Death in St. Petersburg

by Tasha Alexander

  “Her first appearance coincided with Anna’s murder,” I said. “Perhaps it was meant as a distraction.”

  “Possibly, but there have been many subsequent appearances that did not occur simultaneously with other crimes,” he said.

  “Yes, but she has been appearing more and more frequently, and the city is consumed by stories of her. If they manage to whip the public into a frenzy, only imagine what they could do if they arrange her to materialize at just the right moment? No one would be able to pull their eyes away from her.”

  Colin frowned. “It is as reasonable an explanation as I’ve heard, and I shall share what you’ve learned with my colleagues. If nothing else, they may be able to keep the police on high alert and warn them not to be distracted by ghostly dances.”

  “And what about Katenka?” I asked. “We cannot let her languish in prison.”

  “Unless you can prove that someone else committed the crime, I don’t see that we have any choice. She has brought this on herself. And I would remind you, Emily, that until now you had no other viable suspects.”

  “But now I do; I just don’t know precisely whom. I’m convinced there is more to this, and I shall do whatever is necessary to find the truth.”

  Ekaterina Petrovna

  December 1898

  Irusya kept her promise to celebrate Katenka’s promotion after Sleeping Beauty the following night. Katenka had not danced in the production, so her friend came to her flat and gave her a bottle of champagne and an enormous bouquet of flowers.

  “Tell the truth,” Katenka said. “These flowers were meant for you, weren’t they?”

  “They were, but I want you to have them.” She popped open the champagne and poured it into two tea cups. Katenka had no wineglasses. “Soon enough you’ll have more flowers than you can stand. I am so very, very happy for you. You’ll be glad to know that I have redeemed myself after yesterday’s fall.” She had danced the Lilac Fairy, and Katenka got her to admit she had acquitted herself beautifully. “I know we planned to celebrate, and I have every intention of doing just that, but I’ve arranged for something more special than the two of us sitting around alone. Kolya is throwing a party for you.”

  “Kolya?” Katenka balked. What about Lev?

  “Yes.” Irusya’s smile was radiant. “We’ve reconciled. It happened last night. His carriage is waiting outside, and I’ll tell you everything on the way. Get your coat.”

  Katenka felt as if she were being held underwater. She could not breathe and her limbs felt heavy. She did as Irusya said, but only because she was too stunned to do anything else. Kolya offered his congratulations the moment Irusya led her into the room, but that was the last he spoke to her. He had eyes for no one but Irusya. Katenka had seen them in love before, but that paled to the way they looked at each other now. Something had changed, and she could hardly reconcile it with what she had seen in Irusya’s apartment only two days earlier. Horrified by what her brother must be going through—did he know, she wondered?—she retreated into a corner and asked a waiter to bring her tea.

  Sofya proved her salvation. She had arrived late and came immediately to Katenka’s side. Recognizing at once that something was wrong, Sofya collected their coats, waved down a droshky, and bundled her friend into it without asking another question. Katenka did not speak during the drive, or back inside, after Sofya helped her up the long flights of stairs.

  The weeks that followed Katenka’s promotion should have passed in a blur. She would be given new parts to learn, and would hardly have time even to see Mitya anymore. When she was not in class, she would either be rehearsing, taking her private lessons with Cecchetti, or performing. She would get no break until New Year’s, at which point the company would rest until two days after Christmas.

  But she could focus on none of this. The next morning, when she woke up, she did not go to class. Sofya had stayed with her overnight, and Katenka told her she was ill. Sofya promised to explain her absence. Katenka lent her practice clothes and watched from her window after Sofya left for the theatre. When she had disappeared from view, Katenka dressed and set off on an errand of her own.

  She needed to talk to Lev.

  January 1900

  23

  The next day, as I considered the evidence, I became convinced that the revolutionaries were behind Nemetseva’s murder. Even if their goal weren’t to frame Lev, they might have killed her for another reason altogether. Their ghostly ballerina wouldn’t cause such a stir and, hence, prime the citizens of Petersburg for their ultimate distraction if it weren’t for Nemetseva’s death. Could the prima’s final role have been that of sacrificial lamb, murdered to forward the league’s revolutionary cause?

  Even I had to admit it was something of a stretch. Unless … What if Lev had suggested the nefarious scheme himself as a way of proving his loyalty to the league? I sighed. Colin, who’d been called to the palace and said he would not see me until the imperial ball that evening, would rebuke me for letting my imagination run away on this flight of fancy. Best that I be left alone with my thoughts.

  Except. An idea struck me. I needed Sebastian. If only there were some simple way to contact him. Pondering the matter, it occurred to me that each time he had come to the hotel, despite behaving as if he had come from elsewhere, he never looked cold, not in the slightest. No hint of red on his cheeks, no sign of snow on his boots. I rang the front desk and asked if they knew whether Fedor Dolokhov was in his room; after a brief pause to check the keys, the clerk confirmed that, so far as he knew, yes.

  “Could you please give him a message for me?” I asked and then hesitated, only briefly. “I need to see him in my rooms at once.”

  He was knocking on the door fewer than five minutes later, his sapphire eyes dancing. I must have caught him unaware, as he was not in his Cossack uniform, but rather an ordinary suit that, though excessively well tailored, was not nearly so striking as the long woolen cherkeska. Truth be told, I almost regretted the absence of his hat, even if I still hold it to be ridiculously tall.

  “It warms my heart that you summoned me here, Kallista,” he said, stepping into the room and holding his arms out to me. “Where is your husband? Dare I hope I find you alone?”

  “You do find me alone,” I said. My reason for hesitation when deciding whether to bring him to my room or to have him meet me in the lounge or restaurant should be obvious to anyone of even moderate intelligence. Although I knew it would subject me to impertinent comments, I decided braving them was an adequate price for being in a position to better persuade him to confide in me. “I shan’t waste my time reminding you that this is not a romantic assignation. Despite your criminal activities, I do believe you are, in other ways, a gentleman, and that you shall not threaten my virtue.”

  “Kallista, you wound me,” he said, emphasizing his words with a ridiculous demonstration of pounding on his chest. “You know I hold you more dear than anyone. I would call out any man who attempted to smear your reputation.”

  I didn’t bother to point out that he had not, in fact, addressed my concern. “Sit.” I motioned to a chair and stood in front of him. “We do not need to mince words, you and I. We have been acquainted with each other for far too long.”

  “I should hope you consider me more than a mere acquaintance.” He crossed his legs. “Does your beastly husband have any whisky left? I’m rather parched.” I poured him a glass, which he accepted with a gracious nod. “I can’t stand much about the man, but I do admire his habit of bringing his own single malt when he travels. But we are not here to discuss Hargreaves, are we? Why have you summoned me, Kallista?”

  “You said you saw pamphlets in Nemetseva’s dressing room when you left the imperial egg for her. Can you remember if they were similar to this?” I passed him the one I had taken from Mitya’s room.

  “Similar? Quite,” he said. “Identical, more like it.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “I do read Russian, Kallista.
What kind of a savage do you take me for? I recognize it. Whoever wrote it has an appalling style. No elegance whatsoever.”

  “I doubt elegance is what revolutionaries strive for.” If I could connect—through firm evidence—this pamphlet with the ones in Nemetseva’s dressing room, I might be able to begin to build a case. Someone had brought the pamphlets in her dance bag. Sofya was my prime suspect for this, and, furthermore, she was eminently qualified to have performed the role of the ghostly ballerina. She could have lured Nemetseva outside. It still required a leap of logic, but at least I felt I was moving in the right direction. Suddenly I realized what Sebastian had said. “Identical? You’re sure?”

  “You can look at the lousy thing yourself if you’d like. I kept one as a souvenir.”

  “Why didn’t you mention this before?”

  “I had no reason to think it pertinent. Would you like to see it now? It’s in my room. I can be back in the flashiest of flashes.”

  On this point, at least, he was telling the truth. He returned with the paper in a matter of moments. It was identical to Mitya’s. I could now prove Sofya’s connection to the league. Unless it could be Katenka? Sofya, so proud of her shabby apartment, seemed more likely to harbor revolutionary tendencies. One other thought struck me.

  “What did you write on the note that you left with the egg?” I asked.

  “The girl was Russian, so I quoted Pushkin, of course,” he drawled. “The wondrous moment of our meeting … / Still I remember you appear / Before me like a vision fleeting, / A beauty’s angel pure and clear.”

  “Not particularly enlightening,” I said, frowning.

  “It’s a lovely selection, perfect for its intended purpose, and I will brook no criticism on the point.” He paused. “You didn’t mean the poetry, did you?”

  “No. I thought there might be a chance the message could have been misinterpreted, but it is quite straightforward. Forget I mentioned it.”

  “Forget? That I shall never do, especially a conversation with you.”

  “You are abominable, Mr. Capet, but as this is one of the only conversations we have had in our lengthy acquaintance that involved any significant amount of truth, I shan’t fault you. Perhaps there is hope for you yet.”

  He pulled himself to his feet and kissed my hand, lingering far longer than necessary. “You make me do terrible things, Kallista, but I will not stand for you reforming me.”

  “I have not the slightest interest in embarking on such a futile endeavor,” I said. He started to kiss my hand again. I wrenched it away. “I assume I will see you at the imperial ball tonight. Please try not to steal anything while you are there.”

  Ekaterina Petrovna

  June 1899

  Months had passed since Katenka rushed off once again to warn her brother about Irusya’s perfidy. Lev had shaken his head and smiled when she told him the awful things she knew. “I am already aware of it all, Katyurushka. She told me herself, before I agreed to stay with her. First loves are not always meant to last, you know, but we gave each other a wonderful farewell.”

  “She went immediately to that awful man—”

  “Who broke her heart soon thereafter,” Lev said. “That is censure enough. I take no pleasure in her suffering.”

  Irusya had grown more serious after her second and final parting from Kolya. She vowed to never again get caught up in so public an affair and dedicated herself to discretion. Both girls danced brilliantly for the rest of the season: Irusya fueled by a new maturity; Katenka, by a fiery passion she could at last control.

  As usual, Katenka summered at Irusya’s dacha, but this time Sofya came as well. Three was not so easy a number as two, however, and Sofya took to having long conversations with Mitya, who was visiting his parents nearby. This did not trouble Katenka; she was glad for Mitya to have someone with whom to discuss politics.

  Irusya still loved to row, and they spent a great deal of time on the lake, but she made a point of always returning to the house in time for the mail delivery. Every day, she would flip through the stack of envelopes, smile at the sight of one, and disappear, glowing, to her room to read them in private.

  “Who writes you these missives?” Katenka asked on a sun-dappled afternoon as she and Irusya were walking in the woods adjacent to the house.

  “A man I love like no one else,” Irusya said. “I became very close to him over the final weeks of the spring season and have no intention of making the same mistakes with him that I made with Kolya. I have learned.”

  “Will you marry him?”

  “No,” she said. “He could never marry me, which makes him all the more perfect. I hurt Lev so very much, and that would have never happened if we hadn’t had such different hopes for our relationship. He desired marriage; I didn’t. All I want is to dance and to love someone who will ask very little of me. I have that now and couldn’t be happier.”

  “I am glad for you, then,” Katenka said. “When will I meet him?”

  “Never. I’m keeping him to myself and avoiding all hints of rude gossip.”

  “But what about later, Irusya, when you retire from the stage? Won’t you be lonely?”

  “Maybe, but I can’t think about that now. Perhaps I’ll be fortunate, collapse in a blaze of glory, and never have to retire.”

  “That’s a terrible thought,” Katenka said.

  “Not to me. The only terrible thought is never dancing again.” Irusya looped her arm through Katenka’s. “Now what about you and your darling Mitya? When will he propose?”

  “I don’t know that he ever will,” Katenka said. “We’ve never discussed it.”

  “Perhaps he’s too obsessed with revolutionary politics to take such a bourgeois step,” Irusya said, laughing. “Or perhaps he won’t propose until you vow to learn how to use those wretched hectographs he and Lev use for their pamphlets.” They walked a little farther and then stopped short when they saw a figure ahead of them, standing very close to someone else, engaged in a heated discussion.

  “Isn’t that Sofya?” Irusya asked.

  “It is.” Katenka squinted, trying to see better.

  “But that can’t be Mitya. He would not—” Irusya pulled Katenka around. “Come, let’s go back to the house. We ought not be spying.”

  January 1900

  24

  Still taken with the theory that Nemetseva’s murder was somehow tied to the revolutionaries, I debated trying to find Sofya before the imperial ball, but there was no time. The sun had set long ago, and I had to tend to my toilette. I had asked a hotel maid to press the gown I ordered from the House of Worth and found it hanging in the dressing room by the time I had finished bathing. Much though I still missed their father, I could not deny that the brothers Worth were continuing his work admirably.

  The dress they had made for me was princess cut, dark sapphire velvet. A slightly lighter shade of blue satin, its skirt was embroidered with long silver floral garlands. Delicate handmade French lace hung in frothy layers from the sleeves, trimmed the bodice, and formed a delicate fall from just below the waist to the bottom of the modest train in the back.

  It fit perfectly, skimming my hips and clinging to my waist. The hotel maid assisted me in getting into it, as I had no hope of fastening the numerous hooks and eyes and tiny buttons myself. She also managed to tame my hair, never an easy task, twisting it into a Gibson girl pompadour. I completed my ensemble with a parure of sapphires and diamonds, consisting of a necklace, two bracelets, drop earrings, and a small tiara. Over this I draped a long shawl, to protect the gown from any fur that might come off my coat. Satisfied that my appearance would suffice for the occasion, I went to the lobby. Masha and Cécile were outside in the carriage, waiting to collect me.

  Palace Square dazzled. A golden spill of electric lights blazing from the chandeliers inside the imperial state rooms cast a soft glow on the snow, complementing the dancing lanterns on the line of carriages waiting to deposit their occupants at the gate and th
e bonfires that roared from braziers to keep the coachmen warm. The gilt details on their uniforms shimmered, and it all looked like something out of a painting done by an artist who had perfected the art of capturing light and all its magic.

  We passed through the courtyard and went inside, where imperial footmen relieved us of our coats, hats, muffs, and overshoes. Music came from the rooms above, and the excited chatter of the guests, resplendent in their finery, had the effect of birds chirping to each other on a bright spring day. These birds, however, were deliberately and blissfully forgetting the snow falling outside and the chill of the air blowing off the Neva.

  Sweet incense filled our nostrils, competing with the scents of the thousands of flowers placed in the palace halls, along with potted lemon and orange trees. We passed through a room where Gypsies were playing traditional music with an urgency that all but commanded one to stand up and shout with approval and into another room where a string quartet was playing a melody from Mozart. Masha prodded us to continue until we had reached the Nicholas Hall, called after the first tsar to bear that name. The enormous space—the largest room in the palace—was illuminated by eleven sparkling chandeliers and boasted a wide balcony that overlooked the Neva. All gold and white, it was as elegant as the guests pouring into it.

  “The imperial family will process from the Malachite Room to here, and then the real fun will begin,” she said. “I hope you are both ready to dance.”

  I was looking around, hoping to find Colin, but did not see him in the crush of people surrounding us. The room was growing unbearably warm, and I accepted with sincere thanks a cool glass of wine from a servant in blue-and-gold livery. As I drank, I felt someone pushing against my elbow and turned to see a tall, slim man with black hair and a narrow moustache.