Boris Akunin - The Coronation

‘Oh, Colonel, Fandorin is very far from being an amateur,’ Kirill Alexandrovich objected. ‘He is a man of exceptional abilities. If anyone can help us in this difficult and delicate matter, he can. And, in addition, he knows something about this villain Lind. It is also of some importance that as a private individual Fandorin is not restricted in the methods he can employ. No, Nicky, we won’t be able to manage without this man. I am even inclined to think that he has been sent to us by God.’

‘Rubbish! Absolute rubbish!’ Simeon Alexandrovich cried, flinging his pencil into the corner. (I took another one out of my pocket.) ‘I categorically protest!’

Kirill Alexandrovich, who was not accustomed to being addressed in this manner and also, as far as I was aware, regarded his younger brother with unmitigated contempt, lowered his leonine head and fixed the governor general with his famous withering stare. In response, Simeon Alexandrovich stubbornly jutted out his chin, which made his well-groomed beard look like the bowsprit of a ship, and assumed an absolutely uncompromising air.

There was an oppressive silence.

‘But what are we going to do with this Fandorin?’ the emperor asked plaintively. ‘Call him in or not? Ask him to help or arrest him?’

Neither of Their Highnesses replied; they did not even change the direction of their gazes. This was an enmity of many years that had begun before the present sovereign was even born. Only, as the common folk put it, Simeon Alexandrovich was a bit ‘weedy’ in comparison with Kirill Alexandrovich. He had never been known to come off best against his elder brother.

By temperament Georgii Alexandrovich is much calmer and more easy-going than either of them, but if once he gets his temper up – then beware! And now he suddenly began flushing crimson, and seemed to swell up, making me afraid that the hooks on his collar would burst open, and it was clear that a storm was about to break.

His Majesty did not see this terrifying picture, since he was looking at Kirill Alexandrovich and Simeon Alexandrovich. If he had seen it, he would probably not have ventured to say anything, but as it was, he began in a conciliatory tone of voice: ‘Uncle Sam, Uncle Kir, listen to what I think—’

There was a thunderous crash as Georgii Alexandrovich swung his fist down and slammed it into the table so hard that two wineglasses fell over, a coffee cup cracked and an ashtray was overturned, and Simeon Alexandrovich bounced on his chair in surprise.

‘Shut up, Nicky!’ the head of the Green House roared. ‘And you two keep quiet as well! It’s my son who has been kidnapped; I’m the one who should decide. And don’t forget that it’s only thanks to this, what’s his name . . . damn it, beginning with F, that my daughter was saved! Let him tell us everything that he knows!’

And so the matter was decided.

I slipped out of the drawing room silently in order to call Fandorin. Immediately outside the door there was a plush curtain, and then the corridor where the ‘amateur detective’, as Karnovich had called him, had been ordered to wait.

‘Your lovely moustache – it’s absolutely charming. And you don’t shape it with tweezers? Or use fixative?’

On hearing these strange words, just to be on the safe side I peeped out from behind the curtain to see who could be speaking in such a manner.

Erast Fandorin was sitting where I had left him, with one leg crossed over the other, counting the jade beads on a rosary. The voice was not his, it belonged to the governor general’s adjutant Prince Glinsky, a dainty young man with a pretty face like a girl’s. The common folk have a saying about his kind: ‘’Tis a pity he’s not a wench, at least he could wed.’ The prince was standing in front of Fandorin, leaning down and carefully studying the retired official’s slim, tidy moustache. Glinsky’s own moustache was waxed – I could see that quite clearly now – and I think his lips were painted. But what was so surprising about that?

‘No, sir, I do not use f-fixative,’ Fandorin replied politely, looking up at the young man and not making the slightest attempt to move away.

‘My God, what eyelashes you have!’ the adjutant sighed. ‘I think I would give absolutely anything for long black eyelashes like that, curved at the end. Is that your natural colour?’

‘Absolutely natural,’ Erast Petrovich assured him no less amiably.

At this point I interrupted this outlandish conversation and invited the state counsellor to follow me.

It is amazing, but on finding himself face to face with such a large number of members of the royal family, Erast Petrovich Fandorin betrayed not the slightest sign of discomfiture. The light but perfectly respectful bow that seemed to be addressed to all present but at the same time primarily to His Majesty would have done credit to a plenipotentiary ambassador extraordinary from some great power.

Kirill Alexandrovich, who had only just been extolling Fandorin’s virtues, began abruptly, without any words of greeting, in what I thought was a rather hostile manner: ‘Tell us what you know about Doctor Lind and about this whole business in general.’

Fandorin inclined his head as if to indicate that he understood the request, but what he said was not at all what they were expecting. The gaze of his cold blue eyes slid across the faces of the men sitting there and halted on the sheet of paper lying in the middle of the table.

‘I see a l-letter has arrived. May I familiarise myself with its contents?’

‘I warned you what an impudent beggar he is!’ Simeon Alexandrovich exclaimed indignantly, but Fandorin did not even glance in his direction.

Kirill Alexandrovich took no notice of what he had said either.

‘Yes, Georgie, read the letter out loud. Every word is important here.’

‘Yes, yes,’ His Majesty put in. ‘I would like to hear it again too.’

With an air of disgust, Georgii Alexandrovich picked the sheet of paper up off the table and began reading out the message, which was written in French:

Messieurs Romanovs ,

I offer you an advantageous arrangement: a little Romanov prince weighing ten kilograms for a little Count Orlov weighing 190 carats. The exchange will take place tomorrow, and do not take it into your heads to palm me off with a fake – I have my own jeweller. If you accept, give your reply at precisely noon from the semaphore apparatus at the Alexandriisky Palace. If you do not accept, the prince will be returned to you immediately. In pieces.

Yours sincerely,

Doctor Lind

PS I enclose the code for the light signal.

I had just begun to pour His Majesty’s coffee, and I froze with the coffee pot in my hand, in my shock even spilling a few drops on to the floor, which had never happened to me before. The monstrousness of the letter had exceeded my very worst fears. His Highness in pieces? Oh my God, my God!

‘What semaphore is this?’ That was the only thing that interested Fandorin in this nightmarish missive.

It is improper to ask questions in the presence of His Majesty, but not only did the sovereign react indulgently to such a flagrant violation of etiquette, he actually replied himself, with his distinctive unfailing courtesy: ‘An old light semaphore. Installed on the roof of the palace in my great-grandfather’s time, and during my grandfather’s reign it was fitted with electric lights for use in the dark and during overcast weather. Light signals sent from the semaphore can be seen from almost any point in the city.’

Instead of thanking His Majesty for his most gracious explanation, as a faithful subject ought to do, Fandorin merely nodded thoughtfully and asked: ‘“Orlov”. Presumably we must take that to mean the diamond that adorns the imperial sceptre?’