Death of a Princess
By R.N. Morris
By R.N. Morris
Summer 1880.
Lipetsk, a spa town in Russia.
The elderly and cantankerous Princess Belskaya suffers a violent reaction while taking a mud bath at the famous Lipetsk Sanatorium. Soon after, she dies.
Dr Roldugin, the medical director of the sanatorium, is at a loss to explain the sudden and shocking death.
He points the finger at Anna Zhdanova, a medical assistant who was supervising the princess’s treatment.
Suspicion also falls on the princess’s nephew Belsky, who appears far from grief-stricken at his aunt’s death.
Meanwhile, investigating magistrate Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky arrives in Lipetsk from St Petersburg, seeking treatment after a nervous breakdown.
Against his better judgement, Virginsky is drawn in to the investigation. But is he getting closer to the truth or walking straight into a deadly trap?
Excerpt
Dr Roldugin turned down the corners of his smile and faced Babkin with sudden gravity and what he hoped was a man-to-man frankness. ‘Sergey Ilyich, I want to assure you that the treatment we are proposing for your wife has been scientifically proven to be highly effective in alleviating her condition. Studies conducted at the Institute for Experimental Medicine in St Petersburg…’
‘If I understand you correctly, you intend to submerge her in a bath of mud?’ Babkin spoke in a grating voice, a kind of low growl that seemed to resonate somewhere in his chest. The effect on his wife was to set her trembling, like a flower blown by a powerful blast of wind.
‘That’s correct.’
‘And this treatment, it is the same treatment you give to everyone who comes to the sanatorium?’
Roldugin held up his palms in protest. ‘Sir, that is not entirely fair…’
‘No matter what’s wrong with them?’
‘We offer a range of therapies, which are tailored specifically to each individual patient.’
‘I would be very interested to know more about the chemical composition of the mud which you use here.’
’Yes, yes, of course. I am more than happy to give you the analytical reports which have been completed by experts. However, I should say they are rather technical in nature. I fear a layman may find the language difficult to understand.’
‘I’m not a layman. I was until recently Professor of Chemistry at Moscow University. I retired last year, to spend more time with my wife while…’ Babkin’s words faded away but the sense was clear. While she is still alive…
‘Ah, you did not… that is to say, there is no mention… I did not know.’
‘You did not know what?’
Roldugin knew how Babkin’s students must have felt to be hauled over the coals by their intimidating professor. ‘You do not use your academic title any more?’
‘As I said, I am retired, so… someone else is Professor of Chemistry now.’
‘I see. Well, I will ensure that the relevant documents are delivered to your room as soon as possible. You are both staying here at the sanatorium, I understand?’
Babkin issued a slow nod, his gaze once more darting towards the wall of certificates.
Roldugin launched into a desperate bid to keep his attention. ‘I would just like to say a few general words about our approach here. It is, I think you will find, a modern approach to treatment techniques, in line with the very latest theories and understanding. If I may put it this way, the basis of our approach is, in the most general terms, an understanding that human health is a harmonious combination of physical, mental and psychological health. To achieve a balance between these components it is important to know that each of the above aspects provides the maximum effect only in combination with the others.’
Babkin stared him down with a contemptuous glare. ‘Waffle.’
Roldugin felt the colour rush into his cheeks.
Kira Ivanovna let out a distressed whimper. She averted her gaze as if a wave of shame had crashed into the side of her head. ‘Sergey Ilyich,’ she murmured. ‘Please!’
Babkin pursed his lips. Roldugin would not say that the man’s expression softened but he had the definite sense of his relenting. ‘My wife has faith in your…’ Babkin broke off, unable to supply an appropriate word for the services Roldugin provided. He waved one hand vaguely. ‘And I suppose it can do no harm, even if it does not actively do good.’
Kira Ivanovna bristled with indignation on Roldugin’s behalf. It seemed that she was not quite the meek little mouse he had taken her for. A mouse angry that her nest had been disturbed, perhaps. ‘Now now, Sergey Ilyich, you are not to say that! You saw with your own eyes the wonderful transformation that our dear friend Nataliya Mikhailovna experienced after her stay in Dr Roldugin’s sanatorium.’
Roldugin gave a small bow of appreciation. He vaguely remembered the woman Kira Ivanovna was referring to.
‘Before she came here she was a martyr to her lumbago. She could barely walk, bent over like a cripple she was. Her back had been plaguing her for years. After two weeks in the sanatorium, she was able to throw away her cane and stand up straight. Why I believe she could even dance the polka, had the opportunity arisen. It reminds me of the lame man in the Bible. “Pick up your mat and walk!” our saviour said. Well, Dr Roldugin went one better. “Throw away your cane and dance the polka!”’
‘Did you see her dance the polka?’ demanded the ever-factual Babkin.
‘Tsh, tsh! Don’t be wilful! That’s not the point. The point is she was like a new woman. Not only could she have danced the polka if she’d wanted to, her youth was restored to her. The years simply dropped away.’
‘But my dear, you do not have lumbago.’ A wintry sadness came into Babkin’s eyes. It evidently pained him to point this out but he was not able to prevent himself.
Roldugin looked down at the papers on his desk. He knew very well what was wrong with Kira Ivanovna and that the mud of Lipetsk would not be able to cure it. Still, that was not to say that it would do no good at all. Roldugin was a trained scientist, as at least some of the certificates behind him testified. He did not believe in miracles. But he did believe in the healing power of the human mind.
Kira Ivanovna’s own body had created the disease from which she was suffering. It was not inconceivable that it could be persuaded to destroy it. And the famous mud of Lipetsk would serve to promote in her a state of tranquillity and openness, conducive to self-healing.
Science did not yet understand how such processes worked. And so the ignorant hailed them as miracles, while men such as Babkin dismissed them as moonshine. It needed someone like Roldugin, a rational visionary, you might say, to steer a path through the middle.
Perhaps one day he would undertake a PhD on this very subject and add another certificate to the wall. If he could effect a reversal in Kira Ivanovna’s condition - if he could give her just six months’ more of life than her doctors in Moscow predicted - he would have the basis for his doctoral paper right there.
His reflections were cut short. Somewhere, a woman was screaming.
The sound was so out of place that at first Roldugin did not believe in it. He adjusted his smile and bowed pleasantly to the Babkins, as if he were trying to remember what they were talking about. The couple met his flustered attempts to smooth things over with startled confusion.
The screaming wouldn’t stop. It came in regular waves. They did not sound to him like screams of pain. Rather screams of panic, of horror, even.
‘What’s that?’ demanded Babkin tensely.
Roldugin couldn’t ignore the sound any longer. ‘If you will excuse me… I will be right back.’
He left the bewildered couple and dashed out into the corridor, slamming his office door behind him. As abruptly as it had begun, the screaming stopped. An eerie silence took its place, before the slap of footsteps broke in.
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R.N. Morris
Roger (R.N) Morris is the author of 18 books, including a quartet of historical crime novels set in St Petersburg featuring Porfiry Petrovich, the investigating magistrate from Dostoevsky’s great novel Crime and Punishment. These were followed by the Silas Quinn series set in London in 1914. He has been shortlisted for the CWA Duncan Lawrie Gold Dagger and the CWA Historical Dagger.
A former advertising copywriter, Roger has written the libretto for an opera, modern retellings of Frankenstein and Macbeth for French school children. He’s also a scriptwriter for an award winning audio producer, working on true crime and history podcasts including The Curious History of your Home.
His work has been published in 16 countries.
Married with two grown-up children, Roger lives in Chichester where he keeps an eye out for seagulls.
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