Boris Akunin - She Lover of Death

‘No, Mr Blagovolsky,’ Genji said in a quiet voice, ‘the c-club is no longer active. But there is just one final formality to be settled.’

Before he could say another word, the Doge leapt backwards spryly and pulled his Bulldog revolver out of his pocket. I gasped in surprise and dodged to one side.

Genji, however, was not perturbed in the slightest. He flung a heavy gauntlet into Blagovolsky’s face, at the same moment raising one foot in a brown shoe and gaiter and kicking the revolver with incredible agility.

The weapon was sent flying before it could be fired. I quickly picked it up and handed it to my companion.

‘May I consider this a confession?’ Genji asked in cold fury. His usual stammer had completely disappeared. ‘I could shoot you, Blagovolsky, this very moment, and it would be legitimate self-defence. But let us do everything according to the law.’

Prospero had turned pale and his recent scornful manner had disappeared without trace.

‘What confession?’ he muttered. ‘What law are you talking about? I don’t understand any of this. I thought you had gone insane, like Caliban, and come here to kill me. Who are you really? What do you want from me?’

‘I can see this is going to be a long conversation. Sit down,’ said Genji, pointing to a chair, ‘I knew you would try to deny everything.’

The Doge squinted warily at the revolver.

‘All right, all right. I’ll do whatever you say. But let’s go to the study. There’s a draught here and I’m feeling chilly.’

We walked through the dark dining room and sat down in the study: our host at the writing desk, Genji facing him in a huge armchair for visitors, and I at one side. The wide desk was in a state of great disorder, covered with a jumble of books with bookmarks and sheets of paper covered with writing. At the very centre there was an impressive inkstand of gleaming bronze in the form of several heroes from Russian folktales, and at one edge there was the familiar roulette wheel, which had been exiled from the drawing room and found sanctuary at the very heart of the house. No doubt the Wheel of Fortune was meant to remind our host of his days of former glory.

‘Listen carefully and remember everything,’ Genji told me, ‘so that you can present everything as clearly as possible in your report afterwards.’

Allow me to say that I took my obligations as a witness seriously. I had brought from home the pencil and notebook previously acquired on your advice. If I had not been so prudent, it would not be easy for me now to reconstruct so precisely everything that was said.

At first Blagovolsky ran his fingers nervously across the green baize of the desk, but then he made an effort to control himself, put his left hand under the desk and his right hand on the helmet of the Russian folk-hero inkwell and remained in that position.

‘Please be so good as to explain to me what all this is about, gentlemen,’ he said with dignity. ‘You would appear to be accusing me of something.’

Genji tried to turn his chair, but it proved to be too massive, and the ends of its thick legs were buried in the deep pile of a square rug that evidently must have been made to order – it was an exact fit for the chair. The Stammerer was obliged to sit in a half-turned position.

‘Yes, I accuse you of the most ignoble form of murder – driving people to commit suicide. But I also blame myself, because on two occasions I have made unforgivable mistakes. The first time was here in this very study when you artfully wove truth and falsehood together in the performance that you put on for me, pretending to be a well-intentioned innocent. The second time I allowed myself to be deceived when I mistook the devil’s tail for the devil himself.’ Genji set the Bulldog on the edge of the desk. ‘You are aware of what you are doing, your reason is sound, your actions are thoroughly planned for many moves ahead, but you are insane nonetheless. You are obsessed with power. You admitted this yourself during our previous discussion, with such convincing sincerity and such an innocent expression on your face that I allowed myself to be taken in. Ah, if only I had thought of taking a little of that liquid for analysis on the evening when you broke the goblet! I am sure it was no sleeping draught, but absolutely genuine poison. Otherwise why would you have needed to destroy the evidence? Alas, I have made too many mistakes and the price paid for them has been far too high . . .

‘I understand the mechanism of your insanity,’ Genji continued. ‘You made three attempts to die three times in your life and each time you took fright. You established the suicide club in order to redeem the guilt that you felt for having cheated Death. You threw others instead of yourself into its ravenous jaws, ransomed yourself from Death with the lives of others. How you loved to imagine yourself as the mighty magician Prospero, exalted far above ordinary mortals! I shall never forgive myself for believing your fairytale about saving lost souls. You were not trying to save anyone. On the contrary, you took a romantic passion engendered by our age of crisis – a passion that in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred would have passed of its own accord – and skilfully nurtured the young shoot of a love of death. Oh, you are a very skilful gardener and there was no subterfuge that you disdained. You were very inventive in arranging the so-called “Signs”, sometimes exploiting fortuitous circumstances but usually creating them for yourself. You, Blagovolsky, are an excellent psychologist, you unerringly divined the weak spot of every one of your victims. And in addition, I have noticed that you possess considerable skill in the techniques of hypnosis.’

Oh, this was absolutely true! On numerous occasions, I myself had noted the magnetic power possessed by Prospero’s gaze, especially in the gentle illumination of the brazier or candles. I always had the feeling that those black eyes could pierce to the very deepest recesses of my soul! Hypnosis – why, naturally, hypnosis explained everything!

‘I became a member of your flock too late,’ Genji continued, ‘I do not know how you drove the photographer Sviridov and the teacher Soimonov to suicide. No doubt each of them received certain “Signs” for which you were responsible, but it is too late now to reconstruct the chain of events. Those who were to die were named by Ophelia during a spiritualist seance. You apparently had nothing to do with it. But I am no novice in such matters, and it was immediately obvious to me that there was a hypnotic connection between you and the medium – you could communicate with her without words. As the spiritualists say, she was tuned to your emanations – a single look, gesture or hint was enough for Ophelia to guess what you wanted. You could implant any thought that you wanted in her mind, the girl was no more than your mouthpiece.’

‘All very lyrical,’ said Blagovolsky, interrupting the address for the prosecution for the first time. ‘And very significant. In my opinion, Mr Genji, it is you who is insane, not I. Do you really think that the authorities will pay any attention to your fantasies?’

He had already recovered from his initial shock. He clasped his fingers together in front of him and stared intently at Genji. A strong man, I thought. It looks as if the Stammerer has met his match.

‘Write, Horatio, write,’ Genji told me. ‘Note down as much detail as possible. Every link in the chain is important here. And the evidence will follow.

‘The double suicide of Moretta and Lycanthrope went very smoothly, and once again there was no apparent criminal involvement. Acting under your hypnotic suggestion or, perhaps, on your direct instructions, Ophelia declared at the seance that a messenger in a white cloak would appear to the Chosen One that night, bringing the word. Your calculations were precisely right: the members of the club were impressionable people, mostly of a hysterical disposition. It is strange, therefore, that only two of them dreamed of a messenger in a white cloak who appeared to them that night. And then, according to the farewell verse, the stranger who appeared to the youth was severe, with black eyes, and he arrived in the usual manner, through the door, while the girl dreamed of someone with bright eyes, who preferred the window, but then who would cavil over the petty details of a mystical vision?’