by Boris Akunin
A chorus of voices replied cheerfully: ‘Don’t you worry, yer ’onour! Press on, lads!’
A woman shrieked desperately.
Somehow I managed to find the ground with my feet and move along with the crowd. Fandorinwas no longer there beside me – he had been swept away somewhere to one side. I almost stumbled when I stepped on something soft and did not immediately realise that it was a person. I caught a glimpse of a trampled soldier’s white tunic under my feet, but it was impossible to help the fallen man as my hands were pinned tight against my sides.
Then bodies began falling more and more often, and I could only think of one thing: God forbid that I might lose my footing – there was no way I would ever get up again. To my left there was someone running along over the people’s shoulders and heads, with his black tarred boots twinkling. Suddenly he swayed, flung up his arms and went crashing down.
I was being carried straight towards the sharp corner of a planking pavilion covered in fresh splinters. I tried to veer a little to one side, but it was hopeless.
‘Take him!’ voices shouted from my right. ‘Take the little one!’
They were passing a boy of about eight from one pair of raised hands to another. He was gazing around in terror and sniffing with his bloody nose.
I was flung against the wall and my cheek dragged across the splinters, making the tears spurt from my eyes. I struck my temple against a carved window frame and as I started slipping down I had just enough time to think: It’s over. Now they will crush me.
Someone gripped me under the armpits and jerked me back onto my feet. Fandorin. I was already so stunned that his appearance did not surprise me in the least.
‘Brace your hands against the wall!’ he shouted. ‘Otherwise they’ll crush you!’
He swung his arm and smashed out the patterned shutter with a single blow of his fist. Then he picked me up by my sides and thrust me up with incredible strength so that I flew over the window sill rather than climbed it, and landed with a crash on a floor that smelled of fresh wood shavings. There were neat pyramids of coronation mugs standing all around me. Erast Petrovich hauled himself up and also climbed into the pavilion. One of his eyebrowswas split, his uniformwas tattered, his sabre had come halfway out of its scabbard.
Were we really safe now?
I looked out of the windowand saw that the fieldwas jammed solid with people out of their minds. Screaming, groaning, crunching sounds, laughter – all of these were mingled together in the hubbub. There had to be a million of them! Clouds of dust swirled and shimmered in the air, transforming it into a thick fatty broth.
Someone had climbed into the next pavilion and began throwing mugs and sacks of presents out of the window. A brawl immediately started up beside the wall there.
‘Oh Lord, save Thy people,’ I blurted out, and my hand reached up of its own accord to make the sign of the cross.
‘What are you up to?’ someone shouted up at us. ‘Toss out the mugs! Is there any drink?’
The pavilion creaked and wood dust sprinkled down from the ceiling. I cried out in horror as I saw our frail refuge falling to pieces. Something struck me on the back of my head, and it was a relief when I lost consciousness.
I do not know who dragged me out from under the debris and then carried me to a safe place, or why they did it. In all probability I was once again indebted to Fandorin for saving me, although I do not find that a pleasant thought.
However it happened, I came round on a wooden grandstand at the edge of the Khodynsk Field. The sun was already high in the sky. I lifted my head, then immediately dropped it again, hitting it hard against the rough surface of the bench. I then managed to sit up after a fashion and felt my pounding head with my hands. It did not feel as if it was really mine. Although there was a substantial lump on the top of it, otherwise I seemed to be more or less unhurt. Fandorin was nowhere to be seen. I was in a strange drowsy state and could not get rid of the metallic ringing sound in my ears.
The first thing I did was survey the vast field. I saw booths and pavilions twisted awry and tight lines of soldiers moving slowly across the grass. And everywhere, almost completely covering the ground, therewere bodies: many were motionless, but some were still moving. It was distressing to watch, this feeble stirring. There was a buzzing in my temples and my eyes were blinded by the bright sun. I tucked my head into my crossed arms and either fell asleep or fainted. I do not know how long I sat there, leaning against the skirting of the grandstand, but the next time I woke up it was long after midday and the field was empty. There were no soldiers and no bodies.
My head was no longer hurting so badly, but I felt very thirsty.
I sat there, wondering feebly if I ought to go somewhere or if it would be better to stay where I was. I stayed, and it was the right thing to do, because soon Erast Petrovich appeared. He was stillwearing his police uniform, but his bootswere absolutely filthy and his white gloves black with soil.
‘Are you back with us?’ he asked in a gloomy voice. ‘My God, Ziukin, what a disaster. The only time I ever saw the like was at Plevna. Thousands killed and mutilated. This is the worst of all Lind’s atrocities. He has taken an army of slaves with him into the grave like some ancient king.’
‘So Lind was crushed too?’ I asked without any great interest, still unable to shake off my lethargic drowsiness.
‘I cannot see how he could possibly have survived in such a crush. However, let us go and check. The soldiers and police have just finished laying out the mangled bodies for identification – over there, along the side of the road. The line of the dead is almost a verst long. But how can we identify him? We don’t even know what he looks like. Except perhaps for the cloak . . . Let’s go, Ziukin, let’s go.’
I limped along after him.
The line of dead bodies stretched along the main highway, running as far as the eye could see in both directions. Therewere cabs and carts driving out from Moscow as the order had been given to transport the dead to the Vagankovskoe Cemetery, but they had not started moving them yet.
There were high-ranking officials striding about everywhere with sombre faces: military officers, police officers, civilians, each one accompanied by his own retinue. Oh, you will all get it in the neck for allowing the coronation to be wrecked, I thought, but more in sympathy than condemnation. It was Lind who had started the slaughter, but it was the men in charge who would have to pay.
I had a strange feeling as I slowly walked along the side of the road – as if I were some kind of high noble reviewing a parade of the dead. Many of the corpses grinned at me, theirwhite teeth exposed in their flattened faces. From the beginning I felt as if I were frozen, and then I completely turned to stone, which was probably all for the best. I only stopped once, beside that boy whom they had tried to pass out of the crowd. Evidently they had failed. I stared with apathetic curiosity at the transparent blueness of his wide staring eyes and hobbled on. There were quite a number of people staring into the dead faces like Fandorin and myself – some looking for relatives, some simply curious.
‘Look at this, look here,’ I heard a voice say. ‘What a rich man he was, eh?’
A crowd of idlers had gathered round one dead body, and there was a police constable on guard. It was just another dead body – skinny, with straw-coloured hair and a crushed nose – but there were about a dozen purses and several watches on chains laid out on its chest.
‘A pickpocket,’ a lively old man explained to me and clicked his tongue regretfully. ‘That old buzzard fate didn’t spare him either. And he was expecting such a rich haul.’
Ahead of mesomeone started howling – theymust have recognised a dear one – and I hurried on to get past as quickly as possible.
I strode on rapidly for about another twenty paces, and then my stupor seemed to vanish as if by magic. That black frock coat was familiar!
Yes, it was definitely him. The Postman!
Fandorin also saw him and walked over quickly
. He squatted down.
The face of the doctor’s helper was entirely undamaged apart from the imprint of the sole of someone’s boot on one cheek. I was struck very powerfully by the expression of surprise on the frozen features. What had he found so astonishing in the final moment of his criminal life? What had he seen that was so incredible? The gaping abyss of hell?
Erast Petrovich straightened up abruptly and declared in a hoarse voice: ‘Lind is alive!’
Seeing my eyebrows shoot up in bewilderment, he bent down, parted the corpse’s blood-soaked clothes and unbuttoned its shirt to expose the pale hairy chest. There was a neat black triangular wound just below the left nipple.
‘There, you see it,’ Fandorin said in a quiet voice. ‘A familiar sign. That is Lind’s stiletto. The doctor remains true to himself – he leaves no witnesses.’ Erast Petrovich straightened up and looked in the direction of Moscow. ‘Let’s go, Ziukin. There’s nothing more we can do here. Quickly!’
He strode off rapidly, almost running, in the direction of the Petrovsky Palace.
‘Where are you going?’ I shouted, chasing after him.
‘Where else but the Postman’s house? Lind might still be there. After all, he doesn’t know that we discovered his hideaway.’
We could not walk all the way into Moscow, and all the cabs had been commandeered by the police to transport the dead, after the wounded had been taken to the hospitals in the morning. The carriages were setting off one after the other in the direction of the Tverskaya Gate, each bearing a doleful cargo.
High Police Master Lasovsky walked past, surrounded by a group of blue uniforms. I hastily turned my face away, only realising afterwards that in my present condition it would have been almost impossible to recognise me, not to mention the fact that just at that moment Afanasii Ziukin was probably the very last thing on the colonel’s mind. The kidnapping of Mikhail Georgievich, even the disappearance of the Orlov, paled into insignificance in comparison with the tragedy that had just taken place. Fate had not inflicted such a blow on a new monarch in Russia since at least 1825. Good Lord. What an international scandal! And what a monstrous omen for the reign just begun!
The high police master’s face was pale and miserable. Naturally, for he would be held responsible in the first instance. Mere resignation would not be enough. The person in charge of arranging the coronation festivities was the governor general of Moscow, but how could you bring the uncle of His Imperial Majesty to trial? But someone at the top of the local authorities had to be tried. Why had they not foreseen that there would be so many people? Why had they set up such a weak cordon?
Fandorin drew himself erect and saluted the police chief smartly, but Lasovsky did not even glance in our direction.
‘Excellent,’ Erast Petrovich said to me in a low voice. ‘There’s our cab.’
A short distance away I saw the high police master’s famous carriage, harnessed to a pair of black trotters. The coachman Sychov, frequently mentioned by the Moscow newspapers in connection with the indefatigable police chief’s daily outings in search of drunken yard keepers and negligent constables, was solemnly ensconced on the coach box.
Erast Petrovich drew his sword and dashed towards the carriage, jangling his spurs smartly.
‘An urgent dispatch!’ he shouted at the coachman and jumped straight into the carriage at a run. ‘Come on, Sychov, wake up! An order from the high police master!’ He turned back to me and saluted. ‘Your Excellency, I implore you, quickly now!’
The coachman glanced at the brusque officer and looked at me. I was wearing the simple jacket taken from the German bandit, but Sychov did not seem particularly surprised. On an insane day like this, God only knew who the high police master’s two in hand might be ordered to carry.
‘Open your eyes wider, stare hard,’ Fandorin whispered as he took a seat facing me. ‘You’re an important individual. They don’t drive just anybody around in this carriage.’
I drew myself erect and, as befits a genuinely important individual, directed my gaze a little to the side and up, gathering my forehead into stately wrinkles. Thank God I had seen enough ministers and generals in my time.
‘Drive on, Sychov, drive on!’ Erast Petrovich barked, prodding the driver in his cotton-wadded back.
The coachman hastily shook his reins, the wonderful horses set off at a trot, and the carriage swayed gently on its soft springs.
Every now and then Sychov bellowed: ‘Mind yourselves, there!’
The bleached white trunks of the roadside poplars flashed by. The bleak queue of carts covered with sackcloth fell further and further behind. People on the pavements turned round to gaze in hope and fear – or at least it seemed to me that they did – and policemen saluted.
Erast Petrovich ordered the coachman to stop at the Alexander Railway Station. We got out, Erast Petrovich dropped his visiting card on the leather seat and waved for Sychov to drive back to where he had come from.
We got into a cab and drove off at a spanking pace towards Myasnitskaya Street.
‘What’s happening up there on the Khodynka, Your Honour?’ the cabby asked, turning towards us. ‘They’re saying as the Yids poured dope into the official wine, so the people was drugged, and nigh on a hundred thousand Orthodox folk was crushed. Is that true or not?’
‘It’s a lie,’ Erast Petrovich replied curtly. ‘Drive on, drive on!’
We flew into the familiar side street with a rumble and a clatter. Fandorin jumped down and beckoned the yard keeper with an imperious gesture.
‘Wholives at that address?’ he asked, pointing to the Postman’s house.
‘Post Office Attendant Mr Ivan Zakharovich Tereshchenko,’ the yard keeper replied, saluting with his broom held rigidly to attention.
‘Retired army man?’ Erast Petrovich enquired sternly.
‘Yes, sir, Your Honour! Private First Class of the Prince Heinrich of Prussia Sixth Dragoons Regiment Fyodor Svishch!’
‘Very well, Svishch. This gentleman and I have come to carry out the arrest of this Tereshchenko. You have awhistle. Go round to the back of the house from the courtyard and keep your eyes on the windows. If he tries to get out, whistle for all you’re worth. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir, Your Honour!’
‘And wait!’ Fandorin shouted after the former private, first class, who was already dashing off to carry out his orders. ‘Do you have a crowbar? Bring it here and then take up your post.’
We ourselves took up a position on the porch where we could not be seen from the windows.
Erast Petrovich rang the bell and then knocked on the door.
‘Tereshchenko! Mr Tereshchenko! Open up, this is the local inspector of police! In connection with today’s events!’
He put his ear to the door.
‘Break it open, Ziukin.’
I had never held such a crude instrument as an iron crowbar in my hands before, never mind used it to break in a door. It turned out to be far from simple. I struck the lock once, twice, three times. The door shuddered but it did not open. Then I stuck the flat sharp end into the crack, leaned against it and tried to lever the lock apart, but that did not work either.
‘Right. Damn you and your crowbar, Ziukin!’
Erast Petrovich moved me aside. Grabbing the porch railings he launched himself into the air and smashed both of his feet into the door, which went crashing inwards and hung crookedly on one hinge.
We quickly ran through all the rooms with Fandorin clutching a little black revolver at the ready. No one. Scattered items of clothing, false beards, a ginger wig, a few canes, cloaks and hats, crumpled banknotes on the floor.
‘We’re too late!’ Erast Petrovich sighed. ‘Just a little bit too late!’
I groaned in disappointment, but he looked round the small drawing room carefully and then suddenly said in a quiet stealthy voice: ‘Ah, but this is interesting.’
There was an open casket standing on a small table beside the window. Fandorin to
ok out a long object that glittered in his fingers, giving off yellow sparks.
‘What is that?’ I asked in amazement.
‘I presume it is the celebrated coronet,’ he replied, keenly examining the diadem, which was encrusted with priceless yellow diamonds and opals. ‘And here is the Empress Anna’s clasp, and the Empress Elisaveta’s neckband, and the small d-diamond bouquet with a spinel, and the, what’s it called . . . aigrette. I promised Her Imperial Majesty that her jewels from the coffret would be returned safe and sound, and that is what has happened.’
I dashed across to the casket and froze in awe. What a stroke of luck! All of these fabulous jewels glowing with the sacred aura of the history of the imperial house, safely returned to the throne! This alonewas enough to justify Fandorin’s entire wild adventure and totally restoremyown good name. The only possible greater happiness would be the rescue of Mikhail Georgievich and Mademoiselle Declique.
But of course Fandorin was delighted by this miraculous discovery for a completely different reason.
‘Lind was here only very recently and evidently intends to return. That is one. He really does have no one left to help him. He is quite alone. That is two. And finally we have an excellent chance of catching him. That is three.’
I thought for a moment and worked out the logic for myself: ‘If he was not planning to return, he would not have left the casket behind, right? And if he still had any helpers, he would have left them to guard the treasure. What are we going to do?’
‘First of all, mend the front d-door.’
We dashed back into the entrance hall. The blow from Fandorin’s feet had torn one hinge out bodily, but that was not the only problem. Far worse was the fact that a crowd of onlookers had gathered and they were staring avidly at the windows and the gaping hole.
‘Damnation!’ Erast Petrovich groaned. ‘We raised such a racket that the entire street has come running to look, and in ten minutes the entire b-block will be here! Soon the real police will turn up and spoil everything for us. No, we won’t see Lind here again. But at least we have to check to see if any clues have been left behind.’