A carriage passed by on the road parallel to the river, its lantern’s golden glow bouncing in time to the rhythm of the horses. A couple stood beneath a streetlight, embracing. And although I could not see it from my vantage point, I knew that the monumental bronze statue of Peter the Great on his horse looked over the river, daring any enemies to threaten his magnificent city. Vasilii’s crime had caused a ripple of anguish, one given greater attention than usual because of his victim’s fame, but for most of the citizens of Petersburg, life would continue unaltered. In the end, even public tragedies ebb to the private, their breadth of pain narrowing until they all but disappear. Everything has changed, but it all remains the same.
Ekaterina Petrovna
January 1900
Katenka couldn’t stop crying. They had released her from prison after the Englishwoman came and explained to her what had happened. And now Mitya was here with her, by some miracle having escaped winding up in a cell of his own.
“What were you thinking, my darling girl?” Mitya asked. “You would have languished in a cell for so many years.”
“I could not risk Lev being found guilty. They might have executed him.”
“They could not have found him guilty of a crime he didn’t commit.”
“Neither of us is naive enough to believe that,” Katenka said. “It is over now, and I am grateful for that. But how is it you have eluded arrest?”
“Hargreaves and his wife convinced the emperor that we had not intended any violence,” he said. “Sofya has been released as well. The empress intervened on her behalf. She is grateful that Lev and I stopped Tabokov and, hence, is feeling most generous.”
“What else?” Katenka asked.
“Sofya was fired from the company, which comes as no surprise, but she and Lev are getting married,” Mitya said. “I was not supposed to tell you as he wanted to give you the news himself, so pretend to be surprised when he comes to you.”
“I always suspected her of caring more about politics than ballet.”
He took her hands in his, feeling a dart of pain as he saw how bettered and rough they had become during her prison stay. “What about you? Is there anything you care about more than ballet?”
“I want to dance.” She didn’t look at him, terrified of what she might see in his eyes. Could they have a future? She loved him, of that, there was no doubt, but she would not give up the opportunities now open to her. Irusya would rise from her grave and strike her down if she did not seize this moment.
“Then dance you shall,” he said. “I can wait for you.”
“I will not get my pension until nineteen seventeen,” she said. “You can wait that long?”
“To have you as my wife, yes,” Mitya said. “Although I worry it will harm your career if you are known to be involved with me.” Neither of them was naive enough to believe that politics wouldn’t eventually come into play. One could never escape it in Russia, but Katenka was not willing to give him up.
“The emperor himself has said you are a hero, regardless of your politics,” she said. “If he can accept that, so can the rest of Petersburg.”
January 1900
26
Vasilii made a complete confession, including admitting to having sent the Fabergé card case and all the notes I received. He had paid an old woman to slip one into my coat pocket at the funeral. He thought that his actions would spur me toward seeking a quick resolution to the case and that having sought my assistance would protect him from suspicion. The dagger came from a shop on Nevsky Prospekt; he had chosen one with naval origins thinking it would further shield him, an army man. It wasn’t the one used in his crime. For that, he had used his own dagger, part of his uniform, hanging from his belt.
“He was afraid, momentarily, when Sofya began to make her appearances as the ghostly dancer,” I said to my husband. I had ordered a large spread of zakuski and a bottle of vodka, all of which now lay before us on the table in our sitting room. I intended to be as Russian as possible while still in St. Petersburg, but I had given up on converting Colin to my ways. I poured his whisky for him myself. “He thought she might actually be a ghost.”
“To be fair, I don’t think anyone would have leapt to the conclusion that she was a revolutionary providing distraction. Unless, of course, one were as gifted with an imagination as fertile as yours,” Colin said. “His main error—other than committing murder in the first place—was underestimating you, my dear. He thought a refined lady would never suspect a gentleman like him capable of so hideous a crime and assumed he could manipulate your investigation.”
“We ladies are smarter than you gentlemen think.”
“Not smarter than I think,” he said.
“He was truly devastated by what he did,” I said, “and ashamed that he was willing to go to such terrible lengths to hide the crime.”
“Mitya, Lev, and Sofya owe you their lives,” Colin said. “I don’t think anyone else could have persuaded the tsar that they are not a threat to him. You made him believe their organization seeks only peaceful negotiation with his government.”
“It is nothing but the truth.”
“I am not quite so certain about that as you are. Eventually, their methods will change. In the meantime, however, Tabokov’s trial will be short,” Colin said. “He admitted that he lied about Lev being a government agent. He has no defense for any of his actions and will be convicted quickly, but I am afraid the government considers his murder of Anna a lesser crime than his attempted assassination.”
“I am very sorry she is dead,” I said, taking his hand.
“And I am immensely proud of you for figuring it all out.”
We stayed in the city for four more weeks. While he returned to his work, Cécile and I went to the ballet, the opera, and countless parties and balls. I was left deliciously exhausted, but nonetheless hated the thought of returning to the quiet of our estate. Russia had grabbed a piece of my soul.
“If it weren’t for my being so desperate to see the boys, I don’t think I could bear going,” I said after having overseen the last of our packing.
“I promise we shall return,” Colin said. “In the meantime, I shall do my best to keep you distracted from any distressing thoughts that might prevent you from thoroughly enjoying our last evening in Peter’s magnificent city.” He bent over to kiss me just as we heard a sharp knock on the door. “If that is Capet—”
“No, it can’t be,” I said. “He sent a message saying he was leaving yesterday.” Before he had come to Russia, he had surreptitiously removed from the studio of Edgar Degas in France a charming pastel of two dancers in traditional Russian costume and had carried it with him to St. Petersburg. He had hung it on the wall in Katenka’s apartment before fleeing the country in what he considered a blaze of glory. His note explained that he had known he would find a dancer worthy of the piece in the city with the greatest ballet in the world. I had already agreed to return it to the artist.
I followed as Colin opened the door. No one stood on the other side. We looked up and down the corridor, but it was empty. Then I looked down. There, on the carpeted floor, was a box covered in gold velvet. Colin retrieved it and handed it to me.
I brought it inside the suite, unfastened the clasp, lifted the top, and gasped. “The lilies of the valley egg? No, he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.” I removed it from the box and set it on a table. Below it was a note:
ἠοῦς ἄγγελε, χαῖρε, Φαεσφόρε, καὶ ταχὺς ἔλθοις
ἕσπερος, ἣν ἀπάγεις, λάθριος αὖθις ἄγων.
Farewell, Morning Star, herald of dawn, and quickly come again as the Evening Star, bringing secretly her whom thou takest away.
“He’ll never forget how much you love The Greek Anthology, will he?” Colin asked, reading over my shoulder.
“No,” I said. “But how could he steal this again? And why?”
“Just to show off.” Colin picked up the egg
and turned the pearl button on the side. Up from the top popped three miniature portraits, but they were not of the emperor and his daughters. Instead, the faces of my own three boys looked out at me.
“Please tell me it’s a copy,” I said. “Surely he didn’t—”
Colin had already popped the glass off one of the tiny frames and removed Henry’s picture to reveal that of the emperor.
“He really must stop this,” I said, taking the egg from my husband and examining it. “Or at least learn to make copies. Perhaps if I were to speak to him—”
“Stop, Emily.” Colin took the egg back and returned it to its box. “If you start believing you can reform him, I shall divorce you. This is our last night in Petersburg, and I intend to do everything in my not inconsiderable power to keep you from thinking about that man for even another instant.”
I have always said that when Colin sets himself to a task, he refuses to fail, and, hence, I knew there was only one way forward. I pulled him to me, ready to submit to his extremely delicate attentions.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
While the principal characters in this book are fictional, there are a handful in supporting roles (beyond Nicholas II and his wife, Alexandra) who were real. Marius Petipa, the renown choreographer, made Russian ballet the greatest in the world. He hugely admired Pierina Legnani, who pioneered the now-famous thirty-two fouettées still performed by ballerinas in Swan Lake (she did, in fact, first perform the feat in Cinderella). Mathilde Kschessinska, another prima ballerina assoluta, was Nicholas II’s mistress before he married his wife. In her memoirs, she records him as hesitant to consummate their relationship because of her inexperience. He did not want her to regret her actions. Somehow, she must have overcome his concerns. I based many of my dancers’ experiences on incidents from her life. Olga Preobrajenska danced with the Imperial Ballet and later became a teacher, eventually settling in Paris after the Russian Revolution. Not so well known among her many famous pupils (including Margot Fonteyn and Tamara Toumanova) was Marie Buczkowski, who eventually moved to South Bend, Indiana, where she opened a ballet studio. I was fortunate enough to be one of her students.
The League of Struggle for the Emancipation of the Working Class was a real organization, formed when Vladimir Lenin organized disparate groups of workers in St. Petersburg. I have invented the schism within the group that allowed Mitya and Lev to pursue their own agenda.
I have tweaked by a few years the date of the installation of the spectacular stained glass window in the restaurant at the Hôtel de l’Europe so that Emily might see it. She always appreciates Apollo.
The story of the peasant who moved his family and his cow to the top floor of the Winter Palace is true. According to Greg King in his magnificent book The Court of the Last Tsar, only the smell of manure gave them away.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Myriad thanks to …
Charlie Spicer, editor extraordinaire who makes every book better.
My wonderful team at Minotaur: Andy Martin, Melissa Hastings, Paul Hochman, Sarah Melnyk, April Osborn, and David Rostein.
Anne Hawkins, Tom Robinson, and Annie Kronenberg. You’re my secret weapons.
My dear friends: Brett Battles, Rob Browne, Bill Cameron, Christina Chen, Kristy Claiborne, Jon Clinch, Charlie Cumming, Zarina Docken, Jamie Freveletti, Chris Gortner, Tracy Grant, Nick Hawkins, Robert Hicks, Elizabeth Letts, Carrie Medders, Deanna Raybourn, Missy Rightley, Renee Rosen, and Lauren Willig.
Xander, Katie, and Jess … I can’t believe you’re all adults now!
My parents, for their constant support.
Andrew, the best husband ever.
FOR FURTHER READING
Bowlt, John E. Moscow and St. Petersburg 1900–1920: Art, Life and Culture of the Russian Silver Age. New York: Vendome Press, 2008.
Brezzo, Steven L., Christopher Forbes, Johann Georg Hohenzollern, and Irina Aleksandrovna Rodimtseva. Fabergé: The Imperial Eggs. Munich: Prestel, 1989.
Figes, Orlando. Natasha’s Dance: A Cultural History of Russia. New York: Picador, 2002.
Frame, Murray. The St. Petersburg Imperial Theaters: Stage and State in Revolutionary Russia, 1900–1920. Jefferson: McFarland, 2000.
Hall, Coryne. Imperial Dancer: Mathilde Kschessinska and the Romanovs. Thrupp: Sutton, 2005.
King, Greg. The Court of the Last Tsar: Pomp, Power, and Pageantry in the Reign of Nicholas II. Hoboken: Wiley, 2006.
Kschessinska, Matilda Feliksovna. Dancing in Petersburg: The Memoirs of Kschessinska (H.S.H. the Princess Romanovsky-Krassinsky). London: Gollancz, 1960.
Volkov, Solomon. St. Petersburg: A Cultural History. New York: Free Press, 1995.
ALSO BY TASHA ALEXANDER
And Only to Deceive
A Poisoned Season
A Fatal Waltz
Tears of Pearl
Dangerous to Know
A Crimson Warning
Death in the Floating City
Behind the Shattered Glass
The Counterfeit Heiress
The Adventuress
A Terrible Beauty
Elizabeth: The Golden Age
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
TASHA ALEXANDER, the daughter of two philosophy professors, studied English literature and medieval history at the University of Notre Dame. She and her husband, novelist Andrew Grant, live on a ranch in southeastern Wyoming. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
1. St. Petersburg, January 1900
Ekaterina Petrovna: November 1889
2. January 1900
Ekaterina Petrovna: May 1890
3. January 1900
Ekaterina Petrovna: August 1896
4. January 1900
Ekaterina Petrovna: February 1897
5. January 1900
Ekaterina Petrovna: March 1897
6. January 1900
Ekaterina Petrovna: March 1897
7. January 1900
Ekaterina Petrovna: May 1897
8. St. Petersburg, 1900
Ekaterina Petrovna: May 1897
9. January 1900
Ekaterina Petrovna: July 1897
10. January 1900
Ekaterina Petrovna: August 1897
11. St. Petersburg, January 1900
Ekaterina Petrovna: August 1897
12. January 1900
Ekaterina Petrovna: November 1897
13. January 1900
Ekaterina Petrovna: November 1897
14. January 1900
Ekaterina Petrovna: November 1897
15. January 1900
Ekaterina Petrovna: February 1898
16. January 1900
Ekaterina Petrovna: June 1898
17. January 1900
Ekaterina Petrovna: June 1898
18. January 1900
Ekaterina Petrovna: June 1898
19. January 1900
Ekaterina Petrovna: September 1898
20. January 1900
Ekaterina Petrovna: December 1898
21. January 1900
Ekaterina Petrovna: December 1898
22. January 1900
Ekaterina Petrovna: December 1898
23. January 1900
Ekaterina Petrovna: June 1899
24. January 1900
Ekaterina Petrovna: December 1899
25. January 1900
Ekaterina Petrovna: January 1900
26. January 1900
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
For
Further Reading
Also by Tasha Alexander
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
DEATH IN ST. PETERSBURG. Copyright © 2017 by Tasha Alexander. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover photographs: city © Xotaka/Deposit Photos; cover image of woman by Anthony Hearsey
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 9781250058287 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-14616-8 (ebook)
eISBN 9781250146168
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First Edition: October 2017
Death in St. Petersburg Page 25