noticed that the buttons on her shirt had not been fastened correctly, and that loose strands of her auburn hair, spliced with threads of grey, hung down over her neck where it had been hastily bundled into place.
He knew at once that she was not one of those who had come to curry favour with the Tsar. She was one of Rasputin’s other guests, who were equally numerous, who sought absolution for their sins. Pekkala knew of highly ranked ladies in Petrograd society who had knelt at Rasputin’s feet for the privilege of cutting his toenails. These women saved the clippings and sewed them into ribbons of silk, which they used to line the necklines of their dresses.
Arriving at Rasputin’s apartment, Pekkala found the door open. He walked in just as Rasputin emerged from a back room, wearing only a long shirt and a pair of slippers. His face wore its usual scowl but, at the sight of Pekkala, he broke into a wide grin, showing his strong, white and unusually long teeth. ‘Inspector!’ he shouted, spreading his arms as if to embrace Pekkala, although the two men remained several paces apart. ‘Come in! Come in!’ he commanded, even though Pekkala had already entered the room. ‘Sit down!’
‘Where?’ asked Pekkala, looking around him. Every seat in the room was heaped with clothes and unwashed crockery.
‘Any chair will do,’ replied Rasputin, tipping a heap of laundry on to the floor and dusting off the cushion with his hands. ‘Here!’
For now at least, Pekkala remained on his feet. ‘That woman on the staircase. One of yours?’
Rasputin nodded as he gathered up a handful of olives discarded on a plate by the windowsill. ‘Irina Krupskaya,’ he confirmed, tossing an olive into his mouth.
‘The wife of the Finance Minister?’ asked Pekkala, unable to mask his surprise.
Rasputin held up a finger, begging for patience as he rolled the olive around between his teeth, peeling away the meat, before spitting the stone out of the open window. ‘Deputy Finance Minister.’
Pekkala nodded towards the back room. ‘And this is how you wash away their sins?’
‘Only God can grant her clemency,’ argued Rasputin. ‘What you, and the rest of this spiritually bankrupt city, fail to grasp is that only by sinning can one drive out the devil of sin. Without it, there can be no focus for her repentance and without repentance, there can be no remission of guilt. I have brought her soul to the edge of a great precipice, and now she must throw herself off. Her choice is clear now, in a way it never was before.’
Pekkala shook his head, marvelling at the contortions of Rasputin’s logic. ‘How selfless of you, Grigori.’
‘Irina Krupskaya thinks so,’ Rasputin waved at the doorway, through which the woman had departed, ‘and if she believes it, who’s to say it isn’t true? Trust me, Inspector. You and I are not so different.’
‘We are what time and circumstance have made us,’ answered Pekkala.
‘All the more reason why you should learn to trust me better than you do.’ With those words, Rasputin flopped down on the couch and swung his bare feet on to the coffee table. ‘Sit, for pity’s sake, Inspector! You are making me nervous, standing there as if you have come to make an arrest.’ Then he narrowed his eyes. ‘I take it that’s not why you’re here.’
‘The Tsarina has decided to loan you some artwork.’
‘She has indeed, Pekkala.’
‘Do not accept it.’
‘Too late!’ Rasputin boomed with laughter. ‘See for yourself.’
Pekkala turned in the direction of Rasputin’s stare. There, on the wall behind him, was the icon. Pekkala had never studied The Shepherd up close before, and was shocked at the intensity of the colours. He could not deny that there was something unearthly about this little painting.
‘It arrived this morning,’ Rasputin said cheerfully. ‘Seems as if this was a wasted trip for you.’
‘Not if I can persuade you to give it back.’
‘And this on
He knew at once that she was not one of those who had come to curry favour with the Tsar. She was one of Rasputin’s other guests, who were equally numerous, who sought absolution for their sins. Pekkala knew of highly ranked ladies in Petrograd society who had knelt at Rasputin’s feet for the privilege of cutting his toenails. These women saved the clippings and sewed them into ribbons of silk, which they used to line the necklines of their dresses.
Arriving at Rasputin’s apartment, Pekkala found the door open. He walked in just as Rasputin emerged from a back room, wearing only a long shirt and a pair of slippers. His face wore its usual scowl but, at the sight of Pekkala, he broke into a wide grin, showing his strong, white and unusually long teeth. ‘Inspector!’ he shouted, spreading his arms as if to embrace Pekkala, although the two men remained several paces apart. ‘Come in! Come in!’ he commanded, even though Pekkala had already entered the room. ‘Sit down!’
‘Where?’ asked Pekkala, looking around him. Every seat in the room was heaped with clothes and unwashed crockery.
‘Any chair will do,’ replied Rasputin, tipping a heap of laundry on to the floor and dusting off the cushion with his hands. ‘Here!’
For now at least, Pekkala remained on his feet. ‘That woman on the staircase. One of yours?’
Rasputin nodded as he gathered up a handful of olives discarded on a plate by the windowsill. ‘Irina Krupskaya,’ he confirmed, tossing an olive into his mouth.
‘The wife of the Finance Minister?’ asked Pekkala, unable to mask his surprise.
Rasputin held up a finger, begging for patience as he rolled the olive around between his teeth, peeling away the meat, before spitting the stone out of the open window. ‘Deputy Finance Minister.’
Pekkala nodded towards the back room. ‘And this is how you wash away their sins?’
‘Only God can grant her clemency,’ argued Rasputin. ‘What you, and the rest of this spiritually bankrupt city, fail to grasp is that only by sinning can one drive out the devil of sin. Without it, there can be no focus for her repentance and without repentance, there can be no remission of guilt. I have brought her soul to the edge of a great precipice, and now she must throw herself off. Her choice is clear now, in a way it never was before.’
Pekkala shook his head, marvelling at the contortions of Rasputin’s logic. ‘How selfless of you, Grigori.’
‘Irina Krupskaya thinks so,’ Rasputin waved at the doorway, through which the woman had departed, ‘and if she believes it, who’s to say it isn’t true? Trust me, Inspector. You and I are not so different.’
‘We are what time and circumstance have made us,’ answered Pekkala.
‘All the more reason why you should learn to trust me better than you do.’ With those words, Rasputin flopped down on the couch and swung his bare feet on to the coffee table. ‘Sit, for pity’s sake, Inspector! You are making me nervous, standing there as if you have come to make an arrest.’ Then he narrowed his eyes. ‘I take it that’s not why you’re here.’
‘The Tsarina has decided to loan you some artwork.’
‘She has indeed, Pekkala.’
‘Do not accept it.’
‘Too late!’ Rasputin boomed with laughter. ‘See for yourself.’
Pekkala turned in the direction of Rasputin’s stare. There, on the wall behind him, was the icon. Pekkala had never studied The Shepherd up close before, and was shocked at the intensity of the colours. He could not deny that there was something unearthly about this little painting.
‘It arrived this morning,’ Rasputin said cheerfully. ‘Seems as if this was a wasted trip for you.’
‘Not if I can persuade you to give it back.’
‘And this on
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