Murder on the Leviathan

by Boris Akunin

  'In the Academy of St Cyr we were taught that the Duke of Burgundy, Charles the Bold, specially took the huge Sancy diamond with him into battle against the Swiss, but it did not save him from defeat.'

  Clarissa felt sorry for the poor devil for making a rare attempt to show off his knowledge at such an inopportune moment.

  The Japanese gentleman's remark was greeted with deadly silence, and Aono blushed in painful embarrassment.

  'Yes indeed, Charles the Bold . . .' the professor said with a sharp nod of dissatisfaction and concluded without his former ardour. 'The sapphire symbolizes devotion and constancy, the emerald confers improved sharpness of vision and foresight, the ruby protects against illness and the evil eye . . . But you were asking about the value of Bagdassar's treasures?'

  'I realize that it must be an incredibly huge sum, but could you at least give us an approximate idea of how many zeros there are in it?' Mme Kleber enunciated clearly, as if she were addressing a dull-witted pupil, demonstrating yet again that once a banker's wife, always a banker's wife.

  Clarissa would have enjoyed listening to more on the subject of the magical properties of precious stones and would have preferred to avoid talk of money. Apart from anything else, it was so vulgar.

  'Very well then, let me just tot it up.' Sweetchild took a pencil out of his pocket and poised himself to write on a paper napkin. 'Formerly the diamond was considered the most expensive stone, but since the discovery of the South African mines it has fallen significantly in value. Large sapphires are found more often than other precious stones, and so on average they are only worth a quarter as much as diamonds, but that does not apply to yellow and star sapphires, and they made up the majority of Bagdassar's collection. Pure rubies and emeralds of great size are also rare and have a higher value than diamonds of the same weight . . . Very well, for simplicity's sake, let us assume that all five hundred and twelve stones are diamonds, and all of the same value. Each of them, as I have already said, weighing eighty carats. According to Tavernier's formula, which is used by jewellers all over the world, the value of a single stone is calculated by taking the market value of a one carat diamond and multiplying it by the square of the number of carats in the stone concerned. That would give us ... A one carat diamond costs about fifteen pounds on the Antwerp exchange. Eighty squared is six thousand four hundred. Multiply by fifteen . . . Mmm . . . Ninety-six thousand pounds sterling - so that is the value of an average stone from the Brahmapur casket . . . Multiply by five hundred and twelve . . . About fifty million pounds sterling. And in actual fact even more, because as I have already explained, coloured stones of such a great size are more valuable than diamonds,' Sweetchild concluded triumphantly.

  'Fifty million pounds? As much as that?' Renier asked in a voice suddenly hoarse. 'But that's one and a half billion francs!'

  Clarissa caught her breath, all thoughts of the romantic properties of precious stones driven out of her head by astonishment at this astronomical figure.

  'Fifty million! But that's half the annual budget of the entire British Empire!' she gasped.

  'That's three Suez Canals!' mumbled the red-headed Milford-Stokes. 'Or even more!'

  The commissioner also took a napkin and became absorbed in some calculations of his own.

  'It is my salary for three hundred thousand years,' he announced in dismay. 'Are you not exaggerating, professor? The idea of some petty native princeling possessing such immense wealth!'

  Sweetchild replied as proudly as if all the treasure of India belonged to him personally:

  'Why, that's nothing! The jewels of the Nizam of Hyderabad are estimated to be worth three hundred million, but of course you couldn't get them all into one little casket. In terms of compactness, certainly, Bagdassar's treasure had no equal.'

  Fandorin touched the Indologist's sleeve discreetly:

  'Nonetheless, I p-presume that this sum is rather abstract in nature. Surely no one would be able to sell such a huge number of gigantic p-precious stones all at once? It would bring down the market price.'

  'You are mistaken to think so, monsieur diplomat,' the scholar replied with animation. 'The prestige of the Brahmapur Standard is so great that there would be no shortage of buyers. I am certain that at least half of the stones would not even leave India - they would be bought by the local princes, in the first instance by the Nizam whom I have already mentioned. The remaining stones would be fought over by the banking houses of Europe and America, and the monarchs of Europe would not let slip the chance to add the masterpieces of Brahmapur to their treasuries. If he had wished, Bagdassar could have sold the contents of his casket in a matter of weeks.'

  'You keep referring to this man in the p-past tense,' remarked Fandorin. 'Is he dead? And if so, what happened to the casket?'

  'Alas, that is something that nobody knows. Bagdassar's own end was tragic. During the Sepoy Mutiny the rajah was incautious enough to enter into secret dealings with the rebels, and the viceroy declared Brahmapur enemy territory. There was malicious talk of Britannia simply wishing to lay its hands on Bagdassar's treasure, but of course it was untrue. That is not the way we English go about things.'

  'Oh, yes,' nodded Renier with a dark smile, exchanging glances with the commissioner.

  Clarissa stole a cautious glance at Fandorin - surely he could not also be infected with the bacillus of Anglophobia? The Russian diplomat, however, was sitting there with an air of perfect equanimity.

  'A squadron of dragoons was dispatched to Bagdassar's palace. The rajah attempted to escape by fleeing to Afghanistan, but the cavalry overtook him at the Ganges crossing. Bagdassar considered it beneath his dignity to submit to arrest and he took poison. The casket was not found on him; in fact, there was nothing but a small bundle containing a note in English. In the note, which was addressed to the British authorities, the rajah swore that he was innocent and requested them to forward the bundle to his only son. The boy was studying in a private boarding school somewhere in Europe - it's the done thing among Indian grandees of the new breed. I should mention that Bagdassar was no stranger to the spirit of civilization, he visited London and Paris several times. He even married a French woman.'

  'Oh, how unusual!' Clarissa exclaimed. 'To be an Indian rajah's wife! What became of her?'

  'Never mind the blasted wife, tell us about the bundle,' the commissioner said impatiently. 'What was in it?'

  'Absolutely nothing of any interest,' said the professor with a regretful shrug of his shoulders. 'A volume of the Koran. But the casket disappeared without trace, although they looked for it everywhere.'

  'And was it a perfectly ordinary Koran?' asked Fandorin.

  'It could hardly have been more ordinary: printed by a press in Bombay, with devout comments in the deceased's own hand in the margins. The squadron commander decided that the Koran could be forwarded as requested, and for himself he took only the shawl in which it was wrapped as a souvenir of the expedition. The shawl was later acquired by Lord Littleby for his collection of Indian paintings on silk.'

  To clarify the point the commissioner asked:

  'So that is the same shawl in which the murderer wrapped the Shiva?'

  'The very same. It is genuinely unusual. Made of the very finest silk, almost weightless. The painting is rather trivial - an image of the bird of paradise, the sweet-voiced Kalavinka, but it possesses two unique features which I have never encountered in any other Indian shawl. Firstly, where Kalavinka's eye should be there is a hole, the edges of which have been sewn up with minute care with brocade thread. Secondly, the shawl itself is an interesting shape - not rectangular, but tapering. A sort of irregular triangle, with two crooked sides and one absolutely straight.'

  'Is the shawl of any g-great value?' asked Fandorin.

  'All this talk about the shawl is boring,' complained Mme Kleber, sticking out her lower lip capriciously. 'Tell us more about the jewels! They ought to have searched a bit more thoroughly.'

  Sweetchild la
ughed.

  'Oh, madam, you cannot even imagine how thoroughly the new rajah searched for them. He was one of the local zamindars who had rendered us invaluable service during the Sepoy War and received the throne of Brahmapur as a reward. But greed unhinged the poor man's mind. Some wit whispered to him that Bagdassar had hidden the casket in the wall of one of the buildings. And since in size and appearance the casket looked exactly like an ordinary clay brick, the new rajah ordered all buildings constructed of that material to be taken apart. The houses were demolished one after another and each brick was smashed under the personal supervision of the new ruler. Bearing in mind that in Brahmapur ninety per cent of all structures are built of clay bricks, in a few months a flourishing city was transformed into a heap of rubble. The insane rajah was poisoned by his own retainers, who feared a popular revolt even more fierce than the Sepoy Mutiny.'

  'Serve him right, the Judas,' Renier declared with feeling. 'Nothing is more abominable than treachery.'

  Fandorin patiently repeated his question:

  'But nonetheless, professor, is the shawl of any g-great value?'

  'I think not. It is more of a rarity, a curiosity.'

  'But why are things always b-being wrapped in the shawl -first the Koran, and then the Shiva? Could this piece of silk perhaps have some ritual significance?'

  'I've never heard of anything of the sort. It is simply a coincidence.'

  Commissioner Gauche got to his feet with a grunt and straightened his numbed shoulders.

  'Mmm, yes, an entertaining story, but unfortunately it has nothing to contribute to our investigation. The murderer is unlikely to be keeping this piece of cloth as a sentimental souvenir. It would be handy if he was, though,' he mused. 'One of you, my dear suspects, simply takes out a silk shawl with a picture of the bird of paradise - out of sheer absent-mindedness - and blows his, or her, nose into it. Old papa Gauche would know what to do then all right.'

  The detective laughed, clearly in the belief that his joke was very witty. Clarissa gave the coarse lout a disapproving look.

  Catching her glance, the commissioner narrowed his eyes.

  'By the way, Mile Stamp, about your wonderful hat. A very stylish item, the latest Parisian chic. Is it long since your last visit to Paris?'

  Clarissa braced herself and replied in an icy tone:

  'The hat was bought in London, Commissioner. And I have never been to Paris.'

  What was Mr Fandorin staring at so intensely? Clarissa followed the line of his gaze and turned pale.

  The diplomat was studying her ostrich-feather fan, and the words inscribed in gold on its ivory handle: MEILLEURS SOUVENIRS! HOTEL AMBASSADEUR. RUE DE GRENELLE, PARIS.

  What an appalling blunder!

  Gintaro Aono

  The fifth day of the fourth month

  In sight of the Eritrean coast

  Below - the green stripe of the sea,

  Between - the yellow stripe of sand,

  Above - the blue stripe of the sky.

  Such are the colours Of Africa's flag.

  This trivial pentastich is the fruit my one-hour-and-a-half-long efforts to attain a state of inner harmony -that confounded harmony that has stubbornly refused to be restored.

  I have been sitting alone on the stern, watching the dreary coastline of Africa and feeling my infinite isolation more acutely than ever. I can at least be thankful that the noble habit of keeping a diary was instilled in me from childhood. Seven years ago as I set out to study in the remote country of Furansu, I dreamed in secret that one day the diary of my travels would be published as a book and bring fame to me and the entire clan of Aono. But alas, my intellect is too imperfect and my feelings are far too ordinary for these pitiful pages ever to rival the great diaristic literature of former times.

  And yet if not for these daily entries I should certainly have gone insane long ago.

  Even here, on board a ship travelling to east Asia, there are only two representatives of the yellow race - myself and a Chinese eunuch, a court official of the eleventh rank who has travelled to Paris to obtain the latest perfumes and cosmetic products for the Empress Dowager Tz'u Hsi. For the sake of economy he is travelling second class, of which he is greatly ashamed, and our conversation was broken off the moment it emerged that I am travelling first class. What a disgrace for China! In the court official's place I should certainly have died of humiliation, for on this European vessel each of us is the representative of a great Asian power. I understand Courtier Chan's state of mind, but it is nonetheless a pity that he feels too ashamed even to leave his cramped cabin - there are things that we could have talked about. That is, although we could not talk about them, we could communicate with the aid of ink, brush and paper, for while we speak different languages, we use the same hieroglyphs.

  Never mind, I tell myself, hold on. The difficulties remaining are mere trifles. In a month or so you will see the lights of Nagasaki, and from there it is a mere stone's throw to your home town of Kagoshima. And what do I care that my return promises me only humiliation and disgrace, that I shall be a laughing stock to all my friends! For I shall be home once again and, after all, no one will dare to express his contempt for me openly, since everyone knows that I was carrying out my father's will, and that orders are not a matter for discussion. I have done what I had to do, what my duty obliged me to do. My life may be ruined, but if that is what the welfare of Japan requires . . . Enough, no more of that!

  And yet who could have imagined that the return to my homeland, the final stage of my seven year ordeal, would prove so hard? In France at least I could take my food alone, I could delight in taking solitary walks and communing with nature. But here on the ship I feel like a grain of rice that has fallen by accident into a bowl of noodles. Seven years of life among the red-haired barbarians have failed to inure me to some of their disgusting habits. When I see the fastidious Kleber-san cut a bloody beefsteak with her knife and then lick her red-stained lips with her pink tongue it turns my stomach. And these English washbasins in which you have to plug the drain and wash your face in contaminated water! And those appalling clothes, the invention of some perverted mind! They make you feel like a carp wrapped in greased paper that is being roasted over hot coals. Most of all, I hate the starched collars that leave a red rash on your chin and the leather shoes, a genuine instrument of torture. Exploiting my position as an 'oriental savage' I take the liberty of strolling around the deck in a light yukata, while my unfortunate dining companions stew in their clothes from morning till night. My sensitive nostrils suffer greatly from the smell of European sweat, so harsh, greasy and fleshy. Equally terrible is the round-eyes' habit of blowing their noses into handkerchiefs and then putting them back into their pockets, together with the mucus, then taking them out and blowing their noses into them again. They will simply not believe it at home, they will think I have made it all up. But then seven years is a long time. Perhaps by now our ladies are also wearing those ridiculous bustles on their hindquarters and tottering along on high heels. It would be interesting to see how Kyoko-san looks in a costume like that. After all, she is quite grown up now - 13 years old already. In another year or two they will marry us. Or perhaps it will happen even sooner. Oh to be home soon!

  Today I found it especially difficult to attain inner harmony because:

  I discovered that my finest instrument, capable of easily cutting through the very thickest muscle, has been stolen from my travelling bag. What does this strange theft mean? At lunch I once again found myself in a position of humiliation - far worse than the incident with Charles the Bold (see my entry for yesterday). Fandorin-san, who continues as before to be very curious concerning Japan, began questioning me about bushido and samurai traditions. The conversation moved on to my family and my ancestors. Since I had introduced myself as an officer, the Russian began to question me about the weapons, uniforms and service regulations of the Imperial Army. It was terrible! When it emerged that I had never even heard of t
he Berdan rifle, Fandorin-san looked at me very strangely. He must have thought the Japanese army is staffed with absolute ignoramuses. In my shame I completely forgot my manners and ran out of the saloon, which of course only rendered the incident even more embarrassing.

  It was a long time before I was able to settle my nerves. First I went up onto the boat deck, which is deserted because the sun is at its fiercest there. I stripped to my loincloth and for half an hour practised the kicking technique of mawashi-geri. When I had reached the right condition and the sun began to look pink, I seated myself in the zazen pose and attempted to meditate for 40 minutes. And only after that did I dress myself and go to the stern to compose a tanka.

  All of these exercises were helpful. Now I know how to save face. At dinner I shall tell Fandorin-san that we are forbidden to talk to strangers about the Imperial Army and that I ran out of the saloon in such haste because I am suffering from terrible diarrhoea. I think that will sound convincing and in the eyes of my neighbours at table I shall not appear to be an ill-mannered savage.

  The evening of the same day

  So much for harmony! Something quite catastrophic has happened. My hands are trembling in shame, but I must immediately note down all the details. It will help me to concentrate and take the correct decision. To begin with only the facts, conclusions later. And so.

  Dinner in the Windsor saloon began as usual at eight o'clock. Although during the afternoon I had ordered red beet salad, the waiter brought me bloody, half-raw beef. Apparently he thought I had said 'red beef’. I prodded the slaughtered animal's flesh, still oozing blood, and observed with secret envy the captain's first mate, who was eating a most appetizing vegetable stew with lean chicken.