by Boris Akunin
“Let us look at those things he has done that even you will not dispute,” the bishop continued, still addressing the advocate alone. “You said it was not he who killed the Vonifatievs, father and son, but his underling. Let us assume—merely assume—that to be the case. Out of one terrible crime, Bubentsov created another, even worse: He made a false allegation against an entire people, raised up a storm of hatred and intolerance, organized a shameful and repulsive hunt against those of a different faith. And how did he behave with Naina Telianova? He debauched that young woman, destroyed her life, and mocked her sinful but sincere feelings. And he did not even debauch her out of love, or even out of passion, but out of a momentary whim or, even worse, out of cupidity. Deliberately or otherwise, Bubentsov pushed Naina Telianova into committing the most repulsive acts and into direct complicity with a monstrous murder. And afterward he destroyed her. Yes, yes, in any case it was he who destroyed both Naina Georgievna and her maid, and the artist.”
This was already more than Lomeiko could stand, since he could see the effect that the bishop’s speech was having on the members of the jury.
“But by your leave!” the advocate exclaimed, rising to his feet. “You say this in a figurative sense, but the law does not acknowledge figures of speech! Mr. Chairman, this is in total breach of procedure and the regulations! I protest!”
“I can also speak non-figuratively,” Mitrofanii said in a much quieter voice. “What were those arguments that you used in an attempt to refute the accusation? That the frail Bubentsov would not have had the strength to force the heavy tripod from the photographic apparatus through Poggio’s chest? I believe that you used the phrase ‘satanic strength.’ A most apt expression. For I also think of satanic strength when I see how much evil energy and devilish stamina Mr. Bubentsov has displayed in the course of his tumultuous activities in our province. Yes, he is slender and gaunt, but it is a well-known fact that people with his physique possess special resources of nervous energy. In a frenzy or a fury they are capable of demonstrating miraculous strength, as medical science confirms. There is no need to seek too far.” The bishop looked as if a fortunate example had just at that moment occurred to him. “Last year during the trial of a certain Miss Baranova, you yourself described it quite remarkably. Your defendant, a seventeen-year-old seamstress, choked her tormentor with her bare hands and in her passion she also dragged his two-hundred-fifty-pound carcass to a pond. I read your speech, which won Baranova a light sentence, in the newspapers. Do you remember your own explanation of nervous frenzy?”
This was a crushing blow, and all the more so because it took Gurii Samsonovich entirely by surprise. Who could have expected a provincial bishop to be so well informed?
But the bishop was already proceeding further.
“Since you have studied the materials of the case, you are aware that someone attempted to kill the nun Pelagia Lisitsyna after she exposed Naina Telianova’s mischief with the white bulldogs. The material evidence includes a sack and a rope, the weapons used in the attempted murder. Bubentsov was present when Telianova was exposed, but Murad Djuraev was not. If Djuraev is the only criminal, then how did he know that Sister Pelagia was dangerous?”
The advocate cast an inquiring glance at Vladimir Lvovich, who merely shrugged.
“And in addition…” Mitrofanii paused, making it clear that he was coming to the most important point of all. “Tell me, Mr. Defender, with whom was Telianova in love—Murad Djuraev or Bubentsov?”
The public did not immediately appreciate the significance of the question, but the sharp-witted Gurii Samsonovich turned pale and tugged on his beard.
“Dead men, Mr. Advocate, can also testify. The Lord has given them that power. Engrossed in your game of words, you lost sight of the main thing: that Naina Telianova would have committed such insane acts—concealing the whereabouts of the remains, killing the dogs—only for someone whom she loved with all her heart. But not for the ignorant Circassian whom you so diligently urge upon us as the likely murderer. What have you to say to that? Who is it that cannot see the wood for the trees here?”
Half a minute passed, a minute. The luminary of legal thought was silent. The hall held its breath, sensing that the outcome of the entire trial was being decided at that very moment.
Then for the first time in his entire speech, Mitrofanii turned to the accused and asked sharply: “And what have you to say to that, Mr. Criminal?”
Vladimir Lvovich flushed and was on the point of opening his mouth to speak, but that very instant something happened that very probably even the perspicacious bishop could not have foreseen.
“A-A-A-A-GH!” THERE WAS a sickening howl, or rather a whine, and Tikhon Ieremeevich Spasyonny, who had hitherto been sitting absolutely quiet, so that everybody had almost forgotten about him, ran out of the fenced-off enclosure for the accused into the center of the hall.
He collapsed onto his knees and bowed three times down to the floor: to the court, the jurors, and the hall, all the while choking on his own convulsive sobs. The guards took hold of him under the arms and tried to lift him up, but the accused resolutely refused to stand, and he had to be dragged bodily back to the bench.
“Greatly, most greatly sinful!” the crazed secretary cried. “Woe is me, I am cursed!”
The judge rang his bell menacingly and Spasyonny bowed penitently once again.
“Your Grace,” he sobbed. “Allow me to make a candid confession.”
Then he turned to his companion on the bench and, folding his hands prayerfully, appealed to him.
“Confess, Vladimir Lvovich! Forgive me, feebleminded as I am, but I have no more strength! Many are the sins that we bear, oh, many! The bishop spoke truly about evildoers, and even such are you and I. In the name of Christ our Lord, I implore you, repent.”
The policemen were obliged to take hold of Bubentsov by the shoulders and the two of them were scarcely able to restrain the inspector, who was white with fury, which most convincingly confirmed what the bishop had said about the strength of nervous frenzy.
Mitrofanii proceeded majestically back to his place. They did not applaud him—they did not dare—but the respectful silence that accompanied His Grace on his way was more triumphant than any ovation.
“Do you wish to give testimony?” the chairman asked.
“Yes! I do!” Spasyonny wiped his tear-stained face with his sleeve. “Candid testimony. I wish to unburden my soul!”
He stood up and began speaking in a trembling voice.
“Verily, evil is ubiquitous, and I am its most loathsome servant! Vladimir Lvovich, Mr. Bubentsov, is guilty of all these terrible murders; he killed those people, but I, sinner that I am, am also guilty, for I kept silent, concealed and facilitated—out of weakness and out of fear for my own life!”
Vladimir Lvovich jerked so hard that his guards were sent flying, but another two came dashing to their aid, and the four of them managed to sit the wrathful accused back in his place. Vladimir Lvovich could not move, but he shouted: “What’s wrong with you, Undershirt, have you gone mad?”
“There, you see,” said Tikhon Ieremeevich, trembling all over. “Even now I shudder and shake at the very sound of his voice. Verily he is Satan. Alluring and full of temptation. He has been granted great power over men. And I, worm that I am, could not resist his temptation, when I realized how broad was the span of his wing. He came to this peaceful town to reduce it to dust, ashes, and groans—and all in the name of his own aggrandizement. It was his plan to elevate himself to the very peak of earthly power, and for that he would have halted at nothing. He told me: ‘Cling tight, Undershirt, to my coattails and do not be timid, do not unclench your fingers. I shall soar aloft and raise you up with me.’ But he also said: ‘Beware, Undershirt, that you do not go against me, for I will crush you like a worm.’ And he would have crushed me, for he is that kind of man. He deceived me, intimidated me, and flattered me, and I became his devoted dog. Most basely and most vilel
y have I acted, sinner that I am. The only thing in which I have not defiled myself is murder, but that only because my nerves are weak.”
Spasyonny broke down, sobbing and unable to carry on speaking, so that the bailiff was obliged to give him some water. Calming somewhat, the penitent continued.
“He joked about it. About the saying that other ambitious men ‘walk on people’s heads,’ but he was literally scrambling over heads to high places. There is much that I could tell you, about how he confused, tormented, and frightened those unfortunate Zyts…And I was no better, I wanted to earn his approval. What happened with the Vonifatievs was this…Vladimir Lvovich has horrendous debts, from the old days. Here in Zavolzhsk he strode about like a lion, but in Peter he darts about like a hare, hiding from his creditors. It is a hindrance to his career, and Konstantin Petrovich has reproached him for it—told him it is not seemly for a synodical official. And then, when we were staying with the general’s widow at Drozdovka, the talk turned to the merchant who had arrived. Vladimir Lvovich whispered in my ear: Ask Sytnikov how much he expects to pay for the forest.”
“Why are you lying?” Bubentsov shouted furiously from his seat, and the judge warned him: One more word and he would be removed from the hall.
“What point is there in lying now?” asked Spasyonny, glancing around fearfully at his former protector. “Now is the time to tell the truth. And so, when he learned that this Vonifatiev was going to get thirty thousand, or perhaps even forty, his eyes lit up. I sat there, thinking nothing of it. When Sytnikov grew angry with Vladimir Lvovich and got up to leave, he said to me: Overtake him and ask him not to be angry with me, and ask him at the same time whether he will bring his guest here; it would be interesting to take a look at such a savage. I thought he had some business in mind—he was planning at the time to discredit the Old Believers. It was only later that he was inspired to switch his attention to the pagans. Very well, I came back and reported to him: No, he says he won’t bring him. The merchant is traveling on once the deal is done, despite it being so late. Very well, said Vladimir Lvovich, and he seemed to lose interest. That is all that happened. But that night I knocked at his door—I had an idea, a base little idea, I won’t say what it was, because I’m ashamed of it and it has nothing to do with the case. I knocked and knocked, but he didn’t answer. At first I was surprised, because he is a light sleeper, but afterward I decided that he must be spending the night with the young mistress of Drozdovka.”
Tikhon Ieremeevich wiped his forehead with his massive, clawlike hand and took another sip of water.
“And when I went into his room in the morning, I noticed that his cloak was wet—it had started to rain just before dawn. But even then I didn’t think that it was important. Several days went by and they found the headless bodies, and Vladimir Lvovich immediately began talking about Zyt sacrifices. He turned out to know so much about their beliefs and customs—I was simply amazed. Well, and I was glad, of course. What a wonderful turn things had taken, just as if we had ordered it.”
The speaker paused and raised one hand.
“No, I will not distort the truth now. I want everything to be as open as at confession. I felt the worm of suspicion gnawing at me from the very beginning. Things were working out far too smoothly, I thought. As if the devil himself had dealt our hand. The idea that Vladimir Lvovich himself had planted the headless bodies never entered my head, of course. It is only now, when everything has come together and I remember about Sytnikov, and about the empty room, and about the wet cloak…and the artist, too; it’s clear now how he arranged everything. He plied Murad with drink himself; no one else could have done it. To make sure I did not get under his feet, so that I would wander around the taverns all night, trailing after Murad like a little dog. I think that even then Vladimir Lvovich was intending to blame the murders on Murad if anything went wrong. Otherwise, why did he need the tripod?” Tikhon Ieremeevich pointed at the material evidence. “It could have been done more simply somehow. And Vladimir Lvovich has great strength; he only looks puny, but he is sinewy, and when he gets into a fury—God help you if you get in his way. And then toward the end he stopped trying to conceal things from me altogether. After the investigative experiment, when the young woman Telianova began threatening him openly, he turned as dark as thunder. He walked around his room, thinking, and then suddenly said: ‘I’m going out for a while before bed. And if anyone calls or asks for me, tell them that I’m already asleep.’ He didn’t get back until early in the morning. Soaking wet, covered in mud—”
Tikhon Ieremeevich’s testimony was suddenly interrupted in the most outrageous and indecorous fashion.
Sensing that the guards had relaxed their vigilance, Vladimir Lvovich vaulted easily, even gracefully, over the barrier and flew at his unfaithful henchman, dealing him a swingeing blow to the ear, then knocked him to the floor and clutched his throat tight in his small but tenacious hands.
The guards dashed to Spasyonny’s rescue and a most unedifying scene ensued, so that the session had to be declared suspended.
WHEN THE TRIAL reconvened, the accused were seated separately, with Bubentsov sitting between two guards and wearing chains on his wrists. The inspector’s appearance was not in the least synodical: He had a substantial bruise on his forehead, his collar was ripped, his eyes were gleaming feverishly—in short, he looked a genuine Satan.
Tikhon Ieremeevich had fared even worse. His ear was swollen, bulging out from the side of his head, his nose resembled a beetroot (Bubentsov had even managed to seize hold of it with his teeth), and the worst thing of all was that the victim of the assault could not speak anymore, for Vladimir Lvovich’s iron fingers had crushed his throat. That is, Tikhon Ieremeevich had made an attempt to speak, but his hoarse gasps had proved entirely incomprehensible, and the chairman had decided not to prolong his sufferings, especially since the case was turning out to be quite clear.
As he was preparing to issue his instructions to the members of the jury, the judge asked, more for the sake of form than anything else, whether anyone present was in possession of any other information that could be of assistance to the prosecution or the defense.
At that very moment a court officer handed him a small scrap of paper. The judge read it, raised his eyebrows in astonishment, and with a shrug of his shoulders declared: “Another witness has come forward. It is Sister Pelagia Lisitsyna. By law I am obliged to allow her to speak. Do you wish to speak in support of the prosecution?”
He peered around the hall over the top of his spectacles, trying to spot someone rising from their seat.
There was a buzz in the hall, because the witness had risen to her feet behind the judge, from the chairs for especially distinguished guests.
The little figure in black was greeted with a murmur of discontent. Everyone was thoroughly tired from sitting for so long through such powerful emotions, and what more could there possibly be to add now? In any case, the accused would not receive anything more than hard labor for life, and he would not be let off with anything less. Even the bishop shook his monk’s headdress in disapproval, evidently considering that his spiritual daughter had succumbed to the temptation of idle vanity.
PELAGIA LISITSYNA’S SPEECH may not have been long, but it was of extreme importance to the outcome of the trial, and therefore we shall adduce it verbatim and in full, for this purpose temporarily abandoning our narrative and entrusting it to the impartial minutes of the trial. The stenographer at the trial was Leonid Krestovozdvizhensky, the son of our dean and a very capable young man, for whom many foretold outstanding achievements in the field of literature. However, he drew up the minutes in a most conscientious fashion, without any embellishments—apart from including several comments in his enthusiasm, and so making this official document somewhat reminiscent of a play. But let it remain so. As for ourselves, we shall merely add that during her address Sister Pelagia spoke in a very quiet voice, so that many people in the back rows could not hear everyt
hing.
And so we shall start from the point at which the witness, having pronounced the words of the oath, begins her own testimony.
Lisitsyna: Gentlemen judges and of the jury, Bubentsov did not commit the murders of which he is accused.
Noise and shouts in the hall. Obvious agitation among the jurors.
Chairman: An interesting statement. But then who did?
Lisitsyna: Bubentsov, of course, is a villain. His Grace the bishop described all that quite correctly. But he is not a murderer. The Vonifatievs and Arkadii Sergeevich and Naina Georgievna and her maid were all killed by that man there. He also tried to kill me twice, but God spared my life.
She points at the accused Spasyonny. He tries to shout something, but cannot because of his wounded throat. Loud noise in the hall.
Chairman: [ringing his bell] What grounds have you for making such a statement?
Lisitsyna: May I first explain why Bubentsov is not the murderer? This business with the heads—it always bothered me that although Naina Georgievna gave Bubentsov hints and even threatened him, he showed no signs of concern and only enflamed her further with his disdain. Why would he wish to play with fire like that? He only had to say a single word to her and she would have become as meek as a lamb. I could not understand it. On the other hand, in such a terrible business, the princess would not have protected anyone apart from Bubentsov, and it was clear from her entire manner that she knew something special about him. And today, when His Grace drew our attention to the fact in demonstrating the groundlessness of the suspicions cast on Murad Djuraev, I suddenly recalled the words that Naina Georgievna spoke on that last evening, as Bubentsov was preparing to leave after the investigative experiment. ‘The same cloak. The same cap. How it gleamed in the moonlight.’ Nobody present at the time understood those words, and they were all accustomed to the princess’s predilection for expressing herself mysteriously. But now it is as if a veil has been lifted from my eyes. When Naina Georgievna said that, Bubentsov was already walking toward the door, and she saw him from the back. Do you understand?
