stood our ghostly ballerina, waving a crimson scarf. The ice became a scene of pandemonium as skaters crashed into each other. Some set off to cross the river, hoping to catch her. Others rushed to remove their skates and ran up the stairs and toward the nearby Nikolaevsky Bridge, racing to reach the dancer before she disappeared.

  Colin held me firmly by the arm. “There is no point chasing,” he said. “She will have her escape route well planned.”

  I agreed but suggested that we remove our skates regardless and make our way to the other side via the bridge. When we reached the halfway point of the bridge, the dancer leapt down from her perch. There was a not-insignificant crowd of people around her, but they parted to let her through. She was gone when we arrived.

  “Where did she go?” Colin asked in both Russian and French. The mood of the people was shocking. They were quiet and subdued, most of them staring at the ground.

  “Why does it matter?” one man asked. “She cannot rest in peace, wherever she may go.” Someone else mumbled something about bad deaths. A woman said they had all seen the gory gash on the dancer’s neck as she glided past them. Another man insisted she was floating above the ground.

  “Did anyone try to stop her?” Colin asked.

  “You don’t touch the dead,” the first man said. “Not when they’ve come back from the grave.”

  “I can assure you that is not the case,” Colin said. “This is a woman—who is very much alive—pretending to be a ghost. You were all within arm’s reach of her. Surely you saw that she is living and breathing.”

  “I did not see her breathe,” the woman said, and several other people shouted their agreement.