by Boris Akunin
‘But, after all, the most important secret of the doctor’s power was precisely femininity. It was a very strange gang, Ziukin, a gang of extortionists and murderers ruled by love. All of Lind’s men were in love with him – with her, each in his own way. “Mademoiselle Declique’s” true genius was that this woman was able to find the key to any man’s heart, even a heart absolutely unequipped for love.’
I sensed his gaze on me, but I did not look up. There were already two flies circling above Emilie’s face; they had to be driven away.
‘Do you know what Somov told me b-before he died, Ziukin?’
‘Is he dead too?’ I asked indifferently.
Just at that moment I noticed an entire colony of ants climbing up Emilie’s sleeve, so I had plenty to keep me busy.
‘Yes, I checked him very simply. I turned my back to him. And of course he immediately attempted to take advantage of my apparent g-gullibility. There was a short struggle, which ended with your assistant impaling himself on his own knife. Even as he wheezed his last, he was still struggling to reach for my throat. I am not easily frightened but by God the sight of such a frenzy sent cold shivers running down my spine. I shouted at him: “What, what did you all find in her?” And do you know what answer he gave me, Ziukin? “Love.” That was the final word he spoke. Oh, she knew how to inspire love. I believe you too felt the influence of Doctor Lind’s charms, did you not? I’m afraid that you were too scrupulous altogether. As far as I can tell, Somov fared better than you did. I found this on him.’
He took a small silk bag out of his pocket and extracted a lock of chestnut hair from it. I recognised the hair immediately as Emilie’s. So that was the kind of French lessons they had. But there was no time for me to feel upset. The cursed flies had performed an outflanking manoeuvre and I caught one, the most persistent, on Mademoiselle’s ear.
‘Now it is clear why Doctor Lind had no women friends and was regarded as a m-misogynist. Homosexuality has nothing to do with it. Emilie cunningly led us astray by laying a false trail. We must assume that Lord Banville left the empire long ago, after making the poor boy Glinsky pay for the loss of his lover. Ah the exquisite Mr Carr, the innocuous fancier of blue carnations and green forget-me-nots! He was killed to make us even more sure that Lind was Lord Banville. While you and I played the idiot and chose pantaloons and stockings for the doctor, Mademoiselle must have searched the apartment, failed to find the casket or the Orlov and decided to make another move in her complicated game by telephoning Somov at the Hermitage and ordering him to do away with Carr. The operation was entering its final stage. Lind had to get back the jewels and take possession of the diamond.’
‘No!’ I exclaimed, overcome by a sudden horror. ‘No, there’s something wrong here! You are mistaken after all!’
He gaped at me in amazement, and I, choking on my sobs, told him about my last telephone conversation with Emilie.
‘If . . . if she was Doctor Lind, then why did she refuse? I . . . myself offered to give her the casket and the diamond! She would not take them! She said she trusted you and I must not get in your way.’
But this did not unsettle Fandorin at all. ‘Naturally,’ he said, nodding. ‘The loot on its own was not enough for the doctor. He – dammit, I mean she – wanted my head as well. Once she had found out the time and place of the meeting from you, she had the opportunity to conclude her Moscow operation at a single stroke. In a most triumphant manner, redressing all the failures and settling all accounts in full.’
Erast Petrovich hesitated. He looked as if he was feeling guilty and intended to beg my pardon.
I was not mistaken – he did indeed start to apologise: ‘Afanasii Stepanovich, I have treated you cruelly. I used you without explaining anything to you or taking you into my confidence. But I could not tell you the truth. You were captivated by Emilie and would never have believed me. Yesterday evening I deliberately spoke abruptly to you on the telephone and did not g-give you any information. I needed to provoke your s-suspicion. I knew that, assailed by doubts, you would turn for advice to the only person you trusted, Mademoiselle Declique. And you would tell her everything. I also chose the monk’s clothes deliberately. Lind, with his – O Lord, with her – uncanny quick-wittedness, was bound to realise what a convenient costume it would be for her.
‘The hood, the black mantle and the habit make it possible to mask both the figure and the face. I told Lind the plan of action myself, through you. Mademoiselle was well aware of your habit of arriving everywhere ahead of time. She reached the bridge at twenty minutes past five and waited. I had warned you that I might be late, and so she had no doubt that you would be the first to arrive. She would have time to take the jewels from you and prepare to meet me. But I took up a position in the bushes at half past four. I could have shot Lind sooner, before you arrived, without exposing myself to any risk, but God only knows what you would have imagined afterwards. You would never have believed that Mademoiselle Declique was guilty unless she proved it to you herself. Which she did in quite excellent fashion. Of course that has cost me a bullet hole in my shoulder, and if the sun had not been shining in her eyes the outcome of the duel would have been even sadder for me . . .’
I was not thinking about anything at that moment, simply listening.
Fandorin looked from me to the dead woman and narrowed his cold blue eyes. ‘What I do not know is what she intended to do with you,’ he said pensively. ‘Simply kill you? Or perhaps win you over to her side? What do you think? Could she have done that? Would a quarter of an hour have been enough for you to forget everything else for the sake of love?’
Something stirred inside me at those words. Not quite resentment, not quite anger – a bad kind of feeling, but faint, very faint. And at the same time I remembered that there was something that I simply, absolutely had to ask.
Ah yes.
‘What about Mikhail Georgievich? Where is he?’
A shadow flitted across Fandorin’s face – pale and tired but still very handsome.
‘Do you still have to ask? The boy was killed, I think on that day when you tried to save him by chasing after the carriage. Lind decided that he would take no more risks and chose Mademoiselle Declique – that is himself – as the intermediary instead of you. Or perhaps that is how it was planned from the very beginning. Our Emilie played her role quite brilliantly. To make everything completely credible she even led us to the vault, from which it was so convenient to escape through an underground passage. She would have got away with everything if not for my little surprise with the coachman.’
‘But on that day His Highness was still alive!’
‘What makes you think so? It was Lind, that is Emilie, who shouted up to us that the child was alive. The little mite had already been lying dead for days somewhere, at the bottom of a river or in an unmarked grave. And the most revolting thing is that before they killed the child, they cut off his finger while he was still alive.’
It was impossible to believe such things. ‘How can you know that? You weren’t there, were you?’
Erast Petrovich frowned.
‘But I saw the finger. It was clear from the droplets of dried blood that it had not been amputated from a dead body. That is why I continued to believe for so long that the child might be ill and drugged but was still alive.’
I looked at Emilie again, this time I looked long and hard. That is Doctor Lind, I told myself, the one who tortured and killed Mikhail Georgievich. But Lind was Lind, and Emilie was Emilie. There had not been any connection between them.
‘Ziukin! Afanasii Stepanovich, wake up!’
I slowly turned towards Fandorin, not understanding what else he wanted from me.
Erast Petrovich was grimacing in pain as he pulled on his frock coat.
‘I shall have to disappear. I have eliminated Lind, saved the Orlov and recovered Her Majesty’s jewels, but I was not able to save the grand duke. The emperor has no more use for me, and the Moscow authorit
ies have cherished their animosity towards me for a long time. I shall go abroad; there is nothing more for me to do here. Only . . .’
He waved his hand through the air as if he wished to say something but could not make up his mind.
‘I wish to ask to ask you a favour. Please tell Xenia Georgievna. . . that I have thought a lot about our argument . . . and I am no longer so convinced that I was right . . . And give her this.’ He handed me a sheet of paper. ‘It is an address in Paris through which she can contact me. Will you give it to her?’
‘Yes,’ I said in a wooden voice, putting the paper away in my pocket.
‘Well, g-goodbye.’
The grass rustled as Fandorin scrambled up the slope. I did not watch him go.
He swore once – he must have jolted his wounded shoulder – but even so I did not look round.
I realised that I would have to collect up the scattered jewels: the tiara, the diamond clasp, the collar, the small bouquet, the fountain aigrette. But, most important of all, what was I to do with Mademoiselle Declique? Of course I could walk up to the park office and bring some attendants – they would carry the body up the slope. But I couldn’t leave Emilie here alone, for the ants to crawl over her and the flies to settle on her face.
On the other hand, even though she was not heavy (after all, I had already carried her in my arms), would I be able to carry her up such a steep slope on my own?
I supposed it was worth trying.
‘ . . . most profound gratitude to Divine Providence for having preserved this sacred symbol of the tsar’s power for Russia.’
His Majesty’s voice trembled and the sovereign paused in order to control a sudden surge of emotion. The empress made the sign of the cross, and the tsar immediately followed her example and also bowed to the icon hanging in the corner.
No one else present crossed themselves. Nor did I.
The royal audience had been granted to me in the large drawing room of the Hermitage. Despite the solemn significance of the event, only those privy to the circumstances of the drama that had been played out were present: members of the royal family, Colonel Karnovich and Lieutenant Endlung.
Everyone was wearing mourning armbands as on that day it had been announced that His Highness Mikhail Georgievich had died in a suburban palace from a sudden attack of measles. Since it was known that all the younger Georgieviches were suffering from this dangerous illness, the news seemed credible, although of course certain dark fantastic rumours had already begun to spread. However, the truth was far too unlikely for anyone to believe.
Xenia Georgievna and Pavel Georgievich stood there with their eyes wet with tears, but Georgii Alexandrovich kept himself in hand. Kirill Alexandrovich looked impassive. One could only assume that from his point of view a most wretched story had concluded in a fashion that was not the most catastrophic possible. From time to time Simeon Alexandrovich dabbed his red eyes with a scented handkerchief, however I suspect that he was not sighing for the little prince so much as for a certain Englishman with straw-yellow hair.
Having regained control of his voice, His Majesty continued: ‘However, it would be unjust to thank the Almighty without rewarding the individual whom the Lord chose as His own good instrument, our faithful House Master Afanasii Ziukin. Our eternal gratitude to you, our precious Afanasii Stepanovich, for your fidelity to duty and devotion to the tsarist house.’
‘Yes, dear Afanasii, we are most pleased indeed at you,’ Her Imperial Majesty echoed, smiling at me and as usual confusing the difficult Russian words.
I noticed that despite the period of mourning the small diamond bouquet was glimmering radiantly on the tsarina’s breast.
‘Approach, Afanasii Stepanovich,’ the sovereign said in a solemn voice. ‘I wish you to be aware that the Romanovs know how to value and reward selfless service.’
I took three steps forward, inclined my head respectfully and fixed my eyes on His Majesty’s gleaming lacquered boots.
‘For the first time in the history of the tsarist house and in contravention of an ancient rule, we are elevating you to the high rank of master of the chamber and appointing you to manage the entire staff of court servants,’ the tsar declared.
I bowed even lower. Only yesterday such incredible advancement would have set my head spinning and I would have thought myself the very happiest of mortals, but now my numbed feelings did not respond at all to the joyful news.
And the outpouring of imperial grace and favour was not yet over.
‘In exchange for the contents of a certain casket, which, thanks to you, have been returned to the tsarina –’ I thought I detected a crafty note in the emperor’s voice at this point ‘– we confer on you a diamond snuffbox with our monogram and a gratuity from our personal fund of ten thousand roubles.’
I bowed again. ‘I thank you most humbly, Your Imperial Majesty.’
That completed the ceremony and I backed away behind the members of the royal family. Endlung gave me a secret wink and pulled a respectful face as if to say: such an important individual will not wish to know me now. I tried to smile at him, but I could not.
But the sovereign was already addressing the members of the Green House. ‘Poor little Mika,’ he said and knitted his brows mournfully. ‘A bright angel fiendishly done to death by heinous criminals. We grieve together with you, Uncle Georgie. But while not forgetting kindred feeling for one moment, let us also remember that we are not simple members of society but members of the imperial house, and for us the authority of the monarchy stands above all other things. I will say words now that might possibly seem monstrous to you, but nonetheless I am obliged to say them. Mika died and now he dwells in heaven. We were not able to save him. But the honour and reputation of the Romanovs has been saved. This appalling event has not become public, and that is the most important thing. I am certain, Uncle Georgie, that this thought will help you to cope with your grief as a father. Despite all the shocks and disturbances, the coronation was completed without disruption . . . Almost without disruption,’ the sovereign added and frowned, obviously recalling the trouble at Khodynsk Field. This qualification rather spoiled the impression of a little speech imbued with true majesty.
Georgii Alexandrovich weakened the effect still further when he said in a low voice: ‘We’ll see what you say about paternal feelings, Nicky, when you have children of your own . . .’
Xenia Georgievna came up to me in the corridor, put her arms round me without saying anything, rested her head on my shoulder and let her tears flow. I stood quite still, only stroking Her Highness’s hair cautiously.
Eventually the grand princess straightened up, looked up at me and asked in surprise: ‘Afanasii, why aren’t you crying? Good Lord, what has happened to your face?’
I did not understand what she meant and turned my head to glance in the mirror hanging on the opposite wall.
It was a perfectly normal face, except that it was rather stiff.
‘Did you tell him what I said?’ Xenia Georgievna whispered, sobbing. ‘Did you say that I love him?’
‘Yes,’ I replied after hesitating for a moment. I had not immediately realised what she meant.
‘And what did he say?’ Her Highness’s eyes, wet with tears, gazed at me with hope and fear. ‘Did he send me anything?’
I shook my head. ‘No, only this.’ I took the opal earrings and diamond brooch out of my pocket. ‘He said he did not want them.’
Xenia Georgievna squeezed her eyes shut for a moment but no longer. After all, Her Highness had been taught self-control since she was a child. And now there were no more tears running down her delicate cheeks.
‘Thank you, Afanasii,’ she said in a quiet voice.
Her Highness’s voice sounded as weary as if she were not nineteen but at least forty.
I went out onto the veranda. I was suddenly having difficulty breathing. Clouds had settled over Moscow earlier in the evening. There was clearly going to be a thunderstorm that night.
I had a strange feeling. Fate and monarchal favour had showered fabulous gifts on me and elevated me to a height of which I had never even dreamed, but I felt as if I had lost everything I possessed, and lost it forever. The wind rustled across the treetops in the Neskuchny Park, setting the leaves trembling, and for some reason I suddenly remembered Endlung’s suggestion that I should join the navy. I imagined the clear horizon, the foaming crests of the waves, the fresh breath of the sea breeze. Sheer nonsense, of course.
Mr Freyby came out through the glass doors. He had not had an easy time of it during the last few days either. He had been left alone without any masters. He had been held under serious suspicion, subjected to hours of interrogation, and now, together with the luggage, he would take back to England a lead coffin containing the body of Mr Carr.
However, none of these ordeals had left any mark at all on the English butler. He looked as phlegmatic and benign as ever.
He gave me an affable nod and stood beside me, leaning on the railings. He lit his pipe. This was company that suited me perfectly, since with Mr Freyby it was entirely possible to remain silent without the slightest feeling of awkwardness.
A line of carriages drew up at the entrance. Everyone would start going home now.
Their Majesties began walking down from the porch, accompanied by members of the imperial family. On the final step the sovereign stumbled and almost fell. Kirill Alexandrovich just managed to grab his nephew in time.
Beside his tall stately uncles, His Majesty looked entirely unimpressive, like a Scottish pony among a herd of thoroughbred racehorses. Of all the Romanovs, for some reason the Lord had chosen this one to lay on his feeble shoulders the heavy burden of responsibility for the fate of the monarchy.
The regal couple climbed into their carriage. The grand dukes saluted and Xenia Georgievna sank into a curtsey. Her Highness looked proud and haughty, as befits a princess.