Chapter Text
Dawn had arrived with its violet-turning-to-rose hues. The lamplighter made his way along the quiet street extinguishing the flames that lit the roadway for the few hours that make up a late spring night in St. Petersburg. From out of the two-story wooden structure at the far end of the street, a man suddenly appeared. His mop of black hair spiked outwards in all directions. His wild eyes took in the empty doorways of his neighbors and the movement of the man dousing the street lights fifty yards away. He clutched his side, stumbled a few feet forward and collapsed.
It was the scream of the woman who lived two houses over that alerted the lamplighter. He saw her bent over a prone figure. Moving quickly to see what caused the fright, the worker landed at the spot of the fallen man at the same time as the woman’s husband. The woman stood as the men approached.
“It’s Vladimir Nikolayevich - there’s blood!” she exclaimed, looking at the pool of blood spreading out from under him.
Vladimir Nikolayevich lay face down, one hand still pressed against his wound. The woman’s husband turned him over. Vladimir stirred.
“Call for a doctor!” the lamplighter yelled. More neighbors had come forward, a crowd had amassed around the injured man.
“My wife ... “ Vladimir called weakly, making as if to rise and look for her. The lamplighter held him down, instructing him to stay still. A neighbor shouted that he would go. He returned almost immediately, shaking his head at the lamplighter. He instructed the man behind him to go for the constable.
“She’s dead,” he said.
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Oblansky and Shtolman stood over the bed on the second floor. A large red blotch on the pillow marred the otherwise stainless white sheets. The bed frame was a simple, clean wood design, a few embellishments, but nothing ornate. Plain, sturdy tables stood on either side, one with a set of drawers. A pair of narrow, but tall, windows were adorned with lacy, phantasmic white curtains. Small framed photos sat on the dresser opposite the bed and an oil-on-canvas garden scene hung above.
“She was shot here … and then chased her attacker out through the sitting room … and toppled down the stairs,” Oblansky thought aloud. It sounded far-fetched. A head wound, even when not fatal, generally inhibited the victim from moving swiftly. The doctor who arrived to treat Vladimir Nikolayevich Levinsky confirmed that Mrs. Levinskaya had suffered from a broken neck. But it was unclear whether that or the gunshot was what killed her.
“What is the state of things in this room, Tikhon Efimivich?” Yakov Shtolman asked, looking expectantly at his assistant.
Tikhon Oblansky eyed the small bedroom.
“A red liquid has stained the pillow on the left side of the bed - it appears to be blood. Additional drops of blood are on the floorboards near the bed - left side again - and in the direction of the door to the sitting room.”
“What else?” Yakov prodded.
“Ummm … nothing else seems out of place … except that window.” Tikhon moved to the right side of the bed to better assess the window. The pane was slightly askew. Tikhon could see the constables below, rummaging through the bushes.
“Lieutenant!” one of them called. He emerged from the greenery below, holding a pistol.
“The attacker could have tossed the weapon out the window,” Tikhon deduced.
“Good,” Yakov Platonovich encouraged. “Now tell me how you found the other rooms in the house.”
Oblansky recounted the blood splatter on the staircase and on the floor of the sitting room. He made a second walk through the rooms to confirm his memory. The parlor that sat just outside the bedroom was undisturbed. A small table with four chairs took up one corner of the cozy room. A velvet burgundy settee and a pair of dark wood padded chairs sat facing the fireplace along the north wall. The table that ran behind the divan featured a collection of ceramic angels. Some had fierce faces and others cherubic. The other piece of furniture was a secretary with a delicate-looking chair. Nothing else notable - nothing obviously missing or damaged.