City of Silence (City of Mystery) (22 page)

Davy
nodded.

“For
a group of self-proclaimed revolutionaries these lads do not appear very
cautious,” Rayley said.  “Perhaps this is why their plans have been so easily
broken up in the past, even by the notoriously inept local police.  But it also
occurs to me that, just as Filip undoubtedly invited me to the men’s enclave in
order to plant suspicions about Konstantin, that this Vlad may be pretending to
accept Davy in order to feed him misinformation.”

“Possible,”
said Trevor.  “We seem to have two theories in front of us about how to best deal
with the Russians.  One is to take them at face value and thus conclude they
are playing clumsy psychological games with us, so clumsy that one could safely
call them stupid.  The other is to consider them diabolical masterminds who
play at being stupid so that we will discount them too easily as worthy
adversaries.” 

“There’s
a third possibility,” Emma said.  “We may be confounded because they are in
reality neither more nor less intelligent than we are, they simply think
differently.”

“The
most likely theory yet, I would say,” Rayley nodded.  “My afternoon in the
gentlemen’s enclave felt a bit like Alice down the rabbit hole.  We cannot
assume they approach life, much less matters like guilt or innocence, in the
same manner that we do.  To apply British motives to a Russian crime scene
would be the most foolish mistake of all.”

“So
while we are in St. Petersburg, we are to readily accept all offers of friendship
on the surface but privately remain skeptical of the sincerity behind the offer,”
Tom said airily.  “I like it, for this is pretty much my philosophy with all
new acquaintances, no matter what their nationality.”

“We
don’t have to do any of this, you know,” Davy blurted out.  “It isn’t our
fight.”

The
others turned toward him, their faces showing different variations of inquiry,
but all of them confused. 

“We
are behaving as if we’ve been brought here to solve a crime,” Davy said.  “But
that isn’t the case at all.  I remember the Queen’s words on the ship most
specifically.  She wanted us to determine whether or not the Winter Palace was
a safe home for her granddaughters.  Asked us to find out if the
revolutionaries could get their people in.  Well it seems to me that question
was answered within hours of us getting off the boat, before we even had the
chance to do anything.  Mrs. Kirby’s murder proved the earlier two weren’t
suicides, so what more do we need to know?   It is only pride that makes us so
determined to push further when we have no authority in this country.  Trevor
wants us to finish in time to talk with the dancers at seven but why should
they bother to speak to the likes of us?  We are outsiders.”

A
silence followed this.  Emma glanced to see if Trevor was offended by Davy’s
words, but he didn’t seem to be.  He actually seemed to have been rendered
momentarily shamed by Davy’s quite accurate assessment of the situation.

Tom
spoke first.  “We didn’t have any authority in Paris either, but that didn’t
stop us.”

“That
was different,” Davy said.  “Detective Abrams had been kidnapped, and of course
we would move if one of our own was in danger.  But in this case…Mrs. Kirby
might have been English, but beyond that, I cannot see why we owe her the same
level of loyalty we feel toward each other.  And even if we find her killer,
who is to say what the palace police will do with that information?  There is
no way this can come to a satisfactory outcome, at least by the standard of
Scotland Yard.”

“You’re
right,” Rayley said.  “At least as far as you and Emma and Tom are concerned. 
Your responsibilities begin and end with the question put forth by the Queen
and, just as you say, that question has been answered.  But Trevor and I are
bound by a different level of duty.  If we are aware of a crime, whether it
lies within our jurisdiction or not, we are compelled to follow the trail.”

“That
is just the sort of thing the revolutionaries say,” Davy said, once again
speaking recklessly, for Rayley’s cheeks flushed with irritation.  “If there is
an injustice anywhere, any time, they believe they must correct it.  And so
they will always fight.”

“Your
point about knowing the limits of our power will be duly noted,” Rayley said,
this time more sharply.  “But men of the law do not cease to be such because
they have crossed an international border.  Trevor and I do not expect the rest
of you to necessarily heed the same call.”

It
was a bit of an indirect scold toward Davy, who was also a man of law, and he
tension in the room thickened.  Emma gamely waded into the mix.  “Davy is quite
correct in that we are behaving as if the Russians want us to help solve these
crimes,” she said.  “While the truth of the matter is that they likely wish we
would all go away and leave them alone.  And he is also right to remind us that
we didn’t know the ballet dancers and had scarcely met Mrs. Kirby, who appeared
to be roundly disliked and justifiably so.  But it is hard to remember areas of
jurisdiction and limits of power when one is in the middle of this sort of situation,
is it not?  Now that you tell me Konstantin is being framed, I find that I too
must remain involved.  I feel a personal loyalty to him which has nothing to do
with nationality.”

“My
motivations are different as well,” Tom said.  “Mrs. Kirby was on her way to
meet me when she was killed and her body dropped at my feet.  It is not that I
feel responsible for the fact that curiosity ultimately killed this cat, but
her killer came very close so I feel that  I too must-“

“Of
course,” Davy said.  He was flushed.  “I did not mean to suggest that any of
you were wrong to want to see justice done, or to wish to protect innocent
people, no matter what or who they are.  I was just saying that we answer to
the Queen, no one else.  I think we should admit that as we proceed – and I
will keep helping as well – that this is not an official case.  We are all
doing this for reasons of our own.”

“You
have changed, Davy,” Trevor said.  “You have begun to think for yourself.”

“I
have always thought for myself,” Davy said, this time a ghost of a smile coming
to his mouth.  “It’s just that I have now begun to speak for myself as well. 
But I have taken enough of our time, haven’t I, Sir?”

The
“Sir” seemed to once more establish equilibrium within the group.  Emma poured
herself some tea, and the men all leaned back once again in their seats.

“Yes,
still moving on,” Trevor said, with a glance at the clock on the mantle.  “While
you have all been gadding about waltzing and taking saunas and joining the
revolution, I have spent the last hour going through the diary of Mrs. Kirby.”

“She
kept a diary?” Rayley asked with surprise.  “An odd thing for a spy to do, is
it not?”

“There’s
no such thing as a British spy, remember?” Trevor said.  “But unless there’s some
sort of embedded code I have yet to break, the diary appears to be merely the
ramblings of an older woman spending time abroad.  What she wore, what she ate,
palace gossip, that sort of thing.  Only one line jumped out at me as
potentially significant and I don’t know quite what to make of it.  The day
before her death she wrote this: Alina said she is immaculate.”

“Who
is Alina?” Tom asked.

“Ella’s
personal maid,” Trevor said.  He pulled the thin blue book from his folder and
consulted the last page again, as if to make sure.

“So
Alina is a good maid who keeps things clean,” Tom said.  “An odd thing for Mrs.
Kirby to note in her diary, but I scarcely see what it has to do with her death.”

“The
‘she’ is not necessarily Alina,” Rayley said.  “The pronoun could refer to
another woman.  I’d say most likely the Grand Duchess Ella, considering that both
of the women served her.”

“So
Ella is immaculate?” Tom asked.  “Once again, a pointless statement.”

“She
might mean immaculate in the religious sense,” Emma said, setting aside her
scarcely touched tea.  “Immaculate is also what they say of a virgin.”

“The
Grand Duchess has been married four years and yet remains a virgin…” Rayley
said.  “That seems unlikely.”

“But
possible,” Emma said.  “Not every marriage is consummated, and royal unions are
often more a matter of politics than passion.” They all sat back, each absorbed
in their own thoughts.

“Even
if it’s true, does it matter?” Tom finally asked.  “I mean, as gossip goes,
it’s quite fascinating, but how could an unconsummated marriage have anything
to do with two ballet dancers being killed?”

“I
don’t know,” Trevor admitted. “I don’t even know if we’re interpreting the line
correctly.  There are no children from the union of Ella and Serge, which I
suppose somewhat supports the theory.”

“There
are many explanations for why a woman might fail to bring a pregnancy to term,”
Tom said.  “Especially a woman from this particular lineage.”

“Ah
yes, the royal disease which no one acknowledges,” Trevor mused.  “Do you think
that the Hanover bleeding disorder could possibly play into this riddle?”

“Hemophilia
taints the royal bloodline,” Tom said, “and thus, I would imagine, the bedrooms
of the royal marriages.  I shall do a little research and make that report on
the morrow as well.”

“So
here is what we have,” Rayley said.  “A dance master who instructs and thus is
connected to several women within the Romanov family and who also is having a
love affair with the wife of the tsar’s personal guard.  A revolutionary group
which seems suspiciously willing to accept outsiders but who also managed to
get the brother of one of their high ranking officers into the Winter Palace
where he was subsequently killed.  A lady in waiting to the Queen’s
granddaughter who has also been murdered, most likely because of something she
learned in her unofficial capacity as a royal spy, and who was dressed after
death in the costume of the aforementioned dance master.  This Queen’s younger
daughter wishes to marry the son of the tsar while the Queen’s older
granddaughter is married to the tsar’s brother.  That marriage may be
unconsummated and this fact may be known among the couple’s servants or it is
also possible that she has been unable to conceive due to a hereditary illness
which no one within either royal house is willing to acknowledge.  And then we
have a palace police force and private guard who function as separate units but
which collectively seem quite happy to beat each other in saunas, procure Asian
whores and opium, and accept ridiculous explanations for the three dead bodies
that have been found on their watch within a single week.  Am I leaving
anything out?”

“Obviously
you’re leaving quite a lot out, but we don’t know what any of it is yet,” Tom
said.  

“Let
us all continue down our separate lines of inquiry and we shall resume at the
same time tomorrow,” Trevor said.  “Perhaps the connections between all these
facts will be a little clearer then.  And Emma, under the circumstances I’m not
sure it’s wise for you to continue your lessons with Antonovich.”

 “Under
what circumstances?” Emma asked.  “The circumstances that he’s been put forward
as a suspect in the most unconvincing manner possible?  Such a charge gives me
greater incentive to stay close to the man than ever, does it not?”

“She’s
right,” Rayley said.  “There’s no reason to abandon our stronghold in the
theater, especially not now, after a third body has been found there.”

“Very
well,” Trevor conceded.  “But at least promise me you will exercise precautions. 
Perhaps one of us should come with you to the ballroom during your lessons.”

“On
what pretense?”

“On
the pretense of guarding your virtue,” Tom said, with a wink.  “That is,
assuming that you wish for your virtue to be guarded.”

“Oh,
I think everyone’s time is better spent guarding my virtue,” Rayley said, laughing
and gathering his notes. “Given the events of my afternoon in the gentleman’s
enclave, it would seem that I am the one whose moral fiber is in danger.”

“Tell
us everything, Sir,” Davy said with enthusiasm.  He seemed quite returned to
his normal self.  “Vlad says the boys in the Volya all claim that the Palace
has bucket loads of depravity.”

“And
depravity should indeed be served up by the bucket load,” Tom said. 

“Just
grant me this one courtesy,” Trevor said quietly, leaning forward, so that
under cover of the men’s guffawing and the scrapes of their chairs being pushed
back, only Emma could hear him.

“And
what is that?”

“Dance
with the man if you must, but don’t tell him that he is a suspect.”

Chapter
Fourteen

The
Café of the Revolutionaries

June
21, 1889

11:20
AM

Vlad
watched Gregor’s face carefully.  It was almost impossible to tell what he
thought of the plan.

“Despite
all that has happened, the Tchaikovsky Ball remains our perfect opportunity,”
Vlad repeated, hoping that his tone of voice was not desperate or, even worse,
presumptuous.  “All of the imperial women will be there and Yulian assured us
on several occasions that the confusion backstage before a performance will
create the ideal backdrop for our intentions.  Dozens of people rapidly coming
and going through any number of entrances, half of their faces obscured by
costumes or masks, carrying props, some of which may even look like weapons.  An
unprecedented mingling of citizens from every class, at least while they’re waiting
in the performance areas.  When shall we get another chance like this?”

“At
the time we made those plans we had Yulian on the inside,” Gregor said
tersely.  “Now we do not.”

“True,”
Vlad said. “But we still have his drawings of the theater, including all the
private performance areas normally closed to outsiders.  These maps are his
legacy to us.  Not to use them would mean that his death was in –“

“Enough,”
Gregor said.  “It has only been days, after all.”

“The
timing is regrettable and I mean no disrespect,” Vlad said, staring down into
his coffee cup.  “But the date of the ball is fixed and after that they shall
all go to the seaside for their summer holiday and no one can say when the next
such opportunity will present itself.  Besides, the details of our plan can be
altered to accommodate Yulian’s absence, just as we have discussed.”   

Vlad
paused here.  It was well known throughout the Volya, even before his death,
that Yulian Krupin’s resolve had been weakening.  Life within the palace walls
seemed to have dampened his enthusiasm for destroying the place or perhaps it
had been the girl, her soft arms entreating him toward a different sort of
life.  There had even been talk that Yulian was on the verge of deserting the
cause entirely and decamping to Paris.  Paris, of all frilly, inconsequential
places.  Gregor had of course denied these claims and steadfastly defended his
brother.  He had always sworn that when the time came and the oppressors were
trapped within the theater row by row, Yulian would not hesitate to throw the
bomb into the imperial box, just as planned.  Gregor had said that Yulian’s spoken
reservations about doing so were only the natural nerves of a boy his age, a
claim Vlad had found ludicrous.  Yulian had been seventeen, not twelve.  The
perfect age for a soldier: old enough to have stepped away from his family of
birth but too young to have formed a new one through marriage.

“I
was not aware that changing the plan was under discussion,” Gregor said,
lighting a cigarette.  “You have stated that you wish the plan to change, but that
is all.  No decision has been made.”

Vlad
continued to stare at his coffee.  “Without Yulian, it may prove easier and
more effective to take a woman out than it is to get a bomb in.”

“Kidnapping
is crude.  A clumsy way to strike at the heart of the beast.”

“And
you’re suggesting that a bomb thrown in a crowded theater would have been
precise?  This is a strange time for you to become squeamish about the notion
of women and children being involved, but even if you are, you must conclude
that seizing a hostage is more morally defensible than bombing the theater.  We
won’t hurt the girl, at least not if her father cooperates.”

“And
that’s another thing,” Gregor said, with a shake of his sandy-colored curls. 
“Why are you so fixated on the tsar’s daughter?  She is but a child.  Her youth
and her sex make her sympathetic, which is the very last thing that we want in
a victim.  Should she be injured in the process, trust me, the resultant street
gossip will not play well to our cause.”

“It
has to be someone very close to him.  Someone he loves.”

“This
Xenia is undoubtedly too well guarded.”

“On
any ordinary night, you would be correct.  But backstage, awaiting her turn to
dance at the ball, she will not be.  Look, Gregor, you know what we have in our
hands.  Yulian’s notes, telling us not only the particulars of key locations
but also who will be where and at what time.  The Imperial Waltz in which Xenia
dances is the first item on a program which begins at eight in the evening. 
She enters from the left hand side of the stage.  She will be wearing a red
gown, a gold headpiece on her brow.  When else will we know precisely where one
of the tsar’s children will be at a specific time, of having the cover of the
performance as distraction for our entrance and exit?  If Yulian was here with
us, I assure you he would approve of this plan, even over the original.”

This
last jab struck vulnerable flesh.  Gregor looked at him, his expression pained.
They waited.

“We
should focus on someone else,” Gregor said, seemingly unaware that in
discussing a variation in the victim he was indirectly conceding to Vlad’s
overall strategy.  But Vlad was aware of what this small objection meant, and a
sense of victory coursed through him. 

“Who
might you suggest?” he asked mildly. 

“Perhaps
that British bitch. The one who’s too proud to bow her neck to the true mother
church.  No one would care if she got a bit roughed up in transit.”

“Agreed. 
Including the tsar.  Rather than the ransom, he would probably send us a note
of thanks.” 

The
two men contemplated their coffee cups, tilted back in their small black
chairs.  The day was fine, sunny and fair, with a breeze carrying the sugary aromas
of childhood up from the bakery next door.  They each thought for a moment of
their mothers, standing at stoves, calling out that supper was almost ready, although
neither man shared this memory with the other.  They were not friends, after
all.

Gregor
sighed.  “Your point is sound.  I suppose the little one must go.”

The Winter Palace – The Guest Rooms

11:40
AM

Fortunately,
Tom had brought his most recent textbook from Cambridge.  He had stuffed it in
his black bag, along with some other hastily-gathered accoutrements of the
medical profession.  At the time he had viewed these instruments as no more
than the props an actor would use in a play, but now he was grateful that he
had them close at hand.  Especially the textbook.

Emma
had interpreted Mrs. Kirby’s diary as suggesting that Ella’s marriage was
unconsummated.  If so, this certainly explained why she and Serge were
childless, but there were other possible explanations as well.  Tom had spent
the morning going back and forth between his medical textbook pages on
hemophilia and picking certain pertinent facts from the bulging file Trevor
kept on the royal family.  This was a tricky matter, since the Queen had never
directly acknowledged that hemophilia, most often passed from mother to son, was
present in her family history at all.  And she had certainly never entertained
the suggestion that through her penchant for marrying her daughters and granddaughters
as advantageously as possible, she thus had been instrumental in spreading the
disease into half the royal houses of Europe.

Through
the Hanover family tree Trevor had supplied, Tom could surmise that not only
the Queen but two of her five daughters were carriers, including Ella and
Alix’s mother, the Princess Alice.  Hemophilia was a mercurial disease, and
there was no known explanation for why some siblings were cursed and others
were not.  Just as not all of Victoria’s daughters appeared to be carriers, not
all the boys born of carrier mothers were stricken with the disease.  Alix and
Ella’s brother Ernest was one of the lucky ones, apparently hale and hearty and
next in line for their father’s German title.  But their brother Frittie had
not been so fortunate.  A tumble from a window had triggered an unstoppable
bout of bleeding when he was but three years old. 

But
despite this tragedy – and similar tales involving three more of Victoria’s
sons and grandsons – the family remained publically mute on the subject and Tom
doubted that they even discussed it among themselves.  There was a chance,
ridiculous as it may seem to the educated mind, that neither Alix nor Ella
fully understood that it was hemophilia and not a fall from a window that had
killed their brother or that there was a possibility the same villain slept
tangled in the strands of their own genetics, waiting to claim their unborn
sons.

The
cynical side of Tom wondered if the Queen’s silence on the subject was her
refusal to lessen the currency she held in her hands with so many
grandchildren.   If it was known throughout Europe that the Hanovers were, to
put it in the crudest possible terms, defective breeding stock, her ability to forge
alliances through international marriages would come to an abrupt end.  The
more sympathetic side of Tom suspected that the Queen simply could not face the
truth: that despite her obsessions about assassinations and governmental
overthrows and revolution and riots, the single greatest threat to her family
actually coursed within their own veins. 

Tom
closed the textbook and the file and sat staring off into space.  All the
information he had gathered boiled down to one most pertinent fact:  Since
their mother carried the gene for hemophilia, there was a chance that either
Ella or Alix did as well, or possibly both of them. There was no way to test a
woman for this, no way to predict which of Alice’s daughters, if any, would
also be forced to watch her own sons die young, but Tom suspected that the next
generation would suffer more than the present.  In many ways, the Hanovers were
their own worst enemy. Their tendency to marry their own cousins, this arrogant
belief that no one was good enough for a royal except another royal, had only
served to increase the risk, multiplying the statistical chance of a familial
disease striking each new child that was born.

But
then again, horrible but true, hemophilia might also be Ella’s way out of her
marriage to Serge, should she wish to take it.  If Ella’s rumored virginity was
indeed just a rumor, then the true reason for her childlessness might lie in
infertility or a series of early miscarriages as nature struggled to correct
itself.  Too many lost babies might convince the Grand Duke to abandon her, or
at least to readily agree to her return to England.  Many high-ranking families
followed this pattern, and Tom had also seen it among the landed gentry in the
countryside.  While divorce might be scandalous, extended holidays were not.  Unhappy
husbands and wives often opted to live in separate houses – if not separate
nations – for years.  Ella could go to visit her dear Granny in London and
simply never return.

It
would be a neat solution.  A logical solution.  Bloodless and painless and
practical, with no unnecessary suffering and no loss of face.

Which
is why Tom doubted that anyone involved would choose it.

The
River Neva

Noon

“Somehow
you and I keep ending up in boats,” Rayley said wryly and Trevor leaned his
chin against the handle of the oar and laughed.

“Thank
you for agreeing to confer with me in such an unlikely place,” he said,
indicating the broad expanse of the Neva in front of the Winter Palace. “But I
felt a need for some fresh air and I’ve always found that the repetitive
motions of piloting a boat have a remarkable power to settle the mind.  I row
the Thames nearly weekly back in London.  Weather permitting, of course.”

“Indeed?”
said Rayley, with some surprise.  For all their professional collaboration, he
knew very little about what Trevor did in his private hours.  Rayley leaned
back against the side of the boat to regard the Winter Palace which, if
possible, looked even larger and more imposing from the angle of the water.  When
the two men had wandered down to one of the docks they had been promptly issued
this small red rowboat and Rayley had to admit there was a kind of peace here
along the river.  Trevor braced the oars and settled back as well, lighting a
cigar and letting the current simply pull them.

“Is
there more to confide about your evening in the men’s enclave?” Trevor inquired
with a deceptive nonchalance.

“It’s
exactly as I told you,” Rayley said. “We were invited there apparently for no
other reason than for Filip Orlov to impart his heavy handed and self serving
theories about who might have killed the ballet dancers and Mrs. Kirby.  The
fact that his wife is having an affair with the dark eyed dance master only
makes Filip’s true motives even more transparent.  At this point I’m inclined
to see Konstantin Antonovich as simultaneously our only named suspect and the
least likely person in the whole Winter Palace to have committed the crime.”

“But
you think Emma is safe alone with him?”

Rayley
indulged a slight smile. “I’d agree with Tom that she’s precisely as safe as
she wishes to be.”

Trevor
exhaled a puff of smoke, coughing slightly with the effort.