Chapter Text
The black carriage rolled along the quiet lane, passing orchards and small garden plots, along with the infrequent modest home. Signs of life sprang forth everywhere - budding branches on the trees, splashes of yellow, purple, and red flowers popping up beside the Great Nevka River, the rustle of flapping wings accompanying the vast migration of birds across the Gulf of Finland. Spring in St. Petersburg was well on its way.
A genteel couple settled cozily inside the covered cab, whispering to each other. The elderly driver gently nudged the horses on the path as the sun began to dip below the trees. They came upon a particularly desolate stretch of road as the carriage halted.
“Yostav, why have we stopped?” asked the middle-aged man with bushy mutton-chop whiskers.
Yostav nimbly alighted from the bench, belying his age. He called back to the man in the cab as he made his way to the front of the carriage.
“One of the horses is treading funny. I will have a look at his hooves.” Yostav inspected the left and right front hooves of the five-year-old light grey gelding.
From further up the road, the bdump-bdump-bdump sound of racing horse hooves could be heard approaching the stalled carriage. The volume and the pace of the pounding intensified, alerting the passengers and unsettling them. The woman huddled closer to the man, turning her face into his shoulder and clinging to his arm.
In a whirl of dust, two riders appeared rounding the turn, speeding towards the tense and anxious travelers. They wore dark trousers and shirts with amply-sized sleeves gathered at the wrists, wide-brimmed gambler hats and kerchiefs, obscuring their facial features. The horsemen pulled to a stop, bounding the cab and threatening the habitants - revolvers leveled at their heads.
---
The flash of the camera lit up the stretch of road brilliantly, temporarily blinding the constables collecting evidence at the crime scene. Small, aflame bundles of sticks surrounded the carriage, warning oncoming conveyances. It was dark - the sun long set.
Yakov Platonovich and Dr. Zastreb hopped off the morgue wagon and were quickly greeted by the head of criminal investigations for the Vyborgsky District. The young doctor accepted a lantern offered to him and began his inspection of the bodies; Yakov garnered the facts from the police captain. The facts, so far collected, were few. Two men on horseback robbed the couple traveling in the carriage, shot them, and retreated in the same direction from which they arrived. The only witness was the carriage driver, Yostav, who was unharmed.
The dead man, Taras Mariv, was killed with a bullet through his skull, shot at close range. His companion, Natalya Gumibova, also dead of a gunshot wound, lay on top of Mariv, blood having colored her pale blond hair and staining the backside of her dusty pink jacket. From the interior of the cab, the constables recovered a small handbag containing a few coins, three rubles, a mirror, and a pair of keys, an ebony wood cane with a carved ivory handle, and the revolver bullet from the shot that passed through Gumibova’s neck.
“Doctor, what can you tell me about the cause of death?” Yakov Shtolman asked Zastreb as he approached the carriage.
“Nothing surprising at this point. I will, of course, need to inspect the bodies under better conditions - proper lighting and with access to my instruments - before completing my report, Detective Shtolman. But they appear to have died as it looks - from shots to the head and neck.”
“And the angle and location of the shooter?”
Dr. Zastreb moved from crouching over the couple to a standing position off to the rider’s right, a bit ahead of the cabin. He looked back at the dead man and woman.
“Here, I’d say,” Zastreb said, turning to Shtolman. “Could be a little farther away. The shooter fired from above the victims. Both shots originated from this side.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Yakov turned to the constable near them. “Did your men search the pockets and clothing of the deceased?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” the man answered, beckoning to a slight, young man in uniform, who hurried over clutching a small bin. Inside were a gold-plated pocket watch, a single key, a kerchief, and a fountain pen. Shtolman surveyed the items, handling each in turn, noting the lack of engravings, the fine craftsmanship, and their generally new-like condition.
“You can move the bodies to the wagon,” Yakov instructed. “Where is the driver?” The constable pointed to Yostav who leaned against a wood fence across the road, smoking a cigarette.
Yostav, grey-haired with a flat woolen cap, was slender with large, meaty hands, and sported a bushy mustache, matching his eyebrows which obscured his piercing fawn-colored eyes. Yostav looked up at the detective as Yakov crossed the narrow lane, but remained slouched against a post. Just then, one of the more dilapidated police transports rounded the bend, stopping alongside the fence.
“Tikhon Efimivich, excellent timing,” Yakov Platonovich called to the young investigator as he alighted from the carriage.”I need you to make notes of my conversation with the driver.”
“Mr. Yostav, is it?” Yakov began. The driver nodded.
“Erik Igorovich,” Yostav answered.
“Tell me what occurred this evening - include as many details as possible.”
“I already explained everything to the captain,” Yostav protested.
“Still, I would like to hear the circumstances for myself,” Yakov insisted. Yostav removed the remnants of his cigarette from his lips, tossing the waste to the ground. He appeared to be considering additional challenges to Detective Shtolman’s request. Apparently deciding that the St. Petersburg investigator would win out, Yostav repeated his recollection of events.
“We were traveling home from the dacha --”
“Whose dacha?” Yakov interrupted. “Mr. Mariv or Mrs. Gumibova?”
“Mariv - up near Golvinsky. We stopped here on the way back to St. Petersburg, when two men on horseback came from there,” Yostav pointed down the road in the same direction the carriage faced.
“You were already stopped when the men arrived?” Yakov clarified.
“Yes, the grey gelding was walking awkwardly; I wanted to check his hooves.” Yakov nodded.
“Go on,” he encouraged.
“The men told Mariv to hand over his money, and then they shot them and rode off.” Yostav continued.
“And what did the men look like?” Tikhon Oblansky asked.
“I don’t know. They were covered up with black handkerchiefs and wore dark clothes. Average height, I guess.”
“Nothing unusual about either of them?” Oblansky prodded. “Anything strike you as odd or particularly noticeable?”
Yostav shook his head. “No, nothing.”
“Mariv refused to part with his money?” Yakov Platonovich asked.
“Yes, I mean, no - he gave the thieves his purse.”
“And yet, they killed him...and his companion,” Yakov noted, staring hard at Yostav. “But you were not harmed. Why was that, do you think?”
“How should I know?!” Yostav responded angrily. “Do I know how these fool men think?!”
“Did Taras Mariv and Natalya Gumibova both live in the city?” Yakov proceeded with the questioning in his usual, calm demeanor.
“Mr. Mariv and his wife have an estate on Ital’yanskaya,” Yostav answered with pride. His face changed quickly to one of repugnance. ”Miss Gumibova lives in the furnished rooms near the cathedral on Izmailovsky. At least that is where I have deposited her from time-to-time.”
“And what was the relationship between Mariv and Gumibova?” Yakov asked.
Yostav gave Yakov a wearied look. With a broad, derisive smile, he replied, “They were friends.”
“You may take the carriage home,” Yakov informed the driver. “A constable will join you.”
Yakov called over a policeman and instructed him to escort Yostav to the Mariv home.
“Take notice of the horses - if their gait seems off,” Yakov quietly directed.