“So are there only four scenarios?” Erast Fandorin asked hesitantly.
“Not enough? Are we overlooking something? Speak up, speak up! I recognize no differences of rank where work is concerned,” said his chief, encouraging him. “And don’t be afraid of appearing ridiculous—that’s just because you are so young in years. Better to say something stupid than miss something important.”
Shy at first, Fandorin spoke with increasing fervor. “It seems to me, Your Wor…that is, chief, that you are wrong to leave Lady Astair out of the picture. She is, of course, a most venerable and respected individual, but—but, after all, the bequest is worth a million! Bezhetskaya gains nothing from it, neither does Count Zurov or the nihilists—except perhaps in the sense of the good of society…I don’t know how Lady Astair is involved—perhaps she has nothing at all to do with all this, but for form’s sake she really ought to be…After all, the investigatory principle says cuiprodest—“seek the one who benefits.” ”
“Thanks for the translation,” Ivan Franzevich said with a bow, making Fandorin feel embarrassed. “A perfectly fair comment, except that in Akhtyrtsev’s story, which is included in your report, everything is comprehensively explained. The baroness’s name came up by chance. I have not included her in the list of subjects, first because time is precious, and second because I myself am slightly acquainted with the lady. I have had the honor of meeting her.” Brilling smiled amicably. “However, Fandorin, formally speaking you are correct. I do not wish to impose my own conclusions on you. Always think for yourself and never take anybody’s word for anything. Pay a visit to the baroness and question her on any subject you feel necessary. I am sure that apart from anything else you will find it a pleasure to make her acquaintance. The municipal duty office will inform you of Lady Astair’s Moscow address. And another thing, before you go, call in to the costume section and have your measurements taken. Don’t come to work in your uniform again. My greetings to the baroness, and when you come back a little wiser, we’ll get down to work—that is to say, to dealing with Count Zurov.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
in which it is asserted that pedagogy is the most important of all the sciences
ON ARRIVING AT THE ADDRESS HE HAD BEEN given by the duty officer, Erast Fandorin discovered a substantial three-story building that at first glance somewhat resembled a barracks, but it was surrounded by a garden, the gates of which were standing invitingly open. This was the English baroness’s newly opened Astair House. A servant in a smart, light blue frock coat emerged from his striped booth and gladly explained that her ladyship did not reside here but in the wing, and the entrance was from the side street, around the corner to the right.
Fandorin saw a gaggle of young boys in blue uniforms come running out of the doors of the building and begin galloping about the lawn with wild cries in a game of tag. The servant did not even attempt to call the young scamps to order. Catching Fandorin’s glance of surprise, he explained, “It’s not against the rules. During the break you can turn cartwheels and somersaults if you like, as long as you don’t damage the property. That’s the rule.”
Well, the orphans here certainly seemed happy and carefree, not like the pupils at the provincial gymnasium, among whom our collegiate registrar had himself been numbered until quite recently. Rejoicing at the poor souls’ good fortune, Erast Fandorin set off along the fence in the direction indicated to him.
Around the corner began one of those shady side streets of which the Khamovniki district possesses such an immense number: a dusty roadway, drowsy little mansions with little front gardens, spreading poplars that would soon release their downy white fluff into the air. The two-story wing in which Lady Astair was staying was connected to the main building by a long gallery. Beside the marble plaque bearing the inscription FIRST MOSCOW ASTAIR HOUSE. MANAGEMENT, a grave-looking door-keeper with sleekly combed side-whiskers was basking in the sunshine. Fandorin had never before seen such an imposing doorkeeper, in white stockings and a three-cornered hat, not even in front of the governor-general’s residence.
“No visitors today,” said this janissary, extending his arm like a boom to block the way. “Come tomorrow. On official business from ten to twelve, on personal matters from two to four.”
No, Erast Fandorin’s encounters with the doorkeeping tribe were definitely not going well. Either his appearance was not impressive enough or something about his face was not quite right.
“Detective police. To see Lady Astair on urgent business,” he muttered through clenched teeth in vengeful anticipation of seeing the dummy with the golden galloon bow.
But the dummy did not even bat an eyelid.
“There’s no point trying to see Her Excellency—I won’t let you in. If you wish, I can announce you to Mr. Cunningham.”
“I don’t wish to see any Mr. Cunningham,” Erast Fandorin snapped. “Announce me to the baroness immediately, or you’ll be spending the night in the police station! And tell her I’m from the Criminal Investigation Division on urgent state business!”
The doorkeeper sized up the irate official with a glance full of doubt, but nonetheless he disappeared inside the door. The scoundrel did not, however, invite Erast Fandorin in.
Having been made to wait for rather a long time, Fandorin was on the point of bursting in without being invited, when the dour face in the side-whiskers glanced out again from the door.
“Her ladyship will receive you, all right, but she doesn’t have much Russian, and Mr. Cunningham has no time to translate—he’s too busy. Unless perhaps you can explain yourself in French…” It was clear from his voice that the doorkeeper had little faith in such a possibility.
“I can even explain myself in English,” Erast Fandorin threw out casually. “Which way shall I go?”
“I’ll show you. Follow me.”
Fandorin followed the janissary through a spotless entrance hall upholstered with damask and along a corridor flooded with sunlight from a row of tall Dutch windows to a white and gold door.
Erast Fandorin was not afraid of conversing in English. He had grown up in the charge of Nanny Lizbet (at moments of strictness Mrs. Johnson), a genuine English nanny. She was a warmhearted and considerate but extremely prim and proper old maid, who was nonetheless supposed to be addressed not as ‘miss’ but as ‘missus,’ out of respect for her venerable profession. Lizbet had taught her charge to rise at half past six in summer and half past seven in winter, to perform calisthenic exercises until he just began to sweat and then sponge himself down with cold water, to count to two hundred as he cleaned his teeth, never to eat his fill, and all sorts of other things absolutely essential for a gentleman to know.
A gentle woman’s voice responded to his knock at the door. “Come in! Entrez.”
Erast Fandorin handed the doorkeeper his peaked cap and went in.
He found himself in a spacious, richly furnished study, in which pride of place was given to an extremely wide mahogany desk. Seated behind the desk was a gray-haired lady with an appearance that was not merely pleasant but extremely agreeable. Behind the gold pince-nez her light blue eyes sparkled with lively intelligence and affability. Fandorin took an immediate liking to the mobile features of the plain face, the duckbill nose, and broad, smiling mouth.