Murder and Revolution

by Evelyn Weiss

  Of course, that fusspot Bukin told me not to say anything. He even told one of the servant girls to say that she had found the body, not me. I remember the look of panic in his face when he heard that some insane butterfly collector from England had arrived and was waiting up near the main Dacha. ‘I’ll go up and meet the Englishman, and make sure he finds out nothing’ Bukin said.”

  I think back to what Lord Buttermere said about his arrival at Tri Tsarevny, and the ‘some kind of butler’ who met him. But Professor Axelson is peering through the carriage window

  “Is that Mr Bukin at the office door? He’s coming back to the carriage.”

  Yuri glances towards the office. “There’s just time to finish my story. You’ll have guessed by now that Bukin and his Okhrana taskmasters don’t care about finding the murderer. They want to sweep it all under the carpet.”

  Axelson nods. “Yes. I had that impression too.”

  “It’s more than an impression: it’s totally definite. I overheard Bukin say to the police detectives ‘Close the file. Put out a public statement that unknown revolutionaries killed Miss Håkansson.’” Yuri shakes his head wearily. “I’m a loyal man – I do what I’m told. So I can’t investigate this myself. But someone must get justice for Miss Håkansson… then, you two arrive in Russia, to look into the case.”

  “But now, we are returning to Sweden.”

  “I know. But Professor, you are reporting to King Gustaf himself, aren’t you? Show him that piece of paper – the Tsarina’s list. One name on that list must be the killer.”

  “Yes – I had concluded that too.”

  “Get King Gustaf to write to the Tsarina, to say he has new evidence, and the case should be reopened. A fresh police enquiry –”

  Bukin’s face appears at the door of our carriage. He looks at Yuri, but I don’t think he overheard us. I say innocently “Captain Sirko was just telling us about Astrakhan.”

  “Ah yes… the beautiful city on the Volga River, where it flows into the Caspian Sea – and, home of the famous Astrakhan wool! Do you know why the wool is so expensive, Miss Frocester?”

  The professor interjects. “Our ship, Mr Bukin…”

  “I will first respond briefly to Miss Frocester’s interest in astrakhan wool – so desirable, so fashionable! Its high price reflects the effort of obtaining it. It is the wool of an unborn lamb in the ewe’s womb. The mother is killed and cut open –”

  Yuri interrupts. “Not every citizen of Astrakhan spends his time slaughtering sheep for a living, Mr Bukin. I think our visitors are more keen to hear about their travel arrangements.”

  “Of course, of course! Miss Frocester, Professor Axelson – there has been a change of plan. An improvement.”

  “The best improvement, Mr Bukin, would be for myself and Miss Agnes to be aboard a Swedish ship, within the hour.”

  “Ah. Your steamer – it has already sailed, I’m afraid. But in any event, given the news I have for you, you would wish to stay on in St Petersburg.”

  The professor stares at Bukin with angry disbelief in his eyes. But I’m not surprised at this turn of events. I had a feeling, like something under my skin, that this would happen.

  Bukin carries on. “Professor Axelson, you are highly honored. Our esteemed Mr Rasputin has heard that you are in Russia. He knows of your marvellous talents as a mesmerist, Professor. He is even aware of your Hypnotic-Forensic Method, and how it guarantees that the hypnotized person must tell the truth.”

  “Not necessarily. We must be clear about the limits of my technique, Mr Bukin. My method can only ensure the truth if the hypnotized patient is willing to fully enter a hypnotic state.”

  “Indeed – we appreciate that, Professor. Now, I must tell you a little about Grigor Rasputin. He is a kind of living saint: his mind communes with God. A heavy burden for a man to bear.

  But in recent weeks there have been wicked rumors that connect him with Miss Håkansson’s death. That has added to the strain on Rasputin’s mind. He wants the truth to be told: that he had nothing to do with the murder.

  In short, Professor, I have a proposition from Rasputin. He generously proposes to pay for you to stay in one of St Petersburg’s finest hotels, so that you may meet him tomorrow. Mr Rasputin has requested that you hypnotize him.”

  7 At the Neva Bath House

  The ‘finest hotel’ isn’t very nice. After Mr Bukin took his leave of us, I lay exhausted on the bed in my room, but I couldn’t ignore the rattling, scuttling sounds from behind the skirting-boards. Rats. So I went down to the reception desk and asked to be moved to another room, but the blank-eyed concierge simply shrugged. “Miss, you may not know that this entire city was built on the orders of Tsar Peter the Great, by an army of slaves. Thousands died, and their graves are under every building. What you hear is not rats; it is ghosts.”

  I had no idea how to respond to that, so I gave up, went back to my room, and slept surprisingly well for twelve hours. This morning, I couldn’t face the hotel’s breakfast, but round the corner I found a nice Jewish bakery. Munching on a bagel reminded me of my visits to New York. Then I saw a sign opposite the bakery: “English Shop”. Inside, it was like a draper’s store in London. I felt as if I was in some sort of sanctuary. I spent an hour there, and bought new clothes, imagining myself travelling back to Sweden in them. And now, I can post the other clothes back to the Sepp family.

  I’ve washed and changed, hoping to feel fresher. But the bathroom of my room is grimy, and dark blooms of mold cover the ceiling and walls. Even the water seems gritty. I go back to the hotel’s reading room, a wood-panelled cavern, murky with cigarette smoke. It’s full of serious-faced middle-aged men. Some are in small groups, talking in low voices; others sit alone and stare glumly into space.

  I recognise the professor from the way he holds a large newspaper in front of his face. He folds it, sighing.

  “The foreign news in this paper is hopelessly out of date: some of these articles I read back in Stockholm, months ago. The paper tells that me that the Mexican Pancho Villa has attacked Columbus, New Mexico, which I recall happened last March.”

  “When is the meeting with Rasputin?”

  “At seven this evening. A carriage will call for me at six and take me to a place called the Neva Bath House. There will be no Mr Bukin, and no Captain Sirko, to accompany me. Mr Bukin said that security is unnecessary now we are in St Petersburg. He also advised against you attending this interview, Miss Agnes – he muttered something about ‘reputation’.”

  “Obviously, I’m coming with you.”

  It’s a warm, sultry evening. Our carriage looks more like a pony and trap; the professor and I perch on a narrow bench. Every face in the street turns to watch us pass; I feel like we’re being paraded through the streets shoulder-high, like a religious icon.

  We turn a corner into the main thoroughfare, the Nevsky Prospect. It’s a current of moving people; entering it feels like being pulled into a huge river. The Prospect is a deep channel, lined on either side with ornate stucco facades. It’s filled with a surging stream; crowds on foot, carriages and trams. Our carriage shifts along with the multitude, passing the endless colonnades of the Kazan Cathedral. But then we turn off into a side street, also full of people.

  Skeletal beggars stand everywhere like statues, each with a string round his neck holding a cardboard tray on his chest. Some trays hold a few pennies; others nothing. The headscarves of women weave their way through the beggars, going briskly about their daily business. There are boys and girls, too: they also have trays, carrying sunflower seeds, pastry triangles and pancakes for sale. All of them are shouting their wares: the professor leans to my ear to speak.

  “The pastries are called chebureki; they are a savoury snack, originally from the Crimea. The pancakes are blini: they can be savoury, or there are sweet jam and honey ones too. I’ll treat you to some, before we leave Russia.”

  “Have you visited Russia before, Professor?”

&
nbsp; “The Saint Petersburg Imperial University offered me an honorary degree in 1905, on condition that I gave some lectures for them. So I travelled here, but it was a frustrating experience. The entire university was closed, due to violent student protests against the Tsar.”

  The carriage stops beside a heavy oak doorway, flanked by two oversized statues of naked, muscular men. The door is opened for us, and a young man in an embroidered Russian waistcoat ushers us inside. I notice his closed eyes, and the professor presses a coin into his hand. I see a little basket at the man’s feet, labelled “I am a brave defender of Mother Russia. I was blinded at the Battle of Masurian Lakes. I have a wife and three children.” I put all the money I can spare in the basket, and look around me.

  It’s almost like a church. Marble pillars support a high, domed cupola, and gilded scrollwork is everywhere. But the paintings that adorn the walls are not religious icons; instead, they are oil paintings in mock-classical style, and show nude people cavorting in lush countryside. Directly ahead of us a sour-faced man sits at a desk; we pay him our entrance fees. Tonelessly, he says “Mr Rasputin is unexpectedly busy. He will be exactly one hour late for the interview. Wait in the changing room.”

  The next room is low-ceilinged and lined with salt-glazed yellow tiles. In the centre of the room are wooden benches, and on the right and left-hand walls are cubicles for the bathers to change in. A woman comes out of one of them. She’s swaddled in towels, and she wears a felt hat that makes her look like an elf. She walks through a door marked “Ladies”.

  The professor whispers to me. “The hats are to protect the head from the high temperatures in the steam rooms. Fortunately, we can wait in this changing room for Rasputin, so we don’t have to go into the baths themselves. I tried a place like this once in Stockholm; the heat gave me a headache.”

  “We have an hour to wait, Professor, and we’ve paid. I’m going to try it.” I step over to a cubicle. As I undress, I say to myself “So far, Agnes, you’ve shied away from Russia. All you think about is getting away. Let’s try this: you’ll never get the chance again.”

  I pass through the door; instantly the steam room blankets me in white mist. Women’s voices are chattering and laughing. I can make out a cluster of vague pink shapes filling a large alcove, so I sit in the opposite corner, swathed in my towels and wearing the absurd hat. There’s another burst of giggling.

  “So? What would you say, Elizaveta, if the mad monk asked you?”

  “He won’t ask me. I’m too fat. He likes them young and thin.”

  “Wait until winter, when there’s no bread in the shops. You’ll get skinny enough for him then.”

  Through the steam I see the shapes of faces, turning to look towards me. “Hello! Come here, sit with us!”

  “Thank you. I’m a visitor to Russia…”

  “Every woman in here is a friend. Come, sit!” I go over, and a naked woman pats the wooden seat next to her. “Take your towel off and sit on it. The wooden bench will be too hot for your bare bottom.”

  I hesitate: then I let the towel drop onto bench, and sit on it. I’m surrounded by a circle of smiling women’s faces. They are all around thirty years old.

  “You are English?”

  “I’m American.”

  Several voices speak at once. “My sister, she lives in America!” “New York, are you from New York?”

  I explain that I’m called Agnes, and that I’m from Putnam, Connecticut, a tiny town they won’t have heard of. But they still want to know all about me, like excited children. Then one of them grabs both my hands.

  “Vodka! Agnes, you must drink vodka with us. We will drink a toast to our new friend Agnes, from Putnam, America.”

  “I’ve never tried it. I’ve drunk brandy –”

  “Ha! You will never touch brandy again, once you have tried the true spirit of Russia.”

  Through the mist, a bottle appears, and glasses. We all toast together, and I tip the glass to my lips. A fiery warmth hits the back of my throat, and I cough.

  “Come, Agnes! We are to be massaged. You come with us…” Wrapping our towels around us, we step into another room.

  It’s like a scene of ancient Rome. A rectangular pool, tiled in azure blue, is surrounded by a colonnade of pillars. In the dim spaces among the pillars, naked women lie face down on benches, while other towel-clad women massage them, or – strangest of all – beat them with twigs and dry leaves. But a bigger surprise is in store.

  Another door, labelled “Private Room” opens. A young woman appears, wearing a towel that barely covers her long legs. She’s giggling girlishly, but when she sees us, she goes silent, and avoids our gaze. Then behind her, wrapped only in a small towel like a loincloth, we see the chest and limbs of a man. He steps forward. A long, dark beard and a swirled mass of hair surround a gnarled face. His eyes glow like hot coals. I pull my towel tightly around me, and the other women do the same.

  The man struts along the other side of the colonnade, as if he owns the place. He doen’t look across to us. But he’s aware that every female eye is following him. The women’s gaze is wary and tinged with fear. Yet I sense suppressed excitement among them, like a forbidden thrill. Then the girl and the man disappear through another door. I look at the women, and they answer my unsaid question.

  “Of course, these rooms are strictly for ladies only. But that man goes wherever he likes.”

  “I’m sorry – it’s time for me to leave. But thank you for making me feel so welcome. It means a lot to me.”

  I feel like a boiled lobster: I take a cold shower before returning to my cubicle. I dress, then open the cubicle door to see the professor sitting with Rasputin, who is now wearing in a long white robe. The dark hair flows over his shoulders, and the deep-set eyes burn at me. But the professor’s voice is business-like.

  “Mr Rasputin. This is Miss Agnes Frocester, who assists me during Hypnotic-Forensic sessions. Where would you like me to conduct the hypnosis? I suggest somewhere private, where we won’t be disturbed.”

  “The staff office here is available to me, any time I wish to use it.”

  The voice is a heavy monotone, but all the time, those eyes are fixed on me. Axelson replies. “May we go to the office now?”

  Rasputin smiles slowly, as if humoring a child’s request. “Yes. I’m happy to do that.” But he waits thirty seconds before standing. His presence fills the room; his tall figure stands over the professor, and he continues to gaze at me. Then he raises his hand above the professor’s head. “Let us go, then.” For all the world he looks like a puppet-master, lifting the strings to move us, like marionettes.

  Rasputin leads us back into the foyer, then into a small side chamber. After the splendor of the public areas, this room is cramped and dingy. The only furniture is a desk, a chair and a bench. We sit, and Rasputin suddenly begins to talk. His voice sounds loud in the tiny space.

  “Your Swedish newspapers. They are full of lies about me. They insinuate that I am a murderer.”

  “Only one thing can combat lies, Mr Rasputin: the truth. I am here to find the truth about what happened to Miss Håkansson.”

  “But it is wrong to slander an innocent man. I am the most innocent man to walk this earth since the Bible was written. But then, all the Prophets were slandered, and John the Baptist, and Jesus himself. Every hand was raised against the Savior, but he was innocent of sin. If you hypnotize me, then you can go back to Sweden, and tell everyone what I tell you – the absolute truth. I am innocent of that woman’s blood.”

  “Do you think you are innocent of all sin, Mr Rasputin?”

  “No-one is free of all sin. You know that, don’t you, Miss Frocester?”

  He raises one eyebrow at me. I can tell: he recognises me. Somehow, he noticed me in the massage room. But then he looks away, as if I am of no interest to him, and holds Axelson in his gaze.

  “Professor, there are many kinds of sin. Pride is the worst sin of all. The Tsarina is the great mothe
r of Mother Russia – but she is a humble woman. Yet the fine ladies of St Petersburg – pride riddles them. They pretend they are virtuous and pure. I liberate women from their pride.”

  The professor looks quizzically at the monk, who carries on. “When I touch a woman, she cannot resist the urges of the flesh. Her body sins with burning lust for me. But her soul is humbled, and redeemed.”

  Rasputin has been speaking only to the professor, but he shoots another glance at me, as if suddenly remembering I’m here. This time his staring eyes are deathly cold; I almost shiver. “It’s all just an act” I say to myself, and try to return his gaze. The professor, though, asks an odd question.

  “Have you used the ladies’ bathing pool here at Neva Bath House?”

  “I use whatever I like. Nowhere, nothing and no-one is forbidden to me. I have true freedom. Whereas you, Professor Axelson, are not free, not at all. You are held in Russia against your will. You dream every night of escape, of a ship to take you back to your beloved Sweden.”

  Rasputin fixes the professor in an unblinking stare. One of the rumors I heard is that he can dilate his pupils at will: I look into his eyes to see if it will happen. Moments pass in a strange, suspended silence. I watch the two men. I’m not sure who is the hypnotist, who the hypnotized.

  After a few minutes, Axelson speaks, his voice slow and measured. “So, you have used the bathing pool. What do you see, when you are in the pool?”

  “Women. Among the pillars, all around the walls of the room.”

  “Are you swimming, or just standing in the water?”

  “I’m swimming. Swimming is better.”

  “Swimming is better, yes. Could there be any true son of Russia who cannot swim? Russia is a land of rivers.”

  Rasputin is nodding, as if in time to the cadences of the professor’s voice.

  “Your own name: Ras-putin. It means the place where two rivers meet; where waters mingle. But tell me, Rasputin, about the water in the ladies’ pool, here at the Neva Bath House. How does it feel on your skin?”