Murder on the Leviathan

Clarissa Stamp

Things had begun to go wrong first thing in the morning, when Clarissa quite distinctly spotted two new wrinkles in the mirror - two fine, barely visible lines running from the corners of her eyes to her temples. It was all the sun’s fault. It was so bright here that no parasol or hat could save you. Clarissa spent a long time inspecting herself in that pitiless polished surface and stretching her skin with her fingers, hoping it might be the way she’d slept and it would smooth out. Just as she finished her inspection, she turned her neck and spotted a grey hair behind her ear. That really made her feel glum. Might that perhaps be the sun’s fault too? Did hairs fade? Oh no, Miss Stamp, no point in deceiving yourself. As the poet said:

She took greater pains than usual with her appearance. That grey hair was mercilessly plucked out. It was stupid, of course.

Wasn’t it John Donne who said the secret of female happiness was knowing when to make the transition from one age to the next, and there were three ages of woman: daughter, wife and mother? But how could she progress from the second state to the third, when she had never been married?

The best cure for thoughts like that was a walk in the fresh air, and Clarissa set out to take a turn round the deck.

Huge as Leviathan was, it had long since been measured out in her leisurely, even paces - at least the upper deck, which was intended for the first-class passengers. The distance round the perimeter was 355 paces. Seven and a half minutes, if she didn’t pause to admire the sea or chat with casual acquaintances.

At this early hour there were none of her acquaintances on deck, and Clarissa completed her promenade along the starboard side of the ship unhindered, all the way to the stern. The ship was ploughing a smooth path through the brownish surface of the Red Sea and a lazy grey furrow extended from its powerful propeller right out to the horizon. Oh, but it was hot!

Clarissa looked enviously at the sailors polishing up the copper fittings one level below. Lucky beasts, in nothing but their linen trousers - no bodice, no bloomers, no stockings with tight garters, no long dress. You couldn’t help envying that outrageous Mr Aono, swanning about the ship in his Japanese dressing gown, and no one in the least bit surprised because he was an Oriental.

She imagined herself lying in a canvas deckchair with absolutely nothing on. No, she could be in a light tunic, like a woman in Ancient Greece. And it was perfectly normal. In a hundred years or so, when the human race finally rid itself of prejudice, it would be absolutely natural.

There was Mr Fandorin riding towards her with a squeak of rubber tyres on his American tricycle. They did say that kind of exercise was excellent for developing the elasticity of the muscles and strengthening the heart. The diplomat was dressed in a light sports outfit: check pantaloons, gutta-percha shoes with gaiters, a short jacket and a white shirt with the collar unbuttoned.

His bronze-tanned face lit up in a friendly smile of greet ing. Mr Fandorin politely raised his cork helmet and went rustling by. He did not stop.

Clarissa sighed. The idea of a stroll had been a failure, all she had succeeded in doing was to soak her underwear with perspiration. She had to go back to her cabin and change.

Breakfast had been spoiled for Clarissa by that poseuse Mme Kleber. What an incredible ability to transform her own weakness into a means of exploiting others! At the precise moment when the coffee in Clarissa’s cup had cooled to the required temperature, that unbearable Swiss woman had complained that she felt stifled and asked for someone to loosen the bodice of her dress. Clarissa usually pretended not to hear Renate Kleber’s whinges and some male volunteer was always found, but a man was clearly not suitable for such a delicate task, and as luck would have it Mrs Truffo was not there - she was helping her husband attend to some lady who had fallen ill. Apparently the tedious creature had previously worked as a nurse. What remarkable social climbing, straight up to the wife of the senior doctor and dining in first class! And she tried to act like a real British lady, but overdid it rather.

Anyway, Clarissa had been forced to fiddle with Mme Kleber’s lacing, and in the meantime her coffee had gone completely cold. It was a trivial matter, of course, but it was that Kleber woman to an absolute T.

After breakfast she went out for a walk, did ten circuits and began feeling tired. Taking advantage of the fact that there was no one nearby she peeped cautiously in at the window of cabin No. 18. Mr Fandorin was sitting at the secretaire, wearing a white shirt with red, white and blue braces, a cigar clenched in the corner of his mouth. He was tapping terribly loudly with his fingers on a bizarre black apparatus made of iron, with a round roller and a large number of keys. Clarissa was so intrigued that she let her guard down and was caught red-handed. The diplomat jumped to his feet, bowed, threw on his jacket and came across to the open window.

‘It’s a Remington t-typewriter,’ he explained. ‘The very latest model, only just on sale. A most c-convenient device, Miss Stamp, and quite light. Two porters can carry it with no difficulty.

Quite indispensable on a journey. You see, i am p-practising my stenography by copying out a piece of Hobbes.’

Still red with embarrassment, Clarissa nodded slightly and walked away, then sat down under a striped awning close by.

There was a fresh breeze blowing. She opened La Chartreuse de Panne and began reading about the selfless love of the beautiful but ageing duchess Sanseverina for the youthful Fabrice del Dongo. Moved to shed a sentimental tear, she wiped it away with her handkerchief, and as if by design, at that very moment, Mr Fandorin emerged onto the deck, wearing a white suit with a broad-brimmed panama hat and carrying a cane. He looked exceptionally handsome.

Clarissa called to him. He approached, bowed and sat down beside her. Glancing at the cover of her book, he said: ‘I am willing to b-bet that you skipped the description of the Battle of Waterloo. A pity - it is the finest passage in the whole of Stendhal. I have never read a more accurate description of war.’

Strangely enough, Clarissa was indeed reading La Chartreuse de Parme for the second time and both times she had simply leafed through the battle scene.

‘How could you tell?’ she asked curiously. ‘Are you a clairvoyant?’

‘Women always miss out the battle episodes,’ said Fandorin with a shrug. ‘At least women of your temperament.’

‘And just what is my temperament?’ Clarissa asked in a wheedling voice, feeling that she cut a poor figure as a coquette.

‘An inclination to view yourself sceptically and the world around you romantically.’ He looked at her, his head inclined slightly to one side. ‘And specifically concerning yourself I can say that recently there has been some kind of sudden change for the b-better in your life and that you have suffered some k-kind of shock.’

Clarissa started and glanced at her companion in frank alarm.

‘Don’t be frightened,’ the astonishing diplomat reassured her.

‘I know absolutely nothing about you. It is simply that I have developed my powers of observation and analysis with the help of special exercises. Usually a single insignificant detail is enough for me to recreate the entire p-picture. Show me a charming button like that (he pointed delicately to a large, ornamental pink button on her jacket) and I will tell you immediately who lost it - a very big pig or a very small elephant.’

Clarissa smiled and asked:

‘And can you see right through absolutely everybody?’

‘Not right through, but I do see a lot. For instance, what can you tell me about that gentleman over there?’

Fandorin pointed to a thickset man with a large moustache observing the shoreline through a pair of binoculars.

‘That’s Mr Babble, he’s …’

‘Stop there!’ said Fandorin, interrupting her. ‘I’ll try to guess myself.’

He looked at Mr Babble for about 30 seconds, then said: ‘He is travelling to the East for the first time. He married recently. A factory owner. Business is not going well, there is a whiff of imminent bankruptcy about this gentleman. He spends almost all his time in the billiard room, but he plays badly.’

Clarissa had always prided herself on being observant and she began inspecting Mr Babble, the Manchester industrialist, more closely.

A factory owner? Well, that was possible to guess. If he was travelling first class, he must be rich. It was clear from his face that he was no aristocrat. And he didn’t look like a businessman either, in that baggy frock coat, and his features lacked animation.

All right then.

Recently married? Well, that was simple enough - the ring on his third finger gleamed so brightly it was obvious straightaway that it was brand new.

Plays billiards a lot? Why was that? Aha, his jacket was smeared all over with chalk.

‘What makes you think that Mr Babble is travelling to the East for the first time?’ she asked. ‘Why is there a whiff of bankruptcy about him? And what is the basis for your assertion that he is a poor billiards player? Perhaps you have been there and seen him play?’

‘No, I have not been in the b-billiard room, because I cannot stand pastimes that involve gambling, and I have never laid eyes on this gentleman before,’ Fandorin replied. ‘It is evident that he is travelling this way for the first time from the stubborn persistence with which he is studying the empty shoreline. Otherwise Mr Babble would be aware that he will not see anything of interest on that side until we reach the Strait of Mandeb. That is one. This gentleman’s business affairs must be going very badly, otherwise he would never have embarked on such a long journey, especially so soon after his wedding. A badger like that might leave his set if the end of the world is nigh, but certainly not before. That is two.’

‘What if he is taking a honeymoon voyage together with his wife?’ asked Clarissa, knowing that Mr Babble was travelling alone.

‘And lingering forlornly on the deck like that, and loitering in the billiard room? And he plays quite incredibly badly - his jacket is all white at the front. Only absolutely hopeless players scrape their bellies along the edge of the table like that. That is three.’

‘Oh, all right, but what will you say about that lady over there?’

Clarissa, now completely engrossed in the game, pointed to Mrs Blackpool, who was proceeding majestically along the deck, arm in arm with her female companion.

Fandorin scanned the estimable lady in question with a disinterested glance.

‘With this one everything is written in the face. She is on her way back from England to join her husband. She has been to visit their grown-up children. Her husband is a military man. A colonel.’

Mr Blackpool was indeed a colonel in command of a garrison in some city or other in northern India. This was simply too much.

‘Explain!’ Clarissa demanded.

‘Ladies of that kind do not travel to India on their own bbusiness, only to their husbands’ place of service. She is not of the right age to have embarked on a journey like this for the first time - so she must be going back somewhere. Why could she have travelled to England? Only in order to see her children. I am assuming that her parents have already passed away. It is clear from her determined and domineering expression that she is a woman used to command. That is the look of the first lady of a garrison or a regiment. They are usually regarded as a level of command senior to the commanding officer himself. Perhaps you would like to know why she must be a colonel’s wife? Well, because if she were a general’s wife she would be travelling first class, and this lady, as you can see, has a silver badge. But let us not waste any more time on trifles.’ Fandorin leaned closer and whispered: ‘Let me tell you about that orang-utan over there. A curious specimen.’

The monkey-like gentleman who had halted beside Mr Babble was M. Boileau, the former Windsor habitue who had left the ill-fated saloon and so slipped through Commissioner Gauche’s net.

Speaking in a low voice directly into Clarissa’s ear, the diplomat told her:

‘The man you see here is a criminal and a villain. Most probably a dealer in opium. He lives in Hong Kong and is married to a Chinese woman.’

Clarissa burst into laughter.

“Well, you’re really wide of the mark this time! That is M. Boileau from Lyon, a philanthropist and the father of eleven completely French children. And he deals in tea, not opium.’

‘I rather think not,’ Fandorin replied calmly. ‘Look closely, his cuff has bent up and you can see the blue circle of a tattoo on his wrist. I have seen one like that before in a book about China. It is the mark of one of the Hong Kong triads, secret criminal societies. Any European who becomes a member of a triad must be a master criminal operating on a truly grand scale.

And of course, he has to marry a Chinese woman. A single look at the face of this “philanthropist” should make everything clear to you.’

Clarissa didn’t know whether to believe him or not, but Fandorin continued with a serious expression:

‘And that is by no means all, Miss Stamp. I can tell a lot about a person even if I am b-blindfolded - from the sounds that he makes and his smell. Why not test me for yourself?’

And so saying he untied his white satin necktie and handed it to Clarissa.

She fingered the fabric - it was dense and non-transparent and then blindfolded the diplomat with it. As though by accident she touched his cheek - it was smooth and hot.

The ideal candidate soon put in an appearance from the direction of the stern - the well-known suffragette, Lady Campbell, making her way to India in order to collect signatures for her petition for married women to be given the vote. Mannish and massive, with cropped hair, she lumbered along the deck like a carthorse. He would never guess that this was a lady and not a boatswain.

‘Right, who is this coming our way?’ Clarissa asked, choking in anticipatory laughter.

Alas, her merriment was short-lived.

Fandorin wrinkled up his brow and began tossing out staccato phrases:

‘A skirt hem rustling. A woman. A heavy stride. A strong c-character. Elderly. Plain. Smokes tobacco. Short-cropped hair.’

‘Why does she have short-cropped hair?’ Clarissa squealed, covering her eyes and listening carefully to the suffragette’s elephantine footfall. Flow, how did he do it?

‘If a woman smokes, she must have bobbed hair and be progressive in her views,’ Fandorin declared in a firm voice. ‘And this one also despises fashion and wears a kind of shapeless robe, bright green with a scarlet belt.’

Clarissa was dumbstruck. This was quite incredible! She took her hands away from her eyes in superstitious terror and saw that Fandorin had already removed the necktie and even retied it in an elegant knot. The diplomat’s blue eyes were sparkling in merriment.

All this was very pleasant, but the conversation had ended badly. When she stopped laughing, Clarissa very delicately broached the subject of the Crimean War and what a tragedy it had been for both Europe and Russia. She touched cautiously on her own memories of the time, making them somewhat more infantile than they were in reality. She was anticipating reciprocal confidences, and hoping to learn exactly how old Fandorin really was. Her worst fears were confirmed: ‘I was still not b-born then,’ he confessed, artlessly clipping Clarissa’s wings.

After that everything had gone from bad to worse. Clarissa had tried to turn the conversation to painting, but she got everything so mixed up that she couldn’t even explain properly why the Pre-Raphaelites had called themselves Pre-Raphaelites. He must have thought her an absolute idiot. Ah, but what difference did it make now?

As she was making her way back to her cabin, feeling sad, something terrifying happened.

She saw a gigantic black shadow quivering in a dark corner of the corridor. Clutching at her heart, Clarissa let out an immodest squeal and made a dash for her own door. Once she was in her cabin it was a long time before she could calm her wildly beating heart. What was that thing? Neither man nor beast.

Some concretion of evil, destructive energy. Her guilty conscience.

The phantom of her Paris nightmare.

No more, she told herself, she had put all that behind her. It was nothing. It was delirium, a delusion, no more. She had sworn that she would not torment herself with remorse. This was a new life, bright and happy - ‘And may your mansion be illumined by the lamp of bliss.’

To soothe her nerves, she put on her most expensive day dress, the one she had not even tried yet (white Chinese silk with a pale-green bow at the back of the waist) and put her emerald necklace round her neck. She admired the gleam of the stones.

Very well, so she wasn’t young. Or beautiful either. But she was far from stupid and she had money. And that was far better than being an ugly, ageing fool without a penny to her name.

Clarissa entered the saloon at precisely two o’clock, but the entire company was already assembled. Strangely enough, rather than fragmenting the Windsor contingent, the commissioner’s astounding announcement of the previous day had brought them closer together. A common secret that cannot be shared with anyone else binds people to each other more tightly than a common cause or a common interest. Clarissa noticed that her fellow diners now gathered around the table in advance of the times set for breakfast, lunch, five o’clock tea and dinner, and lingered on afterwards, something that had hardly ever happened before. Even the captain’s first mate, who was only indirectly involved in this whole affair, spent a lot of time sitting on in the Windsor saloon with the others rather than hurrying off about his official business (but then, of course, the lieutenant might possibly be acting on the captain’s orders). It was as though all the Windsorites had joined some elite club that was closed to the uninitiated. Several times Clarissa caught swift, stealthy glances cast in her direction. Glances that could mean one of two things: ‘Are you the murderer?’ or ‘Have you guessed that I am the murderer?’ Every time it happened she felt a sweet trembling sensation welling up from somewhere deep inside, a pungent cocktail of fear and excitement. The image of the rue de Grenelle rose up clearly before her eyes, the way it looked in the evening: beguilingly quiet and deserted, with the bare branches of the black chestnut trees swaying against the sky. God forbid that the commissioner should somehow find out about the Ambassador Hotel. The very thought of it terrified Clarissa, and she cast a furtive glance in the policeman’s direction.

Gauche presided at the table like the high priest of a secret sect. They were all constantly aware of his presence and followed the expression on his face out of the corners of their eyes, but Gauche appeared not to notice that at all. He assumed the role of a genial philosopher happy to relate his ‘little stories’, while the others listened tensely.

By unspoken agreement, that was only discussed in the saloon and only in the commissioner’s presence. If two Windsorites chanced to meet somewhere in neutral territory - in the music salon, on the deck, in the reading hall - they did not discuss that under any circumstances. And not even in the saloon did they return to the tantalizing subject on every occasion. It usually happened spontaneously, following some entirely unrelated remark.

Today at breakfast, for instance, a general conversation had completely failed to materialize, but now as Clarissa took her seat the discussion was in full swing. She began studying the menu with a bored expression on her face, as though she had forgotten what she had ordered for lunch, but she could already feel that familiar tingle of excitement.

‘The thing that bothers me about the crime,’ Dr Truffo was saying, ‘is the blatant senselessness of it all. Apparently all those people were killed for absolutely nothing. The golden Shiva ended up in the Seine, and the killer was left empty-handed.’

Fandorin rarely participated in these discussions, preferring to remain silent most of the time, but for once even he felt compelled to express an opinion:

‘That is not quite true. The p-perpetrator was left with the shawl.’

‘What shawl?’ asked the doctor, confused.

‘The painted Indian shawl. In which, if we are to believe the newspapers, the killer wrapped the stolen Shiva.’

This joke was greeted with rather nervous laughter.

The doctor spread his hands expressively.

‘But a mere shawl …’

Sweetchild gave a sudden start and lifted his spectacles off his nose, a gesture of his which indicated intense agitation.

‘No, don’t laugh! I made inquiries as to exactly which shawl was stolen. And it is, gentlemen, an extremely unusual piece of material, with a story of its own. Have you ever heard of the Emerald Rajah?’

‘Wasn’t he some kind of legendary Indian nabob?’ asked Clarissa.

‘Not legendary, but quite real, madam. It was the name given to Bagdassar, the ruler of the principality of Brahmapur. The principality is located in a large, fertile valley, surrounded on all sides by mountains. The rajahs trace their line of descent from the great Babur and are adherents of Islam, but that did not prevent them from reigning in peace for three hundred years over a little country in which the majority of the population are Hindus. Despite the difference in religion between the ruling caste and their subjects, the principality never suffered a single rebellion or feud, the rajahs prospered and grew rich and by Bagdassar’s time the house of Brahmapur was regarded as the wealthiest in the whole of India after the Nizams of Hyderabad, whose wealth, as you are no doubt aware, eclipses that of every monarch in the world, including Queen Victoria and the Russian emperor Alexander.’

‘The greatness of our queen does not consist in the extent of her personal fortune, but in the prosperity of her subjects,’

Clarissa remarked primly, stung by the professor’s remark.

‘Undoubtedly,’ agreed Sweetchild, who was already in full spate and not to be halted. ‘However, the wealth of the rajahs of Brahmapur was of a very special kind. They did not hoard gold, they did not stuff trunks to overflowing with silver, they did not build palaces of pink marble. No, for three hundred years these rulers knew only one passion - precious stones. Do you know what the Brahmapur Standard is?’

‘Isn’t it a style of faceting diamonds?’ Dr Truffo asked uncertainly.

‘The Brahmapur Standard is a jewellers’ term which refers to a diamond, sapphire, ruby or emerald that is faceted in a particular manner and is the size of a walnut, which corresponds to one hundred and sixty tandools, in other words eighty carats in weight.’

‘But that is a very large size,’ Renier exclaimed in amazement.

‘Stones as large as that are very rare. If my memory does not deceive me, even the Regent diamond, the glory of the French state jewels, is not very much larger.’

‘No, Lieutenant, the Pitt diamond, also known as the Regent, is almost twice as large,’ the professor corrected him with an air of authority, ‘but eighty carats is still a considerable size, especially if one is dealing with stones of the first water. But can you believe, ladies and gentlemen, that Bagdasssar had five hundred and twelve such stones, and all of absolutely irreproachable quality!’

‘That’s impossible!’ exclaimed Sir Reginald.

Fandorin asked:

‘Why exactly five hundred and t-twelve?’

‘Because of the sacred number eight,’ Sweetchild gladly explained. ‘Five hundred and twelve is eight times eight times eight, that is eight to the power of three, or eight cubed, the so-called “ideal number”. There is here, undoubtedly, some influence from Buddhism, in which the number eight is regarded with particular reverence. In the north-eastern part of India, where Brahmapur lies, religions are intertwined in the most bizarre fashion imaginable. But the most interesting thing of all is where this treasure was kept and how.’

‘And where was it kept?’ Renate Kleber inquired curiously.

‘In a simple clay casket without any adornment whatever. In 1852 I visited Brahmapur as a young archaeologist and met the Rajah Bagdassar. An ancient temple had been discovered in the jungle on the territory of the principality, and the rajah invited me to assess the significance of the find. I carried out the necessary research, and what do you think I discovered? The temple turned out to have been built in the time of King Chandragupta, when …’

‘Stop-stop-stop!’ the commissioner interrupted. ‘You can tell us about archaeology some other time. Let’s get back to the rajah.’

‘Ah yes indeed,’ said the professor, fluttering his eyelashes.

‘That really would be best. Well then, the rajah was pleased with me and as a token of his favour he showed me his legendary casket. Oh, I shall never forget that sight!’ Sweetchild narrowed his eyes as he continued: ‘Imagine a dark dungeon with only a single torch burning in a bronze bracket beside the door.

The rajah and I were alone, his retainers remained outside the massive door, which was protected by a dozen guards. I got no clear impression of the interior of this treasure house, for my eyes had no time to adjust to the semi-darkness. I only heard the clanging of locks as his Highness opened them. Then Bagdassar turned to me and in his hands I saw a cube that was the colour of earth and appeared to be very heavy. It was the size of …’

Sweetchild opened his eyes and looked around. Everyone was sitting and listening with bated breath, and Renate Kleber had even parted her lips like a child. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose about the size of Miss Stamp’s hat, if one were to place that piece of headgear in a square box.’ As though on command, everyone turned and began staring curiously at the diminutive Tyrolean hat decorated with a pheasant’s feather. Clarissa endured this public scrutiny with a dignified smile, in the manner she had been taught as a child. ‘This cube resembled most of all one of the ordinary clay bricks that they use for building in those parts. His Highness later explained to me that the coarse, dull uniformity of the clay surface made a far better foil than gold or ivory for the magnificent glimmering light of the stones. Indeed, I was able to see that for myself when Bagdassar slowly raised a hand studded with rings to the lid of the casket, then opened it with a rapid movement and … I was blinded, ladies and gentlemen!’ The professor’s voice quavered.

‘It … it is impossible to express it in words! Picture to yourselves a mysterious, multicoloured, lambent radiance spilling out of that dark cube and painting the gloomy vaults of that dungeon with shimmering patches of rainbow-coloured light.

The round stones were arranged in eight layers, and in each layer there were sixty-four faceted sources of quite unbearable brilliance. And the effect was certainly enhanced by the flickering flame of the solitary torch. I can still see Rajah Bagdassar’s face bathed from below in that magical light …’

The professor closed his eyes again and fell silent.

‘And how much, for instance, are these glass baubles worth?’ the commissioner’s rasping voice enquired.

‘Yes indeed, how much?’ Mme Kleber repeated enthusiastically. ‘Say, in your English pounds?’

Clarissa heard Mrs Truffo whisper rather loudly to her husband: ‘She’s so vulgar!’ But even so she pushed her mousy curls back off her ear in order not to miss a single word.

‘You know,’ Sweetchild said with a genial smile, ‘I have often wondered about that. It’s not an easy question to answer, since the value of precious stones fluctuates according to the market, but as things stand today …’

‘Yes, please, as things stand today, not in the time of King Chandragupta,’ Gauche put in gruffly.

‘Hmm … I don’t know exactly how many diamonds, how many sapphires and how many rubies the rajah had. But I do know that he valued emeralds most of all, which was how he acquired his popular name. In the course of his reign seven emeralds were acquired from Brazil and four from the Urals, and for each of them Bagdassar gave one diamond and some additional payment. You see, each of his ancestors had a favourite stone that he preferred to all others and tried to acquire in greater numbers. The magical number of five hundred and twelve stones had already been reached in the time of Bagdassar’s grandfather, and since then the ruler’s primary goal had been not to increase the number of stones but to improve their quality. Stones which fell even slightly short of perfection, or which the present ruler did not favour for some reason, were sold - hence the fame of the Brahmapur Standard, which gradually spread around the world.

Their place in the casket was taken by other, more valuable stones. Bagdassar’s ancestors carried their obsession with the Brahmapur Standard to quite insane lengths! One of them purchased a yellow sapphire weighing three hundred tandools from the Persian Shah Abbas the Great, paying ten caravans of ivory for this marvel, but the stone was larger than the standard size and the rajah had his jewellers cut away all the excess!’

‘That is terrible, of course,’ said the commissioner, ‘but let us get back to the question of the stones’ value.’

This time, however, it proved less easy to direct the flow of the Indologist’s speech into the required channel.

‘The question of value can wait for a moment,’ he said, peremptorily dismissing the detective’s request. ‘Is that really so important? When one considers a noble stone of such size and quality, the first thing that comes to mind is not money but the magical properties that have been attributed to it since ancient times. The diamond, for instance, is considered a symbol of purity. Our ancestors used to test their wives’ fidelity by placing a diamond under their sleeping spouse’s pillow. If she was faithful, then she would immediately turn to her husband and embrace him without waking. If she was unfaithful, she would toss and turn and attempt to throw the diamond onto the floor. And the diamond is also reputed to guarantee its owner’s invincibility. The ancient Arabs used to believe that in battle the general who owned the larger diamond would be victorious.’

‘Ancient Arab mistaken,’ said Gintaro Aono, interrupting the inspired speaker in full flow.

Everyone stared in astonishment at the Japanese, who very rarely joined in the general conversation and never interrupted anyone. The Oriental continued hastily in that odd accent of his: ‘In the Academy of St Cyr we were taught that the Duke of Burgundy, Charles the Bold, specially took the huge Sancy diamond with him into battle against the Swiss, but it did not save him from defeat.’

Clarissa felt sorry for the poor devil for making a rare attempt to show off his knowledge at such an inopportune moment.

The Japanese gentleman’s remark was greeted with deadly silence, and Aono blushed in painful embarrassment.

‘Yes indeed, Charles the Bold …’ the professor said with a sharp nod of dissatisfaction and concluded without his former ardour. ‘The sapphire symbolizes devotion and constancy, the emerald confers improved sharpness of vision and foresight, the ruby protects against illness and the evil eye … But you were asking about the value of Bagdassar’s treasures?’

‘I realize that it must be an incredibly huge sum, but could you at least give us an approximate idea of how many zeros there are in it?’ Mme Kleber enunciated clearly, as if she were addressing a dull-witted pupil, demonstrating yet again that once a banker’s wife, always a banker’s wife.

Clarissa would have enjoyed listening to more on the subject of the magical properties of precious stones and would have preferred to avoid talk of money. Apart from anything else, it was so vulgar.

“Very well then, let me just tot it up.’ Sweetchild took a pencil out of his pocket and poised himself to write on a paper napkin. ‘Formerly the diamond was considered the most expensive stone, but since the discovery of the South African mines it has fallen significantly in value. Large sapphires are found more often than other precious stones, and so on average they are only worth a quarter as much as diamonds, but that does not apply to yellow and star sapphires, and they made up the majority of Bagdassar’s collection. Pure rubies and emeralds of great size are also rare and have a higher value than diamonds of the same weight … Very well, for simplicity’s sake, let us assume that all five hundred and twelve stones are diamonds, and all of the same value. Each of them, as I have already said, weighing eighty carats. According to Tavernier’s formula, which is used by jewellers all over the world, the value of a single stone is calculated by taking the market value of a one carat diamond and multiplying it by the square of the number of carats in the stone concerned. That would give us … A one carat diamond costs about fifteen pounds on the Antwerp exchange. Eighty squared is six thousand four hundred. Multiply by fifteen … Mmm … Ninety-six thousand pounds sterling - so that is the value of an average stone from the Brahmapur casket … Multiply by five hundred and twelve … About fifty million pounds sterling. And in actual fact even more, because as I have already explained, coloured stones of such a great size are more valuable than diamonds,’

Sweetchild concluded triumphantly.

‘Fifty million pounds? As much as that?’ Renier asked in a voice suddenly hoarse. ‘But that’s one and a half billion francs!’

Clarissa caught her breath, all thoughts of the romantic properties of precious stones driven out of her head by astonishment at this astronomical figure.

‘Fifty million! But that’s half the annual budget of the entire British Empire!’ she gasped.

‘That’s three Suez Canals!’ mumbled the redheaded Milford Stokes. ‘Or even more!’

The commissioner also took a napkin and became absorbed in some calculations of his own.

‘It is my salary for three hundred thousand years,’ he announced in dismay. ‘Are you not exaggerating, professor? The idea of some petty native princeling possessing such immense wealth!’

Sweetchild replied as proudly as if all the treasure of India belonged to him personally:

‘Why, that’s nothing! The jewels of the Nizam of Hyderabad are estimated to be worth three hundred million, but of course you couldn’t get them all into one little casket. In terms of compactness, certainly, Bagdassar’s treasure had no equal.’

Fandorin touched the Indologist’s sleeve discreetly: ‘Nonetheless, I p-presume that this sum is rather abstract in nature. Surely no one would be able to sell such a huge number of gigantic pprecious stones all at once? It would bring down the market price.’

‘You are mistaken to think so, monsieur diplomat,’ the scholar replied with animation. ‘The prestige of the Brahmapur Standard is so great that there would be no shortage of buyers.

I am certain that at least half of the stones would not even leave India - they would be bought by the local princes, in the first instance by the Nizam whom I have already mentioned. The remaining stones would be fought over by the banking houses of Europe and America, and the monarchs of Europe would not let slip the chance to add the masterpieces of Brahmapur to their treasuries. If he had wished, Bagdassar could have sold the contents of his casket in a matter of weeks.’

‘You keep referring to this man in the p-past tense,’ remarked Fandorin. ‘Is he dead? And if so, what happened to the casket?’

‘Alas, that is something that nobody knows. Bagdassar’s own end was tragic. During the Sepoy Mutiny the rajah was incautious enough to enter into secret dealings with the rebels, and the viceroy declared Brahmapur enemy territory. There was malicious talk of Britannia simply wishing to lay its hands on Bagdassar’s treasure, but of course it was untrue. That is not the way we English go about things.’

‘Oh, yes,’ nodded Renier with a dark smile, exchanging glances with the commissioner.

Clarissa stole a cautious glance at Fandorin - surely he could not also be infected with the bacillus of Anglophobia? The Russian diplomat, however, was sitting there with an air of perfect equanimity.

‘A squadron of dragoons was dispatched to Bagdassar’s palace.

The rajah attempted to escape by fleeing to Afghanistan, but the cavalry overtook him at the Ganges crossing. Bagdassar considered it beneath his dignity to submit to arrest and he took poison. The casket was not found on him; in fact, there was nothing but a small bundle containing a note in English. In the note, which was addressed to the British authorities, the rajah swore that he was innocent and requested them to forward the bundle to his only son. The boy was studying in a private boarding school somewhere in Europe - it’s the done thing among Indian grandees of the new breed. I should mention that Bagdassar was no stranger to the spirit of civilization, he visited London and Paris several times. He even married a French woman.’

‘Oh, how unusual!’ Clarissa exclaimed. ‘To be an Indian rajah’s wife! What became of her?’

‘Never mind the blasted wife, tell us about the bundle,’ the commissioner said impatiently. ‘What was in it?’

‘Absolutely nothing of any interest,’ said the professor with a regretful shrug of his shoulders. ‘A volume of the Koran. But the casket disappeared without trace, although they looked for it everywhere.’

‘And was it a perfectly ordinary Koran?’ asked Fandorin.

‘It could hardly have been more ordinary: printed by a press in Bombay, with devout comments in the deceased’s own hand in the margins. The squadron commander decided that the Koran could be forwarded as requested, and for himself he took only the shawl in which it was wrapped as a souvenir of the expedition. The shawl was later acquired by Lord Littleby for his collection of Indian paintings on silk.’

To clarify the point the commissioner asked:

‘So that is the same shawl in which the murderer wrapped the Shiva?’

‘The very same. It is genuinely unusual. Made of the very finest silk, almost weightless. The painting is rather trivial - an image of the bird of paradise, the sweet-voiced Kalavinka, but it possesses two unique features which I have never encountered in any other Indian shawl. Firstly, where Kalavinka’s eye should be there is a hole, the edges of which have been sewn up with minute care with brocade thread. Secondly, the shawl itself is an interesting shape - not rectangular, but tapering. A sort of irregular triangle, with two crooked sides and one absolutely straight.’

‘Is the shawl of any g-great value?’ asked Fandorin.

‘All this talk about the shawl is boring,’ complained Mme Kleber, sticking out her lower lip capriciously. ‘Tell us more about the jewels! They ought to have searched a bit more thoroughly.’

Sweetchild laughed.

‘Oh, madam, you cannot even imagine how thoroughly the new rajah searched for them. He was one of the local zamindars who had rendered us invaluable service during the Sepoy War and received the throne of Brahmapur as a reward. But greed unhinged the poor man’s mind. Some wit whispered to him that Bagdassar had hidden the casket in the wall of one of the buildings.

And since in size and appearance the casket looked exactly like an ordinary clay brick, the new rajah ordered all buildings constructed of that material to be taken apart. The houses were demolished one after another and each brick was smashed under the personal supervision of the new ruler. Bearing in mind that in Brahmapur ninety per cent of all structures are built of clay bricks, in a few months a flourishing city was transformed into a heap of rubble. The insane rajah was poisoned by his own retainers, who feared a popular revolt even more fierce than the Sepoy Mutiny.’

‘Serve him right, the Judas,’ Renier declared with feeling.

‘Nothing is more abominable than treachery.’

Fandorin patiently repeated his question:

‘But nonetheless, professor, is the shawl of any g-great value?’

‘I think not. It is more of a rarity, a curiosity.’

‘But why are things always b-being wrapped in the shawl first the Koran, and then the Shiva? Could this piece of silk perhaps have some ritual significance?’

‘I’ve never heard of anything of the sort. It is simply a coincidence.’

Commissioner Gauche got to his feet with a grunt and straightened his numbed shoulders.

‘Mmm, yes, an entertaining story, but unfortunately it has nothing to contribute to our investigation. The murderer is unlikely to be keeping this piece of cloth as a sentimental souvenir.

It would be handy if he was, though,’ he mused. ‘One of you, my dear suspects, simply takes out a silk shawl with a picture of the bird of paradise - out of sheer absent-mindedness - and blows his, or her, nose into it. Old papa Gauche would know what to do then all right.’

The detective laughed, clearly in the belief that his joke was very witty. Clarissa gave the coarse lout a disapproving look.

Catching her glance, the commissioner narrowed his eyes.

‘By the way, Mile Stamp, about your wonderful hat. A very stylish item, the latest Parisian chic. Is it long since your last visit to Paris?’

Clarissa braced herself and replied in an icy tone: