Boris Akunin - The Coronation

‘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 . . . ’ 3she 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.