Tom Bradby - The White Russian

“The incorruptible Vasilyev? Devoted servant to the Tsar?”

Pavel appeared in the doorway. “What’s this, a wedding reception?”

Maretsky was half a step behind him. “Professor,” Ruzsky said, unable to conceal his pleasure. Maretsky stepped forward and offered himself for a bear hug, and Ruzsky ducked into it as he would have done to his son. Maretsky gripped him tight, then took a pace back, unsteady and misty-eyed for a moment, before he sat down next to Anton. His legs didn’t quite reach the floor and he looked like a child in an adult’s chair. His face was round, a few wispy strands of gray hair protruding from the top of his shirt belying an otherwise almost feminine appearance. He wore a gray jacket and shorter boots than was the fashion.

“You look thinner,” Maretsky told him. “Don’t they have food out there?”

“Which is more than can be said for you, Maretsky,” Pavel said.

“How was Tobolsk?”

“Cold and boring.”

“Is it true they eat each other when they get hungry?”

“More or less.”

Anton clinked his glass against the metal vodka bottle and then poured out a measure for each of them. He pushed the glasses across the table and they all raised them together. “Older, wiser,” he said, looking at them meaningfully. “But still here.”

They drained their glasses.

An awkward silence followed. Their attempt to pretend that nothing had changed only served to reinforce the fact that something had. Maretsky-even Anton, or was he imagining that?-seemed almost wary of him.

“How is Irina?” Maretsky asked.

“She’s fine, thank you. Or so I believe.”

Maretsky frowned. “She survived Tobolsk?”

“Just about.”

“I’m surprised she went. My wife wouldn’t have.”

“It’s surprising,” Ruzsky said, “what guilt can make you do.”

They were silent once more.

Ruzsky heard Madame Renaud’s haughty voice at the other end of the corridor.

M adame Renaud burst into the room, an anxious constable alongside her. “Bonjour, madame.”

“You are Irina Ruzskya’s husband.” It was an accusation. She surveyed the room, glancing coldly at each of his colleagues.

“I am.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Ruzsky stood, then leaned back on the balls of his feet trying to imagine the stories Irina must have invented about him. They stared at each other like predators. “We have the body of a woman downstairs, wearing one of your dresses.”

“I have a business to run, don’t you know that? You drag me in here like some common criminal, and in these times. Don’t you have anything better to do?” She glared at the others.

Ruzsky kept his tone level. “As the constable will have told you, madame, we are the Criminal Investigation Division and we are investigating a murder. I’m sure the Okhrana does have better things to do with its time, if that is what you mean.”

“How can you be sure it is one of my dresses?”

“A man whose wife is bankrupting him recognizes the cause.”

“Only cheap husbands complain,” she said icily.

Madame Renaud exuded a haughty arrogance. She had a long, bony nose, narrow eyes, and white skin heavily powdered in a vain attempt to conceal her age. Her fingers were thin and, like her neck, bedecked in jewels that sparkled even in this dull light. Her expression reflected disgust and astonishment that the scion of a great family could work in such surroundings.

“These are my colleagues, Anton Antipovich…”

“I did not come to attend a social occasion.”

“You make no concession to the times,” Ruzsky said, pointing at her diamond necklace. “For that I admire you.”

“I am not normally dragged through the streets.”

“Your sled was not ready. I apologize. But this is a murder case, the victim one of your clients. I thought you would wish to help us.”

She relaxed a little, breathing out. Ruzsky realized his irritation and hostility had more to do with Irina. He imagined the two of them together, clucking and cooing over a dress that would cost ten times more than most people earned in a year. Since their marriage, Irina had received an allowance direct from his father, as well as a smaller stipend from her own parents. Behind the desk, Anton was staring at his empty glass.

“I’d be grateful if you would accompany us to the basement,” Ruzsky said.

A hint of a smile played at the corner of her lips. “You make the invitation sound so attractive, Prince Ruzsky.”

He could tell both Pavel and Maretsky were watching him. “We’re not in the habit of such formality here, Madame Renaud.”

“Are you ashamed of your fine ancestry?”

Ruzsky saw Pavel roll his eyes theatrically.

Without replying, Ruzsky led them along the corridor and down the stairs. Madame Renaud kept both hands in a fur muffler and her back rigidly straight.

As they came down the last flight of stairs, Ruzsky could hear Sarlov working with the saw and he hurried along the dark corridor. “For God’s sake,” he said, and Sarlov looked up, startled. “I thought I asked you not to do that.”

“I have a medical practice to run, Ruzsky. I can’t wait on your pleasure all day. As even you must be able to see, the bodies are rock hard and will take a considerable time to properly thaw.”

Sarlov’s coat and mask and face were splattered with tiny flecks of frozen blood and flesh. There was an incision across the woman’s chest, a small pool of thawing blood on the metal table beneath him, a thin stream dripping onto the floor.

Ruzsky heard a sharp intake of breath from Madame Renaud behind him and he rushed forward to pull a sheet over the body. He turned to face her. “My apologies, Madame Renaud. I was not aware this process had begun.”

He expected her to turn away, but found instead that she was struggling to compose herself. Pavel stood alongside her. Maretsky and Anton had remained upstairs.

“Come forward, if you would.”

She put a black gloved hand to her mouth, then took out a white lace handkerchief from her bag and placed it over her nose. She stepped forward and looked calmly at the girl’s face, before shaking her head confidently. “I don’t recognize her.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

Ruzsky walked over to the pile of clothes in the corner and picked up the dead girl’s dress. He carried it to Madame Renaud, pulling the hem through his hands until he found the label. She took the dress from him and half turned, holding it up toward the light. She returned it to him and removed a pair of eyeglasses from her bag, before examining it once again. “Yes,” she said, simply. She let the hem of the dress drop, holding it up by its shoulders. “I see you are as capable as your wife claims.”

Ruzsky felt momentarily confused.

“Sherlock Holmes, she calls you. Isn’t that so?”

Ruzsky realized she was taunting him.

“This is one of your dresses,” he said.

“It is much too big for the dead girl. A terrible fit.” She turned to him with a caustic smile. “Surely you can see that.”

“Who did you make it for?” Ruzsky didn’t expect an answer.

“Vyrubova,” she said.

“Anna Vyrubova?”

“Yes.” She was enjoying her power now. Ruzsky saw the color drain from Pavel’s face again.

“You are referring to the intimate friend of the Empress, Anna Vyrubova?”

“The same. It’s an old dress-two or three years. She must have given it to the dead girl.”

Ruzsky hesitated. “You haven’t seen this woman before?”

“No.”

“Definitely not?”

She tilted her head to one side, but it was a gesture of amusement, not irritation. “No.” She was watching him. “Your wife came in this morning.”