by Evelyn Weiss
“Here. This is our transport to Tri Tsarevny.”
The professor returns Bukin’s smile as we step onto the yacht. “I believe, Mr Bukin, that the imperial estate of Tri Tsarevny is the scene of the murder of Svea Håkansson?”
“Indeed. A terrible terrorist outrage – that such a thing should happen to a Swedish woman of noble blood, on one of the Tsar’s private estates! I will show you the scene of the evil deed. We are hoping that your detective skills will track down the revolutionaries.”
“Maybe. Or there could be explanations other than revolutionaries.”
Bukin doesn’t respond, pretending to be distracted by the movement of the boat. The yacht sways in the water, its sails rippling, as the silent sailor steers us through the shipping, away from the busy harbor. Ahead of us, a narrow creek leads between tall trees. Axelson is considering his words.
“The murder took place three weeks ago, Mr Bukin?”
“Yes, in the early afternoon. On such a beautiful sunny day, too… it was an appalling shock for the imperial family.”
“I understand that Tri Tsarevny is not the usual summer retreat of the Romanov family?”
“Indeed. They normally holiday in warmer climates – usually at Yalta, on the Black Sea. But there is unrest across Russia. It was thought safer for them to come here, close to St Petersburg.”
“Were the whole Romanov family here?”
“No: in fact, most of the family did not visit at all. The Tsar was with the Army at the front line: as Commander-in-Chief, his principal duties were there. And his four daughters were all busy too, working as nurses at the Tsarskoye Selo Palace. Like the Winter Palace in St Petersburg, it has become a military hospital.”
“So the holiday party was actually very small?”
“You are correct: only part of the family visited. But it was a great honour to have the Tsarina and her son Alexei Nikolaevich, the heir to the Russian throne, in Ivangorod, although no-one in the town saw them. Their stay at Tri Tsarevny was sadly short. After the attack on Miss Håkansson, they returned immediately to St Petersburg.”
The creek is lined on both banks with woods. Below the trees, a tangle of thick undergrowth extends to the water’s edge. After a few minutes, the boat pulls up at a stone quay in the shadow of towering pines. The only noise is the gently lapping waters, and the little quay has an air of being rarely used. But like a pair of wooden toys, two elaborately uniformed guards stand, one at each end of the quay. Bukin nods at them, then turns ceremoniously to us.
“Please step ashore. We must follow this stone staircase. It leads to the Dacha, the main house of Tri Tsarevny.”
The professor looks at Bukin. “Main house – you mean, there are several houses?”
“Of course. I will show you.” Bukin leads us past the guards, and we start to climb moss-covered slabs. They lead up into the gloom of dense woodland. It’s a warm day, but among the trees we are in cool shade. Bukin speaks between breaths as he puffs up the steps.
“There are other houses at Tri Tsarevny – hence its name, the Three Princesses. The Tri Tsarevny estate was acquired by Tsar Alexander II in 1860. Before that it belonged to the Gorchakov family, one of Russia’s oldest. Everything you will see here was built, and named, by Kniaz Pyotr Gorchakov. He was a great lord – but also a scholar of Slavic history and legend. He wanted to create a place that told the story of Russia itself.”
The trees suddenly open out. A house stands before us on a little grassy hill-top: a mass of gables, onion-domes and carved wood. Bukin opens the door and steps over the threshold, beckoning us to follow.
The room is deserted. I expected to see at least a few servants, some inhabitants of the house. But despite the rich colours of the carpets, the shot-silk drapes and the gilded ornaments everywhere, the room feels like a mausoleum. The air smells stale.
The professor looks closely at Bukin. “Where is everyone?”
“All are gone. When she left, the Tsarina sent them all away.”
“But – the servants, the members of this household – they are our witnesses. How on earth can we investigate Svea Håkansson’s murder, without witnesses to interview?”
“The servants at Tri Tsarevny do not raise their eyes from their duties. None of them actually observed Miss Håkansson’s death. They would be able to tell you nothing.”
“But –”
“We have great faith in your detective talent, Professor Axelson. You do not need human witnesses. There will be hidden clues that only you have the eyes to see.”
For a few moments the professor is at a loss for words. I look around the room. There is finery everywhere. A golden samovar stands on a plinth in the middle of the floor, like a centrepiece. But my eyes are drawn to a huge painting, hanging above the fireplace. Bukin follows my gaze.
“That picture, Miss Frocester, is Ivan the Fool.”
The painted face Bukin points to is alert, strong and handsome. His eyes fix on a far horizon. He kneels, dressed in a woolen Russian coat, and his arms steady himself against the wind and the movement, holding on tight. Because the figure of Ivan the Fool sits on a magic carpet, swaying and rippling as it flies high in the sky above an open landscape of forests, farms and villages.
The professor’s voice interrupts my reverie.
“Very well, Mr Bukin. Miss Frocester and I will make a careful inspection of Tri Tsarevny for clues. But I will need a list of the witnesses – and their addresses. I hope they are all resident in the Ivangorod area?”
“Naturally.”
The professor stands, looking into the mirror of what appears to be an ornate dressing-table. I can see the annoyance in his reflected face. “In the meantime, let’s do what we can. Please, Mr Bukin – show us the exact scene of the murder.”
For answer, Bukin leads us to a large, many-paned window on the far side of the room. Below us, gardens slope down the hill to a wide lake, shining like a silver plate in the afternoon sunshine. On the water are a line of small islands, like stepping stones. The islands are crowned with trees, and among the branches I see one wooden house on each island.
Bukin turns to us. “You have not yet asked about the name of this place – Tri Tsarevny, the Three Princesses. The people of the Ivangorod area believe that this lake is the scene of one of Russia’s oldest stories. That is why Kniaz Pyotr Gorchakov built the houses you see here.”
The professor peers down at the view. “So – was the lake itself the murder scene?”
“In a manner of speaking, it was. I will show you.” Bukin leads us through a door onto a verandah, then down towards the lake. The gardens around us are bright with late-summer flowers, though many are now fading. Weeds poke out everywhere among the blooms. Bukin peers through his pince-nez, and smiles at us.
“I am failing in my duties as your guide if I do not tell you the story of this place. You see, long ago in old Russia, there were three lazy brothers. The story says that they were grown men, but they still lived with their mother.”
Axelson looks at him. “This sounds like an old wives’ tale, Mr Bukin.”
Bukin responds with a polite smile, but continues his story as we walk through the flowers.
“The mother wanted her sons to find homes of their own. She told each of them in turn to go and find a wife. The first went into the village, but all the girls laughed at him. Feeling foolish, he ran out of the village into the fields. Then, when he was all alone, a dragon appeared. To his surprise, the dragon spoke politely to him. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t use my burning breath to cook you, or my gaping jaws to eat you. Instead, I will tell you your fortune, young sir. You are a lucky man. Because, if you can lift that stone, you will marry a princess.’”
Axelson suppresses a snort at this nonsense.
“The brother pulled and strained his utmost at the rock, but he could not lift it. When he went home and told his mother, she sent the middle brother, but he couldn’t lift the stone either. Finally in despair she sent the you
ngest brother, Ivan, although she thought he was useless and simple-minded.
Ivan wandered through the village and out into the fields. Idly, he kicked a stone lying in his path. Where the stone had been, the ground opened into a deep chasm. Ivan fell into the chasm, right down to the bottom of the earth. There he found three princesses, held captive in the underworld. Each princess was dressed in the finest ornaments – one in copper, one in silver and the last one dressed head to foot in gold. Ivan freed the princesses and helped them climb out of the chasm – but he himself was betrayed, and he got lost underground. After many dangerous adventures in the underworld, a magic carpet carried him through the sky back to Mother Russia, where he found that the chasm had filled with water, creating this lake. People still believe that this lake is bottomless. But Ivan – he married the Golden Princess. They and the other two princesses all lived happily ever after, on islands in this lake.”
“And did the other two brothers marry the other princesses?” The professor can’t keep an edge of sarcasm out of his voice.
“No. Because – ah, here we are! We must cross the causeway.”
We’ve reached the water’s edge, and a low wooden jetty stretches out, just inches above the waterline. It leads alongside the little chain of islands, with a branching causeway to each of them. Bukin gestures at the scene.
“The houses on each island are named after the princesses in the story – although everyone just calls them the First Princess, Second Princess and Third Princess. Please, come with me.”
We walk along the causeway. The first island we pass is mostly woodland, with a house peeping from among the trees. “That one is only used for storage.” Bukin gestures to it briefly, then points forward. “Now, ahead of us. You can see the House of the First Princess there, on the next island.”
I see a copper-coloured house amid the trees on the second island, but we continue along the jetty past it, until yet another island is in sight. Bukin turns and smiles. “Here we are at last. This is the House of the Second Princess. This is the place where they found Miss Håkansson.”
The house is a mass of ornately carved wood, crowned with a silver-painted dome. But I notice that the paint is thickly smeared over cracked planks, to disguise its poor repair. The house is also quite small, more like a large summer-house than a real home. A door opens into the dark interior of the main room, and we look right through the house to a set of French windows. Through them, sunlight glitters brightly on the lake beyond. The professor looks at Bukin.
“Where was the body found?”
Bukin leads us into the house, then opens the French windows onto a porch. We all step out of the far side of the house, into the sunshine.
“Here.” Bukin points to a wicker armchair on the porch. The yellow wickerwork is blotted with a large stain. In the sunlight I can see that the dark shape is coloured dull red.
“This – it is blood?”
“Indeed, Professor. A week ago, I found a servant trying to clean the stain off. I told her to stop, because this may be a vital clue for you.”
“Thank you.”
For the next half-hour, we search the little house and the island. Apart from the main room, the house has only a kitchen, a bedroom and a bathroom. But they’re stripped clean: there are a few sticks of furniture and little else. I step out through the French windows again, lean on the rail of the porch, and look around me. The island itself is small, carrying only a few birch trees. A low wind ripples through the branches, and the white bark of the trees gleams like silver. Dappled sunlight shines on the grass among the trees, and the water laps the shore. It’s an idyllic spot, a strange contrast to the inexplicable event that happened here.
The professor comes out of the house and leans on the rail beside me. He looks left, then right. The little islands are lined up, like four toy boats in the water, separated by channels only a few yards wide. We can see the porches of the First and Third Princesses either side of us, and, among the trees, their little onion-dome roofs; one painted a copper color, the other brassy gold. Axelson peers thoughtfully at the two porches either side of us, and calls out.
“Mr Bukin! The report says that Miss Håkansson was shot in the side of the head? Is that correct?”
Bukin calls back from inside the house. “Indeed, Professor Axelson. As you say, the side of the head. It is marvellous, how you know every detail of the mystery.”
“But – which side? Which side of the head did the bullet enter?”
“That will be covered in the police report, Professor. It is confidential, of course. You won’t be allowed to see it. No-one can.”
Axelson shakes his head, and whispers to me. “Despite what Mr Bukin assumes, this murder was unlikely to be a revolutionary attack. The woods surrounding this lake were patrolled by thirty of the Tsar’s personal guards. Only a truly skilled intruder could reach this place. No: I think that Svea Håkansson’s killer walked to these islands – along the causeway, in plain sight, exactly as we did.”
We wander back through the dark interior of the little house. Again I cast my eyes around for any clue, but there’s nothing. Through a window, movement catches my eye. A tall, heavily-built man is striding along the causeway. He’s in late middle age, and his hair is white, but he has an erect, bold bearing that matches his military uniform. He must be a senior Army officer of some kind. Within moments, the stranger steps onto our island. Now that he’s closer, I see that the lines of the man’s face are hardened, his blue eyes are sharp and watchful, and the hands below his finely-woven cuffs are strong and muscular, like a prize-fighter.
Bukin signals to us to be quiet, and to stand still. He goes to the door. Through the gap in the door, I see the man speaking gruffly through a thick, snowy-white mustache.
“Bukin! Do you have a middle-aged gentleman with you, and a woman – thin and pale, with dark hair?”
“Yes, sir. They are Professor Axelson, the investigator sent by King Gustaf of Sweden, and his assistant, an American –”
“Their visit is terminated, with immediate effect.”
Despite this news, Bukin doesn’t hesitate in his response. “Of course, General Aristarkhov.”
The professor whispers to me. “This whole business was a farce anyway. At least I can go back and tell King Gustaf that we tried to investigate.”
I force a smile. “That man seems to take a curious interest in my appearance.”
“Some snoop noticed us at the harbor in Ivangorod, Miss Agnes, and reported it to this busybody general. Ridiculous.”
Outside, the general talks quietly to Bukin for a few minutes, then strides back along the causeway. Bukin comes back into the house, apologizing profusely. Moments later he is leading us along the jetty and up through the gardens. We don’t even re-enter the house; we follow him into the woods, down the steps and onto the quay. Then the three of us step onto the waiting yacht, and the two guards raise their hands in a brief farewell. Our visit is over, as if it had never happened.
3 An unexpected accident
Our yacht is tying up at the quay in Ivangorod again. I look up at the two castles, then across the river at the buildings of Old Narva on the opposite bank. They have a Scandinavian look: the baroque houses and tall church spires remind me of Stockholm. I feel as if we’ve already left Russia; our adventure is over before it even began. The professor looks along the harbor wall – and suddenly, sharply, calls to Bukin.
“Our steamer to Sweden – it’s disappeared!”
“The Narva River is tidal, Professor. The steamer has had to move from Ivangorod harbor, because of the tide.”
“That’s nonsense, Mr Bukin! Look at these other ships – they are still here. And I know that the tidal range in this part of the Baltic is practically zero. What on earth is going on?”
“Nothing is wrong… I tell you with the greatest respect, Professor Axelson, that your ship has had to move, simply because of the tide. You will be able to board your vessel in St Peters
burg.”
The professor’s face is blank with disbelief, as Bukin carries on. “Tomorrow morning, a train will take you to the city. It is not far – eighty miles or so. Tonight, to ensure your comfort in Ivangorod, a house has been made available for you. I will accompany you to your accommodation. And, for your convenience and protection, I have assigned an officer. He will visit you tomorrow morning, bringing first-class rail tickets for both of you. He will also travel with you on your train journey, to prevent any unexpected accidents. So you can put your minds at rest. By tomorrow afternoon, you will be aboard your ship.”
The horse-drawn carriage that waits for us on the quayside is a simple affair, almost a country cart. The driver tugs the reins, and the horse plods along through the streets of the town. We’re a long way from the front line here, but I notice a large group of soldiers in the town square, rows of shiny buttons on their uniforms. They’re sitting at trestle tables, eating. Behind them is a long, low building. Bukin explains. “One of Russia’s many new hospitals. Most patients are war casualties. Those men are convalescents; they will soon be returning to service on the battlefield.”
Our carriage trundles on into narrower streets, then an area of wooden dwellings. After half an hour, fields and patches of woodland appear. I whisper to the professor.
“Where are they taking us? We seem to be going out into the countryside. Surely there must be a hotel in Ivangorod.”
“Miss Agnes, they do things differently in Russia. We are no doubt being taken to some grand country house, so that we can be accommodated in style. I think Mr Bukin merely intends to show us Russian hospitality. But the business of our steamer and the tide – that is odd, very odd.”
The carriage stops at a cleared area in a dense pine forest. In the clearing is a single-storey cottage, made of rough wooden planks. But it’s a delightful place, surrounded by a colorful vegetable garden. We step past pumpkins and zucchini to the door of the house, where a young man greets us with a broad smile. Bukin introduces him, and bids us enter the house.