City of Silence (City of Mystery)

by Kim Wright

  “You have wondered if Tom will keep quiet about the day we found you and Tatiana,” she said, a bit breathlessly, for they were moving with more energy now, the pianist having switched from Beethoven to Strauss. “But you have never wondered about me.”

  “I know you will keep my secret,” he said. “You are my friend.”

  The word “friend” stunned her. It was true, of course, that in their short time together they had formed a type of bond, that she indeed trusted him in any number of strange, wordless ways that she had never shared with anyone else. But it was still the last word she ever expected him to use. They slowed to a stop as the song ended and she glanced at the pianist. He was ruffling through sheets of music, preparing to begin again, and without thinking Emma stretched on tiptoe. Came as close as she could to the elegant length of Konstantin’s neck, the shine of his hair, the curve of his ear.

  “You must leave the palace,” she whispered. “The tsar’s private guard believes you are a killer.”

  The Winter Palace – The Guest Quarters

  5:28 PM

  The Queen not only received daily updates from London via telegram but also received British newspapers. Granted, the issues were generally three or four days out of date by the time they arrived in St Petersburg by train, but Trevor still enjoyed flipping through them as he took his tea. He was a bit homesick, a condition that was soothed by the familiar pages of the London Star. Even the advertisements for soap and tea and digestive tonics suddenly held a certain charm.

  He was on his second read through in the empty parlor of their rooms when his eye fell upon an article about a series of rapes in rural Scotland. He read it, squinting at the small smeared print, and then sat back in his chair with a frown. The story was written, of course, for your average newspaper reader and thus emphasized the more lurid details over the basic facts, but it had still given him a sizable serving of the proverbial food for thought.

  “Do you remember the last meeting we held of the Tuesday Night Murder Games?” Trevor asked, looking up as Tom and Rayley shuffled into the room for their own tea. “We discussed criminal profiling and what personality type was most likely to commit certain crimes?”

  “Barely,” said Tom, speaking for them both. “That evening seems months ago.”

  “Something reminded me of it today,” Trevor said. “If you recall, we began our study on that evening with the subject of personality profiling, which raises the question: What sort of personality type is likely to be found in an assassin?”

  “A man who imagines he is putting the good of the many above the good of the few,” Rayley said promptly. “He likely believes he is chosen in some way, selected by some higher power for a specific task. Called, if you will.”

  “I would argue that’s the prototype of a saint, not an assassin,” Tom said, draping himself back into a chaise lounge with an exaggerated languor, his cup sloshing into the saucer as he did so. “Where are Davy and Emma, by the way?”

  “Still in the clutches of their various Russians,” Trevor said. “And I quite understand what Rayley means. The type of psychology which might drive a man to assassinate a political figure he has never met seems quite different that the psychology of a typical murderer. Most killings are prompted by jealousy, rage, bloodlust and the like – the most primal and personal of emotions. But the urge to kill a stranger must be more akin to religious fervor.”

  “Look at it this way,” Rayley said. “When people kill in service to a cause it suggests that they have put the principles of that cause above the needs, or perhaps even the very lives, of their friends and family, not to mention themselves. You might infer that they no longer are capable of personal loyalty. Which is why the rest of us call them extremists, because we find it extreme that anyone would value an abstract ideal more than he values his individual relationships.”

  “Truly, Abrams?” Trevor protested. “Here our reasoning parts paths, for I find that an extreme definition of extremism. We all have things we exalt above ourselves or perhaps even those we love. Religion and country are the obvious examples, or in my case, it would be the Yard. Let’s say a man leaves his wife and children to go to war to fight for an ideal. By your estimation, that makes him an extremist, even a type of assassin, where most people would argue that it makes him a patriot.”

  “Davy reports the members of the Volya are all young,” Tom said idly. “Perhaps there’s some correlation between youth and one’s willingness to sacrifice all for a cause.”

  ‘Which makes sense, for it is easier to pursue ideals when one is young,” said Trevor. “Duty to a wife and children tend to come to a man later in life, making him cautious, less likely to risk himself, and thus their future as well, in pursuit of a vague idea.”

  “And Davy furthermore says this Vlad he’s befriended is certain beyond all hesitation that the revolution is right,” Tom said.

  “Again, it is easier to be certain when you are young,” Trevor said. “As we age, life has a way of heaping examples on our heads, and in many ways, the more examples we have, the harder it is to draw a conclusion. One fact always manages to contradict another.” He looked about. “But criminal profiling wasn’t all that I hoped to discuss. I was saving the real business of this meeting for the moment when everyone arrived, but it appears Emma and Davy have both been detained. Unfortunate indeed. I feel it’s been days since I’ve had a proper conversation with either of them, especially her.”

  “She has been preoccupied, it would seem,” Rayley mumbled around the scone in his mouth.

  “Yes, and solely by the fate of her dance master,” Tom said. “In this complicated case, the future safety of Konstantin Antonovich is her overriding concern.” For once his voice carried not the slightest trace of sarcasm or flippery. It was the flat clear observation of a man stating a fact.

  Trevor looked at the other men with surprise. Surprise that Emma might have changed without him noticing and further surprise that Tom and Rayley must have seen this before he did.

  “But the question is, why should he have such a hold on her thoughts?” Rayley asked with a swallow. “She has known him scarcely a week.”

  “He has no hold on her,” Trevor said quickly. “We’re all in agreement that Konstantin is most likely innocent but that, unless someone intervenes on his behalf, he may still be arrested. So why is it odd that she might rally to the man’s defense?”

  “It’s not that her desire to protect an innocent man is odd, it’s that she’s changed her behavior,” Tom said. “She hasn’t ventured an opinion on anything since she started waltzing with the man. And Trevor, don’t tell me that you haven’t noticed that she has become rather misty and distant. Like a heroine in one of those novels for ladies, you know the sort, where the hero starts out looking to be the villain but in the end is revealed to be a lord of the manor in disguise. Soon she shall be announcing to us all that the Siberian has touched some previously unexplored part of her soul.”

  “I haven’t noticed such a change because there isn’t one,” Trevor said, with more confidence than he felt. “Or at least no more of one than could be expected after such a long journey to such a strange place. We are all of us changed by every case and I daresay also changed by the people we find along the way.”

  “Well, I have something a bit more definite to report,” said Tom, pulling to a full sitting position to reach for a sweet roll and abruptly changing the subject as he did so. “The Grand Duchess Ella is expecting a child.”

  “Good heavens,” said Rayley. “This is news. But how would you know?”

  “She has been led to think I am a bona fide doctor, don’t forget,” Tom said. “Oh, and don’t look at me like that, Abrams. I certainly didn’t examine her imperial person. But this morning she summoned me for a sort of consultation.”

  “This means Mrs. Kirby was wrong about her marriage being unconsummated,” Trevor said.

  “Not necessarily,” Tom said. “The child Ella is expecting, and
is planning to pass off as her own, will be the actual offspring of Tatiana Orlov and Konstantin Antonovich.” As he shared the details of his visit to Tatana’s apartment, Trevor and Rayley sat with expressions of growing incredulity on their faces and finally, as Tom finished his story and his sweet roll in the precise same second, Trevor sat back in his chair and exhaled.

  “It’s madness,” he said. “Such a deception will never work.”

  Tom shrugged. “It’s a risk, but men are deluded in this manner every day, I dare say. And if the Grand Duchess and Mrs. Orlov do indeed remain at the coast until time for the child to be born, their story may pass unchallenged. The women involved are possessed of beauty, power, and money, don’t forget, and this combination may be enough to allow them to rewrite history in any manner they please. If there are enough advantages all around the table, no one may feel inclined to question the origins of the single dark-eyed Romanov in the family portrait.”

  “There are other moral questions to consider,” Rayley said. “For a start, is it proper to let the Antonovich fellow escape?”

  “Escape is hardly the word,” Tom said, “considering he has been charged with no crime and in all probability committed no greater offense than seducing another man’s wife. If a Russian dancer decides to immigrate to Paris, I can’t see why it’s any concern of ours.”

  “For the record, I agree,” said Rayley. “But here is the real poser: Do we tell the Queen?”

  The question was directed at Trevor, who was leaning back in a precarious angle in his chair, staring at the ceiling, where a dozen naked cherubs sat perched on clouds, gazing back. He didn’t answer.

  “I promised Ella that she should be the one to give her grandmother the happy news,” Tom said.

  “But you didn’t take the Fabrege egg,” Rayley said.

  “No, I most certainly wasn’t bribed,” Tom said tersely, “but I did give my word. Initially I had all the same doubts you’ve mentioned, but I’ve had the afternoon to mull it over and my opinion has changed a bit. Consider this. Ella may be a virginal wife and may be a carrier of hemophilia to boot. Under these circumstances if she wishes to pass off an adopted child as her own, it’s a rather understandable sort of lie. And as she herself said to me, it isn’t as if the child won’t be given every advantage. The big loser in this game is poor Tatiana, but in an odd way she seems the most at peace with her decision. So here is the true question before us: As a unit of Scotland Yard, we are sworn to uphold the law. Or at least you and Trevor and Davy are and I suppose when Emma and Aunt Gerry and I came into the group as volunteers, we agreed to these rules as well. But what we are talking of here aren’t matters of law, they’re matters of personal morality. The relations between husbands and wives, love affairs, pregnancies, and the most everyday sort of deceptions. Deplorable perhaps, but are these matters really under our jurisdiction?”

  The door opened and Emma entered, a little breathless, as if she had run the length of the long halls leading to the guest quarters. Without greeting the men, she dropped the bag containing her dancing slippers to the deep red carpet and went to the table to pour her tea. “What have I missed?” she asked.

  “Very little,” Trevor said crisply. “I was asking Tom and Rayley if they remembered the last case we discussed at the Tuesday Night Murder Games Club. You know, the Scottish rapes?”

  So that is that, Tom thought. If Trevor has decided not to tell Emma about the Grand Duchess and her baby, he certainly doesn’t intend to tell the Queen.

  Emma came back to her seat, frowning in thought. “There was some question about how the man used the train system to come and leave the crime scene, was there not? And then of course the business with the blindfold. I remember that seemed quite exotic at the time.”

  “The Edinburg police have proclaimed the case to be solved,” Trevor said, gesturing toward the stack of papers on the desk in the corner. “It seemed a detail came to light that opened up a new line of reasoning. The women, you see, reported that the assaults were…multiple.”

  “Multiple?” Tom said wryly. “Do you mean what I think you do?”

  Trevor sighed. “Begging your pardon, Emma…”

  “Oh Trevor, we’ve been through this a thousand times. Do speak plainly,” Emma said, pulling her chair into the circle. “I assume you mean each woman was raped more than once?”

  “Precisely,” said Trevor, slightly flushed. “They reported this to the bobbies of course, but the men investigating were mere youngsters and didn’t think anything of it. But as the case remained unsolved and thus bumped its way up the chain of command…”

  “I quite see where you’re going,” Rayley said. “As the case moved under the jurisdiction of older men they found the vigor of the assailant more noteworthy.”

  “Proving what?” Tom said. “That the rapist was a young enough man to be able to initiate sexual congress twice in rapid sequence? From a medical standpoint, I scarcely find that a persuasive line of reasoning. Assaulting a person, no matter who or why, is bound to raise levels of adrenalin, as does the act of sex itself. So I would imagine that rape, which combines intercourse and violence, creates enough of a surge to make even an older man capable of exceeding his normal limits.”

  “Maybe so,” said Trevor, still flushed. “But apparently in speculating on the dual nature of the assaults, one of the supervising officers made a joke about how it must have been two men. And you know how it is, sometimes a remark made in jest can introduce an entirely new line of thought. Someone began to think what if it truly were two men working together in tandem. It seemed an unlikely notion, for while everyone accepts that crimes such as robbery are most efficiently carried out with a whole contingent of criminals, rapists usually act alone. At least in these planned, methodical sort of rapes. But once the idea of two men had been raised, the investigation took a different turn.”

  “It explains the blindfold at least,” Emma said. “The woman would have no idea, I presume, that she was being attacked by two different men.”

  “Indeed,” said Trevor. “And as the story unfolded it seems that the fact it was two men had worked to confuse the time line. While one was busy with the victim, the other made it a point to be seen on the street and vice versa, thus giving each of them an alibi for the time of the crime. For they were local lads, you see. Would have been recognizable to their victims. But they were able to use their proximity to the village station, the coming and going of the trains, and the blindfold to convince everyone from the women to the local coppers that the assailant must have been from out of town. We immediately jumped to the same faulty assumption, as you might recall.”

  “Fascinating,” Rayley said. “And you have a reason for bringing this story up now, I presume?”

  “I was wondering if we were perchance making the same mistake as the Scottish police,” Trevor said.

  “You mean we’re looking for one man when in reality there might be two?” Rayley asked.

  “It seems at least worth considering,” Trevor said. “We have been assuming all this is the work of a single man, and that there is thus a single line of logic to the killings. Yulian must have been killed by an enemy of the Volya, and Cynthia Kirby must have been killed by the same person, who realized she had discovered something – most likely through the photograph she and Ella took on the morning after the crime. But it seems to me that there’s an inherent flaw in that thinking.”

  “Wait…wait,” said Tom. “Give us a shot at it. It goes back to the question of why Yulian was killed, does it not? Because if someone within the palace, either the private guard or the police or just some concerned citizen, learned that he was affiliated with the Volya, they wouldn’t have had to cut his throat in the dead of night and then taken some innocent girl along with him. They could simply have exposed him and let the law do their dirty work for them.”

  “Quite right,” Emma said. “We’ve all assumed the obvious – that Yulian was killed by an enemy of the Volya. But th
e enemies of the Volya are the authorities and they would have arrested him, not killed him. And they hardly would have, in turn, killed Katya and Mrs. Kirby. Poor Katya was probably just in the wrong place at the wrong time, but looking beyond her, our other two murders lie at opposite ends of the political spectrum. One victim was a loyal member of the revolution and the other a loyal servant to the imperial family. Who would have had reason to wish them both dead?”

  “No one I can think of,” Trevor said. “Which is why the resolution of the case in Scotland so intrigued me. Upon reflection, our quick assumption that whoever killed Yulian must have also killed Cynthia is quite illogical since, just as Emma says, it implies a man who stands against both the revolution and the established order. But perhaps we are not looking for one man with dual motives. Perhaps we are looking for two men.”

  “I must disagree,” said Rayley. They all turned toward him, Trevor nodding encouragement. Disagreement, not runaway accord, was the purpose of these meetings.

  “In this huge edifice, with more than a thousand rooms, both crimes were committed in the same space, were they not?” Rayley said, pushing back his eyeglasses and clearing his throat. “Even more significantly, they were both staged in precisely the same theatrical manner. Yulian and Katya posed as tragic lovers, Mrs. Kirby as the king the gypsies. No, I feel both crimes had to have been committed by the same person, and that they are both designed to relay a message, albeit one we have yet to fully crack.”

  “Come now, Rayley, everyone in Russia is theatrical,” Emma said, setting down her cup with a careless clatter. “You’re right, if this crime took place in London, in a shop or a school or a hospital, the elaborate staging would be noteworthy. Some great clue to the killer’s mind. But these are Russians, and dancers, and revolutionaries, and what seems excessively dramatic to us is more or less the way they all think.”