Boris Akunin: The Winter Queen

Pyotr Kokorin

The first thought to strike Erast Fandorin was that the letter did not appear to have been written in a state of emotional distress.

"What does this mean about the blotter?" he asked.

Ivan Prokofievich shrugged. "He didn't have any blotter on him. But what could you expect, the state he was in? Maybe he was meaning to do something or other, but he forgot. It seems clear enough he was a pretty unstable sort of gentleman. Did you read how he twirled the cylinder on that revolver? And, by the way, only one of the chambers had a bullet in it. It's my opinion, for instance, that he didn't really mean to shoot himself at all — just wanted to give his nerves a bit of a thrill, put a keener edge on his feeling for life, so to speak, so afterward his food would have more savor and his sprees would seem sweeter."

"Only one bullet out of six? That really was bad luck," said Erast Fandorin, aggrieved for the dead man. But the idea of the leather blotter was still nagging at him.

"Where does he live? That is, where did he…"

"An eight-room apartment in a new building on Ostozhenka Street, and very posh too." Ivan Prokofievich was keen to share his impressions. "Inherited his own house in the Zamoskvorechie district from his father, an entire estate, outbuildings and all, but he didn't want to live there, moved as far away from the merchantry as he could."

"Well then, was no leather blotter found there?"

The superintendent's assistant was astonished at the idea. "Why, do you think we should have searched the place? I tell you, I'd be afraid to let the agents loose around the rooms of an apartment like that — they might get tempted off the straight and narrow. What's the point, anyway? Egor Nikiforich, the investigator from the district public prosecutor's office, gave the dead man's valet a quarter of an hour to pack up his things and had the local officer keep an eye on him to make sure he didn't filch any of his master's belongings, and then he ordered me to seal the door. Until the heirs come forward."

"And who are the heirs?" Erast Fandorin asked inquisitively.

"Now, there's the catch. The valet says Kokorin has no brothers or sisters. There are some kind of second cousins, but he wouldn't let them inside the door. So who's going to end up with all that loot?" Ivan Prokofievich sighed enviously. "Frightening just to think of it… Ah, but it's no concern of ours. The lawyer or the executors will turn up tomorrow or the next day. Not even a day's gone by yet — we've still got the body lying in the icehouse. But Egor Nikiforich could close the case tomorrow, then things will start moving all right."

"But even so it is odd," Fandorin observed, wrinkling his brow. "If someone makes special mention of some blotter or other in the last letter he ever writes, there must be something to it. And that bit about 'an absolute swine' is none too clear either. What if there is something important in that blotter? It's up to you, of course, but I would definitely search the apartment for it. It seems to me that blotter is the very reason the note was written. There's some mystery here, mark my words."

Erast Fandorin blushed, afraid that his impetuous suggestion of a mystery might appear too puerile, but Ivan Prokofievich failed to notice anything strange about the notion.

"You're right there. We should at least have looked through the papers in the study," he admitted. "Egor Nikiforich is always in a hurry. There's eight of them in the family, so he always tries to sneak off home as quick as he can from inspections and investigations. He's an old man — only a year to go to his pension — so what else can you expect… I'll tell you what, Mr. Fandorin. What would you say to going around there yourself? We could take a look together. And then I'll put up a new seal — that's easy enough. Egor Nikiforich won't take it amiss. Not in the least; he'll only thank us for not bothering him one more time. I'll tell him there was a request from the Division, eh?"

It seemed to Erast Fandorin that Ivan Prokofievich simply wished to examine the "posh" apartment a bit more closely, and the idea of "putting up" a new seal had not sounded too convincing either, but the temptation was simply too great. There truly was an air of mystery about this business…

ERAST FANDORIN WAS NOT Erast Fandorin was not greatly impressed by the decor of the deceased Pyotr Kokorin's residence ( the piano nobile of a rich apartment building beside the Prechistenskie Gates), since he himself had lived in mansions that were its equal during the period of his father's precipitately acquired wealth. The collegiate registrar did not, therefore, linger in the marble entrance hall with the Venetian mirror three arshins* BORIS AKUNIN Translated by Andrew Bromfield THE WINTER QUEEN in height and the gilded molding on the ceiling, but strode straight through into the drawing room, a lavish interior with a row of six windows, decorated in the highly fashionable Russian Style, with brightly painted wooden trunks, carved oak on the walls, and a smart tiled stove.

"Didn't I say he had a taste for stylish living?" Fandorin's guide said to the back of his head, for some reason speaking in a whisper.

At this point Fandorin bore a remarkable resemblance to a year-old setter who has been allowed out into the forest for the first time and is crazed by the pungent and alluring scent of nearby game. Turning his head to the right and the left, he unerringly identified his target.

"That door over there, is that the study?"

"It is indeed, sir."

"Then what are we waiting for?"

The leather blotter was not long in the seeking. It was lying in the center of a massive writing desk, between a malachite inkstand and a mother-of-pearl shell that served as an ashtray. But before Fandorin could lay his impatient hands on the squeaky brown leather, his gaze fell on a portrait photograph set in a silver frame that was standing in the most conspicuous position on the desk. The face in the portrait was so remarkable that it completely drove all thought of the blotter from Fandorin's mind. Gazing out at him in semiprofile was a veritable Cleopatra with a dense mane of hair and immense black eyes, her long neck set in a haughty curve and a slight hint of cruelty evident in the willful line of her mouth. Above all the collegiate registrar was bewitched by her expression of calm and confident authority, so unexpected on a girl's face (for some reason Fandorin very decidedly wanted her to be a girl, and not a married lady).

"She's a looker," said Ivan Prokofievich with a whistle, popping up beside him. "Wonder who she is? If you'll pardon me…"

And without the slightest trembling of those sacrilegious fingers he extracted the enchanting face from its frame and turned the photograph over. Inscribed on it in a broad, slanting hand were the words:

To Pyotr K.

And Peter went out and wept bitterly. Once having given your love, never forswear it!

A.B.

"So she compares him with the apostle Peter and herself with Jesus, does she? A little arrogant, perhaps!" snorted Ivan Prokofievich. "Maybe this creature was the reason our student did away with himself, eh? Aha, there's the blotter. So our journey wasn't wasted."

Ivan Prokofievich opened the leather cover and extracted the solitary sheet of light blue notepaper covered in writing with which Erast Fandorin was already familiar. This time, however, there was a notary's seal and several signatures at the bottom.

"Excellent," said Ivan Prokofievich, nodding in satisfaction. "So we've found the will and testament, too. Now I wonder what it says."

It took him no more than a minute to run his eyes over the document, but that minute seemed an eternity to Fandorin, and he regarded it as beneath his dignity to peer over someone else's shoulder.