Fandorin in English 1-10

Beaver went rushing at Marat: 'What d'you think you're playing at?' he shouted (Beaver was a fine, calm young lad, an ex-student). 'Come on, pay up!' And behind him the long-awaited deputy director of police appeared. Wearing a Guards greatcoat, a white royal-retinue cap, with a sabre. A fine conspirator.

Pozharsky stopped at the entrance to the square, planted his bright, gleaming boots in a wide stance, grasped his sword belt in picturesque fashion and shouted: 'Nihilist gentlemen! You are completely surrounded! I recommend you to surrender!' And that very second he ducked nimbly behind the fence and disappeared behind the snow-covered bushes.

Green glanced round at Fandorin, but the State Counsellor, suddenly roused from his reverie, also displayed remarkable agility. He grabbed Bullfinch by the collar and pulled him close, and then for some strange reason plunged into the tall snowdrift on the right of his bench.

Suddenly there was a tremendous rumbling and crashing from all sides, as if someone were ripping the very world in half.

Green saw Marat throw up his hands and jerk violently, as if he had been struck hard in the back. He saw Beaver firing from under his elbow, aiming somewhere upwards and off to one side.

He grabbed the Colt out of his pocket and went dashing to help Bullfinch. A bullet knocked his hat off his head and grazed his temple. Green swayed, lost his balance and collapsed into the snowdrift on the left of the next bench.

What happened next was quite incredible.

The snowdrift proved to be much deeper than he could have imagined from its appearance. There was a loud crack from somewhere, for a moment everything went dark, and then he landed hard on some solid surface. An avalanche of white immediately collapsed on him, and Green began floundering about in it, completely unable to understand what was happening.

When he somehow managed to get to his feet, he saw that he was standing in a deep pit, buried up to his chest in snow. He could see the sky, the clouds, the branches of the trees. The shooting was even louder now, and he could almost make out the individual shots, snatched up and amplified by the echo.

Up above there was a battle going on, and here was he, the man of steel, sheltering in a trench!

Green jumped up and his fingers touched the edge of the pit, but there was nothing to grab hold of. Then he discovered that he had lost his revolver in the fall, and searching for it in the snowy mush looked as if it would be long job, perhaps even a hopeless one.

Never mind, if only he could just clamber out somehow. He started furiously tamping down the snow - with his hands, his feet, even his buttocks. And then suddenly the firing stopped. The silence made Green afraid for the first rime in many long

years. He'd thought he would never again feel that chilly, heart-stopping sensation.

Was it really all over? So quickly?

He climbed on to the hard-tamped snow and stuck his head up out of the pit, but immediately squatted back down again. There was a line of men in civilian clothes walking towards the railings, holding smoking carbines and revolvers in their hands.

You couldn't even shoot yourself without a gun. Just sit there, like a wolf who's fallen into a trap, and wait for them to drag you out by the scruff of the neck.

He squatted down and began fumbling about feverishly in the snow. If he could only find it, if he could only find it. Just at that moment Green could not imagine any greater happiness.

Hopeless. The revolver was probably somewhere right at the very bottom.

Swinging round, Green suddenly saw a black hole that led off somewhere to one side. Without even pausing for thought, he stepped into it and realised it was an underground passage: narrow, a little higher than the height of a man, smelling of frozen earth.

He had no time to feel surprise.

He ran into the darkness, with his shoulders bumping against the walls of the passage.

Quite soon, after about fifty strides, he saw a glimmer of light up ahead. Moving faster, he suddenly found himself in an open trench. It was screened off with planks, and up above it on the stone wall of a building there was a sign: 'Mobius and Sons. Colonial Goods'.

Then Green remembered: in the side street that led to the square, there had been some kind of trench, with a hastily cobbled together wooden fence along its edges. That was where he was.

He clambered out of the trench. The side street was empty, but he could hear the sound of many voices from the square.

He pressed himself against the wall of the building and peeped round the corner.

The men in civilian clothes were dragging bodies on to the avenue of the park. Green saw two agents dragging along a policeman, and didn't immediately realise who it was, because the skirts of the dead man's greatcoat had turned up to conceal his face. A thick book in a familiar binding fell out from behind his lapel: The Count of Monte Cristo. Emelya had brought it with him to the operation - he'd been afraid they might not be going back to the apartment and he wouldn't find out if the count ever took his revenge on the traitors or not.

'What is all this, eh?' a frightened voice asked behind Green.

It was a yard-keeper, sticking his head out from a gateway. Wearing an apron, and his metal badge. He looked at the man covered in snow and explained guiltily: 'I'm just staying put, not sticking my head out, like we were told. Who was that you got, eh? Khitrovka gangsters? Bombers?'

'Bombers,' Green replied, and set off along the street at a fast walk.

It was still very early.

'We're leaving,' he said to Needle when she opened the door. 'Quick.'

She turned pale, but didn't ask any questions, just dashed to put her shoes on.

Green took two revolvers, cartridges, the jar of explosive mixture and several detonators. The finished casings had to be left behind.

Not until they were down in the street and safely round the corner did it finally become clear that the apartment was not surrounded. The police had obviously been certain that the Combat Group would come to the trap and decided to avoid external surveillance, in order not to give themselves away by accident.

'Where to?' Green asked. 'Not to a hotel. They'll be looking.'

Needle hesitated and then said: 'To my house. Only... Never mind, you'll see for yourself.'

She told the cab driver to take them to Count Dobrinsky's house on Prechistenka Street.

On the way, Green told her in a low voice what had happened at Briusov Square. Needle's face never quivered, but the tears streamed down her cheeks one after another.

The sleigh stopped in front of a large, old pair of cast-iron gates embellished with a crown. Through the railings Green could see a yard and a large three-storey palace that had probably once been gorgeous and magnificent, but now its paint had flaked off and it was clearly abandoned.

'Nobody lives there; the doors are boarded up,' Needle explained, as if she were making excuses. 'When my father died, I let all the servants go. But I can't sell it. My father entailed the house to my son. If I have one. And if I don't, when I die it goes to the Council of the Order of St George

So what they said about Conjuror's fiancee was true: she was a count's daughter, Green thought absent-mindedly, his mind gradually stealing up on the most important question.

Needle led him past the. locked gates and along the railings to a little annexe with a mezzanine, one wing of which reached right out to the street.

'The family doctor used to live here,' said Needle. 'Now I do. Alone.' But he was no longer listening.

He followed her through some room without even bothering to look around him. He sat down in an armchair.

'What do we do now?' Needle asked.

'I have to think for a while,' Green replied in a steady voice.

'Can I sit beside you? I won't bother you

But she did bother him. Her gentle, turquoise gaze would not allow his mind to organise itself; all sorts of peripheral and entirely unnecessary thoughts crowded into his head. With an effort of will, Green forced himself not to stray from a straight line and concentrate on the essential task. The essential task was called TG. And apart from Green there was no one to solve it.

What did he have to work on?

Only his own well-trained memory. That was where he should look.

TG had sent eight letters altogether.

The first had been about Bogdanov, the Governor of Ekaterinburg. It had arrived soon after the unsuccessful attempt on Khrapov's life, on 23 September last year. Appeared out of nowhere on the dining table of the clandestine apartment on Fontanka Street. Written on an Underwood typewriter.

The second had been about general of gendarmes Selivanov. It had simply turned up in the pocket of Green's coat in December last year. At a party 'wedding'. The typewriter was an Underwood again.

The third had been about Pozharsky and the unnamed 'important agent', who had turned out to be Stasov, a member of the Central Committee in exile. It had been found on the floor in the clandestine apartment on Vasilievsky Island in St Petersburg on 15 January. The same typewriter.

The fourth had been about Khrapov. At the Kolpino dacha. Emelya had picked up the note that was wrapped round a stone, lying under the open window. That was on 16 February. TG had used an Underwood again.

So, the first four letters had been received in St Petersburg, and almost five months had passed between the first and the last. But in Moscow TG's pace had been feverish - four letters in four days.

The fifth had been about Rahmet, and it had said Sverchinsky would be at the Nikolaevsky Station that night. It came on Tuesday the nineteenth. Once again, just as at the 'wedding', in some mysterious manner it had appeared in the pocket of his coat while it was hanging up. The typewriter had changed; this time it was a Remington No. 5. The Underwood had evidently been left behind in Peter.

The sixth had been about the police blockade at the railway goods sheds and the new apartment. That was on Wednesday the twentieth. The letter was brought by Matvei, who found it in the pocket of his sheepskin coat. It was typed on a Remington.

The seventh had been about the Petrosov Baths. Dropped through the door on 21 February. The Remington again.

The last one, the eighth, luring them into the trap, had arrived in the same way. That was yesterday, Friday. The typewriter was a Remington.

What followed from all this?

Why had TG first provided invaluable help, and then betrayed him?

For the same reason as others turned traitor: he had been arrested and broken. Or he had been discovered and deliberately fed false information. Never mind, that was irrelevant.

The important question was: who was he?

In four cases out of eight TG or his intermediary had been in Green's immediate vicinity. In the other four, for some reason he hadn't wanted to come close to Green, or hadn't been able to, and he had acted, not from the inside, but from the outside: through an open window, through the door, through Matvei. Well, the situation at Kolpino was clear enough: after the January expropriation Green had put the group in quarantine and they had stayed at the dacha without going anywhere or seeing anyone.

But in Moscow TG had only had direct access to Green on one occasion, 19 February, when Ace gave his briefing before the attack on the state currency-shipping carriage. After that for some reason TG no longer had direct access. What had happened between Tuesday and Wednesday?

Green jerked upright in his chair, suddenly struck by the arithmetical simplicity of the solution. Why hadn't he thought of it before! Because there simply hadn't been that genuine, absolute necessity that lends such a wonderfully keen edge to the workings of thought.

'What is it?' Needle asked in fright. 'Are you feeling unwell?'

Without answering, he grabbed a pencil and a sheet of paper from the table. He paused for about a minute, then quickly dashed off a few lines and wrote an address at the top.

'This is for the telegraph office. The extra urgent rate.'

CHAPTER 15

in which Fandorin learns to be flexible

Green was not as Erast Petrovich had imagined him to be. The State Counsellor could not see anything fiendish or especially bloodthirsty about the man sitting on the next bench. A severe face, its features stamped in metal, a face that was hard to imagine smiling. And quite young still, despite the clumsy masquerade with that grey moustache and those sideburns.

Apart from Fandorin himself and the terrorists, Briusov Square seemed to be completely empty. Pozharsky had chosen an excellent spot for the operation. There was a policeman, undoubtedly someone in disguise, strolling along on the other side of the railings. Two young yard-keepers with unnaturally long beards and remarkably cultured expressions on their faces were clumsily scraping away snow with plywood spades. A little further away another two young lads were playing stick-knife, but they didn't really seem very interested in the game - they kept looking round far too often.

It was after nine already, but Pozharsky was taking his time. He was obviously waiting for the youngest of the terrorists, the one playing the part of a grammar-school boy, to come back.

And there he was now. He whistled as he walked across the avenue, sat down only an arm's length away from Erast Petrovich, right beside the snowdrift with the pit, and greedily thrust a handful of snow into his mouth. Would you believe it, the State Counsellor thought, no more than a child, and already a seasoned killer! Unlike the fake general, the 'schoolboy' looked perfectly convincing. He must be Bullfinch.

Pozharsky appeared, and the stick-knife players began drifting towards the centre of the park. Erast Petrovich focused his inner energies for action.

The prince shouted his offer for the nihilists to surrender and Fandorin sprang nimbly to his feet, effortlessly grabbed the 'schoolboy' by the collar of his coat and dragged him down into the refuge of the snowdrift. It was too soon for the boy to die.

The snow received the State Counsellor softly, but did not admit him very far - barely much more than an arshin, in fact. Bullfinch fell on top of him and began floundering about, but it was not easy to break free of Erast Petrovich's strong hands.

Shots thundered out from every side. Fandorin knew that the marksmen of the Flying Squad, reinforced by Mylnikov's agents, were firing from the monastery walls and the surrounding roofs, and they would not cease firing as long as there was anything left alive and moving in the square.

Where was the pit that had been promised?

Erast Petrovich applied gentle pressure to one of the young terrorist's nerve points to stop him kicking and struggling, then struck the ground with his fist - once, twice, three times. If it had been plywood there, under the snow, it would have yielded and sprung back, but no, the solid ground remained solid.

The 'schoolboy* no longer attempted to break free, but from time to time he jerked, as if stung by an electric shock, although there was no real reason why he should - Fandorin had not pressed the nerve point hard, only just enough for ten minutes of total calm.

Several times bullets slammed into the snow, too close for comfort, with a furious hissing sound. Erast Petrovich hammered ever more furiously on the unyielding plywood and even tried to bounce up and down on it, as far as that was possible in a lying position, with a load to support. The pit stubbornly refused to open up. Either the plywood had hardened to oak overnight, or something else had gone wrong.

Meanwhile the shooting had started to thin out and soon it died away completely.

He heard voices in the avenue: 'This one's a goner. A regular tea-strainer.'

'This one too. Just look at the way his face is all twisted and torn, unidentifiable.'

To climb out of the snowdrift would have been imprudent -they would have put a dozen bullets in him instantly - and so Erast Petrovich called out without getting up: 'Gentlemen, I am Fandorin, do not shoot!'

And only then, having set aside the peacefully sleeping Bullfinch, did he stand up, thinking that he probably looked like a snowman.

The park was full of men in civilian clothes. There must have been fifty of them at least, and he could see more outside the railings.

'Wiped out the lot, Your Honour,' said one of the 'flyers', who had a youthful air despite his grey moustache. 'No one left to arrest.'

'There is one still alive,' Erast Petrovich replied, dusting himself off. 'T-Take him and lay him out on a bench.'

The agents took hold of the 'schoolboy', but dropped him again immediately. The snow on his coat was stained red with blood in several places, and there was a black hole in his forehead, just below the hair line. It was clear now what had made the poor boy twitch so violently.

Erast Petrovich gazed in bewilderment at the lifeless body that had shielded him from the bullets, and failed to notice Pozharsky swooping down on him from behind.

'Alive? Thank God!' Pozharsky shouted, putting his arms round Fandorin's shoulders. 'I'd given up hope! Now for God's sake tell me what on earth made you jump into the snowdrift on the left? I told you a hundred times: jump into the one on the right, on the right! It's an absolute miracle you weren't hit!'

'That is the snowdrift on the right, there!' the State Counsellor exclaimed indignandy, recalling his vain attempts to jump up and down in a lying position. And that's the one I j-jumped into!'

The prince began batting his eyelids, his gaze shifted from Fandorin to the bench, to the snowdrift, then back to Fandorin, and he started chuckling uncertainly.

'Why yes, of course. I never sat on the bench, I only looked at it from here. Here I am, and there's the snowdrift, on the right of the bench. But if you sit down, then of course it's on your left ... Oh, it's too much! Two wise men ... two great strategists

And the deputy director of police folded over in a paroxysm of irresistible, choking laughter - no doubt the result, in part at least, of nervous strain.

Erast Petrovich smiled, because Gleb Georgievich's laughter was infectious, but his gaze was caught once again by the slim figure in the school coat and he suddenly became serious.

'Where's G-Green?' he asked. 'He was sitting right there, dressed up as a retired general.'

'There isn't one like that, Your Honour,' the man with the grey moustache said with a frown, turning towards the bodies laid out along the avenue. 'One, two, three, four, five, and the schoolboy makes six. No more. Ah, damnation, where's number seven? There were seven of them!'

The prince was no longer laughing. He looked around despairingly, gritted his teeth and groaned. 'He got away! Got away through the trench. So much for our victory. And in my mind I'd already composed the report: "No losses. Combat Group completely annihilated".'

He grabbed hold of Fandorin's arm and squeezed it tight. 'Disaster, Erast Petrovich, disaster. We're left holding the lizard's tail, but the lizard has fled. And it will grow a new tail - it wouldn't be the first time.'

'What are we g-going to do?' asked the State Counsellor, his anxious blue eyes gazing into the prince's equally anxious black ones.

'You are not going to do anything,' Gleb Georgievich replied listlessly. His triumphant air was gone; he seemed somehow faded and very tired now. 'You go and light a candle in a church, because today the Lord has granted you a miracle, and then rest. I'm no good for anything much at the moment, and you're even worse. The only hope is that our agents will pick him up somewhere. He won't go back to the apartment, of course -he's no fool. We'll have everyone who's red, pink, or even light magenta under secret surveillance. All the hotels too. But I'm going back to mine, to sleep. If anything comes up, they'll wake me, and I'll let you know. Only it's not very likely...' He gestured hopelessly. "We'll start scheming again tomorrow morning. But for today, that's it: je passe.'

Erast Petrovich did not go to light a candle in a church, because that was superstition, nor did he feel that he had any right to rest. Duty required that he take himself off to the Governor General's residence: for various reasons beyond his control, it was four days since he had last shown his face there, and he needed to present a detailed report on progress made in the search and the investigation.

However, it was unthinkable to appear in His Excellency's residence smothered in snow, with a torn collar and a crumpled top hat, so first he had to go back home, but only for half an hour at the most. At a quarter past eleven Fandorin entered His Excellency's reception room, wearing a fresh frock coat and an immaculate shirt with a white tie.

There was no one in the spacious room apart from the prince's secretary, and the State Counsellor was on the point of following his usual habit and entering unannounced when Innokentii Andreevich cleared his throat in an emphatically discreet manner and warned him: 'Erast Petrovich, His Excellency has a lady visitor.'

Fandorin leaned down over the table and wrote a note on a piece of paper:

Vladimir Andreevitch, I am ready to report on today’s operation and all the events that preceded it.

E.F.

'Please g-give him this immediately,' he said to the bespectacled pen-pusher, who bowed as he took the note and slipped in through the door of the study.

Fandorin took up a position right in front of the door, certain that he would be admitted immediately, but the secretary slipped back out and returned to his seat without saying a word to him.

'Did Vladimir Andreevich read it?' the State Counsellor enquired in annoyance.

"That I don't know, although I did whisper to His Excellency that the note was from you.'

Erast Petrovich nodded and began striding impatiently across the carpet - once, twice. The door remained closed.

'Who is it in there with him?' Fandorin asked, unable to contain himself.

'A lady. Young and very beautiful,' said Innokentii Andreevich, gladly setting aside his pen and seeming quite intrigued himself. 'I don't know her name, she went through without being announced; Frol Grigorievich showed her in.'

'So Vedishchev is in there too?'

The secretary did not have to answer, because the tall white doors opened with a quiet creak and Vedishschev himself came out into the reception room.

'Frol Vedishchev, I have urgent business for His Excellency, business of extreme importance!' Fandorin declared irritably. Prince Dogorukoi's valet responded in mysterious fashion: first he put one finger to his lips and then, using the same finger, he beckoned to Erast Petrovich to follow him, and hobbled off nimbly along the corridor in his low felt boots.

The State Counsellor shrugged and followed the old man, thinking to himself: Perhaps they are right in St Petersburg when they complain that the Moscow administration is turning senile in its old age.

Vedishchev opened five doors one after another and made several turns to the right and the left, until he finally emerged into a narrow little corridor, which Fandorin knew connected the Governor General's study with the inner apartments.

Here Frol Grigorievich stopped, put his finger to his lips once again and gave a low door a gentle push. It opened slightly without making a sound, and Fandorin discovered that the narrow crack allowed him an excellent view of everything that was happening in the room.

Dolgorukoi was seated with his back towards Erast Petrovich, and sitting in front of him, quite remarkably close, was a lady. Strictly speaking, there was no distance between them at all -the female visitor had her face buried in His Excellency's chest, and from behind the shoulder, with its gold epaulette, all that could be seen was the top of her head. The only sound breaking the silence was a miserable sobbing, mingled with equally pitiful sniffing.

Fandorin glanced round at Vedishchev in puzzlement, and the valet suddenly did something very odd: he winked at the State Counsellor with his wrinkled eye. Totally bewildered now, Erast Petrovich took another look through the narrow crack of the door. He saw the prince raise his hand and gingerly stroke the crying woman's black hair.

'Come now, my darling, that's enough,' His Excellency said affectionately. 'You were right to come to this old man and unburden your soul. And right to have a little cry too. I'll tell you what to do about him. Put him out of your heart completely. He's no match for you. Or anyone else, for that matter. You're a forthright girl, passionate - you don't know how to live by halves. But he - although I truly am very fond of him - he is not really alive somehow, as if he had been touched by hoar frost. Or sprinkled with ashes. You'll never thaw him out or bring him to life. Many have tried already. Take my advice, don't throw your heart away on him. Find yourself someone young and uncomplicated, straightforward. There's more happiness with someone like that. Believe what an old man tells you.'

Erast Petrovich listened to what the prince was saying, and his finely formed eyebrows shifted uncertainly towards the bridge of his nose.

'I don't want anyone straightforward,' the dark-haired visitor said in a tearful voice that was perfectly recognisable despite its distinct nasal twang. 'You don't understand anything; he's more alive than anyone I know. Only I'm afraid he doesn't know how to love. And I'm afraid all the time that he'll be killed ...'

Fandorin listened to no more after that.

'Why did you bring me here?' he whispered furiously to Frol Grigorievich and walked rapidly out of the corridor.

Back in the reception room, the State Counsellor leaned so hard on his pen that the ink spattered across the paper as he wrote the Governor General a new note, substantially different from the previous one in both tone and content.

But before he could hand it to the secretary, the white door swung open and he heard Dolgorukoi's voice: 'Go, and God be with you. And remember my advice.'

'Good morning, Esfir Avessalomovna,' the State Counsellor said, bowing to the young beauty who had emerged from the study.

She measured him with a scornful glance. It was impossible even to imagine that this haughty creature had just been sobbing and sniffing like a primary-school girl cheated of her ice cream. Except perhaps for the fact that her eyes, still moist with tears, were gleaming more brightly than usual. The Queen of Sheba swept on and away without favouring Erast Petrovich with a reply.

Ah,' Vladimir Andreevich sighed. 'If only I were sixty again ... Come in, come in, my dear fellow. I'm sorry for making you wait.'

By tacit agreement, they did not mention the recent female visitor, but moved straight on to business.

'Circumstances have developed in such a way as to prevent me from coming to report to Your Excellency any sooner,' Fandorin began in an official tone of voice, but the Governor General took him by the elbow, sat him down in the armchair facing his own and said good-naturedly: 'I know everything. Frol has his well-wishers in the Department of Security and other places. I have received regular reports on your adventures. And I am also fully informed about today's battle. I received a communique from Collegiate Assessor Mylnikov, with all the details. A fine fellow, Evstratii Pavlovich - very keen to fill the vacancy left by Burlyaev. And why not? - I could have a little word with the Minister. I have already sent His Majesty an urgent despatch about today's heroic feats - a little sooner than that prince of yours. The most important thing in these cases is who submits his report first. I painted your valorous deed in the most glowing colours.'

'For which I am m-most humbly grateful,' Erast Petrovich replied, somewhat confused. 'However, I really have nothing very much to boast of. The most important c-criminal escaped.'

'He escaped, but six were neutralised. That's a great achievement, my dear fellow. It's a long time now since the police have had such a great success. And the victory was won here in Moscow, even if help was brought in from the capital. The sovereign will understand from my despatch that six terrorists were killed owing to your efforts, and the escape of the seventh was Pozharsky's blunder. I know how to compose despatches. I've been sailing the inky oceans for nigh on half a century now. Worry not, God is good. Perhaps they will realise up there' - the prince's wrinkled finger was jabbed upwards towards the ceiling in appeal to either the sovereign or the Lord - 'that it is too soon to throw Dolgorukoi out on the rubbish heap. Just let them try. And I also mentioned your long-delayed appointment as head police-master in my despatch. We'll see who comes out of this best...'

Erast Petrovich emerged from the Governor General's palace in a pensive state of mind. As he pulled on his gloves, he halted beside an advertising column and for no particular reason read an announcement set in huge type:

A Miracle of American Technology!

Edison's latest phonograph is to be demonstrated at the

Polytechnical Museum. Mr Repman, head of the department of applied physics, will personally conduct an experiment in the recording of sound, for which he will perform an aria from 'A Life for the Tsar’, Entrance fee 15 kopecks. The number of tickets is limited.

A snowball struck Erast Petrovich in the back. The State Counsellor swung round in amazement and saw a light two-seater sleigh standing beside the pavement. There was a black-eyed young lady in a sable coat sitting on the velvet seat, leaning against its curved back.

'Get in,' said the young lady. 'Let's go.'

'Been to tell tales to the boss, have we, Mademoiselle Litvinova?' Fandorin enquired with all the venom that he could muster.

'Erast, you're a fool,' she declared peremptorily. 'Shut up, or we'll quarrel again.'

'But what about His Excellency's advice?'

Esfir sighed. 'It's good advice. I'll definitely act on it. But not now. Later.'

Before he entered the large house on Tverskoi Boulevard that was known to everyone in Moscow, Fandorin halted, overwhelmed by his conflicting feelings. So now here it was, the appointment that had been spoken about for so long, in which Erast Petrovich had already ceased to believe. It had finally come to pass.

Half an hour earlier a courier had arrived at the outhouse on Malaya Nikitskaya Street, bowed to the State Counsellor, who had come to the door in his dressing gown, and informed him that he was expected immediately at the head police-master's residence. The invitation could mean only one thing: the Governor General's despatch of the previous day to the supreme ruler had produced an effect, and more quickly than anticipated.

Fandorin had tried to make as little noise as possible as he performed his morning ablutions, put on his uniform, complete with medals, and buckled on his sword - the occasion called for formality - and then, with a glance at the closed door of the bedroom, he had tiptoed out into the hallway.

In career terms, promotion to the position of the second most important individual in the old capital meant elevation to almost empyrean heights: quite certainly a general's rank, immense power, an enviable salary and - most important of all - a certain path to even more vertiginous heights in the future. However, this path was strewn with briars as well as roses, and in Fandorin's eyes the prickliest briar of all was the total loss of privacy. The head police-master was required to live in his official residence, which was grand, showy and uncomfortable - and also directly connected to the secretariat building; to participate as one of the central figures in numerous mandatory official functions (for instance, the gala opening of the Society for the Sponsorship of Public Sobriety was planned for the Week of the Adoration of the Cross, under the patronage of the city's foremost custodian of the law); and finally, to set the citizens of Moscow an example of moral living which, in view of his present personal circumstances, Erast Petrovich felt was a goal that would be hard to achieve.

All this meant that Erast Petrovich was obliged to summon up his courage before stepping across the threshold of his new residence and his new life. As usual, there was consolation to be found in a saying of the Wisest of All Sages: 'The superior man knows where his duty lies and does not attempt to shirk it.'

To shirk it was impossible, to draw things out was stupid, and so Erast Petrovich heaved a sigh and crossed that fatal boundary line marking the final countdown to his new career. He nodded to the saluting gendarme, cast a lingering glance around the familiar, elegant vestibule and shrugged off his fur coat into the arms of the doorman. The Governor General's sleigh should arrive any moment now. Vladimir Andreevich would show his protege into the office and ceremonially present him with a seal, a medal on a chain and a symbolic key to the city - the formal attributes of the head police-master's authority.

'How touching of you to come in full uniform, and with all your medals,' a cheerful voice declared behind him. 'So you know already? And I wanted to surprise you.'

Pozharsky was standing on a short flight of four marble steps, dressed in a style that was far from formal - a morning coat and checked trousers - but with his lips set in a very broad smile.

'I accept your congratulations with gratitude,' he said with a humorous bow, 'although such solemnity is really rather excessive. Come into the office. I have something to show you.'

Erast Petrovich did not give himself away by so much as a single gesture, but when he happened to catch a glimpse in the mirror of the brilliant gleam of his medals and the gold embroidery on his uniform, he blushed painfully at his ignominious error. The Wisest of the Wise came to his assistance: 'When the world appears completely black, the superior man seeks for a small white speck in it.' The State Counsellor made an effort and the white speck was immediately found: at least now he would not be required to preside over public sobriety.

Without saying a word, Erast Petrovich followed Pozharsky into the head police-master's office and halted in the doorway, wondering where to sit - the divan and the armchairs were covered with dust sheets.

'I haven't had a chance to settle in yet. Here, let's use this,' said Pozharsky, pulling the white sheet off the divan. 'I received the telegram informing me of my appointment at dawn. But for you that's not the most important thing. This is ... a text for the newspapers, forwarded from St Petersburg. Intended for publication on the twenty-seventh. Dolgorukoi has already been sent the imperial edict. Read it.'

Erast Petrovich picked up the telegraph form with the official stamp 'Top Secret' and ran his eyes down the long column of paper ribbons glued closely together.

Today, on the supremely festive occasion of His Majesty the Sovereign Emperor’s birthday, Moscow has been blessed as never before by the Tsar's beneficent favour: the Autocratic Ruler of Russia has placed the first capital city of His Empire in the direct charge of His Most August Brother, the Grand Duke Simeon Alexandrovich, by appointing His Highness as Governor General of Moscow.

There is profound historical significance in this appointment. Moscow enters once again into direct communion with the Most August House of the Russian Tsars. The Centuries-old spiritual link between the leader of the Russian people and the ancient capital of Russia today assumes that external, palpable form which is of such profound importance for the clear national awareness of all the people.

Today the Sovereign Emperor has deemed it a boon to exalt even further Moscow's significance as a national palladium by appointing as His representative there none other than His Own Most August Brother.

Muscovites will never forget the easy accessibility for which Prince Vladimir Andreevich was so noted, the cordial consideration that he extended to all those who turned for him to help, the energy with which ...

'Have you read the bit about easy accessibility?' asked Pozharsky, evidendy impatient to proceed with the conversation. 'You don't need to read any more; there's a lot, but it's all froth. So there you are, Erast Petrovich: your patron's finished. And now the time has come for the two of us finally to clarify our relationship. From now on Moscow changes, and it will never again be the same as it was under your amiable Dolgorukoi. Genuine authority is being established in the city, firm power, without any of that "easy accessibility". Your boss failed to understand the true nature of power, he failed to distinguish between its sacred and practical functions, with the result that your city became bogged down in its old patriarchal habits and was making no progress at all towards the new century approaching.'

The prince spoke seriously, with energy and conviction. This was probably what he was really like, when he wasn't playing the hypocrite or being cunning.

'Sacred authority will be represented in Moscow by His Highness, my patron, whose interests I have actually represented here from the very beginning. I can now speak about that openly, without dissimulation. The Grand Duke is a man of a somewhat dreamy cast of mind, with rather distinctive tastes, about which you have no doubt already heard.'

Erast Petrovich recalled what people used to say about Simeon Alexandrovich: that he liked to surround himself with handsome young adjutants; but it was not clear if that was what Pozharsky had in mind.

'But then, that's not so very important. The fundamental point is that His Highness is not going to interfere in any business apart from the public gala parade variety - that is, he will not bedim the mystical halo of authority with "easy accessibility" and "cordial consideration". The practical power, the real power over this city of a million people, will go to Moscow's head police-master, and from today onwards, that happens to be me. I know that you will never stoop to writing underhand denunciations and whispering in ears, and therefore I think it possible to be absolute frank with you.' Gleb Georgievich glanced at Fandorins medals and gave a little frown.

'I get rather carried away sometimes, and I think I have offended you. You and I have become involved in a stupid kind of puerile rivalry, and I was simply unable to deny myself the pleasure of having a little joke with you. The joke turned sour. I beg your pardon yet again. I knew about the despatch that your patron sent yesterday, in which he requested the sovereign to confirm your appointment as head police-master. Dolgorukoi's secretary, the quiet and inoffensive Innokentii Andreevich, spotted which way the wind was blowing a long time ago, and he has been of quite invaluable assistance to our party. Did you really think that I went back to the hotel to sleep after Briusov Square?'

'I never even g-gave it a thought,' Erast Petrovich said coldly, breaking his silence for the first time.

'You are offended,' Pozharsky declared. 'Well, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Ah, forget about these foolish pranks. We're talking about your future here. I have had the opportunity to appreciate your exceptional qualities. You possess a keen intellect, firm resolve, courage, and also something that I value most of all in you: a talent for emerging from the flames without even singeing your wings. I'm a lucky man myself and I can recognise those who are favoured by fortune. Why don't we check to see whose luck is the stronger, yours or mine?'

He suddenly pulled a small pack of cards out of his pocket and held it out to the State Counsellor.

'Guess if the card on the top is red or black.'

'Very well, but put the p-pack on the table,' Erast Petrovich said with a shrug. 'Being too trusting in this game once nearly cost me my life.'

The prince was not offended in the least; in fact he laughed approvingly.

'Quite right. Luck is a lady; she should not be coralled into a corner. Well then?'

'Black,' Fandorin declared without even a moment's thought. Pozharsky pondered for a moment and said: 'I agree.' The top card proved to be the seven of spades. 'The next card is also black.' 'I agree.'

It was the three of clubs.

'Black again,' Erast Petrovich said patiently, as if he were playing a boring, infantile game with a little child.

'Unlikely that there would be three in a row ... No, I think red,' the prince declared - and turned over the queen of clubs.

'As I suspected,* Gleb Georgievich sighed. 'You are one of fortune's true darlings. I should have been sorry to lose such an ally. You know, from the very beginning I saw you as someone who was useful, but also dangerous. But now I no longer regard you as dangerous. For all your brilliant qualities, you have one immense shortcoming. You completely lack flexibility, you cannot alter your colour and shape to suit the circumstances. You are incapable of turning aside from the road already mapped out on to a roundabout side track. And so you won't be biding your time to stab me in the back - that is an art that you, of course, will never master, which suits me perfectly. And as for flexibility, there is a lot I could teach you about that. I propose an alliance. Together we could move mountains. It's not a matter of any specific position for you just yet - we can agree that later. What I need at present is your agreement in principle.'

The State Counsellor gave no reply, and Pozharsky continued, smiling disarmingly: 'Very well, let us take our time. For the time being let us simply get to know each better. I'll teach you how to be flexible, and you'll teach me to guess the colour of cards. Is it a deal?'

Fandorin thought for a moment and nodded.

'Excellent. Then I propose that from now on we should address each other informally and this evening we can seal the concordance by drinking to Bruderschaft,' the prince said, beaming. 'How about it? "Gleb and Erast"?'

'"Erast and Gleb",' Erast Petrovich agreed.

'My friends actually call me Glebchik,' the new head police-master said with a smile, holding out his hand. 'Well then, Erast, until this evening. I have to go out shortly on important business.'

Fandorin stood up and shook the outstretched hand, but seemed in no hurry to leave.

'But what about the search for Green? Are we not going to d-do anything about it? As I recall, Gleb,' said the State Counsellor, uttering the unaccustomed form of address with some effort, 'you said that we were going to "start scheming again".'

'Don't you worry about that,' Pozharsky replied, smiling like Vasilisa the Wise telling the young Tsarevich Ivan that tomorrow is a new day. 'The meeting for which I am departing in such haste will help me close the case of the Combat Group once and for all.'

Crushed by this final blow, Fandorin said no more, but merely nodded dejectedly in farewell and walked out of the office.

He walked down the stairs with the same crestfallen stride, crossed the vestibule slowly, threw his fur coat across his shoulders and went out on to the boulevard, swinging his top hat melancholically.

However, no sooner had Erast Fandorin moved a little distance away from the yellow building with the white columns than his bearing underwent a quite dramatic change. He suddenly ran out into the roadway and waved his hand to stop the first cab that came along.

'Where to, Your Excellency?' the grey-bearded cabby cried smardy in a Vladimir accent when he spotted the glittering cross of a medal under the open fur coat. 'We'll get you there quick as a flash!'

But the important gent didn't get in; instead he took a look at the sturdy, shaggy-haired horse and kicked the sleigh's runner with the toe of his boot.

'So how much is a rig like this nowadays?'

The cabby wasn't surprised, because this wasn't his first year driving a cab in Moscow and he'd seen all sorts of cranks in his time. In fact those cranks were the best tippers.

'Oh, nigh on five hundred,' he boasted, naturally stretching the truth a bit to make the figure sound respectable.

And then the gent did something really queer. He took a gold watch on a gold chain out of his pocket and said: 'This diamond Breguette is worth at least a thousand roubles. Take it, and give me the sleigh and the horse.'

The cabby's jaw dropped and his eyes went blank. He gazed spellbound at the bright specks of sunlight dancing on the gold.

'Make your mind up quickly' the crazy general shouted, 'or I'll st-stop someone else.'

The cabby snatched the watch and stuffed it into his cheek, but the chain wouldn't fit, so it was left dangling down across his beard. He got out of the sleigh, dropped his whip, slapped the sorrel mare on the rump in farewell and legged it.

'Stop!' the weird gent shouted after him - he must have changed his mind. 'Come back!'

The cabby plodded miserably back towards the sleigh, but he didn't take the booty out of his cheek yet; he was still hoping.

'M-m-ma-m, mimim, mamimi mummi mumi mamokumi,' he mooed reproachfully, which meant: 'Shame on a gent like you for playing tricks like that, you should have given me a tip for vodka too.'

'L-Let's swap clothes,' the crackpot said. 'Your sheepskin coat and mittens for my heavy coat. And take your cap off too.'

The gent pulled on the sheepskin coat and tugged the flaps of the sheepskin cap down over his ears. He tossed the cabby his cloth-covered beaver-fur coat and plonked the suede top hat down on his head. And then he yelled: 'That's it, now clear out!'

The cabby picked up the skirts of the heavy coat that was too long for him and set off across the boulevard, tramping heavily in his patched felt boots, with the chain of the gold watch dangling beside his ear.

Fandorin got into the sleigh, clicked his tongue to the horse to reassure it, and started waiting.

About five minutes later a closed sleigh drove up to the door of the head police-master's house. Pozharsky came out of the building carrying a bouquet of tea roses and ducked into the closed sleigh. It set off immediately. Another sleigh carrying two gentlemen who were already familiar to Erast Petrovich set off in pursuit.

After waiting for a little while, the State Counsellor gave a wild bandit whistle and whooped: 'Giddup, lazybones! Get moving!'

The sorrel mare shook its combed mane, jangled its sleigh bell and set off at a fast trot.

It turned out that they were going to the Nikolaevsky Station.

There Pozharsky jumped out of the carriage, tidied his bouquet and ran lightly up the station steps, two at a time. The 'guardian angels' followed him, keeping their customary distance.

Then the sham cabby got out of his own sleigh. As if he were simply strolling about aimlessly, he walked close to the covered carriage, dropped his mitten and bent down to pick it up, but didn't straighten up again immediately. He glanced around slyly and suddenly smashed the mounting of the suspension with an immensely powerful blow of his fist, delivered with such lightning speed that it was almost impossible to see. The sleigh shuddered and sagged slightly to one side. The alarmed driver hung down from his box to look, but saw nothing suspicious, because Fandorin had already straightened up and was looking the other way.

After that, while he sat in his sleigh, he refused several fares from the St Petersburg train, one of which was actually highly advantageous: to Sokolniki for a rouble and twenty-five kopecks.

Pozharsky returned with company: an extremely attractive young lady. She was burying her face in the roses and laughing happily. And the prince was not his usual self: his face was positively glowing with carefree merriment.

The lovely lady put her free hand round his shoulders and kissed him on the lips so passionately that Gleb Georgievich's pine-marten cap slipped over to one side of his head.

Fandorin could not help shaking his head in amazement at the surprises thrown up by human nature. Who would ever have thought that the ambitious predator from St Petersburg was capable of such romantic behaviour? But what had all this to do with the Combat Group?

As soon as the prince seated his companion in the carriage, it heeled over decisively to the right, making quite clear that there was no chance of travelling any further in it.

Erast Fandorin pulled his cap further down over his eyes, turned up his collar, cracked his whip smartly and drove straight up to the scene of the mishap.

'Here's a fine light Vladimir sleigh for you!' the State Counsellor yelled in a high falsetto that had nothing in common with his normal voice. 'Get in, Your Honour, I'll take you and the mamselle wherever you like, and I won't ask a lot: just a roople, and a half a roople, and a quarter roople for tea and sugar!'

Pozharsky glanced at this dashing fellow, then at the lopsided carriage and said: 'You can take the lady to Lubyanskaya Square. And I', he said, addressing the new arrival herself, 'will ride to Tverskoi Boulevard with my sworn protectors. I'll be waiting for news.'

As she got into the sleigh and covered her knees with the bearskin rug, the beautiful woman said in French: 'Only I beg you, darling, no police tricks, no shadowing. He's certain to sense it.'

'Don't insult me, Julie,' Pozharsky replied in the same language. 'I don't believe I have ever let you down.'

Erast Petrovich tugged on the reins and set the horse moving along Kalanchovka Street in the direction of Sadovo-Spasskaya Street.

To all appearances the young lady was in a very good mood: first she purred some song without any words, then she started singing in a low voice about a red sarafan. She had a wonderfully melodic voice.

'Lubyanka, lady' Fandorin announced. 'Where to now?'

She turned her head this way and that and muttered peevishly to herself: 'How unbearable he is, always playing the conspirator.

'I tell you what: drive me round in circles.'

The State Counsellor chorded and set off along the edge of the square, driving round the ice-covered fountain and the cab stand.

On the fourth circuit a man in a black coat bounded off the pavement and jumped lightly into the sleigh.

'I'll give you a jump, you bandit!' the 'cabby' roared, raising his whip to lash at the impertinent prankster.

But this proved to be no ordinary passenger; he was very special: Mr Green in person. Only this time he'd glued on a light-coloured moustache and put on a pair of spectacles.

'He's a friend of mine,' the beautiful lady explained. 'The one I was expecting. Where are we going, Greeny?'

The new passenger gave the order: 'Drive across Theatre Lane. Then I'll tell you where next.'

'What's happened?' the songstress asked. 'What does "important business" mean? I dropped everything and here I am, just like magic. Perhaps you were simply missing me?' she asked, with a hint of cunning in her voice.

'I'll tell you when we get there,' the special passenger said, clearly not in the mood for conversation.

After that they drove in silence.

The passengers got out on Prechistenka Street, beside the estate of the counts Dobrinsky, but instead of going in through the gates, they walked up on to the porch of a wing of the main palace building.

Erast Petrovich, who had got down to tighten his horse's girth, saw a young woman open the door: a pale, severe face and smooth hair drawn back into a tight bun.

Following that, State Counsellor Fandorin acted rapidly and without hesitating for even a moment, as if he were not following instinct but carrying through a clear, carefully worked-out plan.

First he drove on for another five hundred paces, then tied the reins to a bollard beside the road, threw the sheepskin coat and cap into the sleigh, thrust his sword under the seat and walked back to the railings of the estate. There were hardly any people in the street, but he waited until it was completely empty before clambering nimbly up the railings and jumping down to the ground on the inside.

He ran quickly across the yard to the wing and found himself under a window with its small upper frame conveniently standing open. Erast Petrovich stood quite still for a moment, listening. Then without any obvious effort he clambered up on to the window sill, squeezed himself up tight and wriggled through the small aperture of the open window in a truly virtuoso feat of gutta-percha flexibility.

The hardest thing of all was to lower himself on to the floor without making any noise, but the State Counsellor managed even that. He found himself in a kitchen that was small but very tidy and wonderfully well heated. Here he had to listen carefully again, because he could hear voices from somewhere deeper inside the wing. Once he had determined which direction the sound was coming from, Erast Petrovich took his Herstahl-Baillard out of its holster and set off soundlessly along the corridor.

For the second time that day Erast Petrovich found himself spying and eavesdropping on someone through a half-open door, but this time he felt no embarrassment or pangs of conscience -only the excitement of the hunt and a thrill of joyful anticipation. His dear friend Gleb's luck could not last for ever, and he could learn more from Fandorin than how to guess the colour of cards.

There were three people in the room. The woman with the smooth hair whom he had seen at the front door was sitting at a table, sideways on to the door of the room, and performing strange manipulations: scooping a grey, jelly-like mass out of a jar with a small spoon and transferring it very carefully, a few drops at a time, to a narrow tin like the ones in which they sold olive essence or tomato paste. There were more tins standing there, both narrow ones and ordinary, half-pound ones. She's making bombs, the State Counsellor realised, his joy dimming a little. He had to put the Herstahl away - the woman only had to start in fright or surprise, and the entire wing of the house would be reduced to rubble. The female bomb-maker was not involved in the conversation being conducted by the other two.

'You're simply insane,' the woman who had come on the train said in dismay. 'Working in the underground has given you a persecution complex. You never used to be like that. If you can even suspect me

It was said in such a sincere and convincing tone that if Erast Petrovich had not seen the young lady in Pozharsky's company with his own eyes, he would certainly have believed her. The dark-haired man with the immobile features stamped in metal had not been present at the meeting at the station, and yet there was a note of unshakeable certainty in his voice.

'I don't suspect. I know. You left the notes. Only I didn't know if something went wrong or it was a deliberate provocation. Now I can see it was deliberate. Two questions. The first is: who? The second...' The terrorist leader hesitated. 'Why, Julie? Why? ... All right, you needn't answer the second one. But you must answer the first. Otherwise I'll kill you. Right now. If you say, I won't kill you. Party court.'

It was quite clear that this was no idle threat. Erast Petrovich opened the door a little wider and saw that Pozharsky's collaborator was staring in horror at a dagger clutched in the terrorist's hand.

'Could you kill me?' - the double agent's voice trembled pitifully - 'after what happened between us? Surely you haven't forgotten?'

There was a faint tinkle of glass from the direction of the woman making the bombs. Turning his head slighdy, Erast Petrovich saw that she had turned pale and was biting her lip.

Green, on the contrary, had turned red, but his voice was as steely as ever.

'Who?' he repeated. 'But tell the truth ... No? Then ... He grabbed the beauty's neck tightly with his left hand and drew back the right one to strike.

'Pozharsky,' she said quickly. 'Pozharsky, the deputy director of the Police Department, and now the head police-master of Moscow. Don't kill me, Green. You promised!'

The stern-faced man appeared shaken by her confession, but he put his knife away.

'Why him?' he asked. 'I don't understand. Yesterday I understand, but before then?'

'Don't ask me about that,' Julie said with a shrug.

Having realised that her life was not in immediate danger, she calmed down quite remarkably quickly and even started tidying her hair.

'I'm not interested in your games of cops and robbers. All you boys ever want to do is chase around after each other, fire your pop-guns and throw bombs. Women have more serious concerns.'

And what are your concerns?' Green asked, giving her an intense, perplexed look. 'What is the most important thing in your life?'

'You have to ask? Love, of course. There is nothing more important. You men are monsters because you don't understand that.'

All for love?' Russia's most dangerous terrorist asked slowly. 'Bullfinch, Emelya, the others - for love?'

Julie wrinkled up her sweet nose. 'For what else? My Gleb's a monster too, the same as you, although he plays for the cops, not the robbers. I did what he asked me to. If we women love, we do it with all our heart, and then we stop at nothing. Not even if the whole world goes to hell.'

'I'll check that now,' Green said and suddenly took his dagger out again.

'What are you doing?' the collaborator squealed, recoiling. 'I confessed! What else do you need to check?'

'Who you love more - him or yourself'

The terrorist took a step towards her and she backed away towards the wall, throwing her hands up.

'Now you're going to telephone your protector and tell him to come here. Alone. Yes or no?'

'No!' Julie shouted, sliding along the wall. 'Not for anything!' She reached the corner and shrank back into it.

Green moved close without speaking, holding his dagger at the ready.

'Yes,' she said in a weak voice. 'Yes, yes, all right... Just put that away'

Green turned to the seated woman, who was carrying on with her dangerous work as steadily as ever, and told her: 'Needle, find out what the head police-master's number is, will you?'

The woman with the strange alias - the courier that Rahmet-Gvidon had talked about - put down an unfinished bomb and stood up.

Erast Petrovich took heart and readied himself for action. Let Needle get at least ten steps away from that deadly table; then push the door open and cover the distance to Green in three -no four - bounds, stun him with a kick to the back of the head or, if he managed to turn round, to the chin, swing round to Needle and cut off her path to the table. Not easy, but feasible.

'Forty-four twenty-two,' Julie sobbed. 'I remember it, it's an easy number.'

And so, unfortunately, Needle stayed beside her bombs.

Fandorin could not see the telephone apparatus, but it was obviously there in the room, because Green put his dagger away again and pointed off somewhere to one side with his hand: 'Tell him to come. Say it's very urgent. Give me away and I'll kill you.'

'I'll kill you, I'll kill you.' Julie laughed. 'Oh Greeny, what a bore you are. You could at least get furious, shout and stamp your feet.'

What rapid transitions from fear to despair to insolence, the State Counsellor thought. A rare bird indeed.

And he proved to have underestimated her audacity.

'So you're sweet on her, are you?' she asked, nodding at Needle. 'You make a funny couple. I'd like to see you two getting lovey-dovey. It must be like metal clanking against metal. The love of two ironclads.'

Aware as he was of the loose morals typical of nihilist circles, the State Counsellor was not at all surprised by this declaration, but Needle suddenly became extremely animated - it was a good thing that she was standing up and not sitting over her bombs.

'What do you know about love?' she shouted in a ringing voice. 'One moment of our love is worth more than all your amorous adventures taken together!'

The beauty seemed to have her reply ready, but Green took her firmly by the shoulder and shoved her towards the invisible telephone: 'Get on with it!'

After that Julie was outside Fandorin's field of view, but he could hear her voice very distinctly.

'Central exchange? Young lady, forty-four, twenty-two,' the voice said without a trace of expression, and a second later it spoke again in a different tone, with overbearing insistence. 'Who? Duty Adjutant Keller? Listen, Keller, I have to speak to Gleb Georgievich immediately. Very urgent ... Julie, that's enough. He'll understand ... Ah, is he?... Yes, definitely' The receiver jangled against the cradle.

'He's not there yet. The adjutant said he's expected in a quarter of an hour at most. What shall I do?'

'Ring again in a quarter of an hour,' said Green.

Erast Petrovich backed silently away from the door and left the house quickly - following the same route by which he had entered.

The sorrel mare was still there, but someone had appropriated the sheepskin coat and cap - the temptation must have been too much.

Members of the public taking their Sunday stroll along Prechistenky Boulevard were able to observe the interesting spectacle of a cab sleigh hurtling along the road with a respectable-looking gentleman, dressed in full uniform complete with medals, standing erect in it, whistling wildly and lashing on the plain-looking, shaggy sorrel mare with his whip.

He was only just in time. He ran into Pozharsky in the doorway of the head police-master's residence. The prince was agitated, clearly in a hurry, and not pleased by this unexpected encounter. He flung out a few words without even breaking his stride: 'Later, Erast, later. The crucial moment is at hand!'

However, the State Counsellor grasped his superior's sleeve in fingers of steel and pulled the prince towards him.

'For you, Mr Pozharsky, the crucial moment has already arrived. Why don't we go to the office?'

His attitude and tone of voice produced the required impression. Gleb Georgievich gave Fandorin a curious glance.

'What's this then - are we back on formal terms, Erast? That gleam in your eyes suggests you must have discovered something interesting. Very well, let's go. But for no more than five minutes. I have pressing matters to deal with.'

The prince's entire demeanour made it clear that he had no time for long explanations, and he did not take a seat, nor did he offer Fandorin one, although the covers had already been removed from the furniture in the office. But then, Erast Petrovich had no intention of sitting down, since he was in belligerent mood.

'You are a provocateur, a double agent and a state criminal,' he said in a cold fury, skipping through his consonants with no trace of a stammer. 'It was you, not Diana, and you communicated with the terrorists of the Combat Group by means of letters. You were responsible for Khrapov's death, you informed the terrorists about the Petrosov Baths, and you deliberately misinformed me about the snowdrift. You wanted to get rid of me. You are a traitor! Shall I present my evidence?'

Gleb Georgievich continued to regard the State Counsellor with the same expression of curiosity, taking his time before replying.

'I don't think there's any need,' he said after a long moment's thought. 'I believe that you do have evidence, and I have no time for wrangling. Naturally, I'm very curious about how you found out, but you can tell me about that some time later. Well, so be it, I extend the length of our conversation from five minutes to ten, but that's the most I can do. So get straight to the point. All right, I am a provocateur, a double agent and a traitor. I arranged Khrapov's assassination and a number of other remarkable stunts, up to and including a couple of attempts on my own life. Now what? What do you want?'

Erast Petrovich was taken aback, since he had been prepared for long and stubborn denials, and therefore the question that he had intended to ask at the very end had a rather pathetic ring as he stammered it out.

'B-But why? What d-did you want to achieve with all this scheming?'

Pozharsky began speaking with grating confidence: 'I am the man who can save Russia - because I am intelligent, bold and do not suffer from mushy sentiment. My enemies are numerous and powerful: on one side the fanatics of revolt, and on the other the stupid, fossilised swines in generals' uniforms. For a long time I had no connections, no protection. I would have fought my way to the top in any case, but too late: time is passing and Russia has very little of it left. That was why I had to hurry. The Combat Group is my adopted child. I nurtured that organisation, made its name and created its reputation. It has already given me everything it could, and now the time has come to put a full stop at the end of this story. Today I shall eliminate Green. The fame that I created for that uncompromising gentleman will help me rise a few steps higher and bring me closer to my ultimate goal. That's the gist of it, brief and unadorned. Is that enough?'

And you did all this for the salvation of Russia?' Fandorin asked, but his sarcasm was lost on the prince.

'Yes. And naturally for myself too. I make no distinction between myself and Russia. After all, Russia was founded a thousand years ago by one of my ancestors, and three hundred years ago another assisted in her revival.' Pozharsky thrust his hands into the pockets of his coat and swayed back on his heels. 'And don't think, Erast, that I am afraid of your revelations. What can you do? You have no one in St Petersburg. Your protector in Moscow has been overthrown. No one will believe you, no one will even hear what you say. You can't possibly have anything more than circumstantial evidence and assumptions. Will you go to the newspapers? They won't print it. This is not Europe, thank God. You know' - Gleb Georgievich lowered his voice confidentially - 'I have a revolver in my pocket and it is aimed at your stomach. I could shoot you. Right now, here in this office. I would proclaim that you were an agent for the terrorists, that you are linked with them through your little Jewish girl and you tried to kill me. In the present circumstances I should easily get away with it, I'd even get a medal. But I am opposed to unnecessary extravagance. There is no need to kill you, because you really are no danger to me. Choose, Erast: either play with me, by my rules, or make yourself look like a fool. Actually, there is a third way, which is probably more to your taste. Say nothing and retire quietly. You will at least retain the dignity that is so dear to you. So what is your choice? Play the game, play the fool or keep quiet?'

The State Counsellor turned pale, his eyebrows shifted up and down and his thin moustache twitched. The prince followed this internal struggle with a rather scornful expression, waiting calmly for its outcome.

'Well?'

All right,' Erast Petrovich said quietly. 'Since it is what you wish, I shall k-keep quiet

'Well, that's excellent.' The triumphant prince smiled and glanced at his watch. 'We didn't need ten minutes after all; five was enough. But do think about playing the game. Don't bury your talent in the ground, like the lazy, scheming servant described by Saint Matthew.'

So saying, the head police-master strode towards the door.

Fandorin gave a sudden start and opened his mouth to stop him, but instead of a loud call, all that emerged from his lips were four barely audible words:' "Eradicating evil with evil”

CHAPTER 16

The flash

Green would have to leave immediately after Pozharsky's execution. He had already decided how: by cab to Bogorodsky, get hold of some skis and cut across Losinoostrovsky Forest, bypassing the turnpikes, to Yaroslavl Highway. If he could just get out of Moscow, after that it was easy.

He regretted the wasted work. The bombs would have to be left behind again: the jar of explosive mixture was still half full, the tins were standing there, equipped with detonators and charged with shrapnel but not yet closed. They would only be an unnecessary burden.

His travelling bag contained nothing but the bare essentials: false documents, underwear, a spare revolver.

Needle was looking out of the window at the boarded-up palace. In a few minutes she would be leaving the house where she had grown up. Probably leaving it for ever.

Before she phoned the head police-master for a second time, Julie looked into his eyes and asked: 'Green, do you promise not to kill me?'

'If he comes.'

She crossed herself and called the exchange. 'Hello, Central? Forty-four twenty-two.'

This time Pozharsky was there.

'Gleb,'Julie said to him in a voice trembling with excitement. 'Darling, come here quickly, quickly. I only have one little moment, no time to explain. Prechistenka Street, the Dobrinsky estate, the wing with a mezzanine - you'll see it. Only come alone, you must be alone. I'll open the door for you. You simply can't imagine what I've got here. You'll kiss my pretty little hands. That's all, no more, I can't say any more!' And she cut off the phone.

'He'll come,' she said confidently. 'He's bound to come running. I know him.' She took hold of Green's hand and said imploringly: 'Greeny, you promised. What are you going to do with me?'

A promise is a promise,' he said, freeing his hands in disgust. 'You'll see him die. Then I'll let you go. Let the party decide. You know the sentence. They'll declare you an outlaw. Everyone who sees you is obliged to kill you, like vermin. Run to the end of the world, hide away in a deep hole.'

'Nevermind,' said Julie, shrugging frivolously. 'There are men everywhere. I'll get by; I've always dreamed of seeing the New World.'

Perfectly calm now, she shifted her gaze from Green to Needle and sighed in sympathy. Ah, you poor, poor things. Give up all this damned nonsense. She loves you, I can see that. And you love her. You could just live and be grateful for such happiness. Stop all this killing. You'll never build anything good on it anyway.'

Green didn't answer, because he was thinking of what he was about to do, and because discussion was pointless. But Needle, examining the double traitor with contemptuous incomprehension, was unable to restrain herself: 'Don't you say anything else about love. I haven't made you any promises. I might shoot you.'

Julie wasn't frightened in the slightest, especially since Needle's hands were empty.

'Do you despise me because I didn't want to die for Gleb? You're wrong. I didn't betray my love -I listened to my heart. If it had told me, "Die," I would have died. But it said: "You can survive even without Gleb." I can pretend to any one else, but not to myself'

'Your heart could never have said anything else,' Needle declared with loathing in her voice, and after that Green stopped listening.

He went out into the corridor and stood beside the kitchen window to keep an eye on the street. Pozharsky should turn up any moment now. Justice would be done, his comrades would be avenged: Bullfinch, Emelya, Beaver, Marat, Nobel, Schwartz. And Nail as well.

His eye suddenly spotted something strange: the print of a sole on the window sill, direcdy under the small open frame. There was some disquieting meaning in this sign, but Green had no time to think about it - the door bell rang.

Julie went to open the door. Green stood behind it with his Colt at the ready.

'Don't try anything,' he whispered.

'Oh, shut up,' she said dismissively, then drew back the bolt and spoke to someone invisible. 'Gleb, darling, come in, I'm alone.'

The man who came into the hallway was wearing a dark-grey coat and a pine-marten cap. He didn't notice Green and stood with his back to him. Julie gave Pozharsky a quick kiss on the ear and the cheek and winked at Green over his shoulder.

'Come on, I'll show you.'

She took the head police-master by the hand and pulled him after her into the room. Green followed them silently.

'Who's this?' Pozharsky asked when he saw Needle. 'Just a moment, don't introduce yourself, I'll get it... Ah, I've guessed! What a pleasant surprise. What does this mean, Julie? Have you managed to incline Mademoiselle Needle to the side of law and order? Clever girl. But where is the idol of my heart, the valorous knight of the revolution, Mr Green?'

At this point Green stuck a gun barrel between his shoulder blades. 'I'm here. Keep your hands where I can see them. Over to the wall, turn to face me slowly'

Pozharsky held his hands out to the sides, level with his shoulders, took ten steps forward and turned round. His face was tense, his brows were knitted sternly.

A trap,' he said. 'It's my own fault. I thought you loved me, Julie. I was wrong. Well, everyone makes some mistakes.'

'What does TG mean?' Green asked, keeping his finger on the trigger.

The head police-master laughed quiedy. 'So that's it. I was wondering why Mr Green didn't simply put a bullet in the back of my head. Well, well, a few aspects of humanity are not alien to you after all? Curious, are we? All right then. For the sake of our old friendship, I'll answer all your questions. At least that way I'll keep breathing for another couple of minutes. I'm very pleased to meet my long-time correspondent face to face at last. You're exactly as I imagined you. So ask whatever you like, please don't be bashful.'

'TG,' Green repeated.

'Nonsense, a joke. It stands for "tertiusgaudens", a Latin phrase meaning "the joyful third party". The police kill you, you kill the people who stand in my way, I watch your fun and games and rejoice. I think it's rather witty'

'Stand in your way? Why? Governor Bogdanov, General Selivanov, the traitor Stasov...'

'Don't bother, I remember them all very well,' Pozharsky interrupted. 'Bogdanov? That was not so much business, more a personal matter. I needed to do a favour for the deputy director of the Department, my predecessor in that post. He was involved in a long-standing affair with the Governor of Ekaterinburg's wife and he dreamed of her being widowed. His dreams were entirely platonic, but one day a rather incautious little note that His Excellency had written to his passion happened to come into my possession: "How I wish the terrorists would reach your better half soon. I would gladly help them." I simply had to make use of it. After you shot Bogdanov so heroically, I had a confidential talk with the enamoured dreamer, and the position of deputy director became vacant. Lieutenant General Selivanov? Oh, that was quite different. He was a man of very keen intellect, pursuing the same goals as I was, but he was already several steps ahead of me. He was getting in my light and that's a risky thing to do. I am tremendously grateful to you for Selivanov. When you despatched him to the realm of Hades, the throne's most promising defender became your devoted servant. Next, I think, came the Aptekarsky Island incident, the attack on me and the collaborator Stasov? There was a double goal involved that time: firstly, to enhance my professional reputation. If the C G was hunting me, it meant the group appreciated my professional qualities. And secondly, Stasov had outlived his usefulness and asked to be set free. Of course, I could have let him go, but I decided it would be more useful for him to die. Once again it would mean more prestige for our Combat Group.

Green's face contorted as if he were struggling to suppress pain, and Pozharsky laughed in satisfaction.

'Now for your most important achievement, the murder of Khrapov. You must admit that I handed you a wonderful little idea, without forcing it on you at all. And for my part I admit that you managed the business brilliantly. The ruthless execution of a heartless satrap, whose very worst atrocity was that he could not stand the sight of me and did absolutely everything he could to hinder my career... Here in Moscow you caused me no end of trouble, but eventually eveiything could not possibly have turned out better. Even your little trick with the expropriation came in useful. Thanks to our feather-brained friend Julie, I found out who the new party treasurer was, and very soon I was ready to take back the state treasury's money. That would have been an especially impressive thing to do in my new post as Moscow's head police-master: Look, I may not be in the capital, but I sit high and see far! What a shame. Clearly it was not meant to be,' Pozharsky said with a fatalistic sigh. 'But you must at least appreciate the elegance of the conception ... What else was there? Colonel Sverchinsky? A scoundrel, an odious trickster. You helped me get even with him for a certain vile joke. Burlyaev? I helped you out there, just as I did with Rahmet. The last thing I needed was for my beloved brainchild, the CG, to be neutralised by the head of the Moscow Okhranka. That wouldn't have been fair. The person who plants the seed should reap the harvest. So well done for finishing off Burlyaev! His department came under my total control. Only you messed things up with Fandorin, and he kept on getting under my feet in a most annoying manner. But I don't blame you for Fandorin, he's a special case ... Well, and then the time came to round off our epic adventure together. Alas, all good things come to an end. I thought out the operation down to the finest detail, but chance intervened. Annoying. I was just beginning to gather speed; a little bit longer, and it would have been impossible to stop me ... Destiny' Julie sobbed.

'Never mind,' the head police-master told her with a smile. 'I bear no grudge against you, only destiny. You made me feel happy and light-hearted, and as for betraying me, well, there was evidently nothing that could have been done about that.'

Incredibly enough, there were tears streaming down Julie's face. Green had never seen this carefree, frivolous woman cry before. But there was no sense in continuing the conversation. Everything had been explained already. Not even during the pogrom had Green ever felt so miserable as he did during these few minutes that had cancelled out the entire meaning of a long, hard struggle full of sacrifices. How would he carry on living? -that was the question he had to think about, and he knew it would not be easy to find an answer. But one thing was absolutely clear: this smiling man must die.

Green aimed the gun barrel at the manipulator's forehead.

'Hey, my dear chap!' Pozharsky exclaimed, throwing up one hand. 'What's the hurry? We were having such a wonderful chat. Don't you want to hear about Julie and our love? I assure you it is far more absorbing than any novel.'

Green shook his head and cocked the hammer: 'It's not important.'

'Gleb! No-o-o-o!'Julie screamed. She pounced on Green like a cat and hung on his arm. Her grip was surprisingly strong and her sharp teeth sank into the wrist of the hand holding the Colt.

Green shifted the revolver to his left hand, but it was too late: Pozharksy put his hand in his pocket and fired through the flap of his coat.

I'm hit, thought Green as his back struck the wall and he slid towards the floor. He tried to raise the hand holding the revolver, but it wouldn't obey him.

Julie sent the Colt flying with a kick of her shoe.

'Bravo, little girl,' said Pozharsky 'You're simply wonderful. I dragged things out for about as long as I could, but it still wasn't long enough. I told my men to wait for exactly ten minutes and then break in. He would have finished me by then.'

Something was roaring and howling in Green's ears and the room was swaying, first to the right, then to the left. He couldn't understand how the two men who came running in from the corridor managed to stay on their feet.

'You heard the shot?' the head police-master asked. 'Well done. I've downed this one, he's dying. The woman's for you; she's the famous Needle. She can't be left alive; she heard too much.'

The light began to dim. Pozharsky's face must not be the last thing he saw as his life drained away. Green ran his fading gaze round the room, searching for Needle. She was standing with her hands clasped together and looking at him without speaking, but he couldn't make out the expression in her eyes.

What was that glint between her fingers, that slim, bright thing?

A detonator - it's a detonator, Green realised.

Needle turned towards the vessel with the explosive mixture and snapped the narrow glass tube over it.

Life ended just as it was supposed to - in an instant flash of flame.

Epilogue

At the Kutafya Tower he had to let the cabby go and continue on foot. The new order of things was not yet obvious in the city, but here in the Kremlin things were no longer what they used to be: everything disciplined and carefully tended, patrols everywhere, and not a day that passed without the ice and snow being scraped off the cobblestones - you couldn't get through on a sleigh. Supreme authority had set up its home here now - the new master of the old capital had decided it was beneath him to live in the Governor General's residence and moved into the Maly Nikolaevsky Palace behind the tall red-brick walls.

Erast Petrovich walked uphill across the Trinity Bridge, one hand holding down his sword, the other clutching his cocked hat. Today was a most solemn day: the officials of Moscow were being presented to His Imperial Highness.

The old prince, Vladimir Andreevich Dolgorukoi, had departed to live out his remaining years in the odious leisure of Nice, and fundamental changes were afoot in the lives of his former subordinates - some would be elevated, some would be transferred to new positions, some would be retired altogether. An experienced man immediately took note of the time of day appointed for his reception or his department's. The earlier it was, the more alarming the implications. Everyone knows that a new broom sweeps briskly at first and its first priority is to be strict. There is a double purpose here: on the one hand, to instil the appropriate fear and trepidation in others, and on the other hand, to commence with punishments and conclude with favours. And again, it had been well known for a long time that the worst jobs - the district councils, the land-use committee, the orphans' trusteeship and all sorts of insignificant departments -were usually disposed of first of all, while the truly important positions were left until last.

Both of these signs indicated that State Counsellor Fandorin was an important individual, marked out for special attention. He had been invited to present himself to the clear gaze of the grand duke's eyes last of all, at half past five in the afternoon, even later than the commander of the military district and the top gendarme officers. This distinction, however, could signify absolutely anything, in either a flattering or an alarming sense, and therefore Erast Petrovich had not indulged in empty surmise but decided to entrust himself entirely to destiny. It has been said: 'The superior man meets wrath and favour with equal dignity'

Beside the walls of the Chudov Monastery, the State Counsellor ran into Lieutenant Smolyaninov, also in dress uniform and looking even more flushed than usual.

'Good afternoon, Erast Petrovich!' he exclaimed. 'On the way to your reception? He's seeing you very late. You must be due for promotion.'

Fandorin shrugged and asked politely: 'Have your people already been received? What happened?'

'There are changes at the Okhranka. Mylnikov has been kept in his old position, and Zubtsov has been appointed head of department. And still only a titular counsellor - how do you like that? They're sending us someone from St Petersburg for the Office of Gendarmes. But it's all the same to me. I'm putting in an application, Erast Petrovich. Moving from the Corps of Gendarmes to the Dragoons. I've finally made up my mind.'

Erast Petrovich was not at all surprised, but he asked anyway: 'Why so?'

'I didn't like the way His Highness spoke about the tasks of the state police,' the Lieutenant declared ardently '"You", he said, "must inspire the inhabitants with the fear and awe of authority. Your task is to spot the weeds in good time and eradicate them up without mercy, in order to educate and encourage the others." He said the man in the street should be petrified by the very sight of a blue uniform. That we have to strengthen the foundations of the Russian state, otherwise nihilism and permissiveness will finally erode it completely'

'Perhaps that's right?' Fandorin put in cautiously.

'Very possibly. Only I don't want anyone to be petrified at the very sight of me!' Smolyaninov tugged testily at his sabre knot. 'I was taught that we must eradicate lawlessness and protect the weak, that the Corps of Gendarmes is the spotless handkerchief with which the supreme power wipes away the tears of the suffering!'

The State Counsellor shook his head in sympathy: 'You'll f-find it hard in the army. You know yourself what the officers think of gendarmes.'

'Never mind,' the rosy-cheeked gendarme replied with a stubborn shake of his head. 'At first, of course, they'll turn their noses up, but then they'll see that I'm not any sort of police sneak. I'll fit in somehow.'

'I don't doubt it.'

After taking his leave of the obdurate adjutant, Erast Petrovich lengthened his stride, because there were only ten minutes left to his appointed time.

The audience did not take place in the study but in the formal drawing room - evidendy so that those being presented would appreciate the great significance of the moment. At precisely half past five two solemn footmen with long ringlets opened the double doors and a butler with a gilded mace went in first and announced in a thunderous voice: 'His Honour State Counsellor Fandorin.'

Erast Petrovich bowed respectfully from the doorway and only then took the liberty of examining the most august member of the royal household. Simeon Alexandrovich was strikingly unlike his bullish brother. Gaunt and clean-limbed, with a long, haughty face, a sharp little beard and pomaded hair, he looked more like some Hapsburg prince from the times of Velasquez.

'Hello, Fandorin,' His Highness said. 'Approach.'

Although he knew perfectly well that with members of the royal family this informal manner of address was a mark of goodwill, Erast Petrovich frowned. He approached the grand duke and shook his white, pampered hand.

'So this is what you look like,' said Simeon Alexandrovich, surveying the imposing official with approving curiosity. 'In his reports Pozharsky recommended you in the most flattering terms. What a tragedy that he was killed. Such an extremely talented man, absolutely devoted to me and the throne.'

The Governor General crossed himself, but Fandorin did not follow his example.

'Your Imperial Highness, I am obliged to inform you of certain f-facts concerning Prince Pozharsky's activies in connection with the Combat Group. I drew up a report for the Minister of the Interior, in which I set forth in the greatest possible detail everything that—'

'I read it,' Simeon Alexandrovich interrupted. 'The Minister felt it appropriate to forward your report to me as Governor General of Moscow. I annotated it: "Absolute nonsense and moreover dangerous". But I knew the late Pozharsky very well, and so I checked every word you wrote. Of course, it was all quite right. You are perceptive and adroit. Pozharsky was not mistaken about you; he was an excellent judge of people. But you should not have written that report. There might have been some point if your rival were still alive. But where's the thrill of the hunt in flogging a dead lion?'

'Your Highness, that was not why my n-note was written. I wished to draw the attention of the supreme authorities to the methods of the s-secret state police...' Erast Petrovich protested in dismay, but the grand duke halted him with a condescending gesture.

'Let me say that I am not at all angry with Gleb for his little pranks. In their own way they are actually quite witty. And in general I allow a great deal of leeway to those who are sincerely devoted to me,' His Highness said with special emphasis. As you will have the opportunity to learn for yourself. As for your report, I tore it up and consigned it to oblivion. None of it ever happened. The prestige of the authorities takes priority over eveiything else, including the truth - a point that you still.have to master. But I appreciated the meticulous quality of your work. I need helpers like Pozharsky and you - intelligent, energetic, enterprising, willing to stop at nothing. A place at my side has become vacant, and I want you to fill it’

The State Counsellor was so shaken by the phrase 'little pranks' that he had lost the power of speech. His Highness, however, interpreted his silence in a different sense and smiled understandingly.

'You wish to know what exaccty I am offering you? Don't worry, you will not be out of pocket. Tomorrow I shall sign the decree appointing you head police-master and that, if I am not mistaken, is a salary of twelve thousand plus an expense account of fourteen thousand, plus a coach and team of horses and a state residence. And, in addition, the special funds that you can dispose of at your own discretion. The position corresponds to the fourth class of the state service, so you will shordy receive the rank of general. And I shall obtain the tide of chamberlain for you without delay, in time for Easter. Well then? As our Moscow merchants say, is it a deal?' The grand duke's lips extended into a broad smile and once again he offered the functionary his hand.

However, the most august palm was left suspended in midair.

'I am afraid, Your Highness, that I have decided to leave the state service,' Erast Petrovich said in a clear, confident voice, appearing to look His Imperial Highness full in the face, but somehow at the same time looking straight through him. 'Private life is more to my liking.'

And without waiting for the audience ta end, he set off towards the door.

The Coronation

20 May

He died in front of my very eyes, this strange and disagreeable gentleman.

It all happened so quickly, so very quickly.

The very instant the shots roared out, he was flung back against the cable.

He dropped his little revolver, clutched at the shaky handrail and froze on the spot, with his head thrown back. I caught a momentary glimpse of a white face, bisected by a black strip of moustache, before it disappeared behind the black mantle.

‘Erast Petrovich!’ I shouted, calling him by his given name and patronymic for the first time.

Or did I only mean to shout?

The precarious decking swayed beneath his feet. His head suddenly bobbed forward as if from a powerful jolt, his body began slumping, chest forward, over the cable, then swung round grotesquely – and the next instant it was already hurtling down, down, down.

The precious casket fell from my hands, struck a rock and split open. There was a flash of blinding sparks from the multicoloured facets of the diamonds, sapphires and emeralds, but I did not even glance at these incalculable riches as they scattered into the grass.

From the ravine there came the soft crunch of an impact, and I gasped. The black bundle went tumbling down the steep slope, gathering speed along the way and only ceasing its nauseous whirling motion at the very edge of the stream. It dropped one lifeless hand into the water and lay there, face down in the gravel.

I had not liked this man. Perhaps I had even hated him. In any case, I had wanted him to disappear from our lives once and for all. But I had not wished for his death.

His trade was risk, he toyed with danger constantly, but somehow I had never thought he could be killed. He had seemed immortal to me.

I do not know how long I stood there like that, gazing stiffly down. It cannot have been very long. But time seemed to rupture, to split apart, and I fell into the rent – back into the old, serene life that had ended abruptly exactly two weeks earlier.

Yes, that was a Monday too, the sixth of May.

6 May

We arrived in the ancient capital of the Russian state in the morning. Owing to the imminent coronation festivities, the Nikolai I Station was congested with traffic and our train was sent off via a transfer line to the Brest Station, which seemed to me a rather ill-judged decision, to say the least, on the part of the local authorities. I can only assume that a certain coolness in relations between His Highness Georgii Alexandrovich and His Highness Simeon Alexandrovich, the governor-general of Moscow, must have played some part in it. I can think of no other way to explain the humiliating half-hour wait on the points at the marshalling yard and the subsequent diversion of our special express train from the main station to a secondary one.

And we were not met on the platform by Simeon Alexandrovich himself, as protocol, tradition, family connection and, ultimately, simple respect for an elder brother should have required, but only by a member of the reception committee, a minister of the imperial court who, incidentally, immediately departed for the Nikolai I station to receive the Prince of Prussia. But since when has the heir to the Prussian throne been accorded more attention in Moscow than the uncle of His Majesty, the admiral-general of the Russian fleet and the second most senior of the grand dukes of the imperial family? Georgii Alexandrovich did not show it, but I think he felt no less indignant than I did at such a clear affront.

It was a good thing at least that Her Highness, the Grand Duchess Ekaterina Ioannovna, had stayed in St Petersburg – she is so zealous about the subtle points of ritual and maintaining the dignity of the royal family. The epidemic of measles that had laid low the four middle sons – Alexei Georgievich, Sergei Georgievich, Dmitry Georgievich and Konstantin Georgievich – prevented Her Highness, an exemplary and loving mother, from taking part in the coronation, the supreme event in the life of the state and the imperial family. There were, it is true, venomous tongues who claimed that Her Highness’s absence at the celebrations in Moscow was to be explained less by maternal love than by a reluctance to play the part of a mere extra at the triumph of the young tsarina. There was also mention of last year’s incident at the Christmas Ball, when the new empress suggested that the ladies of the royal family should establish a handicraft society, and that each of the grand duchesses should knit a warm cap for the little orphans at the Mariinsky Orphanage. Perhaps Ekaterina Ioannovna’s reaction to this proposal was a little too severe. It is even quite possible that since then relations between Her Highness and Her Majesty had not been entirely good. However, no provocation was intended by My Lady’s not coming to the coronation, I can vouch for that. Whatever Ekaterina Ioannovna’s feelings towards Her Majesty may be, under no circumstances would she ever presume to neglect her dynastic duty without a very serious reason. Her Highness’s sons really were ill.

That was sad of course but, as the common people say, every cloud has a silver lining, for the entire grand ducal court remained behind in St Petersburg with her, which significantly simplified the highly complex task facing me in connection with the temporary removal to the old capital. The court ladies were very upset that they would not see the festivities in Moscow and expressed their discontent – naturally, without transgressing the bounds of etiquette – but Ekaterina Ioannovna remained adamant: according to ceremonial procedure, a lesser court must remain where the majority of members of the grand ducal family are located, and the majority of the Georgieviches, as our branch of the imperial house is unofficially known, had stayed in St Petersburg.

Four members of the family made the journey to the coronation: Georgii Alexandrovich himself, his eldest and youngest sons and his only daughter, Xenia Georgievna.

As I have already said, I was only too pleased by the absence of the ladies and gentlemen of the court. The court steward, Prince Metitsky, and the manager of the court office, Privy Counsellor von Born, would only have hindered me in doing my job by sticking their noses into matters entirely beyond their comprehension. A good butler does not need nannies and overseers to help him cope with his responsibilities. And as for the ladies-in-waiting and maids of honour, I simply would not have known where to accommodate them, so wretchedly inadequate was the residence allocated by the coronation committee to the Green Court – as our household is known, from the colour of the grand duchess’s train. However, we will come to the matter of the residence later.

The removal from St Petersburg went smoothly. The train consisted of three carriages: the members of the royal family travelled in the first, the servants in the second, and all the necessary utensils and the luggage were transported in the third, so that I was constantly obliged to move from one carriage to another.

Immediately after our departure, His Highness Georgii Alexandrovich sat down to drink cognac with His Highness Pavel Georgievich and Gentleman of the Bedchamber Endlung. His Highness was pleased to drink eleven glasses, after which he felt tired and rested all the way to Moscow. Before he fell asleep, when he was already in his ‘cabin’, as he referred to his compartment, His Highness told me a little about a voyage to Sweden that had taken place twenty years earlier and made a great impression on him. The fact is, although Georgii Alexandrovich holds the rank of admiral-general, he has only ever been to sea on one occasion. The memories that he retains of this journey are most unpleasant, and he frequently refers to the French minister Colbert, who never sailed on a ship and yet transformed his country into a great maritime power. I have heard the story about the Swedish voyage many times, quite often enough to know it off by heart. The most dangerous part in it is the description of the storm off the coast of Gotland. Following the words ‘And then the captain yells out, “All hands to the pumps”’, His Highness is wont to roll his eyes up and swing his fist down hard onto the table. The same thing happened on this occasion, but there was no damage to the tablecloth and the tableware, since I had taken the timely measure of holding down the carafe and the glass.

When His Highness was quite worn out and began to lose the power of speech, I gave the sign to his valet to undress him and put him to bed, while I went to call on Pavel Georgievich and Lieutenant Endlung. As young men in the very pink of health, they were much less tired after the cognac. You might say, in fact, that they were not tired at all, so it was necessary to keep an eye on them, especially bearing in mind the particular temperament of the gentleman of the bedchamber.

Oh my, that Endlung! I ought not to say so, but Ekaterina Ioannovna made a great mistake when she decided that this gentleman was a worthy mentor for her eldest son. The lieutenant, of course, is a handsome brute, with a clear gaze, a fresh complexion, a neat parting in his golden hair and an almost childishly pink bloom to his cheeks – a perfect angel. Respectful and fawning with older ladies, he can listen with an air of the greatest interest to talk of the preacher Ioann Kronshtatsky or a greyhound’s distemper. Yes, it is hardly surprising that Ekaterina Ioannovna’s heart warmed to Endlung. Such an agreeable and – most important – serious young man, nothing like those good-for-nothing cadets from the Naval Corps or those scapegraces from the Guards Company. A fine mentor she found for Pavel Georgievich’s guardian on his first long voyage! A guardian of whom I have seen more than enough.

In the very first port, Varna, Endlung dolled himself up like a peacock in a white suit with a scarlet waistcoat, a cravat studded with stars and a massive Panama hat, and set out for a house of ill-repute, taking His Highness, still a boy at the time, along with him. I tried to intervene, but the lieutenant told me, ‘I promised Ekaterina Ioannovna that I would not take my eyes off His Highness. Where I go, he goes.’

I said to him, ‘No, Lieutenant, Her Highness said, where he goes, you must go!’ But Endlung said, ‘That, Afanasii Stepanovich, is hair-splitting. The important thing is that we shall be as inseparable as the Ajaxes.’ And so he dragged the young midshipman round every den of iniquity as far as Gibraltar. But from Gibraltar back to Kronstadt both the lieutenant and midshipman behaved very quietly and didn’t even go ashore, although they went running to the doctor four times a day for irrigation treatments. What kind of mentor is that? His Highness has changed in the company of this Endlung – he is quite a different person. I have even hinted this to Georgii Alexandrovich, but he simply brushed it off, saying, ‘Never mind, that kind of experience can only be good for my Pauly, and Endlung may be a bit of a booby, but he is a good, open-hearted comrade; he won’t cause any serious harm.’ But in my view this is letting the goat into the garden, to use an expression from the common folk. I can see right through that Endlung – of course I can, since he is so very open. Thanks to his friendship with Pavel Georgievich, he has even been awarded a monogram for his shoulder straps, and now he has been made a gentleman of the bedchamber, which is quite unheard of – such an honourable title for a mere lieutenant!

Left alone together, the two young men had started a game of bezique for forfeits. When I glanced into the compartment, Pavel Georgievich called to me: ‘Sit down, Afanasii. Have a game of American roulette with us. If you lose, I’ll make you shave off those damn precious sideburns of yours.’

I thanked him and refused, saying that I was extremely busy, although I didn’t have anything in particular to do. That would have been the last straw, to play His Highness at American roulette. And Pavel Georgievich knew himself that I would make a hopeless partner in the game – he was simply joking. In recent months he has developed a dismaying habit of bantering with me, and all thanks to Endlung – this is his influence. Endlung himself, it is true, has recently stopped taunting me, but Pavel Georgievich persists in the habit. Never mind. His Highness may do as he pleases; I have no complaints.

For example, just now he told me with an absolutely straight face: ‘You know, Afanasii, that phenomenal growth on your face is provoking the envy of certain highly influential individuals. For instance, the day before yesterday at the ball, when you were standing by the door, looking so grand with your gold-plated mace and sideburns jutting out on both sides, all the ladies had eyes for no one but you, and no one even glanced at cousin Nicky, even though he is the emperor. You really, really must shave them off, or at the very least trim them.’

In actual fact, my ‘phenomenal growth’ is a perfectly ordinary full moustache with sideburns – sumptuous perhaps but by no means excessive, and at all events maintained in perfectly decent order. My father wore the same whiskers, and my grandfather before him, so I had no intention of either shaving them or trimming them.

‘Skip it, Pauly,’ Endlung intervened on my behalf. ‘Stop tormenting Afanasii Stepanovich. Come on, play. It’s your turn.’

I can see that I shall have to explain the relationship between the lieutenant and myself. There is a story to it.

On the very first day of the voyage on the corvette Mstislav, immediately after we left Sebastopol, Endlung ambushed me on deck, put his hand on my shoulder, looked at me with his eyes totally blank after all the wine he had drunk at the send-off party and said: ‘Well, Afon, my little flunkey soul, those mops of yours are looking a bit wild. Is it the breeze that has swept them out like that? (My sideburns had indeed been tousled somewhat by the fresh sea wind – later I would be obliged to shorten them a little for the duration of the voyage.) Will you do something for me, as a personal favour? Run round to that skinflint of a steward and say that His Highness orders him to send a bottle of rum – to help prevent seasickness.’

All the time we were travelling to Sebastopol in the train, Endlung had teased me and mocked me in the presence of His Highness, but I had tolerated it, waiting for an opportunity to clarify matters face to face. Now the opportunity had presented itself.

I delicately removed the lieutenant’s hand (at that time he was not yet a gentleman of the bedchamber) with my finger and thumb and said politely: ‘Mr Endlung, if you have been visited by the fancy to define my soul, then it would be more accurate to refer to it, not as the soul of a “flunkey”, but that of a “house-master”, since for long and irreproachable service at His Highness’s court I have been awarded that title, which is a rank of the ninth level, corresponding to that of titular counsellor, staff captain in the army or lieutenant in the fleet.’ (I deliberately emphasised the latter title.)

Endlung exclaimed: ‘Lieutenants don’t wait on tables!’

And I said to him: ‘One waits on tables in restaurants, sir, but in the royal family one serves, each performing his duty as honourably as he can.’

After that incident Endlung became as smooth as silk with me: he spoke politely, told no more jokes at my expense, addressed me by my name and patronymic and always spoke politely.

I must say that for a man in my position the question of degrees of politeness is particularly complicated, since we court servants have a quite distinctive status. It is hard to explain why it is insulting to be called by your first name by some people, and insulting to be addressed formally by others. But the latter are the only people that I can serve, if you take my meaning.

Let me try to explain. I can only tolerate being called by my first name by individuals of the royal family. Indeed, I do not tolerate it, but regard it as a privilege and a special distinction. I would simply be mortified if Georgii Alexandrovich, Her Highness or one of their children, even the very youngest, suddenly addressed me formally by my first name and patronymic. Two years ago I had a disagreement with Ekaterina Ioannovna concerning a maid who was unjustly accused of frivolous behaviour. I demonstrated firmness and stood my ground, and the grand duchess took offence and addressed me in strictly formal terms for an entire week. I suffered greatly, lost weight and could not sleep at night. And then we clarified matters. With her typical magnanimity, Ekaterina Ioannovna acknowledged her error. I also apologised and was allowed to kiss her hand, and she kissed me on the forehead.

But I digress.

The card players were being served by the junior footman Lipps, a novice whom I had brought with me especially to get a good look at him and see what he was worth. He had previously served at the Estonian estate of Count Beckendorf and had been recommended to me by His Excellency’s house steward, an old acquaintance of mine. He seems like quite an efficient young lad and doesn’t talk a lot, but it takes a while to recognise a good servant, unlike a bad one. In a new post everyone makes a great effort to do his best; you have to wait six months or a year, or even two, to know for certain. I observed how Lipps poured coffee, how deftly he changed a soiled napkin, how he stood in his position – that is very, very important. He stood correctly, without shifting from one foot to the other or turning his head. I decided he could probably be allowed to serve guests at small receptions.

The game was proceeding normally. First Endlung lost, and Pavel Georgievich rode along the corridor on his back. Then Fortune turned her face away from His Highness and the lieutenant demanded that the grand duke must run to the lavatory, completely undressed, and bring back a glass of water.

While Pavel Georgievich was giggling and taking his clothes off, I quietly slipped out through the door, called the valet, told him that none of the servants must look into the grand duke’s saloon and took a cape from the duty compartment. When His Highness skipped out into the corridor, peering around and covering himself with his hand, I tried to throw this long item of clothing over him, but Pavel Georgievich indignantly refused, saying that a promise is a promise, and he ran to the lavatory and then back again, laughing very much all the time.

It was a good thing that Madamoiselle Declique did not glance out to see what all the laughter was about. Fortunately, despite the late hour, His Highness Mikhail Georgievich had not gone to bed yet – he was pleased to jump up and down on a chair and then swung on a curtain for a long time. The youngest of the grand dukes is usually asleep at half past eight, but this time Mademoiselle had felt it possible to indulge him, saying that His Highness was too excited by the journey and would not fall asleep anyway.

In our Green Court the children are not raised strictly, unlike in the Blue Court of the Kirilloviches, where they maintain the family traditions of the Emperor Nikolai Pavlovich. There boys are raised like soldiers: from the age of seven they learn campaign discipline, are toughened by sluicing with cold water and put to sleep in folding camp beds. But Georgii Alexandrovich is regarded as a liberal in the imperial family. He raises his sons leniently in the French manner and, in the opinion of his relatives, he has completely spoiled his only daughter, his favourite.

Her Highness, thank God, did not come out of her compartment either and did not witness Pavel Georgievich’s prank. Ever since St Petersburg she had locked herself away with a book, and I even know which one it was: The Kreutzer Sonata, a work by Count Tolstoy. I have read it, in case there might be talk about it among us butlers, simply in order not to appear a complete dunce. In my opinion it makes extremely boring reading and is quite inappropriate for a nineteen-year-old girl, especially a grand princess. In St Petersburg Ekaterina Ioannovna would never have allowed her daughter to read such smut and I can only think that the novel was smuggled into the baggage. The lady-in-waiting Baroness Stroganova must have provided it; it could not have been anyone else.

The two sailors did not quieten down until it was almost morning, following which even I allowed myself the luxury of dozing for a while because, to be quite honest, I was really rather tired after all the bustle and commotion before we left, and I anticipated that the first day in Moscow would not be easy.

The difficulties far exceeded all my expectations.

As it happens, in all the forty-six years of my life I have never been in the ‘white stone capital’ before, although I have travelled round the world quite extensively. The fact is, in our family Asiatic manners are not regarded favourably, and the only place in the whole of Russia acknowledged as being even slightly decent is St Petersburg. Our relations with the governor general of Moscow, Simeon Alexandrovich, are cool, and so we have no reason to spend time in the old capital. We usually even travel to Miskhor Grange in the Crimea by a roundabout route, via Minsk, since Georgii Alexandrovich likes to shoot a few bison in the Beloverzhsk forest reserve along the way. And I did not travel to the last coronation, thirteen years ago, since I held the position of assistant butler and was left to replace my superior at that time, the now-deceased Zakhar Trofimovich.

While we were travelling across the city from the station, I formed my first impression of Moscow. The city proved to be even less civilised than I had expected – absolutely no comparison with St Petersburg. The streets were narrow and absurdly twisted, the buildings were wretched, the public on the streets was slovenly and provincial. And this was when the city was making an almighty effort to preen its feathers on the eve of the arrival of the emperor himself: the facades of the buildings had been washed, the sheet metal of the roofs had been freshly painted, on Tverskaya Street (the main street of Moscow, a pale shadow of Nevsky Prospect) the tsar’s monogram and two-headed eagles had been hung everywhere. I don’t even know with what I can compare Moscow. It is the same kind of overgrown village as Salonica, which our yacht, the Mstislav, visited last year. Along the way we didn’t see a single fountain, or a building with more than four storeys, or an equestrian statue – only the round-shouldered bronze Pushkin and, to judge from the colour of the metal, even that was a recent acquisition.

At Red Square, which was also quite a disappointment, our cavalcade divided into two. Their Highnesses set out, as befits members of the imperial family, to pay obeisance to the icon of the Virgin of Iversk and the holy relics in the Kremlin, while I and the servants went on to make ready our temporary Moscow residence.

Owing to the division of the court into two parts, I had to make do with an extremely modest number of servants. I had only been able to bring eight people with me from St Petersburg: His Highness’s valet, Xenia Georgievna’s maid, a junior footman (the aforementioned Lipps) for Pavel Georgievich and Endlung, a pantry man and his assistant, a ‘white chef’, and two coachmen for the English and Russian carriages. The intention was that I would serve tea and coffee myself – that is by way of being a tradition. At the risk of appearing immodest, I can say that in the entire court department there is no one who performs duties of this kind, which require not only great skill, but also talent, better than I do. After all, I did serve for five years as a coffee pourer with Their Majesties the deceased emperor and the present dowager empress.

Naturally, I could not count on being able to manage with only eight servants, and so I sent a special telegram requesting the Moscow Court Department to appoint a capable local man as my assistant and also to provide two postilions, a ‘black chef’ for the servants, a footman to serve the senior servants, two junior footmen for cleaning, a maid for Mademoiselle Declique and two doormen. I did not ask for more than that, since I realised perfectly well how scarce experienced servants would be in Moscow owing to the arrival of such a large number of exalted individuals. And I had no illusions concerning Moscow servants. Moscow is a city of empty palaces and decaying villas, and there is nothing worse than maintaining a staff of servants without anything for them to do. It makes people stupid, it spoils them. For instance, we have three large houses in which we live by turns (excluding the spring, which we spend abroad, because Ekaterina Ioannovna finds the period of Lent in Russia unbearably dull): during the winter the Family lives in its St Petersburg palace, during the summer in its villa at Tsarskoe Selo, during the autumn at the Miskhor Grange. Each of the houses has its own staff of servants, and I do not allow them to loaf about. Every time we move from one house to another, I leave behind an extremely long list of instructions, and I always manage to visit every now and then to check on things, and always without warning. Servants are like soldiers. You have to keep them busy all the time, or they will start drinking, playing cards and behaving improperly.

My Moscow assistant met us at the station, and while we were riding in the carriage he had time to explain some of the problems that awaited me. In the first place it turned out that my extremely moderate and rational request had not been met in full by the Court Department: they had only allocated one junior footman, they had not given us a chef for the servants, only a female cook, and the worse thing of all was that there was no maid for the governess. I was particularly displeased by this, because the position of governess is fundamentally ambivalent, lying as it does on the boundary line between service personnel and court staff; exceptional tact is required here in order to avoid offending and humiliating a person who is already constantly apprehensive for her own dignity.

‘And that is still not the most deplorable thing, Mr Ziukin,’ my Moscow assistant said with those distinctive broad Moscow ‘a’s when he noticed my dissatisfaction. ‘The most lamentable thing of all is that instead of the Maly Nikolaevsky Palace in the Kremlin that was promised, you have been given the Small Hermitage in the Neskuchny Park as your residence.’

My assistant was called Kornei Selifanovich Somov, and at first glance I did not take to him at all: a rather unattractive, skinny fellow with protruding ears and a prominent Adam’s apple. It was immediately obvious that the man had already reached the peak of his career and would not progress any further but remain stuck in the backwoods of Moscow until he retired.

‘What sort of place is this Hermitage?’ I asked with a frown.

‘A beautiful house with a quite excellent view of the Moscow River and the city. It stands in a park close to the Alexandriisky Palace, which the emperor and empress will occupy immediately before the coronation, but . . .’ Somov shrugged and spread his long arms ‘. . . it is dilapidated, cramped and it has a ghost.’ He giggled but, seeing from my face that I was in no mood for jokes, he explained. ‘The house was built in the middle of the last century. It used to belong to the Countess Chesmenskaya – the famous madwoman who was incredibly rich. You must have heard about her, Mr Ziukin. Some say that Pushkin based his Queen of Spades on her, and not the old Princess Golytsina at all.’

I do not like it when servants flaunt their erudition, and so I said nothing, but merely nodded.

Somov obviously did not understand the reason for my displeasure, for he continued in even more flamboyant style.

‘The legend has it that during the reign of Alexander I, when everyone in society was playing the newfangled game of lotto, the countess played a game with the Devil himself and staked her own soul. The servants say that sometimes on moonless nights a white figure in a nightcap wanders down the corridor, rattling the counters for lotto in a little cloth bag.’

Somov giggled again, as if to make it clear that he, as an enlightened man, did not believe in such nonsense. But I took this news quite seriously, because every servant, especially if, like me, he happens to be a member of an old court dynasty, knows that ghosts and phantoms really do exist, and joking with them or about them is a foolish and irresponsible pastime. I asked if the ghost of the old countess did anything wicked apart from rattling the counters. Somov said no, that in almost a hundred years she had never been known to play any other tricks, and I was reassured. Very well, let her wander, that was not frightening. In our Fontanny Palace we have the ghost of Gentleman of the Bedchamber Zhikharev, a handsome Adonis and prospective favourite of Catherine the Great, who was poisoned by Prince Zubov. What is an old woman in a mob cap compared with him? Our otherworldly lodger behaves in the most indecent fashion: in the darkness he pinches the ladies and the servants, and he becomes especially rowdy on the eve of the feast of St John the Baptist. It is true, however, that he does not dare to touch the ladies of the royal family – after all he is a gentleman of the bedchamber. And then in the Anichkov Palace there is the ghost of a female student from the Smolny Institute who was supposedly seduced by Tsar Nikolai Pavlovich and afterwards took her own life. At night she oozes through the walls and drops cold tears on the faces of people who are asleep. It can hardly be pleasant to be woken by cold tears and confronted by a horror like that.

Anyway, Somov did not frighten me with his ghost. It was far worse that the house really did prove to be very cramped and lacking in many conveniences. That was hardly surprising – nothing in the property had been renovated since the Court Department bought it from the Counts Chesmensky half a century earlier.

I walked round the floors, calculating what needed to be done first. I must admit that Somov had coped rather well with the basic preparations: the covers had been removed from the furniture, everything was brilliantly clean, there were fresh flowers in the bedrooms and the grand piano in the large drawing room was correctly tuned.

The lighting was a great disappointment – there was not even gas, only antediluvian oil lamps. Ah, if only I had had just one week – I would have installed a small electric generator in the basement, laid the wires, and the palace would have looked quite different. Why did we need to skulk in the oil-lit twilight? It had been like that in the Fontanny Palace thirty years earlier. Now I would need a lamplighter to keep the lamps full of oil – they were English-made, with a twenty-four-hour clock mechanism.

On the subject of clocks, I counted nineteen table and wall clocks in the house, and they all told different times. I decided that I would wind the clocks myself – it is a job that requires punctuality and precision. One can always tell a good house kept in ideal order from the way that the clocks in different rooms all tell the same time. Any experienced butler will tell you that.

I discovered only one telephone apparatus, in the hallway, and immediately ordered another two lines to be laid: one to Georgii Alexandrovich’s study and another to my room, since I would probably have to talk endlessly with the Alexandrovsky Palace, the governor general’s residence and the Court Department.

But initially I had to decide which rooms to put people in, and that was a problem that really had me racking my brains.

There were only eighteen rooms on the two floors of the house. I simply cannot imagine how everyone would have been accommodated if the grand duchess and the other children and the entire court had been with us. Somov told me that the family of Grand Duke Nikolai Konstantinovich, including eight members of the royal family and a retinue of fourteen individuals, not counting servants, had been allocated a small mansion with fifteen rooms, so that the courtiers had been obliged to share a room between three or even four, and the servants had been accommodated over the stables. That was quite appalling, even though Nikolai Konstantinovich was two levels below Georgii Alexandrovich in seniority.

It was also inopportune that His Highness had invited his friend Lord Banville to the coronation. His Lordship was expected to arrive on the Berlin train early in the evening. The Englishman was unmarried, thank goodness, but I still had to allocate him two rooms: one for the lord himself and one for his butler. And God forbid that I should make any slips here. I know these English butlers: they are even more lordly than their masters. Especially Mr Smiley, who served His Lordship. Pompous and snobbish – I had had more than enough time to observe him the previous month in Nice.

And so I set aside the first floor for the royal household. The two rooms with windows facing towards the park and the tsar’s palace were for Georgii Alexandrovich – they would be his bedroom and study. An armchair would go on the balcony, with a small table and a box of cigars, while a spyglass would be placed at the window that looked towards the Alexandriisky Palace, to make it more convenient for His Highness to observe the windows of his nephew the emperor. Xenia Georgievna would have the bright room with a view of the river, she would like that. The maid Liza would be beside her. I would put Pavel Georgievich in the mezzanine – he liked to be apart from the other members of the family, and there was a separate staircase leading up there, which was convenient for returning late. Endlung would be next to him, in the former closet. He was not such an important individual. Move in a bed, put a carpet on the floor and hang a bearskin on the wall, and no one would be able to tell that it was a closet. Little Mikhail Georgievich would have the spacious room with windows facing east – just right for a nursery. And beside it there was a very fine room for Mademoiselle Declique. I gave instructions to put a bunch of bluebells in there (they are her favourite flowers). I set aside the last room on the first floor as a small drawing room for peaceful leisure activities in the family circle, in case at least one evening might be left free during the bewildering days ahead.

The two largest rooms downstairs were naturally transformed into the main drawing room and the dining room; I prepared the two most decent bedrooms for the Englishmen, took one for myself (small but located in a strategically important position, under the stairs); and the rest of the servants had to be accommodated several to a room. A la guerre comme а la guerre, or, as we say in Russian, cramped but contented.

All in all, it turned out better than could have been expected.

Then began the troublesome business of unpacking the luggage: dresses, uniforms and suits, silver tableware, thousands of all sorts of small but absolutely essential items which make it possible to transform any shed into a decent and even comfortable refuge.

While the Moscow servants were carrying in the trunks and boxes, I observed each of them carefully to determine what each of them was worth and in which capacity he could be used to the greatest benefit. This is precisely the most important talent of any individual in command: the ability to determine the stronger and weaker sides of each of his subordinates, in order to exploit the former and leave the latter untouched. Long experience of managing a large staff of workers has taught me that there are few people in the world who are completely without talent and absolutely incapable. A use can be found for everyone. When someone in our club complains about the uselessness of a footman, a waiter or a maid, I think to myself, Ah my dear fellow, you are a bad butler. All of my servants become good ones in time. Everyone has to like his own work – that is the secret. A chef must enjoy cooking, a maid must enjoy creating order out of chaos, a groom must like horses and a gardener must like plants.

The supreme skill of the genuine butler is to have a thorough grasp of an individual, to understand what he likes, for, strangely enough, most people do not have the slightest idea of where their own inclinations lie and in what area they are gifted. Sometimes one has to try one thing and then another and then something else before one can get it right. And this is not simply a matter of work, although of course that is important. When a person does what he enjoys, he is contented and happy, and if all the servants in the house are at ease, cheerful and affable, this creates a quite special situation, or as they call it nowadays, atmosphere.

One must always encourage and reward one’s subordinates – but in moderation, not simply for performing their duties conscientiously but for special diligence. It is essential to punish too, but only justly. At the same time, one must explain clearly for what exactly the punishment has been meted out and, naturally, it must under no circumstances be humiliating. Let me repeat: if a subordinate is failing to cope with his work, it is his superior who is to blame. I have forty-two people at the Fontanny Palace, fourteen in Tsarskoe Selo and another twenty-three in the Crimea. And they are all in the right positions, you can take my word for that. Pantaleimon Kuzmich, butler to His Highness the Grand Duke Mikhail Mikhailovich the senior, often used to say to me, ‘You, Afanasii Stepanovich, are a genuine psychologist.’ And he was not too proud to ask my advice in especially difficult cases. For instance, the year before last at the Gatchina Palace he found himself with a junior footman on his staff who was quite indescribably muddle-headed. Pantaleimon Kuzmich struggled and strained with him and then asked my advice. The lad was an absolute blockhead, he said, but he would be sorry to dismiss him. I took on the lad out of a desire to shine. He proved useless in the dining room and in the dressing room, and especially in the kitchen. In short, as the common people say, he was a tough nut. And then one day I saw him sitting in the courtyard, looking at the sun through a shard of glass. My curiosity was aroused. I stopped and observed him. He was toying with that piece of glass as if he had come by some priceless diamond, constantly breathing on it and wiping it on his sleeve. I was suddenly inspired. I set him to clean the windows of the house – and what do you think? My windows began to shine like pure mountain crystal. And there was no need to chase the lad – from morning until evening he polished one window pane after another. Now he’s the finest window cleaner in the whole of St Petersburg and butlers line up to borrow him from Pantaleimon Kuzmich. That is what happens when a person finds his vocation.

No sooner had I wound the clocks in the house and the servants carried in the last hatbox from the last carriage, than the English guests arrived, and I discovered that there was another unpleasant surprise in store for me.

It turned out that Lord Banville had brought a friend with him, a certain Mr Carr.

I remembered His Lordship very well from Nice – he had not changed in the least: a smooth parting midway between his temples, a monocle, a cane, a cigar in his teeth, a ring with a large diamond on his index finger. And dressed impeccably, as always, a fine specimen of an English gentleman, wearing a black dinner jacket, perfectly ironed (and he had just come from the train!), a black waistcoat and a brilliantly white stiffly starched collar. On jumping down from the footboard, he threw his head back and laughed loudly like a horse neighing, which gave the maid Liza, who was hovering nearby, a great fright, but did not surprise me in the least: I was aware that His Lordship was an inveterate horseman who spent half his life in the stables, understood the language of horses and was almost able to communicate in it himself. At least, that was what I had been told by Georgii Alexandrovich, who had made Lord Banville’s acquaintance at the races in Nice.

When he finished neighing, His Lordship held out his hand to help another gentleman out of the carriage and introduced him as his dear friend Mr Carr. This gentleman was a completely different specimen, of a kind that one is rather unlikely to encounter in our parts: hair of a remarkable straw-yellow colour, straight on top and wavy at the sides, which, one would imagine, never happens in nature. A smooth white face with a neat round mole like a velvet beauty spot on one cheek. The shirt worn by His Lordship’s friend was not white but light blue – I had never seen one like it before. A light greyish-blue frock coat, an azure waistcoat with gold speckles and an absolutely blue carnation in the buttonhole. I was particularly struck by his unusually narrow boots with mother-of-pearl buttons and lemon-yellow gaiters. Stepping down gingerly onto the cobblestones, this strange man stretched elegantly and a capricious, affected smile appeared on his delicate doll-like face. Mr Carr’s gaze fell on the doorman Trofimov, who was on duty on the porch. I had previously had occasion to note that Trofimov was quite hopelessly stupid and unfitted for any kind of employment except minding doors, but he looked impressive: a full sazhen in height, broad in the shoulder, with round eyes and a thick black beard. The Englishman approached Trofimov, who stood there as still as a stone idol, as he was supposed to do, and looked up at him, then for some reason tugged on his beard and said something in English in a high-pitched, melodic voice.

Lord Banville’s inclinations had become quite clear in Nice, and Ekaterina Ioannovna, an individual of the very strictest principles, had refused to have anything to do with him, but Georgii Alexandrovich, being a broad-minded man (and also, let us note in passing, only too well acquainted with gentlemen of this kind from his circle of society acquaintances), found the English lord’s predilection for effeminate grooms and rosy-cheeked footmen amusing. ‘Excellent company, an outstanding sportsman and a true gentleman,’ was what he told me in explaining why he had presumed to invite Banville to Moscow – after it had become clear that Ekaterina Ioannovna was not coming to the coronation.

The unpleasant surprise that I felt was not due to His Lordship’s having brought his latest flame with him – after all, Mr Carr appeared to be a man of good society. The cause of my dismay was simpler than that: where was I to accommodate another guest? Even if they spent the night together, in order to observe the proprieties I would have to give the second Englishman a separate bedroom. I thought for a moment, and the solution came to me almost immediately: move the Moscow servants, with the exception of Somov, into the attic above the stables. That would free two rooms, one of which I would give to the Englishman and the other to the grand duke’s chef, Maоtre Duval, who was feeling very aggrieved.

‘Where is Mr Smiley?’ I asked Lord Banville in French, since there were certain things that I had to explain to his butler.

Like most of the alumni of the Court Department, I was taught French and German from my childhood, but not English. In recent years the court has become quite significantly anglicised, and more and more often I have had reason to regret this shortcoming in my education, but formerly English had been regarded as an inelegant language and not essential for our service.

‘He resigned,’ His Lordship replied in French with a vague gesture of his hand. ‘My new butler, Freyby, is there in the carriage. Reading a book.’

I went over to the carriage. The servants were deftly unloading the baggage and a fleshy-faced gentleman with a very haughty air was sitting on the velvet seat with his legs crossed. He was bald, with thick eyebrows and a neatly trimmed beard – in short, he didn’t look anything like an English butler, or any sort of butler at all. Through the open door I saw the book that Mr Freyby was holding in his hands – it had a word in thick golden letters on the cover: ‘Trollope’. I did not know what this English word meant.

‘Soyez le bienvenu!’ I greeted him with a polite bow.

His calm blue eyes gazed at me through his gold-rimmed spectacles. But he didn’t answer.

‘Herzlich Willkommen!’ I said, trying German, but the Englishman’s gaze remained politely neutral.

‘You must be the butler Ziukin?’ he said in a pleasant baritone voice. The sounds were quite incomprehensible to me.

I shrugged and spread my hands.

Then, with an expression of obvious regret, Mr Freyby put his book into the vast pocket of his frock coat and took out another book, much smaller than the first. He leafed through it and then pronounced several comprehensible words, one after the other.

‘Vy . . . dolzhny . . . byt . . . batler Ziukin?’

Ah, that’s an English–Russian dictionary, I guessed, and mentally commended his foresight. If I had known that Mr Smiley, who could, at a pinch, make himself understood in French, was no longer in His Lordship’s service and had been replaced by a new butler, I would also have equipped myself with a lexicon. After all, this Englishman and I would have to solve no small number of complex and delicate problems together.

As if he had been listening to my thoughts, Mr Freyby took another small volume, identical in appearance to the English– Russian dictionary, out of his other pocket. He handed it to me.

I took it and read the title on the cover: Russian–English Dictionary with a reading of English words.

The Englishman leafed through his own manual, found the word he needed and explained: ‘A present . . .’

I opened the small volume he had given me and saw that it was arranged in an artful and intelligent manner: all the English words were written in Russian letters and the stress was marked. I tried out the lexicon immediately. I wanted to ask which baggage belonged to whom. This came out as: ‘Where . . . whose . . . baggage?’

And he understood me perfectly well!

He gestured casually to summon a footman who was carrying a heavy suitcase on his shoulder, and pointed one finger at a yellow label, on which it said ‘Banville’. On looking more closely, I observed that there were labels stuck on all the items of baggage, some of them yellow with His Lordship’s name, others blue with the inscription ‘Carr’ and still others red with the inscription ‘Freyby’. Very rational, I thought; I shall have to adopt the same method.

Evidently considering the problem satisfactorily resolved, Mr Freyby extracted his large tome from his pocket and paid no more attention to me, and I thought that English butlers were of course all very fine and knew their business well, but there was still something that they could learn from us Russian servants. To be precise – cordiality. They simply serve their masters, but we love ours too. How can you serve a man if you do not feel love for him? Without that it is all mere mechanics, as if we were not living people, but machines. Of course, they do say that English butlers do not serve the master but the house – rather like cats, who become attached less to the person than to the walls around him. If that is so, then that kind of attachment is not to my taste. And Mr Freyby seemed somehow very strange to me. But then, I reasoned, a master like that is bound to have odd servants. And it is no bad thing that mon collиgue anglais is, as the simple folk say, a bit on the queer side – he will get under my feet less.

There was too little time to contrive a proper lunch, and so I ordered the table to be laid for Their Highnesses’ arrival in casual style, а la pique-nique – with the small silver service, on simple Meissen tableware and without any hot dishes at all. The food was ordered by telephone from Snyder’s Delicatessen: paвtй of snipe, asparagus and truffle pies, small fish pies, galantine, fish, smoked chicken and fruit for dessert. Never mind. After all, I could hope that by the evening Maоtre Duval would have familiarised himself with the kitchen and supper would be more comme il faut. Of course, I knew that in the evening Georgii Alexandrovich and Pavel Georgievich would be with His Imperial Majesty, who was expected at half past five in the afternoon and would go straight from the station to the Petrovsky Palace. The arrival of the emperor had deliberately been set for the sixth of May because that was His Majesty’s birthday. From lunchtime the bells of Moscow – of which there are countless numbers – began pealing. The prayers for His Imperial Majesty and all the royal family to be granted good health and long life had begun. I made a mental note not to forget to have the canopy with the initial N set over the porch of the main entrance. If the sovereign should happen to visit, such a sign of attention from his family would be most appropriate.

Shortly after four Georgii Alexandrovich and Pavel Georgievich put on their dress uniforms and left for the station. Xenia Georgievna began sorting through the books in the small dining room, which in the Chesmenskys’ time had apparently been used as a library. Lord Banville and Mr Carr locked themselves in His Lordship’s room and asked not to be disturbed again today, and Mr Freyby and I, left to our own devices, sat down to have a bite to eat.

We were served by a junior footman by the name of Zemlyanoi, one of the Moscow contingent. Uncouth and rather awkward, but very willing. He gaped at me with wide-open eyes – no doubt he had heard of Afanasii Ziukin before. I must confess that it was flattering.

Soon Mademoiselle Declique joined us, having put her young ward down for his after-lunch repos. She had already taken lunch with Their Highnesses, but what kind of meal can one have, sitting beside Mikhail Georgievich? His Highness is possessed of an extremely restless temperament and is constantly getting up to some kind of mischief: he will either start throwing his bread about, or climb under the table so that one has to drag him back out. In short, Mademoiselle was glad to take coffee with us and she did justice to Filippov’s admirable honey cakes.

Mademoiselle’s presencewas most opportune, since she knew English and managed the responsibilities of an interpreter perfectly.

In order to make a start on the conversation, I asked the Englishman: ‘Have you beenworking as a butler for a long time?’

He answered with a very shortword, and Mademoiselle translated: ‘Yes.’

‘There is no need for you to be concerned; the things have been unpacked and no difficulties arose,’ I said with a distinct hint of reproach, since Mr Freyby had taken no part at all in the unpacking, having sat in the carriage with his book to the very end of this important procedure.

‘I know,’ was the answer.

My curiosity was aroused – the Englishman’s phlegmatic manner seemed to convey either a quite amazing indolence that exceeded all conceivable bounds, or the supreme chic of the butler’s artistry. After all, he had not stirred a finger, and yet the things had been unloaded, unpacked, hung, and they were all in the right place!

‘Have you looked into His Lordship’s and Mr Carr’s accommodation yet?’ I asked, knowing perfectly well that since the moment he arrived Mr Freyby had not set foot outside his own room.

‘No need,’ he replied in English, and Mademoiselle translated equally succinctly into French: ‘Pas besoin.’

In the time that Mademoiselle had spent in our house I had been able to study her, and I could tell from the gleam in her eyes that she found the Englishman intriguing. Naturally, she knewhowto control her curiosity, as a first-class governess accustomed to working in the finest houses of Europe should (before us, for instance, she had educated the son of the King of Portugal and had brought the most excellent references with her from Lisbon). But the Gallic temperament would sometimes break through, and when Mademoiselle Declique felt enthusiastic, amused or angry about something, bright little sparks lit up in her eyes. I would not have hired an individual with such a dangerous peculiarity as a servant, because those little sparks are a sure sign that still waters run deep, as the common folk say. But governesses, maids and tutors are not my concern – they come under the competence of the court steward, Metlitsky – and so I was able to admire the aforementioned sparks without the slightest anxiety.

And on this occasion Mademoiselle, dissatisfied with the modest role of interpreter, could not resist asking (first in English and then, for me, in French): ‘But how do you know that everything is in good order?’

At this point Mr Freyby uttered his first rather long phrase: ‘I can see that Mr Ziukin knows his job. And in Berlin, where the things were packed, they were packed by a man who also knows his job.’

As if rewarding himself for the exhausting effort of producing such an extensive utterance, the butler took out a pipe and lit it, after first gesturing to ask the lady’s permission. And I realised that I was apparently dealing with an absolutely exceptional butler, such as I had never encountered before in all my thirty years of service.

Shortly after six Xenia Georgievna declared that shewas bored of being stuck inside and we – Her Highness, Mikhail Georgievich, Mademoiselle Declique and I – set out for a drive. I ordered the closed carriage to be brought, because the day had turned out overcast and windy, and after lunch a fine drizzle had started to fall.

We drove out along the broad highway to the elevated spot known as the Sparrow Hills, in order to take a look at Moscow from above, but owing to the grey shroud of rain we saw very little, only the broad semicircle of the valley with low clouds hanging above it like steam, for all the world like a tureen full of steaming broth.

As we were driving back, the sky brightened a little for the first time that day, and so we let the carriage go and set off on foot from the Kaluga Gate across the park. Their Highnesses walked ahead with Xenia Georgievna leading Mikhail Georgievich by the hand, so that he would not run off the path into the wet bushes, while Mademoiselle and I hung back slightly.

It was three months since His Highness had stopped having little accidents, and he had just reached four, at which age the Georgieviches are transferred from the care of an English nanny to the tutelage of a French governess, are no longer dressed in girls’ frocks, and moved on from pantaloons to short trousers. His Highness found the change of attire to his liking, and he and the Frenchwoman got on quite excellently. Imust confess that at first I had found Mademoiselle Declique’s manners too free – for instance, encouragement in the form of kisses and punishment in the form of slaps, as well as noisy romping in the nursery – but as time passed I came to realise that there was a deliberate pedagogical method involved. In any case, after a month His Highness was already babbling away in French and loved singing little songs in that language, and in general he had becomemuch more cheerful and free in his behaviour.

Recently I had noticed that I was glancing into the nursery much more frequently than before, and probably more frequently than was necessary. This discovery gave me cause for serious thought, and since it has always been my rule to be honest with myself in all things, I was rather quick to work out the reason: apparently I enjoyed Mademoiselle Declique’s company.

I am accustomed to regard anything that is enjoyable with caution, because enjoyment goes hand in hand with relaxation, and from relaxation it is only one step to negligence and serious, even irreparable lapses in one’s work. And so for some time I stopped visiting the nursery altogether (apart, naturally, from those instances when my duties required it) and became very cool with Mademoiselle Declique. But this did not last for long. She herself approached me and requested me with irreproachable politeness to assist her in improving her mastery of the Russian language – nothing special, simply to talk about various subjects with her in Russian from time to time and correct her crudest errors. Let me repeat that the request was framed so politely that a refusal would have appeared unjustifiably rude.

Thatwas the beginning of our custom of daily conversations – on perfectly neutral and, naturally, respectable subjects. Mademoiselle learned Russian quite amazingly quickly and already knew a very large number of words. Of course, her speech was grammatically incorrect, but this had its own charm which I was not always able to resist.

On this occasion also, as we strolled along the allйe in the Neskuchny Park, wewere speaking Russian. This time, however, the conversation was rather brief and uncomfortable. The problem was that Mademoiselle had been late in coming out for the drive and we had had to wait for her in the carriage for an entire thirty seconds (I was keeping track of the time with my Swiss chronometer). In the presence of Their Highnesses I restrained myself, but nowthatwewere speaking tкte-а-tкte, I felt it necessary to issue a slight reprimand. I did not like reproving Mademoiselle, but my duty required me to do it. Nobody dares to keep members of the royal family waiting, not even for half a minute.

‘It is not at all difficult always to be on time,’ I said, pronouncing every word slowly so that she would understand. ‘One merely has to live fifteen minutes ahead of things. Let us suppose you have an appointment with someone at three o’clock, then youmust arrive at a quarter to. Or, say, in order to arrive at some place on time, you need to leave the house at two, then youmust leave at a quarter to two. For a start I would advise you to simply to set your watch forward by fifteen minutes, until you become accustomed to it, and then punctuality will become a habit.’

What I had said was both practical and rational, but Mademoiselle Declique’s reply was impertinent.

‘Mr Ziukin, can I put my watch fohward by half a minute? (She could not manage the Russian ‘r’ – it came out rather like the LittleRussian ‘kh’.) I have neveh been lateh than half a minute in any case.’

I frowned at that and decided it would be best to pause, so we walked on in silence, and Mademoiselle even turned her head away.

Her Highnesswas telling her brother a fairy tale; I think itwas Chapeau Rouge¹. In any case I heard the words: ‘Et elle est allйe а travers le forкt pour voir sa grandmaman.’² Mikhail Georgievich, very proud of his new sailor suit, was trying to behave like a grown-up and hardly being naughty at all, except that every now and then he began skipping on one foot and once he threw his blue cap with the red pompom down on the ground.

Despite the overcast day we occasionally encountered people walking on the paths in the park. This, as my Moscow assistant had explained to me, was because the Neskuchny Park was not usually open to the public. Its gates had only been opened in connection with the festivities, and then just for a few days – until the ninth of May, when the emperor and empress would move here from the Petrovsky Palace. It was hardly surprising that some Muscovites had decided to take advantage of the rare opportunity to ramble through this forbidden territory, undeterred by the poor weather.

Approximately halfway back to the Hermitage we encountered an elegant middle-aged gentleman. He politely raised his top hat, exposing a head of smooth black hair with grey temples. He glanced at Xenia Georgievna inquisitively, but without offending against the proprieties, and walked on by. I would not have taken any notice of this gentleman if Her Highness had not suddenly looked round to watch him walk away and Mademoiselle Declique had not followed her example. At that point I took the liberty of looking round myself.

The elegant gentlemanwaswalking on unhurriedly, swinging his cane, and I failed to notice anything whatsoever in his figure that ought to have made the grand princess and her governess glance round. But walking behind us, in the same direction as ourselves, there was a man of truly remarkable appearance: broad-shouldered and stocky, with a shaggy black beard. He ran the searing gaze of his ferocious coal-black eyes over me and began whistling some chansonette or other that I did not know.

This individual appeared suspicious to me, and I promised myself that we would not come here again until the park was closed once more. Who could tellwhat kind of riff-raff – begging your pardon – might take a fancy to promenading here?

As if to confirmmy misgivings, a bandy-legged, squat Chinese pedlar camewaddling out from round the corner, carrying a tray of his dubious wares. The poor fellow had obviously thought that there would be many more people strolling in the park that day, but he had been unlucky with the weather.

When His Highness caught sight of a real live Chinaman, he pulled his hand free and went dashing towards the short, slant-eyed Oriental as fast as his legs would carry him.

‘I want that!’ Mikhail Georgievich shouted. ‘I want that one!’

And he pointed at a poisonous-pink sugar lollipop in the form of a pagoda.

‘Ne montrez pas du doigt!’³ Mademoiselle cried.

Xenia Georgievna caught up with her brother, took hold of his hand again and asked: ‘А quoi bon tu veux ce truc?’⁴

‘Je veux, c’est tout!’⁵ His Highness snapped and jutted out his chin, demonstrating remarkable obstinacy for his age, and obstinacy is an excellent foundation for the development of character.

‘Ah, Afanasii, buy him it,’ Xenia Georgievna said, turning to me. ‘He’ll never stop pestering me now. He’ll lick it once and throw it away.’

The grand princess had no money of her own and in general I believe that she did not even know what it looked like, or what it was worth. Why would she need to?

I looked at Mademoiselle, since it was her decision. She wrinkled up her nose and shrugged her shoulders.

To give him his due, the Chinese did not make any attempt to impose his nightmarish merchandise on us; he merely peered at His Highness through the blank slits of his eyes. Some Chinese can be genuinely handsome – with delicate features, white skin and elegant movements – but this one was truly ugly. A flat face as round as a pancake and short hair that jutted straight up.

‘Hey, pedlar, howmuch is that?’ I asked, pointing at the pagoda and taking out my purse.

‘One roubr,’ the insolent Oriental replied, evidently having realised from my appearance that I would not try to haggle with him.

I gave the extortioner a ‘canary’, although the lollipop was worth no more than five kopecks at the most, and we walked on. The crude delicacy seemed to be to His Highness’s liking – in any case, the lollipop was not discarded.

The railings of the Hermitage came into view at the far end of a side path, and we turned in that direction. There were no more than a hundred sazhens left to walk.

A crow on a branch cawed raucously and I looked up. But I didn’t see the bird, only a patch of grey sky between the dark leaves.

I think that I would give anything at all to halt time at that precise moment, because it was destined to divide my existence into two halves: all thatwas rational, predictable and orderlywas left behind in the old life, and the new consisted of nothing but madness, nightmares and chaos.

I heard the sound of footsteps approaching rapidly from behind and looked round in surprise. At that very instant a blow of prodigious force came crashing down on my head. I caught a glimpse of the face, distorted in incredible fury, of the bearded man I had seen not long before as I slumped to the ground and lost consciousness for a second. I say ‘for a second’ becausewhen I raised my head, which felt as as if it were filled with lead, off the ground, the bearded man was only a few steps away. He threw Mikhail Georgievich aside, grabbed Her Highness by the arm and started dragging her back past me. Mademoiselle froze on the spot in bewilderment and I felt as if I had turned to stone. I raised one hand to my forehead, wiped away something wet and looked at it – it was blood. I didn’t know what he had hit me with, brass knuckles or a lead cudgel, but the trees and bushes all around were swaying like ocean waves in a storm.

The bearded man gave a brigandish whistle and a black carriage harnessed to a pair of black horses emerged from round the corner that we had just turned. The driver, wearing a broad oilskin cloak, pulled back on the reins with a cry of ‘Whoah!’ and two other men, also dressed in black, jumped out of the carriage as it was still moving and came running towards us.

‘This is a kidnapping, that’swhat it is,’ a very calm, quiet voice stated somewhere inside me, and the trees suddenly stopped swaying. I got up on my hands and knees and shouted to Mademoiselle: ‘Emportez le grand-duc!’⁶ and grabbed hold of the bearded man round the knees, just as he drew level with me.

He did not let go of Her Highness’s hand, and all three of us tumbled to the ground together. I am naturally quite strong – everyone in our family is robust – and in my youth I served as a court outrunner, which is also excellent for strengthening the musculature, and so I had no difficulty in opening the hand with which the villain was clutching the hem of Her Highness’s skirt, but that did not help very much. He struck me on the chin with the hand that had just been freed and before Her Highness could even get to her feet men in black were there already beside her. They took hold of the grand princess under the arms, lifted her up and set off towards the carriage at a run. At least Mademoiselle had managed to save Mikhail Georgievich – out of the corner of my eyes I had seen her pick the boy up in her arms and dive into the bushes.

My opponent proved to be adroit and strong. He struck me again, and when I tried to grab him by the throat, he put his hand in under his coat and brought out a Finnish knife with notches on the blade. I saw those notches as clearly as if he had held them up in front of my eyes.

The terrible man hissed something that was not Russian, but sounded like ‘I’ll kill you like a dog!’ and his bloodshot eyes gaped wide as he swung the knife back.

I tried to remember the words of a prayer, but somehow I could not, although when, you might ask, should one pray, if not at a moment like that?

The knife was raised high, almost up into the sky, but it did not descend. In some magical fashion the wrist of the hand holding the knife was suddenly encircled by fingers in a grey glove.

The bearded man’s face, already contorted, twisted even further out of shape. I heard the soft squelch of a blow, my would-be killer slumped gently to one side and there standing over me in his place was the elegant gentleman in the top hat, but instead of a cane he was holding a short sword, stained with red.

‘Are you alive?’ my rescuer asked in Russian, then immediately turned away and shouted something in a language unfamiliar to me.

I sat up and saw the Chinese pedlar dashing along the path, stamping his feet furiously, with his head down like a bull charging. He was no longer holding his tray; instead his hand was whirling a small metal sphere above his head on a piece of rope.

‘Iiyai!’ the Oriental grunted in an appalling voice and the sphere went hurtling forward, whistling by only a few vershoks above me.

I jerked round to see where its great speed was carrying it. It flew straight to its target, which proved to be the back of one of the kidnappers’ heads. There was a repulsive crunch and the victim collapsed face down. The other man let go of the princess, swung round adroitly and snatched a revolver out of his pocket. Now I had a chance to take a better look at him, but I still did not see his face, because it was hidden behind a mask of black fabric.

The driver, who was sitting on the coach box, threw off his oilskin to reveal the same kind of black apparel as the two others were wearing, only without a mask. He jumped down onto the ground and ran towards us, also taking something out of his pocket on the way.

I turned to glance at my rescuer. (I am ashamed to admit that during those dramatic moments I lost my bearings completely and did nothing but turn my head this way and that, struggling to keep up with events.) The elegant gentleman took a short swing and flung his sword, but I did not see if he hit his target or not, because an even more improbable sight was presented to my astonished gaze: Mademoiselle Declique came dashing out of the bushes, clutching a hefty branch in one hand and holding up her skirt with the other to reveal a glimpse of well-turned ankle! As she ran towards us her hat flew off, her hair fluttered loose at her temples, but I had never seen her look more attractive.

‘J’arrive!’ she shouted. ‘J’arrive!’⁷

It was only then that I realised the shamefulness of my own conduct. I got to my feet and dashed to the assistance of the unfamiliar gentleman and the Chinese.

Alas, my assistance was no longer required.

The thrown sword had found its mark – the man in the mask was lying on his back, feebly stirring his legs, with a strip of steel protruding from his chest. It ended in a silver knob, and now I realised where the handsome gentleman had got his sword – it had been concealed in his cane.

And as for the coachman, the agile Chinese had dealt with him in excellent fashion. Before the bandit could even take his weapon out of his pocket, the Oriental leaped high into the air and struck his opponent a flying blow to the chin with his foot. The shattering impact jerked the coachman’s head back with a crack so sharp that not even the very strongest of cervical vertebrae could possibly have withstood it. He threw up his arms and collapsed onto his back.

By the time Mademoiselle Declique joined us with her menacing branch, it was all over.

The first thing I didwas to help Her Highness up – thank God, she was quite unhurt, simply feeling stunned.

Then I turned to the stranger.

‘Who are you, sir?’ I asked, although of course I ought first to have thanked him for saving us, whoever he might be.

Xenia Georgievna rectified my blunder.

‘Thank you,’ she said, looking intently at the man with the black hair and white temples. ‘You saved us all. I am Grand Princess Xenia Georgievna. The boy who was with me is Mika, the Grand Duke Mikhail Georgievich. And these are my friends, Mademoiselle Declique and Mr Ziukin.’

The stranger bowed respectfully to Her Highness, doffed the top hat that had miraculously remained on his head throughout the commotion and introduced himself, stumbling over his words slightly, probably because he was quite understandably embarrassed to find himself facing a member of the royal family: ‘Erast P-Petrovich Fandorin.’

He did not add anything else, from which it was possible to conclude that Mr Fandorin did not hold any position in the state service and was a private individual.

‘And this is my valet, or perhaps b-butler, I’m not sure which is more correct. His name is Masa, he is Japanese,’ said Fandorin, indicating the pugnacious pedlar, who in turn bowed low from the waist and remained bent over.

So it turned out that the elegant gentleman was not embarrassed at all but simply had a slight stammer, that the Chinese was not Chinese at all, and finally that the Oriental and I were in a certain sense professional colleagues.

‘And who are these people, Erast Petrovich?’ Her Highness asked, pointing timidly to the hapless kidnappers lying completely motionless. ‘Are they unconscious?’

Before replying, the dark-haired man went to each of the four men lying on the ground in turn, felt the arteries in their necks and shook his head four times. The last one he examined was the dreadful man with the beard. Fandorin turned him over onto his back and even to me, a man totally ignorant in such matters, it was perfectly clear that he was dead – the gleam of his motionless eyes was so completely lifeless. But Fandorin leaned down lower over the body, took hold of the beard between his finger and thumb and gave it a sudden jerk.

Her Highness cried out in surprise, and such crude familiarity with death seemed indecent even to me. However, the black beard parted easily from the face andwas left in Fandorin’s hand.

I saw that the dead man’s crimson features were pitted with pockmarks and he had a forked white scar on his cheek.

‘This is the famous Warsaw bandit Lech Penderetski, also kn-known as Blizna, which means Marked One or Scar,’ Fandorin stated calmly, as if he were introducing someone he knew well, and then added, almost to himself: ‘So that’s what’s going on . . .’

‘Are all these men really dead?’ I asked, realising with a sudden shudderwhat a terrible situation the royal family could find itself in as a result of this incident. If some stroller were to peep round the corner now, the scandal that broke out would echo round the world. Just think of it . . . an attempt to kidnap a cousin of the Russian tsar! Four men killed! And some Warsaw bandit or other! The sacred solemnity of the coronation ceremony would be completely shattered!

‘We have to get them into the carriage immediately!’ I exclaimed with a fervour untypical of me in normal circumstances. ‘Will your butler consent to assist me?’

While the Japanese and I piled the bodies into the carriage, I felt terribly anxious that someone might catch us engaged in this rather disreputable activity. Everything about the business was far from customary for me. Not only was there blood flowing down my face from my bruised forehead and broken lip, I had also stained my new promenading tunic with blood that was not my own.

And so I did not hear what Her Highness and Fandorin were talking about. But to judge from her flushed cheeks, she must have been thanking the mysterious gentleman again for saving her.

‘Where is His Highness?’ I asked Mademoiselle as soon as I recovered my breath.

‘I left him in ze . . .’ She clicked her fingers, trying to remember the word, but could not. ‘Ze quayside? Ze dock for ships?’

‘The arbour,’ I prompted her. ‘Let’s go together. His Highness must be feeling very frightened.’

Beyond the bushes there was a rather extensive lawn, with a lacy white wooden arbour standing at its centre.

When we did not find Mikhail Georgievich in it, we started calling for him, thinking that the grand duke must have decided to play hide and seek with us.

Our shouts brought Fandorin. He looked around on all sides and suddenly squatted down on his haunches, examining something in the grass.

Itwas the pink Chinese sugar lollipop, which had been crushed by some heavy object, probably a heel.

‘Damn, damn, damn!’ Fandorin exclaimed, striking himself on the thigh with his fist. ‘I ought to have foreseen this!’

¹Little Red Riding Hood.

²And she went through the forest to see her grandmother.

³Don’t point!

⁴What do you want that rubbish for?

⁵I just want it that’s all.

⁶Get the grand duke away!

⁷I‘m coming! I’m coming!

7 May

I shall not describe the events of the evening and the night that followed His Highness’s disappearance, because in effect there were no events as such. The primary concern of those who were aware of what had happened was to keep the matter secret, and so from the outside everything appeared as if nothing had happened at all, except for the constant ringing of the telephones and the over-reckless pace at which horsemen raced round the triangle formed by the Hermitage, the Petrovsky Palace and the governor general’s residence.

All of this carefully concealed but extremely frenetic (not to say chaotic) activity produced absolutely no result, since the most important thing remained unclear: who could havewanted to kidnap His Majesty’s little cousin and why? And the mystery was not cleared up until the morning, when a letter without any stamp arrived at the Hermitage together with the ordinary municipal post – the postman himself was unable to say how it could have got into his bag in that condition.

As a result of this letter the sovereign himself, having received his grateful Asian subjects His Highness the Emir of Bukhara and His Grace the Khan of Khiva in the morning, postponed a parade at the Khodynsk Field at the last moment on the pretext of the cold and rainyweather and, accompanied only by the head of the court police, travelled in complete secret in an ordinary closed carriage with his personal valet, Seleznyov, on the coach box to join us at the Hermitage. That was when this palace in the park demonstrated the two great advantages forwhich it had received its name – its remoteness and privacy.

His Majesty’s uncle the Grand Duke Kirill Alexandrovich and the Grand Duke Simeon Alexandrovich arrived in the same conspiratorial manner: the former came alone (his butler Luka Emelianovich was on the coach box) and the latter brought his adjutant, Prince Glinsky – the horses driven by the most highly respected of all living butlers, you might call him the elder of our trade, Foma Anikeevich.

Those in our house who knew about the emergency, apart from the family, were Mademoiselle Declique and I, the Englishmen, because in any case it would have been impossible to keep it secret from them, and Lieutenant Endlung, for the same reason and also because Pavel Georgievich had no secrets from his raffish friend. I did not explain anything to the servants living in the house and merely forbade them to leave the Hermitage for any reasonwhatever. As born court servants, they did not ask any questions. And the Moscowservants lodged above the stables were told that His Highness had gone to stay at Ilinskoe, the country palace of his uncle the governor general.

Naturally, Ekaterina Ioannovna in St Petersburg was not told anything. Why alarmHer Highness unnecessarily? And until the ominous letter arrived, we all still cherished the hope that some sort of misunderstanding had occurred and Mikhail Georgievich would soon return to the Hermitage unharmed and in good health.

Need I say that I barely slept a wink that night? I had terrible visions, each one worse than the one before. I imagined that His Highness had fallen into some invisible fissure overgrown with grass, and long after midnight I drove the servants out with blazing torches to search the park once again, telling them that Xenia Georgievna had lost a diamond earring. Then when I got back to my room, I suddenly imagined that Mikhail Georgievich had fallen victim to some monster of depravity who preyed on little boys, and my teeth started chattering in fright, so that I had to take valerian drops. But of course the assumption that seemed most likelywas that the grand duke had been abducted by accomplices of the man with the false beard known as Blizna or Scar. While we were fighting some of the bandits for Xenia Georgievna, others had carried off the defenceless Mikhail Georgievich – and this was made all the more likely by the discovery of apparently fresh tracks from the wheels of another carriage not far from the fateful lawn.

But even though this thought was less horrific than the ones I have already mentioned, it was still agony to me. How was His Highness feeling now, surrounded by malicious strangers? Mika, the delicate, pampered little boy who had grown up in the firm belief that everyone around him loved him and they were all his friends. He did not even know what fear was, because nothing more frightening than a gentle slap on the hindquarters had ever happened to him. His Highness was so open, so trusting!

I was afraid even to approach Mademoiselle. All evening she sat as if she had been turned to stone and did not even attempt to offer any excuses. She merely wrung her hands and bit her lips, once so hard that they bled – I saw it and wanted to give her my handkerchief, because she had not even noticed the trickle of scarlet droplets, but I decided against it, in order not to place her in an awkward situation. That night she did not sleep either – I saw light coming from under her door and heard the sound of footsteps. As soon as the Moscow chief of police, Lasovsky, had finished questioning her, Mademoiselle Declique locked herself in her room. Twice, even three times during the night I walked up to her door and listened. The governess was still pacing to and fro, as regularly as clockwork. I wanted very much to knock at the door on some pretext and tell her that no one blamed her for what had happened, and I actually admired her courage. But knocking on a lady’s door in the middle of the night is absolutely inconceivable. And in any case I would not have known how to talk to her.

The secret conference with the participation of His Majesty was held upstairs, in the small drawing room, as far away as possible from the Englishmen, who, with the tact typical of that nation, went out to walk in the garden as soon as His Majesty arrived, although the rain was simply lashing down and the weather not at all conducive to walking.

I served at the gathering. Naturally, it was quite impossible to allowany of the servants into this secret meeting, and in any case I would have regarded it as my duty and an obligation of honour to serve such brilliant company in person.

It is hard for the uninitiated to imagine the full complexity of this high art. It requires meticulous attention, unfailing deftness and – most important of all – total invisibility. It is as if one were transformed into a kind of shadow, an invisible man whom everyone very soon ceases to notice. Under no circumstances should one distract the members of an important conference with a sudden movement or sound, or even the unintentional gliding of a shadow across the table. At such moments I like to imagine that I am the disembodied master of the enchanted castle in the fairy tale The Scarlet Flower, regaling my dear guests: the drinks pour themselves into the glasses and cups; the matches flare up and are carried to the cigars without assistance from anyone; every now and then the ash that has accumulated in the ashtrays mysteriously disappears. When Simeon Alexandrovich dropped a pencil on the floor (His Highness is in the habit of constantly drawing little imps and cupids), I was on the alert. I did not crawl under the table, which would have attracted attention, but immediately handed the governor general another pencil, exactly the same, from behind his back.

I must say with some pride that not one of the participants in this highly delicate conference, which was, in a manner of speaking, crucial to the fate of the dynasty, ever once lowered his voice – in my opinion, that is the mark of supreme distinction for a servant. Of course, the conversation occasionally veered into French, but that did not happen because of me, itwas simply that on the whole it was all the same to His Majesty and Their Highnesses whether they conversed in Russian or French. If they had wished to conceal the content of one part or another of the discussion from me, they would have started talking in English since, as I have already said, very few of the old generation of court servants know that language, while almost all of them speak French. Or, more precisely, they do not speak it, but they understand it, since it would be extremely strange if I, Afanasii Ziukin, were suddenly to address a member of the royal family or a noble at court in French. One must know one’s place and not make oneself out to be something that one is not – that is the golden rule that I would recommend everyone to follow, regardless of his origins and position.

The sovereign, well-known for his patriotism, was the only one out of all those present who spoke nothing but Russian the whole time. It turned out that His Majesty remembered me from the time when I served as a table layer in the dining room of the late sovereign. Down at the entrance, before he went upstairs, the emperor was kind enough to speak to me: ‘Hello, Afanasii Stepanovich. Was it you who had the canopy with my initial hung up? It’s very beautiful, thank you.’

His Majesty’s refined courtesy and astonishing memory for names and faces arewell known. In fact, from early childhood all the grand dukes are specially trained to develop their memories – there is a special method for it – but His Majesty’s abilities in this area are truly exceptional. Once he has seen someone, the sovereign remembers them forever, and this impresses many people tremendously. On the question of courtesy, the tsar and tsarina are the only members of the royal family who address their servants formally. Perhaps this is becausewe servants, while feeling an appropriate veneration for Their Majesties, are at the same time not very—However, hush. One does not talk of such things. Or even think of them.

The sovereign was sitting at the head of the table, gloomy and taciturn. Beside his tall, well-built uncles, His Majesty appeared quite small and insignificant, almost a stripling. And what can I say about our own Georgii Alexandrovich – a real mountain of a man: handsome, portly, with a dashingly curled moustache, and dressed in a blinding white admiral’s uniform, compared with which the emperor’s modest colonel’s uniform looked rather shabby. Simeon Alexandrovich, the tallest and slimmest of the deceased sovereign’s brothers, is like a medieval Spanish grandee, with his regular features that seem carved out of ice. And the eldest, Grand Duke Kirill Alexandrovich, the commander of the Imperial Guard, may not be as handsome as his brothers, but he is truly majestic and formidable, for he inherited the celebrated basilisk stare from his father the emperor. Officers who have committed some offence have been known to faint under that gaze.

In the presence of the doyens of the royal family, the youthful Pavel Georgievich was as quiet as a mouse and as meek as a lamb, and did not even dare to smoke. Also present was the head of the court police, Colonel Karnovich, a taciturn gentleman of huge resources and very meagre sentiment. He did not even sit at the table, but found himself a place in the corner.

Waiting outside on a chair in the corridor was our rescuer of the previous day, Mr Fandorin. I had been instructed to move him into the house, and for lack of any other accommodation I had put him in the nursery, judging that this gentleman would remain in the Hermitage only until Mikhail Georgievich returned to his own room. I had planned to lodge the Japanese in the stables, but he had wanted to stay with his master. He had spent the night on the floor with a plush teddy bear under his head and, to judge from his gleaming face, had slept excellently. Fandorin himself had not gone to bed at all, but spent the whole night until dawn prowling around the park with an electric torch. I did not know if he had found anything. He did not enter into any explanations with the chief of police, let alone with me, saying only that he would report everything he knew to His Majesty the emperor in person.

This same mysterious gentleman became the subject of discussion almost immediately the meeting began, although it did not begin with discussion as such, but with reading. Everyone sitting there took turns to read (or reread) the letter that had been received, the contents of which I did not know as yet. Then they all turned towards the sovereign. I held my breath in order to hear the precise words with which His Majesty would open this emergency meeting. The sovereign gave an embarrassed cough, glanced round from under his brows at the faces of all present and said quietly: ‘This is appalling. Simply appalling. Uncle Kir, what shall we do now?’

The emperor had said his word, etiquette had been observed and some how of its own accord the chairmanship of the meeting moved to Kirill Alexandrovich, who had been regarded as a covert joint ruler during the previous reign and had consolidated his position even further under the new sovereign.

His Highness spoke slowly, weighing his words: ‘Above all, Nicky, self-control. How you conduct yourself will determine the fate of the dynasty. Over the next few days thousands of eyes will be trained on you, including some very, very shrewd ones. Not the slightest sign of agitation, not a hint of anxiety – do you understand me?’

The sovereign nodded uncertainly.

‘We must all act as if nothing has happened. I understand, Georgie,’ said Kirill Alexandrovich, turning to Georgii Alexandrovich, ‘how hard this is for you. You are the father. But you and Pauly and Xenia must remain cheerful and calm. If rumours spread that some crooks or other have abducted a cousin of the Russian tsar with the wholeworld looking on, the prestige of the Romanovs, which has already been damaged by the fiendish murder of your father, will be completely undermined. There are eight foreign crown princes, fourteen heads of government and thirty special legations arriving in Moscow—’

Simeon Alexandrovich threw his pencil down on the table and interrupted his elder brother.

‘This is all raving nonsense! Some doctor or other! What is this? Who is he? He’s simply insane! Give him the Orlov! What insolence!’

I didn’t understand anything that the governor general had said. A doctor? An Orlov? Which of the Orlovs – the arch-chamberlain or the deputy minister of the interior?

‘Yes, yes, indeed,’ His Majesty said with a nod. ‘Is anything known about this Doctor Lind?’

Kirill Alexandrovich turned to the head of the court police, whose duty it was to know about everything that presented even the very slightest threat to the royal family, and therefore perhaps about everything in the world.

‘What do you say, Karnovich?’

The colonel stood up, adjusted his spectacles with blue lenses and spoke in a voice that was almost a whisper but at the same time amazingly clear: ‘There has not previously been any criminal with that name within the borders of the Russian empire.’

He sat down again.

There was a pause, and I sensed that the moment had come for me to abandon my role as a disembodied shadow.

I cautiously cleared my throat, and since the drawing room was absolutely silent, the sound was distinctly audible. Kirill Alexandrovich and Simeon Alexandrovich looked round in amazement, as if they had only just noticed my presence (in fact, that could indeed have been the case) and Georgii Alexandrovich, knowing perfectly well that I would sooner choke on my own cough than dare to attract attention to my own person unnecessarily, asked: ‘Is there something you would like to tell us, Afanasii?’

At this point all of the other royal individuals directed their gazes at me, a state of affairs to which I was quite unused, so that I was unable to control the trembling of my voice.

‘It is about Mr Fandorin, the gentleman who . . . witnessed the outrage yesterday.’ I mastered my agitation and continued in a steadier voice. ‘This morning when, for obvious reasons, the house was in something of a commotion, Mr Fandorin was sitting on the terrace and smoking a cigar in the calmest manner one could imagine—’

Simeon Alexandrovich interrupted me irritably: ‘Do you really suppose it is so important for us and the sovereign emperor to know how Mr Fandorin spent the morning?’

I immediately fell silent and bowed to His Highness, not daring to continue.

‘Be quiet, Sam,’ Georgii Alexandrovich shouted abruptly at his younger brother.

Simeon Alexandrovich has an unfortunate peculiarity – no one likes him. Neither his relatives, nor his inner retinue, nor the Muscovites, nor even his own wife. It is hard to like such a man. They say that the late sovereign appointed him governor general of Moscow in order to see him less often. And also in order to rid the court of His Highness’s entourage – all those pretty little adjutants and secretaries with dyed hair. Alas, Simeon Alexandrovich’s habits are no secret to anyone – the whole of society gossips about them. On that very day, when he had just entered the hallway (having arrived last of all, even after the sovereign) His Highness had asked me in animated fashion: ‘Who was that handsome chap I met just now on the lawn? The slim fellow with the yellow hair?’ I politely explained to the grand duke that it must have been the Englishman, Mr Carr, but I felt a certain inward tremor: knowing the reason why the emergency conference had been convened, how was it possible to allow free rein to one’s personal inclinations? It was not even so much a matter of inclinations – His Highness simply has a very bad character.

‘Carry on, Afanasii,’ Georgii Alexandrovich told me. ‘We are all listening to you attentively.’

I could not help admiring my master’s emotional restraint and fortitude. Any ordinary man whose child had been kidnapped would have been in a terrible state, screaming and tearing his hair out, but His Highness did not lose his self-control even for an instant, except that he kept smoking one papyrosa after another. At such moments one feels especially keenly what a great honour and inexpressible responsibility it is to serve individuals of the imperial blood. They are special people, unlike all the rest.

‘Permit me to report,’ I continued, ‘that such imperturbability on the part of an individual aware of the disaster that has occurred struck me as strange. I approached Mr Fandorin and asked if he had discovered any more tracks in the park. He replied: “The second carriage, which was standing near the lawn and was used to abduct the boy, drove off in the direction of the Kaluga Highway. The attendant at the park gates saw a fast-moving carriage with the blinds tightly closed over the windows.” “Then why haven’t you told anyone?” I asked him. “You ought to inform the police immediately!” But he replied confidently: “But what for? There’s nothing to be done now.” And then he added this . . .’ At this point I deliberately made a brief pause and repeated Fandorin’s words exactly as I remembered them: ‘“We have to wait for a letter from Lind.” Yes, that was exactly what he said: “We have to wait for a letter from Lind.” I must admit that I had no idea what letter he was talking about, and I didn’t understand the last word at all. But now I remember quite clearly that he said “Lind”. Then I was called to the telephone, and our conversation was interrupted. However, the inference is that Mr Fandorin knew in advance about the letter and about Lind. Permit me also to draw your Imperial Majesty’s and your Imperial Highnesses’ attention to the circumstance that Mr Fandorin’s appearance at the scene of the kidnapping yesterday was clearly not fortuitous. He acted too resolutely for a chance passer-by, said some rather strange things and identified the leader of the bandits – he said his name was Penderetski.’

Colonel Karnovich spoke up from his corner.

‘I have managed to discover something about Lech Penderetski, also known as Blizna. He is one of the leaders of the criminal world in the Kingdom of Poland. A bandit, extortionist and murderer, but cautious and crafty – no one had ever managed to catch him red-handed. According to rumour, Blizna has links with the criminal communities of many countries in Europe. The body has been sent to Warsaw for identification, but the description and other information do suggest that it really is Penderetski.’

‘How did Fandorin come to know about this fellow?’ Kirill Alexandrovich asked thoughtfully.

Simeon Alexandrovich laughed spitefully: ‘Why, that’s easy to find out. We have to arrest Fandorin and interrogate him thoroughly. He’ll tell us everything. My Lasovsky knows how to loosen tongues. When he barks, even I get the shivers.’

And His Highness laughed, delighted with his joke, but no one else there shared his merriment.

‘Uncle Kir, Uncle Sam,’ His Majesty said in a quiet voice, ‘you pronounce the name of this Fandorin as if you knew him. Who is he?’

The head of the court police answered for the grand dukes. He took a sheet of paper out of his pocket and reported as follows.

‘Fandorin, Erast Petrovich. Forty years of age. Of the Orthodox confession. A hereditary noble. A knight of many orders, too many to mention. A retired state counsellor. For almost ten years he served as deputy for special assignments to the governor general of Moscow, Prince Dolgorukoi.’

‘Ah yes, Fandorin again,’ Kirill Alexandrovich said slowly, looking out through the window as if he were recalling some old story. ‘I wonder where he has been all these years.’

From these words I concluded that His Highness really was acquainted with the retired state counsellor.

Then it emerged that Simeon Alexandrovich knew this gentleman even better, and apparently not from his most flattering side.

‘Fandorin has not shown his face in Moscow for about five years,’ the governor general said, pulling a wry face. ‘The scoundrel knows there’s no place for him in my city. This man, Nicky, is an adventurer of the very worst kind. Sly and shifty, slippery and foul. The reports I have received say that after he left Moscow he prospered in all sorts of dirty business. He left his tracks behind him in Europe, in America and even in Asia. I must admit that I follow this gentleman’s movements because I have a score to settle with him . . . Well, anyway, reliable sources have informed me that Fandorin has fallen as low as it is possible to fall: he accepts commissions to carry out investigations for private individuals and is not squeamish about charging a fee – apparently a substantial one. The point is that his clients (Simeon Alexandrovich pronounced this word with emphatic disgust) include millionaires and even, unfortunately, some foreign monarchs. In five years of this infamous activity Fandorin has earned a certain reputation for himself. I have no doubt that he is privy to many dirty secrets, but we can manage our family business without his dubious services. My police are excellent at their job and my Lasovsky will run down this doctor in two shakes of a dog’s tail.’

‘I beg Your Highness’s pardon,’ Karnovich interjected with an imperturbable expression, ‘but the protection of the imperial family falls within the purview of my department and I assure you that we will deal with this mission perfectly well without the participation of the Moscow police, not to mention any amateur detectives.’ The colonel smiled gently and added in a quiet voice, as if he were talking to himself: ‘We don’t need any Sherlock Holmeses here.’

‘Oh, Colonel, Fandorin is very far from being an amateur,’ Kirill Alexandrovich objected. ‘He is a man of exceptional abilities. If anyone can help us in this difficult and delicate matter, he can. And, in addition, he knows something about this villain Lind. It is also of some importance that as a private individual Fandorin is not restricted in the methods he can employ. No, Nicky, we won’t be able to manage without this man. I am even inclined to think that he has been sent to us by God.’

‘Rubbish! Absolute rubbish!’ Simeon Alexandrovich cried, flinging his pencil into the corner. (I took another one out of my pocket.) ‘I categorically protest!’

Kirill Alexandrovich, who was not accustomed to being addressed in this manner and also, as far as I was aware, regarded his younger brother with unmitigated contempt, lowered his leonine head and fixed the governor general with his famous withering stare. In response, Simeon Alexandrovich stubbornly jutted out his chin, which made his well-groomed beard look like the bowsprit of a ship, and assumed an absolutely uncompromising air.

There was an oppressive silence.

‘But what are we going to do with this Fandorin?’ the emperor asked plaintively. ‘Call him in or not? Ask him to help or arrest him?’

Neither of Their Highnesses replied; they did not even change the direction of their gazes. This was an enmity of many years that had begun before the present sovereign was even born. Only, as the common folk put it, Simeon Alexandrovich was a bit ‘weedy’ in comparison with Kirill Alexandrovich. He had never been known to come off best against his elder brother.

By temperament Georgii Alexandrovich is much calmer and more easy-going than either of them, but if once he gets his temper up – then beware! And now he suddenly began flushing crimson, and seemed to swell up, making me afraid that the hooks on his collar would burst open, and it was clear that a storm was about to break.

His Majesty did not see this terrifying picture, since he was looking at Kirill Alexandrovich and Simeon Alexandrovich. If he had seen it, he would probably not have ventured to say anything, but as it was, he began in a conciliatory tone of voice: ‘Uncle Sam, Uncle Kir, listen to what I think—’

There was a thunderous crash as Georgii Alexandrovich swung his fist down and slammed it into the table so hard that two wineglasses fell over, a coffee cup cracked and an ashtray was overturned, and Simeon Alexandrovich bounced on his chair in surprise.

‘Shut up, Nicky!’ the head of the Green House roared. ‘And you two keep quiet as well! It’s my son who has been kidnapped; I’m the one who should decide. And don’t forget that it’s only thanks to this, what’s his name . . . damn it, beginning with F, that my daughter was saved! Let him tell us everything that he knows!’

And so the matter was decided.

I slipped out of the drawing room silently in order to call Fandorin. Immediately outside the door there was a plush curtain, and then the corridor where the ‘amateur detective’, as Karnovich had called him, had been ordered to wait.

‘Your lovely moustache – it’s absolutely charming. And you don’t shape it with tweezers? Or use fixative?’

On hearing these strange words, just to be on the safe side I peeped out from behind the curtain to see who could be speaking in such a manner.

Erast Fandorin was sitting where I had left him, with one leg crossed over the other, counting the jade beads on a rosary. The voice was not his, it belonged to the governor general’s adjutant Prince Glinsky, a dainty young man with a pretty face like a girl’s. The common folk have a saying about his kind: ‘’Tis a pity he’s not a wench, at least he could wed.’ The prince was standing in front of Fandorin, leaning down and carefully studying the retired official’s slim, tidy moustache. Glinsky’s own moustache was waxed – I could see that quite clearly now – and I think his lips were painted. But what was so surprising about that?