“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.”

“I was forgetting… your fine lineage and noble connections,” Sarlov said, with what might or might not have been irony.

“I went out to see Vyrubova,” Ruzsky said, “and the Empress walked in during the course of our interview.”

“This is the same Vyrubova who is, or was, an intimate of both Rasputin and the Empress?”

“Yes.”

“What is the girl supposed to have stolen?” Sarlov asked.

“Money, they said. But I’m not sure I believed them about that either.”

“How did she look?”

“Who?”

“The Empress.”

Ruzsky stared at the wall. “Tired.”

“She stays up late to telegraph the Germans with our war secrets.”

Ruzsky didn’t react. Rumors had circulated since the beginning of the war that the Empress was feeding secrets to the country of her birth. He looked at the dead couple’s effects, which were still piled in the corner. He dropped his cigarette on the floor, stamped on it, and picked up the man’s overcoat. “Why didn’t Prokopiev take their clothes?”

“He looked at them.”

Ruzsky spread out the overcoat. “A cursory glance or a proper examination?”

Sarlov shrugged. “Pretty thorough.”

“A few seconds?”

“A minute or more. I don’t see what you’re driving at.”

“What was he looking for, that’s what I’m driving at.”

“He looked like he was checking there was no incriminating evidence,” Sarlov said.

Ruzsky glanced at his colleague. This is exactly what he had been thinking, but he’d not expected the doctor to articulate it. “You said the man was American,” Ruzsky went on.

“Possibly foreign,” Sarlov said, correcting him.

“We might know by later on this morning, or perhaps tomorrow. Pavel has a lead down at the United States embassy.”

Ruzsky looked at the patch where the label in the overcoat had been removed, then turned out the inside pockets. There was still a little dirt there. He faced Sarlov. “Did the girl die instantly?”

“Most unlikely. Why?”

“I can’t get a clear view of this. Once we establish both their identities, in what direction should we be looking? Is it a crime of passion, a professional assassination, a family feud? What do you think? I mean, forgetting the Okhrana’s behavior for a moment and just considering the crime scene itself.” Ruzsky put the overcoat down and turned to the man’s jacket. Labels had been removed from the collar and the inside pocket.

Sarlov stubbed his own cigarette out on the corner of the table, then flicked it into the iron wastepaper bin. “I’ve been thinking about it, too. Let’s start at the beginning. I would say the murderer was tall. Take the woman. From what I could see, a healthy incision, but high. Forceful. Overhand.” He simulated the action. “Then the man.” Sarlov looked at the position he had once occupied on the slab. He pushed his glasses up his nose. His hair was wilder than yesterday. “Stabbed once initially, also overhand and quite high, coming down-remember the cuts on his face.” He raised his arm once more. “Then again. And again. And again, and again, and again, and again-”

“I get the picture.”

“You see what I’m saying?”

“No.”

“The murderer is angry. More than angry. This is a deep, atavistic rage, certainly not the work of a professional assassin. You do not stab so many times to be certain of the man’s death. Nor do you plan to do so in the snow, in full sight of the Winter Palace. This isn’t some petty squabble over money or… something trivial.”

“All right, Sarlov. I see.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“The murderer’s anger is directed principally at the man-that is my other point. It is an elementary, but nonetheless important, observation. The murder of the woman is purely functional. There is no anger against her, he just needs to get that done, before he turns to the man. That is why he is here and… bang, an explosion of rage. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything quite like it.”

“You make it sound like a lover’s quarrel,” Ruzsky said.

“It could be.” Sarlov was interested in drawing conclusions from the medical facts at his disposal, not in dreaming up explanations.

“And the branded star on the man’s shoulder doesn’t ring any bells for you? You’ve never seen anything like it before, don’t recall hearing of anything similar?”

Sarlov shook his head.

“Can you think of any potential explanation?”

“That’s your job. It could be anything.”

“What created it, then? What was it made with?”

“As you have observed, it is a branded star.”

“An imprint of loyalty to an organization, or group, or society?”

“I don’t know.”

“A religious sect?”

Sarlov didn’t answer. Ruzsky made a mental note to pursue the possibility of a religious connection.

He stared ahead, lost in thought, then turned back to the clothes. The branded star rang a bell somewhere in his mind. Was it in a case he himself had investigated, or something he had read about? He picked up the man’s boots. They had tiny holes in both soles, like his own. He caught sight of something on the heel and held them up to the light. “Have you got a magnifying glass?” he asked.

The physician rumbled around in a drawer and then came over, cleaning his glasses and looking up as Ruzsky held both the boots and the magnifying glass to the light. “Do you see that?”

“No.”

“The maker’s name has been worn down, but you can see something. I think it is ‘amburg.’ The ‘H’ has gone. Hamburg. That’s where they were made.”

Sarlov nodded. “He could be German.”

Sarlov took the magnifying glass and returned it to his drawer. Ruzsky examined the man’s trousers, turning them inside out. “If the murderer was that angry,” he said, “that insane-”

“I did say angry; I did not say mad. Sane men do diabolical things,” Sarlov insisted, with some feeling.

“His blood is up and yet, once he is done, the girl is, according to you, probably still alive, bleeding to death on the ice. The murderer bends over her and starts ripping the labels from her clothes. Then he or she goes to the man and does the same. The man’s body is covered in blood, which is everywhere, freezing quickly. This all takes time. Five minutes. Longer. It is the middle of the night, but the moon is bright and the danger of being seen must be high. There is no easy escape. You must walk far in each direction to get away from the scene and the murderer has decided that he must leave no prints. It’s brutal, methodical, but also amateurish. The murderer goes to the trouble of placing his footprints in those of his victims and then abandons that plan as he gets close to the embankment.”

Looking at the overcoat, Ruzsky could not quite believe that the murderer had been able to so thoroughly remove all clues as to the man’s identity in a few, rushed minutes out on the ice.

“Do you think he got this coat in Hamburg as well?” Ruzsky asked, holding it up to the light once more.

“Do I look like an expert in international fashion?”

Ruzsky shook his head. “To be honest, no.”

Pavel was sitting at his desk. “Progress,” he said, holding up a photograph of the male victim’s body. “It’s the man from the Astoria Hotel. I checked on the way in. And I got hold of the American official. He’s waiting for us at the embassy.”

Pavel stood. “You’ve a note on your desk. Another messenger. You’re a popular boy.”

Ruzsky picked up the envelope and turned it over. It had the seal of his brother’s regiment, the Preobrazhensky Guards.

The letter was on thick, yellowish paper.