by Boris Akunin
The monkey-like gentleman who had halted beside Mr Babble was M. Boileau, the former Windsor habitue who had left the ill-fated saloon and so slipped through Commissioner Gauche's net.
Speaking in a low voice directly into Clarissa's ear, the diplomat told her:
'The man you see here is a criminal and a villain. Most probably a dealer in opium. He lives in Hong Kong and is married to a Chinese woman.'
Clarissa burst into laughter.
'Well, you're really wide of the mark this time! That is M. Boileau from Lyon, a philanthropist and the father of eleven completely French children. And he deals in tea, not opium.'
'I rather think not,' Fandorin replied calmly. 'Look closely, his cuff has bent up and you can see the blue circle of a tattoo on his wrist. I have seen one like that before in a book about China. It is the mark of one of the Hong Kong triads, secret criminal societies. Any European who becomes a member of a triad must be a master criminal operating on a truly grand scale. And of course, he has to marry a Chinese woman. A single look at the face of this "philanthropist" should make everything clear to you.'
Clarissa didn't know whether to believe him or not, but Fandorin continued with a serious expression:
'And that is by no means all, Miss Stamp. I can tell a lot about a person even if I am b-blindfolded - from the sounds that he makes and his smell. Why not test me for yourself?'
And so saying he untied his white satin necktie and handed it to Clarissa.
She fingered the fabric - it was dense and non-transparent -and then blindfolded the diplomat with it. As though by accident she touched his cheek - it was smooth and hot.
The ideal candidate soon put in an appearance from the direction of the stern - the well-known suffragette, Lady Campbell, making her way to India in order to collect signatures for her petition for married women to be given the vote. Mannish and massive, with cropped hair, she lumbered along the deck like a carthorse. He would never guess that this was a lady and not a boatswain.
'Right, who is this coming our way?' Clarissa asked, choking in anticipatory laughter.
Alas, her merriment was short-lived.
Fandorin wrinkled up his brow and began tossing out staccato phrases:
'A skirt hem rustling. A woman. A heavy stride. A strong c-character. Elderly. Plain. Smokes tobacco. Short-cropped hair.'
'Why does she have short-cropped hair?' Clarissa squealed, covering her eyes and listening carefully to the suffragette's elephantine footfall. How, how did he do it?
'If a woman smokes, she must have bobbed hair and be progressive in her views,' Fandorin declared in a firm voice. 'And this one also despises fashion and wears a kind of shapeless robe, bright green with a scarlet belt.'
Clarissa was dumbstruck. This was quite incredible! She took her hands away from her eyes in superstitious terror and saw that Fandorin had already removed the necktie and even retied it in an elegant knot. The diplomat's blue eyes were sparkling in merriment.
All this was very pleasant, but the conversation had ended badly. When she stopped laughing, Clarissa very delicately broached the subject of the Crimean War and what a tragedy it had been for both Europe and Russia. She touched cautiously on her own memories of the time, making them somewhat more infantile than they were in reality. She was anticipating reciprocal confidences, and hoping to learn exactly how old Fandorin really was. Her worst fears were confirmed:
'I was still not b-born then,' he confessed, artlessly clipping Clarissa's wings.
After that everything had gone from bad to worse. Clarissa had tried to turn the conversation to painting, but she got everything so mixed up that she couldn't even explain properly why the Pre-Raphaelites had called themselves Pre-Raphaelites. He must have thought her an absolute idiot. Ah, but what difference did it make now?
As she was making her way back to her cabin, feeling sad, something terrifying happened.
She saw a gigantic black shadow quivering in a dark corner of the corridor. Clutching at her heart, Clarissa let out an immodest squeal and made a dash for her own door. Once she was in her cabin it was a long time before she could calm her wildly beating heart. What was that thing? Neither man nor beast. Some concretion of evil, destructive energy. Her guilty conscience. The phantom of her Paris nightmare.
No more, she told herself, she had put all that behind her. It was nothing. It was delirium, a delusion, no more. She had sworn that she would not torment herself with remorse. This was a new life, bright and happy - 'And may your mansion be illumined by the lamp of bliss.'
To soothe her nerves, she put on her most expensive day dress, the one she had not even tried yet (white Chinese silk with a pale-green bow at the back of the waist) and put her emerald necklace round her neck. She admired the gleam of the stones.
Very well, so she wasn't young. Or beautiful either. But she was far from stupid and she had money. And that was far better than being an ugly, ageing fool without a penny to her name.
Clarissa entered the saloon at precisely two o'clock, but the entire company was already assembled. Strangely enough, rather than fragmenting the Windsor contingent, the commissioner's astounding announcement of the previous day had brought them closer together. A common secret that cannot be shared with anyone else binds people to each other more tightly than a common cause or a common interest. Clarissa noticed that her fellow diners now gathered around the table in advance of the times set for breakfast, lunch, five o'clock tea and dinner, and lingered on afterwards, something that had hardly ever happened before. Even the captain's first mate, who was only indirectly involved in this whole affair, spent a lot of time sitting on in the Windsor saloon with the others rather than hurrying off about his official business (but then, of course, the lieutenant might possibly be acting on the captain's orders). It was as though all the Windsorites had joined some elite club that was closed to the uninitiated. Several times Clarissa caught swift, stealthy glances cast in her direction. Glances that could mean one of two things: Are you the murderer?' or 'Have you guessed that I am the murderer?' Every time it happened she felt a sweet trembling sensation welling up from somewhere deep inside, a pungent cocktail of fear and excitement. The image of the rue de Grenelle rose up clearly before her eyes, the way it looked in the evening: beguilingly quiet and deserted, with the bare branches of the black chestnut trees swaying against the sky. God forbid that the commissioner should somehow find out about the Ambassador Hotel. The very thought of it terrified Clarissa, and she cast a furtive glance in the policeman's direction.
Gauche presided at the table like the high priest of a secret sect. They were all constantly aware of his presence and followed the expression on his face out of the comers of their eyes, but Gauche appeared not to notice that at all. He assumed the role of a genial philosopher happy to relate his 'little stories', while the others listened tensely.
By unspoken agreement, that was only discussed in the saloon and only in the commissioner's presence. If two Windsorites chanced to meet somewhere in neutral territory - in the music salon, on the deck, in the reading hall - they did not discuss that under any circumstances. And not even in the saloon did they return to the tantalizing subject on every occasion. It usually happened spontaneously, following some entirely unrelated remark.
Today at breakfast, for instance, a general conversation had completely failed to materialize, but now as Clarissa took her seat the discussion was in full swing. She began studying the menu with a bored expression on her face, as though she had forgotten what she had ordered for lunch, but she could already feel that familiar tingle of excitement.
'The thing that bothers me about the crime,' Dr Truffo was saying, 'is the blatant senselessness of it all. Apparently all those people were killed for absolutely nothing. The golden Shiva ended up in the Seine, and the killer was left empty-handed.'
Fandorin rarely participated in these discussions, preferring to remain silent most of the time, but for once even he felt compelled to express an op
inion:
'That is not quite true. The p-perpetrator was left with the shawl.'
'What shawl?' asked the doctor, confused. "The painted Indian shawl. In which, if we are to believe the newspapers, the killer wrapped the stolen Shiva.' This joke was greeted with rather nervous laughter. The doctor spread his hands expressively. 'But a mere shawl . . .'
Sweetchild gave a sudden start and lifted his spectacles off his nose, a gesture of his which indicated intense agitation.
'No, don't laugh! I made inquiries as to exactly which shawl was stolen. And it is, gentlemen, an extremely unusual piece of material, with a story of its own. Have you ever heard of the Emerald Rajah?'
'Wasn't he some kind of legendary Indian nabob?' asked Clarissa.
'Not legendary, but quite real, madam. It was the name given to Bagdassar, the ruler of the principality of Brahmapur. The principality is located in a large, fertile valley, surrounded on all sides by mountains. The rajahs trace their line of descent from the great Babur and are adherents of Islam, but that did not prevent them from reigning in peace for three hundred years over a little country in which the majority of the population are Hindus. Despite the difference in religion between the ruling caste and their subjects, the principality never suffered a single rebellion or feud, the rajahs prospered and grew rich and by Bagdassar's time the house of Brahmapur was regarded as the wealthiest in the whole of India after the Nizams of Hyderabad, whose wealth, as you are no doubt aware, eclipses that of every monarch in the world, including Queen Victoria and the Russian emperor Alexander.'
'The greatness of our queen does not consist in the extent of her personal fortune, but in the prosperity of her subjects,' Clarissa remarked primly, stung by the professor's remark.
'Undoubtedly,' agreed Sweetchild, who was already in full spate and not to be halted. 'However, the wealth of the rajahs of Brahmapur was of a very special kind. They did not hoard gold, they did not stuff trunks to overflowing with silver, they did not build palaces of pink marble. No, for three hundred years these rulers knew only one passion - precious stones. Do you know what the Brahmapur Standard is?'
'Isn't it a style of faceting diamonds?' Dr Truffo asked uncertainly.
'The Brahmapur Standard is a jewellers' term which refers to a diamond, sapphire, ruby or emerald that is faceted in a particular manner and is the size of a walnut, which corresponds to one hundred and sixty tandools, in other words eighty carats in weight.'
'But that is a very large size,' Renier exclaimed in amazement. 'Stones as large as that are very rare. If my memory does not deceive me, even the Regent diamond, the glory of the French state jewels, is not very much larger.'
'No, Lieutenant, the Pitt diamond, also known as the Regent, is almost twice as large,' the professor corrected him with an air of authority, but eighty carats is still a considerable size, especially if one is dealing with stones of the first water. But can you believe, ladies and gentlemen, that Bagdasssar had five hundred and twelve such stones, and all of absolutely irreproachable quality!'
'That's impossible!' exclaimed Sir Reginald. Fandorin asked:
'Why exactly five hundred and t-twelve?'
'Because of the sacred number eight,' Sweetchild gladly explained. 'Five hundred and twelve is eight times eight times eight, that is eight to the power of three, or eight cubed, the so-called "ideal number". There is here, undoubtedly, some influence from Buddhism, in which the number eight is regarded with particular reverence. In the north-eastern part of India, where Brahmapur lies, religions are intertwined in the most bizarre fashion imaginable. But the most interesting thing of all is where this treasure was kept and how.'
'And where was it kept?' Renate Kleber inquired curiously.
'In a simple clay casket without any adornment whatever. In 1852 I visited Brahmapur as a young archaeologist and met the Rajah Bagdassar. An ancient temple had been discovered in the jungle on the territory of the principality, and the rajah invited me to assess the significance of the find. I carried out the necessary research, and what do you think I discovered? The temple turned out to have been built in the time of King Chandragupta, when . . .'
'Stop-stop-stop!' the commissioner interrupted. 'You can tell us about archaeology some other time. Let's get back to the rajah.'
'Ah yes indeed,' said the professor, fluttering his eyelashes. 'That really would be best. Well then, the rajah was pleased with me and as a token of his favour he showed me his legendary casket. Oh, I shall never forget that sight!' Sweetchild narrowed his eyes as he continued: 'Imagine a dark dungeon with only a single torch burning in a bronze bracket beside the door.
The rajah and I were alone, his retainers remained outside the massive door, which was protected by a dozen guards. I got no clear impression of the interior of this treasure house, for my eyes had no time to adjust to the semi-darkness. I only heard the clanging of locks as his Highness opened them. Then Bagdassar turned to me and in his hands I saw a cube that was the colour of earth and appeared to be very heavy. It was the size of . . .' Sweetchild opened his eyes and looked around. Everyone was sitting and listening with bated breath, and Renate Kleber had even parted her lips like a child. 'Oh, I don't know. I suppose about the size of Miss Stamp's hat, if one were to place that piece of headgear in a square box.' As though on command, everyone turned and began staring curiously at the diminutive Tyrolean hat decorated with a pheasant's feather. Clarissa endured this public scrutiny with a dignified smile, in the manner she had been taught as a child. 'This cube resembled most of all one of the ordinary clay bricks that they use for building in those parts. His Highness later explained to me that the coarse, dull uniformity of the clay surface made a far better foil than gold or ivory for the magnificent glimmering light of the stones. Indeed, I was able to see that for myself when Bagdassar slowly raised a hand studded with rings to the lid of the casket, then opened it with a rapid movement and ... I was blinded, ladies and gentlemen!' The professor's voice quavered. 'It . . . it is impossible to express it in words! Picture to yourselves a mysterious, multicoloured, lambent radiance spilling out of that dark cube and painting the gloomy vaults of that dungeon with shimmering patches of rainbow-coloured light. The round stones were arranged in eight layers, and in each layer there were sixty-four faceted sources of quite unbearable brilliance. And the effect was certainly enhanced by the flickering flame of the solitary torch. I can still see Rajah Bagdassar's face bathed from below in that magical light . . .'
The professor closed his eyes again and fell silent.
'And how much, for instance, are these glass baubles worth?' the commissioner's rasping voice enquired.
'Yes indeed, how much?' Mme Kleber repeated enthusiastically. 'Say, in your English pounds?'
Clarissa heard Mrs Truffo whisper rather loudly to her husband:
'She's so vulgar!' But even so she pushed her mousy curls back off her ear in order not to miss a single word.
'You know,' Sweetchild said with a genial smile, 'I have often wondered about that. It's not an easy question to answer, since the value of precious stones fluctuates according to the market, but as things stand today . . .'
'Yes, please, as things stand today, not in the time of King Chandragupta,' Gauche put in gruffly.
'Hmm ... I don't know exactly how many diamonds, how many sapphires and how many rubies the rajah had. But I do know that he valued emeralds most of all, which was how he acquired his popular name. In the course of his reign seven emeralds were acquired from Brazil and four from the Urals, and for each of them Bagdassar gave one diamond and some additional payment. You see, each of his ancestors had a favourite stone that he preferred to all others and tried to acquire in greater numbers. The magical number of five hundred and twelve stones had already been reached in the time of Bagdassar's grandfather, and since then the ruler's primary goal had been not to increase the number of stones but to improve their quality. Stones which fell even slightly short of perfection, or which the present ruler did no
t favour for some reason, were sold - hence the fame of the Brahmapur Standard, which gradually spread around the world. Their place in the casket was taken by other, more valuable stones. Bagdassar's ancestors carried their obsession with the Brahmapur Standard to quite insane lengths! One of them purchased a yellow sapphire weighing three hundred tandools from the Persian Shah Abbas the Great, paying ten caravans of ivory for this marvel, but the stone was larger than the standard size and the rajah had his jewellers cut away all the excess!'
'That is terrible, of course,' said the commissioner, 'but let us get back to the question of the stones' value.'
This time, however, it proved less easy to direct the flow of the Indologist's speech into the required channel.
'The question of value can wait for a moment,' he said, peremptorily dismissing the detective's request. 'Is that really so important? When one considers a noble stone of such size and quality, the first thing that comes to mind is not money but the magical properties that have been attributed to it since ancient times. The diamond, for instance, is considered a symbol of purity. Our ancestors used to test their wives' fidelity by placing a diamond under their sleeping spouse's pillow. If she was faithful, then she would immediately turn to her husband and embrace him without waking. If she was unfaithful, she would toss and turn and attempt to throw the diamond onto the floor. And the diamond is also reputed to guarantee its owner's invincibility. The ancient Arabs used to believe that in battle the general who owned the larger diamond would be victorious.'
'Ancient Arab mistaken,' said Gintaro Aono, interrupting the inspired speaker in full flow.
Everyone stared in astonishment at the Japanese, who very rarely joined in the general conversation and never interrupted anyone. The Oriental continued hastily in that odd accent of his: