City of Silence (City of Mystery) (21 page)

She
frowned.  “I suppose so.  But why do you suggest that parts of it might be
missing?”

“We
don’t know for certain that any are. There is a loop on the hip of the sort
where men often place a sword or a dagger, but no weapon was found on the
person of Mrs. Kirby.  Do you perhaps recall if some such was part of the
original costume?”

She
hesitated, but only for a moment.  “There was a rather large knife and it hung,
just as you say, from a loop on his hip.  He was to climb the rigging and use
it to release a flag at the climatic moment of the scene.”

“Then
the knife is missing,” Trevor said.  “And since we are speaking of the
rehearsals, I must ask you one other thing, Your Imperial Highness, if you will
kindly grant me just one more minute of your valuable time.”  He was aware that
his courtesy was exaggerated, a behavior he sometimes unconsciously adapted
when speaking to someone he did not truly admire, and hoped that it would not
be seen as sarcasm.  Ella seemed accustomed to such sugary speech and the Queen
was too deep in thought to notice.  But Alix, of all people, regarded Trevor
with a certain acuity.  Do not mock my sister, her expression seemed to say. 
No matter who you are or what news you bring, you shall not mock my sister.

“Of
course,” Ella said. “Mrs. Kirby was my lady in waiting, after all.  I shall do
all I can to assist you.”

“What
is the pattern of the day in the ballroom?  Especially now, with so much
preparation for the ball?”

“Private
lessons begin around noon and go to generally five in the afternoon.  The
Winter Palace is not full of early risers, Detective, as you have likely
noticed.  The group rehearsals generally commence at seven, and are finished by
nine, when everyone goes to supper.”  Ella paused, considering her own words. 
“So if you are asking who might know that the ballroom was likely to be empty
between the hours of five and seven, the answer would be many people. 
Certainly anyone connected to preparations for the ball and most likely their
spouses and their servants, if they have any.”

“Do
you have any suspicions of your own?” Alix asked.  She spoke so rarely that, as
always, anything she said seemed to carry more import than the words of
others.  Trevor supposed such a trait might serve her well some day as a
tsarina.  “Is there any evidence indicating why Mrs. Kirby might have been
killed?”

“We
have a photograph,” Trevor said.

The
Queen looked up, her eyes suddenly alert.  “What sort of photograph?”

Was
it just Trevor’s imagination, or had this news also shocked Ella?  She had
finally stopped her agitated walking about and chosen a chair, giving him her
full attention for the first time since he had entered the room.

“A
photograph of the dancers who were killed, Your Majesty,” Trevor said.  “Posed as
they were left after their deaths and shot from a position high above their
bodies, presumably from one of the theater’s many balconies.  If you will
forgive me, your Imperial Highness, do you know why Mrs. Kirby might have had
such a thing within her possession?”

“I
do not,” Ella said.  “She was a curious person.  Some said she stuck her nose
into places where it did not belong.  That is most likely what led to her
death, is it not?”

“Ella…”
the Queen said warningly, and her granddaughter stopped and slumped in her
chair like a scolded schoolgirl.  “Whatever the gossips may have said about her
character, Mrs. Kirby died in service to the crown.”  The Queen shifted in her
chair to address Trevor.  “She will be transported back to London by us, when
we leave, and there given a full and proper funeral.  You must promise me that
her body will not fall into the hands of the Russian police.”

“We
will certainly reclaim her body before we depart, but as for the palace guard…
I regret to say that they are examining her as we speak, Your Majesty,” Trevor
said.  “I fear it was unavoidable.   After all, the crime did occur within the
palace and not even the Russians can pretend that a woman might manage to break
her own neck and then wrap herself in a flag and lower herself over the side of
a balcony.  To be more precise, it is impossible for the authorities to brush
aside this most recent death as a suicide.  The crime not only says ‘murder,’
it exclaims it.”

“I
don’t wish to dance at the ball,” Alix suddenly blurted out.  “I don’t want to
go into that horrid room at all, into that place where three people have died
for reasons that no one can understand.  I must go to the chapel.  I must pray
for the souls of the dead.”

“Of
course you must, darling,” Ella said soothingly, slipping an arm around her
younger sister’s shoulders as her eyes locked with Trevor’s.  “And I shall come
with you.  For prayer is all we have at this point, is it not?  The science of
detection certainly seems to have failed us.”

Chapter
Thirteen

The
Winter Palace – The Grand Ballroom

June
20, 1889

3:40
PM

“You
are here early.”

Emma
looked up at Konstantin, who was walking slowly down the marble staircase. 

“I
wished to practice before our lesson,” she said.  It was strange, she thought. 
Because he spoke simply, as does any man using a language not his own, so did
she.  And somehow these short sentences, with their limited choice of words and
directly-stated thoughts, were allowing her to express herself more freely than
she had done in years.

“I
am surprised you have come at all.”

There
were several things she could say in response to this.  Perhaps he was speaking
of the last time they saw each other - the evening before, that scene of bedlam
and tears, with scores of dancers arriving for practice, only to be turned away
with the news that there had been yet another murder in the ballroom.  The
British police and the Russian, literally circling each other as they examined
the ridiculous form of the fallen Mrs. Kirby, looking heavenward with an
expression of angry surprise as she lay sprawled in her blue silk britches and
yellow hose.  Or perhaps he was referring to the next-to-last time they had
seen each other, in the costume room, he and Tatiana caught in a tangle of
clothing and Emma clutching Tom’s hand and willing the image away. 

It
was impossible to guess to which of these things, if either, he had been
referring, but it was less awkward to be standing face to face talking with him
than she would have guessed.  He did not appear to be embarrassed or frightened
by the events of the previous day, so she decided to move on as well. “Your
four o’clock lady is not here?”

“Nor
was my three o’clock.  Or the one before or the one before.”  He looked down his
great nose with a sad smile. “They are all frightened.  This ballroom began as
a place of peace for me.  My church, how do you say?  The sort of church where
one can hide.”

“Your
sanctuary.”

“Yes. 
My sanctuary from the world.”  He looked around slowly, in the manner of a man
who is saying goodbye to something.  “Within these walls, I could be whatever I
wished to be.  But now…”

“It
is a room of death.”

“The
other ladies do not come,” he said.  “And yet Emma Kelly is here.  So it does
not frighten you, this room of death?”

“I
used to be frightened of everything,” Emma said.  “And then the worst thing I
could ever have imagined happened.  My sister–“ He was looking at her expectantly,
but she shook her head.

 “There
is a strange gift that comes to you after the worst thing you can imagine
actually happens,” she said, raising her arms in the position of the dance. 
“You find yourself with nothing left to fear.”  

The
Winter Palace – The Guest Quarters

4:57
PM

“So
that’s it,” Trevor said irritably, as Rayley wrapped up an abbreviated description
of his conversation with Filip Orlov. “The only reason you and I were ever invited
into the inner sanctum was because one of the tsar’s bodyguards wished to
implicate Antonovich as their prime suspect in the murders of three people.” 
In anticipation of the group meeting, Trevor had ordered up the Russian
equivalent of a British tea, which turned out to be a tray of elaborate
confections and a hot beverage so strangely sweet that Trevor suspected they
would all have trouble getting it down.  But privacy within the Winter Palace
was proving to be elusive, so he was glad to have this chance for them all to confer
together, no matter how different from their customary leisurely evenings in
Gerry’s parlor.

“That’s
all I took from it,” Rayley admitted.  “He theorizes the dancers were killed
out of professional jealousy and that Cynthia Kirby was killed because she
somehow learned Konstantin was to blame and had gone to the theater to confront
him.”  Rayley raised his palms at the barrage of objections certain to come his
way in the wake of such an illogical statement.  “Don’t shoot the messenger.  I’m
only repeating what Orlov shared with me.  I was braced for him to query me
about the extent of our own investigation into the matter, but the conversation
never took that particular turn.  Where is Emma?  She must have a more distinct
impression of Konstantin Antonovich than any of the rest of us.  In fact, where
is everyone?”

“The
boys have gone in search of the chemist who developed the photograph you found
last night, all on the theory that it might be possible to expand the image and
give us a better view of the knife in the dead girl’s hand,” said Trevor.  “And
Emma is presumably bidding adieu to the murderous Mr. Antonovich as we speak. 
She was quite insistent that she keep her scheduled lesson and I may have erred
in indulging her.” 

“I
don’t see any harm in the notion,” Rayley said.  “The use of Antonovich’s costume
is too clumsy to be taken seriously and, let us be frank, the motive put forth by
Orlov for the slaughter of the ballet dancers is likewise nothing short of
ridiculous.”

A
rap at the door and Emma entered, her dance shoes in hand.  “Don’t rise,” she
said, pulling up a chair and glancing without enthusiasm at the tea set on the
far table.  “I’m sorry that I’m late, but it appears I am not the latest.  What
have I missed?”

“Just
this,” said Trevor.  “The Grand Duchess Ella has informed me that the gypsy king
costume worn by Mrs. Kirby at her time of death belonged to one Konstantin
Antonovich and is indeed missing a knife.   A member of the palace guard named
Filip Orlov has furthermore suggested to Rayley that Antonovich is their primary
suspect.”

“Well,
that’s convenient,” Emma said drily, sinking to her seat.

“You
know more of him than anyone else,” Rayley said.  “Do you think there’s a
possibility he could be involved in some way, even if he is not the murderer? 
After all, he does seem to have access to everyone and everything involved in
these two crimes, as well as intimacy with Ella, one of the people we are sworn
to protect.”

“Yes,
yes, of course he teaches Ella and the tsar’s aunt and his daughter as well,” Emma
said.  “Social intercourse with the imperial family is part of his job.  But as
much as it pains me to say it, I believe Mrs. Kirby was right in suggesting
that it is another of his students who is at the root of this issue, someone
with no royal blood at all.  He dances with Tatiana Orlov, the wife of the very
same Filip Orlov who has served him up on a platter as he perfect suspect.”

Trevor
raised an eyebrow. 

“And
if you substitute another verb for ‘dance’ and I think the matter should become
even clearer,” Emma said.  “Konstantin and Tatiana are lovers.  Ask Tom if you
don’t believe me.”

“Well,
that indeed is quite the coincidence,” Rayley said.  “The wife of a member of
the private guard, in a tryst with the private guard’s chief suspect in the
murders.”

“How
on earth did the two of you discover this?” Trevor asked Emma. “And why did you
not mention it earlier?”

“We
learned that they are lovers in precisely the manner you are now imagining,”
Emma said.  “Although it seemed inconsequential in comparison to our discovery
of Mrs. Kirby’s body a few minutes later.  But if Konstantin and Tatiana were
indiscreet enough to have been caught by Tom and myself backstage at the
theater in the worse possible moment, it’s possible that they have given other
people reason to speculate along the way.  Mrs. Kirby perhaps, or Tatiana’s
husband.” 

“This
explains a great deal,” said Rayley.  “For now Filip Orlov has every incentive
to frame Konstantin.  It provides him with a neat and elegant solution to all
his problems.  Konstantin hangs, guilty or not, while Filip retains his wife
and earns another commission for service to the tsar.”

“Hangs?”
Emma asked sharply.  “He may be guilty of a romantic indiscretion but hardly
murder.  In fact, between me and Tatiana Orlov, his every moment is accounted
for during the time the body must have moved.”  She looked from Trevor to
Rayley.  “I don’t know about the ballet dancers, but he certainly had nothing
to do with the Kirby affair, and whatever evidence they’ve collected against
him is unlikely to be enough to convict him in a court of law.”

“If
we were in London, I would agree with you,” Trevor said.  “Here, who can say?”

This
gave her pause.  She chewed her lower lip as she looked down at the carpet.

“We’ve
only begun our investigation, Emma,” Rayley said with sympathy.  “Until we get
our answers and thus the Queen gets hers, we won’t be leaving St. Petersburg
anytime soon.”   

“True,
true, true,” Trevor agreed. “All quite true.  But even if Konstantin is a
somewhat unlikely suspect, we must exhibit caution around the man and indeed
everyone else until this matter is sorted out.  The one thing I’m inclined to
agree with Filip Orlov about is that Cynthia Kirby was most likely slain
because of something that she saw or knew.  Which means that we have a killer who
won’t hesitate to kill again in order to cover his tracks.  A killer who may
well be in possession of both Konstantin’s knife and Cynthia’s pistol.”

The
door opened again, this time without even a perfunctory knock, and Davy and Tom
burst in, a file in Tom’s hand.

“We’ve
got it,” Tom said.  “Or at least we have something.  Good God, but we do need a
table, don’t we?”  He pushed aside the three empty cups and the teapot and
deposited the file in the middle of the plates.  “The chemist was able to
provide us with several enlargements of the original photograph.”

They
scrunched together and collectively studied the new photograph.

“It
image is far from perfect,” Tom said. “Apparently photographs grow ever more blurry
as you enlarge them, who would have guessed?  But it’s enough to show that the
blade is curved, rather dramatically so, which leads me to suspect….Well here,
I shall show you.”  He shuffled the pictures to produce another closely focused
section of the original photograph, this one showing the gash at the boy’s
throat.  “As you can see for yourselves,” Tom continued, “the cut which killed
Yulian seems to be a rather short straight one, probably made by an assailant
who knew precisely where the jugular would be found and who dug in deep, just
at that point, most likely with a dagger shaped weapon.  While in contrast a
curved knife, especially if used in an attack from behind, creates the sort of
broad, level gash that has the power to nearly decapitate a victim.  It’s a
shame that the amount of blood obscures the wound to the degree it does, but I
think any sensible man would agree with me. The knife the girl is holding in
her hand is not the same knife that was used to cut the boy’s throat.”

Trevor
was frowning at the picture.  “It’s quite blurred.”

“Yes,
yes, the chemist said that enlargements always are,” Tom said impatiently. 
“But anyone can certainly see that their heads are in the normal position
people’s heads would be.  Not nearly severed.  It suggests –“

“I
agree with you as far as it goes,” Trevor said, “and I’m happy to have these
enlargements in our possession.  But whoever is determined to frame Konstantin
Antonovich would not let a few blurry photographs and a mere suggestion put
forth by a foreigner, no matter how apt it might be, derail his plans.”

“The
dance master?” Tom said with surprise.

“The
woman we found Konstantin with yesterday was Tatiana Orlov,” Emma said shortly. 
“And now it seems that the Tsar’s private guard, or at least her husband Filip,
have seized on him as a suspect in all three deaths.”

“Then
the poor bastard’s done for,” Tom said.  “Remind me to never publically make
love to a policeman’s wife in the middle of a murder investigation.”

“All
right, let’s wrap this up quickly,” Trevor said, closing the file and
indicating they should return to their seats, “for our time is limited if we
wish to interview the dancers at seven.  Davy, I trust you’ve made inroads with
the student group?”

“Not
invited to a meeting yet, Sir. But at least one of them seems to have warmed to
me.”

“Excellent. 
And you believe you will be able to carry the role of a disgruntled schoolboy,
ready to toss aside the constraints of an unjust political system and snatch
away the privileges of your societal betters?”

“Of
course, Sir.”

“That
was a suspiciously swift answer,” Tom said with a laugh.  “Perhaps Davy is not
as gruntled with his lot in life as you assume, Trevor.”

Davy’s
ears turned red with what the others assumed to be embarrassment.  “He brags a
lot, just as Mrs. Kirby predicted they all would.  A fellow named Vlad Ulyanov,
brother to Sasha Ulyanov, one of the students hanged two years ago in that unsuccessful
attempt on the tsar.  Thus central to the Volya leadership, but he’s one of the
younger members.  Claims the others don’t take him seriously.”

“His
brother died while Gregor Krupin lived,” Trevor said.  “His resentment of
Krupin’s authority must be profound.”