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arriving for a ball, seventeen for utilitarian purposes. This is the only one which is private.”
Trevor nodded. Viktor Prakov was scarcely a talkative fellow, but he was certainly more
professional and confident than anyone they had met in the bumbling private guard, the majority of
whose members had probably been placed there on the whim of the tsar. Trevor wondered what the
bald man thought of the second force within the palace, whether he resented them, envied them,
struggled to work with them, or merely ignored them.
“We did not simply ask you to meet us to provide a tour,” Trevor said, “for such a simple task
could have of course been carried out by any of your subordinates.”
Prakov waited.
“We have two pieces of information about Filip Orlov, one of the members of the tsar’s private
guard,” Trevor continued. “He invited Detective Abrams to the gentleman’s enclave three days ago
and told him that one of the imperial dance masters, a man by the name of Konstantin Antonovich, is
his primary suspect in the ballroom murders.”
Still no change of expression on Prakov’s face.
Trevor fumbled for words. It was hard to talk to a man who was so utterly non-reactive.
“Might I ask if the palace police share the theory that Antonovich is involved in the murders?”
“The first two deaths were deemed suicides and the bodies have already been accepted by the
families for burial,” Prakov said without emotion, or even without any particular cadence to his
voice. If a machine could speak, Trevor thought, this is how it would sound. “And our investigation
into the death of Cynthia Kirby is likewise drawing to a close. We intend to have her body ready for
release into your custody by tomorrow, just as your Queen has requested.”
Interesting, Trevor thought. Not only had Prakov avoided answering the question, but he had
also avoided even using the word “murder.” Apparently the palace police not only lacked a suspect,
but they also lacked suspicions.
“You said you had two pieces of information, I believe?” Prakov prompted.
“Tell him, Davy,” Trevor said.
“Filip Orlov is with the revolution,” Davy blurted.
For the first time Prakov’s eyes showed a flicker of a response.
“Which revolution?”