Sister Pelagia and the Black Monk

by Boris Akunin

  Now for the buoy keepers hut that you know from Alyosha's letter, the place where Felix Stanislavovich died and Alexei Stepanovich and Matvei Bentsionovich lost their reason.

  There our malefactor carried off a more cunning trick than on the spit, but there was still nothing mystical about it.

  The cross was scraped on the glass with an ordinary iron nail— I found it in the grass under the window. It is hardly surprising that when the criminal displayed a hermit's hood with holes in it at the window in the middle of the night and scraped on the glass with the nail, the buoy keeper's poor wife was so frightened that she had a miscarriage.

  And the villain dealt with your emissaries as follows.

  He hid in the dark room. Possibly, in order to distract attention, he placed a dummy dressed in a pointed cowl at the window—in any case, I discovered two sacks of straw in the hut, and there is no reason for them to be there. When the victim entered and noticed the motionless silhouette, he turned his entire body in that direction and the bandit struck him on the head from behind with some heavy object. Hence the “bump one inch to the right of the top of the head” that I read about in the report of the inspection of Felix Stanislavovich's remains. It is not at all a matter of convulsive blows of the head against the floor, as Matvei Bentsionovich assumed when he wrote his description. Berdichevsky himself, and no doubt Lentochkin before him, when he came running to the clinic, also bore the traces of blows to the head, but Dr. Korovin did not attach any great importance to the fact, since they both also had numerous other injuries: grazes, scratches, and bruises. In speaking about Berdichevsky, the doctor mentioned his skinned fingers and broken nails. That was what helped me to reconstruct the picture of the villainous deed.

  Having stunned his victim, the criminal placed him in a coffin (there is a coffin lying on the table—the buoy keeper had made it for himself, but it has remained unused, since the drowned man's body was never found) and shut him in with the lid. I tried putting the lid on and saw that the nails sat loosely in their holes— someone had beaten the lid off with powerful blows from below. I assume that it happened twice: the first person who was entombed alive in the coffin and forced his way out was Alyosha, and the second was Matvei Bentsionovich.

  No mind, not even the very strongest, can withstand such an ordeal—the criminal was correct in that assumption. But he did not let things rest at that, as I shall tell you later.

  First about Lagrange. In Felix Stanislavovich's case, the attacker's plans evidently misfired. Either the police chief's head proved too hard, or something else went wrong, but the colonel did not lose consciousness and evidently tussled with the villain. Then the criminal killed him with a shot at point-blank range.

  Yes, yes, Lagrange did not commit suicide—he was an innocent victim, which should gladden your heart. That is the explanation of the strange path that the bullet followed, upward and from the left to the right. It is the path that a bullet would follow if someone whom the colonel was holding tight by the shoulders or the throat were to fire upward with his right hand.

  Remembering that no bullet was found in the body, which meant that it had passed straight through, I searched the upper sections of the walls and found what I was looking for. We now have incontrovertible proof that it was murder.

  The bullet that I extracted from the log was not forty-five caliber, like the police chief's Smith & Wesson, but thirty-eight caliber, and as I discovered from my textbook on ballistics, it was fired from a Colt revolver. After the murder, the criminal fired his victim's gun in the air and put the Smith & Wesson in the colonel's hand to make the death look like suicide.

  Now let me return to our friends, whom the villain did not kill but drove insane, which is perhaps even more terrible. If only you had seen into what a pitiful parody of a man the sharp-witted Alexei Stepanovich has been transformed, and how little remains of the highly intelligent Matvei Bentsionovich's intelligence! It is a sin to say it, but I believe it would have caused me less pain to see them dead.

  The most abominable thing about the false Basilisk is that he is not content with his violent savagery and has not left the poor madmen in peace.

  From Alyosha Lentochkin's troubled words it seems clear that the “phantom” continues to appear to him even now. And as for Berdichevsky I myself witnessed and even fell victim to another attempt by the criminal to extinguish the final spark of reason barely glowing in Matvei Bentsionovich's soul.

  Last night I saw the Black Monk with my own eyes. Ah, how terrifying it was! Of course, he did not appear in order to frighten me—it was Berdichevsky that he wanted. Having stunned me with a blow to the head (delivered with some skill) the villain fled, and I failed to recognize him. But the blow knocked some sense into my head, so that I began searching, not for a devil, but a man, although one who is little different from the Evil One.

  I did not realize straightaway what he could have struck me with when he was standing so far from me. But then I recalled a story that the doctor had told me and a certain painting by an artist who lives here (now there is someone you ought to talk to, someone for you to bring to their senses!) and I then understood everything.

  “Basilisk” struck me with a stilt—the kind that you see at fairgrounds. It would take too long and there is no point in explaining here how fairground stilts came to be in the clinic, but one thing is certain: the criminal used them to look in at the second-floor window where Berdichevsky used to sleep—with the same purpose: to frighten him and finish him off. Yesterday night, however, Matvei Bentsionovich was moved from the second floor to the first floor, but Basilisk still had his stilts with him—so the Black Monk was unaware of the move? But then what kind of supernatural force is he?

  And now the conclusions.

  I do not know who is concealed beneath the disguise of the enraged Basilisk, but I do have a conjecture concerning the goal of his evil actions.

  This person (definitely a person, and not a being from another world) wishes to have Basilisk's Hermitage abolished and has almost succeeded in his intentions.

  Why? That is the most important question, and as yet I do not have any answer, only possible explanations. Some of them will seem quite incredible to you, but perhaps even they might prove useful if you have to bring this matter to a conclusion without me.

  Let me begin with the father superior himself, Father Vitalii. For him the hermitage is a vexatious encumbrance, since it has lost all importance in the economic sense (forgive me for writing in such terms, but I believe that this is more or less the way the archimandrite himself thinks), and in terms of the ambition that His Reverence possesses in abundance, the hermitage actually hinders him by overshadowing his achievements as the ruler of New Ararat, which are quite genuinely substantial. The income from the rosary beads, on which the brethren formerly supported themselves, is laughable these days and can in no wise be compared with the other sources of revenue. The hermitage has also ceased to be the main attraction for pilgrims, because the well-to-do among them, whom Father Vitalii welcomes especially, are more interested in the healthful air, the restorative waters, and picturesque boat rides. In the archimandrite's opinion, Outskirts Island and its holy inhabitants merely serve to sow confusion in the brethren's minds, distracting them from useful labor and indirectly undermining the authority of the archimandrite's position by constantly reminding them that there is another Authority, incomparably superior to that of the archimandrite. Vitalii is a man of harsh and even cruel disposition. How far his love of power and his ambition extend, God only knows.

  Another possible explanation is a conspiracy among the monks who are dissatisfied with Vitalii's frenzied economic activity at the expense of spiritual service and the saving of their souls. There is no doubt that a secret party of those opposed to His Reverence exists among the senior brethren. It is possible that some of these “mystics” might have decided to frighten the pilgrims away and undermine Vitalii's authority with the church hierarchy—for instanc
e, with you. In that case the playacting with the Black Monk might be intended to rid New Ararat of the vain, bustling throng. The depths of perfidy and even barbarity to which perversely understood piety can lead are well known—the history of religion is full of sad examples.

  It is also possible that the culprit is one of the hermits living on the island. I will not even attempt to surmise why and to what end, since as yet I know nothing about the life of the holy elders. However, all the mysterious events are connected in one way or another with the hermitage and revolve around it. And so this possibility will also have to be investigated. I was at Outskirts Island today (yes, yes, do not be angry) and the abbot Israel posed a riddle, the meaning of which is not clear to me. I shall have to go visiting again.

  And now two possibilities of a quite different type, with no religious connotations.

  Donat Savvich Korovin, the owner of the clinic, is a curious individual. This millionaire philanthropist is far from straightforward, an enthusiast of all kinds of games and experiments with living people. He might possibly be expected to engage in this kind of mystification for the purposes of some kind of research: studying the effect of mystical shock on various psychological types, for instance, or something else of that kind. And afterward he could publish an article in some “Heidelberg Psychiatric Yearbook” in order to maintain his reputation as a luminary of science, which, to my unenlightened eyes, appears none too well deserved (he keeps treating his patients, but somehow never seems to cure them).

  And finally, it could be one of Korovin's patients who is playing the part of “Basilisk.” They are all unusual people, and they are free to come and go as they wish. There are twenty-eight in all (with Alexei Stepanovich and Matvei Bentsionovich the number has risen to thirty), and I have seen only a few of them. They should be studied more closely, only I do not know how to set about it. Donat Savvich and I have fallen out, a state of affairs that I deliberately provoked. That, however, is not where the difficulty lies—it would not be hard to arrange a reconciliation. But until the aftereffects of my encounter with the Black Monk disappear from my face, it would be better for me not to show myself to Korovin. For him I am an ordinary, attractive woman (no doubt the local waters offer poor fishing), but just how attractive would I be with half my face swollen up? Men are constituted so that they will not even talk to an ugly-looking woman.

  At this point I can see the ironic smile that has appeared on your face. I shall not prevaricate. You can see through me. Yes, I find it unpleasant to think that Donat Savvich, who has looked on Polina Andreevna Lisitsyna in a special way and showered her with compliments, might see her in such a shocking state. I repent of my sinful vanity.

  Now I am writing the last few lines before I leave.

  It is a moonlit night—exactly as required. Precisely the kind of night when “Basilisk” appears near the Lenten Spit. My plan is simple: I shall conceal myself on the shore and attempt to track down the hoaxers.

  If my excursion is in vain, tomorrow I shall start investigating the abbot and Outskirts Island.

  And if it should happen that my excursion ends in the aforementioned disaster, my only hope is that Your Grace will receive this message from me.

  Your loving daughter Pelagia

  A Terrible ‘Vision

  AFTER SHE FINISHED writing this letter, Pelagia looked out of the window and frowned in concern. The sky, only recently clear and flooded with tranquil moonlight, was changing color: the north wind was driving a dark curtain of cloud across it from the horizon to the center, shrouding the infinite depths of the astral sphere. She had to hurry.

  Lisitsyna had intended to leave her letter to the bishop on the table, but then she remembered the curiosity of the hotel staff. She thought hard and finally put the letter in the handiwork bag hanging around her neck, reasoning that if she did suffer the same fate as Lagrange or—God forbid!—Lentochkin and Berdichevsky (Polina Andreevna shuddered at the very thought), the letter would not in any case get lost. It would reach His Grace even sooner. And if the bishop was not destined to rise from his sickbed (she sighed bitterly), then the senior levels of the police could look into things.

  After that she acted quickly.

  She threw on the cloak with the hood, grabbed the traveling bag, and set off into the night.

  The waterfront was quite deserted now and the investigator had no difficulty slipping into the closed pavilion. Soon after that a skinny young monk was walking along the path leading from New Ararat to the Lenten Spit, shuddering as his black cassock billowed in the freezing-cold wind.

  The sky was darkening with increasing rapidity. Pelagius lengthened his stride and walked faster, but the blank curtain was moving closer and closer to the serene face of the lamp of night.

  The implacable advance of darkness raised two concerns in the novice's mind. Would his sortie not be in vain—would the criminal not change his mind about impersonating Basilisk tonight? And if he did appear in any case, ought Pelagius not to have taken Lagrange's revolver with him? What good was it doing, lying in the traveling bag between the bulky iron chests in the pavilion? He would have felt much safer on the dark, deserted shore if he had it.

  Nonsense, Pelagius told himself. The weapon would be of no use. He could not fire at a living soul in order to save his own life, could he? The young monk stopped thinking about the revolver, and now the only thing that concerned him was the moon, which had hidden behind a cloud.

  Any longtime resident of Canaan would have told Pelagius that when the wind was from the north the moon was doomed and it would never peep out again now, except perhaps for a few brief moments, and even then not at full strength, but only shining through some thin cloud. However, the novice had not had occasion to discuss the caprices of the moon over the Blue Lake with individuals more experienced than he, and so he continued to gaze up at the silver-shrouded vault of heaven with a certain hope.

  At the beginning of the spit Pelagius bent over, pressing himself against the surface of the earth. Further along he settled down beside a large rock and sat quietly, looking toward the spot where the murderer had concealed his bench so cunningly.

  With every minute that passed the night grew darker. At first the surface of the lake was still visible, its wrinkled surface frowning up at the violent rage of the north wind, but soon the gleams of light on its surface disappeared and the only indication of a large body of water was the sound of splashing and a fresh, damp smell, as if somewhere close by someone had sliced up an immense number of cucumbers.

  The young monk sat there, hugging himself around the shoulders and sighing in disappointment. A fine chance there was of seeing “Basilisk” now! How could he go walking on the water, if it wasn't lying smoothly, but splashing about—the entire effect would be destroyed.

  The sensible thing would have been to leave and go back to the guesthouse. But Pelagius lingered on and couldn't bring himself to go. Perhaps it was sheer obstinacy, or perhaps he had intuitively sensed something.

  Because just when the boy was chilled right through to the marrow and was on the point of giving up, his patience was rewarded. A rent appeared in the curtain over the sky as the moon finally found a thin cloud and lit up the lake for a few instants—only dimly, but still brightly enough to reveal a sinister vision to the observers gaze.

  In the middle of the narrow gulf separating the large island from the small one, Pelagius saw the narrow form of a boat swaying among the waves, with a black figure in a pointed cowl standing upright in it. The figure bent down, picked up something soft and light-colored, and tumbled it over the edge of the boat.

  The novice cried out, for he had quite clearly seen two naked, emaciated legs dangling lifelessly. The water closed over the body, and a moment later the rent in the sky also closed.

  Pelagius himself could not tell if he had imagined this hellish scene. It would have been easy, with the uncertain light and the surrounding darkness.

  But then the young monk was
struck by an idea that made him shriek out loud.

  He picked up the hem of his cassock, revealing the white frills of a pair of lady's drawers, and set off at a trot away from the shore toward the center of the island.

  As he ran, he muttered the words of a confused, hastily composed prayer: “Preserve, Oh Lord, Thy lamb from the teeth of the wolf and men of blood. God shall arise and scatter all before Him, and His enemies shall flee from His face!”

  Soon the young monk's shoes were clattering on the bricks of a paved road, but it was no easier to run—the ground was gradually rising upward, and the farther he went, the steeper it became.

  At the edge of the pine grove where Korovin's land began, the runner slowed to a walk, for he was completely exhausted. The windows of the little houses were dark—the mentally ill patients were sleeping.

  Sensing rather than seeing the glass roof of the conservatory above the dense wall of bushes, Pelagius again set off at a run.

  He burst in and shouted in a despairing, faltering voice, “Alexei Stepanich! Alyosha!”

  Silence.

  He rushed this way and that through the luxuriant thickets, breathing the intoxicating tropical aromas through his open mouth. “Alyoshenka! Answer! It's me, Pelagia!”

  There was a cold draft coming from the corner. The young monk turned in that direction, peering into the darkness.

  First there were shards of glass crunching under his feet, and then Pelagius made out the immense hole broken in the transparent wall of the conservatory.