He had received the letter earlier that evening, delivered by a bonded courier from New York. However, it had been written in another city, in another country, in another time. He sat down at the rosewood writing table, placing his elbows on it, pressing the letter in one hand and the enameled box in the other against his temples. He sat that way for a long, long time, his eyes shut, his breathing laborious. The past had finally caught up to him and this time, there was no escape.
1
As the train pulled out of the Dresden station in a cloud of steam and early morning mist, Rudolf Rassendyll sat in the dining car over a light breakfast, trying to recall where he had seen the scar-faced man before. The object of his ruminations sat several tables away from him, drinking coffee. They had exchanged several glances and Rassendyll found the situation somewhat embarrassing. Clearly, the man remembered him from somewhere and was awaiting some sign of recognition. With none forthcoming, he must have thought that Rassendyll was slighting him. To stall for time while he racked his brain for some clue as to the man’s identity, Rassendyll hid behind his copy of The Strand Magazine, pretending to read while he kept glancing furtively at the scar-faced man, hoping to jog his memory into remembering where they had met.
He was an unusually large man with the broad shoulders of a laborer and big, muscular arms. However, he was quite obviously not of the working class. The large ruby ring he wore on his left hand indicated that he was a gentleman of some means, as did the diamond stickpin, the gold watch chain, and the elegant, gold-headed ebony walking stick he carried. His suit was the height of Parisian fashion, but the man did not look French. His dark complexion and curly black hair gave him a Slavic aspect that was further borne out by the high forehead, the strong nose, the prominent jawline, and the square chin. His eyes, which one might have expected to be dark, were a surprisingly brilliant shade of emerald green. Their bright hue, combined with his dark complexion, gave his gaze a piercing, magnetic quality. His striking good looks were marred only by the scar that ran from beneath his left eye, across the high cheekbone to just above the corner of his mouth. It was arrow-straight, quite likely a dueling scar. Hardly anyone dueled anymore, especially with sabres, except for the young Prussians and the Central Europeans, who were known to drop a glove at the slightest provocation.
The man’s posture, the quality of his dress, and his impeccable grooming all spoke of wealth and breeding. Taking into account his Slavic features, the dueling scar, the expensive clothing and the man’s carriage, Rassendyll deduced that he was probably a Balkan, a nobleman from one of the small mountain principalities perhaps. This deduction was facilitated by the fact that they were aboard a train that was heading for the Balkan frontier, but Rassendyll decided that not even Sherlock Holmes himself could have done better under the circumstances. Unfortunately, he was still no closer to recalling the man’s name, although he seemed to remember now that they had met in London fairly recently, at some sort of function. In another moment, surely, he would have him placed.
The scar-faced man glanced up and saw Rassendyll staring at him intently. Immediately, Rassendyll averted his gaze, but he was too late. The scar-faced man stood up and approached his table.
“I beg your pardon,” he said in a startlingly deep and resonant voice. “Forgive me for intruding, but I seem to have the strongest feeling that we have met somewhere before.”
“You’re English?” Rassendyll said with surprise. The man spoke in English, without a trace of an accent, which made Rassendyll disappointed at having guessed so far off the mark regarding his nationality.
“I have spent a great deal of time in England,” the man said, “but I am not a native. Permit me to introduce myself.
The name is Drakov. Nikolai Drakov.”
“Rudolf Rassendyll, at your service.” They shook hands and Rassendyll felt slightly vindicated.
“Rassendyll?” said Drakov, frowning slightly. “By any chance, would you be a relation of Lord Burlesdon’s?”
“Robert is my brother,” said Rassendyll. Suddenly, it came to him and he struck his forehead with the palm of his hand. “But of course! I saw you at a party hosted by my brother several weeks ago in London, in honor of the new Serbian ambassador. You were the chap escorting that dazzling Countess Sophia! Forgive me, my dear fellow, for having such an abominable memory. Won’t you join me?”
They sat down opposite each other at the table. “No need for apologies,” said Drakov. “As I recall now, we were never formally introduced.”
“Yes, well, Robert’s parties do tend to be somewhat informal, despite their size,” said Rassendyll.
“Still, I can hardly blame you for having failed to place me at once,” said Drakov, with a smile. “Next to the countess, I must have been quite invisible.”
Rassendyll laughed. “Hardly, old chap! It would take quite a bit of doing to render a man of your formidable dimensions invisible! How is the lovely countess?”
“As lovely as ever,” Drakov said. “As it happens, I am just now on my way to join her in Strelsau.”
“What a coincidence!” said Rassendyll. “I, too, am traveling to Strelsau! Doubtless, you are going there to attend the coronation of Rudolf Elphberg?”
“I am to escort the countess to the coronation,” Drakov said.
“Perhaps, then, you will introduce me,” Rassendyll said. “I did not have the opportunity to meet the countess in London. I could not seem to break through the throng of admirers she was surrounded by. To tell the truth, I felt myself at a bit of a disadvantage in that witty crowd. Though I’m ordinarily a garrulous fellow, I tend to stammer like a schoolboy in the presence of a beautiful woman.”
Drakov smiled. “I doubt you would have had that problem with the countess. She has quite a way about her. You should have asked Lady Burlesdon to introduce you. The two of them seemed quite taken with each other.”
“Yes, that’s just like Rose,” said Rassendyll. “Lady Burlesdon takes her position in society quite seriously. She has a knack for insinuating herself into the center of attention, or as close to it as possible.”
Drakov raised his eyebrows. “I seem to sense a note of disapproval.”
Rassendyll grimaced. “The disapproval is more Lady Burlesdon’s than mine. Rose considers me the bane of her existence. Not only does she find my lack of industry appalling, but it is a source of constant irritation to her that my features bring to mind the family scandal.”
“Scandal?”
“You mean you haven’t heard the story? I would have thought that someone would have brought it up that night, at least once.”
Drakov frowned. “No, I must confess to ignorance. If it is an awkward topic, perhaps we should — ”
“No, no, dear fellow, not a bit of it,” said Rassendyll with a wave of his hand. “Frankly, I’m surprised that you’ve been spared. The so-called skeleton in our family closet sees such frequent display in London society that it is something of an open secret. Since Lady Burlesdon blushes so prettily, some wag always brings it up whenever someone comments on the difference in the coloring between my brother Robert and myself. Though it’s something of an embarrassment to the sensitivities of my sister-in-law, I find it somewhat amusing. My father did, as well. He gave me the name of Rudolf because it is an old and common Elphberg name and I was born with what my family refers to as the ‘Elphberg Curse’ — I mean this rather aristocratic nose of mine and my red hair. I suppose I should explain. As you are on your way to Rudolf Elphberg’s coronation, you might find it diverting to hear the story.”
“I must admit to being intrigued,” said Drakov.
Rassendyll leaned back in his chair and tucked his thumbs into his waistcoat. An inveterate gossip, he delighted in telling the tale afresh to a new listener.