Babayaga produced a lemon from the pocket of her apron, and a small silver knife, with which she carved a slice and held it out to him, her thumb pressing the sliver to the blade. And when he had taken it, she held the blade in the steam coming out of the samovar, so that the silver would not tarnish from the lemon juice.
“The Tsar was very fond of pine-smoked tea,” said Pekkala, squeezing the lemon into his drink.
“Do you know what people say, Inspector? Those of us who can still remember the way things used to be? They say the spirit of the Tsar sees through that emerald eye of yours.”
Pekkala reached up to his collar. Slowly, he folded it back. The eye came into view like that of a sleeper awakening. “Then he must be looking at you now.”
“I should have worn a nicer dress.” She smiled and her face turned red. “I miss him. I miss what he meant to our people.” Then her smile suddenly vanished. “But not her! Not the Nemka! She has much to answer for.”
Pekkala traveled to the mansion of Mathilde Kschessinska. He did not present himself at the front door, which might have drawn attention. Instead, he went around to the quiet street at the back of the mansion and let himself in through the gate which the Tsar himself used when he came to visit Madame Kschessinska.
The private door, just beyond the gate, was overgrown with ivy, making it difficult to spot. Even the brass doorbell had been overpainted green to camouflage it.
Pekkala glanced back to the street, to see if anyone had seen him come in, but the street was empty. A rain shower had passed through about an hour before. Now a pale blue sky stretched overhead. He pressed the doorbell and waited.
It was only a few seconds before Madame Kschessinska appeared. She was short and very slight, with a softly rounded face and bright, inquisitive eyes. Her hair was wrapped in a towel in the manner of a turban and she wore a man’s silk brocade smoking jacket, which probably belonged to the Tsar. “I heard the gate creak,” she began, but then she breathed in sharply, realizing it was not the Tsar. “I thought you were somebody else.”
“Madame Kschessinska,” he said, “I am Inspector Pekkala, the Tsar’s personal investigator.” He reached up to his lapel and turned it over, revealing the badge of his service.
“The Emerald Eye. Nicky has often spoken about you.” Suddenly she looked afraid. “Oh, no. Has something happened? Is he all right?”
“He is perfectly well.”
“Then what brings you here, Inspector?”
“May I come in?”
She hesitated for a moment, then swung the door wide and stood back.
Pekkala followed her into a well-lit house, on whose walls hung numerous framed programs and posters from the Imperial Ballet. In the front hall, peacock feathers sprouted from a brass umbrella holder like a strange bouquet of flowers. Tucked in among the feathers, Pekkala noticed one of the Tsar’s walking sticks, throated with a band of gold engraved with the Imperial crest.
They sat in her kitchen, which looked out onto a small garden where a willow tree draped its leaves over a wooden bench.
She served him coffee and toast with apricot jam.
“Madame Kschessinska,” Pekkala began, but then words failed him and he gave her a desperate look.
“Inspector,” she said, reaching across the table and touching the tips of her fingers to the gnarled bumps of his knuckles, “whatever this is, I am not in the habit of killing messengers who bring bad news.”
“I am glad to hear you say it,” replied Pekkala. Then he explained why he had come. When he got to the end of his story, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped drops of sweat off his forehead. “I am so sorry,” he said. “I would never have troubled you with this if I could have found a way to refuse.”
“I don’t understand,” said Kschessinska. “She knows about me. She has known about me for years.”
“Yes, I believe she does. It is also a mystery to me.”
For a moment, Kschessinska seemed lost in thought. Then she brushed her hand across her mouth as an idea occurred to her. “How well do you get along with the Tsarina?”
“Not well at all.”
“Then I think, Inspector Pekkala, that this investigation really has nothing to do with me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It is about you, Inspector Pekkala.” She got up and walked to the open window. Outside, in the garden, a breeze rustled the willow branches. “What do you think the Tsar will do when he finds out you have been investigating him, especially on a matter such as this?”
“He will be furious,” answered Pekkala, “but the Tsarina has ordered the investigation. I cannot refuse the order, so the Tsar can hardly blame me for coming here to speak with you.”
She turned and looked at him. “But he will blame you, Pekkala, for the simple reason that he cannot blame his wife. He will forgive her anything, no matter what she does, but what about you, Pekkala?”
“Now I am worried for both of us.”
“You shouldn’t be,” she replied. “I will not be hurt by this. If the Tsarina had wanted me out of the way, she would have seen to that a long time ago. It is you she is after, I’m afraid.”
Her words settled on him like a layer of dust. Everything she said was true.
During the course of their conversation, it became clear to Pekkala that Madame Kschessinska was, in almost every way, the polar opposite of the Tsarina. For the Tsar to have fallen in love with a woman like Kschessinska seemed not only plausible but inevitable.
“Thank you, Madame Kschessinska,” he said as she walked him to the door.
“You must not worry, Inspector,” she replied. “The Tsarina may try to feed you to the wolves, but from what I know about you, you may be the one who ends up eating the wolf.”
One week later, Pekkala presented himself once again at the Tsarina’s study door.
He found the Tsarina exactly as he had left her, lying on the daybed. It was almost as if she had not moved since they’d last parted company. She was knitting a sweater, the needles clicking rhythmically.
“I have concluded my investigation,” he told her.
“Yes?” The Tsarina kept her eyes on her knitting. “And what have you discovered, Inspector?”
“Nothing, Majesty.”
The click of the knitting needles came abruptly to a stop. “What?”
“I have discovered no irregularities.”
“I see.” She pressed her lips together, draining the blood from the flesh.
“In my opinion, Majesty,” he continued, “everything is as it should be.”
Her eyes filled with hate as she absorbed the meaning of his words. “You listen to me, Pekkala,” she said through clenched teeth. “Before he died, my friend Grigori made clear that there is a time of judgment coming. All secrets will be laid bare and for those who have not followed a path of righteousness, there will be no one to whom they can turn. And I wonder what will happen to you on that day.”
Pekkala thought about Rasputin after the police had pulled him from the river. He wondered what the Tsarina would have said about the day of judgment if she could have seen her friend that day, lying on the quayside with a bullet in his head.
The Tsarina turned away. With a swipe of her hand, she dismissed him.
After that, Pekkala sometimes came across Madame Kschessinska, buying food in the Gostiny Dvor market or shopping on the Passazh. They never spoke again, but they always remembered to smile.
