Fandorin 1-10

I took awash and freshened up my clothes, thenwalked round all the places where work should be going on to make sure that the servants at least were not sleeping and the table had already been laid for breakfast.

I went out into the yard to see if the carriages were ready for driving out and then turned into the garden to pick some tulips for Xenia Georgievna and pansies for Mademoiselle Declique.

I ran into Mr Fandorin on the lawn. Or rather, I saw him first and instinctively ducked behind a tree.

Erast Petrovich took off his white shirt and performed some complicated gymnastic movements. Then suddenly he leapt up and hung from the lowest branch of a spreading maple tree. First he swung to and fro and then he started doing something completely fantastic, flying from branch to branch with deft, confident movements of his arms and hands. He made a complete circuit round the maple tree in this way, and then repeated the procedure.

I could not tear my eyes away from his lean, well-muscled body, and I felt a quite untypical feeling of burning hatred seething helplessly inside me. Oh, if only I were a magician, I would have turned that man into some kind of monkey, then he could gambol around in the trees as much as he liked.

Turning away with an effort, I sawthe curtainwas drawn back at one of the windows on the ground floor – I thought it was Mr Carr’s room. Then I saw the Englishman himself. He was following Fandorin’s gymnastic routine with a fixed stare: his lower lip was gripped between his teeth, his fingers were gently stroking the window pane and there was a dreamy expression on his face.

The day that had started so late dragged on at an agonising, leisurely pace. I tried to occupy myself with work around the house and preparations for the imminent receptions, routs and ceremonies, but very soon abandoned all important matters, because they needed to be tackled seriously, with total concentration, and my thoughts were infinitely far removed from discussing a menu, polishing silver tableware and airing ceremonial uniforms and dresses.

I did not even have a chance to exchange a few words with Mademoiselle, because Karnovich was with her all the time. He kept on trying to get her to understand something about the next meeting with the kidnappers until at two o’clock the governess was put into a carriage and driven away – I only saw her from behind as she walked down the steps of the porch with her head held high. She was carrying a handbag which, I presumed, contained the Lesser Diamond Bouquet, that beautiful creation of the court jeweller Pfister.

After Mademoiselle left, I sat on a bench in the company of Mr Freyby. Only a little earlier, I had come out consumed by anxiety to walk round the palace and had spotted the English butler on the lawn. On this occasion he was without his book, simply sitting there with his eyes closed, luxuriating in the sunshine. Mr Freyby looked so calm and peaceful that I stopped, overcome by a sudden envy. There is the only person in this entire insane house who radiates normality and common sense, I thought. And I suddenly felt an overwhelming desire simply to enjoy the fine day with the same appetite for it as he had, to sit for a while on a bench warmed by the sun, turn my face to catch the light breeze, and not think about anything at all.

In some mysterious way the Briton must have guessed my desire. He opened his eyes, raised his bowler hat politely and gestured to me, as if to say: ‘Would you care to join me?’ And why not? I thought to myself. At least it will calm my nerves.

I thanked him (‘Tenk yoo’) and sat down. It was really wonderful there on the bench. Mr Freyby nodded to me, I nodded to him, and this ritual made a perfect substitute for conversation, which in my exhausted state would probably have been beyond my powers.

After the carriage took Mademoiselle Declique away to the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour on Volkhonka Street, I became agitated again and began squirming about on the bench, but the butler took a flat leather-bound flask out of his voluminous pocket, unscrewed its silver top, poured some amber liquid into it and held it out to me. He himself made ready to drink directly from the mouth of the flask.

‘Whisky,’ he exclaimed, noticing my indecision.

I had heard a lot about this British beverage, but I had never had occasion to sample it. I should tell you that I never take strong spirits, and only use less-strong drink – a glass of Malvasen – twice a year, at Easter and on Georgii Alexandrovich’s name day.

However, Freyby sipped his drink with such evident enjoyment that I decided to try it. I threw my head back and drank it down, in the way that Lieutenant Endlung deals with his rum.

My throat felt as if it had been stripped raw by a file, tears sprang to my eyes and I was completely unable to breathe. I looked round in horror at the perfidious Englishman, and he winked approvingly at me, as if he were delighted with his cruel trick. Why on earth do people drink horrid things like that?

But on the inside I began to feel a warm, sweet sensation, my anxiety disappeared and was replaced by a quiet sadness – not for myself but for people who turned their lives into an absurd confusion and then suffered torment as a result.

We enjoyed a glorious silence. Here is the personwho can give me some advice about Xenia Georgievna, I suddenly thought. It is obvious that he is a level-headed individual who is never at a loss in any situation. No one would envy him the master that he has, and yet he maintains such an air of dignity. However, it was absolutely impossible for me to talk to the Englishman about such a ticklish subject. I heaved a sigh.

And then Freyby turned his head slightly towards me, opened one eye and said: ‘Live your own life.’ He took out the dictionary and translated: ‘Zhit’ . . . svoy . . . sobstvenniy . . . zhizn’.’

After that he leaned back contentedly, as if the subject were exhausted, and closed his eyes again.

These strangewordswere spoken in the tone of voice in which good advice is given. I started wondering what living one’s own life might mean. ‘Live your own life.’ In what sense?

But then my gaze fell on the flower clock and I saw it was already three, and I shuddered.

May the Lord Almighty preserve Mademoiselle Declique.

An hour passed, then two, three. And still the governess did not return. Karnovich stayed by the telephone the whole time, but none of the calls was the one he wanted.

There were three telephone calls from the Alexandriisky Palace on behalf of the tsar and two from Kirill Alexandrovich. And then shortly after six Simeon Alexandrovich arrived with his adjutant. He declined to enter the house and ordered cold fruit punch in the arbour. Cornet Glinsky, who was accompanying the governor general, was about to join His Highness, but the grand duke told him rather sharply that he wished to be alone, and the young man was left waiting outside the railings with the air of a beaten dog.

‘Howare your Englishmen getting on?’ Simeon Alexandrovich asked when I served the fruit punch. ‘They probably feel completely abandoned because of . . .’ He gestured vaguely with one hand. ‘Because of all this. How is Mr Carr?’

I did not reply immediately to this question. Only a little earlier I had heard the sounds of a rather noisy argument between Lord Banville and his friend as I was walking down the corridor.

‘I expect, Your Highness, that His Lordship and Mr Carr are upset by what has happened.’

‘Mmm, well, that is not hospitable.’ The grand duke flicked a cherry-red drop off his pampered moustache and drummed his fingers on the table. ‘I tell you what, brother, invite Mr Carr to join me here. There is something I wish to discuss with him.’

I bowed and set off to carry out his instructions. I was struck by the tragic expression on the face of Prince Glinsky – drooping eyebrows, pale lips, a despairing look in the eyes. Ah, sir, if I only had your problems, I thought.

Mr Carr was sitting in front of the mirror in his room. He had a lacy net over his remarkable yellowhair, and his scarlet dressing gown with dragons was wide open across his white hairless chest. When I conveyed His Highness’s invitation in French, the Englishman turned pink and asked me to say that he would be there immediately. ‘Tout de suite’⁴ extended in practice to a good quarter of an hour, but Simeon Alexandrovich, well known for his impatience and irritability, waited without a murmur.

When Mr Carr came out to go to the arbour, he looked a real picture. The rays of the sun glittered and sparkled on his impeccable coiffure, the collar of his blue shirt supported his rouged cheeks exquisitely, and the snow-white dinner jacket with a green forget-me-not in the buttonhole was simply dazzling.

I do not knowwhat His Highness and the beautiful gentleman spoke about, but I was shocked when Mr Carr responded to some comment from Simeon Alexandrovich by laughing and striking him across the wrist with two fingers.

I heard convulsive sobbing and on turning round saw Prince Glinsky dashing away, kicking out his long legs in uhlan breeches just like a little girl.

My God, my God.

Mademoiselle returned at six minutes to eight. As soon as Karnovich, who had been waiting together with me on the porch, saw the long-awaited carriage at the end of the drive, he immediately sent me to get Fandorin, so that I only had a brief glimpse of the familiar white hat behind the broad figure of the driver.

I trudged along the corridor to Erast Petrovich’s door and was about to knock on it, but the sounds coming from inside literally paralysed me.

It was the same kind of sobbing that I had heard the night before.

I could not believe my ears. Could Xenia Georgievna possibly have taken leave of her senses so far that she was visiting here during the day? I recalled that I had not seen Her Highness even once that morning – she had not come to either breakfast or lunch. What on earth was going on?

After glancing around, I pressed my ear to the keyhole with which I was already so familiar.

‘Enough of that n-now, enough,’ I heard Fandorin say with his distinctive stammer. ‘Later you will be sorry for speaking to me so frankly.’

A thin, faltering voice replied: ‘No, no, I can see from your face that you are a noble man. Why does he torment me so? I shall shoot this detestable British flirt and then shoot myself! In front of his very eyes!’

No, it was not Xenia Georgievna.

Reassured, I knocked loudly.

Fandorin opened the door to me. Simeon Alexandrovich’s adjutant was standing at the window with his back to me.

‘Please come to the drawing room,’ I said in a calm voice, looking into those hateful blue eyes. ‘Mademoiselle Declique has returned.’

‘I waited for at least forty minutes in that big half-empty church, and no one approached me. Then an altar boy came up and handed me a note with the words: “I was told to give you this.”’ Mademoiselle pronounced the last phrase in Russian.

‘Who told him, did he say?’ Karnovich interrupted.

‘Where is the note?’ said Simeon Alexandrovich, holding out his hand imperiously.

The governess looked in confusion from the colonel to the governor general, as if she did not know who to answer first.

‘Don’t interrupt!’ Georgii Alexandrovich roared menacingly.

Pavel Georgievich and Fandorin were also present in the drawing room, but they did not utter a single word.

‘Yes, I asked who the note was from. He said: “From a man” and walked away.’

I saw Karnovich write something down in a little notebook and I guessed that the choirboy would be found and questioned.

‘They took the note away from me later, but I rememberwhat it said word for word: “Go out into the square, walk along the boulevard and round the small church.” The text was in French, and it was written in cursive handwriting, not printed. The writing was fine and it slanted to the left.’

Mademoiselle looked at Fandorin, and he gave her a nod of approval. My heart was wrung.

‘I did what it said. I stood beside the church for about ten minutes. Then a tall broad-shouldered man with a black beard and a hat pulled down over his eyes nudged me with his shoulder as he was walking by, and when I glanced round, he gestured inconspicuously for me to follow him, and I did. We walked up to the top of the side street. There was a carriage waiting there, but not the same one as yesterday, although it was black too, with its blinds tightly closed. The man opened the door and helped me in, feeling my dress as he did so. He was obviously looking for weapons.’ She shuddered in disgust. ‘I said to him: “Where is the boy? I won’t go anywhere until I have seen him.” But he seemed not to have heard me. He shoved me in the back and locked the door from the outside, and then he climbed onto the coach box – I could tell that from the way the carriage leaned over – and we set off. I discovered that the windows were not only covered with blinds but also boarded up on the inside so that there was not a single chink. We drove for a long time. In the darkness I could not check my watch, but I think that more than an hour went by. Then the carriage stopped. The driver got in, closed the door behind him and tied a piece of cloth tight over my eyes. “There’s no need; I won’t peep,” I told him in Russian, but once again he took no notice of what I said. He took me by the waist and set me down on the ground, and after that I was led by the hand, but not very far – only eight steps. Rusty hinges squeaked and I suddenly felt cold, as if I had entered a house with thick stone walls.’

‘Now as much detail as possible,’ Karnovich ordered sternly.

‘Yes, yes. They made me go down a steep stairway, which was quite short. I counted twelve steps. There were several people there, all men – I caught the smell of tobacco, boots and a male perfume. An English eau de cologne. I can’t remember what it’s called, but you could ask Lord Banville and Mr Carr; they use the very same one.’

‘The Earl of Essex,’ said Fandorin. ‘The most fashionable fragrance of the season.’

‘Mademoiselle, did you see Mika?’ Pavel Georgievich asked.

‘No, Your Highness.’

‘What do you mean?’ Georgii Alexandrovich exclaimed. ‘They didn’t show you my son, but you gave them the bouquet anyway?’

This reproach seemed outrageously unjust to me. As if Mademoiselle could have defied an entire gang ofmurderers! But then I could sympathise with the feelings of a father too.

‘I did not see Mika, but I heard him,’ Mademoiselle said quietly. ‘I heard his voice. The boywas very close to me. Hewas sleeping and rambling in his sleep – he kept repeating: “Laissez-moi, laissez-moi,⁵ Iwon’tevereverdoitagain. . .”.’

She quickly took out her handkerchief and blew her nose loudly, seeming to take an awfully long time over this simple procedure. The room began dissolving in front of my eyes, and I did not immediately realise that this was caused by my tears.

‘Well then,’ Mademoiselle continued in a flat voice, as if she had a cold. ‘Since itwas definitely Michel, I decided the condition had been met and gave them the bag. One of the men said to me in a loud whisper: “It didn’t hurt him, the finger was amputated under an injection of opium. If the game is played fairly, there will be no more need for such extreme measures. Tomorrow be at the same place at the same time. Bring the Empress Anna’s diamond clasp. Repeat that.” I repeated it: “The Empress Anna’s diamond clasp.” That was all. Then they led me back to the carriage, drove me around for a long time and put me out beside some bridge or other. I caught a cab and drove to the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour, and the carriage was waiting for me there.’

‘Have you told us everything?’ Georgii Alexandrovich asked after a pause. ‘Perhaps you missed out a fewsmall details. Think.’

‘No, Your Highness . . . Except perhaps . . .’ Mademoiselle screwed up her eyes. ‘Michel never used to talk in his sleep. I suspect that yesterday they gave the child a very strong dose of opium and he has still not woken up.’

Pavel Georgievich groaned, and I involuntarily clenched my fists. We had to free Mikhail Georgievich as soon as possible, before that diabolical Lind ruined his health completely.

‘The Empress Anna’s diamond clasp! This villain has refined taste. And what has the perspicacious Mr Fandorin to say to all of this?’ Simeon Alexandrovich enquired sarcastically, addressing the retired deputy for special assignments directly for the first time that I could recall.

‘I shall be ready to present my reasoning following Mademoiselle Declique’s trip tomorrow,’ Erast Petrovich replied, without even turning his head towards His Highness. And then he added in a low voice, as if he were speaking to himself: ‘A whisper? That is interesting. I beg Your Highnesses’ permission to withdraw . . .’ He clicked open the lid of his Breguet. ‘It is already nine o’clock, and I have certain pressing business this evening.’

Yes, yes, I remembered. The gathering of the one-handed bandit’s gang.

Pretending that I wished to empty an overflowing ashtray, I overtook Fandorin in the corridor.

‘Your Honour,’ I said, forcing myself to smile beseechingly, ‘take me with you. I won’t be a burden to you, and I might even come in useful.’

I found this popinjay profoundly repulsive, but such minor inconveniences had no importance just at that moment. I knew that I would not get to sleep that night – I would be hearing the pitiful voice of Mikhail Georgievich tossing and turning in his delirium. It was quite possible that Karnovich was right, and Fandorin’s planwas absolute nonsense, but itwas certainly better than doing nothing.

Erast Petrovich looked searchingly into my eyes.

‘Well now, Ziukin. I realised yesterday that you are no coward. Come with us if you like. I hope you understand what a dangerous business you are getting involved in.’

The Japanese and Iwaited round the cornerwhile Fandorinwent on ahead alone.

Peeping cautiously round, I saw Erast Petrovich, once again dressed as a ‘toff’, strolling down the middle of the road with that bouncy stride. There was a crescent moon shining in the sky, as sharp and crooked as a Turkish yataghan, and the nighttime Khitrovka street was lit up as brightly as if the street lamps were burning.

Fandorin went down to the basement doors, and I heard him ask: ‘Code, are you there?’

I could not make out the answer.

‘I’m Striy, from theWarsaw mob,’ Erast Petrovich declared in a cheerful voice as he approached the sentry, who was invisible from where I was standing. ‘Me and Code are close mates, as tight as tight. Are all your lot here? And has Stump rolled up? Sure, I know the scrip, I know it. Just a moment . . .’

There was an abrupt sound like someone chopping a log of firewood with an axe and Masa pushed me forward: time to go.

We hurried across the empty space and ran down the slope. Fandorin was bending over, examining the door in the gates. A tousle-headed young man was sitting beside him with his back to the wall and his eyes rolled up, opening and closing his mouth like a fish that has been lifted out of the water.

‘A cunning d-door,’ Erast Petrovich said apprehensively. ‘You see that wire? It’s just like in a good shop – when you walk in, the bell rings. But we are modest unassuming individuals, arewe not? We’ll just cut the wire with a knife, like so. Why distract people from their conversation? Especially since it appears that Mr Stump has already arrived or, as they like to say in this beau monde, “rolled up”.’

I could not understandwhy Fandorinwas so very cheerful. My teethwere chattering in excitement (I hope that itwas excitement and not fear), but he was almost rubbing his hands in glee and in general behaving as if we were engaged in some enjoyable, if not entirely decent, form of recreation. I recalled that Endlung had behaved in the same way before he took Pavel Georgievich to some disreputable spot. I have heard that there are people for whom danger is what wine is to a drunkard or opium to the hopeless addict. Evidently the former state counsellor belonged to this class of people. In any case, that would explain a lot about the way he behaved and the things that he did.

Fandorin pushed the door gently, and it opened without a squeak – the hinges must have been well oiled.

I saw a sloping floor illuminated by the crimson reflections of flames. Somewhere down below there was a fire or torches were burning.

We walked down a rather narrow passage for about twenty steps and then Fandorin, who was at the front, flung out his hand. We heard voices echoing hollowly under stone vaults. My eyes grew slightly accustomed to the gloom, and I saw that the passage was formed by two rows of old oak barrels that were half-rotten from age and the damp air.

Erast Petrovich suddenly crouched over and slipped into a gap between the barrels. We followed him.

It turned out that the hugewooden containerswere not standing right up against each other, and the gaps between them formed a kind of a maze. We crept soundlessly along this winding path, maintaining our direction from the flickers of light on the ceiling and the sound of voices that became ever more audible, so that I could already make out individual words, although I did not always understand their meaning.

‘. . . Tomorrow I’ll drill a hole in your bonce if you yap. When I whistle, that’s when you can start crowing.’

Erast Petrovich turned into a narrow opening and stopped moving. Peeping over his shoulder I saw a bizarre and sinister scene.

There was a planking table standing in the middle of a rather wide space, surrounded on all sides by rows of dark barrels. Standing around itwere several iron tripods with burning torches thrust into them. The flames fluttered and crackled and thin plumes of black smoke rose up to the vaulted ceiling.

There were six men sitting at the table, one at the head and five along the other three sides. I could make out the leader better than the others because he was facing in our direction. I saw a coarse, powerful face with a prominent forehead, sharp folds alongside the mouth and a lower jaw that broadened towards the bottom, but it was not the face that caught my attention, itwas the leader’s right arm, lying on the table. Instead of a hand it had a three-pronged fork!

Stump – for there could be be no doubt it was he – thrust his incredible hand into a dish standing in front of him, pulled out a piece of meat and dispatched it into his mouth.

‘No one’s doing no crowing,’ said one of the men siting with his back to us. ‘Are we dumb clucks or what? But at least give us something to be getting on with. What’s the deal? What are we dossing about like this for? I’ve done enough polishing the seat of my pants. Don’t drink any wine, don’t deal any cards. We’re bored to death.’

The others began fidgeting and muttering, demonstrating their clear agreement with the speaker.

Stump carried on chewing unhurriedly, looking at them with his deep-set eyes drowned in the shadows under his heavy brow– I could only see the sparks glittering in them. He allowed his comrades to make their din for a while, then suddenly swung his hand and struck the dish hard with his fork. There was a crack, and the stout clay vessel split in two. Immediately it all went quiet.

‘I’ll give you wine and cards,’ the leader drawled in a low, quiet voice and spat out his half-chewed scrap of meat to one side. ‘The deal here is the once-in-a-lifetime kind, and not in every life either. A big man has put his trust in us. And if any louse here messes it up for me, I’ll hook his chitterlings out with this here fork and make him eat them.’

He paused, and from the motionless figures of the bandits I realised that the threat he had just made was no mere figure of speech but a perfectly literal promise. I felt the goose pimples rising all over my body.

‘No need to frighten us, Stump,’ said the same bandit, obviously the most reckless desperado in the gang. ‘You lay it out straight and clear. Why treat us like lousy mongrels? We’ve hung around on look-out a couple of times and tailed a couple of gulls. What kind of deal is that? We’re wolves, not miserable dogs.’

‘That’s for me to know,’ the head bandit snapped. ‘And you’ll chirp the way I tell you to.’ He leaned forward. ‘This shindy’s the kind it’s best for you not to know about, Axe, you’ll sleep better for it. And what they called us in for is still to come. We’ll show what we can do. And I tell you what, brothers. Once the job’s done, we’ll cut and run.’

‘Out of Khitrovka?’ someone asked. ‘Or out of town?’

‘Eejit! Out of Roossia!’ Stump snapped impressively.

‘What d’you mean, out of Roossia?’ objected the one he had called Axe. ‘Where are we gonna live? Turkishland, is it? I don’t speak their lingo.’

Stump grinned, baring a mouthful of jagged, chipped teeth.

‘That’s all right. Axe, with the loot you’ll have, the Muslims’ll start chatting your lingo. Believe me, brothers, Stump doesn’t make idle talk. We’ll all get so well greased up from this job, every one of you will stay greased all the way to the grave.’

‘But won’t this big man of yours spin us off?’ the same sceptic asked doubtfully.

‘He’s not that kind. The most honest top man in the whole wide world. Compared to him our King is a louse.’

‘What sort of man is he then? A real eagle, I suppose?’

I noticed that Fandorin tensed up as he waited for the bandit boss’s answer.

Stump clearly found the question rather embarrassing. He picked his teeth with his fork as if he was wondering whether to say anything or not. But eventually he decided to answer.

‘I won’t try to bamboozle you. I don’t know. He’s the kind of man who’s not that easy to get close to. His toffs rolled up with him – real eagles they are, you’re no match for them . . . This man doesn’t speak our lingo. I’ve seen him once. In a basement like ours, only smaller and with no light. I tell you, he’s a serious man and what he says, he means. He sat there in the dark, so I couldn’t see his face. Whispered to his interpreter, and he told me everything in our lingo. Our King likes to bawl and shout, but this here is Europe. You can hear a whisper better than a shout.’

Even though this remark came from the lips of an out-andout criminal, I was struck by its psychological precision. It really is true that the less a person raises his voice, the more he is listened to and the better he is heard. The late sovereign never shouted at anyone. And the procurator of the Holy Synod, the all-powerful Konstantin Petrovich, speaks in a quiet murmur too. Why, take even Fandorin – so very quiet, but when he starts to speak, the members of the royal family hang on every word.

‘Oh-ho, that’s mighty. And where was your meet with this man?’

Fandorin half-rose to his feet, and I held my breath. Would he really say?

At that very moment therewas a deafening crash that rumbled and echoed through the stone vaults of the basement and crumbs of stone fell from the ceiling onto the table.

‘Don’t move, you blackguards,’ said a deafening voice, amplified many times over by a speaking trumpet. ‘This is Colonel Karnovich. You are all in our sights. The next bullet is for anyone who even twitches.’

‘Mmmmm,’ I heard Fandorin groan in a pained voice.

The colonel really had made his appearance at a very bad moment, but on the other hand the arrest of the entire gang, especially of Stump himself, was surely bound to open some door leading to Doctor Lind. Why, good for Karnovich. How cunningly he had pretended that the information he received from me was of no interest!

The bandits all turned round, but I had no chance to get a good look at them because Stump shouted: ‘Douse the lights!’ and the robbers all scattered, overturning the tripods as they went.

The cellar went dark, but not for very long at all. A second later, long vicious streaks of fire started hurtling through the air from all sides, and the din that ensued was so loud that I was deafened.

Fandorin pulled on my arm, andwe both tumbled to the floor.

‘Lie still, Ziukin!’ he shouted. ‘There’s nothing to be done now.’

It seemed to me that the firing went on for a long time, occasionally punctuated by howls of pain and Karnovich’s commands.

‘Korneev, where are you? Take your lads to the right! Miller, ten men to the left! Torches, get those torches here!’

Soon rays of light started probing the basement – running over the barrels, the overturned table, two motionless bodies on the floor. The shooting had stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

‘Come out with your hands up!’ Karnovich shouted. ‘You’ve got nowhere to go anyway. The building is surrounded. Stump first!’

‘That’s for you from Stump!’

A tongue of flame spurted out from the far corner and the rays of light instantly darted to that spot. I saw an overturned barrel and above it the silhouette of a head and shoulders.

‘They’ll kill him, the b-blockheads,’ Fandorin hissed in fury.

There was a deafening salvo, and chips of wood went flying off the barrel in all directions, then again and again. No one fired back from the corner any longer.

‘We surrender!’ someone shouted out of the darkness. ‘Don’t fire, chief.’

One at a time, three men came out into the open, holding their hands up high. Two of them could barely stay on their feet. Stump was not among them.

Erast Petrovich stood up and walked out of our hiding place. Masa and I followed him.

‘Good evening,’ Karnovich greeted Fandorin ironically. The colonel was completely surrounded by stalwart young men in civilian dress. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’

Without even glancing at the head of the court police, Fandorin walked across to the overturned barrel from behind which a lifeless arm could be seen projecting. He squatted down on his haunches and then immediately got up again.

A large number of men appeared out of nowhere on every side. Some put handcuffs on the bandits who had surrendered, some darted around between the barrels and for some reason some even felt the floor with their hands. The rays of electric light, dozens of them, glided over everything. There was a harsh smell of gunpowder and smoke. For some reason I glanced at my watch. It was seven minutes to twelve, which meant that only sixteen minutes had elapsed sincewe entered the basement.

‘You have ruined everything, Karnovich,’ said Fandorin, halting in front of the colonel. ‘Stump is riddled with bullets, and he was the only one who knew where to find Lind. Where the devil did you spring from, damn you? Have you been spying on me?’

Karnovich looked somewhat embarrassed. He squinted sideways at me and gave no answer, but Fandorin understood anyway.

‘You, Ziukin?’ he said quietly, looking at me, and shook his head. ‘How stupid . . .’

‘Kare da!’ squealed Mr Masa, who was standing some distance away from me. ‘Uragirimono!’

As if it were a dream, I saw him gather speed as he came running towards me, jump high in the air and thrust one foot out in front of him. My vision was obviously working much more rapidly than my thoughts, because I managed to get a very good look at the Japanese shoe (small, made of yellow leather, with a patched sole) as it approached my forehead.

And that was the end of 10 May for me.

¹My God! Mr Ziukin, what has happened? And who are these men? Is this the Japanese servant?

²appart from that.

³I will try my best.

⁴Immediately.

⁵Let me go, let me go.

11 May

Saturday did not exist for me because I spent a night, a day and another night lying in a dead faint.

12 May

I came to instantly, without any preliminary wandering between oblivion and wakefulness, that is, not at all as if I were emerging from ordinary sleep. One moment I was seeing the basement illuminated by those creeping beams of light and the rapidly approaching yellow shoe, then I closed my eyes, and when I opened them I was in a completely different place: daylight, a white ceiling and at one side, at the limit of my vision, two faces – Mademoiselle Declique and Mr Fandorin. At first for a moment I did not think this fact of any great importance. I simply noted that they were sitting there, looking down at me, and I was lying in bed. And then I began feeling the strange numbness in all my body, heard the regular murmur of rain outside the window and started. Why were their shoulders touching like that?

‘Grace а Dieu!’ said Mademoiselle. ‘Il a repris connaissance. Vous aviez raison.’¹

I looked from her to Fandorin with a feeling that there was something that I ought to ask him.

‘What is uragirimono?’ I then asked, repeating the resounding word that had stuck in my memory. In fact, I thought that I had only just heard it.

‘It means t-traitor in Japanese,’ Erast Petrovich replied coolly, leaning over me and for some reason pulling down my lower eyelids with his fingers (I was simply mortified at such familiarity). ‘I am glad that you are alive, Ziukin. After a blow like that you might never have recovered consciousness. You have a very thick skull – there is not even any concussion. You have been lying unconscious for almost forty hours. Try to sit up.’

Sitting up without any especial effort, I suddenly felt embarrassed because I saw that I was wearing only my undershirt, and it was unbuttoned over my chest. Noticing my unease, Mademoiselle delicately averted her eyes.

Fandorin handedmea glass ofwater and in the same measured tone of voice told me something that brought me back to reality: ‘You, Ziukin, have done serious damage to our cause by telling Karnovich about our plans. A highly promising lead has been lost. Stump has been killed. Four of his gang, including the sentry whom I stunned, have been taken alive, but they are quite useless to us. Onewas used for snooping around the Hermitage. Another was the driver in the carriage that you attempted to chase. He was the one who lashed you with his whip, remember? But he does not know who was sitting in the carriage – he did not even hear the child cry out. Stump ordered him to get up on the coach box on Nikolo-Yamskaya Street, drive along a set route, and then get back down again at the Andronnikov Monastery. There he gave up his seat to a different driver, who did not look Russian. And that is all. Stump, at least, knew where L-Lind’s lair is. But now we have been left empty-handed. So Masa’s anger is understandable. Now that it is clear you are alive and almost well, my assistant will finally be released from custody, and a good thing too – without him I am like a man without arms.’

I touched my forehead and felt a substantial bump. Well, serve me right.

‘But are there no leads at all then?’ I asked, my voice trembling with awareness of the gravity of my mistake.

‘Now all we can do is put our trust in Mademoiselle Declique. I am afraid I have run out of ideas. My Lady, tell Afanasii Stepanovich about your journeys to Lind’s place yesterday and today.’

‘What, have you already been to see him twice?’ I asked in amazement and turned towards the grey window, wondering what time it was.

‘Yes, today’s meeting was early this morning,’ Mademoiselle replied. ‘Will you permit me to speak French? It will be much quicker.’

And indeed, in five minutes she gave me an account of the events that had occurred during my enforced absence.

The previous day, Saturday, she had once again been summoned from the church by a note. The carriage (not the same one as the day before, but verymuch like it and also with boarded-up windows) was waiting on the next side street. The driver was the same – bearded, unspeaking, with his hat pulled down low over his eyes. Fifty-four minutes later (on this occasion Fandorin had given Mademoiselle a watch with phosphorescent hands) she was once again blindfolded and soon found herself in the same underground vault. This time they uncovered her eyes for a few moments so that she could take a brief glance at Mikhail Georgievich. The boy was lying with his eyes closed, but he was alive. The governess was forbidden to look around and all she saw was a bare stone wall dimly lit by a candle, and a chest that served His Highness as a bed.

On the morning of that day the whole procedure had been repeated. Doctor Lind had acquired an aigrette of diamonds and sapphires. During the few seconds that Mademoiselle was not blindfolded, she was able to take a closer look at the prisoner. He was still unconscious, had lost a lot of weight and his left hand was bandaged. Mademoiselle had touched his forehead and felt a strong fever.

Mademoiselle’s narrative broke off at that point, but she quickly took herself in hand.

‘How I wish this was all over,’ she said with a self-control that I found quite admirable. ‘Michel will not survive very long in conditions like that. He is a strong healthy child, but everything has its limits.’

‘Did you see Lind? Even out of the corner of your eye?’ I asked hopefully.

‘No. The blindfoldwas removed for no more than ten seconds and I was strictly forbidden to turn round. I only sensed that there were several men standing behind me.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘The creaks made by the wheels?’

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

‘So what?’

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

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

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

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

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

‘And after that?’

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

I was astounded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiled even more insufferably.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fandorin sighed.

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

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

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

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

How could he be ‘Erast’ to her?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her Highness seemed willing to make me her confidant in her affaire de cњur², but I felt absolutely no desire to assume this ambivalent role.

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

Xenia Georgievna seemed quite unpleasantly surprised.

‘With Emilie? But why?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I had an idea.

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

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

There was someone who would help me!

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

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

As a statesman and exemplary family man, the sovereign could not allow himself to become too obsessed with this magical debutante, and he took the wise step (one must presume, not without regret) of entrusting Madam Snezhnevskaya to the care of the tsarevich, whowas causing his august parent great concern with his excessive piety and a certain lack of polish. Izabella Felitsianovna bore the parting from His Majesty with courage and took her important state mission most responsibly, so that the heir to the throne soon changed for the better and even committed several follies (admittedly rather modest and not scandalous in nature), which finally reassured his father the tsar.

In appreciation of her services, Madam Snezhnevskaya received a marvellous palazzo on Bolshaya Dvoryanskaya Street, her own choice of parts at the Mariinsky Theatre and – most important of all – a special, in fact exclusive, position at court, which was the envy of many, many others. However, despite all this, she conducted herself modestly, did not abuse her influence and – almost unbelievably – did not acquire any serious enemies. It was known from reliable sources that the lovelorn tsarevich had offered to marry the beauty in secret, but she prudently declined, and when a tender friendship sprang up between the heir to the throne and Princess Alice she withdrew into the shadows, and in a touching scene of farewell with ‘dear Nicky’ she gave her blessing to that union. This action subsequently paid dividends, since it was genuinely appreciated by the new tsarina – yet another unprecedented phenomenon – and she began giving her former rival clear signs of favour. Especially when Izabella Felitsianovna, following a decent pause for grieving, entrusted her tender heart to Georgii Alexandrovich. To be quite honest, I think that in many ways Madam Snezhnevskaya gained more than she lost by this change. Georgii Alexandrovich is a distinguished man and a generous soul with a far more pleasant character than his nephew.

Oh, Izabella Felitsianovna was wisdom itself. One could tell her about anything. She understood how important the secrets of the royal family were, for she herself was their custodian. Snezhnevskaya would come up with something special, something that would not occur either to the slippery Colonel Karnovich or the redoubtable Kirill Alexandrovich, or even the artful Mr Fandorin himself.

Madam Snezhnevskaya had taken an entire wing in the Loskutnaya, which in itself was an adequate demonstration of this amazing woman’s status – just then, at the very height of the coronation celebrations, even the most ordinary hotel room cost five times as much as normal, and it was in any case impossible to find one.

There were numerous baskets of flowers standing in the hallway of the deluxe apartment and I heard the muted sounds of a grand piano coming from somewhere in the maze of rooms. I handed the maid a note and the playing stopped almost immediately. A minute later Izabella Felitsianovna herself came out to me. She was wearing a rich-pink dress of light silk that no other blonde could possibly have presumed to wear, but Snezhnevskaya in this attire did not look vulgar, she looked divine – I cannot find any other word for it. Once again I was astounded by her light porcelain beauty, that most precious kind of beauty, encountered so very rarely, which gives a face that should be familiar the power to take one’s breath away and strike one dumb.

‘Afanasii!’ she said with a smile, looking up atmebut managing in some miraculous manner to hold herself as if shewere standing on a pedestal, not on the ground. ‘Hello, my friend. Is it something from Georgie?’

‘No,’ I replied with a low bow. ‘I have secret business of state importance.’

The clever woman did not ask me a single question. She knew that Afanasii Ziukin would not use such a weighty phrase idly. She knitted her brows in concern for an instant and then beckoned me with her little hand.

I followed her through several communicating rooms to the boudoir. Izabella Felitsianovna closed the door, sat down on the bed, gestured for me to take a seat in an armchair and said just two words: ‘Tell me.’

I expounded the gist of the problem to her, without keeping anything back. My story took quite a long time, because so many events had occurred during the previous few days, but even so it was shorter than might have been expected, for Snezhnevskaya did not gasp or clutch at her heart, and she did not interrupt me even once – she only picked faster and faster at her collar with her elegant fingers.

‘Mikhail Georgievich is in mortal danger, and there is a terrible threat hanging over the entire house of Romanov,’ was how I concluded my extensive account, although I could have dispensed with the dramatic style because my listener had understood everything perfectly well anyway.

Izabella Felitsianovna said nothing for a long time, a very long time. Never had I seen an expression of such agitation on her doll-like face, not even when I took the tsarevich’s letters away from her on Georgii Alexandrovich’s instructions.

Unable to bear such a long pause, I asked: ‘Tell me, is there any solution to this?’

She raised her bright-blue eyes and looked at me sadly and – so I thought – with sympathy. But her voice was firm.

‘There is. Only one. To sacrifice the lesser for the sake of the greater.’

‘“The lesser” – is that His Highness?’ I asked and sobbed in a most shameful fashion.

‘Yes. And I assure you, Afanasii, that such a decision has already been taken, although no one speaks of it out loud. Knick-knacks from the coffret – very well, but no one will give this Doctor Lind the Orlov. Not for anything in the world. This Fandorin of yours is a clever man. The idea of “renting” is brilliant. Stretch things out until the coronation, and after that itwon’t matter any more.’

‘But . . . but that is monstrous!’ I could not help exclaiming.

‘Yes, from the ordinary human point of view, it is monstrous,’ she said and touched me affectionately on the shoulder. ‘Neither you nor I would behave like that with our children. Ah yes, you have no children, I believe?’ Snezhnevskaya sighed and then in her pure ringing voice she expressed an idea that I myself had pondered more than once. ‘To be born into a ruling house is a special destiny. One that brings immense privileges, but also requires the willingness to make immense sacrifices. A disgraceful scandal during the coronation is unacceptable. Under any circumstances whatever. To hand over one of the most important insignia of the empire to criminals is even less acceptable. But to sacrifice the life of one of the eighteen grand dukes is perfectly acceptable. Even Georgie understands that of course. What is a four-year-old boy compared with the fate of an entire dynasty?’

There was a clear hint of bitterness in these last words, but there was also genuine grandeur. The tears that sprang to my eyes did not go on to run down my cheeks. I do not know why, but I felt chastened.

There was a knock at the door, and the English nanny led in a pair of quite delightful twins who looked verymuch like Georgii Alexandrovich – ruddy-cheeked and strong-necked, with lively brown eyes.

‘Good night, Mummy,’ they babbled and ran to fling themselves on Izabella Felitsianovna’s neck.

It seemed to me that she hugged and kissed them rather more passionately than this everyday ritual required.

When the boys had been led away, Snezhnevskaya locked the door and said to me: ‘Afanasii, your eyes are soggy. Stop it immediately or I’ll turn weepy myself. It doesn’t happen to me very often, but once I start it will be a long time before I stop.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ I mumbled, fumbling in my pocket for a handkerchief, but my fingers were not responding very well.

Then she came up to me, took a little lacy handkerchief out of her cuff and dabbed my eyelashes – very cautiously, as if she were afraid of spoiling make-up.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door – loud and insistent.

‘Izabo! Open up, it’s me!’

‘Paulie!’ exclaimed Snezhnevskaya, throwing up her hands. ‘Youmust not meet. Itwould put the boy in an awkward position. In here, quickly!

‘Just a moment!’ she called. ‘I’ll just put my shoes on.’

Meanwhile she opened the door of a large mirror-fronted wardrobe and shoved me inside, prodding me with her sharp little fist.

The interior of the dark and rather spacious oak wardrobe smelled of lavender and eau de cologne. I turned round cautiously, made myself as comfortable as possible and tried not to thinkwhat an embarrassing situationwould result ifmypresence were to be discovered. But a moment later I heard something that made me forget all about my embarrassment.

‘I adore you!’ Pavel Georgievich exclaimed. ‘How very lovely you are, Izabo! I think about you every day!’

‘Stop that! Paulie, you are simply insane! I told you, it was a mistake that will never be repeated. And you gavemeyourword.’

Oh Lord! I clutched at my heart, and the movement set the dresses rustling.

‘You swore that we would be like brother and sister!’ Izabella Felitsianovna declared, raising her voice – evidently in order to mask the incongruous noises from the wardrobe. ‘And anyway your father telephoned. He should be here at any minute.’

‘I rather think not!’ Pavel Georgievich declared triumphantly. ‘He has gone to the opera with the Englishmen. No one will bother us. Izabo, what do you want him for? He’s married, but I’m free. He’s twenty years older than you!’

‘And I’m seven years older than you. That’s a lot more for a woman than twenty years is for a man,’ Snezhnevskaya replied.

I deduced from the rustling of silk that Pavel Georgievich was trying to put his arms round her and she was resisting his embraces.

‘You are like Thumbelina,’ he said passionately. ‘You will always be my tiny little girl . . .’

She gave a short laugh: ‘Oh yes, a little lapdog – a puppy to the end of its days.’

There was another knock at the door, even more insistent than the previous one.

‘My lady, Georgii Alexandrovich is here!’ the maid’s frightened voice announced.

‘How can that be?’ Pavel Georgievich cried in alarm. ‘What about the opera? Well, that’s it. Now he really will send me to Vladivostok! Oh Lord, what shall I do?’

‘Into the wardrobe,’ Izabella Felitsianovna declared decisively. ‘Quickly! No, not the left door, the right one!’

Somewhere very close to me a door squeaked and I heard agitated breathing about three paces away, beyond the multiple layers of dresses. Thank God my brain was unable to keep up with events, otherwise I should probably have simply fainted away.

‘Well, at last!’ I heard Snezhnevskaya exclaim joyfully. ‘I had already given up hope! Why promise and then make me wait like this?’

There was the sound of a prolonged kiss and beyond the dresses Pavel Georgievich gnashed his teeth.

‘I was supposed to go to the opera, but I escaped. That scoundrel Paulie . . . Give him it in the neck, I will . . . Here, I had to come here . . . I have to . . .’

‘Not straight away, not straight away . . . Let’s have a glass of champagne – it’s already waiting in the drawing room . . .’

‘To hell with champagne. I’m all on fire. Bellochka, it’s been hell being without you. Oh, if you only knew! But later, later . . . Unbutton this damn collar!’

‘No, this is insufferable!’ a voice in the wardrobe said in a breathless whisper.

‘You’re crazy . . . Yourwhole family’s crazy . . . Youwere saying something about Paulie?’

‘The boy’s got completely out of hand! That’s it. I’ve decided to send him to the Pacific. You know, I believe he’s rather taken a fancy to you. The little whippersnapper. I know I can trust you completely, but bear in mind that he picked up a nasty disease on the voyage—’

The wardrobe swayed and a door slammed.

‘He’s lying!’ Pavel Georgievich howled. ‘I’m cured! Ah, the scoundrel!’

‘Wha-a-at!’ Georgii Alexandrovich roared in a terrible voice. ‘How dare you . . . How dare you . . . dare?’

Horrified, I opened my door a crack and saw something I could not possibly have imagined even in the most appalling nightmare: Their Highnesses had grabbed each other’s throats, and Pavel Georgievich was kicking at his father’s ankles, while Georgii Alexandrovich was twisting his son’s ear.

Izabella Felitsianovna tried to come between the two men, but the admiral-general caught the little ballerina a glancing blow with his elbow, and she was sent flying back towards the bed.

‘Afanasii!’ Snezhnevskaya shouted imperiously. ‘They’re killing each other!’

I jumped out of the wardrobe, prepared to accept the blows of both parties, but that proved unnecessary because Their Highnesses senior and junior gaped at me wide-eyed, and the battle came to a natural end.

I caught a quick glimpse of my reflection in a pier glass and shuddered. Tousled hair, dishevelled sideburns, and there was something pink clinging to my shoulder – either a slip or a pair of pantaloons. In my state of abject confusion, I grabbed the shameful item and stuffed it into my pocket.

‘Will . . . er . . . will there be any instructions?’ I babbled.

Their Highnesses exchanged glances, both looking as if a tapestry or bas-relief on the wall had suddenly started talking. But in any case the threat of infanticide or patricide was clearly over, and Iwas astounded yet again by Izabella Felitsianovna’s presence of mind and acuity of wit.

Their Highnesseswere apparently struck by the same thought, because they said almost exactly the same thing simultaneously.

‘Well, Bella, you are a most amazing woman,’ Georgii Alexandrovich boomed.

And Pavel Georgievich chanted in a bewildered tenor: ‘Izabo, I shall never understand you . . .’

‘Your Highnesses,’ I blurted out, realisingwhat a blasphemous misconception the grand dukes were labouring under. ‘It’s not at all . . . I have not . . .’

Without listening to what I was trying to say, Pavel Georgievich turned to Snezhnevskaya and exclaimed in a tone of childish resentment: ‘So he – he – can, and I can’t?’

I was struck completely dumb, with no idea at all of how to resolve this terrible situation.

‘Afanasii,’ Izabella Felitsianovna said firmly, ‘go to the dining room and bring some cognac. And don’t forget to slice a lemon.’

I rushed to carry out this instruction with a feeling of quite inexpressible relief and, to be quite honest, I was in no great hurry to get back. When I finally entered the room, carrying a tray, the picture that met my eyes was quite different: the ballerina was standing, with Their Highnesses sitting on pouffes on each side of her. I was rather inaptly reminded of a performance of Chinizelli’s circus which Mademoiselle and I had attended with Mikhail Georgievich the previous Easter. We had seen roaring lions sitting on low pedestals while a brave slim female lion-tamer strolled around between them, clutching a massive whip in her hand. The similarity was heightened by the fact that the heads of all three of them – Snezhnevskaya standing and the great dukes sitting – were on the same level.

‘. . . I love you both,’ I heard and halted in the doorway, because this was clearly not the moment to come barging in with the cognac. ‘You are both very dear to me – you, Georgie, and you, Paulie. And you love each other too, do you not? Is there anything in the world more precious than loving devotion and affection for one’s kin? We are no vulgar bourgeois. Why hate when you can love? Why quarrel when you can be friends? Paulie is not going off to Vladivostok – we would miss him wretchedly, and he would miss us. And we will arrange everything excellently. Paulie, when are you on duty at the Guards company?’

‘On Tuesdays and Fridays,’ Pavel Georgievich replied, batting his eyelids.

‘And you, Georgie, when are the meetings at the ministry and the State Council?’

Georgii Alexandrovich replied with a rather dull-witted (I beg your pardon, but I cannot find any better definition) expression on his face: ‘On Mondays and Thursdays. Why?’

‘See how convenient it all is!’ Snezhnevskaya exclaimed delightedly. ‘So everything’s arranged! You, Georgie, will come to see me on Tuesday and Friday. And you, Paulie, will come on Monday and Thursday. And we will all love each other very, very much. And we won’t quarrel at all, because there is nothing to quarrel about.’

‘Doyou love him in the sameway as you love me?’ the admiral-general asked stubbornly.

‘Yes, because he is your son. He is so very much like you.’

‘But . . . what about Afanasii?’ Pavel Georgievich asked, looking round at me in bemusement.

Izabella Felitsianovna’s eyes glinted, and I suddenly sensed that she did not find this terrible, impossible, monstrous scene in the least bit arduous.

‘And Afanasii too.’ On my word of honour, she winked at me. But that is impossible – I must have imagined it – or else it was a nervous tic in the corner of her eye. ‘But not in the same way. He is not a Romanov, after all, and I have a strange destiny. I can only love the men of that family.’

And this last sentence sounded perfectly serious, as if Snezhnevskaya had just that moment made a remarkable and possibly not very happy discovery.

¹Thank God! He has recovered consciousness. You were right.

²Affair of the heart.

13 May

I found myself caught in a false and distressing position, and I did not know how to escape from it.

On the one hand, the previous day’s clarification at the Loskutnaya had put an end to the tension between the grand dukes, and at breakfast they regarded each other with a sincere goodwill that reminded me more of two good comrades than a father and son, and I could not but be glad of that. On the other hand, when I entered the dining room with the coffee pot, bowed and wished everybody good morning, they both looked at me with an odd expression on their faces, and instead of the usual nod, they also said ‘Good morning,’ which confused me completely. I believe that I even blushed.

I had to rid myself of this monstrous suspicion somehow, but I had absolutely no idea how to raise such a subject with Their Highnesses.

As I was pouring Georgii Alexandrovich’s coffee, he shook his head reproachfully and yet also, I thought, with a certain hint of approval and droned in a low voice: ‘Well, I never . . .’

My hand trembled and for the first time in my life I spilled a few drops straight into the saucer.

Pavel Georgievich did not utter a single word of reproach; he simply thanked me for the coffee, and that was even worse.

I stood beside the door, suffering terribly.

Mr Carr was chattering away incessantly, making elegant gestures with his slim white hands. I think he was talking about the opera – at least, I heard ‘Khovanshchina’ repeated several times. Lord Banville had not come to breakfast, owing to a migraine.

What I had to do, I thought, was to approach Georgii Alexandrovich and say this: ‘The opinion that Your Highness has formed concerning my presumed relationship with a certain individual well known to you has absolutely nothing in common with reality, and the only reason I happened to be in thewardrobe is that the aforementioned individual wished to avoid compromising Pavel Georgievich. And as for the love that this individual declared for my own humble personage, if a feeling so very flattering to me should indeed exist, then it is without the slightest hint of any passion of a non-platonic nature.’

No, that was probably too involved. What if I were to say: ‘The reverence in which I hold the members of the royal family and also the affections of their hearts would never, under any circumstances, allowme, even inmywildest fantasies, to imagine that . . .’ Just at that moment my glance accidentally met that of Lieutenant Endlung, who assumed an expression of admiration, raising his eyebrows and winking at me, as well as giving me a thumbs up sign under the tablecloth, from which I concluded that Pavel Georgievich had told him everything. It cost me an immense effort of will to maintain an air of imperturbability.

The Lord had truly decided to subject me to grave trials.

As everyone was leaving the table, Xenia Georgievna whispered to me: ‘Come to my room.’

Five minutes later I set out for her room with a heavy heart, already knowing that nothing good awaited me there.

The grand princess had already changed into a promenade dress and put on a hat with a veil, behind which her long beautifully moulded eyes glittered resolutely.

‘I wish to take a drive in the landau,’ she said. ‘It is such a bright sunny day today. You will drive, as you used to do when I was a child.’

I bowed, feeling incredibly relieved.

‘Which pair of horses would you like to be harnessed?’

‘The sorrels, they are friskier.’

‘Right away.’

But my feeling of relief proved premature. When I drove up to the porch Xenia Georgievna did not get into the carriage alone, but with Fandorin, who looked a genuine dandy in a grey top hat, grey frock coat and mother-of-pearl tie with a pearl pin. Now it was clear why her Highness had wanted me to occupy the coach box instead of the coachman Savelii.

We drove through the park, along the avenue, and then Xenia Georgievna ordered me to turn towards the Sparrow Hills. The carriagewas brand new, with rubber shock absorbers, and driving it was a sheer pleasure – it did not jolt or pitch, and only swayed ever so slightly.

While the horses were trotting between the trees, the quiet conversation behind my back merged into themuted background of sound, but on the Kaluga Highway we had a strong following wind that snatched up every word spoken and carried it tomyears, with the result that, despite myself, I played the part of aneavesdropper, and therewas nothing I could do about it.

‘. . . and nothing else matters . . .’ Those were the first words that the wind brought me (the voice belonged to Her Highness). ‘Take me away. It doesn’t matter where to. I would go to the end of the world with you. No, truly, do not grimace like that! We can go to America. I have read that there are no titles or class prejudices there. Why don’t you say something?’

I lashed the entirely innocent horses and they started trotting a bit faster.

‘Class p-prejudices exist even in America, but that is not the problem . . .’

‘Then what is?’

‘Everything. I am forty years old and you are nineteen. That is one. I am, as Karnovich recently put it, “an individual of no definite profession”, while you, Xenia, are a grand princess. That is two. I know life only too well, and you do not know it at all. That is three. And the most important thing of all is that I belong only to myself, but you belong to Russia. We could not be happy.’

His habitual manner of numbering off his arguments seemed inappropriate to me in this particular instance, but I had to admit that this time at least Erast Petrovich was speaking like a responsible man. From the ensuing silence I concluded that Her Highness had been sobered by his words of reason.

A minute later she asked quietly: ‘Do you not love me?’

And then he spoiled everything!

‘I didn’t s-say that. You . . . you have d-disturbed m-my emotional equilibrium,’ Fandorin babbled, stammering more than usual. ‘I d-did not think that such a thing could ever happen to me again, b-but it seems that it has . . .’

‘So you do love me then? You love me?’ she persisted. ‘If you do, then nothing else matters. If you don’t, it matters even less. One word, just one word. Well?’

My heartwas wrung by the hope and fear that I heard in Xenia Georgievna’s voice, and yet at that moment in time I could not help admiring her resolve and noble candour.

Naturally, the sly seducer replied: ‘Yes, I l-love you.’

How could he possibly dare not to love Her Highness!

‘At least, I am in love,’ Fandorin immediately corrected himself. ‘Forgive me for speaking absolutely honestly. You have completely turned my head, but . . . I am not sure that it is simply a matter of you . . . Perhaps the m-magic of a title played some part in it . . . In that case it is shameful . . . I am afraid to p-prove unworthy of your love . . .’

At this point I found this heroic gentleman rather pitiful. At least, in comparison with Her Highness, who was prepared to abandon everything for the sake of her feelings, and in this case ‘everything’ signified so much that it was simply breathtaking.

‘And also . . .’ he said in a more restrained, sadder voice, ‘I do not agree with you that nothing matters apart from love. There are more important things than love. That is probably the main lesson I have drawn from my life.’

Xenia Georgievna replied in a ringing voice: ‘Erast Petrovich, you have been a poor student of life.’ And then she shouted to me: ‘Afanasii, turn back!’

For the rest of the way they did not say a word to each other.

I was not present at the meeting that preceded Mademoiselle’s departure for her next meeting with Lind, since none of the grand dukes were involved and no drinks were served. I was left languishing in the corridor, and now that my fears for Xenia Georgievna were a little less acute, I was able to focus on the most important thing – the fate of the young prisoner. What the all-wise Snezhnevskaya had said about having to sacrifice the lesser for the sake of the greater had seared my heart, but Izabella Felitsianovna did not know anything about Fandorin’s plan. There was still hope – everything depended on whether Mademoiselle was able to determine the location of the hiding place.

The meeting did not last long. I caught Mademoiselle in the corridor and she told me in French: ‘I just hope I don’t lose count. I didn’t sleep all last night – I was training my memory. Erast said that the best way to do it is to learn poetry that you do not completely understand. So I learned a passage from your terrible poet Pushkin:

‘Oh ye at whom have trembled

Europe’s mighty tribes,

Oh, predatory Gauls (ce sont nous, les franзais)¹

You too have fallen in your graves.

Oh dread! Oh fearsome times!

Where are you now, beloved son of fortune and Bellona (il parle de Napolйon)²

The voice that scorned the truth, and faith and law,

Dreaming in pride of casting thrones down by the sword,

Has vanished like a frightful dream when morning comes!’

‘After that, memorising the creaks of the wheels will be a sheer pleasure. Just as long as I don’t lose count. Imust not lose count. Today is our last chance. I am very nervous.’

Yes, I could see that her affected cheerfulness and all this jolly banter was merely a screen for profound anxiety.

I wanted to say that I was I was verymuch afraid for her. After all, Fandorin had said that Doctor Lind did not leave witnesses. It would be nothing to him to kill the intermediary when she was no longer needed. If those in higher spheres were willing to abandon Mikhail Georgievich to his fate, then who would be concerned about the death of a mere governess?

‘I should not have run after that carriage. It was an unforgivable mistake,’ I finally said in Russian. ‘You see, now you will have to carry the can for me.’

It was not what I wanted to say – it came out wrongly – and there was that phrase ‘carry the can’, which a foreigner was unlikely to know. But even so Mademoiselle understood me perfectly well.

‘Do not be so afraid, Athanas,’ she said with a smile, calling me by my given name for the first time. On her lips it acquired an unfamiliar Caucasian ring. ‘Lind will not kill me today. I still have to bring him the Orlov tomorrow.’

I am ashamed to admit it, but at that moment I felt a sense of relief as I recalled how confidently Snezhnevskaya had declared that the Orlovwould not be handed over to the kidnappers under any circumstances. Itwas a base unworthy feeling, and I blanched at the realisation that in that moment I had betrayed poor little Mikhail Georgievich, who had already been abandoned by everyone else. In my opinion, the very worst of sins is to abuse those most precious of human feelings, love and trust.

And then I felt even more ashamed, because I remembered that Mr Masa had called me that Japaneseword. Ura . . . girimono?

I really had behaved irresponsibly on that occasion. And as a decent human being I was obliged to apologise.

Having wished the governess success in her difficult and dangerous mission, I went to find the Japanese servant.

I knocked at the door and heard an unintelligible soundwhich, upon reflection, I decided to regard as permission to enter.

Mr Masawas sitting on the floor in nothing but his underwear, that is in the same attire in which I had once seen him jumping against the wall. There was a sheet of paper lying in front of him, and Fandorin’s valet was painstakingly tracing out complicated patterns on it with a brush.

‘What you want?’ he asked, squinting at me with his narrow, spiteful little eyes.

I was rather taken aback by his rude tone of voice, but I had to finish what I had begun. My late father always used to say that true dignity lay not in the way one was treated by others, but in the way one acted oneself.

‘Mr Masa,’ I said, bowing, ‘I have come to tell you, firstly, that I harbour no claims on you for the blow that you gave me, for my own offence was fully deserving of such treatment. And, secondly, that I am truly sorry that I was unwittingly responsible for the failure of Mr Fandorin’s plan. Please forgive me.’

The Japanese bowed formally to me in reply, without getting up off the floor.

‘And I ask you forgive me,’ he said, ‘but cannot forgive you. Your humbre servant.’

And he bowed again.

Well, have it your own way, I thought. I had done my duty. I said goodbye and left the room.

I needed to occupy myself with something until Mademoiselle’s return, so that the time would not drag so very slowly. I walked round the rooms, and in the drawing room my eye was caught by a carpet on the wall hung with weapons from the Caucasus and Turkey. I stood on a chair, took down a dagger with silver knurling decoration and ran my finger along it. The scabbard was clean, with not a single speck of dust. I wondered if Somov was meticulous enough to pay the same attention to the blade as he did to the scabbard.

I slowly drew the blade out, breathed on it and held it up to the light. Just as I had thought – smears. And what if one of the guests were to examine it, out of simple curiosity? That would be awkward. Somov had a long way to go before he would be a genuine butler after all, I decided with a certain feeling of inner satisfaction.

I heard strange flapping footsteps and saw Mr Masa, still in his Japanese underwear and with no shoes on his feet. Good Lord, the liberties that he took! Wandering round the house in that state!

I suppose Imust have looked very angry, and the naked dagger in my hand probably looked most ominous. In any case, the Japanese was clearly frightened.

He ran up to me, seized hold of my arm and began jabbering so fast that I could not make out more than half of what he said: ‘Now I see you trury sorry. You genuine samurai, accept your aporogies. No need hara-kiri.’

All I understoodwas that for some reason he wished to temper his wrath with mercy and was no longer angry with me. Well then, so much the better.

I did not complete my round of the rooms. The footman Lipps sought me out in the pantry, where I was checking whether the napkins had been well ironed, and told me I was wanted immediately in Pavel Georgievich’s room on the first floor.

Lieutenant Endlung was also sitting in the room. He glanced at mewith a mysterious air as he smoked a longTurkish chibouk.

‘Sit down, Afanasii, sit down,’ His Highness said to me, which was already unusual in itself.

I cautiously lowered myself onto the edge of a chair, anticipating nothing good from this conversation.

Pavel Georgievich looked excited and determined, but the subject that he broached was not at all what I had been dreading.

‘Filya has been telling me for a long time, Afanasii, that you are not at all as simple as you seem,’ the grand duke began, with a nod towards Endlung, ‘but I would not believe him. Now I see that it is true.’

Iwas on the point of trying to explain myself, but His Highness gestured abruptly as if to say ‘Be quiet’ and then continued.

‘And that iswhy we have discussed things and decided to enlist your support. Youmust not think that I am some heartless good-for-nothing, and I have just been sitting around doing nothing all this time or making the rounds of the restaurants. No, Afanasii, all that is nothing but a facade, in actual fact Filya and I have been thinking of only one thing – how to help poor Mika. The police are all well and good, but we’re not entirely useless either. We have to do something, otherwise those state know-it-alls will finally get the criminals to starve my brother to death or just simply kill him. That glass bauble means more to them!’

This was the plain truth. I thought exactly the same but, to be quite honest, I was not expecting any sensible proposals from the dashing sailors, and I merely inclined my head respectfully.

‘Endlung has a theory of his own,’ Pavel Georgievich went on excitedly. ‘Tell him, Filya.’

‘Gladly,’ the lieutenant responded, blowing out a cloud of smoke. ‘Judge for yourself, Afanasii Stepanovich. It couldn’t possibly be simpler. What do we know about this Doctor Lind?’

Iwaited for Endlung to answer his own question. He raised one finger and continued: ‘Only one thing. That he is a misogynist. He simply has to be a misogynist! Any normal man fond of the tootsies, like youandme–’ I could not help wincing at that remark ‘– would never stoop to such abominations. That’s true, surely?’

SomehowIwas not really convinced of the lieutenant’s powers of analysis. However, Endlung surprised me.

‘And who is it that cannot stand women?’ he asked with a triumphant air.

‘Yes, indeed, who?’ Pavel Georgievich echoed.

His Highness and his friend exchanged glances.

‘Come on now, Afanasii, think.’

I thought a little more.

‘Well, there are many women who cannot bear their sisters.’

‘Ah, Afanasii, what a slowcoach you are, really. We’re talking about Doctor Lind, not women.’

Endlung said emphatically: ‘Buggers.’

For a moment I did not understand what he meant, but then I realised that he was employing the French word bougre, which means menwho are referred to in decent society as homosexuals. In any case, the lieutenant immediately explained his idea by using a different term that is not accepted at all in good society, and which I therefore shall not repeat.

‘And suddenly everything is clear!’ Endlung exclaimed. ‘Lind is a bugger, and his entire gang are all queers – buggers and pansies.’

‘What?’ I asked.

‘Pansies, also known as girlies, little nieces, snivellers, passive queers. Naturally, in a gang like that, they’ll all stick up for each other! And it’s no accident that Lind chose Moscow for his atrocities. Thanks to Uncle Sam, this place is a real Mecca for queers now. You know what the people say: “What a queer place Moscow is these days!”’

I had heard this phrase alluding to the specific partialities of Simeon Alexandrovich before and I considered it my duty to say to Endlung: ‘Surely, Mr Gentleman of the Bedchamber, you do not think that the governor general of Moscowcould be involved in the abduction of his own nephew?’

‘Of course not!’ Pavel Georgievich exclaimed. ‘But crowds of all sorts of riff-raff hang around Uncle Sam. For instance, take our own dear guests, Carr and Banville. Let us concede that His Lordship is more or less known to us, although the acquaintance is only recent. But who is this Mr Carr? And why did Banville ask Papa to invite him here?’

‘Oh come now, Your Highness, such a great event – the coronation.’

‘And what if it was for a completely different reason?’ Endlung asked, with a sweeping gesture of his pipe. ‘What if he’s not really a lord at all? And of course that slicker Carr is especially suspicious. Remember, they arrived at the Hermitage on the very day of the kidnapping. They’re always wandering about, ferreting things out. I’m absolutely certain that one or the other of them is connected with Doctor Lind, or perhaps even both of them are.’

‘Carr, beyond a shadow of a doubt, it’s Carr,’ the grand duke declared confidently. ‘Banville is a man from high society, after all. There’s no way to fake those manners and that way of talking.’

‘And just who, Paulie, told you Doctor Lind is not a man from high society?’ the lieutenant objected.

They were both right, and in general it all sounded very far from stupid. This was something I had not expected.

‘Should you not inform Colonel Karnovich of your suspicions?’ I suggested.

‘No, no,’ said Pavel Georgievich, shaking his head. ‘He or that blockhead Lasovsky will only ruin everything again. And in any case they both have plenty to worry about with the coronation tomorrow.’

‘Mr Fandorin, then?’ I asked reluctantly.

Endlung and His Highness looked at each other.

‘You know, Afanasii,’ the grand duke said slowly, ‘Fandorin is a clever chap, of course, but he seems to be preparing some cunning kind of operation. So let him get on with it.’

‘We’ll manage on our own,’ the lieutenant snapped. ‘Andwe’ll see whose operation is more cunning. But we need someone to help us. Tell me, Ziukin, are you with us or not?’

I agreed immediately, without even the slightest hesitation. I found the idea of doing something useful again, and without Mr Fandorin being involved, immensely inspiring.

‘What do we have to do?’ I asked.

‘First, tail them,’ Endlung announced briskly. ‘Both of them. Paulie can’t do it – he’s too conspicuous and also he has heaps of responsibilities. The royal family has an all-night vigil today, and in general he’s going to be like a little pug dog on a tight lead. That’s why we’ve brought you in. So I’m going to follow Carr and you, Ziukin, are going to follow Banville.’

I noted that he had kept the most promising suspect for himself, but I did not object – itwas Endlung not Iwho had come up with the idea.

‘Ah, how I envy you!’ His Highness exclaimed ruefully.

In accordance with our agreement, I installed myself with the Moscow Gazette on the bench beside the stairs, from where I had a view of His Lordship’s door. Endlung sat down to lay out a game of patience in the small drawing room, because he could see Mr Carr’s room from there.

In anticipation of our surveillance work I had changed my livery for a good suit of dark-grey English wool, a present from the grand princess the previous year. Endlung had also changed into civilian clothes – a sandy-coloured two-piece suit and dandified shoes with white gaiters.

To while away the time, I read the text of the solemn announcement to the people of the next day’s coronation:

His most Serene, Sovereign and Great Highness, the Emperor Nikolai Alexandrovich, having ascended the ancestral throne of the Russian Empire and the Kingdom of Poland and Grand Dukedom of Finland incorporated therein, has deigned, in the fashion of those devout sovereigns, his ancestors, to decree as follows:

The most sacred coronation of His Imperial Majesty and his anointment from the spiritual world shall take place, with the help of Almighty God, on the fourteenth day of this month of May. His Imperial Majesty has decreed that his consort, Her Majesty the Empress Alexandra Feodorovna, shall also be privy to these most sacred proceedings. This triumphant festivity is hereby proclaimed to all loyal subjects so that on this long-awaited day they might redouble their prayers to the King of Kings to illumine His Majesty’s kingdom with all the power of His grace and strengthen it in peace and quietude, to His own most sacred glory and the unshakeable prosperity of the state.

The sublime dignity of these majestic words filled my heart with a calm certitude. Reading official documents had always had a most salutary effect on me, and especially now, when the inviolability of the edifice of the Russian monarchy had suddenly come under threat.

I also studied with pleasure the composition of the company of heralds that was reading out this message every day on the Senate Square of the Kremlin: ‘An adjutant general with the rank of full general, two adjutant generals of adjutant-general rank, two high masters of coronation ceremonies, two heralds, four masters of ceremony, two Senate secretaries, two divisions in mounted formation – one of Her Majesty the Empress Maria Feodorovna’s cavalry guards and the other of the mounted lifeguards, with kettledrums and full choruses of trumpets, each division to have two trumpeters with trumpets decorated with cloth of gold displaying the state crest and twelve lead mounts in richly decorated horsecloths.’ How beautiful! Such music in every word, in the sound of every rank and title!

The previous year, on the initiative of the new empress, who wished to be more Russian than the Russians themselves, a genuine revolution had almost taken place in the names of court rankingswhen a projectwas conceived to replace all the German titles with old ones from Muscovy. According to Endlung the unrest among the servants at court had been reminiscent of the picture The Last Day of Pompeii by the artist Briullov, but, thank God, it had come to nothing. When the High House Marshal Prince Alten-Coburg-Svyatopolk-Bobruisky learned that under the new (or rather, old) order he would simply be called a butler, there was a great scandal, and the project was consigned to oblivion.

Through a hole I had made in a page of the newspaper, I saw Mr Freyby approaching along the corridor and pretended to be absorbed in reading, but even so the Englishman stopped and greeted me.

The butler’s company usually had a calming effect on me, but on this occasion his appearance was most inopportune, for the door of Lord Banville’s room might open at any moment.

‘Good news?’ Freyby asked, nodding at the newspaper and fishing his dictionary out of his pocket. ‘Khoroshii . . . novost?’

I did not have my dictionary with me – it was in my livery – and so I limited myself to a simple nod.

After looking me over carefully, the Englishman pronounced a phrase of four words: ‘You look better today.’ Then he rustled the pages of his lexicon again and translated it into Russian: ‘Ty . . . smotret . . . luchshe . . .sevodnya.’

I started and looked up at his ruddy features. Why would he advise me to look better? How did he know about our plan? What did he know in general?

The butler smiled benignly, bowed and proceeded on his way.

Five minutes later Mr Carr came out into the corridor, looking rather strange: despite the clear warm weather, he was wrapped in a long cloak reaching right down to his heels; his broad hat with a drooping brim was pulled down almost as far as his nose; and I also noticed that his shoes had heels that were high and extremely thin. On pressing my eye right up against the hole in the page, I sawthat the English gentlemanwas even more thickly painted and rouged than usual.

Stepping gracefully, Mr Carrwalked through to the exit. Then Endlung strode past me, whistling light-heartedly. He looked round and winked, and I remained at my post. But I did not have to wait for long. Literally half a minute later His Lordship’s door squeaked and Banville followed them out, walking on tiptoe. He was also wearing a cloak, but not such a long one as Mr Carr’s.

There was something mysterious going on. I waited for as brief a moment as possible, put on my bowler hat and joined this strange procession, bringing up the rear. Onthat day the emperor and empress had moved from the Alexandriisky Palace to the Kremlin, and so all the police agents had disappeared from the park, which was most opportune as to any observer our manoeuvres would certainly have seemed suspicious. I could not signal to Endlung because I was afraid of startling Lord Banville, and the lieutenant himself did not look round. However, he was strolling along casually, and I soon realised that His Lordshipwas not interested in Endlung at all, but in Mr Carr.

Outside the gates the latter took a cab and drove off in the direction of Kaluga Square. As he was getting into the carriage, the flap of his cloak fell open and something bright and pearly, like the hem of a brocade or satin dress, glinted in the light of the setting sun.

Endlung walked a bit further along the pavement, tapping his cane, stopped a cab coming towards him and, after exchanging a few words with the cabby, drove off in the same direction. But Banville was unlucky – there were no more cabs on the street. The Briton ran out into the roadway, looking after the carriages as they drove away. I concealed myself in the bushes, just to be on the safe side.

Five minuteswent by, or perhaps even ten, before His Lordship managed to get a cab. Banville obviously knew, or had guessed, where Mr Carr had gone to, because he shouted something very brief to the driver, and the carriage rattled off over the cobblestones.

Now it was my turn to feel nervous. But I did not wait for an empty cab to come along – I stopped a little man driving a water wagon, offered him two roubles and took a seat beside a barrel at the front. The man lashed his dray horse with his whip; it shook its tangled mane, snorted and set off along the broad street at a pace every bit as good as a cabman’s mare. No doubt in my respectable attire I must have looked very strange on that rough wooden cart, but at the time that was of absolutely no importance whatever – the important thing was to keep Lord Banville in my field of vision.

We drove across Krimsky Most Street, already familiar to me, and turned into a side street. Leaving the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour behind on our right, we found ourselves on a rich and beautiful street lined with nothing but palaces and mansions on both sides. Carriages were drawing up one after another outside the brightly illuminated front entrance of one of the houses. Banville also got out there and paid his driver. He walked past a haughty doorman covered in gold braid and went in through a pair of tall doors decorated with mouldings. I was left standing on the pavement as the water carter went rumbling on his way with my two roubles.

As far as I could tell, therewas a masquerade about to begin in the mansion because everyone who arrived was wearing a mask. On looking more closely at the guests, I discovered that they were divided into two types: men in ordinary frock coats and suits, and individuals of indeterminate sex, like Mr Carr, swathed in extremely long cloaks. Many people arrived in pairs, armin arm, and I guessedwhat kind of gatheringwas taking place.

Someone took hold of my elbow from behind. I looked round – it was Endlung.

‘This is the Elysium,’ he whispered, and his eyes sparkled. ‘A privileged club for Moscow queers. Mine’s in there as well.’

‘Mr Carr?’ I asked.

The lieutenant nodded and twitched the curled ends of his wheat-coloured moustache thoughtfully.

‘It’s not that simple just towalk in. We need make-up. Eureka!’ He slapped me on the shoulder. ‘Follow me, Ziukin! The Variety Theatre is only five minutes from here; I have lots of lady friends there.’

He took me by the arm and led me across the rapidly darkening street.

‘Did you see that some of them have cloaks that reach right down to the ground? Those are the pansies – they’re wearing women’s dresses under their cloaks. There’s no way you would make a pansy, Ziukin; you’ll have to be the auntie. So be it, I shall perform a heroic feat for the sake of the royal family and dress up as a pansy.’

‘Who am I going to be?’ I asked, thinking that I must have misheard.

‘The auntie. That’s what the pansies’ patrons are called.’

We turned into the stage entrance of the theatre. The attendant bowed low to Endlung and even doffed his peaked cap, for which he received a coin from the lieutenant.

‘Quick, quick,’ said the decisive gentleman of the bedchamber, urging me on as he ran up a steep and non-too-clean staircase. ‘Now, where would be best? Ah, Zizi’s dressing room would do. It’s five to nine now, almost time for the interval.’

In the empty dressing room he took a seat in front of the mirror as if he belonged there, examined his own face critically and said with a sigh: ‘I shall have to shave the damn moustache off. The Russian navy hasn’t made such sacrifices since the Black Sea fleet was scuttled. Right, you English buggers, you’ll answer to me for this . . .’

With a steadfast hand he picked up a pair of scissors from a small table and snipped off first one side of his moustache and then the other. Such willing self-sacrifice demonstrated yet again that I had underestimated Lieutenant Endlung, and that Georgii Alexandrovich had been quite right about him.

When the courageous sailor had lathered up the remaining stubble and opened a razor, two rather pretty but quite incredibly over-painted young ladies came in, wearing dresses with spangles and necklines that were much too low.

‘Filya!’ one of them, light-haired and slim, exclaimed, and threw herself on Endlung from behind, giving him a loud kiss on the neck.

‘Filiusha!’ the other one, a plump brunette, squealed just as joyfully, and kissed the lathered lieutenant on the cheek.

‘Zizi, Lola, careful!’ he shouted at the young ladies. ‘I’ll cut myself.’

Then there was a positive hail of questions and comments, so that I could no longer tell which of the girls had said what: ‘Why are you shaving off your moustache? You’ll look a real freak without it! Hey, you’ll blunt my Zolingen with that stubble of yours! Are we going anywhere after the show? And where’s Paulie? Who’s this with you? Phoo, he’s terribly stuffy, doesn’t look like much fun.’

‘Who’s not much fun – Afanasii?’ Endlung interceded for me. ‘If you only knew . . . He can give me a hundred points start. The moustache? That’s for a bet. Afanasii and I are going to a masquerade. Come on, girls, turn me into a lovably plump little lady, and make him something a bit more, you know, showy. What’s this?’

He took a thick ginger beard off a hook on the wall and answered his own question.

‘Aha, from Nero. Little Lola’s simply delightful in that role. Turn this way, brother Ziukin . . .’

The actresses set to work merrily, without stopping talking for a single moment. And five minutes later there was a most unsavoury-looking gentleman glaring out at me from the mirror, with a thick red beard and tangled eyebrows of the same colour, thick hair cut in a fringe and a monocle into the bargain.

Endlung’s transformation took more time, but he became completely unrecognisable. After adjusting the folds of his sumptuous dress, which was completely covered in ruffles, the lieutenant put on a half-mask, stretched out his thickly painted lips into a smile and was suddenly transformed into a well-padded floozy. I noticed for the first time that he had coquettish little dimples in his cheeks.

‘Very chic!’ Endlung said approvingly. ‘Girls, you are absolute kittens! We’ll win this bet. Forward, Afanasii, time is precious!’

As we approached the entrance flooded with electric light, I also put on a half-mask. I was very much afraid that they would not let us into the club, but obviously we looked entirely comme il faut, and the doorman opened the doors for us with a respectful bow.

We entered a richly appointed hallway, where Endlung threw off the cloak he had put on over his ethereal dress. There was a wide white stairway leading up, and the flight of steps ended at a huge mirror in a bronze frame, with two couples like us standing in front of it, preening themselves.

I was about to walk on by, but Endlung nudged me with his elbow, and I realised that it would have looked suspicious. For the sake of appearances, we loitered in front of the mirror, but I deliberately screwed up my eyes in order not to see the caricature created by Lola and Zizi’s deft hands. The lieutenant, however, regarded his reflection with quite evident enjoyment: he adjusted his little curls, extended his leg and stretched out his foot. Thank God, they had chosen him a dress with no dйcolletй and covered shoulders.

The spacious hall was furnished with luxurious good taste in the very latest Venetian style – with gold and silver panels on the walls, cosy little alcoves and large grottoes created using tropical plants in tubs. There was a buffet with various wines and hors d’њuvres in the corner, and a bright-blue grand piano on a high platform. I had never seen one like that before. On all sides there was the sound of muted voices and laughter, and the smell of perfume and expensive tobacco.

At first glance it looked like a perfectly ordinary high-society rout. On closer observation, however, one was struck by the excessively ruddy cheeks and dark eyebrows of some of the beaux, and the ladies looked very strange altogether: far too broad in the shoulder, with prominent Adam’s apples, and one actually had a slim moustache. Endlung also noticed her, and a shadow flitted across his animated face – apparently he had sacrificed his moustache in vain. Then again, there were some creatures with nothing at all to indicate that they were not men. For instance, one in the costume of Columbine, who seemed vaguely familiar to me, could probably have rivalled the slim waist and suppleness of Miss Zizi herself.

Endlung and I walked arm-in-arm between the palm trees, trying to spot Banville and Carr. Almost immediately a gentleman wearing a steward’s ribbon in a bow on his chest came dashing up to us, pressed his hands to his heart and chanted reproachfully: ‘A breach, a breach of the rules. Those who arrive together must amuse themselves separately. You’ll have plenty of time for spooning later, my darlings.’

He winked at me in a most brazen fashion and pinched Endlung gently on the cheek, for which the lieutenant immediately slapped him on the forehead with his fan.

‘A frisky one,’ the steward said to the gentleman of the bedchamber. ‘Permit me to introduce you to the Count of Monte Cristo.’

He led a red-lipped old man in a black curly wig over to Endlung.

‘And you, Ginger, will discover ecstasy in the company of a delightful nymph.’

I assumed that in this circle it was the custom to address everyone familiarly, and replied in the same tone: ‘Thank you, my considerate friend, but I would prefer—’

However, a brash nymph in a Greek tunic with a gilded harp clasped under her arm was already hanging on my elbow.

She immediately began talking some nonsense or other in an extremely unnatural falsetto, continually pursing her lips up into a tight heart shape.

I dragged the companionwho had been imposed on me across the hall and suddenly saw Mr Carr. He was wearing a velvet mask, but I recognised him immediately from his blindingly bright yellowhair. The fortunate Englishmanwas sitting all alone by the wall, drinking champagne and gazing around. I saw that the lieutenant and his old man had occupied the next table. My eyes met Endlung’s, and he turned his head emphatically to one side.

I followed the direction of his glance. Lord Banville was standing behind a column nearby, although he was more difficult to identify than Mr Carr, because his mask covered his face right down to the chin. However, I recognised the familiar trousers with scarlet trimming.

I seated myself on a couch and the nymph gladly plumped down beside me, pressing her thigh against my leg.

‘Are you tired?’ shewhispered. ‘And you look like such a strong boy. What a sweet wart you have. Just like a raisin.’

She touched my cheek with her finger. I barely managed to stop myself from slapping the impudent woman, that is man, on the hand.

‘Lovely beard, so silky soft,’ the nymph cooed. ‘Are you always such a surly bugaboo?’

Without taking my eyes off Banville, Imuttered: ‘Yes, always.’

‘The way you looked at me just now stung like a whiplash.’

‘I’ll give you a lashing all right, if you don’t keep your hands to yourself,’ I snarled, deciding not to beat about the bush.

‘On my botty?’ she squealed with a quiver and pressed her entire body against me.

‘I’ll give you a drubbing you’ll remember for a long time,’ I said and shoved her away.

‘A long, long time?’ my tormentor babbled and heaved a deep sigh. ‘How lovely you are! Charming! Charming!’

The steward trotted over to a very tall slim gentleman wearing a scarlet silk mask beneath which a well-tended imperial beard could be seen. I spotted the austere dispassionate face of Foma Anikeevich behind the new arrival and immediately guessed who this was. The governor general’s butler looked as if he was accompanying his master to a perfectly ordinary rout. Foma Anikeevich had not put on a mask, and he was carrying a long velvet cloak over his arm – he had deliberately not left it in the cloakroom so that the guests would not be confused concerning his status. A subtle man, no two ways about it.

‘Where shall I seat you, divine Filador?’ I heard the steward ask in honeyed tones.

The governor general glanced round the hall from his height of almost two metres and set off resolutely towards the spot where Mr Carr was sitting alone. He sat down beside the Englishman, kissed him on the cheek and whispered something in his ear, tickling him with his moustache. Carr smiled, his eyes sparkled and he leaned his head over to one side.

I saw Banville withdraw deeper into the shadows.

A Columbine appeared quite close to him, the same one who had recently impressed me with her unaffected gracefulness. She stood by thewall, looking at His Highness and wringing her slim hands. This was a familiar gesture, and now I knew who it was – Prince Glinsky, Simeon Alexandrovich’s adjutant.

Meanwhile a performance began on the stage. Two pansies started singing a duet – a romance by Mr Poigin: ‘Oh, do not go; stay here with me.’

They sang most skilfully, with genuine feeling, and I was quite absorbed despite myself, but at the words ‘My fiery caresses will kindle and consume you’ the nymph suddenly laid her head on my shoulder and her fingers slid inside my shirt, as if unintentionally, which reduced me to a state of genuine horror. Overcome by panic, I looked round at Endlung. He was laughing wildly and lashing his wrinkled beau across the hands with his fan. The lieutenant was apparently faring no better than I was. The singers were rewarded with tumultuous applause, in which my admirer joined, relieving me temporarily of her importunate advances.

The stewardwalked up on to the stage and announced: ‘At the request of our dear Filador, there will now be a performance of the belly dance that everyone has come to love so well. The dancer is the incomparable Madam Desirйe, who travelled to Alexandria especially in order to master this ancient and high art! Please welcome her!’

To the sound of applause a well-padded middle-aged gentleman walked up onto the stage, wearing turquoise stockings, a short cape and a skirt studded with sequins, so that his stomach – round and unnaturally white (I assume because it had recently been shaved) – was left exposed.

The accompanist started playing a Persian melody from the opera Odalisque and ‘Madam Desirйe’ began shaking her hips and thighs, which set her substantial belly quivering in waves.

I found this sight extremely unappetising, but it threw the audience into a frenzy. There were shouts from all sides: ‘Bravo! You charmer!’

And at this point my nymph cast all restraint aside – I was only just in time to catch her hand as it descended onto my knee.

‘You’re so unapproachable, I adore you,’ she whispered in my ear.

Simeon Alexandrovich suddenly pulled his companion sharply towards him and pressed his lips against Mr Carr’s in a prolonged kiss. I involuntarily glanced at Foma Anikeevich, who was standing behind the grand duke’s chair with an imperturbable expression on his face, and thought: how much self-control and willpower he must have to bear his cross with such dignity. If Foma Anikeevich knew that I was here in the hall, he would probably die of shame. Thank God, I thought, that it is impossible to recognise me in this ginger beard.

And then something happened.

Lord Banville ran out from behind his column, shouting something unintelligible. He covered the distance to the table in several bounds, grabbed Mr Carr by the shoulders and dragged him to one side, lisping something in his foreign language. Simeon Alexandrovich jumped to his feet, took hold of Mr Carr’s dress and pulled him back. I also got up, realising that an appalling scandal highly dangerous to the monarchy was unfolding before my very eyes, but what happened next exceeded even my very worst fears. Banville let go of Mr Carr and gave His Highness a resounding slap across the face! The music broke off, the belly dancer squatted down on her haunches in fright, and it went very, very quiet. The only thing to be heard was Lord Banville’s agitated breathing.

This was unprecedented! A physical insult inflicted on a member of the royal family! And by a foreigner. I believe I groaned, and rather loudly too. But a moment later I realised that there was no member of the royal family present, and there could not be. The slap had been received by Mr Filador, the man in the scarlet mask.

Simeon Alexandrovich’s eyebrows curved together in an expression of perplexity – apparently His Highness had never found himself in a situation like this before. The governor general spontaneously put one hand to his bruised cheek and took a step back. His Lordship, however, no longer displaying the slightest sign of agitation, slowly pulled awhite glove off one of his hands. Oh God! This really would be beyond repair – there would be a challenge to a duel, and a public one. Banville would name himself, and then His Highness would no longer be able to maintain his anonymity.

Foma Anikeevich moved forward, but he was forestalled by Columbine. She ran up to His Lordship and delivered a rapid sequence of slaps – one, two, three, four – to the Briton’s face. They were even louder than the one that Simeon Alexandrovich had received. Banville’s head swung from side to side.

‘I am Prince Glinsky!’ the adjutant declared in French, tearing off his mask. He looked very fine at that moment – not a woman and not a youth, but some special kind of being, like the archangels in old Italian paintings. ‘You, sir, have violated the constitution of our club, and for that I demand satisfaction from you!’

Banville also removed his mask, and I seemed to see him properly for the first time. Fire in his eyes, cruel folds running down from the sides of his nose, bloodless lips and two patches of scarlet on his cheeks. I had never seen a face more terrible. How could I possibly have regarded this vampire as a harmless eccentric?

‘I am Donald Neville Lambert, the eleventh Viscount Banville. And you, Prince, will receive complete satisfaction from me. And I from you.’

Foma Anikeevich threw the velvet cloak across the grand duke’s shoulders and delicately tugged on his elbow. Ah, how superb! He had maintained complete presence of mind even in such a desperate situation. The governor general could not be present, even in a mask, at a challenge to a duel. Itwas not merely a scandal but a criminal offence, and itwas the authorities’ sacred responsibility to suppress such activities.

His Highness and Foma Anikeevich hastily withdrew. Mr Carr darted after them, holding on his half-mask.

The steward waved to the accompanist, who started fingering the piano keys again, and I did not hear how His Lordship’s conversation with the prince ended. They went out almost immediately, accompanied by two other gentlemen, one of whom was wearing a smoking jacket and the other a woman’s dress with gloves that reached up to his elbows.

I found the young adjutant’s action truly admirable. How about that for a pansy! To sacrifice his career and reputation, to put his very life at stake – and all to save the superior whom he loved and who had treated him in a manner that was far from charitable.

The nymph immediately jumped to her feet. ‘Yes, yes, let’s go,’ she whispered, grasping me firmly by the elbow. ‘I’m all on fire.’

Believing that it would not be difficult to rid myself of this outrageous creature outside in the street, I started walking towards the exit, but the nymph tugged me in the opposite direction.

‘No, silly. Not that way. Downstairs here, in the basement, they have excellent rooms! You promised to give me a drubbing that I would remember for a long time . . .’

My patience finally snapped at that.

‘Sir, release my arm,’ I said in a cool voice. ‘I am in a hurry.’

‘“Sir!”’ the nymph gasped, as if I had sworn at her in the foullest of language. And then she shrieked, ‘Gentlemen! He called me “sir”! He is not one of us, gentlemen!’

She pulled away from me in disgust.

Someone at one side said: ‘And I see that beard looks false too!’

A sturdy-looking gentleman in a light-blue morning coat tugged on Nero’s beard, and it slipped sideways in a most treacherous fashion.

‘Right, you villain, you odious spy, you’ll pay for this!’ the sturdy gentleman said with a ferocious grin, and I barely managed to dodge the weighty fist that he swung at me.

‘Hands off!’ Endlung roared, dashing up to my assailant and giving him a jab to the jawin accordance with the rules of English boxing.

This blow sent the gentleman in the light-blue morning coat tumbling to the floor, but then others came dashing towards us from every direction.

‘Gentlemen, they are Guardians,’ someone shouted. ‘There’s a whole gang of them here. Beat them!’

Punches and kicks showered down on me from all sides, and one, which landed in my stomach, winded me. I doubled over, was knocked off my feet and not allowed to get up again.

I think Endlung put up a desperate resistance, but the odds were simply too great. We were soon standing side by side, each restrained by a dozen pairs of hands.

There were faces radiating hate everywhere.

‘They’re Guardians! Squares! Bastards! Oprichniks! Kill them, gentlemen, just as they kill us.’

Another hail of blows descended on me. There was a salty taste in my mouth and one of my teeth was wobbly.

‘Put them in the torture chamber. Let them rot there!’ someone shouted. ‘To teach the others a lesson!’

This ominous suggestion met with approval from the others.

We were bundled out into the corridor and dragged down a narrow stairway. I was kept busy dodging kicks, but Endlung swore, using a range of maritime terms, and fought for every single step. Finally we were carried along a dimly lit passage without a single window and tossed into a dark room. I struck the floor painfully with my back and an iron door slammed shut behind us.

When my eyes had adapted slightly to the gloom I saw a small grey rectangle in the top corner of the opposite wall. Holding onto the wall, I went across to it. It was a small window, but I could not reach it – it was too high.

Turning towards the spot where I calculated they must have thrownEndlung, I asked: ‘Have these gentlemen lost their minds? What are squares? Guardians?’

The invisible lieutenant groaned in the darkness and spat. ‘

,’ he said with profound feeling, using words that I will not repeat. ‘They’ve broken a crown on my tooth. Squares are non-homosexual men, which includes you and me. And the Guardians, Ziukin, are a secret society that protects the honour of the dynasty and ancient Russian houses against dishonour and disgrace. Surely you must have heard of them? The year before last they forced that . . . oh, what is his name . . . the composer . . . damn, I can’t remember . . . they forced him to take poison for pansifying

.’ Endlung mentioned the name of one of the youthful grand dukes, which I shall most certainly not repeat. ‘And last year they threw that old bugger Kvitovsky into the Neva for pestering young lawyers. Those are the Guardians that they took us for. We’re lucky that they didn’t tear us to pieces on the spot. So we’re going to die of hunger and thirst in this cellar. What a fine day, Monday the thirteenth.’

The lieutenant started squirming about on the floor, evidently making himself more comfortable, and remarked philosophically: ‘And a fortune-teller in Nagasaki told me I would die in a sea battle. I’ll never believe any predictions of the future again.’

¹That is us, the French.

²He is speaking of Napoleon.

14 May

When I woke up, I was barely able to straighten my arms and legs. Sleeping on a stone floor, even one covered with a carpet, was a harsh and cold experience. It had taken a long time for my nerves to settle down the night before. I had walked along the walls, tried picking at the lock with a tiepin, until I could feel that my strength was almost exhausted. I had lain down, thinking that I would never fall asleep and envying Endlung, who was snoring away serenely in the darkness. But eventually even I was overcome by slumber. I cannot say that it was refreshing – I awoke feeling completely shattered – but the lieutenant was still sleeping as sweetly as ever, with his head cradled on one elbow, and the thick-skinned fellow could clearly not give a damn for anything in the world.

I was able to examine the pose in which my companion in misfortune was sleeping because our prison cell was no longer pitch black: therewas a feeble grey light entering the cell through the small window. I got up and limped closer. The windowturned out to be barred and I was not able to see anything through it. It obviously opened into a niche that was a lot lower than street level. But there could be no doubt that the niche did look out towards the street – I could hear the muted clattering of wheels, horses neighing and a police constable’s whistle. All of which meant that the morning was well advanced. I took my watch out of my pocket. It was almost nine o’clock. What were they thinking about our absence in the Hermitage? Ah yes, their Highnesses would be too busy to be concerned about us – it was coronation day. And then afterwards, when Pavel Georgievich told them about our mission, it would not make any difference. After all, Banville and Carr were not to blame for what had happened to us. Were we really going to die in this stone cell?

I looked around. Ahigh, gloomy ceiling. Barewalls, absolutely empty. But suddenly I noticed that the walls were not bare at all – therewere strange objects hanging on them. Iwalked closer and shuddered in horror. For the first time in my life I realised that cold sweat was not just a figure of speech but a genuine natural phenomenon: I automatically raised a hand to my forehead, and it was sticky, wet and cold.

Hanging on thewalls in a strict geometrical arrangementwere rusty chains with shackles, enormous spiked whips, seven-tailed lashes and other instruments intended for infernal torture.

We really had been confined in a torture chamber!

I do not normally think of myself as a coward, but Iwas unable to contain a howl of genuine horror.

Endlung lifted his head up off his elbow, blinking sleepily and looking around. Yawning, he said: ‘Good morning, Afanasii Stepanovich. Only don’t tell me that it isn’t good. I can see that for myself from that twisted expression on your face.’

I pointed a trembling finger at the instruments of torture. The lieutenant froze just as he was, with his mouth open in an unfinished yawn. He whistled, got lightly to his feet and took the shackles down off the wall, then the terrible whip. He turned them over this way and that in his hands and shook his head.

‘Oh, the jokers. Take a look at this . . .’

I timidly took hold of the whip and saw that it was not leather at all. It was light and soft, made of silk. The shackles proved to be dummies too – the iron hoops for wrists and ankles were lined with thick quilted material.

‘What are these for?’ I asked, bewildered.

‘We must assume that this chamber is intended for sadomasochistic fun and games,’ Endlung explained with the air of a connoisseur. ‘All people can be divided into two categories . . .’ He raised one finger didactically. ‘Those who like to make others suffer, and those who like to be made to suffer. The first group are called sadists, and the second masochists, I don’t remember why. You, for instance, are definitely a masochist. I read somewhere that it is mostly masochists who go into service. And I am probably a sadist, because I really hate it when people batter me in the face, like yesterday. The best marriages and friendships are formed between a sadist and a masochist – each provides what the other needs. To put it simply, I hurt and abuse you in everyway I can, and you lap it up like honey. Understand?’

No, I did not understand this at all, but I remembered the mysterious words spoken by my nymph the previous day and suspected that there might just be a grain of truth in Endlung’s strange theory.

I felt better about the whips and the chains, but I had enough reasons to feel distressed even without them.

Firstly, there was my own fate. Were they really going to leave us here to die of hunger and thirst?

We went over to the outside wall and the lieutenant stood on my shoulders and shouted out of the window in a stentorian voice for a long time, but we clearly could not be heard from the street. Then we started hammering on the door. It was covered with felt on the inside, and our blows sounded muted. We could not hear a single sound from the outside.

Secondly, I was depressed by the stupidity of the situation in which we found ourselves. Yesterday Mademoiselle Declique was supposed to have identified Lind’s location; today Fandorin would carry out his operation to rescue Mikhail Georgievich; and I was sitting here like a mouse in a trap, all thanks to my own stupidity.

And thirdly, I was very hungry. After all, we had not eaten supper the day before.

I sighed involuntarily.

‘You, Ziukin, are a fine fellow,’ Endlung said in a voice hoarse from shouting. ‘That’s what I’ve always said about people like you – still waters run deep. A man for the lovely ladies, a smart comrade and no sniveller. Why the hell are you a menial servant? Join us on the Retvizan as a senior quartermaster. Our lads will give you a hearty welcome – I should think so, grand ducal butler. We’d bring all the other ships down a peg or two. Really, I mean it. You could transfer from court service to the navy – that can be arranged. You’d be accepted as an equal in the mess. Just how much longer can you carrying on pouring coffee into other people’s cups? We’d have great fun, by God we would. I remember you have no trouble with the ship rolling and pitching. Ah, Ziukin, you haven’t been to Alexandria!’ The lieutenant rolled his eyes up and back. ‘Himmeldonnerwetter, the brothels they have there! You’d be sure to like it, with your taste for petite ladies – they serve up little dolls that you can sit on the palm of your hand, but they still have the full set of tackle. I tell you, a tiny little waist like that, but up here they’re like this, and like that!’ He demonstrated with rounded gestures. ‘I myself have always adored well-built women, but I can understand you too – the petite ones have their own special attraction. Tell me about Snezhnevskaya, as one comrade to another.’ Endlung put his hand on my shoulder and looked into my eyes. ‘What has that Polish girl got that that gives them all such a thrill? Is it truewhat they say, that at moments of passion she makes special sounds that drive men insane, the same way the sirens’ song affected Odysseus’ companions? Comeon!’Henudgedmewith his elbow and winked at me. ‘Paulie says he didn’t hear any special kind of chanting during their only date, but Paulie’s still a pup – he probably wasn’t able to arouse genuine passion in that little Polish piece of yours – and you’re a man of experience. Come on, tell me. What is it to you? We’re not going to get out of here alive anyway. I’d really like to know what kind of sounds they are.’ And the lieutenant broke into song: ‘I hear the sounds of a Polish girl, the heavenly sounds of the beautiful Pole.’

Of course I did not know anything about any passionate sounds supposedly produced by Izabella Felitsianovna, and even if I had, I would not have revealed what I knew about such matters. I tried to indicate this by assuming the appropriate expression.

Endlung sighed in disappointment.

‘So it’s a lie? Or are you just being cagey? All right, don’t tell me if you don’t want to, although that’s not the way good comrades behave. Sailors don’t play cagey like that. You know, when you don’t see dry land for months at a time, it’s good to sit in the mess, telling each other all sorts of stories . . .’

There was a mighty rumbling of bells from somewhere far away, as if it was coming from the very bowels of the earth.

‘Half past nine,’ I said excitedly, interrupting the lieutenant. ‘It has begun!’

‘I’mso unlucky,’ Endlung complained bitterly. ‘I’mnever going to see a tsar crowned, even though I am a gentleman of the bedchamber. I was still in the Corps at the last coronation, and I won’t live until the next one – the tsar’s younger than I am. I really wanted to see it! I even have a ticket for a good spot put away. Right opposite the porch of the cathedral. I expect they’re coming out of the Cathedral of the Assumption right now, aren’t they?’

‘No,’ I answered, ‘they’ll be coming out of the cathedral later. I know the entire ceremony off by heart. Would you like me to tell you about it?’

‘I should say so!’ the lieutenant exclaimed, pulling his legs up under him, Turkish style.

‘Well then,’ I began, trying to recall the schedule of the coronation. ‘At the present moment Sergii, the Metropolitan of Moscow, is addressing His Majesty and explaining to him the heavy burden of serving as the tsar, and also the great mystery of anointment. In fact he has probably already finished. In the place of honour, by the royal gates, among the gold-embroidered court uniforms and pearl-trimmed ceremonial dresses, there are simple white peasant shirts and modest crimson kokoshnik head-dresses – these are the descendants of the heroic Ivan Susanin, saviour of the Romanov dynasty, who have been brought here from the province of Kostroma. And now the emperor and empress proceed along the scarlet carpet towards the thrones, set high up facing the altar, and a special throne has been installed for Her Majesty the dowager empress. Today the emperor is wearing his Preobrazhensky Regiment uniform with a red sash over his shoulder. The empress is wearing silver-white brocade and a necklace of pink pearls, and her train is carried by four pages of the bedchamber. The tsar’s throne is an ancient piece of work, made for Tsar Alexei Mikhailovich, and it is known as the Diamond Throne because there are eight hundred and seventy diamonds embedded in it, as well as rubies and pearls. The foremost dignitaries of the empire hold the state regalia on velvet cushions: a sword, a crown, a shield and a sceptre surmounted by the illustrious Orlov diamond.’ I sighed, closed my eyes and saw the sacred stone there in front of me, as large as life. ‘It is absolutely clear, as transparent as a teardrop, with a very slight greenish-blue tinge, like seawater in sunlight. Weighing almost two hundred carats and shaped like half an egg, only larger, there is no more beautiful diamond in the entire world.’

Endlung listened as if he were spellbound. I must confess that I also got carried away and went on for a long time describing to my appreciative listener the entire great ceremony, occasionally checking my watch in order not to get ahead of events. And just at the very moment when I said ‘And now the emperor and empress have come out onto the porch and are performing the low triple bow to the ground before the entire people; and now there will be an artillery salute,’ there really was a rumble of thunder in the distance, and it lasted for several minutes for, according to the ceremonial, the cannon had to fire one hundred and one times.

‘How wonderfully you described it all,’ Endlung said with feeling. ‘As if I had seen it all with my own eyes. I just didn’t understand about the lacquered box and the man turning the handle.’

‘I don’t understand that toowell myself,’ I admitted.’ However, I have seen with my own eyes the announcement in the Court Gazette that the coronation will be recorded using the very latest cinematographic apparatus, for which a special handler has been hired. He will turn the handle, and that will produce something like moving pictures.’

‘What will they think of next?’ said the lieutenant, squinting wistfully at the grey window. ‘Well, now they’ve stopped their clattering, I can hear the gurgling in my belly.’

I remarked guardedly: ‘Yes, indeed. I feel really hungry. Are we really going to die of hunger?’

‘Oh, come on, Ziukin,’ my fellow prisoner protested. ‘We won’t die of hunger; we’ll die of thirst. A man can live two or even three weeks without food. Without water we won’t even last three days.’

Mythroatwas indeed feeling dry, and meanwhile itwas getting rather stuffy in our little cell. Endlung had taken off his woman’s dress a long time ago, leaving himself in nothing but his drawers and a close-fitting undershirt with blue and white stripes – what is known as a singlet. Now he even took off his singlet, and I saw a tattoo on his powerful shoulder – an entirely natural representation of a man’s privates with varicoloured dragonfly wings.

‘They drew that for me in a Singapore brothel,’ the lieutenant explained when he noticed my embarrassed glance. ‘I was still a warrant officer at the time. I did it for a bet, to show off. Now I can never marry a respectable woman. It looks as though I’m going to die a bachelor.’

This last sentence, however, was spoken without the slightest trace of regret.

I spent the entire second half of the day walking around the cell, with the torments of hunger, thirst and inactivity becoming worse and worse all the time. From time to time I tried shouting out of the window or banging on the door, but with no result.

In his gratitude for my description of the coronation, Endlung entertained me with endless stories of shipwrecks and uninhabited islands where sailors of various nationalities had died slow deaths without food or water. It had been dark for a long timewhen he started a heart-rending story about a French officer who was forced to eat his companion in misfortune, the ship’s quarter-master.

‘And what do you think?’ the half-naked gentleman of the bedchamber said brightly. ‘Afterwards Lieutenant Du Bellet testified in court that the quartermaster’s meat was wonderfully tender, with a fine layer of fat, and tasted like young pork. The court acquitted the lieutenant, of course, taking into account the extreme circumstances and also the fact that Du Bellet was the only son of an aged mother.’

At that point the instructive tale was broken off because the door of the cell suddenly opened without a sound, and we both blinked in the bright light of a torch. The blurred shadow that appeared in the doorway spoke in the voice of Foma Anikeevich: ‘I beg your pardon, Afanasii Stepanovich. Yesterday, of course, I recognised you under the ginger beard, but it never even entered my head that things could end so badly. Just nowat the reception in the Faceted Chamber I happened to hear two habituйs of this establishment whispering to each other and laughing as they recalled the lesson they had given to two “Guardians”, and I wondered if they could be talking about you.’ He came into the dungeon and asked solicitously: ‘How have you managed here, gentlemen, with no water, food or light?’

‘Badly, very badly!’ Endlung exclaimed and threw himself on our rescuer’s neck. I suspect that such impetuousness demonstrated by a sweaty gentleman wearing nothing but his drawers can hardly have beenmuch to Foma Anikeevich’s liking.

‘This is our court’s gentleman of the bedchamber, Filipp Nikolaevich Endlung,’ I said. ‘And this is Foma Anikeevich Savostianov, butler to His Highness the governor general of Moscow.’ Then, with the necessary formalities concluded, I quickly asked about the most important thing: ‘What has happened to Mikhail Georgievich? Has he been freed?’

Foma Anikeevich shrugged. ‘I know nothing about that. We have our own misfortune. Prince Glinsky has shot himself. A terrible disaster.’

‘How do you mean, shot himself?’ I asked, astonished. ‘Did he not fight a duel with Lord Banville?’

‘As I said, he shot himself. He was found in the Petrovsko-Razumovsky Park with a gunshot wound in the heart.’

‘So the little cornet was unlucky,’ said Endlung, starting to pull on his dress. ‘The Englishman didn’t miss. He was a grand lad, even if he was a queer.’

15 May

‘. . . and also the assistant pantry man broke the dish for game from the Sиvres service. I have already ordered him to be fined half a month’s pay; anything further is at your discretion. And then there is Her Highness’s maid Petrishcheva. The footman Kriuchkov reported that she had been seen in the bushes with Mr Fandorin’s valet in a quite unambiguous position. I did not take any measures, since I do not know how you usually deal with behaviour of that sort . . .’

‘The first time, a reprimand,’ I said, looking up from the plate to explain to Somov. ‘The second time, out on her ear. If she has served the time, severance pay. We’re very strict with that sort of thing.’

It was just getting light outside, and the lamp was lit in the kitchen. I ate some reheated soup with great gusto and then applied myself to some cutlets. More than twenty-four hours without a single bite to eat is certainly no joke.

After Foma Anikeevich released Endlung and me from our incarceration, the lieutenant’s path and mine had parted. He went to the Variety Theatre to change his clothes. He had invited me too, saying that the girls slept in rooms at the theatre. They would give us food and drink, and show us a bit of affection.

But I had more important business to deal with.

And, moreover, this business did not include household concerns, so I listened to my assistant rather inattentively.

‘How did the coronation go?’ I asked, trying to work out if Somov might know something about the previous day’s operation. He ought not to, but he was far from stupid; in fact he seemed quite shrewd to me. But in any case he did not ask a single question about the reasons for my absence. Perhaps I could simply ask casuallywhether Mikhail Georgievich had been brought back from Ilyinsk?

‘Absolutely magnificent. But –’ Somov lowered his voice ‘– some of our people are saying there were bad omens . . .’

That put me on my guard. Bad omens on such a day, that is no trivial matter. A coronation is an exceptional event, every minor detail is significant. Among the court servants there are fortune-tellers who will lay out cards for the entire course of the ceremonies, hour by hour, in order to determine how the reign will proceed and when during its course convulsions can be expected. This we can call superstition, but there are other signs that cannot simply be dismissed. For instance, during the coronation of Alexander the Liberator a bottle of champagne suddenly burst for no reason at all on a table at the evening reception – it was like a bomb exploding. At that time, 1856, bombers had still not been heard of, and so no one knew how to interpret the incident. Its significance only became clear much later, after a quarter of a century. And at the last coronation the sovereign placed the crown on his head before he was supposed to, and our people whispered that his reign would not be a long one. And it was not.

‘First of all,’ Somov began, with a glance at the door, ‘when the hairdresser was arranging Her Majesty’s crown on her coiffure, he was so excited that he pushed too hard on one hairpin, and the empress cried out. He pricked her so badly that there was blood. And then, when the procession had already begun, the chain of His Majesty’s Order of St Andrew broke, and it fell on the ground! Only our people know about the hairpin, but many people noticed the incident with the order.’

Yes, that is not good, I thought. However, it could have been worse. The main thing was that the crowning of the tsar had taken place, and Doctor Lind had not disrupted this supremely solemn festivity after all.

‘What about the Englishmen?’ I enquired vaguely, unsure whether anyone at the Hermitage knewanything about the duel.

‘Lord Banville has left. Yesterday at noon. He did not even attend the coronation. He simply left a note for His Highness and moved out. He looked very pale and angry, as if he was offended about something or unwell. But he left extremely generous gratuities for all the senior personnel. For you, Afanasii Stepanovich, a gold guinea.’

‘Change it into roubles and share it equally between Lipps and the two coachmen, from me. They have all worked very well,’ I said, deciding that I did not want any gratuity from that murderer. ‘And what of Mr Carr?’

‘He is still here. His Lordship even left his butler with Mr Carr – he left alone.’

‘And is Mademoiselle Declique missing her pupil very badly?’ I asked with feigned nonchalance, finally broaching the most important subject.

Therewere quiet footsteps in the corridor. I looked round and saw Fandorin. He was wearing a Hungarian housecoat with decorative cording; he had a net on his hair and felt slippers on his feet. A smooth creature, stepping gently through the half-light with a glitter in his eyes – a real tomcat.

‘The night d-doorman informed me that you had returned. But where is Endlung?’ he asked, without a greeting of any kind.

From the question about Endlung I assumed that Pavel Georgievich had told Fandorin about our expedition. Despite the intense dislike that this man provoked in me, I was impatient to talk to him.

‘You may go, Kornei Selifanovich,’ I said to my assistant, and the intelligent man left immediately. ‘The gentleman of the bedchamber is all right,’ I replied curtly, and in order to prevent any further disagreeable questions, I added: ‘Unfortunately, it was simply a waste of our time.’

‘Things are not going sowell here either,’ said Fandorin, taking a seat. ‘You d-disappeared yesterday evening, before Emilie had come back. She managed her assignment perfectly andwe determined the precise location of Lind’s secret hideaway. It turned out that he is hiding the child in the tomb of the Princess Bakhmetova, which stands close to the wall of the Novodevichy Convent. The princess took her own life because of an unhappy love a hundred years ago and they would not allow her to be buried inside the convent, so her disconsolate parents built a sort of mausoleum for her. The Bakhmetov line has since become extinct, so the tomb is dilapidated and the lock on the door is rusty. However, that is merely a facade. Mademoiselle tells me that every time she was led into the cold interior with her eyes blindfolded, she heard the sound of well-oiled hinges. We have not been able to obtain an accurate architectural plan of the chapel; all we know is that the tomb itself is located underground in the v-vault.’

Erast Petrovich began drawing on the table with his finger.

‘We made ready yesterday at dawn. This (he put down the breadbin) is the monastery. Here (he positioned the salt cellar beside it) we have the tomb. There is wasteland all around, and there is a pond here. (He splashed a little tea onto the oilcloth.) In short, there is noway to approach unnoticed. We have positioned men in disguise around the spot at a considerable distance but not made any attempt to go inside.’

‘Why not?’ I asked.

‘The point is, Ziukin, that since the Time of Troubles all the ground around the Novodevichy Convent has been riddled with underground passages. It was besieged by the Poles and then the False Dmitry, and later the Streltsy dug under it to free theTsarina Sophia from captivity. I am sure that Lind, being the highly prudent and cautious individual that he is, chose this spot for a good reason. There must be a line of retreat – that is always his tactic. And so I decided to take a different approach.’

He knitted his brows and sighed.

‘The delivery of the stone was set for five o’clock yesterday, since the coronation was due to conclude at two. Immediately after the ceremony the Orlov was removed from the sceptre—’

‘Permission was given for the exchange?’ I exclaimed. ‘So she was wrong, and they decided to save Mikhail Georgievich after all!’

‘Who is she?’ Fandorin asked, but he could see from my face that therewould be no answer, and he continued: ‘Iwas entrusted with the Orlov on one condition. I gave a guarantee that Lind would not keep the stone under any circumstances. Not under any circumstances,’ he repeated significantly.

I nodded. ‘That is, if a choice has to be made between the life of His Highness and the diamond . . .’

‘Precisely so.’

‘But how can we be sure that the doctor will not manage to keep the Orlov? Howwill Mademoiselle Declique be able to stop him? And then, you said yourself that there are underground passages . . .’

‘I set one condition for Lind, which Emilie communicated to him the day before yesterday. Since we are not dealing with any ordinary jewel here but a holy relic, the d-diamond cannot be entrusted to a weak woman. The governess was to be accompanied by an escort. One man, unarmed, so that Lind need not fear an attack . . .’

‘And who was this escort?’

‘I was,’ Fandorin said ruefully. ‘It was good idea, don’t you think?’

‘And what happened?’

‘It didn’t work. I disguised myself as an old stooped footman but clearly not carefully enough. Emilie and I waited for more than an hour in the cathedral. No one approached us. And yet the day before yesterday, when she was alone, there were no difficulties: another note, a closed carriage in one of the side streets nearby and so on. Yesterday we waited until a quarter past six and came back with nothing for our pains.’

‘Surely Lind could not have abandoned the exchange?’ I asked in a dismal voice.

‘Indeed not. Therewas a letterwaiting for us at the Hermitage, delivered in the same manner as before, by the postman but without any stamp. Here, read it, especially since it concerns you directly.’

I cautiously took the sheet of paper, which gave off a faint aroma of scent.

‘The Earl of Essex?’ I asked.

‘In person. B-but read it, read it.’

‘I have decided to make the Romanov dynasty a generous gift on the occasion of the coronation . . .’ I read the first sentence in French and everything began swimming in front of my eyes. Could it really be?

But no, my joy was premature. I batted my eyelids to disperse the haze and read the note through to the end:

I have decided to make the Romanov dynasty a generous gift on the occasion of the coronation. A gift that is worth a million, for that is the sum agreed as one day’s payment for the Orlov, which I have kindly loaned to the Russian monarchy. And so you may keep the stone for one more day, entirely without charge. After all, it would be impolite of me, to say the least, to cast a shadow over your day of celebration.

We will complete our little transaction tomorrow. The governess must be in the cathedral at seven o’clock in the evening. I understand your reluctance to entrust such a valuable treasure to this woman, and I have no objections to a single escort. However, it must be someone I know, that is Monsieur Doggy Sideburns.

Yours sincerely,

Doctor Lind

My heart began beating faster and faster.

‘So this is why you are telling me all this?’

‘Yes,’ said Fandorin, looking into my eyes. ‘Afanasii Stepanovich, I need to ask you to take part in this dangerous business. You are not a police agent or a member of the armed services; you are not obliged to risk your life to p-protect the interests of the state, but circumstances have determined that without your help—’

‘I agree,’ I said, interrupting him.

At that moment I did not feel afraid at all. I was thinking of only one thing: Emilie and I would be together. I think it was the first time that I had thought of Mademoiselle by her first name.

There was a brief pause, and then Erast Petrovich got to his feet.

‘Then get some rest, you look tired. Be in the d-drawing room at ten o’clock. I’ll give you and Emilie a briefing.’

The late sun had warmed the velvet curtains, and there was a distinct smell of dust in the shaded drawing room. Velvet is always a problem – it is in the nature of the material: if it is left hanging for years without being washed regularly, as it had been here in the Hermitage, you simply cannot completely get rid of the dust that has eaten into it. I made a mental note to have the curtains changed that very day. Provided, of course, that I came back from the operation alive.

The success of the proposed undertaking appeared highly doubtful to me. At this last meeting – I had to assume that it was indeed the very last – only those directly involved in the operation were present: Mademoiselle and I, Mr Fandorin and the two colonels, Karnovich and Lasovsky, who were as meek as lambs and as quiet as mice, and listened to Erast Petrovich with emphatic respect, which may have been genuine or false, I do not know.

The plan of the area between the Novodevichy Convent and the Novodevichy Embankment that was laid out on the table had been carefully drawn, not like that morning’s demonstration on the oilcloth. Cross-hatched circles marked the positions of the secret sentries who surrounded the wasteland on all sides: the senior agent (Fandorin gave his name – Kuzyakin) in a hollow in an old oak tree on the corner of Vselensky Square; six ‘attendants’ in the dormitory of the children’s clinic that had windows overlooking the pond; eleven ‘monks’ on the wall of the convent; seven ‘boatmen’ and ‘buoy keepers’ on the river; one man disguised as a female street trader on the turn-off from Pogodinskaya Street; three ‘beggars’ at the gates of the convent; two ‘fishermen’ by the pond, the closest of all. The total number of agents in the first ring of the cordon was thirty-one.

‘The exchangemust take place as follows,’ Fandorin explained after he had indicated the positions of the sentry posts. ‘The two of you will be led to the chapel and taken inside. You will demand that your blindfolds be removed. The doctor’s own jeweller is bound to be there. You will give him the Orlov to examine and then take it back. Then Mademoiselle Declique will go down into the vault and collect the boy. When the boy is brought out to you, you hand over the stone. At that point, Ziukin, your mission is over.’

I could hardly believe my ears. I was already familiar with Mr Fandorin’s adventurous disposition, but I had not expected such irresponsibility, even from him. The most astounding thing was that the head of the court police and the high police master of Moscow had listened to this insane plan with a perfectly serious air and did not utter a single word of protest!

‘What nonsense!’ I declared with a trenchancy that was quite uncharacteristic of me (but entirely justified by the circumstances). ‘I shall be alone, unarmed, and Mademoiselle’s presence will not help me. They will simply take the diamond away from me once they are satisfied that it is genuine. And they will not even think of returning Mikhail Georgievich. They will simply escape through some underground passage and kill all three of us. A fine operation that will be! Wouldn’t it be better towait until Mademoiselle Declique and I have been taken inside, and then storm the tomb?’

‘No, it would not,’ Fandorin replied curtly.

And Karnovich explained: ‘If the place is stormed, His Highness will certainly be killed. And so will the two of you.’

I said nothing and glanced at Emilie. I must admit that she looked much calmer than I was and she was gazing at Fandorin as if she trusted him completely, which was particularly painful to see.

‘Erast Petrovich,’ she said quietly, ‘Doctor Lind is very cunning. What if Monsieur Ziukin and I are taken to a different place today, somewhere completely new? If that is the case, then your embuscade¹ will be in vain.’

I turned to the sagacious Fandorin, for the question had, as they say, hit the bullseye.

‘That is not out of the question,’ he admitted. ‘But I have taken certain m-measures to deal with it. And your concerns, Ziukin – that they will take the stone and not return the boy – are also perfectly reasonable. It will all depend entirely on you. And so now I come to the m-most important thing of all.’

And so saying, hewent across to a smallwooden chest standing on a table beside the window, opened it and, using both hands, lifted out a smooth, shiny golden sphere the size of a small Crimean melon.

‘Here is your guarantee,’ said Erast Petrovich, setting the sphere down in front of me.

‘What is it?’ I asked, leaning over it.

The mirror surface of the sphere showed me a comically extended reflection of my own face.

‘Abomb, Afanasii Stepanovich. Of appalling destructive power. There is a small button on the inside. Pressing it releases the detonator, and after that the slightest jolt – for instance dropping the sphere on a stone floor – is sufficient to cause an explosion that would completely obliterate you, Lind and his men, and the entire chapel. The Orlov, as it happens, would survive, because it is indestructible and afterwards we would c-certainly find it among the rubble . . . You will have to explain all this to the doctor. Tell him that at the slightest sign of foul play you will drop the sphere. This is the only argument that will have any effect on Lind. It is our little surprise, so to speak.’

‘But the bomb is not genuine?’

‘I assure you that it is entirely g-genuine. The charge consists of an explosive mixture invented by chemists at the Imperial Mining and Artillery Laboratory. The Commission of the Central Artillery Department has not approved the mixture for use because the risk of accidental explosion is too great. If they try to search you when you are getting into the carriage, you will say that the sphere is a case for the Orlov and you will not allow them to open it under any circumstances. Say that the journey is cancelled if they do not agree. But then, if it is the same mute coachman who comes for you, any discussion is unlikely.’

Erast Petrovich picked up the sphere and prised open a barely visible lid with his nail.

‘The Orlov really is inside, in the upper section of the sphere. When you take out the stone to hand it over for inspection, you press here and so activate the mechanism. Under no circumstances do this in the carriage, or else the jolting might produce an explosion. And after you have pressed the button you will tell Lind or his men what kind of toy this is.’

I glanced inside the sphere. The priceless relic of the House of Romanovwas lying in a rounded niche, glinting with a dull bluish light. At close quarters the miraculous stone seemed to me like a cut-crystal door handle, similar to those that adorned the chest of drawers in the grand duchess’s dressing room. To be quite honest, I was far more impressed by the red metal button that was almost invisible against the background of scarlet velvet.

I wiped the sweat off my forehead and looked at Emilie. If things went badly, or if I simply made a blunder, we would die together, and the fragments of our bodieswould be intermingled. She nodded to me calmly, as if to say: It is all right. I trust you and everything is certain to turn out well.

‘But then what?’ I asked. ‘Lind will not want to be blown up, that is clear enough, so he will not break the rules of the game. He will give us Mikhail Georgievich and then escape through some cunning secret passage. And the Orlov will be lost forever!’

‘That must not happen, no matter what!’ said Karnovich, joining in the conversation for the first time. ‘Remember, Mr Fandorin, you have guaranteed the stone’s safety with your own life.’

Fandorin smiled at me as if he had not heard the colonel.

‘In that eventuality, Ziukin, I have another surprise in store for the doctor.’

However the smile, which was really quite inappropriate in the situation, rapidly disappeared, to be replaced by an expression of uncertainty or perhaps even embarrassment.

‘Emilie, Afanasii Stepanovich . . . the risk to which you are exposing yourselves is undoubtedly v-very great. Lind is a man of paradoxical intelligence; his actions and reactions are frequently unpredictable. A plan is all very well, but anything at all could happen. And after all, Emilie, you are a lady and not even a Russian subject . . .’

‘Never mind the risk, that is all right,’ Mademoiselle said with sublime dignity. ‘But we – Mr Ziukin and I – will be easier in our minds if we know what other surprise you have in mind.’

Fandorin carefully closed the gold lid and the blue radiance glimmering above the table disappeared.

‘It is best if you do not know that. Itmust be a surprise for you two as well. Otherwise the plan may go awry.’

A strange business. When we found ourselves alone together, sealed off from the world in the dark carriage, neither of us said a word for a long time. I listened to Mademoiselle’s regular breathing, and as time passed and my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, I could make out her vague silhouette. I wanted to hear her voice, to say something encouraging to her but, as usual, I simply could not find the right words. The metal sphere was lying on my knees, and although the detonator was not yet activated, I gripped the infernal device firmly with both hands.

My fears that I would have problems with Doctor Lind’s intermediary concerning the strangely rounded bulky bundle had proved unfounded. The first stage of the operation had gone smoothly – as the common folk say, without a hitch.

Mademoiselle and I had been standing in the cathedral for less than five minuteswhen a boywho looked like one of the ordinary little beggars who are always jostling on the porch there handed me a note – I even had to give the little villain five kopecks of my own money. Our shoulders pressed together as we unfolded the sheet of paper (once again I caught a whiff of the scent The Earl of Essex) and read the single short line: ‘L’йglise d’Ilya Prorok’.² I did not know where that was, but Mademoiselle, who had had an opportunity to study all the surrounding streets and side streets in close detail, confidently showed me the way.

A few minutes later we were outside a small church, and there was a black carriage with curtained windows waiting in front of the next building. It looked very much like the one that I had seen a week earlier, although I could not vouch for it being the same one. A tall man with a hat pulled down very low jumped down off the coach box. All I could see of his face was a thick black beard. Without saying a word, he opened the door and pushed Mademoiselle inside.

I showed him my bundle and pronounced the phrase that I had prepared in a severe tone of voice: ‘This is the object of the exchange. It must not be touched.’

I do not know if he understood me, but he did not touch the bundle. He squatted down and very rapidly ran his hands over my entire body, touching even the most intimate places without the slightest sign of embarrassment.

‘If you do not mind, sir . . .’ I protested, but the search was already over.

Without speaking, the bearded man pushed me in the back, I got into the carriage and the door slammed. I heard the squeak of a bolt. The carriage swayed, and we set off.

I expect that at least half an hour must have passed before we struck up a conversation. It was Mademoiselle who began it, because I had still not thought of a way to start.

‘Strange,’ she said when the carriage swayed on a corner and our shoulders touched. ‘It is strange that he did not caress me today.’

‘What?’ I asked, amazed.

‘How do you say – perquisitionner?’

‘Ah, to frisk, to search.’

‘Yes, thank you. Strange that he did not search me. He usually does, to see if it is possible to hide a little pistol in the pantaloons.’

I took the liberty of leaning down to her ear and whispering: ‘We have a better weapon than that.’

‘Careful!’ Mademoiselle gasped. ‘I’m afraid!’

A woman is always a woman, even the very bravest!

‘It’s all right,’ I reassured her. ‘The detonator has not been activated yet; there is nothing to be afraid of.’

‘I keep thinking about Monsieur Fandorin’s second surprise,’ Mademoiselle suddenly said in French. ‘Could it possibly be that the bomb will go off in any case, blowing us and Doctor Lind and His Highness to pieces, and then afterwards, as Monsieur Fandorin said, they will find the stone among the rubble? The most important thing for the tsar is to keep the Orlov and avoid any publicity. And for Monsieur Fandorin, the main thing is to take his revenge on Doctor Lind. What do you think, Athanas?’

To be quite honest, her suspicions seemed quite plausible to me, but after a moment’s thought I found an appropriate objection.

‘In that case they would have given us a fake instead of the genuine stone. Then they would not have to search for anything in the rubble.’

‘And what makes you sure that it is the genuine Orlov in the sphere?’ she asked nervously. ‘We are not jewellers, after all. When you press the button, there will be an explosion, and that will be the promised surprise that you and I were not supposed to know about under any circumstances.’

I turned cold inside. This conjecture seemed only too logical.

‘Then that is our destiny,’ I said, crossing myself. ‘If you have guessed right, then the decision was taken by a higher power, and I shall carry it out to the letter. But you do not have to go into the chapel. When we get there, I shall tell the driver that there is no need for you to be present; I shall collect Mikhail Georgievich myself.’

Mademoiselle squeezed my hand.

‘Thank you, Athanas. You have restored my faith in human dignity. No. No, I shall go with you. I feel ashamed that I could have suspected Erast of being disloyal. For him, no precious stone, not even such a special one, could possibly be more important than the life of a child. And our lives too,’ she concluded in a quiet voice.

The second half of her brief emotional declaration somewhat spoiled the pleasant impression of the first, but nonetheless Iwas touched. I wanted to respond to her grip on my fingers, but that would probably have been too great a liberty. And so we rode on, with her hand still touching mine.

Unlike Mademoiselle, I was not entirely convinced of Mr Fandorin’s nobility. I thought it quite probable that the earthly existence of Afanasii Ziukin would come to an end in the very near future, and not in a quiet, humdrum fashion, as the entire logic of my lifewould have dictated, but amidst unseemly uproar and clamour. Emilie’s company rendered this thought less repulsive, which was undoubtedly an expression of a quality that I cannot stand in other people and have always tried to suppress in myself – cowardly selfishness.

Meanwhile, it was becoming harder and harder to breathe in the sealed carriage. There were drops of sweat running down my face and inside my collar. This was unpleasantly ticklish, but I could not wipe them away with my handkerchief – to do that, I would have had to take my hand away. Mademoiselle was also breathing rapidly.

Suddenly a thought occurred to me, so simple and terrible that the sweat started flowing even more abundantly. I tried to insert my hand into the bundle and open the lid of the sphere quietly without frightening Mademoiselle, but even so therewas an audible click.

‘What was that?’ Mademoiselle asked with a start. ‘What was that sound?’

‘Lind’s plan is simpler and more cunning than Fandorin imagines,’ I said, gasping for air. ‘I suspect that the doctor has ordered us to be driven in this closed coffin until we suffocate, so that he can take the Orlov without any trouble. But it won’t work – I am activating the detonator. As long as I remain conscious, I shall hold the bomb steady with both hands. But when I am exhausted, the sphere will fall . . .’

‘Vous кtes fou!’ Mademoiselle exclaimed, pulling her hand away and seizing hold of my elbow. ‘Vous кtes fou! N’y pensez pas. Je compte les dйtours, nous sommes presque lа.’³

‘Too late, I have already pressed the button,’ I said, and took a firm grip of the sphere with both hands.

And then a minute later the carriage really did stop.

‘Well then, may God help us,’ Emilie whispered and crossed herself, only not in the Orthodox manner, but in the Catholic way, from left to right.

The door opened, and I screwed my eyes up against the bright light. Nobody blindfolded me, and I saw the peeling walls of a small chapel and also, a little distance away, perhaps a hundred paces, the towers of an old convent. As I stepped onto the foot-plate, I stole a glance around me. There were fishermen sitting by the pond and on the edge of the nearby square a knotty old oak stood, covered in fresh greenery, presumably with senior police agent Kuzyakin concealed somewhere amongst it. I felt a little bit calmer, although the failure to blindfold us probably signified that Lind did not intend to let us go alive. Mademoiselle looked over my shoulder and also started gazing around – ah, yes, this was the first time she had been here without a blindfold. All right, Doctor, I thought. If we are to die, we’ll take you with us, and I pressed the bundle tight against my chest.

The driver, standing to one side of the open door of the carriage, seized me by the elbow and pulled as if to say: Get out. I grimaced at the strength of those steely fingers.

The rusty door with the heavy padlock barely even creaked as it swung open to admit us. I walked into the gloomy interior, which was more spacious than it appeared from the outside, and saw several male figures. Before I could get a clear look at them, the door closed behind us, but the light did not disappear; it merely changed from grey to yellow because there were several oil lamps hanging on the walls.

There were four men. The one who caught my attention was a lean grey-haired gentleman with a toothless non-Russian face and steel-rimmed spectacles. Could this be Doctor Lind himself? Standing one on each side of himwere two tall broad-shouldered men whose faces were drowned in the shadows – bodyguards, I presumed. The fourth manwas the coachman, who had followed us in and leaned back against the closed door as if to cut off our retreat.

One of the bodyguards gestured to the coachman, clearly indicating that he should leave.

The coachman nodded, but he did not move.

The bodyguard pointed angrily to the door.

‘Taubstummer Dickkopf!’⁴the great brute swore.

So that was why the driver had behaved so strangely with us! And now it was clear why Lind had not been afraid that the bearded man might be taken by the police.

The other bodyguard replied, also in German: ‘Ah, to hell with it. Let him stay there. He’s probably as curious as we are to see what happens.’

Then the grey-haired gentleman stretched his hand out towards the bundle, and I realised that the truly important business had begun.

‘Did you bring it? Show me,’ he said in a dull voice, speaking French.

I dropped the shawl in which the sphere was wrapped onto the floor and opened the lid. The stone glittered from its velvet niche with a gentle muted light.

Enunciating every word slowly and clearly, I explained about the surprise and the conditions of exchange. Thank God, my voice did not tremble even once. The most important thing was for Lind to believe me. If it came to the crunch, I would not play the coward.

He heard me out without interrupting and nodded as if Iwere talking about something that went without saying. He clicked his fingers impatiently. ‘All right, all right. Give it to me. I’ll check it.’

And he took a small magnifying glass bound in copper out of his pocket.

So he was not Lind but the jeweller, just as Fandorin had predicted. I prised the stone out with two fingers and it seemed to fit snugly into the palm of my hand, as if had been created to match its size. With my other hand I held the bomb carefully against my chest.

The jeweller took the diamond and walked over to one of the lamps. The bodyguards, orwhoever they reallywere, surrounded him and drew in their breath loudly when the facets of the Orlov sparkled with unbearable brilliance.

I glanced round at Mademoiselle. She was standing still but with her fingers locked together. Raising her eyebrows, she indicated the sphere with her glance, and I nodded reassuringly as if to say: Don’t worry, I won’t drop it.

The light of the oil lamp was not enough for the jeweller. He took out a little electric torch too and pushed a switch. A thin, bright ray of light touched the diamond, and I screwed up my eyes. Sparks seemed to scatter from the surface of the stone.

‘Alles in Ordnung,’⁵ the jeweller said dispassionately in perfect German and put the magnifying glass in his pocket.

‘Give me back the stone,’ I demanded.

When he did not do as I said, I held the open sphere out in front of me with both hands.

The jeweller shrugged and put the diamond back in its niche.

Heartened by this success, I raised my voice: ‘Where is His Highness? Under the terms of the agreement, you must now give him back immediately!’

The lipless man pointed to the stone floor, and for the first time I noticed a square black trapdoor with a metal ring for a handle.

‘Who needs your boy? Take him before he croaks.’

On the lips of this respectable-looking gentleman the crude word ‘croaks’, used about a little child, sounded so unexpected and terrible that I shuddered. My God, what kind of people were they!

Mademoiselle drew in a noisy breath and dashed to the trapdoor, grabbed the ring and pulled with all her might. The door lifted a little, and then fell back into the gap with a resounding metallic clang. None of the thugs moved to help the lady. Emilie looked at me in despair, but I could not help her – to do that I would have had to put down the sphere.

‘Aufmachen!’⁶ I shouted menacingly, lifting the bomb higher.

With clear reluctance, one of the banditsmoved Mademoiselle aside and easily lifted the cover up with one hand.

The gap that was revealed was not black, as I had expected, but filled with a trembling light. Obviously there was an oil lamp in the vault too. Asmell of dampness and mould came up through the opening.

Poor Mikhail Georgievich! How could they have kept him in that hole all these days!

Gathering up the hem of her skirt, Mademoiselle started to go down. One of the thugs followed her. I could feel my pulse pounding rapidly in my temples.

I heard the sound of voices coming from below and then a piercing shout from Emilie: ‘Mon bйbй, mon pauvre petit. Tas de salauds!’⁷

‘Is His Highness dead?’ I roared, ready to throw the bomb on the floor and damn the consequences.

‘No, he’s alive!’ I heard. ‘But very poorly!’

I cannot express the relief that I felt at those words. Of course His Highness was chilled to the bone, wounded and drugged with opium, but the important thing was that he was alive.

The jeweller held out his hand. ‘Give me the stone. Your companion will bring the boy out now.’

‘Let her bring him out first,’ I muttered, suddenly realising that I had no idea of what to do next. There had been nothing about that in Fandorin’s instructions. Should I give him the stone or not?

Suddenly the bodyguard who was still in the room leapt towards me with astounding agility and pressed his palms tight over my hands, which were holding the bomb. The jolt was only very slight and the detonating mechanism was not set off, but the diamond tumbled out of its niche and clattered across the floor. The jeweller grabbed it and put it in his pocket.

It was pointless trying to struggle with the great brute, and the coachman with the black beard also came up from behind – I had already had occasion to know of his great strength. Oh Lord, now I had ruined everything.

‘Now this is surprise number two,’ the deaf mute whispered in my ear, and in the same second he punched the thug on the forehead. The blow did not seem very strong to me, but the German’s eyes rolled up, he opened his hands and sank down on to the floor.

‘Hold it tight,’ the coachman said in Fandorin’s voice.

In a single bound he reached the jeweller and put one hand over his mouth, at the same time holding a stiletto to his chin from below.

‘Taisez-vous! Un mot, et vous кtes mort!⁸ Ziukin, switch off the bomb, we won’t be needing it any more.’

The speed at which events were moving had left me numb, so I was not at all surprised by the coachman’s transformation into Fandorin; in fact, I was more impressed by the fact that Erast Petrovich had completely stopped stammering.

I obediently gripped the depressed button with my fingernails and pulled. It popped out with a gentle click.

‘Shout to say that you have the stone and the child can be released,’ Fandorin said quietly in French.

The jeweller batted his eyelids with unnatural speed. He could not nod because the gesture would have impaled his head on the blade of the stiletto.

Fandorin removed his hand from the jeweller’s mouth but kept the dagger in its vertical position.

His prisoner worked his sunken mouth and licked his lips, then threw his head back as if he wanted to look at something on the ceiling and suddenly shouted loudly: ‘Alarme! Fuiez-vous!’⁹

He was about to shout something else, but the narrow strip of steel slid in between his throat and his chin right up to the hilt and he wheezed. I gasped out loud.

Before the dead man had even collapsed to the floor, a head appeared out of the hatch – I think it belonged to the bandit who had gone down with Mademoiselle.

Fandorin leapt to the opening and kicked him hard in the face. There was the dull sound of a body collapsing heavily and Erast Petrovich jumped down without waiting even for a second.

‘Oh, Lord!’ I blurted out. ‘Oh, my Lord God.’

I heard a loud crash from below and voices shouting in German and French.

Crossing myself with the golden sphere, I ran to the opening and looked down.

It was a genuine roughhouse: a huge brute clutching a knife in one raised hand had pinned Fandorin to the floor, and another bodyguard was lying motionless further away. Erast Petrovich was clutching his opponent’s wrist with one hand to hold back the knife, and trying to reach his throat with the other. But he simply could not reach it. It seemed that the former state counsellor needed to be rescued.

I flung the sphere, aiming at the back of the giant’s head, and I was right on target. There was a squelching sound as it hit home. The blowwould undoubtedly have smashed any ordinary man’s skull, but this one merely swayed forward. That, however, was enough for Fandorin to reach his throat. I did not see exactly what Erast Petrovich’s fingers did, but I heard a sickening crunch, and the huge brute slumped over sideways.

I quickly went down into the vault. Fandorin had already jumped to his feet and was gazing around.

We were in a square room with corners drowned in dark shadow. At the centre of the vault there was a moss-covered gravestone, on which an oil lamp was burning.

‘Where is she?’ I asked, flustered. ‘Where is His Highness? Where is Lind?’

There was a trunk standing by one wall with a heap of rags on it, and I realised that must be where Mikhail Georgievich had been kept. However, Fandorin dashed in the opposite direction.

I heard the clatter of rapidly receding footsteps – it sounded as if there were three or four people running.

Fandorin grabbed the lamp and lifted it up high, and we saw the entrance to a passage in the wall. It was blocked by a metal grille.

The darkness was illuminated by a sudden flash; there was a spiteful whistling sound and a dull echo.

‘Get behind the projection!’ Fandorin shouted to me as he jumped to one side.

‘Emilie, are you alive?’ I called as loudly as I possibly could.

The darkness replied in Mademoiselle’s muted voice: ‘There are three of them! And Lind’s here! He’s—’

The voice broke off with a shriek. I dashed to the metal grille and began shaking it, but it was locked shut.

Erast Petrovich pulled me back by my sleeve – and just in time. They started shooting again out of the passageway. One of the metal bars exploded into a shower of sparks and an invisible rod of iron struck the wall, scattering fragments of stone onto the floor.

I heard men’s voices in the distance and someone – a woman or a child – groaned in a high-pitched voice.

‘Lind!’ Erast shouted loudly, speaking in French. ‘This is Fandorin! I have the stone! The exchange is still in force. I’ll give you the Orlov for the woman and the child!’

We held our breath. It was quiet – no voices, no steps. Had Lind heard?

Fandorin raised a hand in which a small black revolver had appeared out of nowhere and fired at the lock – once, twice, three times.

Sparks showered into the air again, but the lock did not fly open.

¹Ambush

²The Church of the Prophet Elijah.

³You’re insane! Do not even think of it! I am counting the turns of the wheels. We are almost there!

⁴Deaf-mute blockhead!

⁵All is in order.

⁶Open it!

⁷ My baby, my poor little one. You scum!

⁸Quiet! One word and you’re dead!

⁹Alarm! Run!

16 May

I sat by the river gazing dully at the long rafts of rough brown logs floating past, trying to understand whether it was I who had gone insane or the world around me.

Afanasii Ziukin declared an outlaw? Being hunted by the police and gendarmes?

Then perhaps Afanasii Ziukin was not really me at all but someone else.

But no, the entire might of the of the empire’s forces of law and order had been mobilised precisely to find us – Mr Fandorin and myself. And the reason for that was not some monstrous misunderstanding but our own criminal behaviour. Yes indeed, our behaviour, because I had become Fandorin’s accomplice willingly.

I needed to assess everything clearly from the very beginning, to recall every last detail of the events of the previous night.

When we finally managed to break open the lock and enter the passage, any attempt to overtake Lind was already pointless. But in our extreme agitation we did not realise this immediately. Fandorin ran ahead, lighting the way with a lantern he had taken from a table, and I ran after him, hunching over in order not to bang my head against the low ceiling. The swaying beam of light picked tangles of cobwebs out of the darkness, exposed shards of some kind under our feet, lit up the clay walls with a damp gleam.

After about twenty paces the passage divided in two. Erast Petrovich squatted on the ground for a moment, shone his lantern down and confidently turned to the right. Thirty seconds later the tunnel divided again. After studying the tracks clearly visible in the thick layer of dust, we went to the left. Another seven or eight forks were negotiated with the same ease, and then the oil in the lantern ran out, and we were left in total darkness.

‘Wonderful,’ Fandorin muttered angrily. ‘Absolutely wonderful. Now not only can’t we pursue Lind, we can’t even find the way back either. Who would ever have believed there was such a maze down here? They must have been digging it for three hundred years, if not longer: the monks during the Time of Troubles and the rebel Streltsy, and the Old Believers hiding their ancient books and church silver from the Patriarch Nikon; and since there are stone galleries, theremust have been quarries here at some time . . . All right, Ziukin. Let’s go wherever our path leads.’

Making our way in total darkness was slow and difficult. I fell several times when I stumbled over obstacles on the floor. The first time I fell some live creature darted out from under me with a squeal and I grabbed at my heart. I have one shameful and unmanly weakness – I cannot stand rats and mice. I am instinctively repulsed by those creeping, darting, thieving vermin. On the next occasion I caught my foot on something shaped like a root, and when I felt it with my hand, it proved to be a human ribcage. When I stretched my length on the ground for the third time, I heard something jingle underneath me. I clutched at my pocket – and the Orlov was not there.

I shouted out in horror: ‘I’ve dropped the stone.’

Fandorin struck a match, and I saw a broken crock containing irregular round objects that glinted dully in the light. I picked one up – it was a silver coin, very old. But I had no interest at all in coins just then. I wondered if I could possibly have dropped the diamond earlier, during one of my other falls. In that case finding it would be very far from easy.

Thank God, with his third match Fandorin spotted the diamond, half-buried in the dust, and he kept it. After what had happened, I did not dare to object. I tipped two handfuls of coins from the treasure trove into my pockets and we wandered on.

I do not know how many hours it lasted. Sometimes we sat down on the ground to draw breath. This was the second night in succession I had spent underground and, Lord help me, I would be hard pressed to say which of them I liked less.

We could not even look to see what time it was, because our matches were soon soaked by the damp air and refused to strike. When I stumbled over those familiar bones for the second time, it became clear that we were wandering in circles.

Then Fandorin said: ‘You know, Ziukin, this will not do. Do you want rats to run over your naked ribs?’

I shuddered.

‘Well, nor do I. Sowemust stop simply strolling about, hoping for things to work out somehow or other. We need a system. From nowonwe followa strict alternation: one turn to the right, one turn to the left. Forward!’

But even after the introduction of the ‘system’ we walked for a very long time, until eventually we saw a feeble light glimmering in the distance. I was the first to go dashing towards it. The passage narrowed and shrank until we had to crawl on all fours, but that was all right, because the light kept growing brighter and brighter. At the very end I grabbed hold of a cold, rough root, and it suddenly tore itself out of my hand with an angry hiss. A snake! I gasped and jerked away, banging the back of my head against the stone ceiling. I saw yellow spots on the narrow head of the black band as it rippled away from me – a harmless grass snake – but my heart was still pounding insanely.

The burrow had led us out to the edge of the water on a riverbank. I saw a dark barge wreathed in morning mist, the roofs of warehouses on the far side of the river and the semicircular arches of a railway bridge in the distance.

‘We haven’t really travelled very far,’ said Fandorin, straightening up and dusting off his soiled coachman’s coat. I saw that he had already rid himself of the long black beard and I thought he had left the hat with the broad brim back in the vault. I followed the direction of his glance. Just a few hundred paces away the domes of the Novodevichy Convent were glinting gently in the first rays of sunlight.

‘Evidently the nuns used this passage as a secret way to reach the river,’ Fandorin surmised. ‘I wonder what for.’

I could not have cared less.

‘And there’s the bell tower,’ I said, pointing. ‘Quickly, let’s go. Mr Karnovich and Mr Lasovsky must be tired of looking for us. Or if not for us, for the Orlov. Won’t they be delighted!’

I smiled. At that moment the sense of open space, the light and the freshness of the morning filled me with the same feeling of life’s completeness that Lazarus must have felt when he rose from the dead.

‘Do you really want to give the Orlov back to Karnovich?’ Fandorin asked incredulously.

For a moment I thought I must have misheard, but then I realised that, like myself, Mr Fandorin was delighted by the successful outcome of our appalling night and was therefore in the mood for a joke. Well, there are circumstances in which even Ziukin is not averse to a joke, even if his companion is not the most pleasant.

‘No, I want to take the stone to Doctor Lind,’ I replied with a restrained smile intended to indicate that I had appreciated his joke and was replying in kind.

‘Well, that is just it,’ Erast Petrovich said, nodding seriously. ‘You understand that if we give the stone to the authorities, we shall never see it again. And then the boy and Emilie are doomed.’

Now I realised that he was not joking at all.

‘Do you really intend to enter into an independent bargain with Doctor Lind?’ I asked, just to make certain.

‘Yes. What else can we do?’

Neither of us spoke as we stared at each other in mutual perplexity. My mood of exaltation vanished without a trace. A terrible presentiment turned my mouth dry.

Fandorin looked me over from head to foot, as if seeing me for the first time and asked in a curious tone of voice: ‘Just a m-moment, Ziukin, don’t you love little Mika?’