The Coronation

18 May

The previous day had been warm, and so had the evening, but after several hours of sitting still I was chilled right through. My teeth had started to chatter, my legs had gone numb, and any hope that our nocturnal vigil would produce some useful result had almost completely evaporated. But Fandorin remained completely unruffled – indeed, he had not stirred a muscle the whole time, which made me suspect that he was sleeping with his eyes open. And what irritated me most of all was the calm, I would even say complacent, expression on his face, as if he were sitting there listening to some kind of enchanting music or the song of birds of paradise.

Suddenly, just when I was seriously considering the idea of rebellion, Erast Petrovich, without any visible change in his demeanour, whispered: ‘Attention.’

I started and looked carefully but failed to see any change. The windows in the house opposite us were still lit up. There was not a single sign of movement, not a single sound.

I glanced at my companion again and saw that he had not yet emerged from his sleep, swoon, reverie or whatever – his general strange state of trance.

‘They are about to come out,’ he said quietly.

‘Why do you think that?’

‘I have fused into a single reality with the house and allowed the house to enter into myself so that I can feel it b-breathing,’ Erast Petrovich said with a completely serious air. ‘It is an oriental t-technique. It would take too long to explain. But a minute ago the house began creaking and swaying. It is preparing to expel people from within itself.’

It was hard for me to tell if Fandorin was joking or was simply raving. I rather inclined towards the latter option, because it was not funny enough to be a joke.

‘Mr Fandorin, are you asleep?’ I enquired, and at that very moment the windows suddenly went dark.

Half a minute later the door opened and two people came out.

‘There is no one left in the house; it is empty n-now,’ Fandorin pronounced slowly, then suddenly grabbed hold of my elbow and whispered rapidly. ‘It’s Lind, Lind, Lind!’

I jerked my head round with a start and saw that Erast Petrovich had completely changed: his face was tense, his eyes were narrowed in an expression of intense concentration.

Could it really be Lind after all?

One of the two who had come out was the Postman – I recognised his build and the peaked cap. The other man was average in height, wearing a long operatic cloak like an almaviva thrown over his shoulders and a Calabrian hat with a sagging brim that hung very low.

‘Number two,’ Fandorin whispered, squeezing my elbow in a grip that was extremely painful.

‘Eh? What?’ I muttered in confusion. ‘Alternative number two. Lind is here, but the hostages are somewhere else.’

‘But are you certain it really is Lind?’

‘No doubt about it. Those precise, economical and yet elegant movements. That way of wearing the hat. And finally that walk. It is he.’

My voice trembled as I asked: ‘Are we going to take him now?’

‘You have forgotten everything, Ziukin. We would detain Lind if he had come out with the hostages, according to alternative number one. But this is number two. We follow the doctor; he leads us to the boy and Emilie.’

‘But what if—’

Erast Petrovich put his hand over my mouth again, in the same way as he had done before so recently. The man in the long cloak had looked round, although we were talking in whispers and he could not possibly have heard us.

I pushed Fandorin’s hand away angrily and asked my question anyway: ‘But what if they are not going to the hostages?’

‘The time is five minutes past three,’ he replied, apropos of nothing at all.

‘I didn’t ask you the time,’ I said, angered by his evasiveness. ‘You are always making me out—’

‘Have you really forgotten,’ Fandorin interrupted, ‘that we made an appointment with the doctor at four in the morning? If Lind wishes to be punctual, he needs to collect the prisoners as quickly as possible in order to get to the waste g-ground by the Petrovsky Palace on time.’

The fact that Erast Petrovich had started stammering again suggested that he was feeling a little less tense. And for some reason I also stopped trembling and feeling angry.

The moment Lind (if it was indeed he) and the Postman turned the corner, we skipped back over the fence. I thought in passing that since I had met Mr Fandorin I had climbed more walls and fences than at any other time in my life, even when was I was a child.

‘Get into the carriage and follow me with caution,’ Erast Petrovich instructed me as he walked along. ‘Get out at every corner and look round it. I shall signal to you to drive on or to wait.’

And in precisely that unhurried manner we reached the boulevard, where Fandorin suddenly beckoned for us to drive up to him.

‘They have taken a cab and are going to Sretenka Street,’ he said as he sat down beside me. ‘Come on now, Vologda. Follow them, only don’t get too close.’

For quite a long time we drove along a succession of boulevards, sometimes moving downhill at a spanking pace and then slowing to drive up an incline. Although it was the middle of the night, the streets were not empty. There were small groups of people walking along, making lively conversation, and several times we were overtaken by other carriages. In St Petersburg they like to poke fun at the old capital city for supposedly taking to its bed with the dusk, but apparently this was far from true. You would never see so many people out walking on Nevsky Prospect at three o’clock in the morning.

We kept driving straight ahead, and turned only once, at the statue of Pushkin, onto a large street that I immediately recognised as Tverskaya. From here to the Petrovsky Palace it was three or four versts straight along the same route that the imperial procession had followed during the ceremonial entry into the old capital, only in the opposite direction.

On Tverskaya Street there were even more people and carriages, and they were all moving in the same direction as we were. This seemed very strange to me, but I was thinking about something else.

‘They are not stopping anywhere!’ I eventually exclaimed, unable to contain myself. ‘I think they are going straight to the meeting place!’

Fandorin did not answer. In the dim light of the gas lamps his face looked pale and lifeless.

‘Perhaps Lind still has some accomplices after all, and the hostages will be delivered directly to the rendezvous?’ he speculated after a long pause, but his voice somehow lacked its habitual self-confidence.

‘What if they have already been . . .’ I could not bring myself to finish the dreadful thought.

Erast Petrovich spoke slowly, in a quiet voice, but his reply sent shivers running down my spine: ‘Then at least we still have Lind.’

After the Triumphal Gates and the Alexander Railway Station, the separate groups of people fused into a single continuous stream that spread across the roadway as well as the pavements and our horse was forced to slow to a walk. But Lind’s carriage was not moving any faster – I could still see the two hats beyond the lowered leather hood ahead of us: the doctor’s floppy headgear and the Postman’s peaked cap.

‘Good Lord, it’s the eighteenth today!’ I exclaimed, almost jumping off the seat when I remembered the significance of the date. ‘Mr Fandorin, there cannot be any meeting on the waste ground! With so many problems on my mind, I completely forgot about the programme of events for the coronation! On Saturday the eighteenth of May there are to be public revels on the open ground opposite the Petrovsky Palace, with free food and drink and the distribution of souvenirs. There must be a hundred thousand people on that waste ground now!’

‘Damn!’ Fandorin swore nervously. ‘I didn’t take that into account either. But then I didn’t think that there would be any meeting. I just wrote down the first thing that came into my head. What an unforgivable blunder!’

On every side we could hear excited voices – some not entirely sober – and jolly laughter. For the most part the crowd consisted of simple people, which was only natural – free honey cakes and sweet spiced drinks were hardly likely to attract a more respectable public, who if they did come to take a look out of curiosity would go into the grandstands, where entrance was by ticket only. They said that at the last coronation as many as three hundred thousand people had gathered for the public festivities, and this time probably even more would come. Well, here they were. People must have been making their way there all night long.

‘Tell me, Mister Policeman, is it true what they say, that they’re going to give everyone a pewter mug and fill it right up to the brim with vodka?’ our driver asked, turning his round animated face towards us. He had obviously been infected by the mood of the festive crowd.

‘Halt,’ Erast Petrovich ordered.

I saw that Lind’s cab had stopped, although there was still a long way to go before the turn to the Petrovsky Palace.

‘They’re getting out!’ I exclaimed.

Fandorin handed the cabby a banknote and we set off at a sprint, pushing through the slow-moving crowd.

Although there was a half-moon peering through the clouds, it was quite dark, and so we decided to move a little closer, to a distance of about ten paces. There were bonfires blazing in the open field on the left of the road and on the right, behind the bushes, and so the two silhouettes, one taller and the other slightly shorter, were clearly visible.

‘We must not lose sight of them,’ I kept repeating to myself over and over, like an incantation.

During those minutes of pursuit I seemed to forget all about His Highness and Mademoiselle Declique. Some ancient and powerful instinct that had nothing to do with pity and was stronger than fear set my heart pounding rapidly but steadily. I had never understood the attraction of the hunt, but now it suddenly occurred to me that the hounds must feel something like this when the pack is unleashed to run down the wolf.

We were forcing our way through a genuine crush now, almost like Nevsky Prospect at the height of the day. From time to time we had to put our elbows to work. A hulking factory hand pushed in front of us and blocked our view. I managed somehow to squeeze through under his elbow and gasped in horror. Lind and the Postman had disappeared!

I looked round despairingly at Fandorin. He drew himself up to his full height and, I think, even stood on tiptoe as he gazed around.

‘What can we do?’ I shouted. ‘My God, what can we do?’

‘You go right; I’ll go left,’ he said.

I dashed to the edge of the road. There were people sitting on the grass in large and small groups. Others were wandering aimlessly among the trees, and in the distance a choir was singing out of tune. Lind was not on my side. I rushed back to the road and collided with Erast Petrovich, who was forcing his way through towards me.

‘We’ve let them get away . . .’ I wailed.

It was all over. I covered my face with my hands in order not to see the crowd, the bonfires, the dark dove-grey sky.

Fandorin shook me impatiently by the shoulder. ‘Don’t give up, Ziukin. Here’s the wasteland where the meeting was set. We’ll walk around, keep looking and wait for the dawn. Lind won’t go anywhere. He needs us as much as we need him.’

He was right, and I tried to take myself in hand and focus my mind.

‘The stone,’ I said, suddenly feeling anxious. ‘You haven’t lost the stone, have you?’

If we could just get them back alive, and then come what may. That was all I could think of at that moment.

‘No, it is here,’ said Fandorin, slapping himself on the chest.

We were being bumped and jostled from all sides, and he took firm hold of my arm.

‘You look to the right, Ziukin, and I shall look to the left. We’ll walk slowly. If you see the men we are looking for, do not shout, simply nudge me in the side.’

I had never walked arm-in-arm with a man before. Or indeed with a woman, with the exception of one brief affair a very long time before, when I was still very green and stupid. I will not recall it here – the story is really not worth the effort.

The nights are short in May. There was already a strip of pink along the horizon in the east, and the twilight was beginning to brighten. It was obvious that many people had camped here the evening before, and it was becoming more and more crowded around the campfires. Occasionally I could feel empty bottles under my feet. And the crowds kept on coming along the main road from Moscow.

On the left, beyond the barriers and lines of police, there was a wide open field covered with specially built fairground booths and pavilions with walls of freshly cut timber. That was probably where the tsar’s gifts to the people were being kept. I cringed at the thought of the pandemonium that would break out here in a few hours time, when this sea of people, their patience exhausted by hours of waiting, went flooding past the barriers.

We wandered from the barriers to the palace and back – once, twice, three times. It was already light, and every time it was harder to force our way through the ever-denser mass of bodies. I continually turned my head to and fro, surveying the half of the area that had been assigned to me, and I struggled with all my strength against a rising tide of despair.

Somewhere in the distance a bugle sounded a clamorous reveille, and I remembered that the Khodynsk army camps were not far away.

I suppose it must be seven o’clock, I thought, trying to recall exactly when reveille was. And at that very second I suddenly saw the familiar Calabrian hat with the civil servant’s cap beside it.

‘There they are!’ I howled, tugging on Fandorin’s sleeve with all my might. ‘Thank God!’

The Postman looked round, saw me and shouted: ‘Ziukin!’

His companion glanced round for a moment – just long enough for me to catch a glimpse of his spectacles and beard – and then they plunged into the very thickest part of the crowd, where it was jostling right up against the barriers.

‘After them!’ cried Erast Petrovich, giving me a furious shove.

There was a stout merchant in front of us and he simply would not make way. Without the slightest hesitation, Fandorin grabbed his collar with one hand and the hem of his long frock coat with the other, and threw him aside. We went dashing through the crowd, with Erast Petrovich leading the way. He carved through the throng like an admiralty launch slicing through the waves, leaving rolling breakers on each side. From time to time he jumped incredibly high into the air – obviously to avoid losing sight of Lind again.

‘They’re forcing their way through towards the Khodynsk Field!’ Erast Petrovch shouted to me. ‘That’s quite excellent! There’s no crowd there but a lot of police!’

We’ll catch them now, any moment now, I realised, and suddenly feltmystrength increase tenfold. I drewlevel with Fandorin and barked: ‘Make way there!’

Closer to the barriers the most prudent and patient of the spectators were standing absolutely chock-a-block, and our rate of progress slowed.

‘Move aside!’ I roared. ‘Police!’

‘Ha, there’s a cunning one!’

Someone punched me so hard in the side that everythingwent black and I gasped for breath.

Erast Petrovich took out his police whistle and blew it. The crowd reeled back and parted at the harsh sound, and we advanced a few more steps with relative ease, but then coarse caftans, pea jackets and peasant shirts closed back together again.

Lind and the Postman were very close now. I saw them duck under a barrier into the open space right in front of the police cordon. Aha, now they were caught!

I saw the hat lean across to the cap and whisper something into it.

The Postman turned back, waved his arms in the air and bellowed: ‘Good Orthodox people! Look! On that side they’re pouring in from the Vaganka! They’ve broken through! They’ll get all the mugs! Forward, lads!’

A single roar was vented from a thousand throats. ‘Hah, the cunning swine! We’ve been here all night, and they want to grab the lot! Like hell they will!’

I was suddenly swept forward by a force so irresistible that my feet were lifted off the ground. Everything around me started moving, and everyone scrabbled with their elbows, trying to force a way through to the tents and pavilions.

I heard whistles trilling and shots fired into the air ahead of me. Then someone roared through a megaphone: ‘Go back! Go back! You’ll all be crushed!’

A chorus of voices replied cheerfully: ‘Don’t you worry, yer ’onour! Press on, lads!’

A woman shrieked desperately.

Somehow I managed to find the ground with my feet and move along with the crowd. Fandorinwas no longer there beside me – he had been swept away somewhere to one side. I almost stumbled when I stepped on something soft and did not immediately realise that it was a person. I caught a glimpse of a trampled soldier’s white tunic under my feet, but it was impossible to help the fallen man as my hands were pinned tight against my sides.

Then bodies began falling more and more often, and I could only think of one thing: God forbid that I might lose my footing – there was no way I would ever get up again. To my left there was someone running along over the people’s shoulders and heads, with his black tarred boots twinkling. Suddenly he swayed, flung up his arms and went crashing down.

I was being carried straight towards the sharp corner of a planking pavilion covered in fresh splinters. I tried to veer a little to one side, but it was hopeless.

‘Take him!’ voices shouted from my right. ‘Take the little one!’

They were passing a boy of about eight from one pair of raised hands to another. He was gazing around in terror and sniffing with his bloody nose.

I was flung against the wall and my cheek dragged across the splinters, making the tears spurt from my eyes. I struck my temple against a carved window frame and as I started slipping down I had just enough time to think: It’s over. Now they will crush me.

Someone gripped me under the armpits and jerked me back onto my feet. Fandorin. I was already so stunned that his appearance did not surprise me in the least.

‘Brace your hands against the wall!’ he shouted. ‘Otherwise they’ll crush you!’

He swung his arm and smashed out the patterned shutter with a single blow of his fist. Then he picked me up by my sides and thrust me up with incredible strength so that I flew over the window sill rather than climbed it, and landed with a crash on a floor that smelled of fresh wood shavings. There were neat pyramids of coronation mugs standing all around me. Erast Petrovich hauled himself up and also climbed into the pavilion. One of his eyebrowswas split, his uniformwas tattered, his sabre had come halfway out of its scabbard.

Were we really safe now?

I looked out of the windowand saw that the fieldwas jammed solid with people out of their minds. Screaming, groaning, crunching sounds, laughter – all of these were mingled together in the hubbub. There had to be a million of them! Clouds of dust swirled and shimmered in the air, transforming it into a thick fatty broth.

Someone had climbed into the next pavilion and began throwing mugs and sacks of presents out of the window. A brawl immediately started up beside the wall there.

‘Oh Lord, save Thy people,’ I blurted out, and my hand reached up of its own accord to make the sign of the cross.

‘What are you up to?’ someone shouted up at us. ‘Toss out the mugs! Is there any drink?’

The pavilion creaked and wood dust sprinkled down from the ceiling. I cried out in horror as I saw our frail refuge falling to pieces. Something struck me on the back of my head, and it was a relief when I lost consciousness.

I do not know who dragged me out from under the debris and then carried me to a safe place, or why they did it. In all probability I was once again indebted to Fandorin for saving me, although I do not find that a pleasant thought.

However it happened, I came round on a wooden grandstand at the edge of the Khodynsk Field. The sun was already high in the sky. I lifted my head, then immediately dropped it again, hitting it hard against the rough surface of the bench. I then managed to sit up after a fashion and felt my pounding head with my hands. It did not feel as if it was really mine. Although there was a substantial lump on the top of it, otherwise I seemed to be more or less unhurt. Fandorin was nowhere to be seen. I was in a strange drowsy state and could not get rid of the metallic ringing sound in my ears.

The first thing I did was survey the vast field. I saw booths and pavilions twisted awry and tight lines of soldiers moving slowly across the grass. And everywhere, almost completely covering the ground, therewere bodies: many were motionless, but some were still moving. It was distressing to watch, this feeble stirring. There was a buzzing in my temples and my eyes were blinded by the bright sun. I tucked my head into my crossed arms and either fell asleep or fainted. I do not know how long I sat there, leaning against the skirting of the grandstand, but the next time I woke up it was long after midday and the field was empty. There were no soldiers and no bodies.

My head was no longer hurting so badly, but I felt very thirsty.

I sat there, wondering feebly if I ought to go somewhere or if it would be better to stay where I was. I stayed, and it was the right thing to do, because soon Erast Petrovich appeared. He was stillwearing his police uniform, but his bootswere absolutely filthy and his white gloves black with soil.

‘Are you back with us?’ he asked in a gloomy voice. ‘My God, Ziukin, what a disaster. The only time I ever saw the like was at Plevna. Thousands killed and mutilated. This is the worst of all Lind’s atrocities. He has taken an army of slaves with him into the grave like some ancient king.’

‘So Lind was crushed too?’ I asked without any great interest, still unable to shake off my lethargic drowsiness.

‘I cannot see how he could possibly have survived in such a crush. However, let us go and check. The soldiers and police have just finished laying out the mangled bodies for identification – over there, along the side of the road. The line of the dead is almost a verst long. But how can we identify him? We don’t even know what he looks like. Except perhaps for the cloak . . . Let’s go, Ziukin, let’s go.’

I limped along after him.

The line of dead bodies stretched along the main highway, running as far as the eye could see in both directions. Therewere cabs and carts driving out from Moscow as the order had been given to transport the dead to the Vagankovskoe Cemetery, but they had not started moving them yet.

There were high-ranking officials striding about everywhere with sombre faces: military officers, police officers, civilians, each one accompanied by his own retinue. Oh, you will all get it in the neck for allowing the coronation to be wrecked, I thought, but more in sympathy than condemnation. It was Lind who had started the slaughter, but it was the men in charge who would have to pay.

I had a strange feeling as I slowly walked along the side of the road – as if I were some kind of high noble reviewing a parade of the dead. Many of the corpses grinned at me, theirwhite teeth exposed in their flattened faces. From the beginning I felt as if I were frozen, and then I completely turned to stone, which was probably all for the best. I only stopped once, beside that boy whom they had tried to pass out of the crowd. Evidently they had failed. I stared with apathetic curiosity at the transparent blueness of his wide staring eyes and hobbled on. There were quite a number of people staring into the dead faces like Fandorin and myself – some looking for relatives, some simply curious.

‘Look at this, look here,’ I heard a voice say. ‘What a rich man he was, eh?’

A crowd of idlers had gathered round one dead body, and there was a police constable on guard. It was just another dead body – skinny, with straw-coloured hair and a crushed nose – but there were about a dozen purses and several watches on chains laid out on its chest.

‘A pickpocket,’ a lively old man explained to me and clicked his tongue regretfully. ‘That old buzzard fate didn’t spare him either. And he was expecting such a rich haul.’

Ahead of mesomeone started howling – theymust have recognised a dear one – and I hurried on to get past as quickly as possible.

I strode on rapidly for about another twenty paces, and then my stupor seemed to vanish as if by magic. That black frock coat was familiar!

Yes, it was definitely him. The Postman!

Fandorin also saw him and walked over quickly. He squatted down.

The face of the doctor’s helper was entirely undamaged apart from the imprint of the sole of someone’s boot on one cheek. I was struck very powerfully by the expression of surprise on the frozen features. What had he found so astonishing in the final moment of his criminal life? What had he seen that was so incredible? The gaping abyss of hell?

Erast Petrovich straightened up abruptly and declared in a hoarse voice: ‘Lind is alive!’

Seeing my eyebrows shoot up in bewilderment, he bent down, parted the corpse’s blood-soaked clothes and unbuttoned its shirt to expose the pale hairy chest. There was a neat black triangular wound just below the left nipple.

‘There, you see it,’ Fandorin said in a quiet voice. ‘A familiar sign. That is Lind’s stiletto. The doctor remains true to himself – he leaves no witnesses.’ Erast Petrovich straightened up and looked in the direction of Moscow. ‘Let’s go, Ziukin. There’s nothing more we can do here. Quickly!’

He strode off rapidly, almost running, in the direction of the Petrovsky Palace.

‘Where are you going?’ I shouted, chasing after him.

‘Where else but the Postman’s house? Lind might still be there. After all, he doesn’t know that we discovered his hideaway.’

We could not walk all the way into Moscow, and all the cabs had been commandeered by the police to transport the dead, after the wounded had been taken to the hospitals in the morning. The carriages were setting off one after the other in the direction of the Tverskaya Gate, each bearing a doleful cargo.

High Police Master Lasovsky walked past, surrounded by a group of blue uniforms. I hastily turned my face away, only realising afterwards that in my present condition it would have been almost impossible to recognise me, not to mention the fact that just at that moment Afanasii Ziukin was probably the very last thing on the colonel’s mind. The kidnapping of Mikhail Georgievich, even the disappearance of the Orlov, paled into insignificance in comparison with the tragedy that had just taken place. Fate had not inflicted such a blow on a new monarch in Russia since at least 1825. Good Lord. What an international scandal! And what a monstrous omen for the reign just begun!

The high police master’s face was pale and miserable. Naturally, for he would be held responsible in the first instance. Mere resignation would not be enough. The person in charge of arranging the coronation festivities was the governor general of Moscow, but how could you bring the uncle of His Imperial Majesty to trial? But someone at the top of the local authorities had to be tried. Why had they not foreseen that there would be so many people? Why had they set up such a weak cordon?

Fandorin drew himself erect and saluted the police chief smartly, but Lasovsky did not even glance in our direction.

‘Excellent,’ Erast Petrovich said to me in a low voice. ‘There’s our cab.’

A short distance away I saw the high police master’s famous carriage, harnessed to a pair of black trotters. The coachman Sychov, frequently mentioned by the Moscow newspapers in connection with the indefatigable police chief’s daily outings in search of drunken yard keepers and negligent constables, was solemnly ensconced on the coach box.

Erast Petrovich drew his sword and dashed towards the carriage, jangling his spurs smartly.

‘An urgent dispatch!’ he shouted at the coachman and jumped straight into the carriage at a run. ‘Come on, Sychov, wake up! An order from the high police master!’ He turned back to me and saluted. ‘Your Excellency, I implore you, quickly now!’

The coachman glanced at the brusque officer and looked at me. I was wearing the simple jacket taken from the German bandit, but Sychov did not seem particularly surprised. On an insane day like this, God only knew who the high police master’s two in hand might be ordered to carry.

‘Open your eyes wider, stare hard,’ Fandorin whispered as he took a seat facing me. ‘You’re an important individual. They don’t drive just anybody around in this carriage.’

I drew myself erect and, as befits a genuinely important individual, directed my gaze a little to the side and up, gathering my forehead into stately wrinkles. Thank God I had seen enough ministers and generals in my time.

‘Drive on, Sychov, drive on!’ Erast Petrovich barked, prodding the driver in his cotton-wadded back.

The coachman hastily shook his reins, the wonderful horses set off at a trot, and the carriage swayed gently on its soft springs.

Every now and then Sychov bellowed: ‘Mind yourselves, there!’

The bleached white trunks of the roadside poplars flashed by. The bleak queue of carts covered with sackcloth fell further and further behind. People on the pavements turned round to gaze in hope and fear – or at least it seemed to me that they did – and policemen saluted.

Erast Petrovich ordered the coachman to stop at the Alexander Railway Station. We got out, Erast Petrovich dropped his visiting card on the leather seat and waved for Sychov to drive back to where he had come from.

We got into a cab and drove off at a spanking pace towards Myasnitskaya Street.

‘What’s happening up there on the Khodynka, Your Honour?’ the cabby asked, turning towards us. ‘They’re saying as the Yids poured dope into the official wine, so the people was drugged, and nigh on a hundred thousand Orthodox folk was crushed. Is that true or not?’

‘It’s a lie,’ Erast Petrovich replied curtly. ‘Drive on, drive on!’

We flew into the familiar side street with a rumble and a clatter. Fandorin jumped down and beckoned the yard keeper with an imperious gesture.

‘Wholives at that address?’ he asked, pointing to the Postman’s house.

‘Post Office Attendant Mr Ivan Zakharovich Tereshchenko,’ the yard keeper replied, saluting with his broom held rigidly to attention.

‘Retired army man?’ Erast Petrovich enquired sternly.

‘Yes, sir, Your Honour! Private First Class of the Prince Heinrich of Prussia Sixth Dragoons Regiment Fyodor Svishch!’

‘Very well, Svishch. This gentleman and I have come to carry out the arrest of this Tereshchenko. You have awhistle. Go round to the back of the house from the courtyard and keep your eyes on the windows. If he tries to get out, whistle for all you’re worth. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir, Your Honour!’

‘And wait!’ Fandorin shouted after the former private, first class, who was already dashing off to carry out his orders. ‘Do you have a crowbar? Bring it here and then take up your post.’

We ourselves took up a position on the porch where we could not be seen from the windows.

Erast Petrovich rang the bell and then knocked on the door.

‘Tereshchenko! Mr Tereshchenko! Open up, this is the local inspector of police! In connection with today’s events!’

He put his ear to the door.

‘Break it open, Ziukin.’

I had never held such a crude instrument as an iron crowbar in my hands before, never mind used it to break in a door. It turned out to be far from simple. I struck the lock once, twice, three times. The door shuddered but it did not open. Then I stuck the flat sharp end into the crack, leaned against it and tried to lever the lock apart, but that did not work either.

‘Right. Damn you and your crowbar, Ziukin!’

Erast Petrovich moved me aside. Grabbing the porch railings he launched himself into the air and smashed both of his feet into the door, which went crashing inwards and hung crookedly on one hinge.

We quickly ran through all the rooms with Fandorin clutching a little black revolver at the ready. No one. Scattered items of clothing, false beards, a ginger wig, a few canes, cloaks and hats, crumpled banknotes on the floor.

‘We’re too late!’ Erast Petrovich sighed. ‘Just a little bit too late!’

I groaned in disappointment, but he looked round the small drawing room carefully and then suddenly said in a quiet stealthy voice: ‘Ah, but this is interesting.’

There was an open casket standing on a small table beside the window. Fandorin took out a long object that glittered in his fingers, giving off yellow sparks.

‘What is that?’ I asked in amazement.

‘I presume it is the celebrated coronet,’ he replied, keenly examining the diadem, which was encrusted with priceless yellow diamonds and opals. ‘And here is the Empress Anna’s clasp, and the Empress Elisaveta’s neckband, and the small d-diamond bouquet with a spinel, and the, what’s it called . . . aigrette. I promised Her Imperial Majesty that her jewels from the coffret would be returned safe and sound, and that is what has happened.’

I dashed across to the casket and froze in awe. What a stroke of luck! All of these fabulous jewels glowing with the sacred aura of the history of the imperial house, safely returned to the throne! This alonewas enough to justify Fandorin’s entire wild adventure and totally restoremyown good name. The only possible greater happiness would be the rescue of Mikhail Georgievich and Mademoiselle Declique.

But of course Fandorin was delighted by this miraculous discovery for a completely different reason.

‘Lind was here only very recently and evidently intends to return. That is one. He really does have no one left to help him. He is quite alone. That is two. And finally we have an excellent chance of catching him. That is three.’

I thought for a moment and worked out the logic for myself: ‘If he was not planning to return, he would not have left the casket behind, right? And if he still had any helpers, he would have left them to guard the treasure. What are we going to do?’

‘First of all, mend the front d-door.’

We dashed back into the entrance hall. The blow from Fandorin’s feet had torn one hinge out bodily, but that was not the only problem. Far worse was the fact that a crowd of onlookers had gathered and they were staring avidly at the windows and the gaping hole.

‘Damnation!’ Erast Petrovich groaned. ‘We raised such a racket that the entire street has come running to look, and in ten minutes the entire b-block will be here! Soon the real police will turn up and spoil everything for us. No, we won’t see Lind here again. But at least we have to check to see if any clues have been left behind.’

He went back inside and started picking up the clothes scattered on the floors of the rooms, paying special attention to a narrow shoe covered in dust. Its partner was nowhere nearby.

Meanwhile I went out into the cramped corridor and, for lack of anything better to do, glanced into the small untidy kitchen with a tiled stove in the corner. I found nothing remarkable in the kitchen apart from a very large number of cockroaches, and I was about to leave it when my eyes fell on a trapdoor set into the floor. It must be a cellar, I thought, and suddenly felt as if I had been nudged by some mysterious force. Simply in order to kill time while Fandorin was carrying out his search, I leaned down and lifted up the door. The dark opening exuded that special mouldy smell of dampness and earth, the smell that cellars where beetroot, carrots and potatoes are kept ought to have.

Just as I was just about to close the door, I heard a sound that made me turn cold and then set me trembling. It was a groan, weak but quite unmistakable!

‘Mr Fandorin!’ I shouted at the top of my voice. ‘Come here!’

AndItooktheparaffinlampoffthekitchentablewithtrembling hands, lit it with a match and went downinto the darkness and the cold. When Iwas only halfway down the steps, I sawher.

Mademoiselle Declique was lying huddled up against the wall on some grey sacks. She was wearing nothing but her shift – my eyes were drawn to a slim ankle with a bruise around the bone, and I hastily averted my eyes – but thiswas no time for respecting the proprieties.

I set the lamp down on a barrel (to judge from the smell, it must have contained pickled cabbage) and dashed over to where she lay. Her head was thrown back and her eyes were closed. I saw that one of Emilie’s hands was handcuffed to an iron ring set into thewall. Mademoiselle’s poor facewas covered with bruises and blotches of dried blood. Her undershirt had slipped down off onewhite shoulder, and I sawa huge bruise above her collarbone.

‘Ziukin, are you down there?’ Fandorin’s voice called from somewhere above me.

I did not reply because I had rushed to examine the other corners of the cellar. But His Highness was not there.

I went back to Mademoiselle and cautiously raised her head.

‘Can you hear me?’ I asked.

Fandorin jumped down onto the floor and stood behind me. Mademoiselle opened her eyes, then screwed them up against the light of the lamp and smiled. ‘Athanas, comme tu es marrant sans les favoris. Je t’ai vu dans mes rêves. Je rêve toujours . . .’¹

She was clearly not well, otherwise she would never have spoken to me in such a familiar manner.

My heart was breaking with pity for her. But Fandorin was less sentimental.

He moved me aside and slapped the prisoner on the cheek.

‘Emilie, où est le prince?’²

‘Je ne sais pas . . . ’³ she whispered and her eyes closed again.

‘What, have you not guessed who Lind is?’ Emilie said, looking at Fandorin incredulously. ‘And Iwas certain that with your great intellect you had solved everything. Ah, it seems so simple to me now! Truly, we were all blind.’

Erast Petrovich looked embarrassed, and I must admit that the solution seemed very far from simple to me.

The conversationwas taking place in French, since after everything that Mademoiselle had suffered it would simply have been too cruel to torment her with Russian grammar. I had noticed before that when Fandorin spoke foreign languages he did not stammer at all, but I had not had any time to ponder this surprising phenomenon. It seemed that his ailment – for I considered stammering to be a psychological ailment – was in some way linked to expressing himself in Russian. Could this stumbling over the sounds of his native tongue perhaps be an expression of secret hostility to Russia and all things Russian? That would not have surprised me in the least.

We had arrived at our rented apartment half an hour before. Fandorinwas holding the casket, but I had an even more precious burden: Iwas carrying Emilie, muffled up in Doctor Lind’s cloak. Mademoiselle’s body was smooth and very hot – I could feel that even through the material. That must have been why I started feeling feverish myself, and I could not recover my breath for a long time, although Mademoiselle was not at all heavy.

We decided to put our dear guest in one of the bedrooms. I laid the poor woman on the bed, quickly covered her with a blanket and wiped the drops of sweat off my forehead.

Fandorin sat down beside her and said: ‘Emilie, we cannot call a doctor for you. Monsieur Ziukin and I are, so to speak, outside the law at present. If you will permit me, I will examine and treat your wounds and contusions myself, I do have certain skills in that area. You must not feel shy with me.’

And now, why this? I thought, outraged. What incredible impudence!

But Mademoiselle did not find Fandorin’s suggestion impudent at all. ‘This is no time for me to be shy,’ she said, smiling feebly. ‘I shall be very grateful to you for your help. I hurt all over. As you can see, the kidnappers did not treat me very gallantly.’

‘Afanasii Stepanovich, heat some water,’ Fandorin ordered briskly in Russian. ‘And I saw some alcohol and embrocation in the bathroom.’

The famous surgeon Pirogov in person! Nonetheless I did as he said, and also brought some clean napkins, mercurochrome and adhesive plaster that I found in one of the drawers in the bathroom.

Before the examination began, Mademoiselle cast a timid glance in my direction. I hastily turned away, and I am afraid that I blushed.

I heard the rustle of light fabric. Fandorin said anxiously: ‘Good Lord, you’re bruised all over. Does this hurt?’

‘No, not much.’

‘And this?’

‘Yes!’

‘I think the rib is cracked. I’ll strap it with the plaster for the time being. How about here, under the collarbone?’

‘It hurts when you press.’

There was a mirror not far away on the wall. I realised that if I took two sly steps to the right I would be able to see what was happening on the bed, but I immediately felt ashamed of this unworthy thought and moved to the left instead.

‘Turn over,’ Erast Petrovich ordered. ‘I’ll feel your vertebrae.’

‘Yes, yes, it hurts there. On the coccyx.’

I gritted my teeth. This was becoming genuinely unbearable! I regretted not having gone out into the corridor.

‘Someone kicked you,’ Fandorin stated. ‘It’s a very sensitive spot, but we’ll put a compress on it, like that. And here too. Never mind, it will hurt for a few days and then get better.’

I heard water splashing, and Mademoiselle groaned quietly a few times.

‘It is all over, Athanas. You can revolve now,’ I heard her say in Russian and immediately turned round. Emilie was lying on her back, covered up to her chest with the blanket. She had a neat piece of white plaster on her left eyebrow, one corner of her mouth was red from mercurochrome, and I could see the edge of a napkin under her open collar.

I could not look Mademoiselle in the eye and glanced sideways at Fandorin, who was washing his hands in a basin with a self-composed air, like a genuine doctor. I bit my lip at the thought that those strong slim fingers had touched Emilie’s skin, and in places that it was impossible even to think about without feeling giddy. But the most surprising thing was that Mademoiselle did not seem embarrassed at all and was looking at Fandorin with a grateful smile.

‘Thank you, Erast.’

Erast!

‘Thank you. I feel a lot better now.’ She laughed quietly. ‘Alas, I have no more secrets from you now. As a respectable man you are obliged to marry me.’

This risqué joke made even Fandorin blush. And you can imagine how I felt.

In order to steer the conversation away from the indecent and painful direction that it had taken, I asked dryly: ‘Nevertheless, Mademoiselle Declique, where is His Highness?’

‘I do not know. We were separated as soon as we left the underground passage and kept in different places ever since then. The boy was unconscious, and I was very faint myself. They hit me quite hard on the head when I tried to shout.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Erast Petrovich said eagerly. ‘What were you trying to tell us? You shouted: “Lind’s here. He’s . . .” But not another word after that.’

‘Yes, he put his hand over my mouth and punched me in the face. I recognised him despite the mask.’

‘You recognised him!’ Erast Petrovich and I exclaimed in a single voice.

And then Mademoiselle raised her eyebrows in surprise and asked the question that embarrassed Fandorin so greatly.

‘What, have you not guessedwho Lind is?’ Emilie said, looking at Fandorin incredulously. ‘And Iwas certain that with your great intellect you had solved everything. Ah, it seems so simple to me now! Truly, we were all blind.’

Fandorin and I glanced at each other, and I could tell from his furtive expression that he wished to ascertainwhether I had been more quick-witted than he had. Unfortunately I had not. But I would have paid dearly to make it so.

‘Oh, good Lord. Why it’s Banville,’ she said, shaking her head in amazement at our slow-wittedness. ‘Or at least the person we knew as Lord Banville. I recognised his voice back there in the vault. When someone called down: “Alarm! Run!” Lind forgot his usual caution and shouted in English: “Take the kid and the slut! Run for it!” It was Banville!’

‘Banville?’ Erast Petrovich repeated, perplexed. ‘But how is that possible? Surely he is a friend of Georgii Alexandrovich? They have known each other for a long time!’

‘Not so very long,’ I put in, trying to gather my thoughts. ‘His Highness only made Banville’s acquaintance this spring, in Nice.’

‘I was not aware of that,’ Fandorin said hastily, as if he were trying to offer excuses. ‘Yes indeed, how simple . . .’ He changed from French to Russian and said: ‘Even Homer sometimes nods. But my own lack of insight in this case is absolutely unforgivable. Why, of course!’

He jumped up and started striding around the room, almost running in fact, and gesticulating fitfully. I had never seen him in such an agitated state. Thewords spurted from his lips, tumbling over each other.

‘The doctor began putting his plan into action in Nice. He must have gone there deliberately to seek out his future victim – so many Russian grand dukes go to the Côte d’Azur in spring! And it was already known that the coronation would be in May! Win the trust of members of the imperial family, become a friend, obtain an invitation to the c-celebrations, and everything else was just a matter of precise technical preparation!’

‘And another thing!’ I put in. ‘A hatred of women. You said yourself that Lind cannot bear to have women around him. Now it is clear why. So Endlung was right!’

‘Endlung?’ Erast Petrovich echoed in a hollow voice and rubbed his forehead furiously, as if he wished to rub right through it to his brain. ‘Yes, yes indeed. And I attached no importance to his idiotic theory – precisely because it was that blockhead who thought of it. A genuine case of “Out of the mouths of fools . . .” Ah, Ziukin, snobbism is a truly terrible sin . . . Banville! It was Banville! And that fragrance, The Earl of Essex . . . How cleverly he gave himself freedom of movement by pretending to leave so suddenly! And the duel that came at just the right moment! And a shot straight to Glinsky’s heart – I recognise Lind’s diabolical accuracy in that! An excellent disguise: an eccentric British homosexual. The conceptual breadth and fine detailed planning, the incredible boldness and ruthlessness – these are definitely Lind’s signature! And I have failed to catch him again . . .’

‘But there is still Mr Carr,’ I reminded him. ‘He is Lind’s man too, surely?’

Erast Petrovich gestured hopelessly.

‘I assure you that Carr has nothing to do with all this. Otherwise Lind would not have left him behind. The doctor brought along his affected cutie to make his camouflage more convincing, and probably in order to combine work and pleasure. Lind is well known for his sybaritic habits. Dammit, the most upsetting thing is that Endlung was right! A gang of homosexuals, united not only by financial interests but by other ties as well. So that is the source of their great loyalty and self-sacrifice!’

Mademoiselle wrinkled up her forehead, listening attentively to Fandorin’s lamentations, and I think that she understood everything, or almost everything.

‘Oh yes, Lind really does hate women,’ she said with a bitter laugh. ‘I know that very well from my own experience. All the time I was a prisoner I was only given one piece of bread and two mugs of water. It was a good thing that barrel was there beside me, with that terrible cabbage of yours. I was kept on a chain, with no clothes. And yesterday evening Banville, I mean Lind, came down into the cellar as angry as a thousand devils and started kicking me without saying a word! I think he must have had some bad news. The pain was bad, but the fear was worse.’ Emilie shuddered and pulled the blanket right up to her chin. ‘He is not a man; he is pure evil. The doctor beat me without saying a single word and flew into such a rage that if the owner of the house had not been there he would probably have beaten me to death. The owner is quite a tall man with a gloomy face. He was the only one who did not hurt me. He gave me the bread and water.’

Mademoiselle gingerly touched the plaster on her forehead.

‘You saw what Lind did to me, Erast! The scum! And there was no reason for it!’

‘He was angry when he found out that he had lost two of his helpers,’ I explained. ‘Mr Fandorin killed one of them and handed the other over to the police.’

‘What a pity you did not kill both of them, Erast,’ she said, sniffing and wiping a tear of anger off her eyelashes. ‘Those Germans were absolute swine. Which of them did you kill, the lop-eared one or the one with freckles?’

‘The one with freckles,’ Erast Petrovich replied.

And I had not seen either of them properly – there was no time and it was dark in that passage.

‘Never mind,’ I observed. ‘At least now the doctor has been left entirely alone.’

Fandorin pursed his lips sceptically. ‘Hardly. There is still someone guarding the boy. If the poor boy is still alive . . .’

‘Oh, the little one is alive, I am sure of it!’ Mademoiselle exclaimed. ‘At least, he was still alive yesterday evening. When the owner of the house dragged that raging lunatic Banville off me, I heard him growl: “If not for the stone, I’d send him both heads – the kid’s and the slut’s.” I think he meant you, Erast.’

‘Thank God!’ I blurted out.

I turned towards the icon of St Nicholas hanging in the corner and crossed myself. Mikhail Georgievichwas alive, therewas still hope.

However, therewas another question thatwas still tormenting me. It was not the kind of question that one asks, and if one does ask, one has no right to expect a reply. Nonetheless, I decided that I would. ‘Tell me, did they . . . did they . . . abuse you?’

To make things quite clear, I spoke these words in French.

Thanks be to God, Emilie was not offended. On the contrary, she smiled sadly. ‘Yes, Athanas, they did abuse me, as you might have noticed from my bumps and bruises. The only comfort is that it was not the kind of abuse that you obviously have in mind. Those gentlemen would probably have preferred to kill themselves rather than enter into physical relations with a woman.’

This bold direct answer embarrassed me and I averted my eyes. If there was one thing about Mademoiselle Declique that I did not like, it was the unfeminine exactitude with which she expressed herself.

‘Well then, let us sum up,’ Fandorin declared, hooking his fingers together. ‘We have rescued Emilie from the clutches of Doctor Lind. That is one. We now know what the doctor looks like. That is two. We have recovered the empress’s jewels. That is three. Half of the job has been done. The rest is simple.’ He heaved a sigh, and I realised that he was using the word ‘simple’ ironically. ‘Rescue the boy. Eliminate Lind.’

‘Yes, yes!’ Mademoiselle exclaimed, lifting herself abruptly off the pillow. ‘Kill that foul beast!’ She looked at me with a plaintive expression and said in a feeble voice: ‘Athanas, you cannot imagine how hungry I am . . .’

Ah, what a stupid, insensitive blockhead! Fandorin was only interested in Lind, but I ought to have known better!

I went dashing towards the door, but Erast Petrovich grabbed hold of the flap of my jacket.

‘Where are you off to, Ziukin?’

‘Where? To the dining room. There is cheese and biscuits in the sideboard, and pâté and ham in the icebox.’

‘No ham. A g-glass of sweet tea with rum and a piece of black bread. She must not have anything more yet.’

He was right. After fasting the stomach should not be burdened with heavy food. But I put in four spoons of sugar, cut a substantial slice of bread and splashed in a good helping of whisky from Mr Freyby’s bottle.

Mademoiselle drank the tea with a smile on her split lips, and the colour returned to her pale cheeks.

My heart was wrung with an inexpressible pity. If I could have got my hands on that vile Doctor Lind, who had kicked and beaten a helpless woman, I would have put my hands round his neck and no power on earth could have forced my fingers apart.

‘You need to get some sleep, Emilie,’ Fandorin said, getting to his feet. ‘We will decide in the morning how to proceed from here. Afanasii Petrovich,’ he said, switching into Russian, ‘will you agree to spend the night here, on the couch? In case Emilie might need something?’

Need he have asked! I wanted so much to be alone with her. Just to be there, not to talk. Or, if there was a chance, to speak of the feelings that filled my heart. But where would I find the words?

Fandorin left the room. Emilie looked at me with a smile, and I sat there, a pitiful awkward creature, licking my lips, clearing my throat, clasping and unclasping my fingers. Finally I gathered the courage to speak.

‘I . . . I missed you very badly, Mademoiselle Declique.’

‘You may call me Emilie,’ she said in a quiet voice.

‘Verywell. That will really not be excessive familiarity, because after all that you have been through – that is, that you and I have been through – I dare to hope that you and I . . .’ I hesitated and blushed painfully. ‘That you and I . . .’

‘Yes?’ she said with an affectionate nod. ‘Tell me. Tell me.’

‘That you and I can think of ourselves not just as colleagues, but as friends.’

‘Friends?’

I thought I heard a note of disappointment in her voice.

‘Well, of course I am not so presumptuous as to expect a particularly close or intimate friendship.’ I corrected myself quickly so that she would not think Iwas exploiting the situation in order to inveigle myself into her confidence. ‘We have simply become good companions. And I am very glad of it . . . There.’

I did not say any more, because I thought there had in any case already been a highly significant shift in our relationship: the right to address each other by our first names had been legitimised, and in addition I had offered her my friendship, and my offer seemed to have been received favourably.

And yet Emilie was looking at me as if she had been expecting something else.

‘You regard me as a friend, a companion?’ she asked after a long pause, as if she were making quite sure.

‘Yes, as a dear friend,’ I confirmed, casting my reserve aside.

Then Mademoiselle sighed, closed her eyes and said in a quiet voice: ‘I’m sorry, Athanas. I am very tired. I am going to sleep.’

I could not tell when she fell asleep. Her breast carried on rising and falling evenly, her long eyelashes fluttered slightly, and occasionally a shadow ran across her face like a small cloud passing over the smooth surface of bright azure waters.

I spent the whole night alternating between brief periods of shallow sleep and periods of wakefulness. Emilie only had to stir or sigh and I immediately opened my eyes, wondering if I should bring her some water, tuck her in or adjust her pillow. I was not at all distressed by these frequent awakenings; on the contrary, I found them pleasant, even delightful. It was a long, long time since I had felt such peace.

¹Athanas, how funny you are without your sideburns. I dreamed about you. I am still dreaming.

²Emilie, where is the prince?

³I do not know . . .