“In Russia we say churches, they are alive,” Sergey observed. “And Saint Dimitri on
Blood, it is most alive, because this little Prince Dimitri, he is innocent child killed by wicked
men right there. It still mystery who do this terrible thing though many people suspect.” His
voice dropped. “But not only mystery here. You see this street here? Up there is Makarov
dacha. Country house, that is. Belong to Ivan Mikhailovich Makarov. You hear of him
perhaps?”
“No,” said Mrs Clement. “But do tell us.”
“Ivan Mikhailovich rich man. Very, very rich.” Sergey rolled his r’s with relish. “His
company named Troitsa – I do not know in English …”
“Trinity,” said Mrs. Clement.
“Trinity. Yes. This very special company, it” – he struggled with the words – “like – like
police, with mysteries, only private, yes?”
“Ah. Private investigators.”
He nodded vigorously. “Da. Troitsa – Trinity – have three leaders. Makarov, Galkin,
Barsukov.” He paused dramatically. “And now all dead. Strangely.”
“Murdered, you mean?”
He shrugged. “No one know for sure. Police say accident. Because all drown.”
The girl spoke for the first time. In the rear-vision mirror, Sergey saw her face had paled.
“Here? In the Volga?”
“Oh, no, no,” he said, hastily. “Thanks be to God not here.” He shot a glance at her.
“Miss, you must not worry.” A pause, then he went on, “These men, they die different times.
And different places. Galkin in Finland. Barsukov in France. Makarov in Australia. No one
see what happen. No one know. And some people call this Rusalka curse.” He saw his
passengers’ puzzled expressions, and explained, “Rusalka, she is spirit from water. She look
like beautiful girl, but she drown men.”
“What?” said Mrs. Clement. “Are they saying it’s a girl who –”
“Nyet. Nyet,” Sergey said firmly. “No one know who. Is big, big mystery like murder of
Prince Dimitri. And now company belong to only son of Ivan Mikhailovich Makarov. Alexey
Ivanovich. He is rich young man now. But not interested in Trinity.” He had turned into a
quiet little cul-de-sac road, sprinkled with wooden houses behind birch trees and grassy
verges. “They say he sell company. Some say he needs sell, or Rusalka curse get him too.”
“Maybe we’d better talk about something more cheerful now,” said Mrs. Clement, with a
wary glance at her daughter.
“Nichevo. No problem,” said Sergey, turning into a little lane and pulling up outside a
house right down the end of it, just before the shaky asphalt petered out at the entrance to a