Sister Pelagia and the White Bulldog

by Boris Akunin

  Matvei Bentsionovich threw his hands up in the air and actually interrupted what the bishop was saying, something he had never done before: “Father, I simply cannot do it! In the first place, I shall have to visit the site of the murder, and I am afraid of dead bodies.”

  “Come, now,” said Mitrofanii, wagging his finger at him “you must overcome this weakness of the heart. Are you a public prosecutor or aren’t you. I’ll take you along with me to the Starosvyatskoe cemetery, where all the coffins are being moved because the River has completely undercut its bank there. I shall read prayers, as is only appropriate, and I shall set you to manage the exhumation of the remains. It will help to strengthen your nerves.”

  “Ah, but it is not just a matter of the dead body,” said Berdichevsky, glancing into the bishop’s eyes imploringly. “I have no gift for investigation. When it comes to drawing up a bill of indictment or even conducting an interrogation, I can manage very well, but as a criminal investigator I am quite useless. You are the one with the talent for solving riddles, father. It is a pity that you cannot go there yourself, it would be inappropriate.”

  “I shall not go, but I shall give you my eye. Come in, my daughter,” said the bishop, turning toward the small door that led into the inner chambers.

  A thin nun in a black wimple and kamilavka entered the study where the bishop and the assistant prosecutor were conversing and bowed without speaking. Berdichevsky, who had seen Pelagia on numerous previous occasions and knew that she enjoyed Mitrofanii’s special confidence, rose and replied with an equally respectful bow.

  “Take Sister Pelagia with you,” the bishop instructed him. “She is observant and sharp-witted and will be a great help to you.”

  “But the police will certainly be there already, and Lagrange himself,” said Matvei Bentsionovich, throwing up his hands again. “How shall I explain such a strange companion to them?”

  “Tell them that after his sermon the bishop will come to sanctify this house against defilement, but he has sent the nun on ahead to prepare and bring the place into a seemly condition, so that His Grace’s sight will not be offended. And as for Lagrange, as far as I understand matters, you now have that scoundrel on a leash.” And, flashing a rapid glance at Pelagia, he added: “Tell him the nun is meek and humble; she is feeble-minded and will not hinder the investigation.”

  NEITHER OF THEM spoke as they rode along Dvoryanskaya Street, because Pelagia felt a little timid in the company of such a highly intelligent and well-educated companion, and Matvei Bentsionovich was not accustomed to associating with ecclesiastics in holy orders (Mitro-fanii did not count; he was a special case) and he simply did not know how to conduct a conversation with the nun.

  Eventually, having hit upon a felicitous subject in his mind, he opened his mouth and said: “Mother…” But then he faltered, because it occurred to him that a woman who was not yet old at all, even if she was a nun, was unlikely to find it pleasant to be addressed in such a fashion by a bald, already slightly flabby gentleman who was well past thirty.

  He had always had difficulties in talking with Pelagia, albeit their occasions for conversation had not been many. To Matvei Bentsionovich’s way of thinking, the nun had an extremely discomfiting manner of appearing at times like a mature and worldly-wise woman and at others like a perfect little girl, as she did now, for instance.

  “I mean, sister,” he corrected himself, “you are after all the sister [this sounded perfectly stupid now] of Polina Andreevna Lisitsyna?”

  The nun nodded in a rather indefinite manner and Berdichevsky felt afraid that he might have broken some unknown rule of etiquette that forbade talking to nuns about the relatives whom they had left behind in the outside world.

  “I only asked…she is a very intelligent and likable person, and a little bit like you.” He glanced politely at his companion, swaying beside him on the leather seat of the carriage, and added: “Just a tiny little bit.”

  We do not know what direction this not entirely comfortable conversation might have taken had the carriage not driven on to Cathedral Square, the main public space of our town, where the cathedral itself is located, as well as the governor’s house, and the main administrative buildings, and the see and the Grand Duke hotel, where Grand Duke Konstantin Pavlovich really had stayed one hundred years previously while making his journey of familiarization with the eastern provinces of the empire.

  There in the square, right beside the cast-iron railings of this finest hostelry in Zavolzhsk, there was a noisy, jostling crowd of people, and police caps could be seen in among them. Some outrage was clearly being committed, and in close proximity, moreover, to the seats of spiritual and temporal authority, and by virtue of the power invested in him Matvei Bentsionovich had no right to ignore it and simply ride on by. And if the entire truth was told, he also had a certain weakness for situations in which he could give free rein to the more commanding side of his character.

  “You sit here, sister,” he told Pelagia with a grand air, then he ordered the coachman to stop and set off to sort this business out.

  The high-ranking official was allowed through without any resistance to the very center of the crowd, where it turned out that everyone was staring at an individual of eastern appearance—Bubentsov’s Abrek.

  The Circassian, dead drunk, was performing some kind of insane dance with himself, from time to time uttering guttural exclamations, but for the most part in silence. He stamped on the spot and took tiny steps with his large feet in their tattered soft-leather shoes, occasionally springing up to his toes in an extremely agile manner and tracing out rapid, glittering circles above his shaven head with a dagger of monstrous size. It was immediately obvious that he had already been dancing like this for a long time and intended to devote his energies to this same occupation for a long time more to come.

  “And what do we have here?” Berdichevsky asked the police officer with a frown.

  “You can see for yourself, your honor. He’s been defying us like this without a break for nigh on an hour now. And before that he smashed all the mirrors in the Mirror Tavern and gave the waiters a good kicking. Before that he was creating uproar at the Samson Inn as well, but he was already completely drunk when he got there.”

  “Why haven’t you stopped him?”

  “We tried, your honor. But he beat constable Karasiuk here’s face to a pulp and very nearly stabbed me with that cutlass of his.”

  “We ought to shoot him before he does someone in,” raged a constable who was holding a bloody handkerchief over his face—we must assume that he was Karasiuk. “There’s nothing else left to be done.”

  “Sure we’ll shoot him,” the officer yelled back. “He’s Vladimir Lvovich Bubentsov’s own man!”

  “And why aren’t you doing anything?” Berdichevsky asked Tikhon Ieremeevich Spasyonny, who was right beside him at the front of the crowd. “Take your savage away from here.”

  “Why, I’ve been following him all night,” Spasyonny declared plaintively. “Stop drinking, I told him, stop drinking. But do you think he would listen? He shouldn’t drink, not at all. He’s not a Russian, so what can you expect? Either he doesn’t touch a drop or he downs half a pailful and then goes on a rampage. Some wicked person must have been feeding him liquor. Now he’ll keep dancing until he collapses.”

  Sensing that the eyes of the entire crowd were now turned in his direction, Matvei Bentsionovich declared in a peremptory tone: “It’s not allowed. This is not just anyplace, this is Cathedral Square. The bishop will be arriving soon to give his sermon. Take him away immediately!”

  There were shouts from the crowd (so much for that sense of dignity): “If you’re so smart, you take him away, you great hero!”

  And at this point Matvei Bentsionovich realized that he had fallen into a trap entirely of his own making. What on earth could have possessed him to stop the carriage like that? But there was no turning back now. And he could not expect any support from the police office
r or the bloodied constable.

  Tensing his jaw muscles to screw up his courage, Berdichevsky took one step, then another, moving closer to the terrifying dancer. The Abrek suddenly broke into some wild song that was rather tuneful in its own savage way and began waving his knife around faster and faster.

  “Stop that immediately!” Matvei Bentsionovich barked as loudly as he could.

  The Circassian merely looked at him with eyes crimson from drink.

  “I’m talking to you!”

  Berdichevsky took another step forward, and then another.

  “Just look at that bold devil,” someone said in the crowd behind him.

  It was not clear who was meant—the Circassian or the assistant prosecutor, but Matvei Bentsionovich took it as intended for him and his spirits rose somewhat. He reached out his hand to grab the mountain tribesman by the sleeve, and suddenly—whoosh!—the arc of steel glittered as it swept past just above Berdichevsky’s fingers, and two buttons bearing the official coat of arms fell to the ground, neatly pruned from the cuff of his frock coat.

  Matvei Bentsionovich leapt aside with an involuntary cry and, infuriated at such a loss of face, shouted to the police officer: “Get Bubentsov immediately! If he can’t tame his Abrek, I order you to shoot him in the legs!”

  “Vladimir Lvovich is still asleep, and he gave orders not to be woken,” Spasyonny explained.

  “Right, I’ll wait ten minutes by my watch,” said Berdichevsky, gesturing angrily with his small silver sphere. “Then I’ll give the order to fire!”

  Tikhon Ieremeevich set off at a rapid waddle in the direction of the wing of the hotel, and a curious silence fell over the square.

  The Circassian merely carried on with his unique and inimitable dance. Berdichevsky stood there, holding his watch in his hand, feeling extremely stupid. Karasiuk loaded cartridges into his revolver with obvious pleasure.

  When only a minute remained until the ultimatum expired, the police officer said nervously: “Your Excellency, you’ll testify that I had nothing to do—”

  “He’s coming! He’s coming!” someone started shouting in the crowd.

  Vladimir Lvovich came strolling out through the gates of the hotel, wearing a silk dressing gown and a Turkish fez with a tassel. The crowd parted to let him through. He halted, set his hands against his sides, and for a while simply looked at his half-crazed janissary. Then he yawned and began advancing slowly straight toward him. One of the women gasped. The Circassian did not appear to be looking at his lord and master, but nonetheless, even while continuing to dance, he backed away a little toward the wall of the hotel. Bubentsov continued his advance in the same lazy fashion, without saying a single word, until the Circassian ran up against the wall and froze on the spot. His eyes were completely still, almost as if he were dead.

  “Done dancing, you oaf?” Vladimir Lvovich asked in the silence that had fallen. “Come with me and sleep it off.”

  And so saying, the inspector turned on his heels and set off toward the wing of the hotel without a backward glance. Murad strode obediently after him, with Spasyonny mincing rapidly alongside.

  Everybody followed the departure of the picturesque threesome.

  A sexton crossed himself and intoned in a deep bass: “Grant unto them power over evil spirits.”

  Pelagia also crossed herself, and, as we already know, she never made the sign of the cross in vain.

  ANOTHER DENSE CIRCLE of curious people was standing at the entrance to the apartment that had been occupied until only recently by poor Arkadii Sergeevich, and a police constable glared down menacingly from the porch. Before she went in, Pelagia crossed herself once more, and again for good reason.

  The drawing room looked almost exactly as it had the day before, except that the tables on which the wine and hors d’oeuvres had stood during the soirée were now bare. All the more terrible, therefore, was the scene that met the nun’s gaze in the salon. All the photographs had been ripped off the walls and, worse even than that, torn into tiny pieces that were scattered all over the floor. Someone in an absolute frenzy had taken considerable time and trouble to destroy Poggio’s exhibition absolutely and utterly.

  Chief of Police Lagrange came running briskly down the stairs toward Berdichevsky, his face lighting up in an ingratiating smile at the sight of the assistant prosecutor.

  “Matvei Bentsionovich, you have come? Decided to deal with it yourself? Well, that’s right.”

  He bowed as he shook Berdichevsky’s hand and glanced in bewilderment at Pelagia, but was completely satisfied by Matvei Bentsionovich’s explanation and thereafter paid not the slightest attention to the nun. Felix Stanislavovich was clearly in a quite excellent mood.

  “Not much to see here,” he said, gesturing dismissively at the havoc in the salon. “But come upstairs. That’s where the real scene is.”

  There were only two rooms upstairs—the bedroom and one other, in which, as we have already mentioned, Arkadii Sergeevich had set up his photographic laboratory. They glanced into this room first, since it was the first one they came to.

  “Take a look at that,” Lagrange declared haughtily as he showed it to them. “Everything totally shattered.”

  And, indeed, the laboratory looked even more terrible than the salon. The Kodak camera was lying in the middle of the room, either smashed by a crushing blow or trampled flat, and scattered around it were the glittering icicle fragments of photographic plates.

  “Not one left intact; they’re all smashed to smithereens,” the police chief explained as cheerfully as ever, as if he were boasting about the unknown criminal’s talents.

  “Any clues?” inquired Berdichevsky with a glance at the two police officers crawling across the floor, clutching magnifying glasses in their hands.

  “What clues could there be here?” replied the one who was slightly older, raising a crumpled face haggard from drink. “You can see for yourself, it’s like a herd of elephants has run through here. We’re just wasting our time on nonsense, assembling the fragments. At the bottom of every plate there’s a paper label with the title—‘The White Arbor,’ ‘Sunset over the River,’ ‘The Mermaid.’ We’re putting them together from corner to corner, like doing a children’s jigsaw. Maybe we’ll turn up something useful. But, of course, that’s not very likely.”

  “I see.” Speaking in a low voice, Berdichevsky asked Lagrange: “And where is…the body?”

  “Come this way,” said Felix Stanislavovich with a laugh. “You won’t be able to sleep tonight after this. It’s quite a still-life.”

  Matvei Bentsionovich wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and followed his blue-jacketed Virgil along the corridor. Pelagia walked softly behind.

  Poggio was lying on the bed, staring solemnly up at the ceiling as if he were pondering something very significant; in any case, certainly not the tripod that had pinned him to the bed and remained stuck there, protruding from his ribcage.

  “Killed immediately, of course,” said the police chief, pointing with a white-gloved finger. “Please note that the blow was struck from directly above. And so the victim must have been lying down; he didn’t even attempt to get up. Obviously he was asleep. He opened his eyes, and at that very moment—off to his eternal reward. And the killer started wrecking and smashing everything afterward.”

  Matvei Bentsionovich forced himself to look at the three tightly bunched wooden legs thrust deep into the dead man’s body. Their lower sections were bound in brass, no doubt with sharp points.

  “A powerful blow,” he said, pretending to be unruffled, and tried to clasp his fingers around the top of the tripod. He could not—his fingers did not reach around it. “A woman could not have done that. It’s too heavy, and she couldn’t get a proper grip.”

  “Yes, I agree,” said Lagrange. “Which means that it’s not Princess Telianova. Basically, this case is about as complicated as a boiled turnip. I was just waiting for the inspector, and my men have carried out a complete se
arch. Do you think you could sign the report?”

  Berdichevsky frowned at such a flagrant breach of procedure—the report of the search ought to have been drawn up in the presence of the prosecutor’s representative, and therefore he set about reading the document with deliberate slowness.

  “Any ideas?” Matvei Bentsionovich asked.

  “Why don’t we go downstairs to the salon, while they’re clearing all this away,” Felix Stanislavovich suggested.

  And so they did.

  They stood in the corner of the empty salon. The chief of police lit his pipe and Matvei Bentsionovich took out a little notebook. Sister Pelagia positioned herself nearby: She crawled across the floor as if picking up rubbish, but in actual fact she was gathering fragments of pictures and matching them up with one another. The men talked without paying any attention to her.

  “Go ahead,” said Berdichevsky, ready to start taking notes.

  “The number of people involved in the case is small. The number of those who might have had some motive for murder is even smaller. We need to establish which member of the last group has no alibi, and the case is closed.”

  Lagrange was quite magnificent now; his eyes glowed like fire, the ends of his mustache quivered triumphantly, his hand sawed the air vigorously, he rolled specialized terms around his tongue as if they were sugarplums. One imagines that during the preceding weeks Felix Stanislavovich had changed his mind about Zavolzhie being boring and lacking in prospects. Why, just take the Zyt case, if nothing else! But there all the plaudits and public acclaim had clearly gone to Bubentsov, while here, in the investigation of this most appetizing murder, no one else could cut across the police chief’s bows. And then again, it was an opportunity to demonstrate his own indispensability to the crafty and dangerous Mr. Berdichevsky, for indispensability was currently under a dark cloud of doubt in connection with Felix Stanislavovich’s blunder with the bribe.