The professor stares at Bukin, then carries on. “I do not blame a poor blind man for supporting his family. After all, it is easy money for him. He is paid for recognising Rasputin’s voice at the door, and reporting dates and times back to you. Your informers follow Rasputin everywhere they can. But they are not allowed, of course, to follow him into the ladies’ rooms at the bath house, which is very frustrating for you. So Mikhailov’s reports of Rasputin’s comings and goings are most useful for your dossier.”
Bukin’s manner has changed from our previous meeting with him. He seems to have thrown off a veil of politeness; his voice is clear and sharp-edged.
“I advised you, Professor, that Miss Frocester should not visit the bath house. Under Shipping Regulation 15A, boarding permits may not be granted to suspected criminals. That includes people guilty of indecent activity. One interpretation of you both visiting the bath house is that you went there to offer Rasputin – or someone – sexual services. I would not be so impolite as to say it – but some might say, Professor, that you acted like a pimp, and you, Miss Frocester, like a whore.”
Bukin’s final word feels like a punch in my face. I’m so shocked that I can’t defend my own actions. But I think of the other women at the bath house.
“There are many respectable women at the bath house, Mr Bukin! They go there to meet each other, to chat and relax. Going to the bath house is not wrong.”
Weirdly, Bukin returns to his usual fawning manner. “Of course, Miss Frocester! Despite what Westerners believe, Okhrana are not secret police. Our job is to solve problems, not create them.”
I speak between clenched teeth. “What exactly does that mean?”
“Miss Frocester, our trained officers will look very carefully into the whole matter. Quite soon, they will probably inform you that you are both cleared of all suspicion. But while they are carrying out their investigation, neither of you may board any ship. And, may I suggest that you both behave with decorum from now on, while you are in this city? After all – you are an older unmarried man and a young unmarried woman, travelling together. You can see how irregular it looks.”
Another night has passed; morning dawns over St Petersburg. I go to the Jewish bakery again. While sitting with my bagel, I open the novel I’ve brought with me: Dostoevsky’s Brothers Karamazov. I hope it will give me some insights into this country. I think of Rasputin, and words jump off the page at me.
“A holy man is one who takes your soul, your will, into his soul and will. When you choose a holy man, you renounce your own will and yield it to him, in complete submission.”
I close the book, and just like yesterday, I go back to the hotel’s reading room. The professor is not there. I go up to his room and knock on the door.
“Come in.”
The professor sits in a corner, gazing out of the window.
“I am surprised that you have come to see me, Miss Agnes. My bad mood means I am not pleasant company for you at present. But also, Mr Bukin may have paid the hotel porters to spy on you. They will write a report for Okhrana, to say that you are visiting a man’s hotel room, like a common prostitute.” He smiles at his bleak little joke, then shakes his head and speaks bitterly.
“Bukin’s claptrap about boarding permits… it is like he has thrown us into prison, Miss Agnes. Russia is our prison.”
I joke in my turn. “It’s a very large prison.”
The professor manages a thin smile. I change the subject. “Bukin interrupted your hypnosis of Rasputin half way through, Professor.”
“On the contrary. I was just finishing the session. I was about to bring Rasputin out of the Hypnotic-Forensic state of consciousness.”
“Really? But… he was about to tell us what had happened between him and Svea Håkansson.”
“Oh, that! Nothing, of course.”
I look at the professor in surprise. He carries on, for a moment forgetful of our troubles. “Nothing. Nothing at all happened between Rasputin and Miss Håkansson. They hardly even spoke to each other.”
“But he was watching her, and—”
“I have a slightly embarrassing confession, Miss Frocester. But it may help me explain to you what took place between Rasputin and Svea at Tri Tsarevny.
When I was around fifteen years old, I developed a silly fancy – a ‘crush’ on a lady in Stockholm; she lived in the apartment opposite us. Felicia Nilsson… I could think of nothing but her. But of course, she was twice my age.” He smiles in reminiscence. “It is funny that perhaps I have never married, Miss Agnes, because when I see women’s faces, I am always, somehow, looking for Felicia Nilsson.
Anyway, it was summer in Stockholm. A hot night. I looked out of my window – and there she was, the drapes of her room open, standing in the lamplight. She was completely unaware of me. She started to undress.”
I look at the professor. I have known him for years, but I’m surprised at his frankness. He smiles wistfully. “I pulled my drapes closed. I didn’t watch, like some Peeping Tom, as you would say in English. But I sensed what it would have felt like – to watch an object of desire, from a distance. That is exactly how Rasputin felt, seeing Svea on her island across the lake.”
“He can have his pick of women—”
“Can he? Let me ask you a personal question, Miss Agnes. You are an unattached young woman. Would you be interested in meeting Rasputin… privately?”
“Of course not!”
“Exactly. Your own answer proves that Rasputin does not have ‘his pick of women’ as you put it. He can have only those who are vulnerable and gullible enough to be taken in by him. He is idolised by needy women. But he is needy too: his emotional life is like a bottomless pit. Human worship is poured into it, but it remains empty and unsatisfied.”
The professor pauses, then goes on, as if giving a lecture in psychology. “The root of Mr Rasputin’s character is this. Think of a little boy who tells tall stories – lies, really. His stories get people’s attention, and he enjoys that. As he grows up, he becomes addicted to seeking attention. But he also has a childlike searching soul, a desire for what is real and true – like an artist, an explorer or a scientist. How does a peasant boy from Siberia deal with all that in his head? I don’t blame him. He simply started to believe his own lies.”
“So did he kill Svea Håkansson?”
“Of course not! He’s not capable of murder. Like I said, in his heart Rasputin is still a little boy who tells lies. Then he discovers that gullible people – and needy but occasionally attractive women – hang on his every word. He comes to St Petersburg, and finds that even the imperial family are desperate enough to believe his lies…” The professor sighs. “In fact, I feel sorry for Rasputin. Far from being the plotting spider that King Gustaf spoke of, Rasputin is a simple, boyish man. A man who has swum into deep waters, far beyond his depth – and is terrified of drowning.”
“So who did kill Svea then?”
“We need to go back to your – or Captain Sirko’s – piece of paper. You and I saw the islands on the lake. According to the Tsarina’s list, Sirko, Aristarkhov and Bukin were in the First Princess house. The islands, and the porches of the three houses, line up; a shot fired from the First Princess could have hit Miss Håkansson in the side of the head as she sat on her porch, looking out at the lake.”