The White Russian

9

I t was still snowing heavily as Ruzsky walked across the square toward the Tsarskoe Selo Station, head down and deep in thought. He could see no sign of any police presence, so he assumed the trains must be running today.

The elegant, yellow station took its name from its principal destination; trains from here ran out to the town that was home to the current tsar an hour away. Whenever Nicholas wanted to come to the capital on his train, the entire station was sealed off, sometimes all day.

Ruzsky barely registered the long khvost on the far side of the square until he heard shouts and looked over to see a group of soldiers fighting in the middle of the queue.

He hesitated, then began to walk on until he heard the crack of a shot, then another.

A tram rattled past, almost encased in ice, and Ruzsky ran around the back of it, slipping as he narrowed his eyes against the driving snow. A large group of men was fighting-perhaps ten or more and there was another shot. The melee was too confused to tell who was firing, or at what. Ruzsky reached into his pocket for his Sauvage and pointed it in the air. He fired once. “Police! Get back in line.”

The men continued to fight. He fired twice more. “Get back in line!” he bellowed.

They stopped and, as Ruzsky moved closer, turned slowly to stare at him. Two were on the ground, covered in snow, and got up slowly. All were in long greatcoats, but one at least had large holes in the top of his boots. He was an older peasant conscript with a long, unkempt beard. He had knocked a woman and her son over in the scuffle and Ruzsky stepped forward and helped them to their feet. The woman almost slipped over again, but he caught her. She was dressed in a thick jacket and a scuffy, dark pair of valenki-knee-high rough woolen boots.

He retreated once more, and it was only then that he could see that the line was more than a hundred yards long and stretched all the way around the corner of the block. He couldn’t see what they were waiting for. Perhaps, as so often, they did not even know themselves.

“You’re waiting for bread?” he shouted.

All of the men stared at him, the snow gathering in their faces. Most of those ahead and behind them were women, wrapped up in headscarves, so that only their eyes were visible.

He saw himself through their eyes, for the first time in many years. A detested servant of the Tsar. He thought of the article on his desk. No wonder the educated classes feared the mob.

“You’re waiting for bread?” he shouted again, wanting to break the mood, but still no one answered him.

Ruzsky walked swiftly along the queue, turning the corner to see that the bakery they waited outside was not even open. He pushed through the middle of the crowd and went to the door, then put his face to the cold glass and peered in. There was no light on inside, but he could see that the shelves were empty.

He turned around. “There’s nothing there.”

Nobody answered him.

At the front of the queue, a woman waited with her son and an old man they had wheeled on a makeshift wooden barrow. Snow and ice had gathered in the old man’s beard and his eyes were beyond caring.

“They said there would be bread later,” the woman said. “No one wishes to lose their place in the line.”

Ruzsky looked at her for a moment and then turned around and walked back toward the group of soldiers. “It will be a long wait,” he said as he approached. “If you must stay, be patient. Fighting serves no one.”

But even as he spoke, he felt the patronizing futility of his words.

He stared at them for a moment more and then turned and walked toward the station steps. As he did so, he felt a thousand eyes upon his back.

“Officer!” someone shouted. Ruzsky swung around. The young boy who had been at the front of the queue stood before him. He thrust a piece of paper into his hands.

Ruzsky looked down at it.

“A PROPHECY,” it read.

A year shall come of Russia ’s blackest dread;

Then will the crown fall from the royal head,

The throne of tsars will perish in the mud,

The food of many will be death and blood.

– Mikhail Lermontov, 1830.

Ruzsky looked up. They were all staring at him. Even through the veil of falling snow he could see the hatred in their eyes.

He folded the piece of paper, put it into his pocket, and walked away without looking back.

Ruzsky climbed the stone steps to the platform level of the station and emerged onto the concourse. A conductor blew his whistle loudly and the engine closest to him released a burst of steam that billowed out across the platform. Light spilled through the glass panels of the curved iron roof.

Ruzsky walked past the shops selling sweets and cigarettes and noticed how bare even their shelves appeared. Before the war, they’d also have sold pastries and bread, but now there was no sign of either. Only a man standing next to a brazier by the edge of the concourse, selling baked lavasky, the wafer-thin round cakes, appeared to be doing any trade.

Ruzsky grasped the brass rail at the entrance to one of the carriages and swung himself up, slamming the door shut behind him. He took his seat and pushed up the window next to it, a few crystals of snow and ice floating down onto his lap.

On the platform outside, three women in fur coats and hats stood next to an officer in the dark blue and green parade uniform of Her Majesty’s Cuirassier Regiment-the Blue Cuirassiers. Next to them, a newspaper boy in a flat cloth cap was shouting loudly in an attempt to sell copies of Petrogradskie Vedomosti and Novoe Vremia beside a crudely inscribed headline board: “Western Front: no changes; Rumanian Front: no changes; Caucasian Front: no changes. Bravery of Russian Soldiers! Shaliapin Charity Concert to be announced in Moscow.”

As Ruzsky watched, the officer stepped over and ordered the boy curtly to be quiet, before moving back toward his companions. He said something to the women and then tipped back his head in laughter as the whistle sounded.

For all his rebellions, Ruzsky could not help sharing his family’s prejudice against cavalry officers. The Preobrazhensky was in the Infantry Division of the Life Guards.

He stood and returned to the platform to buy a copy of Petrogradskie Vedomosti. He gave the boy a large tip.

The carriage was almost empty, save for a young couple in the far corner staring out of their window. Ruzsky stretched his legs and sank back into the leather seat.

There was another whistle and the train began to move off. The view across the rooftops through dull light and dirty windows appeared endless.

The girl at the far end of the carriage leaned her head affectionately on the man’s shoulder. They were young, both of them, possibly palace household staff.

Ruzsky pulled his thin overcoat tight, trying to ignore the cold. He took out his silver case and almost smoked a cigarette, before thinking better of it. He turned the case over and looked at the family crest. Like the Romanovs’, it depicted a giant eagle-but single headed.

He closed his eyes. Train journeys always transported him back to his youth and those moments when the family would leave Petersburg and set off for what had been his father’s favorite country estate at Petrovo. Sometimes, still, Ruzsky revisited every detail of that journey in his mind: the packing of the household, the excitement that flooded through everyone, even the servants, for days beforehand; the hampers, the first-class compartment, the soporific rattle of the train as it moved slowly south; the horse-drawn troikas that would be waiting at the station two days later and the thrill of that last journey when he, Ilya, and Dmitri would climb down and run through the woods to the house. He could see, even now, the village sparkling through the pine trees as they crested the last hill, the house ablaze with light.

He wondered if he would ever go back.

The train rattled past a frozen lake upon which a boy of six or seven was skating with halting, uncoordinated movements. Ruzsky watched him as he fell and sat suddenly upright, craning his neck to see if he had gone through the ice.

But the boy stood. He dusted the snow from his clothes and began to skate again.

Ruzsky kept his eyes upon him until the train had rattled around the corner of the wood and out of sight.

He picked up his newspaper. There was a long article on the front page that contained the usual fantastic assertions about the progress of the war and a claim that the radical political changes demanded by some would shatter the foundations of Russian society.

This was the newspaper Ruzsky’s father had always treated as a conservative bible. He flicked through it. A group of criminals had robbed a million rubles from the Mutual Credit Bank in Kharkov, drilling through a wall from a neighboring house.

He put the paper down. Perhaps it was a sign of the times. When a ship hit bad weather, it was every rat for himself.

When he reached the station in the town of Tsarskoe Selo itself, Ruzsky climbed into the back of a droshky and a few moments later the wind was cutting into his cheeks as he was hurried along Sadovaya Ulitsa, past the formal gardens of the Catherine Palace. The weather was much clearer out here, and the magnificent blue, white, and gold baroque facade of the palace sparkled in the sunlight. Above it, the Imperial Standard of the Romanovs crackled in the breeze.

Ruzsky watched a green ambulance with a red cross on its side slide through the gates of the palace. Since the start of the war, a section of the grandest of all the Romanovs’ homes had been turned into a hospital for officers.

Not that it had done the ruling dynasty any favors.

Ruzsky smoked a cigarette to hide his nerves. He had been here as a child, when his father had been summoned to a meeting with the present tsar’s father, Alexander III, in the Catherine Palace-a rare event since Alexander had preferred his home at Gatchina-but this time Ruzsky doubted he would get past the gate.

Even as the son of privilege, Ruzsky had found the opulence awe-inspiring. So many servants, he had told his mother. Nor could he forget the look of rapture in her eyes.

The droshky slowed as they approached the Alexander Palace and the driver stopped short of the gate. Ruzsky paid and sent him on his way.

He waited for a moment as he pushed the bundle of his own rubles back into his pocket. Two guards stood by the gate. There was a sense of calm within. The emperors did not like to see servants arriving and leaving, he had once been told, so an entrance to the palace complex had been built underground. He was surprised by how ordinary it all seemed. Somehow, given the climate in the capital, he had expected to find hundreds of guards and thick barbed wire fencing.

“Ruzsky, Alexander Nikolaevich, investigator of the Petrograd police,” he told the guards, producing his identification papers.

The men were soldiers from the Cossack Escort Regiment, but as he handed over his papers, Ruzsky noticed another man-an officer of the Police of the Imperial Court -watching him from inside the gate. After a few moments, the man, dressed in a long, elegant gray overcoat, slipped out and walked toward him.

“An investigator from the city police,” one of the guards explained as the policeman took Ruzsky’s identification papers and examined them.

He looked carefully at the photograph, then up at Ruzsky. “It says here you’re the chief investigator.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know you.”

“I’ve been away.”

“To the front?”

“No.”

The man frowned. “You are still the chief investigator?”

“I suppose so.”

“You suppose so?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Your papers are out of date.”

Ruzsky looked at him, not sure if he was joking. “I apologize,” he said, realizing that the officers charged with the Tsar’s personal protection had nothing to smile about. “You’re quite correct, they are out of date, but I’m conducting a murder investigation.”

“Not Rasputin?”

“No.” Ruzsky shook his head.

“Who have you come to see?”

“Madame Vyrubova.”

“Vyrubova?”

“Yes.”

“You have made an appointment?”

“No. I’m afraid not.”

The officer looked suspicious. “I’ll have to ask you to wait while I telephone.”

“Of course.”

The policeman retreated to the small wooden box beside the gate, the guards alongside him. Ruzsky walked forward to the railings and looked through to the yellow and white colonnades. It was infinitely more modest than the Catherine Palace, its neighbor.

He turned around, took out his case, and lit a cigarette. It was almost warm now that the sun was out, though his feet were still numb with cold. He bashed them together.

He noticed two faces in an upstairs window of the house closest to the gate. He assumed they were also officers of the palace police, watching the entrance.

The aura of calm was deceptive.

He faced the gate again and watched a gardener chipping ice from outside the steps to the nearest wing of the palace.

Ruzsky thought about the faces of those waiting in the bread queue. Were they really talking about revolution? Now that people discussed it openly, he found himself recoiling from his earlier insistence that change was inevitable and desirable in whatever form. He realized now that it frightened him. He no longer believed that change always made things better.

He thought of the arguments with his father.

If only they had spent less time being so certain they were right… but then, the same could be said for the country as a whole.

“All right, Chief Investigator. I’ll get someone to accompany you.”

Ruzsky was so surprised that he did not answer. The man returned to his box and Ruzsky waited, his hands thrust into his overcoat pockets.

There was a sudden burst of activity as three soldiers ran down from the near wing to open the gate. A long, low black saloon car followed them, the yellow and black imperial flag fluttering over its hood.

It skidded on the ice as it swung out onto the road, affording Ruzsky a brief glimpse of the man inside. The Tsar of all the Russias glanced at him, before settling back into his seat.

One of the soldiers walked over. “I will take you.”

Ruzsky heard himself say: “I thought the Emperor was at the front.”

The guard gave him a sour look, but did not deign to reply.

They began walking, stepping onto the side of the road, into the snow, where the footing was surer. “How is Petrograd?” the man asked.

“Cold.”

“We hear only bad things.”

“It will be better when there is more bread.”

They rounded the corner of the Alexander Palace and saw a group of children playing beneath the terrace. They were making something from the snow-from here it looked like a house-helped by two men and a woman. As they moved closer, Ruzsky recognized two of the grand duchesses, the Tsar’s daughters, and the Tsarevich, his only son.

Ruzsky could not take his eyes from them. Just as with the car a moment ago, it was almost like seeing an apparition. If he’d told Pavel he’d witnessed the Tsar’s children playing in the snow-just like any in Russia -the big detective would never have believed him.

It reminded Ruzsky of his own conviction as a child that the Tsar was not in fact a mere man, but a being from another world. It was an impression that he could still not entirely dispel, even though he had once exchanged a few words with the young Nicholas Romanov at a New Year’s Day reception at the Winter Palace.

The Tsarevich laughed. He was a pale child, with a thin white face, but there was no sign of the hemophilia with which rumor said he was inflicted. As the guard led him toward the group, Ruzsky tried to tear his eyes away from the boy, but could not.

“Madam Vyrubova,” the guard said.

A round-faced woman looked over toward them. She was dressed in a long white coat with a fur collar.

“This gentleman has come to see you. He is the chief investigator for the Petrograd police.”

The woman frowned. The two grand duchesses looked at Ruzsky with frank curiosity. They were strikingly beautiful. The men-tutors, he assumed-stopped what they were doing and appraised him also. Both were dressed in long overcoats and suits.

Ruzsky realized he was staring at them as he would at caged animals. He had to force himself to look away.

“I’ve not seen him before,” Vyrubova said.

The Tsarevich looked like his own son. They shared the same gentle solemnity. As he watched, the woman drew the boy to her, but the gesture was proprietorial rather than affectionate.

“I’m new,” Ruzsky said, realizing he was required to offer an explanation.

“You’re too late.”

Alexei slipped his other arm through that of the older of his two sisters. This must be Olga, Ruzsky thought, or perhaps Tatiana. It was many years since he’d seen either of them. They were pretty girls. They projected a luminous innocence. Ruzsky thought of the caricature he had seen on the wall of the office earlier depicting their half-naked mother dancing with Rasputin.

“Take him to my house. I will see him there,” Vyrubova said. Her manner was imperious and dismissive. He turned reluctantly and the guard led him away down the central path.

Ruzsky glanced back. The group still watched him.

He was chivied on by the guard. The icy path had been scattered with small stones to give them a measure of grip, but his footing was still uncertain.

The path ran through a long line of trees which stood out starkly against the snowy landscape around them. Ruzsky could see the Catherine Palace to his left and he stopped as he reached the point where the paths leading to both palaces met. He could still see the children playing beneath the curved terrace behind him. The guard chivied him again.

They passed a chapel. “Is that where they buried him?” Ruzsky asked. “Rasputin, I mean.”

The guard stopped suddenly, his face severe. “You have no power or jurisdiction here, is that understood?” Ruzsky noticed how red the man’s cheeks were from the cold, the capillaries so pronounced that they reminded him of the painted wooden maps they’d studied at school. “This is the home of the Tsar of all the Russias. You will confine yourself to addressing Madam Vyrubova, and no one else.”

Ruzsky concealed his irritation at this unnecessarily heavy-handed approach and the man turned around and marched him swiftly down to a small house in the far corner of the park. It was a pavilion that had been transformed into a comfortable, solid residence, with a white wooden fence around its garden and roses curling over the sloping roof of the veranda.

Inside it was neatly, but not lavishly, furnished. The guard left him at the door in the hands of a young housekeeper with pretty dark eyes. She smiled and led him through to a drawing room. He accepted her offer of tea.

The room was bright, sunlight spilling in through large windows. Ruzsky stood with his back to a fire that crackled on the hearth. There was a framed photograph of Rasputin on the far wall with a collection of icons beneath it. Next to it was a picture of Anna Vyrubova sitting alongside the Tsar himself on a thin strip of sand in what looked like the Crimea. The last picture-next to a bookcase-was of Anna surrounded by the Tsar’s five children.

Ruzsky took a step toward her desk. It was arranged neatly, a pen and inkwell placed next to a pile of writing paper. On the right-hand side, alongside a small carriage clock, the Tsarina stared out at him severely from an ornate silver frame.

He heard someone coming through the front door and returned to his position in the center of the room.

Vyrubova looked at him for a moment as she entered. “What do you want?”

“I-”

“You didn’t come and see us about Father Grigory. If you are indeed the chief investigator, we should have seen you then.”

“I have just returned to Petrograd.” He shook his head. “And I believe such an important case was always likely to be treated as a political and not simply criminal matter, for reasons that will be obvious to you.”

She stared at him. “It has brought shame on our country, and our class.”

Ruzsky didn’t answer. He wondered exactly what relationship this woman enjoyed with the Empress. Technically, as he recalled, she was a lady-in-waiting, but clearly also much more. This was the woman much of Russia believed to be a lesbian lover of the Empress, and participant in orgies that were variously said to involve both the Tsar and Rasputin.

“If your business is not important,” she went on, “then why do you trouble me with it?”

Vyrubova’s small eyes were still fixed upon his. He sensed her suspicion, and her cunning.

“The body of a woman was found on the Neva this morning. She was wearing a dress made by Madame Renaud.” He paused. “A dress made for you.”

Her expression did not alter, but he saw her eyes flicker. “Who was she?”

“That’s why I’m here.” Ruzsky reached into his pocket for the photographs. He handed her one of the girl’s head and shoulders. “I was hoping you would be able to tell me.”

Vyrubova took it. She stared at it in silence. “How do you know the dress was mine?”

“Madame Renaud confirmed it.”

“How did you know it was one of her dresses?”

Ruzsky was about to explain, but thought better of it. “Do you recognize her?”

“Yes.” Vyrubova’s face was expressionless.

He waited.

“And?” Ruzsky was beginning to recover his wits enough to find the woman’s disdain irritating.

“Her name was Ella.”

They heard the front door being opened and shut and a voice in the hall. A few moments later, the Tsarina appeared, dressed in a black overcoat, gloves, and hat, a diamond brooch at her neck.

Ruzsky did not move. After a few moments, he realized that his mouth was open and he shut it. She was taller than he remembered, but there were deep lines around her eyes and her face was harsher, thinner, and more angular than he’d imagined.

For a moment, she stared at him.

The last time Ruzsky had set eyes upon her had been on the day of his arrest. He had been with his brother in the General Staff Building, overlooking a packed Palace Square as the Tsar and his wife came out onto the balcony of the Winter Palace to read a proclamation declaring the Russian Empire to be at war with Germany and Austro-Hungary.

Even now, Ruzsky could recall every detail of that crisp day: the giant crimson drape that hung almost to the ground; the Tsar dressed in the uniform of a colonel in the Preobrazhensky Regiment, his wife in white; the gigantic crowd falling to its knees and chanting the national anthem, “Bozhe, Tzaria Khrani,” over and over again, the Emperor raising his hand as he read the proclamation against the great din, his wife bowing.

The swell of emotion had touched even the most cynical hearts. And in the eyes of the young men in uniform around him, what Ruzsky had seen was nothing short of ecstasy.

Now most of those men were dead and the woman who ruled an empire stood before him, dressed in black.

His education failed him. He had no idea what he should say if she chose to address him.

“Who is this?” she demanded.

“He says he’s a chief investigator from Petrograd.”

The Empress snorted in derision, as if he weren’t there. “It’s not good for Alexei to be out in the cold so long.” She spoke Russian with a heavy German accent.

Vyrubova’s expression was instantly soothing. “He seems better today.”

“He’s no judge of his own well-being.”

“He wants to be out with the girls.”

“I know he does, but that doesn’t mean that it is good for him.”

The Empress of the Russias turned to him. “What is he doing here?”

Anna Vyrubova handed the Tsarina the photograph that was still in her hand. She studied it for a moment and then looked up again, her mouth taut. “I suppose you think it is our fault.”

Ruzsky did not know what to say.

“She was murdered,” Vyrubova explained. “It wasn’t-”

The Empress looked confused. “Murdered?”

It appeared to be a question for him. “Yes,” Ruzsky said, clearing his throat and bowing slightly. “It would appear so, Your…” Ruzsky wondered if he should have said “Your Imperial Highness,” but, as he considered the question, a hint of resentment at his mother’s own fawning approach to the imperial family acted as its own check. Their manner was damned rude.

“It would appear so? Surely you must know.”

“Yes… That is correct.”

“How was she murdered?”

Ruzsky glanced at Vyrubova to see whether he should continue to answer, but received no signal either way. “She was stabbed. Once. The man with her, seventeen times.” Ruzsky handed a photograph of the man’s head and shoulders to the Empress. She looked at it without expression and then passed it to her companion.

“How did you know she worked here?” the Empress asked.

Ruzsky looked at Vyrubova, but her face was impassive. “I didn’t,” he said.

Ruzsky thought he saw a slight flush developing in the Tsarina’s cheeks.

“Ella worked in the nursery,” Vyrubova explained. “And was very fond of the children.”

“She was a pretty girl,” the Empress said. “But unreliable.”

“She was very fond of the family,” Vyrubova went on, “and sad to go.”

They were silent. Their sudden garrulousness confused him. “If you don’t mind me asking,” Ruzsky said, “to go where?”

“She was dismissed,” the Empress said.

There was another long silence.

“Would it be impertinent…” Ruzsky kept his eyes on Vyrubova so as not to rile the Empress. “May I ask why?”

The Empress frowned, tilting her head to one side. “You may not.”

“I apologize, Your Highness.”

“She stole from us,” the Tsarina said suddenly. She sighed. “There was no choice but to dismiss her. It upset the children. She upset the children.”

“She was too close to them,” Vyrubova added. “To the Little One, to Sunbeam, especially.”

The Empress’s irritation with her colleague began to show again.

“She was sad to leave here?” Ruzsky asked.

“Devastated. Of course.” The Empress seemed suddenly to remember herself. “I did not expect anyone to be here,” she told Vyrubova. “Telephone me when you have dealt with this man.”

She walked out. They waited, watching her pass the window and the white fence around the garden.

Vyrubova did not look at him. There was an intimacy between them suddenly, as if he had witnessed a domestic scene normally kept away from prying eyes. She stared at her shoes, a rueful smile at the corner of her lips.

“What did this girl… Ella… steal?”

Vyrubova was evasive again. “Oh, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what she took?”

“No.” She looked out of the window. The Empress was now some distance away. “No.”

“Some money?”

“No. I mean, yes. Money.”

“How much?”

She turned back, still not meeting his eye. “I don’t know.”

Ruzsky smiled encouragingly. “You seem to keep few secrets from each other.”

“Who?”

“You and the Empress.”

“That is not your business.”

“No. Of course. I just imagined she would have told you the cause of this girl’s sudden dismissal.”

“She rules the Empire during the Tsar’s absence at the front, commanding our great forces. She doesn’t have time to deal with the minutiae of the household. This girl was unimportant.”

“But the children were upset.”

“They will quickly recover. It is best to be removed from unsuitable influences.”

“How was she unsuitable, exactly?”

“Oh… I don’t know.” Ruzsky saw the impatience in Vyrubova’s expression, but did not understand why she was making such heavy weather of the lies she was telling. “You must ask the household staff.”

“As you wish. May I go over now?”

“No.” She was shocked. “You must write. Apply in writing.”

“To whom?”

“To the household. To Colonel Shulgin. He deals with such matters.”

Ruzsky tried to prevent his exasperation from showing. “Was Ella from Petersburg?”

“No, she wasn’t. Yalta or Sevastopol. Somewhere on the peninsula.”

“How did she come to be employed here?”

“I have no idea. You’ll have to ask the household staff.”

“Did you know the girl well?”

“Ella? No. Not at all.”

“But you gave her one of your dresses?”

“Yes, but… She had not worked here long.”

“How long?”

“A few months. Perhaps a little more.”

“Did she ever talk about her personal life here in Petrograd?”

“Not to me. I don’t believe so. No she didn’t.”

“Did she have any family or friends that you know of?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“What was her family name?”

“Kovyil.”

Ruzsky noted it down. “So you saw her when you were with the children. She was a nanny. To Alexei?”

“She helped in the nursery.” Vyrubova’s expression clouded. “It was disgraceful. To steal like that. Disgraceful. The Empress has always been most generous.”

Ruzsky doubted, from the tone of her voice, that this was true.

“But you knew the girl well. Well enough to give her one of your dresses.”

“No. I hardly spoke to her.”

“It was an act of great generosity.”

“She mentioned how much she liked it one day. It no longer fit me. After she was dismissed, I sent it to her.”

“But Madame Renaud’s dresses are not inexpensive…”

Vyrubova looked at him, assessing him properly for the first time. She took a pace away. “I must go to the palace.”

“I would ask you to stay a few moments more,” he said quietly.

“I have work to do.”

“And I too.” Ruzsky’s tone checked her. “This girl was walking arm in arm with her lover under the moonlight in the first hours of our New Year. They were viciously attacked. Even in these troubled days, murder must not go unheeded, surely.”

She stared at him. He wondered if she had privately expressed such sentiments at the way in which Rasputin’s killers had escaped justice.

“Who are you? What is your name?” she demanded.

“Ruzsky. Alexander Nikolaevich.”

She frowned. “You are related to the assistant minister of finance.”

“My father.”

She assessed him with inscrutable eyes. “I cannot help you further.”

“Did you recognize the man?”

Vyrubova realized she still had the photograph in her hand. She returned it to him. “No.”

“He wasn’t a member of the household staff also?”

“No.”

“You haven’t seen him before?”

She shook her head.

“Did Ella ever speak about a male friend, a lover perhaps-”

“I told you. I hardly knew the girl.”

Ruzsky breathed in deeply to hide his impatience. “When you say Ella was upset, what do you mean? Did you-”

“It was the Empress who said she was upset. I did not see her.”

This was so obviously a lie that Ruzsky found himself getting angry for the first time. “From everything you’ve said, madam, I find that-”

“I have to go now. The Empress is expecting me.” She began to walk away.

“Madam?”

She stopped and glowered at him.

“Could you give me the number of the house to which you sent the dress?”

She looked puzzled.

“You said that you sent the dress to her after she had left.”

He thought Vyrubova might explode as she sought a way out of the trap into which she had led herself. “The household staff dealt with it. You must speak to them.”

“To Count Fredericks?”

“No, no. He has many more important things to deal with.”

“Colonel Shulgin, then?”

“Yes, but you may not do so now. You must make an appointment.” There was something close to panic in her voice.

“Tomorrow, perhaps.”

“Tomorrow, yes. Tomorrow.”

Ruzsky was led back the way he came. The children were still playing with the snow house. Alexei was standing on a block of ice and sweeping snow onto the heads of the two men helping them. He was laughing.

One of the girls threw a snowball at her brother and he threw one back. Ruzsky noticed that the boy dragged his right leg as he tried to run away.

“Keep up,” the guard said. “Or I shall be forced to call for assistance.”

“The boy tries hard to overcome-”

“It is not your business.”

“I don’t recall suggesting that it was.” Ruzsky thrust his hands into his pockets. “It’s a good life here. Quiet. I can see why they hate coming to Petrograd.”

The guard looked at him, then turned on his heel. Ruzsky watched the boy sitting on a bank for a few moments more before following. He turned back once and saw that the heir to all the Russias was watching him.