Boris Akunin - Murder on the Leviathan

‘Oh no,’ groaned Mrs Truffo. ‘Not again!’

‘Now I can see how it all fits together,’ said the professor, launching abruptly into an incoherent explanation. ‘After all, I was in the place, why didn’t I think of it before? I kept thinking about it, going round and round in circles, but it just didn’t add up. In Aden I received a telegram from an acquaintance of mine in the French Ministry of the Interior and he confirmed my suspicions, but I still couldn’t make any sense of the eye, and I couldn’t work out who it could be. That is, I more or less know who, but how? How was it done? And now it has suddenly dawned on me!’ He ran over to the window. A curtain fluttering in the wind enveloped him like a white shroud, and the professor impatiently pushed it aside. ‘I was standing at the window of my cabin knotting my tie and I saw the waves, crest after crest all the way to the horizon. And then suddenly it hit me! Everything fell into place - about the shawl, and about the son! It’s a piece of simple clerical work. Dig around in the registers at the Ecole Maritime and you’ll find him!’

‘I don’t understand a word,’ growled Watchdog. ‘You’re raving. What’s this about some school or other?’

‘Oh no, this is very, very interesting,’ exclaimed Renate. “I simply adore trying to solve mysteries. But my dear professor, this will never do. Sit down at the table, have some wine, catch your breath and tell us everything from the beginning, calmly and clearly. After all, you have such a wonderful way with a story. But first someone must bring me my shawl, so that I don’t catch a chill from this draught.’

Let me close the windows on the windward side, and the draught will stop immediately,’ Sweetchild suggested. ‘You are right, madam, I should tell you the whole thing starting from the beginning.

‘No, don’t close the windows, it will be too stuffy. Well, gentlemen?’ Renate inquired capriciously. ‘Who will fetch my shawl from my cabin? Here is the key! Monsieur baronet?’

Of course, the Ginger Lunatic did not stir, but Renier jumped to his feet.

‘Professor, I implore you, do not start without me!’ he said. ‘I shall be back in a moment.’

‘And I’ll go and get my knitting,’ sighed the doctor’s wife.

She got back first and began deftly clacking away with her needles. She waved her hand at her husband to tell him there was no need to translate.

Meanwhile Sweetchild was readying himself for his moment of triumph. Having taken Renate’s advice to heart, he seemed determined to expound his discoveries as spectacularly as possible.

There was absolute silence at the table, with everyone watching the speaker and following every movement he made.

Sweetchild took a sip of red wine and began walking backwards and forwards across the room. Then he halted, picturesquely posed in profile to his audience, and began:

‘I have already told you about that unforgettable day when Rajah Bagdassar invited me into his palace in Brahmapur. It was a quarter of a century ago, but I remember everything quite clearly, down to the smallest detail. The first thing that struck me was the appearance of the palace. Knowing that Bagdassar was one of the richest men in the world, I had been expecting to see oriental luxury on a grand scale. But there was nothing of the kind. The palace buildings were rather modest, without any ornamental refinements. And the thought came to me that the passion for precious stones that was hereditary in this family, handed down from father to son, must have displaced every other vainglorious ambition. Why spend money on walls of marble if you could buy another sapphire or diamond? The Brahmapur palace was squat and plain, essentially the same kind of clay casket as that in which that indescribable distillation of magical luminescence was kept. No marble and alabaster could ever have rivalled the blinding radiance of those stones.’

The professor took another sip of wine and adopted a thoughtful pose.

Renier arrived, puffing and panting, respectfully laid Renate’s shawl across her shoulders and remained standing beside her.

‘What was that about marble and alabaster?’ he asked in a whisper.

‘It’s about the Brahmapur palace, let me listen,’ said Renate with an impatient jerk of her chin.

‘The interior decor of the palace was also very simple,’ Sweetchild continued. ‘Over the centuries the halls and rooms had changed their appearance many times, and the only part of the palace that seemed interesting to me from a historical point of view was the upper level, consisting of four halls, each of which faced one of the points of the compass. At one time the halls had been open galleries, but during the last century they were glassed in. At the same time the walls were decorated with quite fascinating frescos depicting the mountains that surround the valley on all sides. The landscape is reproduced with astonishing realism, so that the mountains seem to be reflected in a mirror.

From the philosophical point of view, this mirror imaging must surely represent the duality of existence and …’

Somewhere nearby a ship’s bell began clanging loudly. They heard people shouting and a woman screaming.

‘My God, it’s the fire alarm!’ shouted the lieutenant, dashing for the door. ‘That’s all we needed!’

They all dashed after him in a tight bunch.

‘What’s happening?’ the startled Mrs Truffo inquired in English. ‘Have we been boarded by pirates?’

Renate sat there for a moment with her mouth open, then let out a blood-curdling squeal. She grabbed the tail of the commissioner’s coat and stopped him running out after the others.

Monsieur Gauche, don’t leave me!’ she begged him. ‘I know what a fire on board ship means, I’ve read about it! Now everyone will dash to the lifeboats and people will be crushed to death, and I’m a weak pregnant woman, I’ll just be swept aside! Promise you will look after me!

‘What’s that about lifeboats?’ the old grandpa mumbled anxiously. ‘What kind of nonsense is that! I’ve been told the fire-fighting arrangements on the Leviathan are exemplary. Why, the ship even has its own fire officer. Stop shaking will you, everything will be all right.’ He tried to free himself, but Renate was clutching his coat-tail in a grip of iron. Her teeth were chattering loudly.

‘Let go of me, little girl,’ Watchdog said in a soothing voice. ‘I won’t go anywhere. I’ll just take a look at the deck through the window.’

But no, Renate’s fingers didn’t release their grip.

The commissioner was proved right. After two or three minutes there was the sound of leisurely footsteps and loud voices in the corridor and one by one the Windsorites began to return.

They had still not recovered from their shock, so they were laughing a lot and talking more loudly than usual.

The first to come in were Clarissa Stamp, the Truffos and Renier, whose face was flushed.

‘It was nothing at all,’ the lieutenant announced. ‘Someone threw a burning cigar into a litter bin with an old newspaper in it. The fire spread to a door curtain, but the sailors were alert and they put the flames out in a moment … But I see that you were all prepared for a shipwreck,’ he said with a laugh, glancing significantly at Clarissa.

She was clutching her purse and a bottle of orangeade.

‘Well, orangeade, in order not to die of thirst in the middle of the ocean,’ Renier guessed. ‘But what is the purse for? You wouldn’t have much use for it in the lifeboat.’

Renate giggled hysterically and Miss Old Maid, embarrassed, put the bottle back on the table. The Truffos were also well equipped: the doctor had managed to grab his bag of medical instruments and his wife was clutching a blanket against her breast.