Death in St. Petersburg

by Tasha Alexander

  Not wanting to wake him, I slipped out of the bedroom and silently closed the door. I took a long bath, dressed slowly, and read a hundred pages of War and Peace before heading downstairs. St. Petersburg was not a city for early risers. The sun would not come up until nearly ten o’clock and would set by a little after four. The dining room, ordinarily lively, was still half-empty, but my fellow guests were buzzing. The story of the mysterious apparition across from the Yusupov Palace had spread overnight, and it was all anyone was talking about. A German lady, to whom I had never been introduced, came to my table, apologizing for her lack of decorum.

  “I cannot resist,” she said. “I am told you were at the ball. Did you see the ghost?”

  “I did see it, but can assure you it was not a ghost. It was a living and breathing dancer,” I said.

  “Why on earth would any ballerina risk her health by appearing so scantily clad in the dead of winter? I’m telling you, it had to be a ghost. Everyone is in agreement.”

  I shook my head. “A ghost who left behind a scarf?”

  “Did you see the scarf?” she asked. “I’ve heard it was wrapped around her neck like a bloody gash. Just where Nemetseva received her deadly wound.”

  “I did see it, but it was not around her neck. She was holding it above her.”

  “That’s not what I heard. Are you certain?”

  “Quite certain.” A waiter appeared with my scrambled eggs and caviar.

  “I was told there were bloodstains on the scarf.”

  “There were not.”

  The truth held no interest for this woman. She returned to her table. I overheard her saying that I must have been extremely frightened by the event, as I had not noticed even the most obvious details. People will always find a way to justify the things they want to believe, and a ghost is far more alluring than an actual person.

  I had sent word to Cécile to expect me, and she was ready when I collected her in a troika. The clouds visible overnight had disappeared the moment the snow had stopped, and the sun, more silver than gold in the brilliant blue sky, was blinding. Snow in Petersburg was nothing like its counterpart in England, where it fell heavy and wet. Here, it was light and dry, dry enough to make practical the thick felt boots worn by the working class in the city. We climbed out from under our fur blankets when we reached the Mariinsky, the snow creaking beneath our own, insufficiently warm, leather boots.

  Inside, we headed straight for Madame Zhdanova’s realm. Bent over a swath of bright red satin onto which she was sewing small, glittering beads, she hardly looked up when we entered.

  “Give me one moment, mesdames,” she said. With deft hands, she fixed a handful of beads into place and then cut through the thread with a pair of tiny scissors. “I am surprised to see you again. I do not suppose either of you is in need of a tutu. What do you seek from me?”

  “Information,” I said. “Last night, a ballerina appeared on the embankment across from the Yusupov Palace—”

  “I have already heard the story.”

  “She was wearing a costume very like those worn by the dancers in Swan Lake. Are any of them missing?”

  “It is unlikely,” she said. “But I am happy to check for you. Follow me.” She led us to a corridor near the dressing rooms, where a long row of swan tutus hung from a metal bar, and started to count. She paused once, about a third of the way down the line, before going back to the beginning and starting again. This time, she made it nearly to the end before stopping and pulling out an empty hanger. She pushed apart the hangers on either side, and one slightly crumpled garment fell to the ground. She picked it up, laid it over her arm, and went back to counting. “They are all here.”

  “Is there something unusual about that one?” I asked, indicating the one she was holding.

  She shook it out, put it back on its hanger, and held it at arm’s length to better inspect it. “It is a bit smashed, but that may be from falling off its hanger. However…” She flipped up the tulle skirt and looked closely at each of its layers before turning her attention to the silk bodice. “Some of the feathers have been torn away as well, but that is not unusual.”

  “Could someone have taken it outside?” Cécile asked.

  “We account for every costume at the finish of each performance and inspect each to see what needs repairs or cleaning. We have not done Swan Lake again since Nemetseva’s death. It is possible that in the commotion we were not as thorough as usual.”

  “If these costumes haven’t been used since then, would it be possible for someone to have slipped a tutu from the rack and borrowed it for an unauthorized purpose?“I asked.

  “It is not beyond the scope of possibility,” she said. “Though I do not like the thought of it.”

  “Can you tell me which dancer wears the tutu that had fallen off the hanger?”

  “It was Ekaterina Petrovna’s. She wore it in the corps before she stepped in to replace Nemetseva.”

  “What did she wear then?” Cécile asked.

  “Odile’s tutu is brighter, as you see.” She pulled from the rack a brilliantly colored piece, all luminescent blues, greens, and gold. “For the final act, the dancer wears the one she did in the second act, but we did not have Odette’s tutu, as Nemetseva was wearing it when—” She stopped. “Forgive me. You must leave me to my work. I’ve a great deal to do.”

  On our way out of the theatre, we saw Yuri Melnikov, Nemetseva’s partner, leaning against a wall in the corridor, a look of perfect ennui on his face.

  “I should like very much to have a word with him,” Cécile said.

  “You suspect him of something?” I asked. “I found him perfectly useless when we interviewed him.”

  “Non, chérie, it is not that. He is quite alluring, non? Getting to know him better could prove most fascinating.”

  “Despite his inadequate age?” I asked. She had always insisted that no man below forty could be interesting.

  “A dancer, chérie, is a different beast altogether. He is more than just a man.”

  Ekaterina Petrovna

  August 1897

  Irusya teased Katenka mercilessly after Mitya kissed her. Katenka didn’t mind; if anything, she liked it, because it confirmed that she hadn’t dreamed the entire thing. The next morning, Mitya sent her a note, saying he had some business to attend to but that he would return in a week to be in the audience for the company’s production of Sleeping Beauty.

  The theatre at Krasnoye Selo was not so large as that at the Mariinsky, which meant each ballet had to be pared down. The sets were less elaborate, and the stage held fewer dancers. Given her lack of seniority, Katenka feared she might not be chosen among those in the corps for the performance, but in this matter her worries were for naught. Again she was placed in the front row. Irusya was the Diamond Fairy in the first act and Little Red Riding Hood in the third.

  * * *

  After the ballet ended, Lev and Mitya met the girls backstage. Lev was carrying a large bunch of wildflowers for Irusya, and Mitya handed Katenka a beautifully illustrated volume called The Blue Fairy Book.

  “I know you have not studied English, but this is an excellent selection of stories retold by a Scottish poet, Andrew Lang. It includes a version of The Sleeping Beauty. Someday, I hope, you will be able to read it.”

  Irusya whacked Mitya on the arm. “As if she needs more work! Study English when we’ve so much new choreography to learn? You are the least romantic man I have ever met.”

  “Irusya is wrong. It is the most romantic gift in the history of romantic gifts.” Katenka’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Thank you.”

  Back in their dressing room, Katenka chided Irusya for taking too long to change out of her costume. “It’s as if you’re getting ready for a ball,” she said. “We are only going for a walk. There’s no need to cover yourself with jewels.”

  “Wearing a single bracelet hardly constitutes covering oneself with jewels,” Irusya replied as she clasped around her slim wris
t a delicate bracelet made from rubies and gold fashioned to look like flowers.

  “I have not seen you wear this before,” Katenka said, examining it when Irusya held her arm out to her. “It is exquisite. Is it new?”

  “It is just a trifle,” she said. “A gift from the count.”

  “Anatole Emsky?” Katenka asked.

  “Yes, he wanted something to mark my debut in Sleeping Beauty and gave it to me last night when he saw me in the park. He told me he expects I will be dancing the Lilac Fairy in the autumn and that it won’t be much longer till I am Aurora. How I long to dance the Rose Adagio!”

  “What does Lev think of his attentions?”

  “Why should he mind? He knows that all dancers have their admirers and wouldn’t want me to turn down such a lovely gift. It doesn’t signify anything.”

  Katenka felt her lips press into a firm line. Gifts always came at a price. Sometimes a price not worth paying.

  St. Petersburg,

  January 1900

  11

  I was due to meet Prince Vasilii at the Literaturnoye Café at two o’clock and brought Cécile with me. We arrived early, which gave us time for a satisfying luncheon before our appointment. Sebastian had been at it again. The patrons of the café were buzzing about the theft of a silver tea set taken from one of the grand duchesses. The burglar had left in its place a scathing note criticizing her inability to pour from the pot without spilling. Vasilii arrived precisely on time, his spotless uniform and perfect posture beyond reproach. But although every detail of his appearance was correct, his eyes had no luster, and his complexion was sallow. He looked as if he had not slept in days and ordered a bottle of vodka almost before he had sat down. Concerned, I inquired as to his health.

  “I am finding that burying one’s feelings takes a not insignificant toll,” he said, his baritone husky. “I ought never to have hidden my relationship with Irusya. I should have married her. Would the scandal of allying myself with a dancer have destroyed my family? I would not wish this crushing feeling of regret on anyone. Please tell me: Are you closer to finding the wretch responsible for all this?”

  “I am doing all that I can,” I said. “Are you acquainted with Agrippina Aleksandrovna?”

  He smiled. “I have heard many stories about her but have not been fortunate enough to meet her. My Irusya relied on her for so many things and even braved the cold to wave to the old woman from the stage door during performance intervals. I wish I could call on her and thank her for all she did.”

  “Why can’t you?” Cécile asked. “I do not mean to sound harsh, Prince Vasilii, but what do you stand to lose now, if one old woman learns of your affair?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “My misplaced pride has all but destroyed my life, yet I continue to cling to it. Why? Because to stop now would be to admit my catastrophic mistake. It is too late now to make any difference, so I shall go on as I began.”

  “Don’t be morose, young man.” Cécile frowned. “I cannot stand such dramatics from anyone of your age. You cannot be much above thirty, if you are even that, which means your life has barely begun. Although you cannot fathom it now, someday this will all be in the ancient past, a bittersweet memory that adds a layer of depth to your character.”

  “You must despise me,” he said.

  “No,” Cécile said, “but I shall be glad to meet you again when you have recovered from this blow.”

  “As shall I.” He smiled, but the sadness did not fade from his eyes. “In the meantime, I’ve been meaning to ask you, Lady Emily, about this ghostly ballerina the entire city is talking about. Who is she and what can she possibly mean to accomplish?”

  “These are questions not easily answered,” I said. “It may be that she is a friend of Nemetseva’s who is mourning her loss and has chosen to use her artistic talents to facilitate her grieving process. Or it could be someone who wants to draw more public attention to the case.”

  “You don’t think she was issuing a warning of sorts?” the prince asked. “To the murderer, perhaps, to let him know that his crime will never be forgot, that it will haunt him forever.”

  “Vasilii, I’d never have suspected you to be susceptible to such romantic rot.” Colin appeared at our table and motioned for the waiter to bring another chair. He kissed Cécile on both cheeks and squeezed my hand. “Promise me that you won’t try to convince my wife the dancer is an actual ghost.”

  “You should know better than to suggest such a thing is possible,” I said. “It’s a lovely surprise to see you.”

  “Have some vodka, Hargreaves,” the prince said, filling a glass for him. “You know we Russians never allow an opened bottle to be left unfinished.”

  “Thank you,” he said, taking the glass and draining it in a single gulp. Vasilii refilled it immediately and then did the same to his own. “I find myself with a few hours to spare and knew I could find you here. I’ve news. A man has confessed to murdering Anna Salko.”

  “The Yusupovs’ maid who was killed during their party?” Vasilii asked.

  “Yes,” Colin said. “The newspapers will report in their next editions. He is a known revolutionary, connected to the League of Struggle for the Emancipation of the Working Class. Went to the Peter and Paul Fortress under his own volition and asked to speak to the warden before giving him every detail of the crime.”

  “I have no doubt his colleagues will find a way to make the poor girl’s death somehow shore up support for their organization,” the prince said. “They’re experts at manipulation.”

  “They have every right to be unhappy with the situation workers face in Russia, but I do not agree with their methods for trying to change it,” Colin said.

  “The guillotine was far quicker,” Cécile said.

  “And more barbaric.” Colin poured more vodka for him and the prince. “One group within the league purports to be seeking—at least initially—nonviolent solutions to what they view as the problems facing the Russian people. I suspect this man belongs to another faction.”

  “I’ll never believe any of them would shy away from violence,” Vasilii said. “None of these groups is above reproach, whatever they might want the public to believe. But we ought not subject the ladies to such discussion.”

  “I should like to return to our previous topic,” I said. I pulled the Fabergé card case from my reticule and passed it and the note that accompanied it to the prince. “Have you seen this before?”

  “No,” he said, holding it gently in his palm and then opening it. “I have seen many such things, but not this one specifically. But this note—it is my Irusya’s handwriting. It is as familiar to me as my own.” For an instant, the golden flecks in his hazel eyes glowed, but then his hand started to shake and tears pooled, ready to fall. “We must do everything possible to stop this man, Lady Emily. He cannot kill again.”

  “I plan to go to Fabergé as soon as we are finished here to determine who purchased the case,” I said. “That may give us the lead we’ve long needed.”

  “Forgive me if I sounded fierce, Lady Emily,” the prince said. “It is maddening to know that this villain is still wandering the streets of Petersburg. I let my emotion get the best of me.”

  “There is no need to apologize,” Cécile said. “Kallista is never put off by fierceness in any context. I do, however, have a suggestion to make. Now that you have joined us, Monsieur Hargreaves, perhaps you could go to Fabergé with Kallista instead of me. I cannot face another round of grueling interrogation and propose that I stay here with the prince. Champagne might rescue his spirits.”

  Colin raised his eyebrows. “Grueling interrogation? I hardly think that will be required in Fabergé. Nonetheless, I will happily take your place on the expedition.”

  “I knew you would, my good man. You are the finest gentleman I have ever met, incapable of ever letting down a lady. I can think of no greater pleasure than knowing I can wholly rely upon you.”

  “I thank you for the compli
ment,” Colin said, “but remind you that you need not flatter me. My devotion to you shall never falter.”

  Vasilii drained what little vodka remained in the bottle. Despite the quantity they had ingested, neither her nor Colin exhibited the slightest sign of intoxication. Still, Colin fortified himself with a large cup of coffee before we bid farewell to Cécile and the prince and set off for the House of Fabergé. It was located on Bolshaya Morskaya, a short walk from the café, so we saw no sense in hailing a troika. The snow had started falling again, more heavily than ever. The city looked magical, feathery flakes blanketing everything with a fresh, white coat. It was past four o’clock, so the sun had already disappeared below the horizon, making it feel much later than it actually was. Shop windows glowed golden, and snow danced against the illumination of flickering streetlights.

  Peter Carl Fabergé had grown up in the center of St. Petersburg, and his sense of the aesthetic must have been molded by the beauty of its neoclassical architecture. His work, wildly popular with the wealthy nobility in his native Russia, made up most, if not all, of the imperial gifts given by the Romanovs. It was coveted by royalty all over the world. The king of Siam was an avid collector, as was our own princess of Wales, who had received numerous Fabergé pieces from her sister, Empress Alexandra Feodorovna. Whispered rumors claimed Monsieur Fabergé preferred the dowager empress Maria Feodorovna to her daughter-in-law Alexandra, but that did not stop him from providing the latter with some of his most exquisite pieces, many ordered by her husband. Apparently, once, after having made his annual request for an imperial Easter egg for his wife, the tsar inquired as to the subject chosen for the piece. Fabergé responded by saying, “Your Majesty will be content.”

  Rows of glass vitrines displayed a colorful range of objects inside Fabergé’s shop: picture frames, parasol handles, table clocks, cigarette cases, writing utensils, small egg pendants, boxes, bracelets, cuff links, bookmarks, and some of the most exquisite fans I have ever seen. The colors of the enamels, ranging from deep blues to soft pastels, and the skillful manner in which Fabergé’s artisans employed the guilloche technique created objects that seemed to glow from within.