City of Silence (City of Mystery)

by Kim Wright

  The door opened again, this time without even a perfunctory knock, and Davy and Tom burst in, a file in Tom’s hand.

  “We’ve got it,” Tom said. “Or at least we have something. Good God, but we do need a table, don’t we?” He pushed aside the three empty cups and the teapot and deposited the file in the middle of the plates. “The chemist was able to provide us with several enlargements of the original photograph.”

  They scrunched together and collectively studied the new photograph.

  “It image is far from perfect,” Tom said. “Apparently photographs grow ever more blurry as you enlarge them, who would have guessed? But it’s enough to show that the blade is curved, rather dramatically so, which leads me to suspect….Well here, I shall show you.” He shuffled the pictures to produce another closely focused section of the original photograph, this one showing the gash at the boy’s throat. “As you can see for yourselves,” Tom continued, “the cut which killed Yulian seems to be a rather short straight one, probably made by an assailant who knew precisely where the jugular would be found and who dug in deep, just at that point, most likely with a dagger shaped weapon. While in contrast a curved knife, especially if used in an attack from behind, creates the sort of broad, level gash that has the power to nearly decapitate a victim. It’s a shame that the amount of blood obscures the wound to the degree it does, but I think any sensible man would agree with me. The knife the girl is holding in her hand is not the same knife that was used to cut the boy’s throat.”

  Trevor was frowning at the picture. “It’s quite blurred.”

  “Yes, yes, the chemist said that enlargements always are,” Tom said impatiently. “But anyone can certainly see that their heads are in the normal position people’s heads would be. Not nearly severed. It suggests –“

  “I agree with you as far as it goes,” Trevor said, “and I’m happy to have these enlargements in our possession. But whoever is determined to frame Konstantin Antonovich would not let a few blurry photographs and a mere suggestion put forth by a foreigner, no matter how apt it might be, derail his plans.”

  “The dance master?” Tom said with surprise.

  “The woman we found Konstantin with yesterday was Tatiana Orlov,” Emma said shortly. “And now it seems that the Tsar’s private guard, or at least her husband Filip, have seized on him as a suspect in all three deaths.”

  “Then the poor bastard’s done for,” Tom said. “Remind me to never publically make love to a policeman’s wife in the middle of a murder investigation.”

  “All right, let’s wrap this up quickly,” Trevor said, closing the file and indicating they should return to their seats, “for our time is limited if we wish to interview the dancers at seven. Davy, I trust you’ve made inroads with the student group?”

  “Not invited to a meeting yet, Sir. But at least one of them seems to have warmed to me.”

  “Excellent. And you believe you will be able to carry the role of a disgruntled schoolboy, ready to toss aside the constraints of an unjust political system and snatch away the privileges of your societal betters?”

  “Of course, Sir.”

  “That was a suspiciously swift answer,” Tom said with a laugh. “Perhaps Davy is not as gruntled with his lot in life as you assume, Trevor.”

  Davy’s ears turned red with what the others assumed to be embarrassment. “He brags a lot, just as Mrs. Kirby predicted they all would. A fellow named Vlad Ulyanov, brother to Sasha Ulyanov, one of the students hanged two years ago in that unsuccessful attempt on the tsar. Thus central to the Volya leadership, but he’s one of the younger members. Claims the others don’t take him seriously.”

  “His brother died while Gregor Krupin lived,” Trevor said. “His resentment of Krupin’s authority must be profound.”

  Davy nodded.

  “For a group of self-proclaimed revolutionaries these lads do not appear very cautious,” Rayley said. “Perhaps this is why their plans have been so easily broken up in the past, even by the notoriously inept local police. But it also occurs to me that, just as Filip undoubtedly invited me to the men’s enclave in order to plant suspicions about Konstantin, that this Vlad may be pretending to accept Davy in order to feed him misinformation.”

  “Possible,” said Trevor. “We seem to have two theories in front of us about how to best deal with the Russians. One is to take them at face value and thus conclude they are playing clumsy psychological games with us, so clumsy that one could safely call them stupid. The other is to consider them diabolical masterminds who play at being stupid so that we will discount them too easily as worthy adversaries.”

  “There’s a third possibility,” Emma said. “We may be confounded because they are in reality neither more nor less intelligent than we are, they simply think differently.”

  “The most likely theory yet, I would say,” Rayley nodded. “My afternoon in the gentlemen’s enclave felt a bit like Alice down the rabbit hole. We cannot assume they approach life, much less matters like guilt or innocence, in the same manner that we do. To apply British motives to a Russian crime scene would be the most foolish mistake of all.”

  “So while we are in St. Petersburg, we are to readily accept all offers of friendship on the surface but privately remain skeptical of the sincerity behind the offer,” Tom said airily. “I like it, for this is pretty much my philosophy with all new acquaintances, no matter what their nationality.”

  “We don’t have to do any of this, you know,” Davy blurted out. “It isn’t our fight.”

  The others turned toward him, their faces showing different variations of inquiry, but all of them confused.

  “We are behaving as if we’ve been brought here to solve a crime,” Davy said. “But that isn’t the case at all. I remember the Queen’s words on the ship most specifically. She wanted us to determine whether or not the Winter Palace was a safe home for her granddaughters. Asked us to find out if the revolutionaries could get their people in. Well it seems to me that question was answered within hours of us getting off the boat, before we even had the chance to do anything. Mrs. Kirby’s murder proved the earlier two weren’t suicides, so what more do we need to know? It is only pride that makes us so determined to push further when we have no authority in this country. Trevor wants us to finish in time to talk with the dancers at seven but why should they bother to speak to the likes of us? We are outsiders.”

  A silence followed this. Emma glanced to see if Trevor was offended by Davy’s words, but he didn’t seem to be. He actually seemed to have been rendered momentarily shamed by Davy’s quite accurate assessment of the situation.

  Tom spoke first. “We didn’t have any authority in Paris either, but that didn’t stop us.”

  “That was different,” Davy said. “Detective Abrams had been kidnapped, and of course we would move if one of our own was in danger. But in this case…Mrs. Kirby might have been English, but beyond that, I cannot see why we owe her the same level of loyalty we feel toward each other. And even if we find her killer, who is to say what the palace police will do with that information? There is no way this can come to a satisfactory outcome, at least by the standard of Scotland Yard.”

  “You’re right,” Rayley said. “At least as far as you and Emma and Tom are concerned. Your responsibilities begin and end with the question put forth by the Queen and, just as you say, that question has been answered. But Trevor and I are bound by a different level of duty. If we are aware of a crime, whether it lies within our jurisdiction or not, we are compelled to follow the trail.”

  “That is just the sort of thing the revolutionaries say,” Davy said, once again speaking recklessly, for Rayley’s cheeks flushed with irritation. “If there is an injustice anywhere, any time, they believe they must correct it. And so they will always fight.”

  “Your point about knowing the limits of our power will be duly noted,” Rayley said, this time more sharply. “But men of the law do not cease to be such because they have crossed an inte
rnational border. Trevor and I do not expect the rest of you to necessarily heed the same call.”

  It was a bit of an indirect scold toward Davy, who was also a man of law, and he tension in the room thickened. Emma gamely waded into the mix. “Davy is quite correct in that we are behaving as if the Russians want us to help solve these crimes,” she said. “While the truth of the matter is that they likely wish we would all go away and leave them alone. And he is also right to remind us that we didn’t know the ballet dancers and had scarcely met Mrs. Kirby, who appeared to be roundly disliked and justifiably so. But it is hard to remember areas of jurisdiction and limits of power when one is in the middle of this sort of situation, is it not? Now that you tell me Konstantin is being framed, I find that I too must remain involved. I feel a personal loyalty to him which has nothing to do with nationality.”

  “My motivations are different as well,” Tom said. “Mrs. Kirby was on her way to meet me when she was killed and her body dropped at my feet. It is not that I feel responsible for the fact that curiosity ultimately killed this cat, but her killer came very close so I feel that I too must-“

  “Of course,” Davy said. He was flushed. “I did not mean to suggest that any of you were wrong to want to see justice done, or to wish to protect innocent people, no matter what or who they are. I was just saying that we answer to the Queen, no one else. I think we should admit that as we proceed – and I will keep helping as well – that this is not an official case. We are all doing this for reasons of our own.”

  “You have changed, Davy,” Trevor said. “You have begun to think for yourself.”

  “I have always thought for myself,” Davy said, this time a ghost of a smile coming to his mouth. “It’s just that I have now begun to speak for myself as well. But I have taken enough of our time, haven’t I, Sir?”

  The “Sir” seemed to once more establish equilibrium within the group. Emma poured herself some tea, and the men all leaned back once again in their seats.

  “Yes, still moving on,” Trevor said, with a glance at the clock on the mantle. “While you have all been gadding about waltzing and taking saunas and joining the revolution, I have spent the last hour going through the diary of Mrs. Kirby.”

  “She kept a diary?” Rayley asked with surprise. “An odd thing for a spy to do, is it not?”

  “There’s no such thing as a British spy, remember?” Trevor said. “But unless there’s some sort of embedded code I have yet to break, the diary appears to be merely the ramblings of an older woman spending time abroad. What she wore, what she ate, palace gossip, that sort of thing. Only one line jumped out at me as potentially significant and I don’t know quite what to make of it. The day before her death she wrote this: Alina said she is immaculate.”

  “Who is Alina?” Tom asked.

  “Ella’s personal maid,” Trevor said. He pulled the thin blue book from his folder and consulted the last page again, as if to make sure.

  “So Alina is a good maid who keeps things clean,” Tom said. “An odd thing for Mrs. Kirby to note in her diary, but I scarcely see what it has to do with her death.”

  “The ‘she’ is not necessarily Alina,” Rayley said. “The pronoun could refer to another woman. I’d say most likely the Grand Duchess Ella, considering that both of the women served her.”

  “So Ella is immaculate?” Tom asked. “Once again, a pointless statement.”

  “She might mean immaculate in the religious sense,” Emma said, setting aside her scarcely touched tea. “Immaculate is also what they say of a virgin.”

  “The Grand Duchess has been married four years and yet remains a virgin…” Rayley said. “That seems unlikely.”

  “But possible,” Emma said. “Not every marriage is consummated, and royal unions are often more a matter of politics than passion.” They all sat back, each absorbed in their own thoughts.

  “Even if it’s true, does it matter?” Tom finally asked. “I mean, as gossip goes, it’s quite fascinating, but how could an unconsummated marriage have anything to do with two ballet dancers being killed?”

  “I don’t know,” Trevor admitted. “I don’t even know if we’re interpreting the line correctly. There are no children from the union of Ella and Serge, which I suppose somewhat supports the theory.”

  “There are many explanations for why a woman might fail to bring a pregnancy to term,” Tom said. “Especially a woman from this particular lineage.”

  “Ah yes, the royal disease which no one acknowledges,” Trevor mused. “Do you think that the Hanover bleeding disorder could possibly play into this riddle?”

  “Hemophilia taints the royal bloodline,” Tom said, “and thus, I would imagine, the bedrooms of the royal marriages. I shall do a little research and make that report on the morrow as well.”

  “So here is what we have,” Rayley said. “A dance master who instructs and thus is connected to several women within the Romanov family and who also is having a love affair with the wife of the tsar’s personal guard. A revolutionary group which seems suspiciously willing to accept outsiders but who also managed to get the brother of one of their high ranking officers into the Winter Palace where he was subsequently killed. A lady in waiting to the Queen’s granddaughter who has also been murdered, most likely because of something she learned in her unofficial capacity as a royal spy, and who was dressed after death in the costume of the aforementioned dance master. This Queen’s younger daughter wishes to marry the son of the tsar while the Queen’s older granddaughter is married to the tsar’s brother. That marriage may be unconsummated and this fact may be known among the couple’s servants or it is also possible that she has been unable to conceive due to a hereditary illness which no one within either royal house is willing to acknowledge. And then we have a palace police force and private guard who function as separate units but which collectively seem quite happy to beat each other in saunas, procure Asian whores and opium, and accept ridiculous explanations for the three dead bodies that have been found on their watch within a single week. Am I leaving anything out?”

  “Obviously you’re leaving quite a lot out, but we don’t know what any of it is yet,” Tom said.

  “Let us all continue down our separate lines of inquiry and we shall resume at the same time tomorrow,” Trevor said. “Perhaps the connections between all these facts will be a little clearer then. And Emma, under the circumstances I’m not sure it’s wise for you to continue your lessons with Antonovich.”

  “Under what circumstances?” Emma asked. “The circumstances that he’s been put forward as a suspect in the most unconvincing manner possible? Such a charge gives me greater incentive to stay close to the man than ever, does it not?”

  “She’s right,” Rayley said. “There’s no reason to abandon our stronghold in the theater, especially not now, after a third body has been found there.”

  “Very well,” Trevor conceded. “But at least promise me you will exercise precautions. Perhaps one of us should come with you to the ballroom during your lessons.”

  “On what pretense?”

  “On the pretense of guarding your virtue,” Tom said, with a wink. “That is, assuming that you wish for your virtue to be guarded.”

  “Oh, I think everyone’s time is better spent guarding my virtue,” Rayley said, laughing and gathering his notes. “Given the events of my afternoon in the gentleman’s enclave, it would seem that I am the one whose moral fiber is in danger.”

  “Tell us everything, Sir,” Davy said with enthusiasm. He seemed quite returned to his normal self. “Vlad says the boys in the Volya all claim that the Palace has bucket loads of depravity.”

  “And depravity should indeed be served up by the bucket load,” Tom said.

  “Just grant me this one courtesy,” Trevor said quietly, leaning forward, so that under cover of the men’s guffawing and the scrapes of their chairs being pushed back, only Emma could hear him.

  “And what is that?”

  “Dance wi
th the man if you must, but don’t tell him that he is a suspect.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Café of the Revolutionaries

  June 21, 1889

  11:20 AM

  Vlad watched Gregor’s face carefully. It was almost impossible to tell what he thought of the plan.

  “Despite all that has happened, the Tchaikovsky Ball remains our perfect opportunity,” Vlad repeated, hoping that his tone of voice was not desperate or, even worse, presumptuous. “All of the imperial women will be there and Yulian assured us on several occasions that the confusion backstage before a performance will create the ideal backdrop for our intentions. Dozens of people rapidly coming and going through any number of entrances, half of their faces obscured by costumes or masks, carrying props, some of which may even look like weapons. An unprecedented mingling of citizens from every class, at least while they’re waiting in the performance areas. When shall we get another chance like this?”

  “At the time we made those plans we had Yulian on the inside,” Gregor said tersely. “Now we do not.”

  “True,” Vlad said. “But we still have his drawings of the theater, including all the private performance areas normally closed to outsiders. These maps are his legacy to us. Not to use them would mean that his death was in –“

  “Enough,” Gregor said. “It has only been days, after all.”

  “The timing is regrettable and I mean no disrespect,” Vlad said, staring down into his coffee cup. “But the date of the ball is fixed and after that they shall all go to the seaside for their summer holiday and no one can say when the next such opportunity will present itself. Besides, the details of our plan can be altered to accommodate Yulian’s absence, just as we have discussed.”