The Winter Queen

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

in which the importance of correct breathing is demonstrated in a highly convincing fashion

ERAST FANDORIN FOUND THAT IN LIZANKA’S company—somehow he could not really take to ‘Lizzie’—he felt equally content to speak or to remain silent.

The railway carriage swayed rhythmically across the switches as the train, with an occasional low snarl of its whistle, hurtled at breakneck speed through the drowsy forests of the low Valdai Hills, wreathed in predawn mist, and Lizanka and Erast Fandorin sat on the soft chairs in the first compartment and said nothing. For the most part they gazed out the window, but they also glanced at each other from time to time. If their glances happened by chance to cross they did not feel in the least bit shamefaced but quite the opposite—it gave them a pleasant and happy feeling. Fandorin had begun deliberately trying to turn away from the window as smartly as possible, and every time that he succeeded in catching her glancing back at him, Lizanka would burst into quiet laughter.

There was also good reason for not speaking because they might wake the baron, who was dozing peacefully on the divan. Not so very long before, Alexander Apollodorovich had been engaged in an animated discussion of the situation in the Balkans with Fandorin and then suddenly, almost in midword, he had given a sudden snore and his head had slumped forward onto his chest, where it was now swaying comfortably in time to the rattling rhythm of the wheels of the carriage: da-dam, da-dam (this way and that, this way and that); da-dam, da-dam (this way and that, this way and that).

Lizanka laughed softly at some thoughts of her own, and when Fandorin cast an inquiring glance at her, she explained, “You know, you’re so very clever. You explained to Papa all about Midhat Pasha and Abdülhamid. And I’m so stupid, you can’t even imagine.”

“You can’t possibly be stupid,” Fandorin whispered with profound conviction.

“There’s something I’d like to tell you, only I’m ashamed…but I’ll tell you anyway. Somehow I have the feeling that you won’t laugh at me. That is, you will laugh when you’re here with me, but not without me, will you? Am I right?”

“Of course you are!” Erast Fandorin exclaimed loudly, but the baron twitched his eyebrows in his sleep, and the young man slipped back into a whisper. “I shall never laugh at you.”

“Don’t forget then, you promised. After that time you came to our house I imagined all sorts of things…and it was all so beautiful. Only very, very sad and always with a tragic ending. It’s all because of Karamzin’s Poor Liza. You remember, don’t you, Liza and Erast? I imagined myself lying there in my coffin, all pale and beautiful, with white roses all around me. Perhaps I drowned, or perhaps I died of consumption, and you are there sobbing and Papa and Mama are sobbing and Emma is there, blowing her nose. It’s funny, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” Fandorin agreed.

“It’s really such a miracle that we met like that at the station. We’d been staying with ma tante* and we were supposed to have gone home yesterday, but Papa was detained on business in the ministry and we changed the tickets. That really is a miracle, isn’t it?”

“There’s nothing miraculous about it!” said Erast Fandorin in astonishment. “It is the finger of fate.”

The sky outside the window looked strange—entirely black with a thin border of scarlet along the horizon. The official messages lying forgotten on the table were a dismal white.

THE COACHMAN DROVE Fandorin right across early-morning Moscow from the Nikolaevsky Station to Khamovniki. It was a bright and joyful day, and Lizanka’s parting words were still ringing in Erast Fandorin’s ears: “You absolutely must come today! Do you promise?”

The timing fitted perfectly. Now he would go to the Astair House, to see her ladyship. It would be best to go to the gendarmerie department later to have a word with the commanding officer, and—if he had managed to elicit anything important from Lady Astair—to send a telegram to General Mizinov. On the other hand, the remaining dispatches might have arrived from the embassies…Fandorin took apapyrosa out of his new silver cigarette case and lit it rather clumsily. Should he not perhaps go to the gendarmerie first? But his horse was already trotting down Ostozhenka Street, and it would be stupid to turn back. So, first to her ladyship, then to the department, then home to collect his things and move into a decent hotel; then change his clothes, buy some flowers, and be at the Evert-Kolokoltsevs’ house on Malaya Nikitskaya Street by six o’clock. Erast Fandorin smiled blissfully and broke into song:

From the exultant crowd of idle boasters,

Who stain their hands with others’ crimson blood,

Lead me into the camp of love’s promoters,

Who perish for the greater cause of good.

And now there was the familiar building with the wrought-iron gates and the manservant in the blue uniform beside the striped sentry box.

“Where can I find Lady Astair?” Fandorin cried, leaning down from his seat. “In the Astair House or in her rooms?”

“About this time her ladyship’s usually in her rooms,” the gatekeeper replied with a jaunty salute, and the carriage rumbled on into the quiet side street.

At the two-story administration wing Fandorin ordered the coachman to wait, and warned him that he might be waiting for some time.

The same self-important doorman whom her ladyship called Timofei was idling about beside the door. However, unlike on the previous occasion he was not warming himself in the sunshine but had moved into the shade, for the June sun beat down with a heat considerably greater than in May.

On this occasion Timofei also behaved quite differently, demonstrating a remarkable psychological talent. He doffed his peaked cap, bowed, and asked in an obsequious voice how he should announce the visitor. Evidently something had changed in Erast Fandorin’s appearance in the course of the previous month, and he no longer aroused in the doorkeeping tribe an instinctive urge to seize hold of him and deny him admittance.

“No need to announce me. I’ll go straight through.”

Timofei bent himself double and flung open the doors without a murmur, admitting the visitor into the damask-upholstered entrance hall, from where Erast Fandorin followed the bright sunlit corridor to the familiar white-and-gold door. It opened to greet him, and a lanky individual wearing the same light blue livery and white stockings as Timofei fixed the new arrival with an inquisitive eye.

“Fandorin, officer of the Third Section, on urgent business,” Erast Fandorin announced austerely. However, the lackey’s equine features remained impassive, and Fandorin was obliged to explain in English. “State police, Inspector Fandorin, on urgent official business.”

Again not a single muscle trembled in the stony face, although the meaning of what was said had been understood. The footman inclined his head primly and disappeared behind the door, closing the two leaves tightly behind him.

Half a minute later they opened again. Standing in the doorway was Lady Astair herself. On seeing her old acquaintance she gave a happy smile.

“Oh, it’s you, my dear boy. Andrew said it was some important gentleman from the secret police. Come in, come in. How are you? Why do you look so tired?”

“I’ve come straight from the Petersburg train, my lady,” Fandorin began to explain as he walked through into the study. “Straight from the station to see you. The matter is very urgent indeed.”

“Oh, yes,” the baroness said, nodding sadly, as she seated herself in an armchair and gestured for her guest to take a seat facing her. “Of course, you wish to talk to me about dear Gerald Cunningham. It’s all like some terrible dream. I can’t understand it at all…Andrew, take the gentleman’s hat…This is an old and trusted servant of mine, who has just arrived from England. My splendid Andrew—I missed him very badly. Leave us, Andrew. Go, my friend—you are not needed for the moment.”

The skeletal Andrew, who appeared anything but splendid to Fandorin, bowed and withdrew. Fandorin squirmed in the hard armchair, trying to make himself more comfortable—the conversation promised to be long and drawn out.

“My lady, I am greatly saddened by what has happened. However, Mr. Cunningham, your closest deputy of many years, has proved to be involved in an extremely serious criminal plot.”

“And now you will close down my Russian Astair Houses?” her ladyship asked in a quiet voice. “My God, what will become of the children? They have barely even begun to grow accustomed to a normal life. And there are so many talented individuals among them! I shall appeal to the emperor himself. Perhaps I may be permitted to take my wards abroad.”

“Pray do not alarm yourself unnecessarily,” said Erast Fandorin in a gentle voice. “Nothing will happen to your Astair Houses. After all, that would simply be criminal. All I wish to do is to ask you some questions about Cunningham.”

“But of course! Anything at all. Poor Gerald…You know, he came from a very good family, the grandson of a baronet, but his parents were drowned on their way back from India and the boy was left an orphan at the age of eleven. In England we have very stringent laws of inheritance. Everything goes to the eldest son—the title and the fortune—and the younger children often don’t have a penny to their names. Gerald was the youngest son of a youngest son, without any means or any house. His relatives took no interest in him…I was just writing to send my condolences to his uncle, an absolutely worthless gentleman, who showed not the slightest concern for Gerald. But what can one do? We English place such importance on the formalities.” Lady Astair showed him a sheet of paper covered with large, old–fashioned handwriting with curlicues and intricate flourishes. “In short, I took the child in. Gerald was discovered to have exceptional mathematical abilities and I thought he would become a professor, but a quick wit and ambition are not the best foundation for a scientific career. I soon noticed that the boy was respected by other children, that he enjoyed being in charge. He possessed an innate talent for leadership: uncommon willpower and discipline, the ability to discern unerringly the strong and weak sides of another person’s character. He was elected head boy at the Manchester Astair House. I had expected that Gerald would choose to enter the state service or take up politics. He would have made an excellent colonial official and in time, perhaps, even a governor-general. You can imagine my surprise when he expressed the desire to remain with me and make education his field.”

“But of course,” Fandorin said with a nod. “In that way he was able to impose his influence on the immature minds of children and afterward maintain contact with his ex-pupils—” Erast Fandorin stopped in mid-sentence, struck by a sudden realization. God, how simple it all was! How amazing that he hadn’t seen it before!

“Very soon Gerald became my irreplaceable lieutenant,” her ladyship continued, not noticing the change in Fandorin’s expression. “What a devoted, tireless worker! And a rare linguistic talent—without him I would have found it quite impossible to keep track of the work of our branches in so many countries. I know that his enemy was always vaunting ambition. It was a reaction to his childhood suffering, a desire to prove to his relatives that he would achieve everything without their help. I could sense it—I could sense the strange disparity: with all his ability and ambition he ought not to have been content with the humble role of a teacher, even one with a very decent salary.”

Erast Fandorin, however, was no longer listening. It was as if an electric lamp had been switched on in his head, illuminating everything that had previously been submerged in darkness. Everything fitted into place! Senator Dobbs appearing out of nowhere, the French admiral who had ‘lost his memory,’ the Turkish effendi of unknown origin, and Brilling as well—yes, yes, him, too! Aliens? Martians? Visitants from beyond the grave? Nothing of the sort! They were all ex-pupils of Astair Houses, that was who they were! They were foundlings, only they had not been abandoned at the door of an orphanage but quite the reverse: the orphanage had planted them in society. Each one had been given appropriate training; each one possessed an ingeniously identified and painstakingly nurtured talent! It was no accident that Jean Intrepide had been abandoned in the path of a French frigate—evidently the youth was an exceptionally gifted sailor. For some reason, though, it had been necessary to conceal where the talented youth had come from. But then the reason was clear enough! If the world were to discover how many men making brilliant careers had been bred in Lady Astair’s nursery, it would inevitably have been alerted. But in this way everything appeared to happen quite naturally. With a nudge in the right direction, the talent was certain to manifest itself. That was why every one of the cohort of ‘orphans’ had achieved such astounding success in his profession. That was why it was so important for them to report to Cunningham about their advancement in their careers—in that way they were validating their own worth, the correctness of the choice that had been made! And it was entirely natural that the only genuine loyalty any of these geniuses knew was to their own community. It was their only family, the family that had protected them against a cruel world, raised and developed the inimitable individual personality of each of them. What a family it was—almost four thousand scattered throughout the world! Well done indeed to Cunningham and his ‘talent for leadership’! But stop—

“My lady, how old was Cunningham?” Fandorin asked with a frown.

“Thirty-three,” Lady Astair replied readily. “He would have been thirty-four on the sixteenth of October. Gerald always held a party for the children on his birthday, and they did not give him presents. It was he who gave something to everyone. I think it consumed almost his entire salary—”

“No, it doesn’t fit!” Fandorin cried out despairingly.

“What doesn’t fit, my boy?” her ladyship asked in surprise.

“Intrepide was found at sea twenty years ago! Cunningham was only thirteen then. Dobbs got rich a quarter of a century ago. Cunningham was not even an orphan then! No, he’s not the one!”

“What on earth are you trying to say?” the Englishwoman asked, blinking her clear blue eyes in bewilderment as she tried to fathom his thought.

Erast Fandorin stared back unblinkingly at her in silence, stunned by his hideous realization.

“So it wasn’t Cunningham…” he whispered. “It was you all the time…You! You were there twenty years ago and twenty-five years ago…and forty! But, of course, who else! And Cunningham really was no more than your right hand! Four thousand of your disciples, in essence your children. And for every one of them you were like a mother! It was you Morbid and Franz were talking about, not Amalia at all! You gave each of them a goal in life—you set each of them ‘on the path’! But it’s appalling, appalling!” Erast Fandorin groaned as if he were in pain. “From the very beginning you intended to use your pedagogical theory to establish a worldwide conspiracy.”

“No, not from the very beginning,” Lady Astair objected calmly. Some intangible but perfectly evident change had taken place in her. She no longer seemed to be a tranquil, agreeable old woman. A spark of intelligence, authority, and indomitable strength had appeared in her eyes. “At first, I simply wanted to save mankind’s poor, destitute children. I wanted to make them happy—as many of them as I could, whether it was a hundred or a thousand. But my efforts were a grain of sand in the desert. While I was saving one child, the bloodthirsty Moloch of society was pulverizing a thousand, a million young souls, in every one of which there burned the primordial spark of God. And I realized that my efforts were in vain. The sea cannot be emptied with a spoon.” Lady Astair’s voice grew more forceful and her stooped shoulders grew straight. “And I also realized that God had given me the strength to do more than save a handful of orphans. I could save mankind. Not in my own lifetime, perhaps, but twenty or thirty or fifty years after my death. It is my vocation, my mission. Every one of my children is a precious jewel, the crown of creation, a knight of the new humanity. Each of them will work incalculable good and change the world for the better with his life. They will write wise laws, unlock the mysteries of nature, create masterpieces of art. And year by year there are more of them—in time they will transform this vile, unjust, criminal world!”

“What mysteries of nature, what masterpieces of art?” Fandorin asked bitterly. “You are interested in nothing but power. I’ve seen them—you have nothing but generals and future ministers out there.”

Her ladyship smiled condescendingly. “My friend, Cunningham was only in charge of my category F, a very important category but by no means the only one. F stands for Force—that is, everything related to the mechanisms of direct power: politics, the state apparatus, the armed forces, the police, and so on. There is also a category S, for Science; a category A, for art; and a category B, for business. And there are others as well. In forty years of work as an educator I have set sixteen thousand eight hundred and ninety-three people on their way. Surely you can see how rapidly science, technology, art, legislation, and industry have developed in recent decades? Surely you can see that since the middle of this nineteenth century of ours the world has become a kinder, wiser, more beautiful place? A genuine world revolution is taking place. And it is absolutely essential. Otherwise the unjust order of society will produce a different, bloody revolution that will set mankind back by several centuries. My children save the world every day. And just wait and see what will happen in the years to come. By the way, I recall you asking me why I do not take girls. On that occasion, I must confess, I lied to you. I do take girls. Only very few, but I take them. I have a special Astair House in Switzerland where my dear daughters are educated. They are absolutely special material, perhaps even more precious than my sons. I believe you are acquainted with one of my foster daughters.” Her ladyship smiled slyly. “For the moment, to be sure, she is behaving irrationally and has forgotten her duty. That happens with young women. But she will certainly return to the fold. I know my girls.”

From these words Fandorin realized that Hippolyte had not killed Amalia after all, but had evidently carried her off somewhere. However, the reminder of Bezhetskaya opened old wounds and weakened somewhat the impression (which must be admitted to be quite considerable) that the baroness’s reasoning had made on the young man.

“A noble goal is a great thing, no doubt!” he exclaimed vehemently. “But what about the means? For you, killing a man means no more than swatting a mosquito.”

“That is untrue!” her ladyship objected heatedly. “I genuinely regret every life that has been lost. But one cannot clean out the Augean stables without soiling one’s hands. One man’s life saves thousands, millions of other people.”

“And who did Kokorin save?” Erast Fandorin inquired sarcastically.

“I shall use the money of that worthless bon vivant to raise thousands of brilliant minds for Russia and the world. It cannot be helped, my boy. It was not I who arranged this cruel world so that there is a price to be paid for everything. It seems to me that in this case the price is quite reasonable.”

“Well, and what of Akhtyrtsev’s death?”

“Firstly, he talked too much. Secondly, he plagued Amalia to excess. And thirdly—you yourself mentioned it to Ivan Brilling—the Baku oil. No one will be able to contest the will that Akhtyrtsev wrote. It remains valid.”

“And what of the risk of a police investigation?”

“A trifling matter,” said her ladyship with a shrug. “I knew that my dear Ivan would arrange everything. Even as a child he was distinguished by a brilliant analytical mind and great organizational talent. What a tragedy that he is no longer with us! Brilling would have arranged everything quite perfectly if not for a certain extremely persistent young gentleman. We have all been very, very unlucky.”

“Wait a moment, my lady,” said Erast Petrovich, finally realizing the need for caution. “Why are you being so frank with me? Surely you do not hope to win me over to your camp? If not for the blood that has been spilt, I would be wholeheartedly on your side, but your methods—”

Lady Astair interrupted him with a serene smile. “No, my friend, I am not hoping to win you over with propaganda. Unfortunately we became acquainted too late. Your mind, your character, and system of moral values were already formed, and now it is almost impossible to change them. There are three reasons why I am being so frank with you. Firstly, you are a very bright young man and I find you genuinely likable. I do not wish you to believe I am a monster. Secondly, you committed a serious blunder by coming straight here from the station without informing your superiors. And thirdly, it was not by chance that I induced you to sit in that extremely uncomfortable armchair with such a strangely curved back.”

She made a movement with her hand, and two steel bands quickly slid out of the high armrests, pinning Fandorin tightly against the back of the chair. Still not fully aware of what had happened, he tried to leap to his feet with a jerk, but he could not even really move, and the legs of the armchair seemed to be rooted to the floor.

Her ladyship rang a bell and Andrew instantly entered the room, as if he had been eavesdropping outside the door.

“My splendid Andrew, please bring Professor Blank here as quickly as you can. Oh, and tell him to bring the chloroform. And tell Timofei to deal with the coachman.” She sighed sadly. “There is nothing to be done about it.”

Andrew bowed without speaking and left the room. Silence hung heavy in the study. Erast Fandorin puffed and panted as he floundered in the trap, attempting to twist himself around in order to reach the lifesaving Herstal behind his back, but the confounded hoops had clamped him so tightly that he had to abandon the idea. Her ladyship observed the young man’s movements with a sympathetic eye, occasionally shaking her head.

Soon there was the sound of rapid steps in the corridor and two people entered the room: the genius of physics Professor Blank and the silent Andrew.

Casting a quick glance at the prisoner, the professor asked in English, “Is this serious, my lady?”

“Yes, it is rather.” She sighed. “But rectifiable. Of course, it will cost us a little fuss and bother. I do not wish to resort to extreme measures unless it is absolutely necessary. I remembered, my boy, that you had been dreaming for a long time of experimenting on human material. It would appear that an opportunity has arisen.”

“But I am not yet entirely ready to work with a human brain,” said Blank uncertainly, scrutinizing Fandorin, who was now calm. “On the other hand, it would be a shame to squander such an opportunity…”

“In any case he has to be put to sleep,” remarked the baroness. “Did you bring the chloroform?”

“Yes, yes, just a moment.” The professor extracted a small bottle from a capacious pocket and splashed its contents generously onto a handkerchief. Erast Fandorin caught the harsh, medicinal smell and was about to protest, but in two swift bounds Andrew was standing by the armchair and pressing his arm across the prisoner’s throat with incredible strength.

“Good-bye, my poor boy,” her ladyship said, turning her face away.

Blank took a gold watch out of his waistcoat pocket, glanced at it over the top of his spectacles, and pressed the odorous white rag firmly over Fandorin’s face. And that was when Erast Fandorin was able to put the lifesaving teachings of the incomparable Chandra Johnson to good use! The young man did not breathe in the treacherous fumes, which obviously contained no prana. The moment had come to practice the exercise of holding his breath.

“One minute will be more than adequate,” the scientist declared.

A-and eight, a-and nine, a-and ten, Erast Fandorin counted mentally, not forgetting to open and close his mouth spasmodically, roll his eyes, and mimic convulsions. As a matter of fact, even if he had wished to breathe in, it would not have been easy, since Andrew was pressing down on his throat with a grip of iron.

Fandorin’s count had exceeded eighty, his lungs were almost exhausted in their struggle with the desire to breathe in air, and still the moisture of that foul rag continued to chill his flaming face. Eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven—he began counting with dishonest rapidity, attempting to fool that unbearably slow-moving second hand with his last ounce of strength. Suddenly he realized that he should have stopped twitching and lost consciousness long ago, and he went limp and still, allowing his lower jaw to drop in order to make the trick look more convincing. On the count of ninety Blank removed his hand.

“Well, well,” he said, “what remarkable resistance. Almost seventy-five seconds.”

The ‘insensible’ prisoner allowed his head to loll to one side and pretended to be breathing smoothly and deeply, although he desperately wanted to gulp in air with a mouth hungry for oxygen.

“Ready now, my lady,” the professor announced. “We can commence the experiment.”