by Kim Wright
“I do wish Mrs. Kirby had been more forthcoming about what or who she was onto,” Trevor said, leaning forward onto his own thighs and frowning. “I have never understood private citizens who come to the police and say ‘I suspect something, but I dare not tell you what it is.’ It has always seemed to me rather like announcing that they wish to become part of the evidence, and not part of the investigation.”
“But she left the photograph,” Davy said. “It must have some meaning, else she wouldn’t have gone to such great pains to hide it.”
“Perhaps whatever is in the photograph is what she wanted to discuss with me in our meeting,” Tom said, now slapping out a new tune with a bit more energy. “Although of course she didn’t have it with her when she left her room either, did she?”
“Fortunately, she did not,” said Trevor. “Or it would now be in her killer’s possession and not in ours. It isn’t much, but it appears to be all we have, so let us go over it again.”
The night before they had spent hours taking turns peering at the photograph, but it had as of yet yielded nothing beyond the sad sight of two beautiful young people, both dead. Trevor now placed it on a small serving table and the three men stood around it, gazing down.
“The significance of the picture almost has to be the knife in the girl’s hand,” said Tom, pulling his magnifying glass from his coat pocket and bending to squint at the center of the photograph. “But she is clutching it so tightly, that the shape of the handle is all but invisible and the blade is lost in the folds of her nightdress.”
“Can we make the image bigger?” Davy asked.
“Sorry, my friend,” said Tom, shaking the magnifying glass at him. “This thing has sadly limited powers and I left my microscope back in London at Aunt Gerry’s house. Dear Aunt Gerry. I wish she was with us now. She would have gotten every gossipy detail from that wretched Kirby woman in three minutes flat.”
“No, I don’t mean looking at it through a microscope or magnifying glass,” Davy said. “If this picture was found within these palace walls, then the negative is likely also close at hand. Are there not ways to make pictures larger, expand them, so that details become more clear?”
“Bravo, Davy,” said Trevor. “So they can. We have no idea who took the picture but presumably it was developed somewhere here at the palace. These people don’t leave for any reason at all, including birth, death, and everything that comes between. We simply must find where the photography is developed and see if the negative still exists.”
“I shall do it, Sir,” said Davy.
“And I shall go with him,” said Tom. “Four eyes are better than two and we may have to study the expanded image within the dark room.”
“Good lads, for I” – and here Trevor paused to check his pocket watch – “am within minutes of my two o’clock audience with the Queen.”
The Winter Palace – Ella’s Parlor
2:02 PM
“I am dreadfully sorry, Your Majesty,” Trevor said. “And may I extend my condolences to you as well, Your Imperial Highness.”
He stood before the settee which held the Queen and a morose-looking Alix while Ella walked back and forth behind it, staring down at the rug and wringing her hands.
“We do not understand how this might have happened,” the Queen said, perhaps slipping back into the royal “we” through agitation and perhaps simply speaking for both herself and her granddaughters. “You say she was found dressed in a stage costume? Why on earth should that be?”
“We do not know for certain,” Trevor said, “but we imagine that the gypsy king costume is some sort of message. Perhaps things will become clearer when we have had the chance to interview the dancers and know whose costume it was and how the assailant might have come to possess it.”
“I can save you the effort,” Ella said, still not meeting his gaze as she continued to pace. “The Gypsy King is a role played by Konstantin Antonovich in one of the sketches planned for the ball. I have seen him wear the costume in rehearsals many times. Everyone has.”
“Alix most certainly shall not waltz with that man,” said the Queen.
“But don’t you see, Granny?” Ella said, stopping at last and facing the settee. “All this contrivance, this ridiculous theatricality, only serves to prove that the killer is anyone on earth except Konstantin.”
“The Grand Duchess is most likely correct,” Trevor said. “Not only is the costume a rather extreme gesture, but we have narrowed the time frame during which Mrs. Kirby might have been placed among the ship rigging to a mere twelve minutes and Antonovich has an alibi for that period.” He lifted his eyes to Ella. “You said you had seen him in the costume. If I bring it here, to your apartment, will you be able to confirm it is the same one you have seen before? That no parts of it are missing?”
She frowned. “I suppose so. But why do you suggest that parts of it might be missing?”
“We don’t know for certain that any are. There is a loop on the hip of the sort where men often place a sword or a dagger, but no weapon was found on the person of Mrs. Kirby. Do you perhaps recall if some such was part of the original costume?”
She hesitated, but only for a moment. “There was a rather large knife and it hung, just as you say, from a loop on his hip. He was to climb the rigging and use it to release a flag at the climatic moment of the scene.”
“Then the knife is missing,” Trevor said. “And since we are speaking of the rehearsals, I must ask you one other thing, Your Imperial Highness, if you will kindly grant me just one more minute of your valuable time.” He was aware that his courtesy was exaggerated, a behavior he sometimes unconsciously adapted when speaking to someone he did not truly admire, and hoped that it would not be seen as sarcasm. Ella seemed accustomed to such sugary speech and the Queen was too deep in thought to notice. But Alix, of all people, regarded Trevor with a certain acuity. Do not mock my sister, her expression seemed to say. No matter who you are or what news you bring, you shall not mock my sister.
“Of course,” Ella said. “Mrs. Kirby was my lady in waiting, after all. I shall do all I can to assist you.”
“What is the pattern of the day in the ballroom? Especially now, with so much preparation for the ball?”
“Private lessons begin around noon and go to generally five in the afternoon. The Winter Palace is not full of early risers, Detective, as you have likely noticed. The group rehearsals generally commence at seven, and are finished by nine, when everyone goes to supper.” Ella paused, considering her own words. “So if you are asking who might know that the ballroom was likely to be empty between the hours of five and seven, the answer would be many people. Certainly anyone connected to preparations for the ball and most likely their spouses and their servants, if they have any.”
“Do you have any suspicions of your own?” Alix asked. She spoke so rarely that, as always, anything she said seemed to carry more import than the words of others. Trevor supposed such a trait might serve her well some day as a tsarina. “Is there any evidence indicating why Mrs. Kirby might have been killed?”
“We have a photograph,” Trevor said.
The Queen looked up, her eyes suddenly alert. “What sort of photograph?”
Was it just Trevor’s imagination, or had this news also shocked Ella? She had finally stopped her agitated walking about and chosen a chair, giving him her full attention for the first time since he had entered the room.
“A photograph of the dancers who were killed, Your Majesty,” Trevor said. “Posed as they were left after their deaths and shot from a position high above their bodies, presumably from one of the theater’s many balconies. If you will forgive me, your Imperial Highness, do you know why Mrs. Kirby might have had such a thing within her possession?”
“I do not,” Ella said. “She was a curious person. Some said she stuck her nose into places where it did not belong. That is most likely what led to her death, is it not?”
“Ella…” the Queen said wa
rningly, and her granddaughter stopped and slumped in her chair like a scolded schoolgirl. “Whatever the gossips may have said about her character, Mrs. Kirby died in service to the crown.” The Queen shifted in her chair to address Trevor. “She will be transported back to London by us, when we leave, and there given a full and proper funeral. You must promise me that her body will not fall into the hands of the Russian police.”
“We will certainly reclaim her body before we depart, but as for the palace guard… I regret to say that they are examining her as we speak, Your Majesty,” Trevor said. “I fear it was unavoidable. After all, the crime did occur within the palace and not even the Russians can pretend that a woman might manage to break her own neck and then wrap herself in a flag and lower herself over the side of a balcony. To be more precise, it is impossible for the authorities to brush aside this most recent death as a suicide. The crime not only says ‘murder,’ it exclaims it.”
“I don’t wish to dance at the ball,” Alix suddenly blurted out. “I don’t want to go into that horrid room at all, into that place where three people have died for reasons that no one can understand. I must go to the chapel. I must pray for the souls of the dead.”
“Of course you must, darling,” Ella said soothingly, slipping an arm around her younger sister’s shoulders as her eyes locked with Trevor’s. “And I shall come with you. For prayer is all we have at this point, is it not? The science of detection certainly seems to have failed us.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Winter Palace – The Grand Ballroom
June 20, 1889
3:40 PM
“You are here early.”
Emma looked up at Konstantin, who was walking slowly down the marble staircase.
“I wished to practice before our lesson,” she said. It was strange, she thought. Because he spoke simply, as does any man using a language not his own, so did she. And somehow these short sentences, with their limited choice of words and directly-stated thoughts, were allowing her to express herself more freely than she had done in years.
“I am surprised you have come at all.”
There were several things she could say in response to this. Perhaps he was speaking of the last time they saw each other - the evening before, that scene of bedlam and tears, with scores of dancers arriving for practice, only to be turned away with the news that there had been yet another murder in the ballroom. The British police and the Russian, literally circling each other as they examined the ridiculous form of the fallen Mrs. Kirby, looking heavenward with an expression of angry surprise as she lay sprawled in her blue silk britches and yellow hose. Or perhaps he was referring to the next-to-last time they had seen each other, in the costume room, he and Tatiana caught in a tangle of clothing and Emma clutching Tom’s hand and willing the image away.
It was impossible to guess to which of these things, if either, he had been referring, but it was less awkward to be standing face to face talking with him than she would have guessed. He did not appear to be embarrassed or frightened by the events of the previous day, so she decided to move on as well. “Your four o’clock lady is not here?”
“Nor was my three o’clock. Or the one before or the one before.” He looked down his great nose with a sad smile. “They are all frightened. This ballroom began as a place of peace for me. My church, how do you say? The sort of church where one can hide.”
“Your sanctuary.”
“Yes. My sanctuary from the world.” He looked around slowly, in the manner of a man who is saying goodbye to something. “Within these walls, I could be whatever I wished to be. But now…”
“It is a room of death.”
“The other ladies do not come,” he said. “And yet Emma Kelly is here. So it does not frighten you, this room of death?”
“I used to be frightened of everything,” Emma said. “And then the worst thing I could ever have imagined happened. My sister–“ He was looking at her expectantly, but she shook her head.
“There is a strange gift that comes to you after the worst thing you can imagine actually happens,” she said, raising her arms in the position of the dance. “You find yourself with nothing left to fear.”
The Winter Palace – The Guest Quarters
4:57 PM
“So that’s it,” Trevor said irritably, as Rayley wrapped up an abbreviated description of his conversation with Filip Orlov. “The only reason you and I were ever invited into the inner sanctum was because one of the tsar’s bodyguards wished to implicate Antonovich as their prime suspect in the murders of three people.” In anticipation of the group meeting, Trevor had ordered up the Russian equivalent of a British tea, which turned out to be a tray of elaborate confections and a hot beverage so strangely sweet that Trevor suspected they would all have trouble getting it down. But privacy within the Winter Palace was proving to be elusive, so he was glad to have this chance for them all to confer together, no matter how different from their customary leisurely evenings in Gerry’s parlor.
“That’s all I took from it,” Rayley admitted. “He theorizes the dancers were killed out of professional jealousy and that Cynthia Kirby was killed because she somehow learned Konstantin was to blame and had gone to the theater to confront him.” Rayley raised his palms at the barrage of objections certain to come his way in the wake of such an illogical statement. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I’m only repeating what Orlov shared with me. I was braced for him to query me about the extent of our own investigation into the matter, but the conversation never took that particular turn. Where is Emma? She must have a more distinct impression of Konstantin Antonovich than any of the rest of us. In fact, where is everyone?”
“The boys have gone in search of the chemist who developed the photograph you found last night, all on the theory that it might be possible to expand the image and give us a better view of the knife in the dead girl’s hand,” said Trevor. “And Emma is presumably bidding adieu to the murderous Mr. Antonovich as we speak. She was quite insistent that she keep her scheduled lesson and I may have erred in indulging her.”
“I don’t see any harm in the notion,” Rayley said. “The use of Antonovich’s costume is too clumsy to be taken seriously and, let us be frank, the motive put forth by Orlov for the slaughter of the ballet dancers is likewise nothing short of ridiculous.”
A rap at the door and Emma entered, her dance shoes in hand. “Don’t rise,” she said, pulling up a chair and glancing without enthusiasm at the tea set on the far table. “I’m sorry that I’m late, but it appears I am not the latest. What have I missed?”
“Just this,” said Trevor. “The Grand Duchess Ella has informed me that the gypsy king costume worn by Mrs. Kirby at her time of death belonged to one Konstantin Antonovich and is indeed missing a knife. A member of the palace guard named Filip Orlov has furthermore suggested to Rayley that Antonovich is their primary suspect.”
“Well, that’s convenient,” Emma said drily, sinking to her seat.
“You know more of him than anyone else,” Rayley said. “Do you think there’s a possibility he could be involved in some way, even if he is not the murderer? After all, he does seem to have access to everyone and everything involved in these two crimes, as well as intimacy with Ella, one of the people we are sworn to protect.”
“Yes, yes, of course he teaches Ella and the tsar’s aunt and his daughter as well,” Emma said. “Social intercourse with the imperial family is part of his job. But as much as it pains me to say it, I believe Mrs. Kirby was right in suggesting that it is another of his students who is at the root of this issue, someone with no royal blood at all. He dances with Tatiana Orlov, the wife of the very same Filip Orlov who has served him up on a platter as he perfect suspect.”
Trevor raised an eyebrow.
“And if you substitute another verb for ‘dance’ and I think the matter should become even clearer,” Emma said. “Konstantin and Tatiana are lovers. Ask Tom if you don’t believe me.”
“Wel
l, that indeed is quite the coincidence,” Rayley said. “The wife of a member of the private guard, in a tryst with the private guard’s chief suspect in the murders.”
“How on earth did the two of you discover this?” Trevor asked Emma. “And why did you not mention it earlier?”
“We learned that they are lovers in precisely the manner you are now imagining,” Emma said. “Although it seemed inconsequential in comparison to our discovery of Mrs. Kirby’s body a few minutes later. But if Konstantin and Tatiana were indiscreet enough to have been caught by Tom and myself backstage at the theater in the worse possible moment, it’s possible that they have given other people reason to speculate along the way. Mrs. Kirby perhaps, or Tatiana’s husband.”
“This explains a great deal,” said Rayley. “For now Filip Orlov has every incentive to frame Konstantin. It provides him with a neat and elegant solution to all his problems. Konstantin hangs, guilty or not, while Filip retains his wife and earns another commission for service to the tsar.”
“Hangs?” Emma asked sharply. “He may be guilty of a romantic indiscretion but hardly murder. In fact, between me and Tatiana Orlov, his every moment is accounted for during the time the body must have moved.” She looked from Trevor to Rayley. “I don’t know about the ballet dancers, but he certainly had nothing to do with the Kirby affair, and whatever evidence they’ve collected against him is unlikely to be enough to convict him in a court of law.”
“If we were in London, I would agree with you,” Trevor said. “Here, who can say?”
This gave her pause. She chewed her lower lip as she looked down at the carpet.
“We’ve only begun our investigation, Emma,” Rayley said with sympathy. “Until we get our answers and thus the Queen gets hers, we won’t be leaving St. Petersburg anytime soon.”
“True, true, true,” Trevor agreed. “All quite true. But even if Konstantin is a somewhat unlikely suspect, we must exhibit caution around the man and indeed everyone else until this matter is sorted out. The one thing I’m inclined to agree with Filip Orlov about is that Cynthia Kirby was most likely slain because of something that she saw or knew. Which means that we have a killer who won’t hesitate to kill again in order to cover his tracks. A killer who may well be in possession of both Konstantin’s knife and Cynthia’s pistol.”