The Coronation: The Further Adventures Of Erast Fandorin (Erast Fandorin 7)

by Boris Akunin

  I felt an empty ache in the pit of my stomach.

  ‘So the search is no further forward at all?’

  Mademoiselle and Fandorin exchanged glances in a way that seemed conspiratorial to me, and I felt a stab of almost physical pain. The two of them were together, a couple, and I had been left on the outside, alone.

  ‘We do have something,’ Fandorin declared with a mysterious air and, lowering his voice as if he were revealing some highly important secret, added: ‘I have taught Emilie to count the creaks made by the wheels.’

  For a moment the only thing I understood was that he had called Mademoiselle Declique by her first name! Could their friendship really have gone that far? And only then did I attempt to penetrate the meaning of his words. I failed.

  ‘The creaks made by the wheels?’

  ‘Why yes. Any axle, even if it is perfectly lubricated, produces a creak which, if you listen closely, is a constant repetition of the same set of sounds.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘One cycle, Ziukin, is a single revolution, a turn of the wheel. You only have to count how many times the wheel has turned in order to know how far the carriage has travelled. The wheels on carriages of the phaeton type preferred by the kidnappers are a standard size – in the metric system, they are a metre and forty centimetres in diameter. Therefore, according to the laws of geometry, the length of the circumference is equal to four metres and eighty centimetres. The rest is simple. Mademoiselle counts and remembers the number of revolutions from one corner to the next. It is easy to tell when the carriage turns a corner, because it leans either to the right or the left. We are not having the carriage followed, in order not to alarm the kidnappers, however, we do see the direction in which Emilie is driven away. After that everything d-depends on her alertness and her memory. And so,’ Fandorin continued in the voice of a teacher expounding a problem in geometry, ‘if we know the number and direction of revolutions, and also the d-distance between the corners, we can identify the place where they are hiding the child.’

  ‘Well, and have you identified it?’ I exclaimed in eager excitement.

  ‘Not so fast, Ziukin, not so f-fast,’ Fandorin said with a smile. ‘The mute driver deliberately does not follow a direct route, but turns and twists – evidently checking to see if anyone is on his tail. And so Emilie’s task is not a simple one. Yesterday she and I walked along the route taken by the carriage, checking her observations against the g-geography.’

  ‘And what did you discover?’ I asked, imagining Mademoiselle walking along the street, leaning on the armof her elegant escort, both of them serious and intent, united by the common cause, and meanwhile I was lying in bed like a useless block of wood.

  ‘Both times, after wandering around the side streets, the carriage came out onto Zubovsky Square. That is also confirmed by Emilie’s observations – at that point on the route she heard the sound of a large number of carriages and amurmur of voices.’

  ‘And after that?’

  Mademoiselle looked round shamefacedly at Fandorin – this brief trusting glance made my heart ache once again – and said, as if she were making excuses for herself, ‘Monsieur Ziukin, yesterday I managed to remember eleven corners, and today thirteen.’ She screwed up her eyes and listed them hesitantly: ‘Twenty-two, left; forty-one, right; thirty-four, left; eighteen, right; ninety, left; fourteen, right; a hundred and forty-three, right; thirty-seven, right; twenty-five, right; a hundred and fifteen, right (and here, in the middle, at about the fiftieth turn of the wheels, the noise of the square); fifty-two, left; sixty, right; then right again, but I don’t remember how far. I tried very hard, but I lost track . . .’

  I was astounded.

  ‘Good Lord, how did you manage to remember so many?’

  ‘Do not forget, my friend, that I am a teacher,’ she said with a gentle smile, and I blushed, uncertain as to howI should interpret that form of address and whether such familiarity was permissible in our relations.

  ‘But tomorrow it will all happen again, and you will lose track again,’ I said, assuming a stern air for the sake of good order. ‘The human memory, even the most highly developed, has its limits.’

  I found the smile with which Fandorin greeted my remark most annoying. People smile in that way at the babbling of an innocent child.

  ‘Emilie will not have to remember everything from the very beginning. After Zubovksy Square, the carriage followed the same route both times, and the last corner that our scout definitely rememberedwas the junction of Obolensky Lane and Olsufievsky Lane. We do not know where the carriage went afterwards, but that spot has been identified with absolute certainty. From there to the final point is not very far – about ten or fifteen minutes.’

  ‘In fifteen minutes a carriage could travel a good ten versts in any direction,’ I remarked, piqued by Erast Petrovich’s arrogance. ‘Are you really planning to search such an immense area? Why, it’s larger than the whole of Vasilievsky Island!’

  He smiled even more insufferably.

  ‘The coronation, Ziukin, is the day after tomorrow. And then we shall have to give Doctor Lind the Orlov and the game will be over. But tomorrow Emilie will set out again in a b-boarded-up carriage to pay the final instalment – some kind of tiara of yellow diamonds and opals.’

  I could not repress a groan. The priceless tiara in the form of a garland of flowers. Why, that was the most important treasure of all in Her Majesty’s coffret!

  ‘Naturally, I have had to give the empress my word of honour that the tiara and all the trinkets that have gone before it will be returned safe and sound,’ Fandorin declared with quite incredible self-assurance. ‘Oh, and by the way, I believe I have not yet mentioned one rather important circumstance. Since Karnovich disrupted our Khitrovka operation like a bull charging into a china shop, the overall control of operations directed against Lind has been entrusted to me, and the head of the court police and the high police master of Moscow have been forbidden to interfere under penalty of prosecution.’

  This was unheard of! An investigation on which, without any exaggeration, the fate of the tsarist dynasty depended had been entrusted to a private individual! It meant that at that moment Erast Petrovich Fandorin was the most important individual in the entire Russian state, and I suddenly saw him in a quite different light.

  ‘Emilie will start her count at the corner of Obolensky Lane and Olsufievsky Lane,’ he explained, no longer smiling but with a most serious expression on his face. ‘And then Mademoiselle, with her magnificent memory, will certainly not lose count.’

  ‘But, Your Honour, how will Mademoiselle know that she has reached the right corner?’

  ‘That is very simple, Ziukin, since I shall see the carriage that they put her in. Of course, I shall not follow it, but go directly to Olsufievsky Lane. When I see the carriage approaching, I shall ring a bell, and that will be the signal for Emilie.’

  ‘But will that not seem suspicious to the driver? Why would a respectably dressed gentleman like you suddenly ring a bell? Perhaps you could simply arrest this driver and let him tell you where Lind is hiding?’

  Fandorin sighed.

  ‘That is probably exactly what High Police Master Lasovsky would do. Lind must undoubtedly have foreseen such a possibility, but for some reason he is not at all afraid of it. I have certain ideas of my own on that matter, but I shall not go into them just now. As for the respectable gentleman, you really do insult me there. I think you have seen how remarkably well I can transformmyappearance. And I shall not only ring a bell, Ziukin, I shall shout as well.’

  And suddenly he began yelling in a piercing nasal voice with a strong Tartar accent, miming as if he was shaking a bell: ‘Any old rags – kopeck a time! Rusty spoons and ladles! Old ripped pants and rags, rusty spoons and ladles! Your junk for my money!’

  Mademoiselle laughed for the first time in those difficult days – at least, in my presence.

  ‘Now, Monsieur Ziukin, you rest and Erast
and I will take a little stroll about Maiden’s Field, Pogodinskaya and Pliushchikha,’ she said, painstakingly enunciating the names of the Moscow streets, but the only word that I heard was Erast.

  How could he be ‘Erast’ to her?

  ‘I am perfectly well,’ I assured them both, ‘and I would like to accompany you.’ Fandorin stood up and shook his head.

  ‘Masa will accompany us. I am afraid that he is still angry with you. And the time spent in the lock-up has probably not improved his mood at all.’

  Of course, I did not simply lie there, but I had nothing to occupy myself with, for Somov had taken complete possession of all my responsibilities and, to do him justice, he was managing them quite well – at least I did not discover any serious omissions, although I checked on the condition of the rooms and the table-ware and the stables, and even the state of the door handles. There was nothing I had to do, apart from ordering the roses in Her Highness’s room to be replaced with anemones and having an empty bottle that had rolled under Lieutenant Endlung’s bed taken away.

  So I had been relieved of my duties, beaten (deservedly, which was the most painful thing) and humiliated in front of Mademoiselle Declique, but what tormented me most of all was the nightmarish vision of Mikhail Georgievich languishing in a damp dungeon. Shock, coercion, physical torment, the prolonged effects of narcotics – all of these traumas, suffered at such a young age, would be certain to have dire consequences. It was terrifying to think how they might affect the grand duke’s character and psychological health. But it was still too early to be worrying about such things. First His Highness had to be freed from the clutches of the cruel Doctor Lind.

  And I promised myself that I would forgive Fandorin everything if only he could save the child.

  The members of our household returned early in the evening after attending the ceremony of the consecration of the State Banner in the Armoury Palace.

  In the corridor Xenia Georgievna took hold of my sleeve and asked quietly: ‘Where is Erast Petrovich?’

  Her Highness seemed willing to make me her confidant in her affaire de cœur2, but I felt absolutely no desire to assume this ambivalent role.

  ‘Mr Fandorin has gone out with Mademoiselle Declique,’ I replied impassively, bowing and remaining bent as if I had forgotten to straighten up so that I would not have to meet the grand princess’s gaze.

  Xenia Georgievna seemed quite unpleasantly surprised.

  ‘With Emilie? But why?’

  ‘It has to do with the plans to free Mikhail Georgievich,’ I said without going into details, wishing to end this conversation as soon as possible.

  ‘Ah, what an egotist I am!’ Tears sprang to the grand princess’s eyes. ‘I am horrid, horrid! Poor Mika! No, I think of him all the time, I was praying for him all night long.’ Suddenly she blushed and corrected herself. ‘Well, almost all night . . .’

  These words, which could be construed in only one way, finally spoiled my mood completely, and I am afraid that during supper I was insufficiently attentive in my duties.

  The mealwas a special one, arranged in honour of our English guests on the occasion of the birthday of the Queen of England, who is known in our Family simply as Granny and is genuinely respected and dearly loved. The last time I had seen ‘the grandmother of all Europe’ was in the spring in Nice, when Queen Victoria held a party for Xenia Georgievna and Prince Olaf. I thought that the Empress of India and ruler of the leading empire in theworld seemed very aged but still strong. Our court servants say that after the death of her husband for a long time she maintained a connection with one of her own servants, but looking at this admirable majestic individual it was quite impossible to believe in such a thing. In any case, there is always all sorts of gossip about royalty, but one should never give any credit to rumours until they have been officially confirmed. I, at least, do not encourage gossip about Her Britannic Majesty in my presence.

  In arranging a supper in Granny’s honour, Georgii Alexandrovich wished to make up at least in part for the lack of attention paid to his English guests as a result of the misfortune that had befallen the Green House. The preparations had been supervised by Somov – all that remained for me to do was to check the table settings and the menu. Everything was impeccable.

  The festivities fell flat, although Endlung tried as hard as he could, and even Georgii Alexandrovich behaved as a genuinely hospitable host ought to. But all efforts were in vain. Pavel Georgievich sat there with a glum face and did not even touch his food; he only drank wine. Xenia Georgievna seemed distracted; His Lordship and Mr Carr did not even look at each other and laughed somehow too loudly at the lieutenant’s jokes, as if they were deliberately pretending to be carefree and lighthearted. From time to time there were prolonged pauses, a sure sign of an unsuccessful evening.

  It seemed to me that the shade of the unfortunate little prisoner was hovering over the table, although not a word was spoken about him. After all, the Englishmen had not officially been informed about what had happened – that would have meant the inevitable dissemination of the secret across the whole of Europe. As long as the subject was not touched upon, it did not exist. As men of honour, Lord Banville and Mr Carr would keep silent. And if they did say anything, it would only be in private, among their own circle. That, of course, would fuel rumours, but nothing more than that. And I have already spoken about rumours.

  I stood behind Georgii Alexandrovich’s chair, giving signs to the servants if anything needed to be brought in or taken out. But my thoughts were far away. I was wondering how I could exculpate my unwitting debt of guilt to Mikhail Georgievich and whether there was some other way in which I could help to save him. And also – I will not attempt to dissemble – several times I recalled the trusting even admiring way in which Mademoiselle Declique had looked at Fandorin – Erast. I must admit that in picturing myself as Mikhail Georgievich’s rescuer, I imagined how she would look at me in the same way – perhaps with even greater admiration. Foolish, of course. Foolish and unworthy.

  ‘Why does it have to be me?’ Pavel Georgievich asked, lowering his voice. ‘You were the one who promised to take them to the opera today.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Georgii Alexandrovich replied just as quietly. ‘You will go.’

  Just for an instant – evidently because my thoughts were occupied by extraneous matters – I imagined that I had begun to understand English, for the conversation at the table was naturally in that language, but then I realised that these remarks had been made in Russian.

  Pavel Georgievich spoke in a jolly voice, with his lips stretched out into a smile, but his eyes were as spiteful as could be. His father regarded him with a perfectly benign air, but I noticed that the back of His Highness’s neck was turning crimson, and that certainly boded no good.

  By this time Xenia Georgievna was no longer at the table – she had withdrawn, citing a slight migraine.

  ‘Is it because she has arrived?’ Pavel Georgievich asked, still smiling in the same way and looking at the Englishmen. ‘Are you going to see her at the Loskutnaya?’

  ‘None of your business, Paulie,’ said Georgii Alexandrovich, smacking his lips as he lit up a cigar. ‘You’re going to the opera.’

  ‘No!’ Pavel Georgievich exclaimed so loudly that the Englishmen actually started.

  Endlung immediately began jabbering away in English. Georgii Alexandrovich laughed, added a few words and then, covering his son’s hand with his own immense fleshy palm in a paternal manner, rumbled: ‘Goto the opera or go to Vladivostok. And I’m not joking.’

  ‘I’ll go to Vladivostok; I’ll go to the devil if you like!’ Pavel Georgievich replied in a honeyed voice, and lovingly set his other hand on top of his father’s, so that from the outside this family scene must have appeared quite charming. ‘But you go to the opera yourself.’

  The threat concerning Vladivostok was heard quite often in the Family. Every time Pavel Georgievich was involved in some escapade or provoked his parent
s’ displeasure in one way or another, Georgii Alexandrovich threatened to use his authority as admiral-general to send him to the Pacific Fleet, to serve the fatherland and settle down. So far, however, this had not happened.

  After that they spoke exclusively in English, and my thoughts took a completely different direction.

  I had an idea.

  The point was that the meaning of the spat between Their Highnesses, which would hardly have been understandable even to someone who knew Russian, was absolutely clear to me.

  Izabella Felitsianovna Snezhnevskaya had arrived and was staying at the Loskutnaya hotel.

  There was someone who would help me!

  Madam Snezhnevskaya was the most intelligent woman I had ever met in my life, and in my time I had seen empresses and high-society lionesses and ruling queens.

  Izabella Felitsianovna’s story is so fantastic and improbable that the like is probably not to be found in the whole of world history. Possibly some Madam Maintenon or Marquise de Pompadour might have achieved greater power at the zenith of their glory, but their position within the royal household could hardly have been more secure and enduring. Madam Snezhnevskaya, being, as I have already said, a most intelligentwoman, had made a truly great innovation in court practice: she had started an affair, not with a monarch or a grand duke, who alas are mortal or inconstant, but with the monarchy, which is immortal and eternal. At the age of twenty-eight Izabella Felitsianovna had earned the sobriquet of a ‘crown jewel’, and in fact she really did look like some precious decoration from the Imperial Diamond Room: petite, delicate, unutterably elegant, with a voice like crystal, golden hair and sapphire eyes. This little dancer, the youngest and most talented in all the ballet companies of St Petersburg, had been noticed by the deceased sovereign. In paying homage to the charms of this nymph, His Majesty discovered something more in Izabella Felitsianovna than the mere enchantment of beauty and freshness – he discovered intelligence, tact and the basic qualities of a faithful ally of the throne.