Ruzsky got up, spurred by the recollection that he had once seen Maria in a quiet corner of the Kazan Cathedral on a Sunday morning.
It was a painful process, even for a man used to Siberia. Ruzsky lit a fire in the tiny stove and melted a bowl of ice. After half an hour the water was still only tepid, but he could wait no longer. He washed, shaved, trimmed his mustache with an old, blunt pair of scissors, then dressed and stepped onto the landing.
The stairwell was festooned with clothes hung up to dry, most of which had frozen overnight, and there was not a single light, so Ruzsky had to pick his way down with care. Most of the apartments had been subdivided so that each room was occupied by a different family, but at least no one was sleeping on the stairs this morning. Perhaps it was just too cold.
The stench of the hallway latrines and discarded refuse caught in his throat as he made his way toward the big oak door and stepped out into the chill predawn air of the courtyard. Ahead, two droshky drivers had upended their narrow sleds. The nearest was oiling the runners, while the other was packing the inside of his with hay for passengers to rest their feet upon. The horses stood in the corner, beneath one of the slimy, covered wooden staircases that led up to the rooms on the first floor on the other side of the yard.
Ruzsky pulled down his sheepskin hat and crossed the courtyard. A gas lamp glowed dimly through the archway from the street and he nodded to the lanky dvornik-yard porter-who sat in his cubicle by the gate.
He almost fell over the figure crouching in the shadows.
The man was wrapped in a blanket and had a long, unkempt beard, encrusted with filth. He stared up at Ruzsky with hollow eyes.
Ruzsky ignored him, but twenty paces down the street, he changed his mind, turned around, and went back. He pulled the man to his feet, ignoring the indignant shouts of the fat schweizar-the porter-who emerged from nowhere as Ruzsky half carried, half dragged the man up the stairs.
Ruzsky had intended to leave the man inside the entrance to the building, but dragged him instead up to his room and placed him in front of the stove.
Ruzsky straightened and looked at the man as he would a wounded animal. He stoked the fire, sighed, went to his bed and brought back a second blanket to put around the man’s shoulders. “What’s your name?”
The man just stared at the flame.
“When you are warm, I’d be grateful if you could leave. I have things to do.”
Ruzsky waited for a response, but none was forthcoming. He crouched down beside him. “I have work to do. There is nothing here of value, so I will leave you. Please let yourself out when you are warm.”
The man continued to stare straight ahead. Ruzsky moved to the door, wondering if he would return to find a corpse.
Outside, he stopped for a moment in an attempt to clear the foul smell of the hallway latrines from his nostrils and then began to walk.
Line Fourteen was close to Maly Prospekt, the seediest of the main three streets that cut across the island. Down at the far end, close to the great massif of the Stock Exchange and the honey-colored buildings of the university, around Bolshoy Prospekt and down to about Line Five, the island managed a faintly well-bred air. But the area around Maly was more or less a slum, run-down ochre-colored houses interspersed between shops with small grimy windows. Most had signs above their doors announcing Credit not allowed. Do not come in unless you can pay.
This had never been a good part of the city, but now it was downright depressing. It was close to the narrow streets of the Gavan, St. Petersburg ’s first port, which lay at the western tip of the island, and, as he walked, Ruzsky brushed past several merchant sailors emerging from the area’s seedy pubs.
Maly had no restaurants, but plenty of tea houses. However, even these chaynaya, which had once served basic fare at a reasonable price-before the war you could get a decent fried pot with sausages here for five copecks or so-no longer had anything appetizing to hang in the window. The only activity appeared to be in the secondhand clothes shops which had multiplied along the street.
Ruzsky was hungry, so he walked down to the St. Andrew’s Market, which ran in narrow alleys off the back of the cathedral on Line Six, but he was shocked to find that the war had stripped even this colorful quarter of its character.
If Irina had never gotten over having to move away from the south side, she had at least enjoyed helping the servants with the shopping here. It had always been bustling, loud peddlers touting their wares in competition with one another, but this morning a grim silence hung over the tiny square. The only stall holders were families trying to offload secondhand junk in return for a few copecks. In between the piles of old furniture and books, all Ruzsky could find was root vegetables, so he turned around and began to walk in the opposite direction.
He passed a group of students emerging from a café. There were four of them: a pretty girl in an astrakhan cap and three young men in tattered, worn-out clothing. As Ruzsky examined them, their anxious faces brought to mind the phrase put into Judge Porphyre’s mouth in Crime and Punishment: “Raskolnikov’s crime is the work of a mind over-excited by theories.”
As he reached the waterfront, he saw a few droshky drivers waiting for hire, but he ignored their shouts and continued on past Konradi’s sweetshop on the corner, where the servants had brought him and Dmitri to spend their weekend pocket money.
Ruzsky waited for a tram to cross in front of him as he was buffeted by a sudden gust of wind on the Nicholas Bridge. The dawn sun washed the sky a delicate and subtle shade of red. The lamps hissed. Those on the waterfront were the last to be lit and put out.
It was cold, the Arctic wind still whistling down the Neva with startling ferocity. Ruzsky’s cheeks stung and his feet grew numb. He recalled running across the bridge to Konradi’s and reflected upon the way he still physically shuddered almost every time he thought of his schooldays. As he turned onto Horseguards, he considered, as he often did, how different his life would have been if he’d followed the course prescribed for him.
Would it, in fact, have been easier?
The giant semicircular colonnade of the Kazan Cathedral had been inspired by St. Peter’s in Rome, and this morning, as always, there were beggars standing on the steps at its entrance-mostly women with young children. Ruzsky stepped into the relative warmth of the cathedral’s interior. It was packed already; small groups stood in front of icons and candles, their heads bent in prayer. Ruzsky bought a candle from the nearest booth and joined a group close to the altar. He lit the candle and placed it in the metal holder, crossing himself as he did so.
The priest’s murmured prayers were answered by a choir on the mezzanine floor at the far end of the cavernous hall. Ruzsky breathed out. He did not believe in God, but for as long as he could recall, he had found the church’s rituals soothing.
Ruzsky crossed himself once more and then began to wander amongst the other worshipers. All around, pale blue spirals of incense drifted up toward the vaulted ceiling. He walked behind one of the great columns and stood directly before the altar, beneath the great chandelier that hung from the dome.
He searched the faces around him, without success. He was moving toward the darker corners down one wing of the cathedral when he saw her.
Her expression in repose, it seemed to him, had a wistful quality. But a slow smile spread across her face as he approached. “Hello, Sandro,” she whispered. “I thought you might come here.”
They stood close together, looking at the golden sun above the altar and listening to the priest’s mournful liturgy. “I got your note,” Ruzsky said.
“You will come?”
“Of course.”
Maria was still looking toward the altar. “Perhaps I should not have asked you.”
Ruzsky’s heart beat a little faster.
“You are chief investigator once more?”
“Yes.”
“So we can sleep easily in our beds again.” She smiled at him, then gazed back toward the altar.
“We found two bodies on the Neva yesterday. In front of the Winter Palace.”
“Who were they?”
“We don’t know,” Ruzsky said. He recalled Irina’s accusation that he never communicated, about anything. “They were badly mutilated.”
She turned to him suddenly. “Sandro, I…” She was biting her lip and he could see the confusion in her face.
“My wife has left me,” he said quickly, before she could go on. “She made her choice.”
“It may be that we now live in a world without choices.”
“Things change.”
“Yes.” Maria looked into his eyes. “Things change. But we must stay friends. We can achieve that, can’t we?”
“Of course.”
She was flustered. “I have to go. You will be there tonight?”
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
He watched her go. When she reached the door, she turned once, hesitated for a second, and then slipped out into the cold light.
Ruzsky went first to the duty desk, where the officer that he’d dealt with yesterday sat slumped forward, his face on the report book, fast asleep. His mouth was squashed open and he snored quietly.
“Good morning.”
The man sat bolt upright, with startled eyes.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Ruzsky grinned. “It is a Sunday, after all. How long have you been on the night shift?”
“Two weeks. This is my last one.”
“Good. You look like you need some sleep.” Ruzsky reached for the report book and glanced at the previous day’s record of assaults, burglaries, and random acts of street violence. Many more than he ever remembered. “Get me Missing Persons again, would you?”
The officer hurried to oblige.
There were no new entries.
“Nothing there, sir?”
“No.”
“Who were they?”
Ruzsky looked at the man for a second. “We don’t know,” he said.
“Revolutionaries?”
Ruzsky frowned. “Why do you say that?”
“It’s what the others think. Out there in front of the palace.”
Ruzsky shook his head. He assumed the men had been talking about yesterday’s visit from the Okhrana. “I think they’re wrong. When’s your relief?”
“In an hour, sir. If he’s on time.”
“Tell him if there is any report of someone missing, I want to be told immediately.”
There was a pile of papers on his desk, placed there after he’d left the previous evening. On top was a note from the fingerprint bureau asking for written authorization to begin a search. He filled in the form, ticked the box marked criminal suspects only, and placed it in his “out” tray. The one thing common to all departments of the Tsar’s government was their insane level of bureaucracy.
Ruzsky looked at his pocket watch. He picked up the telephone earpiece and waited for a connection. He asked the operator for the line to Tsarskoe Selo and it was answered immediately.
“May I speak with Colonel Shulgin please?”
“Who is calling?”
“Investigator Ruzsky of the Petrograd Police Department.”
“What is it concerning?”
“I’d rather explain to the colonel in person.”
“One minute, please.”
Ruzsky waited and waited, drumming his fingers impatiently on his desk.
“Are you still there?” the voice asked eventually.
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid Colonel Shulgin is engaged. He will telephone you later this morning.”
“I’d like to speak to him now.” Ruzsky was aware of the sharpness in his voice.
“He is otherwise engaged.”
“I’ll wait.”
“He will be engaged for some time.”
“This is a murder investigation.”
Ruzsky heard the man sigh. “Colonel Shulgin will telephone you later this morning.”
“Do you have any idea how long he will be? I have to go out.”
“I’m afraid not.”
Ruzsky terminated the call. He thought the arrogance of the palace staff in the face of the current popular mood defied belief. He looked at his pocket watch again.
Downstairs, Sarlov was drinking from a tin cup full of strong Turkish coffee. There was another corpse on the slab, covered by a single white sheet, folded back at the top. The victim was an old man.
“A drunk,” Sarlov explained. “Froze to death.”
There was a light on in the corner, but the room was mostly in shadow. The smell made Ruzsky gag, but he didn’t recoil. It irritated Sarlov when detectives were in a hurry to get away. He appeared to prefer the company of corpses to that of humans. There were times when Ruzsky couldn’t bring himself to blame him.
“So,” Ruzsky said.
“So… what?”
“Any further thoughts?”
“I’m thinking about whether you have a cigarette.”
Ruzsky took out the silver case and walked around the corpse’s head, offering Sarlov a cigarette and then lighting one for himself. They smoked in a silence that was almost companionable. Ruzsky stared at the old man in front of him. His face was as white as marble.
“It’s a Sunday morning,” Sarlov said. “I’m not officially working.”
“I can see.”
“You don’t know who they are, do you?” Sarlov said. “Or why they were taken?”
Ruzsky pointed with his cigarette. “The girl was called Ella. She worked in the nursery at Tsarskoe Selo-”
Sarlov whistled quietly.
“She was fired, apparently for stealing.”
“That’s what they told you?”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t believe them?”
“I’d hesitate to say that. It was the Empress who told me.”
“You spoke to her? She consented to see you?” Sarlov couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice.
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”