Boris Akunin - Murder on the Leviathan

But then the Russian diplomat presented Renate with a surprise.

‘The case is certainly not closed,’ he said loudly. ‘You are being too hasty again, Commissioner.’ He turned to face Renate and trained the twin barrels of his cold blue eyes on her. ‘Surely Mme Kleber has something to say to us?’

This question caught everyone by surprise. But no, not everyone - Clarissa was astonished to realize that the mother-to-be was not disconcerted in the least. She turned a little paler and bit her plump lower lip for a moment, but she replied in a loud, confident voice with barely any hesitation:

‘You are right, monsieur, I do have something to tell. But not to you, only to a representative of the law.’

She glanced helplessly at the commissioner and implored him:

‘In God’s name, sir, I should like to make my confession in private.’

Gauche did not seem to have anticipated this turn of events.

The sleuth blinked and cast a suspicious glance at Fandorin.

Then he thrust out his double chin pompously and growled: ‘Very well, if it’s so important to you, we can go to my cabin.’

Clarissa had the impression that the policeman had no idea what Mme Kleber intended to confess to him.

But then, the commissioner could hardly be blamed for that Clarissa herself had been struggling to keep up with the rapid pace of events.

The moment the door closed behind Gauche and his companion, Clarissa glanced inquiringly at Fandorin, who seemed to be the only one who really knew what was going on. It was a whole day since she had dared to look at him so directly, instead of stealing furtive glances or peering from under lowered eyelashes.

She had never before seen Erast (oh yes, she could call him that to herself) looking so dismayed. There were wrinkles on his forehead and alarm in his eyes, his fingers were drumming nervously on the table. Could it be that even this confident man, with his lightning-fast reactions, was no longer in control of the situation? Clarissa had seen him disconcerted the previous night, but only for the briefest of moments, and then he had rapidly recovered his self-control.

It was after the Bombay catastrophe.

She had not shown herself in public for three whole days. She told the maid she was not well, took meals in her cabin and only went out walking under cover of darkness, like a thief in the night.

There was nothing wrong with her health, but how could she show herself to these people who had witnessed her shame, and especially to him? That scoundrel Gauche had made her a general laughing stock, humiliated her, destroyed her reputation.

And the worst thing was that she could not even accuse him of lying - it was all true, every last word of it. Yes, as soon as she came into possession of her inheritance, she had gone dashing to Paris, the city she had heard and read so much about. Like a moth to the flame. And she had singed her wings. Surely it was enough that the shameful affair had deprived her of her final shred of self-respect. Why did everyone else have to know that Miss Stamp was a loose woman and a gullible fool, the contemptible victim of a professional gigolo?

Mrs Truffo had visited her twice to enquire about her health.

Of course, she wanted to gloat over Clarissa’s humiliation; she gasped affectedly and complained about the heat, but there was a gleam of triumph in her beady, colourless eyes: well my darling, which of us is the lady now?

The Japanese called in and said it was their custom ‘to pay a visit of condolence’ when someone was unwell. He offered his services as a doctor and looked at her with sympathy.

Finally, Fandorin had come knocking. Clarissa had spoken to him sharply and not opened the door - she told him she had a migraine.

Never mind, she said to herself as she sat there all alone, picking listlessly at her beefsteak. Only nine days to hold out until Calcutta. Nine days was no great time to spend behind closed doors. It was child’s play if you had been imprisoned for almost a quarter of a century. It was still better here than in her aunt’s house. Alone in her comfortable cabin with good books for company. And once she reached Calcutta she would quietly slip ashore and turn over a brand new leaf.

But in the evening of the third day she began having very different thoughts. Oh, how right the Bard had been when he penned those immortal lines:

Now she really did have nothing to lose. Late that night (it was already after 12) Clarissa had resolutely arranged her hair, powdered her face lightly, put on the ivory-coloured Parisian dress that suited her so well and stepped out into the corridor.

The ship’s motions tossed her from one wall to the other.

Clarissa halted outside the door of cabin No. 18, trying not to think about anything. When she raised her hand it faltered - but only for a moment, just a single brief moment. She knocked on the door.

Erast opened it almost immediately. He was wearing a blue Hungarian robe with cord fastenings and his white shirt showed through the wide gap at the front.

‘G-good evening, Miss Stamp,’ he said, speaking quickly. ‘Has something happened?’

Then without waiting for a reply he added:

‘Please wait for a moment and I’ll get changed.’

When he let her in he was already dressed in a frock coat with an impeccably knotted tie. He gestured for her to take a seat.

Clarissa sat down, looked him in the eyes and began: ‘Please do not interrupt me. If I lose the thread then it will be even worse … I know I am a lot older than you. How old are you? Twenty-five? Less? It doesn’t matter. I am not asking you to marry me. But I like you. I am in love with you. My entire upbringing was designed to ensure that I would never under any circumstances say those words to any man, but at this moment I do not care. I do not want to lose any more time. I have already wasted the best years of my life. I am fading away without ever having blossomed. If you like me even a little, tell me so. If not, then tell me that also. Nothing could be more bitter than the shame that I have already endured. And you should know that my . . adventure in Paris was a nightmare, but I do not regret it. Better a nightmare than the stupor in which I have spent my whole life. Well then, answer me, don’t just sit there saying nothing!’

My God, how could she have said such things aloud? This was something she could really feel proud of.

For an instant Fandorin was taken aback, he even blinked those long lashes in a most unromantic fashion. Then he began to speak, stammering more than usual:

‘Miss Stamp … C-Clarissa … I do like you. I like you very much. I admire you. And I envy you.’

‘You envy me? For what?’ she asked, amazed.

‘For your courage. For the fact that you are not afraid to b-be refused and appear ridiculous. You see, I am b-basically very timid and uncertain of myself

‘You, timid?’ Clarissa asked, even more astounded.

‘Yes. There are two things I am really afraid of: appearing foolish or ridiculous and … dropping my guard.’

No, she could not understand this at all.

‘What guard?’

‘You see, I learned very early what it means to lose someone, and it frightened me very badly - probably for the rest of my life. While I am alone, my defences against fate are strong, and I fear nothing and nobody. For a man like me it is best to be alone.’

‘I have already told you, Mr Fandorin, that I am not laying claim to a place in your life, or even a place in your heart. Let alone attempting to penetrate your “defences”.’

She said no more, because everything had already been said.