by Tom Bradby
“His wife never wanted us.”
“Is she alive?”
“Yes.”
“Will you go to see her?”
“No.”
“Where is your sister now?”
“In a sanatorium.”
“What happened to her?”
There was a long pause. “I don’t know,” Maria said. “I don’t know.”
Maria closed her eyes. He recognized the cold, brittle place within her all too well.
In the darkness, he could feel his love growing and deepening. He reached over and held her to him. For a moment, her fingers dug into his shoulders as she hugged him and then she let go.
“Did your-”
“Sandro. I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” she said. “Tell me about Petrovo. Tell me about the house there.”
“Why do you want to know about that?”
“Dmitri won’t talk about it. And yet it’s such an important part of you both.”
Ruzsky contemplated her request in silence. It was many years since he had consciously thought about Petrovo, and yet it was so intimately enmeshed in the fabric of his existence that he didn’t need to. The house, its atmosphere, its history-he carried it with him all the days of his life. “What do you want to know?”
“Paint me a picture.”
Ruzsky was silent again. What harm could it do, just to describe the house?
“It’s tall,” he said, “with a series of ornate pillars along its facade, but not too grand. Inside, it was a family home, with fireplaces as big as my father, and rugs, military portraits, and souvenirs gathered by the Ruzskys over the years, from campaigns in the Caucasus, the Far East, and Europe. There were sabers and lances and primitive, rusting muskets, and banners and giant silver plates. There was a shaded veranda all the way along the front of the house where we used to spend the summer evenings…”
Ruzsky stopped.
“Go on.”
“I-”
“Please go on, Sandro…”
Ruzsky twisted away from her. Recalling long-suppressed memories made him feel as vulnerable as he had as a child. “In the summer, my mother would sing. She had a lovely voice and we would join in, even my father; the sound carried across the valley. Sometimes, my father would go into the drawing room and play the piano. I would sit with my feet over the edge of the balcony, my toes brushing the top of the thick lilac bushes that surrounded the house.”
Ruzsky was silent for a minute, perhaps more.
“One year, when our time there usually came to an end, Father and Mother said we wouldn’t be returning to the house on Millionnaya Street until the end of the following summer. A whole year at Petrovo. I was about twelve, and for us boys, it brought unexpected joy. No school. Father hired a tutor, but it was still a magical time. Every day, after lunch, we would go out and play in the woods, in the snow. We made camps, staged battles, played on the ice, all the things that young boys do.”
Ruzsky ground to a halt. He had a vivid memory of them all skating on the lake, their breath billowing in the chill air as they chased each other around the island in the middle.
He could recall the sound of their laughter and the swish of the blades cutting across the ice.
“It’s as far as Dmitri gets.”
“What is?” Ruzsky asked.
“His story always stops in the same place. When Ilusha was still alive.”
Ruzsky closed his eyes. She caressed his brow and then placed a soft hand against his cheek. “It’s all right, Sandro,” she whispered. Then, “We should go back…”
“Go back where?”
“The house is one day’s ride from Mtsensk, isn’t that so? On the way to Yalta.”
Ruzsky swung his legs over the edge of the bunk, and sat there with his back to her.
“You cannot run away from it forever, Sandro.”
“I’m not running away from anything.”
“You both are.”
“And you’re the expert on the pair of us.”
Ruzsky immediately regretted the sharpness in his voice.
“I’ll come with you,” she said.
“Why?”
“I told you.” Maria raised herself onto one elbow. “Because you need to go. And because I want to escape from the world. Just for a moment. It’s all changing, Sandro…” Maria lay back down. “You asked me why I’m going to Yalta. I want to see my sister. I want to make sure that she will be cared for, no matter what happens to me, or to Russia. But first, I want to escape.”
As he returned to the second-class section of the train, Ruzsky pulled the door shut and heard it being locked behind him. A soldier slouched in the corridor, his back to him, smoking a cigarette. As Ruzsky squeezed past, he saw that it was one of the men who had been in their compartment earlier. He hesitated for a moment, but the man quickly averted his eyes.
It took him a further twenty minutes to pick his way through the sleeping bodies that now lined the corridor. When he reached his own compartment, the blinds had been drawn against the moonlight.
Ruzsky waited for a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He saw that one of the top bunks was empty and he put a foot on the ladder and swung himself up onto it.
He lay still. One of the men was snoring. He didn’t think it was Pavel.
Ruzsky turned on his side and tried to make out the shape of his friend.
“Where in hell have you been?” Pavel asked.
“I’m sorry.”
“These men haven’t seen a woman for months. I’ve been lucky to escape with my virtue intact.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
Pavel grunted. “Some friend you are. After the revolution, I’m not sharing a cell with you.”
“Even revolutionaries need policemen, Pavel. You should remember that.”
Pavel grunted again.
“Are they asleep?” Ruzsky asked.
“You can hear them.”
“I think they’re still watching us.”
“Here on the train?”
“Yes.” Ruzsky turned over. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
Ruzsky awoke late. By his watch, it was almost ten and there was no sign of Pavel in the compartment. His bunk had been folded away.
Only two of the soldiers were still there, smoking in silence with their legs resting on the seats. They didn’t acknowledge him.
Ruzsky swung around and stared out of the window. It was a poor day, snow driving across the wooded landscape reducing visibility to no more than twenty feet.
He rolled off his bed and landed with a thump by the door. He adjusted his coat, making a point of trying to establish eye contact with the soldiers. They both avoided it.
Ruzsky found Pavel at the far end of the carriage, looking out at the snow. There were fewer soldiers here now, so they had room to stand and converse in relative privacy.
“You should have woken me,” Ruzsky said.
“So that you could join me staring out of the window?”
Ruzsky pulled out his silver cigarette case. Pavel declined. Ruzsky took one and lit up.
“So, where did you get to?” Pavel asked.
Ruzsky sucked deeply on his cigarette, then blew the smoke against the glass. “Nothing interesting.”
“That’s for me to judge.”
“I saw someone getting onto the train,” Ruzsky said.
“Or knew she was going to be on it.”
Ruzsky raised an eyebrow.
“I could get quite insulted sometimes, by you treating me like a simpleton.”
Ruzsky looked at his friend apologetically. “Do you mind if I don’t tell you? Not yet, anyway?”
“I had a feeling this trip wasn’t entirely straightforward.”
“We’re going to Yalta because we need to.”
“A happy coincidence, then?”
Ruzsky didn’t answer. “There are two of them in our compartment.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Last night, I
went right to the other end of the train and one of these goons followed me all the way. They’re not soldiers.”
Pavel’s eyes narrowed. “What did he think you were going to do, jump off the train?”
“Seriously.”
“They’re following us all the way to Yalta?”
“That’s what it’s beginning to look like.”
Pavel turned back to the window. “What do you want to do?”
“Nothing. I’m just telling you.”
Pavel glanced down the corridor. A group of soldiers was sitting on the floor, playing cards.
“I have a favor to ask you,” Ruzsky said quietly. “Beyond Moscow.”
“What is it?”
“My family home. Petrovo. It’s on the way-more or less.”
“I thought this was a murder investigation.” Pavel’s tone was not amused.
“It will take a day, that’s all.”
“Why now?”
Pavel looked at him and Ruzsky could see in his eyes that he knew the answer, just as Maria had understood his state of mind better than he had himself. Everyone was experiencing the unsettling effect of the winds of change. “I was thinking about Ella last night,” Pavel said.
Ruzsky didn’t reply.
“She didn’t deserve to die like that.”
“No one does.”
“You saw the grief in her mother’s face.”
“That’s why we’re going to Yalta.”
“Some of us in our own time.”
Ruzsky frowned.
“Who’s to say who will be next?” Pavel asked. “The man at the Lion Bridge… Are we any closer to understanding why these three people have been killed?”
Ruzsky looked away. He wrestled with himself as he recalled the image of Ella’s body on the slab in Sarlov’s laboratory. Pavel was right, but he knew it would not dissuade him.
“You can be very stubborn, Sandro.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t really need to apologize. It’s a virtue as well as a vice.”
“I’ll be a day behind you. Two at most.”
“I’ll come with you. I’d like-”
“No.” Ruzsky looked at his partner. “I need to go alone.”
Pavel was hurt. “How long will you really be?”
Ruzsky leaned back against the window. “It takes twenty-four hours in a troika, but I can make it in twelve with a good horse. I’ll be two days behind you, at the outside.”
Pavel’s expression softened. He placed a big hand on Ruzsky’s shoulder. “I understand. But be quick.”
“Will you be all right?”
“I’ll be fine. But I’m worried about you. What if there are bandits or deserters? You’re too weak to defend yourself without me.”
Ruzsky smiled. “I’ll just stay out of trouble.”
27
T he train pulled into Mtsensk just before dawn. Ruzsky lay on his bunk, not moving, listening to the hiss of steam and the subdued voices on the platform.
He checked his watch. It was just before six.
The blinds in their compartment had been drawn, but the station lights penetrated the interior sufficiently to allow Ruzsky to see Pavel’s face. The big detective was staring at him.
Ruzsky looked at his watch again. Most station halts lasted ten minutes. Rarely more, never less. They had been standing here for two, so far.
There was a shout from farther down the platform. Ruzsky wondered if Maria would change her mind.
He glanced at his watch once more, then turned, nodded at Pavel, and swung off the bunk. As he emerged into the corridor, Pavel was half a step behind him, as they’d agreed. Ruzsky walked into the toilet, looked back, and saw his partner leaning against the door to prevent anyone leaving. Pavel nodded at him once more.
Ruzsky closed the door and looked at himself in the mirror. Now that he had committed himself, he had second thoughts. He splashed water onto his face.
The soldiers had been swapped in Moscow and this group appeared to be less vigilant. Pavel was convinced they were from the Moscow Okhrana; Ruzsky thought they were a replacement team from Petersburg. Either way, they must have been told that the two of them were bound for the Crimea, and they appeared to be fast asleep.
Ruzsky heard the conductor’s low whistle and he opened the door of the toilet. Pavel was still there and he shrugged as Ruzsky turned the corner. He opened the door, stepped down onto the snow-covered platform, and then shut it again as quietly as he could. He walked swiftly through the drifting snow toward a darkened side entrance to the station.
As soon as he was out of sight, Ruzsky looked back. The train was pulling away and there was no sign of anyone scrambling to get off.
Once it had gone, he stepped out into the dim light. He watched the stationmaster disappearing back into the warmth, leaving the platform deserted. Ruzsky went to the waiting room, then the station entrance, but could see no sign of her. He returned to the center of the platform, glancing one way, then the other. He turned to face the drifting snow, letting it gather on his face.
She had changed her mind and the disappointment was crushing.
Ruzsky glanced around him once more. There was little doubt that he was the only passenger who had disembarked.
The stationmaster caught sight of him through the window. He replaced his hat and came back out into the cold.
“You got off the express?” the man asked. He was assessing Ruzsky carefully, trying to marry his demeanor, which would clearly indicate noble birth, with his tatty overcoat and boots, which did not.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you. Are you expecting someone, because there is no one here.”
“I’ll need a good horse.”
“You’re with the lady?”
Ruzsky turned around and saw her emerging from the shadows at the far end of the platform, carrying a single suitcase and shrouded in the swirling snow.
It was two hours before the horses arrived, but when they did, Ruzsky acknowledged that the stationmaster had been right; they were worth the wait.
The road was passable until they reached the start of the pinewoods about fifteen versts from the station. Here, they led their horses through a thick snowdrift as the sun peeked above the horizon amidst the tall, thin pine trees. It was no longer snowing, and the sky was now clear. Their breath hung on the still morning air.
Beyond the snowdrift, the road down to the river was clearer again and they cantered toward it. “It’s hard to believe,” Ruzsky shouted as he led his horse through what was now little more than a stream, “but this is sometimes difficult to pass in summer.”
Ruzsky recalled hanging off the back of the troika, by their luggage, alongside his brothers.
“I can believe it,” she said. Maria took off her hat and shook out her hair. She was smiling, her cheeks flushed. “You look as if you were born in the saddle. I thought you were a city boy.”
“I learned in these woods. Our stable boy taught us all bareback. At one point I wanted to run away and join the circus.”
The road on the far side of the river was steep and winding, but at the top there was a long stretch across some high ground, between peasant fields. Up here, the wind had blown the deep snow off the road and Ruzsky and Maria let the horses go, icy air cutting through their coats and whipping their cheeks, snow flying up into their eyes and mouths. The freedom was exhilarating, and by the time they reached the end they were both out of breath.
“There is an inn not far from here,” Ruzsky said. “We can stop for breakfast.”
“Let’s press on. The horses are fit. We can stop later.”
Ruzsky turned his mare so that they were alongside each other, then, without warning, and without letting go of his own reins, he jumped horses, landing behind her. Her mare started briefly, but Ruzsky had performed the maneuver so expertly that the shock was minimal. He curled one arm around Maria’s waist, his face against her neck, her hair against hi
s cheek.
Maria laughed and leaned back against him.
Ruzsky wedged the reins beneath his knee and used his free hand to brush aside her hair so that he could kiss her. She reached back and laced her fingers in his.
They were moving with the rhythm of the mare’s progress, both at ease in the saddle. The rising sun was a bright orange disk that shimmered through the narrow pines.
Ruzsky listened to the steady thump of the horses hooves in the snow. He began to hum quietly.
“What is it?” she asked him.
“I’ve no idea. Mother used to sing it to us.”
Maria listened to him. He could see that she was smiling.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“Not funny, joyful. Memories.”
“Of what?”
She sighed. “Of our summers. Of the azure blue sea and skies bright like joy…”
“Pushkin.”
“So your tutors did not neglect you, Sandro. We had a big white house overlooking the bay, with a long, sloping lawn. My father was the governor and my mother renowned for her beauty and her voice. In the summer, she would sing after dinner in the garden. Kitty and I would listen from the upstairs window when we were supposed to be asleep.”
“Your father was the governor?”
Maria did not reply.
“I didn’t know that.” Ruzsky waited for her to continue and when she did not, he asked: “What do you remember of your mother?”
“Of my mother?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you ask that?”
Ruzsky shrugged. “Piecing together the jigsaw, just as you are.”
Maria thought deeply for a minute or more. “Everything. Every little detail. Every expression, every act of kindness. If I believed in God, perhaps I could believe it was his doing, but I don’t and it wasn’t.”
“How long was your father the governor for?”
“Some time.”
“You were close?”
“Who is it that you were traveling with?” she asked. “Another detective?”
“Yes. My deputy, Pavel.”
“Also the son of a noble family?”
“No. He used to be a constable.”
“What did you tell him?”
“To wait until I got there. We were being followed.”
