City of Silence (City of Mystery)

by Kim Wright

  “I’ve always wondered at how the two of you initiated your friendship,” Rayley said. “Welles usually isn’t the type to mix in high society.”

  Behind Geraldine’s shoulder, Trevor made a rude gesture at him, to the great amusement of Davy.

  “As always, I admire your pluck, Auntie,” Tom said. “Women should most certainly have the opportunity to capsize into the Thames right along with the men. But what on earth do suffragettes have to do with blindfolds?”

  “We had chained ourselves to a tree,” Geraldine said, “and when the coppers put us in the wagon they left us bound up. One of them in particular was a most rude young man and he said something along the lines of if we wanted the chains, then by God we should have them. And then he said he didn’t want the ladies to be cold so he pulled down our hats and raised our mufflers so that we couldn’t see and could barely hear.”

  “Gerry,” Trevor said in genuine surprise. “You’ve never told me this part.”

  “What was the name of that man?” Rayley said. “Do you recall, Miss Bainbridge?”

  Gerry impatiently shook her head. “It was years ago, darlings, and that’s not the point of my story. When we got down to the station and Trevor came in to take our statements, he was so respectful and such a gentleman, that it was like the rain suddenly stopped and the sun broke through the clouds. And then of course Emma arrived and gave him the money to let us all out. But I raise this memory for one reason alone. During the time we were chained and rendered unable to fully see or hear…it was no more than a few minutes, a wagon ride across town, but the man’s cruel mission was accomplished. We were all of us lessened by his actions. Cowed. Humiliated. I went into his wagon one sort of women and came out quite another.”

  Emma was given pause. If a personality as powerful as Geraldine’s could undergo a psychological shift in a matter of minutes, it did indeed seem likely that a blindfold might have a dual purpose – not merely to obscure a woman’s vision but to also render her passive.

  “Such conclusions fall right in line with those issued by the forensic psychologist” said Trevor, with a nod to Gerry. “His remarks agree with our collective analysis of the Railway Rapist as organized, self-controlled, and able to convincingly pass as a normal, well-functioning man when in society. But the psychologist also feels our criminal has a strong desire to control or shame his victim. Not just by raping her, but by dehumanizing her.”

  “And I presume this is the prototype for all rapists? Tom asked. His skepticism about the entire line of reasoning had not completely waned, as evidenced by the slight twist of his mouth as he said the word “prototype.” There were times when Trevor wondered if Tom lived perpetually on the verge of a sneer, if having been born into a moneyed family had left the boy constitutionally unfit for the realities of police work. But then, just when Trevor’s exasperation had built to the point of calling him out on the matter, Tom always managed to do something so bold, say something so kind, or perform a task so useful that he would immediately redeem himself in spades. Trevor was beginning to accept that Tom would always leave him slightly on edge. On the surface it might seem that their friendship was limited by the nearly oceanic differences between them – differences of birth, education, age, and temperament. But in truth their vague antagonism was a result of the singular thing they held in common: their affection for Emma Kelly.

  “They’re working on the full prototype now,” Trevor said. “But the preliminary report is full of surprises. For example, I’d venture to say most people might guess that most rapists are bachelors, men denied the normal opportunities for sexual congress and thus driven to rape by sheer biological impulse.”

  “A ludicrous assumption,” Rayley said. “The four men at this table are each bachelors, with all the frustrations that depressing little title implies, but I’d venture to say that none of us have ever entertained the idea of rape as a way out of our dilemma.”

  “True,” Trevor said. “But what I mean is that the general public sees rape as a crime of sexual desperation so they would be surprised to learn that the majority of rapists are married and thus presumably have access to intercourse by more conventional means.”

  “Such as begging,” said Tom.

  “Oh dear,” said Emma. “Shall Gerry and I retire for the evening and let you boys break out the billiards and cigars? We seem to have wandered into some sort of men’s hunting club or perhaps a fraternity at Cambridge.”

  “Dreadfully sorry,” Trevor said, although he wasn’t. If Emma really wanted to sit at the table with the boys she would have to get used to the occasional bout of tasteless humor.

  “And do they have anything else?” Rayley prompted.

  “Not yet,” Trevor said. “Further studies will cover such issues as method and manner. How does the rapist choose his victim, for example, or how long he goes between attacks. If there is a body, how does he dispose of it, and if the victim is left alive, how does he escape? Does he engage with the police, as the Ripper did, or keep souvenirs? So far the Railway Rapist isn’t showing any such tendencies, which indicates a different type of mentality. Even the selection of a weapon can be telling. You can threaten someone with a gun from a great distance but an attack with a knife is closer, more personal.”

  “It’s absolutely enthralling,” Rayley said. “Just as a fingerprint or footprint tells us what sort of body our perpetrator has, so criminal profiling can give us insight into his mind.”

  “And if we know how he thinks, we can better predict what he’ll do next,” Davy said, seeming to come round at last. “Maybe figure how to trap him.”

  Trevor nodded. “They’re studying the same sort of thing with murderers by the way, drawing conclusions about how well the perpetrator might have known his victim by the methodology of the attack. You can poison someone without being in the room, so it’s a more distant, calculating sort of crime. But if you smother or choke them, in contrast, that implies a personal rage. You want to be there in the moment of the death, to actually see them suffer.”

  “I’m sorry to likewise muffle your collective enthusiasm,” Tom said, leaning even farther back and putting his boots on the table, “or mock this shiny new forensics toy that you are all so eager to play with. But I must say that in comparison to medicine or chemistry, criminal profiling doesn’t seem like much of a science at all.”

  “I doubt any science seems like much of a science when it begins,” Trevor said amicably. “Apples falling from trees, kites and keys in thunderstorms and all that sort of rot. Admittedly, we are dealing with an unformed arena of study, but I expect it shall evolve in time, as they all do. And I should be delighted to think the people at this table might in some small way aid that evolution.”

  “What if the scarf isn’t to hide his face?” Emma abruptly asked.

  “I don’t follow,” Trevor said.

  “We’ve assumed that he covers her face so that she cannot see him,” Emma said. “But what if just the opposite is true, that he covers her face so that he cannot see her? Then she becomes a generalized victim, an everywoman, perhaps even a substitute for someone else.”

  They sat for a moment, pondering this. “You said the weapon of choice was an indication of the level of rage,” Emma eventually added, her comments addressed mostly toward Trevor. “And by that logic, rape would indicate a very specific type of anger, would it not? The weapon of choice being the most intimate of all?”

  She was looking right at him, but Trevor found he could not sustain eye contact for long. He dropped his gaze back to his glass of claret, aware of the cowardice in the action.

  “You’re suggesting he obliterates her face to sustain a particular type of fantasy,” Rayley said slowly, also looking into his own wine glass, but in his case the gesture was merely meditative. “There’s a woman he wants to punish but he can’t – because she’s unreachable, gone away somewhere, or is perhaps even dead. So his anger is directed toward some random woman who stands in her stead
.”

  “That’s madness,” said Tom.

  Rayley raised an eyebrow. “We’re talking about violent criminals. Of course it’s madness.”

  “But what we must remember is that they do not see it as such,” Trevor said. The clock behind Tom trembled in anticipation, and then began to strike twelve. Trevor waited for each gong to sound. They had overstayed, as they so often did, had drunk more than they should, had eaten past the point of satiety and into excess, had teetered once again on the edge of discord. The ponderous sequence of the twelve bells of midnight gave Trevor time to compose his thoughts. He knew he might not see these people again for weeks, perhaps the better part of a month, and he did not wish to leave them like this, to conclude their last meeting in such an inconclusive way.

  “Criminals most often do not see themselves as criminals,” he continued, when the final gong had sounded, leaving a subtle reverberation in the air. “I doubt very many men, or women as the case may be, awaken in the morning and think to themselves ‘Today I shall go out and perform a criminal act.’ They instead feel justified in their actions, and this is what we must remember. That they consider themselves to be righting some great wrong, as avenging either their own suffering or that of someone they love, as merely setting the tipped scales of justice on balance once again. It is easy for us to sit here with our brandy and declare them animals, but I suspect that in most cases there is an interior logic to their motives, a logic we must understand if we hope to thwart the actions which result from it. Otherwise, we will spend our lives solving crimes instead of preventing them. The science of forensics will become nothing more than mopping up bloodstains.”

  Davy quickly nodded. Emma bit her lip. Rayley murmured “Here, here” and Geraldine, who had dozed off some minutes before, gave a little snort as her chin bobbed lower toward her chest. Tom, his feet still propped on the table, his chair tilted precariously back, pulled a cigarette from the silver case in his pocket and slowly smiled.

  “Quite a speech, Welles,” he said. “I’m surprised the clock doesn’t chime again, just for emphasis.”

  Chapter Three

  The Winter Palace, St. Petersburg - The Private Rooms of the Orlovs

  June 14, 1889

  9:20 AM

  “There was a disturbance in the theater last night,” Filip said, without looking up from his plate.

  Her pulse quickened, just has he had undoubtedly intended for it to do.

  “What sort of disturbance?” Tatiana said, her voice carefully pitched to sound calm, even slightly disinterested. She had trained herself how to do this throughout the twenty-seven months she had been married to Filip Orlov. Anxiety made the voice rise, especially on the final syllable of the last spoken word. It had the effect of turning any statement into an implied question, of indicating uncertainty, even in the most everyday of matters. Tatiana now automatically lowered her voice as she finished each sentence and the irony was that this soft growl, which had begun as a survival technique, was largely cited among her acquaintances as evidence of a flirtatious nature.

  Tatiana and Filip were sitting at their breakfast table just as they had for each morning of their married life. Which would make it – let’s see, what was twenty-seven times thirty? Dear God, over 800 consecutive mornings that the two of them had spent precisely as this one: Filip already in uniform, already wearing his boots. She in her peignoir, imported at considerable expense and bother from one of the better ladies’ boutiques of Paris, idly grazing over a bowl of fruit and grain, all the while sipping her favorite morning concoction. It was pink froth in a wine glass, a mixture of pomegranate juice and flat champagne, whatever dregs happened to remain from the night before. Filip ate eggs, but exclusively the yolks, an idiosyncrasy that resulted each morning in a plate of abandoned egg whites, lying lacy and flat on his blue plate like the dried foam which was left behind on the beaches of the Crimean Sea. Tatiana and Filip summered there and would be departing for their villa soon, just after the Tchaikovsky ball. Half their trunks were already packed.

  Tatiana did not anticipate the trip.

  Filip did not answer her at once. Perhaps this hesitation was a type of calculated torture, perhaps merely the result of his preoccupation with his breakfast. He pierced another yolk and yellow spilled across his plate. He requested them barely done, these eggs, liked them as runny as possible, and if he was not in the tsar’s own guard, Tatiana had little doubt that her husband would truly prefer to swill the yolks raw from a glass. The social nuances of the imperial court were a perpetual mystery to Filip. He enjoyed the benefits of being within the circle of the tsar’s most trusted staff – Tatiana herself was one of those benefits – but was still ill-at-ease with the constant ceremonies of life within the Winter Palace.

  “Two dancers killed themselves,” he finally said. “They were to play Romeo and Juliet in the ballet next week. Original, yes?” He grinned at her, showing the square white teeth which always seemed just a bit too small for his beefy face, clearly amused by his little joke.

  “Who were they?”

  “I told you. Ballet dancers. “

  “Yes, but what were their names?”

  He shrugged. “Do ballet dancers have names?”

  Tatiana hesitated. “They’re sure that it was a double suicide? And not something else?”

  “What else would it be?”

  “Murder might be posed to look like suicide.”

  “Who would want them dead?” He pierced another yolk, then dragged a crust of bread through the gelatinous puddle. “They were nobodies.”

  As soon as Filip was out of the apartment, Tatiana dressed. She did not call for her maid, who was probably somewhere having her own breakfast or gossiping with a gaggle of servants. Tatiana was a lounger and often returned to her bed after breakfast, most generally not ringing for assistance in dressing until noon. So she struggled unattended into a smocked dress designed to be worn over her swim costume at the coast and thus reasonably easy to don in a rush. Once she was suitably covered, she pulled on her shoes and exited the front door, looking both left and right as she stepped into the hall, craning her neck like a character in some absurd comic play.

  She could not say why she was skittish, so unwilling to be seen. Tatiana had lived within the Winter Palace for the entirety of the time she had been married to Filip and had as much right to come and go through these halls as anyone. The size and location of their private quarters was the result of a single day, years ago, when Filip had taken a bullet in the side during some street fracas and thus immediately risen in the tsar’s estimation. It took a man like Filip, bold and broad and very nearly fearless, to earn a full apartment in a wing not far from the imperial family’s, to earn his wife a position, even a lesser one, in the tsarina’s court of ladies.

  Her feet followed the familiar path, turning corners and navigating the great rooms at the end of each hall without thought, moving up and down staircases without the effort of the movement striking her consciousness. The Winter Palace was grand only in appearance, pleasing to the eye with little regard for the rest of the senses. In fact, as homes went, it was not even comfortable. It contained antiquated plumbing, unpredictable lighting, primitive heating, and utterly ineffective ventilation, resulting in the sort of daily inconveniences that would have been unthinkable in a European palace and making it the least popular of the tsar’s three residences.

  The significance of the place lay largely in the fact that its sheer size allowed it to function as a contained city. In one direction, the Palace took up a huge expanse of shoreline along the Neva River, with several pavilions leading down to individual docks, and on the other side it stretched the equivalent of three city blocks. In the high season, somewhere between six and seven thousand people lived within its walls, more than the entire population of the town where Tatiana had been born. This was not the high season. As its name so obligingly indicated, the Winter Palace was the tsar’s primary residence in the winter and
the majority of the aristocracy, along with their staffs, spent summers in their country homes or villas by the sea. In this particular summer the season was being delayed until the conclusion of the Tchaikovsky ball.

  The Winter Palace was not only the size of a city but was laid out like one as well, much in the manner of the old fortress towns - or an egg, should one pause to think of it - with layers of protection radiating out from a vital hub. The yoke of this particular egg was the lavish chambers occupied by the tsar, tsarina, and their five children. Tatiana had never personally visited these quarters, but if rumor was correct, the rooms there were awe-inspiring upon first glance but in reality just as unsatisfactory when it came to matters of lighting and plumbing as the rest. The next layer contained the extended family members of Alexander and his Danish-born wife - the minor royals, one might say. Then came the halls where Tatiana and Filip lived. They belonged to the segment of the staff that was considered elite, those who resided in the nether world between privilege and service. Governesses, doctors, dancing masters, portrait artists, jewelers and dressmakers, musical directors, the members of the private guard. Beyond them, in the more farther-flung wings, were the true servants. The sort who washed and cleaned and cooked and carried.

  Even after more than two years within its walls, Tatiana could not claim to understand entirely how the palace protocol worked. For example, she and Filip both were servants and had servants, a concept which she still found a bit hard to grasp. This morning her porridge and his eggs had come as they always did, on a high-domed tray which presumably had been prepared in some kitchen somewhere, another place she would most likely never see. Their clothing was carried away dirty and carried back clean. Things appeared. Flowers on a table, apples in a bowl. Fires were laid in the winter and damped down in the spring.