Gregori found me lodgings at the only tavern in the little town. He had told me that his sister’s body would lie for three days and nights while psalms were read over it, and I stayed there for those days. At one point I visited the home of the Russian Orthodox priest, where Katya’s body lay.
She showed no sign of the monstrous violence from which she had died, the fatal injury being hidden.
She had not been embalmed, merely washed and dressed according to their custom, for anything else would be forbidden by Orthodox practice. In her hands were folded a large white cross and the printed paper that her soul must present to Saint Peter for admission to Paradise, while a strip of paper printed in gold with the pattern of a crown was bound across her brow. She looked like a schoolchild, dressed for a Christmas festival.
‘I went to the burial service, still promising this girl whom I had not known that I should make the manner of her death known to the world. Throughout the ceremony I was aware of the presence of a great black-bearded man in a uniform coat and high-crowned cap who stood and watched Gregori. A truncheon with a spiked iron band hung at his broad belt, a symbol of cruelty and violence in these sacred proceedings. Gregori told me that the man was the town’s police officer.
‘When Katya had been laid to rest, we waited at the station for a train to take us on. Before the train arrived, the same policeman came to the station, escorting what was evidently a more important official. This man took up the stationmaster’s office and, shortly afterwards, we were summoned by the policeman to present ourselves and our travelling papers.
‘In the little office of the stationmaster, the official who had been with the policeman was seated behind the only desk. He waved us imperiously to two wooden chairs and demanded our travel papers. These he spread on the desk and examined carefully. After a long time he looked up at Gregori. “Gregorieff,”
he said, “it says here that you are a student of languages, presently travelling with this lady as an interpreter, and that your contract with her obliges you to accompany her all the way to Vladivostok, where she will leave the country. Is that correct?”
‘Gregori nodded silently. The official eyed him again, then said, “I understand that a sister of yours was killed in a hunting accident recently. You have my sympathy, and I am glad to see that you are continuing with your duties. That is good. You would be well advised not to permit this tragedy to affect your future. I am sure that you understand what I mean.” Gregori nodded again without
speaking.
‘He turned to me. “Mrs Fordeland,” he said. “You are, I see, a correspondent of an American magazine, who wishes to see our country so that you may write about it. It is unfortunate that you were a witness to the death of Gregorieff’s sister, but such things happen in all countries and I am sure that you would not wish to exaggerate the event by reporting it abroad. As I told Gregorieff, these things can affect our future if we do not treat them sensibly and allow them to be a part of the forgotten past.”
‘He took out a cigarette and lit it, blowing the smoke to the side. He stared at me. “I am,” he said, “the provincial official charged with investigating this matter for the record. I am satisfied that an unfortunate and unavoidable accident occurred, made doubly unfortunate by the fact that you were forced to witness it. I hope that the remainder of your time in our country is not spoiled by any further accident and that you will be able to tell your American readers nothing but good about us, Mrs Fordeland.”
‘He stamped our travel papers and thrust them at Gregori, then rose without a further word and strode out of the room, followed by the bearded policeman. We heard their footsteps die away along the wooden platform outside and neither of us said a word until the sound had ended. Then Gregori said,
“We have been warned. We have been told the official lie and we have been warned that we must say nothing else.”
‘We heard the train arriving and went out to board it. The official was nowhere in sight, but the large policeman stood at the end of the platform and watched us board, remaining there until the train pulled away.’
She waved a hand dismissively.
‘You will not wish to hear of the remainder of my journey,’ she said. ‘I had been deeply shocked by the death of Gregori’s sister, but I had taken on a task, and it has always been my way to try and carry out as efficaciously as I may the tasks which I take upon myself. Soon we fell back into the pattern which had persisted before, continuing our journey in short or longer sections, usually by train but sometimes by carriage, visiting towns and villages that lay along or close to our route and, in each one, seeking for people and events to write about for my American readers.
‘Gregori was just as efficient, though he was much quieter. All the time I wondered how the terrible events which I had witnessed had come about, but I saw no delicate way to broach the matter with him.
It was not until we had reached Vladivostok and I was awaiting the vessel on which I would leave Russia, that he spoke at last.
‘We had dined one evening and, as we sat at table, Gregori’s mind was evidently far away. He ceased to talk and his expression showed me that his mind was completely removed from our idle conversation. I have seen that look far too often in people who carry a heavy burden of grief. I reached across the table and touched his hand. “Gregori,” I said. “Nobody can bring your sister back, but I promise you that once I get to America I shall do my best to see that the world comes to know how she was murdered.”
He stared at me for a moment, then shook his head violently. “No,” he said, “you must not! You must not! You will put yourself into terrible danger! You must not do it!”
‘I did not understand his outburst, but gradually he began to tell me the story. It seems that his family came from the area where the incident occurred. They and everybody else for miles were ruled by a landowner called Count Skovinski-Rimkoff, a blood relative of the Tzar with an estate about the size of Wales. Gregori had told me, and my journey had shown me, that many Russian nobles are absolute tyrants on their estates, but this count, he said, was worse than any. The count was insane, driven by lust and a delight in cruelty, and behaved, apparently, like the Frenchman Bluebeard. Gregori’s family had kept clear of the madman, paid their dues, kept their observances and attracted no attention. Then his parents sent him to Moscow to study. His older sister, Anna, accompanied him to keep house for him - quite a usual arrangement. They left at home their younger sister, Katya, a girl just leaving school, to assist their parents. All went well, Gregori’s studies progressed, and then he had a telegram to tell him that his mother was extremely ill. He and Anna hurried home, but they were too late, their mother had died before they arrived. Their old father was prostrated with grief. If all this was not bad enough, the funeral of their mother was hardly over when Katya disappeared. A search was made, but soon the information came that she had been seen being forced by some of the count’s henchmen into a sleigh driven by their master. It seemed she had been taken to his home, and it was well known in the area that girls frequently disappeared that way or returned home after a long time in a state of madness.
‘The news was the last straw for Gregori’s father. An old man, borne down by the death of his wife, the disappearance of his youngest daughter in the hands of a madman was too much for him. He declined and died very shortly. There was nothing left for poor Gregori. He returned to his studies, taking Anna with him again, but he kept in touch with people at home and, eventually, he was able to achieve a secret correspondence with Katya. Painstakingly he created a plan of escape for the girl, found help for her and got funds to her. The final link in his plan was that of accepting the post as my interpreter. By so doing, he could arrange to be on the train by which Katya would make her escape, and he believed that even the mad count might hesitate to interfere with a train carrying a foreign journalist. With this in mind he arranged for Anna to join us on that part of the journey, introducing her as a cook and servant he had taken on.’
She gazed reflectively at her hands for a minute or so. Neither Holmes nor I spoke.
‘What went wrong we will never know. Somehow the count detected her escape and realized that she would have made for the train. He intercepted it and I have told you what followed. When Gregori had finished his narrative I was even more profoundly horrified than I had been that night on the train.
“This story must be told!” I exclaimed. “The world must know what manner of evil is allowed to flourish in Russia.” Gregori shook his head, sadly. “You do not understand,” he said. “You cannot tell the story, even in America, for it will endanger all of us, myself, Anna and not least yourself. If you publish the truth, they will know. They have already decided on their official explanation, and they will continue to lie and will say that you have written an untrue story. Because of my association with you, they will arrest me and say that I have deliberately created lies and fed them to an American journalist to damage my country in the eyes of the world. Maybe they will accuse Anna as well. As for you, you will be in America or Canada, but you will never be safe from them. The Tzar’s
