Boris Akunin - Murder on the Leviathan

‘Why, that’s nothing! The jewels of the Nizam of Hyderabad are estimated to be worth three hundred million, but of course you couldn’t get them all into one little casket. In terms of compactness, certainly, Bagdassar’s treasure had no equal.’

Fandorin touched the Indologist’s sleeve discreetly: ‘Nonetheless, I p-presume that this sum is rather abstract in nature. Surely no one would be able to sell such a huge number of gigantic pprecious stones all at once? It would bring down the market price.’

‘You are mistaken to think so, monsieur diplomat,’ the scholar replied with animation. ‘The prestige of the Brahmapur Standard is so great that there would be no shortage of buyers.

I am certain that at least half of the stones would not even leave India - they would be bought by the local princes, in the first instance by the Nizam whom I have already mentioned. The remaining stones would be fought over by the banking houses of Europe and America, and the monarchs of Europe would not let slip the chance to add the masterpieces of Brahmapur to their treasuries. If he had wished, Bagdassar could have sold the contents of his casket in a matter of weeks.’

‘You keep referring to this man in the p-past tense,’ remarked Fandorin. ‘Is he dead? And if so, what happened to the casket?’

‘Alas, that is something that nobody knows. Bagdassar’s own end was tragic. During the Sepoy Mutiny the rajah was incautious enough to enter into secret dealings with the rebels, and the viceroy declared Brahmapur enemy territory. There was malicious talk of Britannia simply wishing to lay its hands on Bagdassar’s treasure, but of course it was untrue. That is not the way we English go about things.’

‘Oh, yes,’ nodded Renier with a dark smile, exchanging glances with the commissioner.

Clarissa stole a cautious glance at Fandorin - surely he could not also be infected with the bacillus of Anglophobia? The Russian diplomat, however, was sitting there with an air of perfect equanimity.

‘A squadron of dragoons was dispatched to Bagdassar’s palace.

The rajah attempted to escape by fleeing to Afghanistan, but the cavalry overtook him at the Ganges crossing. Bagdassar considered it beneath his dignity to submit to arrest and he took poison. The casket was not found on him; in fact, there was nothing but a small bundle containing a note in English. In the note, which was addressed to the British authorities, the rajah swore that he was innocent and requested them to forward the bundle to his only son. The boy was studying in a private boarding school somewhere in Europe - it’s the done thing among Indian grandees of the new breed. I should mention that Bagdassar was no stranger to the spirit of civilization, he visited London and Paris several times. He even married a French woman.’

‘Oh, how unusual!’ Clarissa exclaimed. ‘To be an Indian rajah’s wife! What became of her?’

‘Never mind the blasted wife, tell us about the bundle,’ the commissioner said impatiently. ‘What was in it?’

‘Absolutely nothing of any interest,’ said the professor with a regretful shrug of his shoulders. ‘A volume of the Koran. But the casket disappeared without trace, although they looked for it everywhere.’

‘And was it a perfectly ordinary Koran?’ asked Fandorin.

‘It could hardly have been more ordinary: printed by a press in Bombay, with devout comments in the deceased’s own hand in the margins. The squadron commander decided that the Koran could be forwarded as requested, and for himself he took only the shawl in which it was wrapped as a souvenir of the expedition. The shawl was later acquired by Lord Littleby for his collection of Indian paintings on silk.’

To clarify the point the commissioner asked:

‘So that is the same shawl in which the murderer wrapped the Shiva?’

‘The very same. It is genuinely unusual. Made of the very finest silk, almost weightless. The painting is rather trivial - an image of the bird of paradise, the sweet-voiced Kalavinka, but it possesses two unique features which I have never encountered in any other Indian shawl. Firstly, where Kalavinka’s eye should be there is a hole, the edges of which have been sewn up with minute care with brocade thread. Secondly, the shawl itself is an interesting shape - not rectangular, but tapering. A sort of irregular triangle, with two crooked sides and one absolutely straight.’

‘Is the shawl of any g-great value?’ asked Fandorin.

‘All this talk about the shawl is boring,’ complained Mme Kleber, sticking out her lower lip capriciously. ‘Tell us more about the jewels! They ought to have searched a bit more thoroughly.’

Sweetchild laughed.

‘Oh, madam, you cannot even imagine how thoroughly the new rajah searched for them. He was one of the local zamindars who had rendered us invaluable service during the Sepoy War and received the throne of Brahmapur as a reward. But greed unhinged the poor man’s mind. Some wit whispered to him that Bagdassar had hidden the casket in the wall of one of the buildings.

And since in size and appearance the casket looked exactly like an ordinary clay brick, the new rajah ordered all buildings constructed of that material to be taken apart. The houses were demolished one after another and each brick was smashed under the personal supervision of the new ruler. Bearing in mind that in Brahmapur ninety per cent of all structures are built of clay bricks, in a few months a flourishing city was transformed into a heap of rubble. The insane rajah was poisoned by his own retainers, who feared a popular revolt even more fierce than the Sepoy Mutiny.’

‘Serve him right, the Judas,’ Renier declared with feeling.

‘Nothing is more abominable than treachery.’

Fandorin patiently repeated his question:

‘But nonetheless, professor, is the shawl of any g-great value?’

‘I think not. It is more of a rarity, a curiosity.’

‘But why are things always b-being wrapped in the shawl first the Koran, and then the Shiva? Could this piece of silk perhaps have some ritual significance?’

‘I’ve never heard of anything of the sort. It is simply a coincidence.’

Commissioner Gauche got to his feet with a grunt and straightened his numbed shoulders.

‘Mmm, yes, an entertaining story, but unfortunately it has nothing to contribute to our investigation. The murderer is unlikely to be keeping this piece of cloth as a sentimental souvenir.

It would be handy if he was, though,’ he mused. ‘One of you, my dear suspects, simply takes out a silk shawl with a picture of the bird of paradise - out of sheer absent-mindedness - and blows his, or her, nose into it. Old papa Gauche would know what to do then all right.’

The detective laughed, clearly in the belief that his joke was very witty. Clarissa gave the coarse lout a disapproving look.

Catching her glance, the commissioner narrowed his eyes.

‘By the way, Mile Stamp, about your wonderful hat. A very stylish item, the latest Parisian chic. Is it long since your last visit to Paris?’

Clarissa braced herself and replied in an icy tone:

This trivial pentastich is the fruit my one-hour-and-a half-long efforts to attain a state of inner harmony that confounded harmony that has stubbornly refused

to be restored.

I have been sitting alone on the stern, watching the dreary coastline of Africa and feeling my infinite isolation more acutely than ever. I can at least be thankful that the noble habit of keeping a diary was instilled in me from childhood. Seven years ago as I set out to study in the remote country of Furansu, I dreamed in secret that one day the diary of my travels would be published as a book and bring fame to me and the entire clan of Aono. But alas, my intellect is too imperfect and my feelings are far too ordinary for these pitiful pages ever to rival the great diaristic literature of former times.