Book Title: Death of a Princess
Series: Empire of Shadows, Book #3
Author: R.N. Morris
Publication Date: 5th November 2024
Publisher: Sharpe Books
Pages: 192
Genre: Historical Crime / Mystery
Any Triggers: Description of illness, death, violent crime, murder, sexual references, sexual threat.
Death of a Princess
by R.N. Morris
Blurb:
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?
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Author Bio:
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.
Author Links:
Website: www.rogernmorris.co.uk
Twitter: https://x.com/rnmorris
Facebook: www.facebook.com/roger.morris.7547
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Amazon Author Page: www.amazon.co.uk/stores/author/B001JP9XXA
Book Excerpt:
Virginsky found himself seated at one of the tables outside the sanatorium and allowed a glass of mineral water to be placed in front of him. Evidently, this was what one did here. He might as well go along with it.
He sipped the water and recoiled at its acrid taste. But it was just the right side of unpleasant to be bearable. And so he took a second, deeper draft, welcoming its salty tang. Eventually, he acquired a taste for it and gulped it down eagerly, smacking his lips as he placed the empty glass down.
He noticed an elderly couple sitting at the table next to him. The woman regarded him with a benign, vaguely maternal interest. She was probably speculating what was wrong with him. When she saw him return her gaze, she gave a shy smile, which aimed for encouragement but was in fact heartbreaking.
Her husband appeared both bored and angry, as if he didn’t want to be here. But whenever he caught his wife looking at him, he rewarded her with a rictus of complaisance. Each time, it seemed to break her spirit a little more.
Finally, the woman decided to address a remark to Virginsky: ‘Did you hear the screams?’
Her husband’s eyes bulged in astonishment: Really?
She held her questioning gaze on Virginsky, as if she were genuinely interested in his reply.
‘No,’ said Virginsky, for a moment forgetting that he had. He quickly corrected himself. ‘I mean to say, yes, I think I did hear something like that.’
‘It was hard to miss them.’
‘I’ve only just arrived,’ said Virginsky, as if this somehow explained his mistake. ‘From St Petersburg.’
‘Ah, you must be tired.’
Virginsky nodded, his eyelids drooping at the thought.
‘We were with him when it happened,’ persisted the woman.
He stared at her in confusion. None of this was making any sense to him. He wondered if he could simply get up from the table and walk away. Why wouldn’t she leave him alone?
She seemed to interpret his silence as an expression of interest, a question even, or at least an invitation to expand: ‘Dr Roldugin. We were with Dr Roldugin when the screaming started.’
Virginsky frowned. She was saying words that ought to mean something but somehow they didn’t.
‘I am here to see Dr Roldugin?’ He volunteered the information with a questioning intonation, as if he was seeking confirmation from them.
‘You are in mourning, I see.’ The question came from her husband. He pointed above his own head, signifying the top hat that Virginsky was wearing. ‘My condolences.’
Virginsky acknowledged the sentiment with a minimal nod.
‘Someone close? A parent, perhaps?’ The man seemed more curious than sympathetic.
Virginsky said nothing. An invisible weight kept all his words inside him.
‘The grief perhaps has… affected your nerves? It is on account of your nerves that you are here, I assume?’
‘Seryozha! You can’t ask him that!’
But Virginsky was not offended. The invisible weight shifted and he was able to speak. ‘Yes. My nerves. My nerves are disarranged.’
‘Disarranged?’
‘That is what I have been told, yes.’
‘And so you have come here to have them… rearranged?’ The man made a shape with his hands in the air. Again, his face retained its impassive neutrality and so it was hard to tell if he was being entirely serious.
The man’s expression sharpened critically. ‘How will Roldugin do that, I wonder?’
There was a nuance here that Virginsky couldn’t pick up on. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen him yet.’
‘I expect he will smother you in mud.’
‘Mud?’
‘Yes, mud. The miraculous mud of Lipetsk. It is the cure for everything, I hear.’
The woman shook her head, causing her lappets to shudder. ‘Please forgive my husband. He has a very sarcastic nature.’
Her husband’s expression didn’t change. But a mischievous glint entered his eye. ‘I prefer the word sceptical. After all, a sceptic is merely someone who looks at the world with both eyes open.’
Virginsky’s mouth gaped open, as if the presence of the couple made it hard for him to breathe. Who were these people? And why did they insist on talking at him? He felt as if he were watching some peculiar theatrical performance, one in which he was expected to take part. All he could think to say was: ‘Who are you?’
‘Sergey Ilyich Babkin, retired Professor of Chemistry at the University of Moscow. This is my wife, Kira Ivanovna.’ Sergey Ilyich bowed, then narrowed his eyes as he assessed Virginsky. ‘Whom do I have the honour of addressing?’
‘My name is Virginsky. Pavel Pavlovich.’
‘And what is it you do, Pavel Pavlovich?’
‘Do?’
‘Your occupation?’
A flurry of agitation disturbed Kira Ivanovna’s lappets again. ‘Now, now, Seryozha, leave the poor man alone!’ She flashed her husband a warning glare. ‘Perhaps he doesn’t want to talk about it…’
Professor Babkin held up his hands in acquiescence. ‘Forgive me. I had no desire to pry. I was merely making small talk.’
The conversation drew to a close. Several minutes passed in silence. Kira Ivanovna continued to communicate her dissatisfaction to her husband through admonishing glances. He responded with a series of increasingly emphatic shrugs.
Meanwhile, Virginsky was still thinking about the question he had been asked. What is it you do, Pavel Pavlovich? It was a long time since he had done anything.
At that moment, a carriage drew up. The door opened and three people emerged, one after the other. A bespectacled man of around forty years, a woman at least ten years his junior and a boy.
The man was wearing a velvet overcoat but in a way that made no sense to Virginsky. He had one arm in its sleeve, while the other side of the coat hung loosely from his shoulder, as if he couldn’t decide whether to take it off or put it on. The man’s face was equally mystifying, his expression torn between excitement and fear.
The woman, who was dressed flashily and bore herself with an air of disdain, wore a mask of ironic detachment. She appeared to be laughing inwardly at some private and possibly filthy joke. A joke, perhaps, at the expense of the man she was with. He found her face more fascinating than attractive.
The boy was about thirteen years old and looked utterly miserable. He reminded Virginsky of himself when he was that age.
The man’s excitement bubbled over into a burst of giddy laughter. He took a moment to compose himself, covering his face with his hands until he had his emotions in check. He managed to maintain a grave expression for a few moments, until an uncontrollable hilarity erupted once more.
The young woman strode up to him and struck him across the cheek. The sound of the slap drew scandalised glances from those seated at the tables.
At any rate, the shock succeeded in curbing the man’s emotional incontinence. He took his assailant’s hand and held it to his lips, kissing the very palm that had slapped him. With that, the three of them disappeared inside the sanatorium.
‘Extraordinary!’ remarked Babkin.
Virginsky supposed it was.
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Thank you so much for hosting R.N. Morris today, with an extract from is intriguing murder mystery, Death of a Princess. Take care,
Cathie xo The Coffee Pot Book Club