Deception

by spinner

1      2      3      4      5      6      7      8      9      10      Epilogue     

Prologue

My most precious Valentine,

Your papa is away on business, in Vienna at the moment, and it is midnight Sunday.  I am writing you, to practice my pen and to pass the time until morning, when I will go to worship and then come back to my den for a little sleep.  If I were in Moscow, I would be listening to Father Gavril in the church of your patron.  But alas, I am not home.  A fiend in mortal form is blowing innocent people to Kingdom Come, and it is Papa's job to find and watch and catch him if I can.

But Papa is in trouble, darling, there's no denying it.  I may have met my match in this one.  Sometimes I wonder if the devils I chase are worse than the devils I work with!  I could use Father Gavril's words of wisdom right now.  As a boy, I would lie in the darkness in my bed and I would try to spot the demons that he spoke about in services.  As an adult, I understand that both reason and intellect say these supernatural beings cannot exist.  He was speaking metaphorically.  Every once in a while though, my work presents to me the possibility that reason and intellect know nothing, and that metaphors live and breathe.  Those slanty-eyed, sharp-toothed creatures that I waited for in my bed in the darkness might actually exist.

Father Gavril would probably say that the demons follow me because I'm not happy unless my life is one crisis after another.  The excitement of my job makes me feel alive, it is true.   He has always been a plain-spoken man.  His voice makes me feel safe, as it has since I was a child in the orphanage at  the Church of Saint Valentine.  I wonder when I look at you if you are like my mother.  I barely remember her.  But I seem to think she had your pale skin and your freckles as well.  The last  thing I remember of her was watching the sunlight play on the colors of her auburn hair as she waved goodbye to me and then disappeared into the crowded street.  Now when I think back, I understand why she left me with Father Gavril.  She was too young to raise a child on her own—she was probably not even sixteen when I last saw her.   Sixteen, with a three year old by her side?  And then I wonder—was she even my mother?  Was she my sister?  Was she any relation at all?  Whoever she was, she did what was best for me, and I have forgiven her and thanked God a thousand times over.  Because of the love I feel for you, I know that giving me up must have been the hardest decision she ever had to make.   I feel the same love for her that I feel for you.  Please know that your papa loves you most dearly, even if he cannot be with you all the time.    

I was left in safety with Father Gavril and Saint Valentine, and that is why I do not worry for you when I am away, because they also watch over you, even from a distance.  When I am again in Moscow, perhaps you will come to Moscow as well, and together we can sit in those dilapidated pews and listen to the lilt of the wise old man's voice.  It will be you and me and the babies and the orphans and the widows and the streetwalkers and the scant few families who go to worship there.   The doors at Saint Valentine's are always open, even to a sinner like your papa. 

When I first told Father Gavril of the sinful desires and wicked ambitions that ruled my too-human heart, from behind the safe barrier of the confessional, the wise old man knew at once what was wrong with me.   He said, "There are demons following you, Max.  Powerful demons.  They will rule your life until you learn to master them."

Father Gavril is always amused when I tell him that as an adult, I have spotted these other-worldly creatures out of the corners of my eyes, swinging along the rooftops of cathedrals and palaces, hanging off parapets, shuffling along night-cloaked streets in the various cities where my job takes me.  He tells me all the time that I need a job with less stress.   But the Lord Above is watching over me, as He was watching over me when I was left in Father Gavril's care.

Father Gavril knows I am not perfect, and he's never asked me to be perfect.  He has only ever asked me to do my best for the improvement of the world and for the glory of the Lord.  What I am best at is deception.  We both learned this at an early age, and although it is a sin to tell a lie, it is a greater sin to deny the one talent that God saw fit to give me.  Rather than deny the truth of it, Father Gavril decided the proper thing to do to embrace my strength and hone it and use it to do the work of the Lord.  Because who else but He would have given me the power, and why else would He have given me the power except to use it to see good done?

Perhaps is it this very power to perform and bear witness to and ferret out deception that drew the demons to me in the first place?  For surely if God can grant such a power to a mortal man, the Devil can spot that this man is special, and the Dark One may crave that man's soul more strongly than other men's souls.   The Devil will want this man to fall, and that is why he will dig to the depths of his bag of tricks and send upon this man many trials and many tests and many temptations.    Even here, to Vienna, to the cold brick niche where I wait and keep watch on the demons of mankind's creation. 

When I go to worship in the morning, I will light a candle for you, and for my mother, and for your mother, and for your wonderful, dear François.  I did not forget that it is almost your anniversary.  I will remember him fondly for the love he gave to you, and for the beautiful grandchildren that he gave to me.   War is a terrible thing, my dear girl, and it steals too many young men from their wives too soon.   If you go to church today where you are, please light a candle for Papa, and pray for him to resist temptation, and pray for him to avoid the demons today, and pray for him to not have to take the life of a fellow Christian if he can help it. 

Be thankful also that he has found some delicious weisswurst at last!  There are good reasons to come to Vienna.  I only wish that I could enclose a few links for you and the babies.  Kiss the little ones for me, until I see you again!

                                                                                                             Your Beloved Papa

                                                                                                             Maximillian Pavlovich Kirnov

One

This was what I was contemplating as I stood in the deep doorway of a brick building in Vienna—my letter two days ago to Valentine.   I chastised myself for comparing Prince Dolgorukoi to the Devil, even if I hadn't mentioned him by name, because the Governor-General was a good man, a fine man, an honorable man.  But he was also a trickster and a manipulator who liked to play with people.  Vladimir Andreeivich could spot a man's weakest point inside an underdone minute.   As I was one of his most useful people, I liked to think I was above these games of his, but, alas, this week has proven otherwise.  He was displeased with my lack of  progress in apprehending the terrorist Herr Martin Radespeller, and so Dolgorukoi has sent me assistance on my difficult case. 

He has sent me Erast Petrovich Fandorin. 

There is no one in Moscow who works for Dolgorukoi who doesn't understand that when Erast Petrovich is dispatched by the Governor-General to quote unquote HELP with a case, all is surely lost for the person currently in charge.  Some whisper that Fandorin is the Angel of Death, but this is nonsense.  An angel, surely, with that youthful, innocent face.  Others whisper that he is the beloved of the Devil himself, which I find a little hard to picture too.  He can be unpleasant, taciturn, even humorless, but I wouldn't assume so much as to say he's in league with Old Scratch. 

Whatever his other-worldly allegiances, his presence was most inconvenient, not to mention uncomfortable.  I have spoken at length with His Excellency concerning my misgivings about his precious Fandorin, after the scandal the boy caused by starting an affair with Count Opraksin's ice-cold wife.   I was concerned Fandorin might have in some way learned of my opinion about his behavior, and that he had accepted this mission in order to show me up because of what I said.

Something about the way Dolgorukoi smiled whenever I mentioned Erast Petrovich made me wonder if the cunning old man sent Fandorin to Opraksina merely to ignite the scandal in the first place.  After all, my master has many enemies among the St. Petersburg elite, and Count Opraksin is no particular friend of his, and furthermore, Opraksin is one of the men who might stand to inherit Dolgorukoi's position if the prince is forced to retire.  Starting a shocking public conflict between the man and his wife would not only lower the man in the eyes of society, it would also lower Opraksin's chance of getting the reigns of control in Moscow. 

Was Fandorin innocent in this bit of intrigue?  Or was he, like me, merely the instrument with which Dolgorukoi was protecting his own interests?  Whatever Fandorin's role, the extent of the calamity went beyond what the Governor-General might have anticipated.  Surely he did not mean for the Countess Opraksina to move to Moscow and shock the establishment by cohabitating with his precious Fandorin? 

No matter.  The dreadful woman has returned to her husband after a terrible falling-out with Erast Petrovich.  Their personal lives were used for sporting fun by one of the criminals he was pursuing, a certain Jack of Spades.  The countess was incensed at Erast for allowing her to be publically humiliated, as if Fandorin had somehow failed her by not anticipating that the Jack would strike at his most vulnerable spot—their illicit romance.  In the end, the affair had done the boy little harm socially speaking.  While it is impossible to condone such sinful behavior, if nothing else, the whiff of scandal dispersed that cloying hint of perfection that used to cloud the air around Fandorin.  The irony though is that by providing a glimpse at his more human side, Fandorin may have only made himself more beloved by those already besotted with the boy.

Erast Petrovich was certainly not a darling among the men of society.  He never had been much-loved by his peers, so it was no loss.  Men disliked him before because of his intelligence and his arrogance, his youth and his good looks.    Now, they all watched their wives most carefully around the handsome Deputy of Special Assignments. 

However, one had only to mention Fandorin's name in the circles of the women of society, and the matrons and maids would start to sighing and lamenting and showering him with praise.  When the affair with the Countess Opraksina was mentioned in the presence of the ladies in the know, most of whom did not care for the St. Petersburg elitist, their response was to defend Fandorin.  After all, the dear, sweet, vulnerable boy was no match for the likes of Opraksina, was he?  Everyone knew what that man-hungry she-cat was like!  When Opraksina's friends were present, the tone of the conversation would turn even more curious.  It was whispered that Fandorin had very nobly and immediately offered the disgraced lady a place to stay after her husband threw her out of their home in St. Petersburg.  Where would she have lived without his offer?  Surely not alone, in a strange city, on her own?  Although she had more than enough money in her own right even without her husband's, it would not have been appropriate for a woman of Opraksina's standing to live by herself.  People would talk! 

Yes, very well, so Fandorin had offered his home to her, and she had graciously accepted.  I felt since Fandorin had been Opraksina's downfall that it was only proper that he help her.  He had let her rule as the undisputed mistress of his life, and obeyed her smallest whim as every good husband should do.  Those who were society friends of the Deputy of Special Assignments had indulgently treated the pair as husband and wife while they were together, and many spoke of the loving affection between them.  The two seemed a perfect match because they weathered each other's terrible tantrums and weird idiosyncrasies and unpredictable mood swings.   The Widow Jovanovski had tears in her eyes when she talked about a particular ball that had taken place at her home – a New Year's Eve party.  Fandorin and Opraksina had been inseparable the entire evening, gazing into one another's eyes like moon-sick calves, holding hands, drinking from each other's cups, sneaking kisses now and again.   It had been like watching a honeymooning couple together.  The Widow had said she wished she would see that much affection between actual husbands and wives. 

Those in the know also spoke of the depths of Fandorin's despair when Opraksina left Moscow and returned to St. Petersburg.  To his credit, Fandorin did not race after her and beg her to return, or challenge her husband publically, or shoot himself cleaning his revolver, which is all the rage when affairs such as these fall apart, so I'm told.  Erast Petrovich bore his melancholy and pain in manful silence, like a true nobleman.     

The mere mention of Fandorin starts the ladies all to sighing.  It's very hard not to hate a man who inspires such incredible devotion.  But what did I care about the women of society of Moscow or any other city?  They did not concern me in the slightest.  I shuddered at the thought—marriage to one of those creatures would have been an unbearable prison.  Marry one of those girls and you've married her entire extended family, and they will rule your life ever after. 

Behind me, Fandorin softly cleared his throat, and even that sound was melodic from him. 

"Mr. Kirnov?"  he spoke. 

Another thought occurred to me as I shifted in my tiny niche and continued to stare at the third floor bedroom window.  Had Dolgorukoi engineered the relationship between Fandorin and Opraksina in order to battle the persistent rumors among the men of society that his beloved favorite was secretly a homosexual?  Those against him bring up the fact he spent a year in captivity in a harem during the Turkish war.  Everyone knows of course what goes on in harems!  Why else would a captor put a comely youth like Fandorin in his collection of concubines unless he meant to keep and use the young man as a paramour as well?

Erast Petrovich was a well-dressed dandy, rather a sweet-smelling fop.  Left single at a very young age by the Baroness Evert Kolokolsteva's death, Fandorin had yet to remarry in spite of an unbelievable number of women who claimed to be on friendly or intimate terms with him.  It was no secret to anyone that Fandorin preferred the company of his Japanese valet to almost everyone else, and people will talk.  Visitors to his residence have witnessed curious exchanges between the two men—some form of Eastern exercise which involves little or no clothing, lots of screaming and rolling about.  This was clearly some kind of self defense technique learned during his years spent on the far side of the world in Japan.  It did not bother me. 

What stuck in my mind was that train ride a year ago back from St. Petersburg, where from under the heavy lids of feigned sleep, I had watched Fandorin stroking the hair of his sleeping valet, who was lounging with his head in his master's lap.  Yes, the man was ill at the time and he should have been reclining, and that would have meant putting his head in either my lap or his master's lap.  Still in yet!  While his man slept, Fandorin stared peacefully out the window at the moving landscape, humming bits of music.    Erast Petrovich's long, thin fingers had moved very familiarly through his valet's hair.   There was something very secretive about the way they whispered to each other in that strange language that they shared.   It might not have been as explicit as holding hands and drinking from the same cup, but it was pretty evident the two of them were intimate in a sexual manner. 

Beyond that, Fandorin's residence on Malaya Nikitskaya was filled with Asian curiosities and expensive art.  I had let myself in on one occasion when he was out at the theatre for the evening.  I had just wanted a look around.  There were books everywhere, in many languages.  That goes strongly against him.  There is no one that heterosexual men distrust more than an over-educated, sweet-smelling, well-dressed, handsome man who enjoys reading, collecting art, and going to the theatre.  More so if he has a particularly close relationship with his personal valet.   

As for myself, I don't know what to think of Fandorin.  He was neither a rich playboy nor a predatory  pederast.  He seemed to me to be an intelligent, lonely person, a trifle vain, but someone who didn't know how to relate to everyday people.  And by everyday people, I mean society people, not the rabble in the streets.  Strangely enough, Fandorin appeared to be very comfortable with unwashed peasantry.  But what he loved best was the company of his Japanese valet and a tightly-knotted case to solve.   Having to interact with people scared him, and thus in their company, he remained behind an emotionless mask.  I could relate to being scared of people, and so this didn't trouble me either.  I disliked him merely because he was here to take my case from me, and he was making my hiding space most cramped and uncomfortable. 

"I d-don't mean to separate you f-from your thoughts, Mr. Kirnov," the melodic deep voice behind me said.  "You keep shivering.  If you are cold, we could trade places."

We were standing together in my niche, you see.  The recessed doorway created the perfect space for one man with very little room to spare.  The area was cast into shadows because of the ledge above the doorway.  Trying to fit two men into the space created difficulties, not the least of which was his voice in my ear, his breath on my cheek, the enticing scent of his cologne in my nose, and the rustle of warm fabric and thick fur against my shoulder.  Not to mention the growing erection in my trousers. 

I gouged Fandorin in the ribs with my elbow and shushed him mercilessly.   He sighed with boyish impatience, and wiggled back into the alcove further.  Stand behind him?  Was he insane?!  He hadn't been here a day and already I want to put him on the next Moscow-bound train and be done with him. 

"I'm not cold.  Hush."

"As you say," Fandorin answered smoothly.  My irritation did not trouble him.  He made me so agitated with his calmness that I had no choice but to explain myself further.

"I can't see over your shoulder.  It makes more sense if I stand in front of you.  Where is Molson?  I asked for Molson."

"Mr. M-molson was not available."

"Why the hell not?"

"He is on h-his honeymoon."

"Molson, engaged?  Since when?"

"This, I could not tell you."

"Some detective you are," I mocked harshly.  Fandorin appreciated the humor, no doubt, because when I glanced sideways, and found his face back over my right shoulder, he was giving a tight smile.  Perhaps he was having the exact thoughts about my own powers of deduction. 

"I am sorry I am n-not Mr. Molson."

"I like Molson.  He is easy to work with.  He's quiet.  He's cooperative.  He knows what kind of sausages I like.  He does everything I tell him to do," I lamented.  Molson was part of my hand-picked Moscow anti-revolutionary squad.  There were four of us altogether—me and my three clerks—Molson, Nicholevni, and Kostov, and that was just the way I preferred it!  I did not need Erast-fucking-Fandorin here sniffing around my case. 

As if he had heard my thoughts, Erast Petrovich gave me a cold, sideways glance.

"I was under the impression we were working together on this case.  That we would be peers, equals.  I was n-not under the impression you h-hoped to order me around."

"Which is precisely why I asked for Molson, who does not mind being ordered around."

"Mr. Molson is busy with Mrs. Molson."

"Yes, and no doubt doing anything Mrs. Molson orders him to do."

"No doubt," Fandorin offered back. 

"Before the honeymoon is over, Molson will be wishing himself here, in Vienna, with Maximillian Pavlovich," I predicted spitefully. 

"P-perhaps," Fandorin acquiesced with another cold, tight smile.  That was him, in a nutshell.  Cold.  Stiff.  Official.  I had met corpses with a greater public emotional range than this man.  What was Dolgorukoi thinking, sending this pup to me?  I concentrated on the third floor window where the stocky, ruddy, blond man was reading by firelight a letter I had watched him gather at the post officer earlier in the day, before I had had to detour to the train station and pick up Fandorin. 

Herr Martin Radespeller—my anarchist prey.

Our anarchist prey.  I had better at least try to amuse Fandorin while he was here, if I wanted to keep my position with Prince Dolgorukoi safe and sound. 

"How many nihilists does it take to screw in a light bulb?" I asked Fandorin over my shoulder to wherever he had retreated in the darkness.

"Two, I should imagine."

"Why two?" I asked.

"If your riddle revolves around the alternate meanings of the word 'screw' as the exaggerated stress in your voice telegraphs, a matched set would be required—one male and one female.  That is the st-standard, recommended equation, I believe."

"Usually," I said, feeling grim in the face of such logic.  I let the silence linger briefly.   

"What was the actual answer to your riddle?" Fandorin asked.

"It doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters," he said soothingly.  He was offering solace as if he had injured me somehow.  He was about to destroy the very last shred of patience that I owned. 

"No, Erast Petrovich.  You misunderstand.  What was the question?"

" 'How many nihilists does it take to screw in a light bulb'?"

"And my answer?"

"I have not yet heard your answer, Maximillian P-pavlovich."

"It doesn't matter, because they're nihilists.  Nihilists don't care.  Nothing matters to nihilists.  It's a joke, Erast Petrovich.  A joke.  You enjoy riddles, don't you??"

"As a f-fish enjoys thin air," he muttered sullenly at me. 

"What are you doing back there?" I asked, feeling him kneeling down.  We were so close that I was practically able to sit on his shoulder.  His feet were poking out behind him.  Spats?  He was wearing spats?  Why was he wearing spats?

"Where does this door lead?" he answered tartly.

"A great detective would have deduced it leads…..inside," I mused. 

I heard the creaking of the rusted knob and smirked to myself.  Locked, I thought, and has been for two weeks.  I heard the clickety-click of metal to metal.  Test it all you want, little boy. 

Clickety-click.  Clickety-click.  Clickety-ding! 

Fandorin's slender backside collided with mine as he stood up.  To my surprise, there was a gush of foul-smelling wind behind me that pushed me forward.  Giving an exclamation of satisfaction, Fandorin disappeared into the hallway he had uncovered, and closed the door again, leaving me outside in the cold.   

I grabbed the knob, opened the now-unlocked door, and attempted to quietly pursue him through the hallway towards the staircase he was intent on climbing.  He had opened the door into the basement hallway of the apartment building.  On the first landing, he struck a match and traced his eyes over the names written on the row of mail slots.   

"What are you doing?" I whispered hotly.  He read the names and shook his head back and forth, then he blew out his match before he burned his glove tips.  "Fandorin, why did you pick the lock?!"

"It wasn't locked," he defended, pursing his lips slightly to one side.  He was a lying prick, I decided at once.  "We could perhaps look down upon our subject instead of up at him.  Won't that be easier on your neck?" he offered. 

He took off one glove, lit another match, and ran his fingers and his eyes over the box names again.  His delicate fingertip stopped over one in particular.  He peered up the thin staircase, counting the floors, and began to smile most hopefully.  Wiggling his wrist, he extinguished the second match. 

"Where are you going?" I demanded. 

"6 B," he pointed as he spoke. 

I struck a match and read the names again.  A glance at the mailboxes showed me that 6 B was inhabited by one L. P. Mirinova.  It was the only Russian name among those present.  It was the only single name among those present.  All other boxes listed a husband and a wife, or at least two names.  Judging from the fact that the first door on the first landing, situated above and to the right of the front entrance was in fact 1 B, that meant 6 B would be in the best position to provide us with a window from where we could study Herr Radespeller in warmth and silence and happiness. 

Fandorin's feet were carrying him up the staircase rapidly.  I had trouble matching his pace.  Upon reaching the correct floor, he straightened his coat, took off his hat, pushed back his hair, and tapped tenderly on the rickety wooden door at 6 B.

When I reached the landing, I held myself up straight and soundless behind him, which was difficult, because I had just climbed six flights of stairs and wanted to pant like a racing greyhound.  He wasn't winded in the slightest.  Youth and vigor—how I hated him!

A light went on in the apartment.  Someone was shuffling towards the door. 

"Who is it?" she asked sleepily in German.

"Please, Madamemoiselle, forgive the late hour," Fandorin responded in flawless French.  "May we speak with you?"

Kneeling down, Erast Petrovich slid his identification papers under the door, complete with picture, which showed he was attached to the Moscow gendarme in an official capacity.   I had such papers in my coat pocket, but I had removed the tiny photograph of myself in order to make it less easy to identify me in case I was ever seized.  What was Fandorin aiming for? Was he depending on this presumable expatriate's sense of loyalty to the Motherland?   On her fear of the police?  I heard a gasp inside.  Another light came on.  Several locks were undone.  Fandorin remained kneeling, holding his hands nervously in front of him, almost in the manner of a praying man. 

The apartment door opened, and there before us stood a radiant creature whose impressive body was not entirely concealed behind her sleeping gown and lacy peignoir.   I wasn't entirely immune to her—having spent so much of my time in public holding up a façade, I knew when and where it was appropriate to indicate attraction to the opposite sex.   I could barely contain my disbelieving laughter.  Fandorin's eyes traced up the slim, bare leg before him, and a smile graced his face.  His icy-blue eyes glittered hungrily for a second before he put on the most unimpeachable, innocent face.   Butter wouldn't have melted in his mouth.  Miss Mirinova tossed back luxuriant long hair and returned Fandorin's smile.  It was like watching a pair of wild animals in nature, performing the expected maneuvers before the mating could begin.  I was already bored with Mirinova, and hated her as much as him.  If Fandorin was a secret homosexual, he was hiding it very well.  Or was he performing as much for my benefit as for Mirinova's?

"Good evening, sir," the occupant answered in impeccable Russian, her beautiful round face lit with joy.  

Five minutes before, if I had stood in the foyer down below and challenged Fandorin to pick the one apartment where his good looks and polite charm would gain him a warm reception such as this, he would have been hard pressed to have conjured such a fortunate outcome.  Maybe he was in league with the Devil after all?

Madamemoiselle Mirinova was all too happy to trade her apartment to use for however long we would like, all too happy because in exchange, Fandorin had promised her the same amount of time, at his expense, in the finest hotel in Moscow.  How long had it been since she had seen family?  Visited loved ones?  Seen the city that was her home?  Of course she would be from Moscow.  He could tell from her accent.  Of course she was terribly homesick.  He would have been too, so far away from home.  Of course she would be happy to help the delightful, handsome, wonderful gendarme gentleman who had shown up on her doorstep at night in a foreign city.  It was like the blessings of God smiling down on her and showing her the way she should go.  She was so lonely for the sound of someone speaking Russian. 

Fandorin charmed and wooed the little damsel as he helped her pack.  I was completely amazed by his ability to bamboozle while telling her the absolute truth.  He promised not to break anything around her economically-furnished woeful little flat.  Her first question after the primary problems had been resolved—was he any good with tools?  Might he not take a look at the dripping facet in the bathtub.  Perhaps the loose floorboard in the bedroom too?  I couldn't imagine someone soft and delicate like Erast Petrovich was any good repairing items around the house.  But he happily promised to take a look for her.  Did she mind at all if we were to install a telephone in her absence?  Would that trouble her?  Of course it wouldn't.  Of course. 

How I hated him!!

Fandorin's only firm condition was that Mirinova must not tell anyone who had arranged for her stay in Moscow, except one gentleman in particular, Prince Vladimir Andreeivich Dolgorukoi.  Yes, the Governor-General of Moscow, the very one!  The august prince himself would see to her every whim.  Fandorin would place a telephone call from the train station and all would be settled for the lovely Miss Mirinova before she arrived back in Moscow.  She didn't have to worry about a thing,  except for the fact that when I had Fandorin back to her apartment, I was going to choke him to death right in the middle of her living room floor, and no amount of concern for the stain on the hard boards was going to bother me in doing so. 

Those were the thoughts that plagued me as I followed behind the swinging caboose of Miss Mirinova, porting one of her trunks smuggled out through the alternate entrance into the apartment complex.  Fandorin was carrying the other trunk.  The lady herself was carrying a hat box and a valise stuffed with musical compositions in one hand and a violin case in the other hand.  Apparently she had come to Vienna in hopes of making it as a musician, and had wound up supporting herself with music lessons and voice lessons and the occasional performance. 

After placing a quick call to Prince Dolgorukoi, who verily screamed with delight from what I heard, we escorted Mirinova through the train station and to the ticket booth and to her first-class carriage car.   Wickedly, I pined for the opportunity to see the look on my dear Prince Dolgorukoi's face when Mirinova and her violin and her swinging caboose popped off the train in Moscow!    I believed I could safely predict that Vladimir Andreeivich would have that musician in his bed before the week's end!

Fandorin and Mirinova started a minor scandal in the Vienna train station when the young lady impulsively threw her arms around Fandorin, and sucked a long, luxurious kiss from his mouth.  Then she smiled demurely at him, flashed her lashes like a huge feather fan, and disappeared inside the compartment without another word.   We waved goodbye to her through the window, where she sat smiling happily at us before disappearing into smoke and shadows and steel in motion.

Once the train had gone, Fandorin turned a sheepish set of ice-blue eyes towards me.  I glared back at him disapprovingly, and he lowered his chin like a whipped puppy. 

"The apartment will b-be more comfortable than the d-doorway," he offered me, staring further down under my judgmental gaze.  His eyes were attached to my boots.  He should get familiar with these scuffed black objects.  If he wasn't careful, at least one of them was going to be planted up his elegant backside. 

Two

On the winding path back to our newly-acquired retreat and observation point (damn him!) I decided I simply had to set Fandorin straight on the correct form of procedures that we would be following while he was working with me.  Namely, as senior official, I would be giving him directions, and deciding which way this case would proceed, and not the other way around.  He walked along beside me, his eyes casting about in all directions at once, I felt.   Prudent.  Cautious.  Observant.  There were things about Fandorin I could like—beyond that slender body and those incredible eyes.   I cast my inappropriate feelings back into the darkness of my soul, and I  scolded him that he was not here to charm the local damsels as he had done with the Moscow ones!  He was here to help me with my case!

"I do understand," Fandorin soothed in that mellifluous voice of his.   We were nearly to the Danube, where we would cross by a pedestrian bridge attached to the side of the main carriage thorough-fare.  Even at this late hour, the bridge was filled with carriages and transport trollies, and pedestrians were not lacking either.

"Do you?" I questioned skeptically.

"Naturally.  You are f-feeling as if I've come along and snatched the rug out from under you.  I understand how that m-might unsettle you, make you uneasy with me, but there's something I have to explain to you, Mr. Kirnov."

"What is that, Mr. Fandorin?"

"I have always been remarkably lucky."

"Luck.  Is that what it is?"  I scoffed at him. 

"F-family luck," he nodded solemnly. 

"Lady Luck led you to Mirinova?"

"She did indeed."

"La Doña Fortunata brought you to Vienna, from Dolgorukoi to me?"

"Absolutely."

"I have only one question then, Mr. Fandorin."

"What is that?"

"While you're hovering around me, is the amount of bad luck that happens to me directly related to the amount of good luck that happens to you?"

"P-perhaps.  What are you driving at?"

"I won't be walking under any ladders while you're around, that much is certain."

"Wait a moment."

I turned to find out what had caught Fandorin's eye, and there she was.  The sniveling slut in the crimson cloak was standing yet again on the edge of the pedestrian walkway, her black hair being whipped about by the winds.   She stared down into the water and sobbed at the top of her lungs.  No one but Fandorin gave her more than a passing, annoyed glance.

"Father!  Father, forgive me!" she cried out, as if expecting an answer from the rushing water below. 

"Oh, don't mind her.  She's been here every night this week," I groused, continuing on. 

"What if she j-jumps?" Fandorin whispered fearfully.

"She's not going to jump," I scoffed.

"Her intent looks c-clear to me."

The slut in question wailed even louder, and Fandorin took a step tentatively in her direction.  Annoyed, I carried on my way.  Let him be distracted with this depressed young woman.  Let him play the hero.   I had work to do, back at the apartment, keeping tabs on Herr Radespeller. 

"Fraulein, there is always something to live for."

There was a timbre of unexpected tenderness in Fandorin's voice that caught my heart in steel wire and dragged me to a halt.  It was stronger than the pull of any mythological siren.  I was horrified at the persuasive power I felt in him. 

"Please, my dear, don't go any further.  The fall is further than you realize," Fandorin was saying.

My mind was taken back to the bridge over the Moskva River that I had once stood on, the rushing water below that I had once stared at, the bottomless feelings of emptiness and despair that had persuaded me that suicide was my only option then.  Alexei Lebedev's angelic face washed before my eyes.  And I heard Fandorin's soothing words and I trembled. 

"Why are you upset?" he asked. 

"I am in love!" she cried louder still. 

"What a wonder it is, to be in love.  Love is to be rejoiced, not mourned."

The girl in crimson hung her head at this, covering her face with her hands.  I could not hear her words, but that did not matter.   Fandorin listened patiently to her, stroking her hair with one of his gloved hands.   

"God will not punish you for falling in love.  God will only punish you if you jump.  Please be careful, my dear.  Give me your hand.  Do not be afraid.  I am with you.  I will step to your side as well.  May I?  Do not be afraid.  I would never harm you."

How odd it was that when he spoke with purpose, his stammer disappeared entirely.  Without that stammer, his voice could be utterly bewitching!  It was a tool as much as the gun he carried, or the intellect he wielded with razor-like precision. 

I dared to gaze back, tears in my eyes, and there Fandorin was, on the opposite side of the safety barrier, his arms around the sobbing girl, his fingers locked on the slender bar at her back.  She was facing the river, but he was facing inside towards the bridge.  He was standing beyond her on the balls of his feet, his silly spats shining in the moonlight.  There wasn't three inches of steel behind his bent toes.  Other pedestrians had stopped to gape like monkeys in the zoo.  I hurried forward, a shout of warning on my lips.  From my vantage I could see that the bar to which he was holding was rusted through on this side.  The girl had her face buried in his neck and she was expelling whispers and words and tears so copious that they could have rivaled the flood below.

"God won't hate you, no matter who you love," Fandorin murmured to her.  The girl continued to sob, pressing herself hard into Fandorin's arms.  Her wailing suddenly intensified to a piercing scream when the bar to which Erast Petrovich's fingers were locked released itself with a wicked snap.  She continued her horrible refrain as they plunged together into the darkness below. 

I reached the protective railing on the pedestrian bridge and stopped, wary of the gaping hole that was there.  All I could wonder was how I was going to explain this to Prince Dolgorukoi?

Three

Drenched and dripping, Erast Petrovich Fandorin stood on the banks of the Danube and trembled as he watched the medical personnel from a most-obliging psychiatric facility in Vienna carry the girl on a stretcher to their ambulance to transport her away.  She whispered and quaked where she lay, her broken arm tucked to her side.  It was a clean break, and frankly, the least of her worries. 

"My angel.   My angel.  You can fly.  I saw your wings.  You can fly.  He's an angel.  An angel," she was trying to convince the medical personnel, who were understandably skeptical when confronted with her bedraggled rescuer. 

"Don't worry, Mr. Fandorin.  We'll take care of the little lady, see if we can determine the cause of all her sorrows."

They knew Fandorin's name because I had been screaming it at the top of my lungs as I rushed down from the bridge, through the streets, along the quay, and finally to the spot where he and the crimson slut had bobbed back above the water and made their way laboriously towards the nearest bank.  I had screamed until he pulled himself ashore, at which point I had begun muttering and pacing around as far away from him as I could get, afraid I would take him by the throat and choke him. 

"He's an angel. He can fly.  He can fly," the girl was whispering as she was carried away by men in clean-white coats, laid out on a clean-white stretcher and lifted into a clean-white truck.  Her enormous blue eyes never left Fandorin.  She turned her bruised face to watch him until she was totally out of view. 

Once the ambulance was gone, Fandorin stood there shivering, pulling his dripping coat tightly around himself.  He limped over to me once he felt my gaze.  A curious crowd had gathered since he had pulled himself and the suicidal young woman from the filthy water, coughing, gasping, puking up mud.  He had limped up the shore with her, both of them covered in filth.  I don't know who had alerted the psychiatric personnel, but I was glad they were there.  I wasn't sure if I could approach Fandorin yet and not choke the life out of him.  I steeled myself and put back my shoulders.  Because he had chosen to come towards me, the matter had been decided.  Sarcasm, my armor, was ready. 

"Shall I applaud or just throw roses?" I asked, moving up to him for the last few yards.

"How nice it must be for you, so unencumbered by sentimentality," Fandorin hissed.  He was plucky—I had to give him that.  Without his stammer, his tone became sharpened like cold steel. My traitorous heart clutched and throbbed in response. 

"What?  Was I supposed to leap off the bridge after you?!" I retorted. 

Fandorin bowed his head and walked alongside me in morose silence.  I took off my coat and cast it over his trembling shoulders.  We reached the apartment house, and he had yet to say another word.  He was burning with fury—at me, at himself, at that stupid girl.  Leaving a trail of mud and water up the stairs, he trudged to the door.  Instead of knocking, he leaned his head against the wood and waited, spreading a pool of murky Danube at his feet.

"Master, is that you?" asked a voice from inside.  The front portal opened, and Fandorin's Japanese valet Masa stood there.  One of Mirinova's aprons was tied around his waist.   Did he remember me from last year in St. Petersburg?  I certainly remembered him!  The inviting scent of hot tea wafted around us into the hallway.  "Danna?  What is this?  What happened?  Mr. Kirnov-san is not wet at all?" Masa questioned in his strangely constructed Russian. 

Fandorin gave a choking laugh and toed off his shoes and spats in the tiny front entrance of the apartment.  As Masa hurried away, Erast stood on the entry rug that had not been there before.  The valet returned carrying a big flowered towel and cup of tea. 

"Arigato, saiai yujin," Fandorin whispered to him, bowing lowly.   Masa patted Erast Petrovich's squelching shoulder-- his almond eyes warmed with affection. 

"Kirnov-san.  Come inside.  Close door.  Warm up," the valet ordered sternly.  I did as he asked, taking my coat away from Fandorin to hang it up by the door.  The mud inside wasn't too bad.  I could clean it tomorrow. 

Mirinova's apartment had been transformed during our brief absence.   The furniture had been aligned differently—more walking room and less clutter.  How had Masa found our location?  How had he gotten inside?  I poured myself a cup of tea as I watched Masa race back and forth on silent feet, bringing another towel and filling the tub in the bathroom.  Down the short distance of the hallway, the scent of roses wafted strongly.  Their ability to track one another only confirmed my previous suspicions that they were intimately connected somehow. 

I averted my eyes as Fandorin stripped out of his clothes and wrapped one of the flowered towels from Mirinova's linen closet around his waist.  He vanished towards the bathroom and the tub of frothing water.  Masa unabashedly followed.  I sat in the living room on the small divan which Masa had strategically placed right next to the most convenient window.  I watched Radespelller's silent apartment and listened to the conversation between Masa and Fandorin.   Beyond the window, I could see my own reflection watching them and the reflection of the actions going on behind me in the bathroom. 

Fandorin's skinny knees were visible above the white porcelain.  His left leg was bruised, but his right seemed unharmed.  Likewise his left shoulder and his right.  The left side of his face was slightly bruised, but that might have been mud slicks.   He must have taken the impact of the water on his left side, explaining why the young woman's right arm had been broken, as they had been embracing face to face when they tumbled.  Masa sat on the floor beside the tub and poured liberal amounts of shampoo in his hands before grabbing Fandorin by the skull and scrubbing his locks thoroughly. 

"What a mess you are," the valet scolded.  "Why did you jump in water?"

"A young woman was trying to kill herself."

"Did she tell Master why?" the Japanese man's eyes went wide.

"She is in love with her school master."

"Why is this a problem over which to kill self?" Masa persisted.  Fandorin shrugged his shoulders and regretted the movement.  He rubbed his left limb, moving it back and forth gingerly.  "Bad danna.  I've told you before.  No, no, no."

Erast Petrovich coughed up a quiet, tired laugh when Masa flicked him on the tip of his nose with one finger. 

"You were very easy to find, even with head start," Masa said.  " I followed you to station.  Took taxi back here.  Missed great excitement, I see.   Hm.  Nice tall bridge.  Metal.  That would have to be the one young woman jump from?"

"She chose well," Fandorin agreed grimly.   "You d-do realize, most people who attempt s-suicide are hoping not to succeed.  They merely want help.  They want attention.  They want to c-confess the burden weighing on their soul."

"Which position did you choose for dive?"

This question caused Erast Petrovich to gasp.  "Position?  I'm sorry, b-but there was no time for grace and beauty in this jump."

"What a shame.  Wasted chance."

"Masa, I barely had time to turn us around so we didn't impact the water with our heads and faces!"

"Still, when will you have the chance again?" Masa mourned.  He tisked in misery, shaking his head, but then he quickly dismissed the thought.  "Do you like what I did with hideout?" he asked, eager for Fandorin's approval. 

"Observation point, not hideout.  We are not bandits.  It's very cozy," Fandorin answered, peering my direction and cocking a curious brow when he caught me staring at him. 

"Mud caked in other ear too.  Lean this way.  Good danna.  Great Buddha!  I almost forgot!  I have message from important gentleman."

"Dolgorukoi contacted us again already?" Fandorin asked, letting Masa scrub his ears. 

"Telegraph machine at police station right around corner from here.  Not very smart place for wanted fugitive to hide self.   Policeman was waiting downstairs with message when I come back."

"What did His Excellency have to say?"

"Master and Kirnov-san will please go to Orenburg."

"What's in Orenburg?" Fandorin asked.  "He didn't say anything to me on the phone about going to Orenburg!"

I leapt to my feet and raced down the small hallway.

"What about Radespeller?"  I demanded.  I paused where I was in the hallway, remembering in a panic that Fandorin was naked as a baby in there.  I quickly turned my back to the bathroom door. 

"I will stay in Vienna while Kirnov-san and Danna are in Orenburg," the valet explained.   "I will watch dangerous anarchist.  Can I kill him, Master?" he asked Fandorin as a hopeful aside.

"No, you may not," Fandorin answered quickly. 

"From his roof, there is door into building.  Apartment was easy to find."

"No."

"Lock is very simple.  Take five minutes."

"No."

"In and out."

"No."

"Please??"

"I said no," Fandorin frowned.  He added another word or two in their shared language of Japanese, and small dots of color appeared on Masa's cheeks as his eyes narrowed. 

"Why must we sit and watch and wait for him to commit crime before we seize him?" Masa sulked.  Fandorin rolled a couple of r's at Masa, and the valet said the city name again in tandem with the Deputy of Special Assignments. 

"R-R-R.  Orenburg."

"Owenbug."

"Orenburg."

"Owenbug.  Damn city," Masa scowled. 

"What's in Orenburg?" Fandorin repeated. 

"Murder case.  More details when you come.  Gentleman promised."

"Leave now, or leave in the morning?" Fandorin asked Masa, heaving a tiny sigh. 

"Now.  Can sleep on train."

"May I get dressed first?"

"Not yet.  Need second bath.  Still dirty in various spots.  Take out plug."

Fandorin tilted forward to find the silver stopper under the water and the dirty foam.  Masa leaned close to Fandorin and sniffed at him, putting his stubby nose against his master's ear. 

"Danna smells like rotten fishes and pinku.  Need better soap.  I shop while you gone."

Four

"I'm looking for Lieutenant La Pêche.  La Pêche?  La Pêche!"

The bar keeper took her cupped hand away from her ear and pointed towards the direction of the piano.  There were several officers crowded around the polished and glorious contraption.  One was seated on the bench, flexing fingers and cracking knuckles.  Which of these lucky fools was our La Pêche?  Fandorin nodded his thanks to the woman behind the bar and walked the direction she had indicated.  The piano came to life, and a playful tune danced out to the chorus of laughter among the officers.  I followed Fandorin through the men who bowed and stepped aside nervously away from me.

"You play piano rather well, Peaches!" one of them shouted. 

"My mother insisted I should learn!" shouted back the piano player.  "A sign of good breeding, she told me.   I shall make an excellent chanteuse someday!" he laughed loudly.   

"No, no, no.  Play that English song," echoed a tall hussar in gold and scarlet. 

"Which English song?" the officer seated at the keys shouted back.

"You know which one I mean!"

"But, Mikhail!  You don't even speak English!"

"Play the English one.  It's funny.  I like the melody!"

The tune changed, and because of the noise of the crowd, Fandorin could only pick out a few words here and there. 

"I hold your hand in mine, dear.  I press it to my lips…"

The soldiers gathered around were attempting to sing along, which muddled the words even further because they were making up their own phrases for the melody in many different languages.

"….a healthy bite, dear, from your delicate fingertips…."

Erast Petrovich shook his head and frowned in confusion.  His face said he was questioning whether or not he had heard those lyrics correctly.  In no time at all, he was standing behind the officer playing the piano.  The officer was a stout redhead of average height with delicate, pale features, pink ears, and slender but powerful hands.   Soldiers swayed back and forth, tilting their glasses and steins this way and that as the music rolled on.  I watched the soldiers, smiling along.  Although I did not understand the language they were attempting to sing, the happiness on their faces was infectious.

"….would be complete, dear, if you were only here, but I keep your hand, as a precious souvenir.  The night you died I cut it off, I really don't know why…"

Fandorin watched the faces of those listening as music echoed forth from the resonant soprano at the piano.  Erast Petrovich looked perfectly horrified, and I supposed then that Erast Petrovich must speak English, and the song must be quite bawdy indeed. 

"………I'm sorry now I killed you, for our love was something fiiiiiiine, and till they come to get me, I shall hoooold your haaaaand in miiiiine."  *AN 1*

A whooping cheer rose to the ceiling, and the piano-playing officer gave a wicked laugh before tucking a thin cigar between taut lips.   I noted with dry amusement that La Pêche smoked the same type of thin cigars that Fandorin favored. 

"Get out of here, you wicked bastards.  Let a soul mourn in peace."

There was a groan of discontent and a general undercurrent of mumbling as two things happened: the music ended and the cavalry officers took notice of the state functionary in their midst.  Then their eyes fell upon me, and they took a step back.  Fandorin was frowning in puzzlement at the piano player.  Ignoring the disgruntled soldiers, and their reaction to finding a priest and a civilian in their favorite haunt, Erast Petrovich moved to the right of the officer, who was closing the lid over the keys and giving a quiet sigh.  

"For whom do you mourn, Lieutenant?" Fandorin asked.

The officer shook his head and stood up, collecting a drink from the top of the piano.  He cast a worried glance towards the bar keeper, who was needling the officer right at that moment with a chastising look.  The lieutenant plucked a frilly, pink handkerchief from a hidden pocket and wiped at the water ring on top of the piano. 

"Sorry!" he called out.  The bar keeper kept giving him dirty eye, and so he made quite a show of cleaning the ring away. 

"That's from Paris!" she called out. 

"Vive L'Empereur!" the lieutenant called out, laughing again. 

"Savages!" the bar keeper howled.

"Ingrid loves me or she wouldn't fuss so," the lieutenant said to Fandorin, who was watching this interaction with feigned disinterest.   "What can I do for you, Mr. Civilian?  I beg your pardon, Father," the officer added, bowing to me and crossing himself. 

"Erast Petrovich Fandorin.  Am I addressing Lieutenant La Pêche?"

"At least one of them."

"Does the Orenburg Military Academy employ more than one?"

"No, but I'm sure somewhere on the globe, right at this very second, there resides a second, even a third.  It's not an uncommon name."

"Emil La Pêche.  Your parents were Francophiles?"

"My parents were half French, half Russian.  My sisters and I all have such Frenchified names.  It makes one tough as a youngster.  I have quite an impressive right hook.  But you didn't come all the way from Moscow to question me about my name or my street-fighting skills, did you?"

"We came from Vienna, and no, not about your name," Fandorin acknowledged.  "I have been asked to investigate the recent death of Ensign Grigori Afinogenov."

"Do you always bring a priest with you on assignment?" La Pêche asked.  

"Not always," Fandorin replied with a terse smile, not adding that it was only this morning that had I taken on the habit of the priest.  I would explain why later.

"Begging your pardon, Father," La Pêche added, crossing himself again.

"May we have a few moments of your time?" Fandorin asked. 

"May I buy you a drink?"

"I don't believe that would be appropriate," I interjected with a side glance at Fandorin, because he appeared to be on the verge of agreeing. 

"Is there more than one Erast Fandorin?" La Pêche asked.

"Not that I am aware," Fandorin replied.   "Not yet," he added with a tender smile and a brief, faraway look in his eyes.  The lieutenant led us to a table, smiling at a personal thought as well.

"Then I believe I may have heard about you," the officer confided, leaning forward and putting both elbows on the table, huddling over the glass he had lifted off of the piano.  "One of my sisters lives in Moscow.  You work for Prince Dolgorukoi.  I have heard you can read into the heart of any man or woman and know their every sin.  I sincerely hope that is not at all true, Mr. Fandorin."

"Have you that many sins, Lieutenant?" I asked.

"No, but none that I should wish Mr. Fandorin to know about, right away," La Pêche cackled in his strange voice.  "What do you need to know about Grigori, Mr. Fandorin."

"You are his- - -"

"Were his."

"Were his weapons instructor, starting last term?"

"Indeed."

"You gave him high marks for his work, even wrote a commendation."

"He deserved every ounce of praise." 

"Can you describe the incident that resulted in this commendation?" Fandorin asked. 

"My ensigns were asked to perform a routine patrol as part of a training exercise.  They should not have been in any danger whatsoever.  However, a terribly clever band of Kazak rebels decided my squeaky new ensigns would make for good target practice.  Most of them, this being their first experience at conflict of any sort, fled for cover or wet themselves on the spot.  Grigori managed to pick off three rebels and nicked a fourth, all the in space of two minutes.  The remaining rebels fled back into the hills."

"It's safe to say you were impressed with Ensign Afinogenov's shooting skills and his ability to stay calm in the face of adversity."

"I would have knighted him on the spot if it were in my power."

"Strong praise.  You were fond of Ensign Afinogenov?" I interjected. 

"I was indeed, Father.  I had high hopes for him.  Is there anything else you need to know?"

"Not at present, but I may call on you again if more questions arise," Erast Petrovich replied. 

"Certainly," the lieutenant nodded to him and paused a respectful few seconds before adding with a hint of a hopeful smile.  "Now may I buy you a  drink?"

"No, thank you," Erast Petrovich said as he stood and bowed, and made his way towards the exit of the establishment.  

I remained seated with La Pêche and watched him as La Pêche watched Fandorin out the window.  It was rather a distracting exit, and I couldn't help but admire the view myself.  Fandorin was absolutely dashing, wasn't he?  Like a very stylish doll! 

Outside in the shadows of the streets, two forms followed the civil servant back towards our shared temporary quarters at the Orenburg Military Academy.  We looked at each other, La Pêche and me, and there was an awkward pause.  Both of us were contemplating if at least one of us ought not to follow and make sure Fandorin reached his destination safely.  I, however, did not have any worries about Mr. Fandorin's well-being, and stayed in my seat. 

"Was there more you needed, Father?"

"You could buy me a drink," I suggested.  La Pêche 's eyebrows rose, but he nodded slowly. 

"What'll you have, Father?" he asked.  I shrugged and let him decide.  "Ingrid!" he waved vigorously to the bar keeper and motioned with his hands in the shape of a stein and the curved head of a correctly-poured beer.  "A pint of lager for the priest, if you please!"

The pint arrived at the table quickly, amid a flurry of excitement.  Surely these military mutts had seen a priest drink, hadn't they?  Were they all going to watch me with their mouths open?  To my surprise though, La Pêche rose up from his chair and nodded his head to me, and made as if to depart.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"Enjoy," La Pêche answered without answering.  He hurried through the patrons and exited the club.  I watched out the window and saw that the lieutenant was headed in the same direction that Erast Petrovich and the two shadows had disappeared.   I took five minutes to drink my pint—all the excitement should have come to a head by that point, I surmised.

Five

Lucky me!  All the excitement had not blown over before I arrived.  Either the ambush had been slow in getting off, or it had gone awry from the start.  Fortune indeed favored Fandorin.   He had not been bragging.  I arrived at the darkest junction of three blind alleys, and kept myself in the shadows and out of the scant moonlight which selectively illuminated part of the proceedings for me.   I had to wonder how Fandorin had come to find himself in such a perfect location for an ambush, unless the cagey Deputy of Special Assignments had purposefully led these gullible creatures in this direction because he had detected their pursuit. 

"Mr. Fandorin, would you be so kind as to release my cadets?" La Pêche pleaded.

"Only with certain reassurances," Erast Petrovich answered, dodging the spinning elbows of the lanky, blond cadet that he held at bay.    His fellow in mischief, a smaller, darker cadet, was ablaze with pain and indignity, held fast by the neck as well.  La Pêche was soothing the temper of the second ensign, who I must say, had the look of a Gypsy about him. 

"Gentlemen, if you please, apologize to Mr. Fandorin," the lieutenant said, his voice trembling.  Both cadets stood stiffly away when Erast Petrovich released them. 

"Peaches, sir, Lieutenant.  He should not be asking you questions, or insinuating that you had anything to do with Afinogenov's death," the brunet blurted angrily.   

"Mr. Samsonoff, while I can and do appreciate that your heart is in the right place, one does not go around attempting to kill civil servants performing their duties, particularly a civil servant who is a member of the Third Section."

"He's Oprichnik?!"  the tall, blond cadet gasped, going for another weapon under his cloak.  Erast Petrovich was on him at once.  He flattened the cadet to the wall, held his arms high above his head.  He stared down into the cadet's face as the lanky young man squirmed in his grip.  Fandorin said nothing.  His ominous silence carried so much more menace than any words could have conveyed. 

La Pêche interjected himself between them, again addressing the cadet.

"Mr. Ponikarovsky, please calm down."

"Lieutenant, he's got no right to blame you for what happened to that perverted bastard!"

"Enough!"

La Pêche collected a dagger from the ground and gave it back to Ponikarovsky, who accepted it with shame-faced horror once Fandorin released his wrists and stood back from all three of them. 

"Mr. Fandorin is searching for Ensign Afinogenov's killer.  You will not interfere in his efforts," the lieutenant scolded his charges. 

"Yes, sir," the cadets mumbled.  

La Pêche then addressed Fandorin.    "I hope you will accept my apology for their appalling behavior."

"As you wish," Erast Petrovich replied, keeping his eyes firmly locked on both cadets.  The boys towered over the Lieutenant, but they were obedient to the officer's commands. 

"Gentlemen, you may return to your quarters.  I will see you both in the morning for early drills.  We will not speak of this again.  Dismissed," La Pêche told them crisply. 

The cadets rushed away, but not without a passing, final, threatening glare at the civil servant.  I decided I could stop lurking by the wall now, having had enough time to judge that Erast Petrovich might actually come in handy in a physical confrontation if he could hold two hot-headed youths at bay merely by squeezing the backs of their necks.    Fandorin was adjusting one cuff very gingerly.  La Pêche waited until the cadets were away, and he spotted me tentatively approaching.  The lieutenant laughed as I ambled up to them.   In the glow of the little bit of moonlight and a distant lamp post, we shared a remarkable silence for a second or two before the humor-prone officer opened his mouth.

"Well, well, well, Mr. Oprichnik.    You are not the soft, pampered official I expected.  I don't doubt if I had not happened upon you three, I would have lost two more cadets this very night," La Pêche cooed, delivering both mockery and praise in the same words. 

"How long would you have waited before intervening, had I not had them both by the scruffs of their necks?" Fandorin questioned, blasting the lieutenant with a scorching look.   La Pêche was devastated by the glance.  He  went quiet, looked at the ground, and stubbed one toe around for a second before nervously catching Fandorin's eyes again.  I said nothing, merely smiled. 

"Mr. Fandorin, you must forgive them.  They are young!  Easy to incense!  They thought you meant me harm.  They will never trouble you again, I swear.   May I escort you safely home?"

"Thank you, no."  Fandorin's words were as cold as steel kissed by a Russian winter.   La Pêche was physically chilled by his tone.  I had the insane thought that if I put my tongue against Fandorin's flesh, it would have stuck there permanently. 

"But, sir, I won't be able to sleep without knowing you are warm and snug in your bed," La Pêche protested. 

"Do you plan to bludgeon me in the head along the way?"

"Not with a priest watching, I won't," La Pêche replied, motioning to me.    I bowed to Fandorin, and he glared at me as if this were all my fault somehow.  Like the bridge, he had expected me to jump right after him. 

We walked silently through the city proper and into Orenburg Military Academy on the outskirts of the city itself.  Fandorin watched every possible angle at once, and hardly looked at La Pêche or me.  I spent the walk watching La Pêche watching Fandorin with mournful, adoring eyes.  I smiled knowingly to myself.

Could the solution to our case be this simple, after all?

Six

Our assignment in Orenburg was on the surface a simple task.  Ensign Grigori Afinogenov had been stabbed through and through, left for dead in the streets of the city, the apparent victim of either a robbery or a homicide.  As his personal belongings had not be ransacked, and the only thing of value missing was his mortal soul, my guess lay with intentional homicide.  In my experience, nearly nine out of ten murder victims were killed by an acquaintance, a lover, a family member, or a rejected suitor.  Fandorin appeared to share my opinion that this was no robbery.  Prince Dolgorukoi was a friend of a friend of the parents of Ensign Afinogenov.  The boy had been the youngest grandson of a noble who had served with Vladimir Andreeivich during the Napoleonic Wars.   Dolgorukoi wanted Fandorin and me to solve the mystery of who had killed the promising ensign.  It shouldn't take more than a day or two.  It would be a small diversion from the Radespeller case.

General Antropov, the commandant of the Orenburg Military Academy, had greeted us at the train station very early this morning.  A handsome man in his late fifties, Antropov had nearly parted Fandorin's arm from his shoulder, he greeted him so enthusiastically.   He had bowed to me repeatedly too.   Antropov was cooperative and kind, and wanted nothing more than to smooth matters over in a quick and timely fashion.  Above all, he wanted to avoid a scandal, and he wanted to make Afinogenov's parents happy as well.  It was all right by him if we couldn't discover who exactly had committed the crime.  Crimes went unsolved every day in Orenburg, so it would be no shame on our heads if this wasn't resolved.  What mattered to him was if Fandorin and I could perform our investigation with a minimum of fuss. 

Fandorin had spent the morning and afternoon studying every last detail of Afinogenov's records, while I set about finding a replacement set of clothes.  My luggage had been pilfered on the train while we slept, at least that's what I told Erast Petrovich.  In fact there was something altogether more embarrassing going on, and I had to do something about it quickly.

I found I was becoming thoroughly enamored with Erast Petrovich Fandorin.  There was nothing I could do about it either—as though it were a spell cast on me.  I couldn't stop staring at him.  On the train, while he slept soundlessly in his berth, I had stared down at Erast Petrovich and held my breath as my heart beat loudly in my chest.  Demons I had long ago conquered, demons I had long thought buried in the sub-basement of my soul, rose up to the surface of my mind.  I knew I had to stop myself, but I could not.  I wanted to reach out to him and caress him in his sleep.  He was beautiful and handsome and perfect, and I wanted him like I hadn't wanted anyone since I was fifteen and insanely in love with Alexei Lebedev.  This was strange, because the two men could not have been more dissimilar, but yet, there it was, my dilemma.  I had thrown myself off a bridge when Alexei Lebedev rejected me!  How far would this mad love for Fandorin drive me?  His very name spoke to me of love—Erast.  Would he know in his dreams that I was watching him from the top berth and sighing with inappropriate feelings?

I was not alone in my misery, and misery loves company, as you well know.  Fandorin was utterly bewitching to be around.  I had watched the women everywhere we went stumble over themselves in order to stare at him in wonder.  Miss Mirinova had opened her door at night to strangers, merely for to see if Fandorin in person matched the picture on the gendarme papers he had slipped under her door.   I had watched maidens and widows and matrons and damsels alike sigh and swoon with his very presence.  The waiter in the restaurant car on the train was not immune either.  He was back to our table every five minutes, wanting to know the keenest desires of Mr. Fandorin.  Erast Petrovich, for his part, was remarkably patient with all this undue attention.  He was never rude or curt or disdainful.  He conducted himself with manners fit for an imperial ball.  He was polite to everyone we met, and he even thanked the incredibly-attentive waiter with a very generous tip.   

Fandorin was leaving a trail of lovelorn people in his wake wherever we went, and I was beginning to understand that the women of society in Moscow might have been onto something indeed.   I was also feeling a certain amount of sympathy for the Countess Opraksina as well.   Had this been how she felt?  Had she awakened in the night to find this glorious, golden cavalier on her doorstep and then swooned in his presence like a powerless princess in a fairy tale?   Wasn't there any way I could protect myself from Fandorin's ability to charm?  I had to do what I had to do to protect myself from this supernatural attraction I was feeling.  Once again the words of wisdom from Father Gavril returned to me in my hour of need.  

You see, my beloved guardian hadn't actually ever been ordained as a priest.  He was, like me, a child of the streets, and that was probably what had brought him to be at the Church of Saint Valentine eventually, because from the orphanage, he would be able to influence the abandoned children in Moscow who had no one else protecting them. 

But it had been a long strange journey from Belfast, Ireland.   Gabriel O'Meara had spent an uneventful handful of years ignorant of God's grace.  However, the word of the Lord did finally reach his ears.  Typically, it was when he was most in need of salvation.  Having taken the life of a rival urchin on the streets of Belfast, Gabriel O'Meara did what any enterprising young lad in his position would have done.  He ran.  He ran until he couldn't stop running.  He stowed-away on a ship, hoping to put as much distance between himself and Belfast and his crime as he could. 

He had sworn to God that if he was saved from the mischief he had caused, he would devote his life to doing nothing but good from then on.  God, being the sporting sort, had accepted the challenge.  He guided Gabriel O'Meara onto a ship filled with young Christian novice priests headed to the ends of the world to take the word of God to heathen infidels.  A boatload of strangers from all over Ireland was headed abroad on a mission trip, and our hopeful sinner was welcomed into their midst.  Gabriel O'Meara disappeared and was seen no more.  A spare shift was lifted in the dark of night, and Father Gavril Pavlovich Kirnov was created. 

"Why a priest?  How did you know how to act, what to say, what to do?" I had asked Father Gavril, astonished with this admission of his sinful youth, but loving him no less.  I saw then that when he spoke of overcoming sin, he had ever right to say it was possible, because he was living proof.   In reply to my question, he had told me the following:

"When I put on the vestment, I knew how I should act.  These robes made me a priest.  God guided me where He needed me to be.   God opened my mind.  God opened my eyes.   I learned Latin as needed, Greek because they made me, Russian too.  I learned the Bible forward and backwards.   I read the Bible for the first time in my life!  Can you imagine that?!  I was allowed to read the very word of God, and that was…that was remarkable to me, Max.  I had never been allowed to do so before.  So you see,  God himself had opened his mouth and told me what I must do, and I made myself a priest.  Because I promised the Lord I would do right, I have done so from the minute I first put on these robes."

With these thoughts foremost in my mind,  I too resolved to put on the priestly robes again.  I say again, because as  teenager, I had wanted to follow in Father Gavril's footsteps and serve the church as he had served the church.   Maybe he had confessed his sins to me in hopes of dissuading me from becoming a priest.   I wish I had listened.  But then I had wanted to make him proud of me.  Even though he had tried to persuade me not to do so, Father Gavril had indulged me in my attempts.  I do believe there was the glimmer of fatherly pride in his eyes at my accomplishments.  I was doing fine, better than fine, at least until Alexei Lebedev crossed my path and ruined my life.  

That was not a complicated tale.  From the first minute I had met him, I had worshipped the golden haired, angel-faced acolyte as a living incarnation of God's love.  Alexei had rejected my hopeless love and my sinful advances, choosing instead to leave Moscow and return to Kiev.   He had not been cruel.  He had not been mean to me.  He had been genuinely distressed to have caused inappropriate feelings in me, because we had been such good friends and he thought of me as a brother.   He returned to Kiev to remove the unlawful, sinful temptation from my life, and I was devastated when he left!   Life with Alexei had been unbearable—without him, it became unlivable. 

Thus I had found myself on that fateful bridge, staring down into the Moskva River, hoping God would forgive me and take me into Heaven.  I had tried to hang myself with my rosary, and the cord had broken, spilling beads into the water and taking away my mortal soul with it.  After my attempted suicide, the church would not take me back.  Father Gavril loved me all the more, loved me because I was human.  He set me on the proper path then.  He introduced me to a friend who was a gendarme in need of young recruits.  I was fast, solid, and quick-thinking, and I could spot a lie from a mile away.  I was meant to root out evil in the world, and where better to do that than working with the police?   The rest is history.  I have not looked back except this once. 

The priestly vestments were easy to locate, even easier to obtain.   Passengers in a berth compartment not far from our own on the train had been orthodox priests on their way to St. Petersburg through Orenburg.  I left Fandorin with Antropov, and tracked the priests through the city.  They were only too happy to let me purchase one of their robes.  I may have deceived them slightly, telling them I had had my suitcase pilfered on the train.   I had managed to secure secular clothing but not an appropriate robe, and could they help a fellow man of God?  It would be an embarrassment for me to arrive in civilian clothing to my home parish.  It was too easy to persuade them, but God would forgive me if I wished to use the garments of his holy men as armor against the cruel arrows of the capricious Cupid. 

I rejoined Erast Petrovich at the Orenburg Military Academy, wearing the mournful garb from the priests.  Fandorin had blinked at me in confusion for a few minutes, but he did not ask and I did not offer an explanation to him.  That morning on the train, he had dressed himself in a somber black suit, taking an extra moment to knot his steel-gray tie and tack it down with a sapphire-set tie pin.  It was no doubt a gift from Opraksina, as I knew she favored sapphires.  How ironic that it was his perfectly-knotted tie that had so unwound me!   I had watched him dress and I all I could think about was being able to remove all his clothes again and caress and kiss and lick his skin from head to toe.     

These were the thoughts that plagued me, here in Orenburg, once again sharing a room with the human incarnation of the demon of physical beauty.  The Devil was surely out to get me!  Erast Petrovich had studied Afinogenov's file and informed me of the most necessary details.  After our unorthodox interview with La Pêche and the minor contretemps with the cadets, it was time for bed.  Fandorin was calmly peeling off his clothes in a methodical, maddening manner.  He felt no shame about baring his body, and I suppose if I had a body in that fine a shape, I probably wouldn't feel shame about it either.  When you are thirty and gorgeous, it's easy to be open with your body.  When you are forty-five and heading towards rotund at a fast pace, one is a bit more cautious.   Even if I had been as gorgeous as Fandorin was, I wouldn't go around undressing in front of a man I had only known for a handful of days.  But perhaps that meant Fandorin was accustomed to dressing and undressing in front of strangers.  Or it meant he wanted me to admire his body.  I wasn't sure what to make of his odd habits, nor he of mine, to be sure.  I laid down on my bunk, still fully dressed, except for my boots, and I watched him.

Unfortunately, the magic of priestly robes didn't work all the time.  Fandorin was a magnificent specimen—genuinely he was!  I could have stared at him for hours on end. 

"What is on your mind, Erast Petrovich?" I asked, watching him squint at the mirror as he brushed his teeth.  He shrugged at me and shook his head.  Scrubbing his teeth was a chore in itself, but not an uninteresting one.  Mesmerizing, in fact.  I lost count of his strokes and closed my eyes.  I heard him swishing and finishing, and opened my eyes again.  He had pulled on a dressing gown and was sitting on the edge of his bed.

"I can hear the click-click-clickety-click of your brain.  You think very loudly," I accused. 

Erast Petrovich laid down and lifted his left wrist.  There was a bite blooming into a bruise.   Had that been compliments of Samsonoff or Ponikarovsky?  I had noticed that his movements were slightly more stiff on his left side than on his right.  He was most certainly feeling that heroic fall from the bridge today!  In spite of my good manners, I was undeniably gleeful that he was in pain. 

"I haven't been in a bed this small since I lived in the church orphanage," I heard myself mumble.

"And me, not since boarding school," Erast agreed, equally as tired. 

"What is on your mind?" I asked. 

"My thoughts are incomplete," he delayed.   Would he be the first to suggest this case hinged on La Pêche 's feelings for Afinogenov, or would that be up to me?  "I do not wish to speak out of turn.  I will know more in the morning, once we have spoken again with General Antropov and with Lieutenant La Pêche ," Fandorin promised. 

I was seriously disappointed in his inability or unwillingness to communicate his thoughts.  Erast Petrovich put down his bruised hand, clicked his jade holy beads through his fingers for a few moments.  Then he closed his eyes, and was suddenly asleep.  I rolled onto my side and watched him in the darkness.   I watched him for hours, it seemed, as he stretched out in the tiny cot, rolled onto one side, and moved about erratically.  I awoke in the morning, still dressed in my robes, and glanced across at his bed.  My first waking thought was to look at him.  How truly pathetic I was!

Fandorin was balled up, hands tightly fisted into the bedcovers.   His face was mangled with fear.  I was amazed.  So he did have feelings under that façade somewhere!  He uncoiled in graceful movements, and slid one hand outside the covers.  His jade beads were wound around through his long fingers.  They were barely touching the floor beneath his hand as he twitched and dreamed.  He was mouthing a name, but I could not discern the syllables. 

I was insanely tempted to reach out and touch that lonely hand and those lovely beads, but a soft tapping at the door made Fandorin lurch awake.  He clutched the beads tight to his chest and shook away the demons in his dreams. 

Seven

"Lieutenant, you should have spoken up yesterday, concerning your familiarity with Ensign Afinogenov."  

"I did not think it was my place to speak out of turn, sir," La Pêche answered General Antropov  respectfully. 

Clearly, word of last night's excitement in the dark alley had reached the general's ears.  Antropov had decided La Pêche was at least partially to blame for Samsonoff and Ponikarovsky's misguided stupidity.   The general was not his usual sweet self.  Perhaps he too had been worried how he would explain to Prince Dolgorukoi if an unforeseen calamity were to claim the life of the Governor-General's much-favored Deputy of Special Assignments. 

"Peaches, put yourself entirely at Mr. Fandorin's disposal for however long he needs you, for whatever questions he may have of you."

"At once, sir."

"I don't need to tell you how important it is for this matter to disappear quickly and quietly and with a minimum of fuss."

"No, sir.  I understand completely."

"Please give Mr. Fandorin and Mister….Father….?"

"Kirnov," I bowed.

"Father Kirnov too, your full cooperation."

"Understood, sir.  But the recruits, sir?"

"What about them?"

"They are waiting on the field for morning drill, sir."

"I will manage them, Lieutenant.  Carry on."

General Antropov left Fandorin and I alone with La Pêche.  I found myself in the remarkable position of being almost entirely forgotten.  The chilly state functionary was giving the lieutenant a piercing glare.  In turn, the nervous lieutenant stared out the window as a refuge from those cold blue eyes.

"You wish to question me further because you suspect I killed Grigori ."  It was not a question, and the lieutenant received no reply.  "Mr. Fandorin, aren't you afraid to be this close to a suspected killer?" the officer asked quietly.

"Aren't you?" Fandorin remarked.  This prompted an abrupt outburst of shocked, high-pitched laughter from La Pêche.

"Ah, touché," he remarked.  "Indeed.  Your reputation does precede you.  I might dare to cross you, but I would be damned careful about it."

The Deputy for Special Assignments remained unmoved by the nervous humor which permeated our little enclosure. 

"Is there any more cheerful sight in the world than new recruits being walked through their morning drills?  I do so love to see them every morning.  All those fresh faces brighten my day considerably," La Pêche said, gazing out the window.  The occasionally burst of gunfire did not make him flinch in the slightest.  "Good boy!  Good boy!" he echoed softly. 

"The General complimented you quite highly on the fine manner with which you handle the new inductees' weapons training," Fandorin began with a consolatory gesture of goodwill as he jotted down notes in the small notebook before him.  I kept quiet and waited to see what he would say. 

"They need a firm hand but a gentle hold."

"How long have you held this position?"

"Nearly ten years.  I'm due to retire after Easter, in fact."

"Why would you leave a post you enjoy?"

"There are other challenges waiting for me.  I've been with the military since I was eighteen—nearly fifteen years.  Time for a change, while I'm still young."

"You no longer enjoy your job?"

"I do.  I shall miss my recruits terribly."

"What can you tell me about Ensign Afinogenov?"

"I cannot speak ill of any of the young men in my charge," La Pêche said without turning away from the window. 

"Because it would be bad for morale," I interjected. 

"Because it would be bad form itself," La Pêche said. 

"I must ask you to be honest with us.  If there were character flaws in his person which might have driven someone to take up arms against him, we need to be made familiar with those faults," I said.  Fandorin nodded in agreement, although the lieutenant could not see this. 

"My recruits come to me with rough edges, and I try to mold them as I can.  I don't start with perfection, but it is where I aim them.  Soldiers, sir, are a breed apart.  A species of men all their own."  La Pêche cast a glance over one shoulder as the nostalgic look overtook Fandorin's face.  "Am I correct that you once served in the military, sir?"

"During the Turkish war," Fandorin acknowledged reluctantly.

"That you were taken prisoner even?" the lieutenant pressed.  Had he too heard about the stories about the harem, I wondered.   Fandorin did not acknowledge, so La Pêche continued speaking.  "We have a proud history here at our academy.  Through the decades, we have provided thousands of cadets, hundreds of officers."

"Yes, I know.  I knew one.  Count Zurov, the younger.  He spoke fondly of his years here."

"Zurov?!  Dark hair?  Moustache?  Oh, I believe I know which one you mean!   What a handsome man!  He was my firearms tutor, long long ago!  Oh!  How I worshipped him!  What a charming scoundrel he was!   The ladies did swoon when he was around.  We would walk about the city with him just to see the damsels swimming in adoration," La Pêche marveled.  "What a small world!"

Fandorin's tight smile widened a little.   

"Tell me about Grigori Afinogenov?  A charming scoundrel?" Erast Petrovich asked. 

"Gorushka?  Not at all a scoundrel.  He was pure as falling snow.  A good farm boy."

"Wasn't he from the city environs?" I corrected.

"That lad had good, hearty peasant stock in his history somewhere—I don't care how noble his family name is.  A farm boy is a type for me.  I tend to categorize my students—it's an old habit.  Grigori was solid.  Firm.  Level-headed.  An excellent man.  I call that type farm boys.  You don't get many of his like from the city, that's for certain.  You get soft, pudgy spoiled boys from the city-bred nobles.  Ensign Afinogenov was an excellent soldier.  He had the potential to go far.  Good aim.  True heart."

"Did all of his instructors share your glowing opinion of him?" I wondered.

"Doubtless no.   His skills tended to create more envy than admiration.  Grigori had a head for mathematics and for strategy.  He had the loveliest penmanship.  He was a superior horseman.  I had high hopes that he might improve the skills of the others in his class.  You could give Grigori a rifle, and he could clean it, load it, shoulder it, and shoot it at any object you directed him towards.  The other cadets thought he was constantly working at showing them up, but in truth, it was all natural talent with him.  A wonderful, remarkable boy."

"Was he skilled with a pistol as well?" Fandorin asked.

"Why do you smile?"

"A renowned proficiency with firearms might explain why he was run through with a blade, a saber, if I were to guess."

I surmised Fandorin must have examined Afinogenov's body as well as his file while I had been tracking down my priestly robes.  Against my better judgment, I was suddenly very impressed with Erast Petrovich's initiative. 

"You're quite a nervy cock, aren't you?" La Pêche mocked him mercilessly.

"Have I  offended you, Lieutenant?" Fandorin questioned innocently.

"You no doubt bring up the fact that Grigori was killed with a blade because you wish to sound my depths, knowing that I have been commended on several occasions for my skill with rapiers and sabers alike, that I have taken many awards in competitions."

"I bring it up to point out how curious it is that you haven't asked how the ensign died."

"I knew how he must have died.  There were no shots fired that night.  I would have heard.  You're living in the middle of three hundred young men with raging hormones and a furious desire to prove themselves worthy.  That's why duels are forbidden, and yet why we find ourselves up to our thigh boots in unexplained cutlery wounds and pistol accidents.  You would be astounded how a young man might injury himself cleaning a weapon in the night with a roomful of blind, deaf, and dumb witnesses."

"You were not surprised to learn of Afinogenov's death?" I asked. 

"I was saddened, but not surprised."

"Why?  To lose such a fine man?  An excellent shot?  An excellent horseman?" Fandorin pressed.

"I am crushed to lose Grigori—of whom I was very fond.  But I will also lose whoever among his fellow recruits took his life.   You will want to haul them away to prison, no doubt."

"That is generally the price one pays for taking a life," Fandorin said patiently.   "Do you suspect the two cadets from last night may have had a hand in Afinogenov's death?" Fandorin asked. 

"I cannot tell you what I do not know.  I can only account for my own actions, sir."

"You may speak freely on whoever's actions you so suspect, Lieutenant," Fandorin insisted.  

"Thank you no, sir, I will speak only for myself.  Do I offer you my alibi now, or would you prefer to receive it in writing in the presence of my advocate?"

"Offered verbally will suffice for the moment," Fandorin sighed his boyish impatience again. 

"I left Ingrid's establishment around eleven and went back to my quarters, where I spent the evening getting drunk with a charming, gifted young man."

Fandorin blinked wildly at this unexpected admission, his mouth hanging open slightly before he managed to tuck his shock back into place.   La Pêche grinned, flushing red along his round, soft cheeks.  He was thrilled to pieces with the response Fandorin had given. 

"I suppose you will be needing my alibi confirmed by the young man in question?" the lieutenant asked, his voice an indecent purr. 

Fandorin managed an awkward nod, tentatively meeting La Pêche 's unflinching gaze.

"I shall bring him to your quarters later tonight so that you may meet him.  I will even bring a bottle of wine.  Who is to say we will not find we share something in common?"

La Pêche did not dare meet my gaze on his way out of the room—the young lieutenant was furious as hell.  Fandorin would not meet my eyes either, but he was blushing so hot he was radiating warmth.   Why didn't Erast Petrovich charge after La Pêche and challenge that cheeky runt to a duel?  If anyone had so maligned my manliness, he would have paid with his life! 

"Is it all right with you if I question Ponikarovsky and Samsonoff alone?" I asked.  Erast Petrovich nodded without saying a thing.  He was fuming on the inside, but loathe to show it on the outside. 

Eight

"How was your meeting with La Pêche and his young gentleman friend?" I inquired carefully. 

Upon returning to our shared quarters that evening, I found Fandorin seated on his bunk, sipping from a glass of red wine.  He had a book open on his lap, which he closed when I entered.  His tie was undone, but he knotted it back up.  A phonograph had been set up on the one table, and a record was spinning around on it.

"Mozart," he explained with a muted laugh.

"I beg your pardon," I said, taking the needle off the disc and tilting the arm upwards to stop the noise.

" La Pêche s-spent the rest of the evening  that Afinogenov was killed getting drunk and listening to M-mozart.  That is his alibi," Fandorin explained.  "Which is to say, he does not have much of an alibi.  After he left Ingrid's establishment, he saw no one and no one saw him."

"Except for Mozart?  His neighbors must have wanted to complain about the noise, no doubt," I tried to cheer Fandorin's grim mood. 

"P-perhaps we will question them.  How was your meeting with the cadets?  Any progress?" he asked, rising to his feet and pouring me a glass of wine as well.

"Ensign Ponikarovsky stormed out after the first question.  Ensign Samsonoff  was the more cooperative of the two by default.  He can't keep his mouth  shut!"

"That c-could be very helpful indeed," Fandorin agreed. 

"I asked if there was anything unusual about the Lieutenant, and Samsonoff played innocent.  'What do you mean, Father?' he asked.  So I repeated, was there anything about the lieutenant that he found unsettling."

"And?" Fandorin waited. 

"Samsonoff thinks Peaches is upstanding!"

"Why do they call him 'Peaches'?" Fandorin whispered.

"What?" I asked, annoyed to be interrupted.  "Well, isn't it obvious?"

"No," Erast answered softly, taking another drink of wine.

"His name.  His manners.  He's a peach.  He's soft, pink, round, bristly."

"La Pêche," Fandorin murmured, almost to himself. 

"Shall I continue?"

"Yes, please," he smiled faintly.

" 'You don't need to be afraid to talk to me,' I told the ensign.  'I'm not.  He's a fine man.'  He kept repeating that.  And then I pressed him.  'He's never approached you in an unseemly manner?' I asked.  This stopped Samsonoff.  He had to think about that."

"D-did he not understand what you were d-driving at?"

"No, he understood.  'Father, are you asking me if the Lieutenant is a homosexual?' he said next.   I nod, and he blurts, 'No, Father.'  I asked him if he was sure.  'The truth is, Father, I've met his wife.  I've met his mistress.  I've met his wife and his mistress. They're sisters'."

At this, Erast Petrovich's blue eyes went all wide with shock.  It was a terribly cute expression on him, and I had gotten to see it twice in one day. 

"Apparently, they've got children," I continued. 

"Which?" Fandorin asked.

"Both," he says. 

"My G-god!" Fandorin gasped, crossing himself.   "Sisters?!  Children!?"

"Samsonoff told me that the two ladies are on friendly terms with one another."

"Sisters?" Fandorin goggled at me. 

"They looked alike.  They all three look alike, the ensign said.  You know how it is in some of those isolated villages.  They've been marrying their cousins for centuries.  Lucky they don't come out with six fingers."

This comment made Fandorin laugh a little.  What a wonderful sound it was.    

"I continued to press Samsonoff.   'If you're so convinced the lieutenant did not kill Afinogenov to hide his homosexuality, why then did La Pêche kill Grigori?'  And this is where it gets interesting," I interjected.  "Samsonoff gaped at me, laughed a little, and shook his head.  'Father,' he said.  'Peaches didn't kill Afinogenov'.  How can he be so sure, I asked.  'Because I am.  That's why!' He wouldn't tell me why he was so sure, but he was positive that Peaches did not kill Afinogenov."

"Maybe he and P-ponikarovsky were trailing after Afinogenov that n-night, and they saw who it was who actually killed Grigori?" Fandorin wondered quietly.  

"We may have to question them both further.  It seems all the recruits start out thinking the worst of La Pêche, because he is, we must admit, particularly effete for a military instructor.  But in the end, once they've spent time around him, Peaches becomes their favorite instructor here."

"Why is that?" Fandorin questioned me. 

"He's nice to them.  Praises.  Flatters.  Spoils them rotten, as long as they follow the rules and do as they're told.  Peaches helps them with their studies.  He rewards them when they do well.  Samsonoff said it is like being in primary school again, with his favorite teacher Miss Molinka.  Do you know, Peaches hired musicians for a concert the first time his class of recruits managed to get the highest marks on the rifle range?  Peaches is wonderful to the cadets!  Samsonoff has no sympathy whatsoever for Afinogenov.  If anyone is to blame, he is himself to blame!"

"To blame for what?  It s-sounds to me as if Afinogenov was in love with La Pêche, and Samsonoff is not far behind," Erast speculated, taking a swallow of wine and waiting for me to continue.   His usually-cold eyes were beginning to sparkle with interest.   I couldn't help but be thrilled.  At last!  At last he had said it! 

"You are on the right track, I believe.  Samsonoff said Afinogenov followed Peaches around night and day, night and day.  At first the other cadets would joke about it.  Then they decided it wasn't so funny," I nodded in agreement. 

"Oh, d-dear," Fandorin murmured, sitting down on his cot and staring at me.  "Has La Pêche been indecent with his cadets?  I certainly hope we don't have to qw-question all three hundred of them.  It would be time consuming, and terribly b-boring besides."

"Are you sure you want to have to define 'indecent' for them?" I chuckled.  Fandorin groaned in despair.   "Antropov won't like us questioning his cadets.  He doesn't want a lot of fuss."

Fandorin waved his hands, bidding me to shush.  I knew it was because a stray thought had wandered into the forest of his mind, like a golden stag, and he didn't want my words to startle the beast.  How dare he!  But I could hear the clickety-click of his brain working as he paced around. 

"We only need to speak with the ones who had La Pêche as an instructor," I suggested, not cherishing the idea any more than he was of having to listen to hours and hours of babble from all those miserable little fuckers. 

"No.  We c-cannot limit our approach in that manner.  If it was a c-cadet who killed Afinogenov, it could have been any of them," Fandorin scowled.

"We can start with the circle closest to La Pêche, as he is obviously the focal point of our calamity.  That circle includes Afinogenov.   Grigori ate, slept, lived by Peaches' every word.  He'd do things to impress the Lieutenant, just to get a kind word from him."

" La Pêche remains our p-prime suspect.  It makes sense," Fandorin murmured.  "Oh, it's so easy to see.  Of course.  La Pêche is everything Afinogenov should like in a woman, but La Pêche is a man.  This doesn't seem to matter much to Afinogenov.  If it bothers La Pêche, we do not know."

"Erast Petrovich!" I scolded.  "If Grigori was in love with Peaches, it didn't bother Peaches in the slightest.  He impugned your masculinity, saying you and he and Gorushka had much in common."

"What the lieutenant s-said to me is immaterial to our c-case," Fandorin stammered.   

"Is it?" I questioned, puzzled.  "He was questioning your manliness."

"He is n-not the first to have done so," Fandorin frowned, dismissing the concern again.

"You should have challenged him to a duel!" I offered hotly.

"Nonsense," Erast Petrovich scolded me. 

"You let his comment pass unchallenged.  That's as much as agreeing with him," I ventured.  Fandorin barked a quick laugh and smiled more broadly.

"Mr. Kirnov, the proof of a man's virility is not dependent on the number of duels he has accepted.  And P-prince Dolgorukoi would have been rather displeased with me if I had managed to m-murder our prime suspect in a hot-blooded duel over a slight so common and unremarkable.  I have been scolded b-before for losing my temper."

"You're assuming you would have won against our decorated saber and rifle instructor," I grinned.

"No one who has ever challenged me to a d-duel still draws b-breath," Fandorin dismissed, making a small flourish with one hand.

"You always come out on top, do you?" I whispered.  Erast Petrovich's ice-blue eyes sparkled playfully at me.   He waited a small pause, tucked down his chin, and gave me what was unquestionably a seductive smirk. 

"I win, at any rate," he purred to me.  The rumble in his voice was like electricity along my skin. 

"Fortune?" I questioned, wishing I could turn off my attraction for this remarkable young man. 

"Sk-kill," Fandorin countered with a vain sniff, tilting his adorable nose high in the air.  I laughed, and he smiled.   "If the other cadets were upset at h-how Afinogenov was acting around La Pêche," he said, attempting to steer us back towards the theory of our case.

"Or if they were upset because La Pêche was obviously returning the affection," I interjected, because it needed to be said. 

"They may have d-decided that the lovelorn ensign must be stopped before he can ruin the reputation of their favorite instructor," Fandorin concluded.

"The only question for us to answer is which of the cadets is the one who ran Grigori Afinogenov through with his blade," I agreed.  "If it was a cadet."

"But the ensign was k-killed with one of the standard-issue sabers.  It would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack!  Should we b-begin to question them all?" Fandorin paled at the ghastly thought of what tomorrow could bring. 

"No.  No.  I don't believe it will be necessary.  My heart goes out to poor Afinogenov though."

"Perhaps he d-did not even know what happened.  It might have been an ambush and not a duel."

"Have you ever fallen in love with the wrong person?" I asked.  "Mother Nature and God don't always see eye to eye, you realize.  There must be such a conflict within the person taught that a certain type of love  is sinful and wrong while they are feeling emotions totally different in their heart of hearts." 

At first I was worried Erast Petrovich would think I was bringing up his affair with Countess Opraksina, or that I was launching into a grotesque personal admission.  Instead, he made a funny face, smiled slightly up one side of his mouth.  I wondered instantly if I had said too much, but he nodded solemnly.

"I f-fell in love with a circus performer."

"Did you really?  A sword swallower?" I intoned, relieved and concerned that he had found a humorous tidbit to offer.  Should I be worried that he didn't think having an affair with another man's wife was the worst thing he had ever done in the name of love?  I supposed that might all depend on what manner of sin he had committed with the circus acrobat. 

"A contortionist.  Every d-day for weeks, I would hurry out of the house and run to see her performing at the circus.  I t-took money from my Papa to buy tickets and I w-would watch from afternoon until night, when he would come and carry me home, half asleep and covered in sawdust, sticky from candy and cream soda."

"How old were you?" I asked skeptically, feeling slightly disappointed.

"Seven."

I laughed out loudly at the mental image.  Fandorin had probably been just as stiff and foreboding as a little boy.  I pictured a grim-faced tyke in a sailor suit, with that dour expression Erast Petrovich usually wore.   In my mind, he even had the same thin moustache.   Then I began to worry.  Had his father really let a seven year old wander around Moscow alone?   What the hell kind of parent was the man?!

"She was p-perfection!" Erast continued.  "Tiny as a doll.  Limber.  She could t-turn herself inside out and keep one foot on the ground the entire time.  I was bewitched!"

I laughed again.  "It's not so hard to mesmerize a seven year old."

"But this was s-serious.  I had planned to ask her to run away with me and get married!"

"How did your 'Papa' feel about that?"

"Oh!  He was incensed.  At least he pretended he was.  How c-curious that he always had exactly f-five rubles on his nightstand every d-day though, and always in the same place."

"What was her name?"

"Irina.  They c-called her the 'Snake Girl'.  She had this green costume, small scales, and rubies- - -"

"Whatever became of Snake Girl?" I mused when he broke off with a sudden frown. 

"Oh-la-la, quelle tragedie!  Her father was the t-trapeze star, you see, and he was training her to become part of his routine along with her s-six brothers and sisters.  Unfortunately, Irina was too small for the safety harness.  Her f-first night in the air in front of a live audience, her hands were shaking, a little frightened no doubt, she missed her father's hand, went careening off in the wrong direction, slipped entirely out of her harness, and c-crashed to the floor, fifty feet down.  She screamed the entire way.  It was horrible," Fandorin shuddered.   "What was worse…"

"It gets worse?" I shivered.

"She was st-still screaming after she hit the ground."

"She survived a fall like that?"

"It was the m-most horrible scream I had ever heard.  Don't be stupid," he said flatly.  "No one could have lived.  She lasted for about a day before she died from her internal injuries.  Papa read the article to me from the p-paper.  God's m-mercy was to let her die, he said, b-because the fall had paralyzed her entirely.  What a torture it would have been to let her live!  I was inconsolable!  I stayed in bed for a week.  No one could ever again coax me to go to the circus."

"That is horrible!" I agreed. 

Fandorin shook the thoughts from his mind, touching one gray temple and taking another sip of wine. 

"Where were we?" he wondered.

"Doing all the wrong things in the name of love," I whispered, glad he had not asked me to reciprocate with a tale of my own. 

"Yes.  Our theory.  Afinogenov is in love with La Pêche.  La Pêche may or may not return those feelings.  The lieutenant's life is complicated enough with a mistress and a wife.  The other cadets see how Afingogenov is acting around their favorite instructor."

"Or how their favorite instructor is acting towards Afinogenov," I suggested.

"They fear that Peaches' reputation will be ruined, and decide to take matters into their own hands.  Hence, it must be one of our cadets, or perhaps more than one."

"The only question is who and how," I nodded in agreement.  Fandorin climbed to his feet.  "Where are you going?" I asked. 

"To talk to Ingrid."

"The bar keeper?"

"The v-very one."

"But why?"

" La Pêche and Afinogenov were t-talking in her establishment before the doomed ensign met his fate.  Perhaps Ingrid heard or saw something that m-might be of use to us."

Nine

"I can't help you."

The bar keeper was quick to dash whatever hopes Fandorin and I both had. 

"Why not?" Fandorin asked impatiently.

"I'm deaf."

"What?" he blinked at the middle-aged woman who was pouring him a tall glass of cheap vodka.

"I'm deaf, dear.  I can't hear a thing."

"But….but you….how do you….?" the young official was flabbergasted. 

"I recognize patrons.  Remember their drinks."

"Do you read lips?"

"Bad eye sight," she squinted at him.   Fandorin rubbed his right temple and shook his head.   "If you're right up close to me, I can read your lips."

"Body language?" I asked, motioning back to my own shoulders and moving them around a bit.

"Oh. That I'm great with!  I can read bodies like books," Ingrid laughed, thumping me on the shoulder and pouring me a drink too.  Her vodka was absolutely vile.  I was surprised the glass wasn't melting under the heat and the pressure from such hazardous contents as this. 

"How did the interaction b-between La Pêche and Afinogenov s-seem to you?"  Fandorin asked her.

"They were fighting."

"Oh!" Fandorin exclaimed excitedly, jumping up, pulling out a chair, and setting Ingrid down in it.  He rushed away, grabbed a glass from the counter and hurried back, pouring her a drink and waiting, smiling eagerly at her.  I noticed that she herself drank down the horrid vodka without a flinch. 

"Why were they fighting?" I asked Ingrid, who was certainly close enough to read my lips.   She leaned in closer still.

"Over a woman," she confided.

"No, no, no," Fandorin moaned, his hopeful flame extinguished.  "No," he wailed.

"Have I said something wrong?" Ingrid worried. 

"Don't mind him." I shook my head as Fandorin put his head down on his arms on the table.  Is this what he bundled up inside all the time?  I had never seen him so demonstrative!

"One m-more c-complication in this c-case, and I will k-kill myself," he threatened.   I stifled a dark laugh. 

"Why wouldn't it have been over a woman?  It happens all the time in here.  Men get to drinking, and the first thing they start fighting over is whatever woman they have in common," Ingrid insisted. 

"What?  Is there a sh-shortage of s-suitable women in Orenburg?" Fandorin asked acidly.  He lifted his head and downed his entire drink in one gulp.  I watched his open mouth and lips through his glass and had to kick myself to find my train of thought again. 

"The lieutenant and the ensign were in love with the same woman?" I went on, tapping Ingrid on the arm to get her attention as she refilled Fandorin's glass for him.

"His w-wife or his m-mistress?" Fandorin snorted contemptuously. 

"Someone very close to the lieutenant's heart," Ingrid insisted.  "He kept touching the middle of his chest as he spoke.  When I brought drinks to their table, the ensign was upset, but so was the lieutenant.  Afinogenov kept saying,  'It's her I want.  She has stolen my heart.  I want to be with her.  It's her I love'."

"Go on," I urged.  Fandorin poured and downed another drink, muttering to himself.  I had lost count.  His fifth?  What about this case had so unhitched him?   Perhaps he was more upset by Peaches' snide comments about his sexuality than he was willing to admit. 

"The lieutenant was angry with the ensign.  'She is none of your business.  You'd do best to forget all about her, if you know what's good for you, Gorushka'."

"Oh, M-m-mother of God," Fandorin whispered.  " La Pêche k-killed Afinogenov after all?  No.  It is not possible.   This, I will not accept!"

"That's too too easy—Peaches killing our ensign.  And why would the lieutenant call him by a familiar name like that before sending him to his death?" I growled.

"To p-put him in his p-place," Fandorin scowled at me.  "Peaches is a dom-dominant personality, for all his sweetness."  

"Afinogenov took the lieutenant's hand.  First on top of the table, and then under it.  La Pêche was upset, but he did not pull away," Ingrid went on. 

Fandorin blinked in confusion at the bar keeper, and I felt as if my eyes had been opened for the first time.  I laughed softly, and poured myself another drink in celebration. 

"Afinogenov was in l-love with L-lieutenant La Pêche!" Erast Petrovich decided with a triumphant shout.  Ingrid watched him, shaking her head.

"No.  He was in love with the woman they were fighting over," she insisted. 

"Correct.  On both accounts," I said, rising up.  I paid Ingrid for the bottle we had demolished between us, and tugged Fandorin to his feet.

"K-Kirnov, we c-can't both b-be right," he informed me. 

"Erast Petrovich," I said in a fatherly tone, "you go back to the room and have a nap.  I'm going to talk with General Antropov."

"Why d-do I need a nap?" Erast Petrovich scowled at me as we departed the saloon club and circled around the small wooden building.  

"You had six….seven drinks in there.  Not to mention the wine back in the barracks," I scolded him.  

"Seven drinks?  N-nothing.  When I was s-serving during the Turkish War, we had seven drinks before breakfast.   I am not drunk—I'm inv-vigorated.  I will c-come with you and question Antropov.  Perhaps he will be able to illuminate our d-dark and dirty tale for us."

"Come along then, and try not to embarrass me."

I dragged Fandorin through the streets of Orenburg, back towards the academy barracks.  It took about twenty minutes to reach the barracks.  Surely General Antropov would not be hard to find.  This time of night, he would be leaving dinner, perhaps getting ready for a quiet evening with a good book.  He had struck me as the bookish sort.   These were the thoughts that supported me as we wandered along.  I was nearly sure that the path we were travelling on would lead us to the General's door.  

We found the General was not alone in his quarters.  He had foregone dinner and a good book in exchange for a game of billiards with Lieutenant La Pêche.  Wasn't that convenient?  We could question them both at once about our new-found information!

"Come in!  Come in!" Antropov invited us warmly.  We were ushered into the adjoining room, where La Pêche gave us a peculiar, surprised stare, but quickly made us welcome once he had put his uniform coat back on over his white shirt. 

"We were just talking," he squeaked.

"About what?" I wondered, giving La Pêche a scrutinizing stare. 

"My retirement," the lieutenant answered.

"We have decided that perhaps it would be best for all concerned if Peaches were to consider a pre-Easter retirement as opposed to a post-Easter retirement," Antropov said.  Fandorin raised a haughty brow at La Pêche and waited. 

"What are your thoughts on the matter?" I asked La Pêche.  The lieutenant squirmed about, angling his round frame upwards over the rim of the table in order to make a particularly delicate shot. 

"The General is of course correct.  I will bow to his wishes, because it is for the good of my ensigns, and the good of the academy.  Scandal must be avoided at all costs.  I will resign, and this matter will blow over all the quicker for my absence."

Fandorin sat down on the side of the billiard table and put a slender hand on La Pêche 's cue stick, lowering the thin piece of wood down to the green cloth.

"You k-killed him over a w-woman," Erast Petrovich began, his words measured, his tone even.  The words were not so much accusatory as disappointed.   He wasn't drunk, but the cheap vodka from Ingrid's was making his stammer worse.

"I did not kill Ensign Afinogenov," La Pêche defended. 

"Peaches had nothing to do with that young man's death," Antropov defended. 

"You c-couldn't both have her, and so, you had to be rid of your c-competition," Erast continued.

"Preposterous!  What makes you believe we were fighting over a woman?" La Pêche blushed as General Antropov blanched pale.

"Ingrid heard you d-discussing her."

La Pêche laughed out, a high pitched squeal of amusement.  He took Fandorin firmly by one arm and tugged him to his feet off of the billiard table. 

"Really, Mr. Fandorin.  You mustn't joke about such serious matters."

"You argued with Af-finogenov at Ingrid's.  Afinogenov left first.  You followed him.  You cornered him.  You put your b-blade through him.  You returned to your quarters and drowned your guilt in Mozart and b-burgundy, and you hoped that would be the end of it.  You had won.  You would have this woman all f-for yourself," Fandorin speculated.   

"I did not kill Gorushka," La Pêche sniveled.

"Shut up," Antropov ordered fiercely.  La Pêche laughed nervously again, and then silenced himself with great effort as his eyes filled with tears. 

"They weren't fighting over a woman," Antropov chided Fandorin. 

"Really?" Fandorin replied slowly.  La Pêche put his cue stick down on the table, and covered his face with his hands and turned away. 

"If I had left Orenburg with Gorushka when he proposed to me, none of this would have happened," he sobbed. 

"What?" Fandorin said dully. 

"What?!" Antropov exclaimed.    "He proposed to you!?"

"Men!!" La Pêche shouted angrily as he spun around, took Fandorin by one arm, and marched him resolutely towards the general's bedroom suite, which was directly attached to the study.  I could tell he must have walked that path a thousand times, and therefore was perfectly well acquainted with the layout of the General's quarters.  Antropov put down his cue stick as well, and went to sit moodily on the edge of his desk.  The door to the bedroom suite slammed.  I could only imagine what must be going on in there.

"Sir, what exactly do you mean to accomplish with…..with….." Fandorin started to blurt when his voice faltered.   Several seconds of silence passed. 

Mirinova sprang to my mind, and I wondered if I was hearing the sound of kissing?  The rustle of clothing?  The press of flesh against flesh?  I waited.  I paced.  I waited.  Antropov was on the verge of running over and yanking the door open himself.   The pregnant pause was no more than fifteen seconds, but Antropov was growing more anxious with every passing tick of the clock on the mantle.

Suddenly, the door to General Antropov's bedroom suite reopened.  Fandorin emerged, his handsome face screwed up with a vexed expression.  He stammered to himself and closed the bedroom door.

"Correct, on both accounts?" I asked.    Before Fandorin could answer,  La Pêche emerged, refitting his uniform pants together.  Fandorin pulled himself upright, and bowed low to the scarlet-red lieutenant.

"P-please accept my humble ap-pologies, Madame."

"Sir, I believe you know where you can stick your apologies," La Pêche retorted archly.

"I did s-suspect," Erast Petrovich bluffed.

"You suspected nothing," La Pêche taunted him. 

"I d-did so," Fandorin replied, giving his voice the slightest sound of boyish pique, which ignited a flirtatious smirk on La Pêche's round face.   The lieutenant's anger started to thaw under pressure from Fandorin's powerful charm.

"You might have suspected I was a homosexual man.  Were you disappointed to learn the truth?" La Pêche continued.  The officer's tone was sugar and salt together as he teased the edge of Fandorin's moustache with one fingertip.   

"Stop!  Stop it!  The both of you!  Shush!" Antropov ordered.

"I quite agree with the general," I interjected sourly.   "One of our riddles might have been solved, but we are still left with the question of who killed Grigori Afinogenov."

"No.  That riddle is s-solved as well," Fandorin said, walking directly over to the desk and staring sympathetically at General Antropov.  "You weren't g-going to let one foolish and  lovelorn ensign d-deprive you of your best instructor and your mistress all together, were you, sir?"

La Pêche 's amusement shrank away into surprise and pain.   

"No, no, it cannot be!"  the lieutenant erupted. 

Antropov's  stony silence said what he could not put into words, and La Pêche paled with dreadful shock. 

Oh, Pavel, you didn't," the lieutenant whispered forlornly.

"Ind-deed, he d-did," Fandorin said softly. 

Ten

Having turned in his resignation, her resignation, a resignation at any rate, Lieutenant La Pêche joined Fandorin and I on the train back to Vienna.  Still in uniform, La Pêche flirted the entire way with every woman who crossed our paths.  I for one wanted to slap him.  Fandorin found the entire situation all rather amusing though.  He had sat up late last night composing his report to Dolgorukoi, and had chuckled almost the entire time he was writing. 

"You should b-be ashamed," Erast Petrovich said to La Pêche as they settled in side by side on the restaurant car.  The infatuated waiter from our previous trip two days ago was at our table at once.  La Pêche was equally as friendly with him as he had been with all the ladies.  The waiter was kind to La Pêche, but only had eyes for Fandorin though, as did Lieutenant La Pêche. 

"Why should I feel shame?" Peaches asked of Fandorin when the waiter stepped away. 

"Think of your wife."

"Think of your mistress," I intoned, studying the officer and thinking what a remarkable chameleon she really was. 

"Both very dear to me!" Peaches insisted.

"Like sisters?" Fandorin questioned meaningfully.

"Yes, very like," La Pêche laughed. 

"Ah!" Fandorin exclaimed in delight, having had another theory confirmed, no doubt.

"You won't reveal me, will you, Mr. Fandorin?  I would be devastated.  All I have accomplished would be destroyed."

"Lieutenant, your little ruse c-can continue no longer.  I will do nothing to harm you, but you should yourself let the performance come to an end."

"But how, where, why?"

"Gorushka would want you to do so."

"Ah, yes, dear Grigori.  Poor boy."

"You liked him?"

"Very much," the lieutenant revealed sadly.   "He made me feel young again."

"He knew what you really were.  He s-saw at once, I imagine, smart boy that he was."

"He knew at once," La Pêche nodded.

"For Afinogenov's sake, let Lieutenant La Pêche disappear.  He can withdraw to a quiet life in the country and disappear and no one need know the truth," Fandorin suggested.  

"I would be very sad to see Emil go," La Pêche answered.

"No doubt you have had your f-fun.  But look what t-trouble you caused among those helpless cadets, to say nothing of General Antropov.   He destroyed his career over you!"

"Trouble?" La Pêche asked innocently as eggs and bacon and potatoes were served.  The lieutenant dove in with gusto.  "No one but Mother Nature is to blame."

"Those boys acted t-towards you as their instincts t-told them to act, up to and including General Antropov, who went to the last wanting to protect you," Fandorin scolded softly. 

"I can protect myself, I assure you, Mr. Fandorin, and I did not ask the general to intercede on my behalf."

"Nonetheless, Lieutenant," Fandorin scolded tenderly. 

"I will take your advice into consideration," La Pêche agreed, eyes twinkling merrily as he stared at Fandorin.  "Perhaps I will ask my wife what she thinks when we reach Vienna."

"We will be in Vienna in a few hours.  Plenty of time between here and there to think about what is the right thing to do," Fandorin insisted.

"How am I to take care of my family?  All those children!  I have pictures!" La Pêche said, digging into his uniform and extracting said photographs.  He gave them carefully to Erast Petrovich, who was sipping his coffee.  Fandorin was turning the photographs around one by one. 

"It's n-not as though you will lose your abilities if you change out of your uniform," he said, giving me the pictures as well.  Round mischievous faces stared back at me from the sepia-colored snapshots.  No doubt—these little creatures were all related to La Pêche in one manner or another.  The resemblance was undeniable.  The relationship was the only question.  Was she their mother, aunt, or cousin?  

"Won't I?" La Pêche retorted.  "Lots of demand for weapons instructors of my sort in Moscow, is there?  Can you be so naïve as to believe that you could do what you do if we were built identically?  If I weren't so short, and you weren't so tall, as it were?" he added, eyes twinkling again.

"I don't doubt if our s-circumstances were alike, it would c-complicate matters for me," Fandorin admitted.

"Complicate nothing!  You would be at an end!" La Pêche exclaimed defensively, patting Fandorin on the hand.  "If you were a woman, my pretty pretty creature, you would never have been allowed out of the confines of Moscow!  Face like that?  They'd've married you off in a second.  It would have been holy matrimony for you from an early age, and children, one after the other after the next.  Perhaps you would be lucky, and your husband indulgent, and most convenient for you, he would die soon and leave you well-endowed with enough time to contemplate your future.  Would you waste yourself on another old rich husband in order to provide for your family?  Or would you find alternative means to take care of them?"  

"One cannot d-deny the logic of your choices," Fandorin began to console.

"If you were me, and I were you…"

"But we are not," Fandorin reminded La Pêche sternly.

"I bent the rules but for very valid reasons," Peaches leaned in to whisper.

"You should be able to s-support them all quite well on a m-military pension, perhaps as Lieutenant La Pêche's widow??"

"Mr. Fandorin, you are unmarried, aren't you?"

"Widower," Erast Petrovich barely managed the word.  It came to life between a whimper and a whisper.   I could feel his pain, watched his eyes grow distant for half a second.    Peaches didn't react at all to the agony that fleeted across Fandorin's face.

"I should count myself incredibly lucky to trap a mate such as you," La Pêche said as he gave Fandorin a smoldering smile that was making the Deputy of Special Assignments blush like a school girl. 

"The both of you…." I scolded softly.   

"Shall I disguise my snare with milk and honey, a bit of fur and silk and such?  That's what it is, isn't it?  A trap with which to obtain my financial security and comfort," La Pêche twisted words together quite skillfully.

"I'm going to throw water on you two if you don't stop," I warned them, seeing how the other patrons in the restaurant car were beginning to stare.  From the surface, it was shocking to see two men banter back and forth like a married couple.  From the outside, that's exactly how it appeared to those who didn't understand that the lieutenant's uniform concealed a crafty, intelligent woman.   I imagined she must be binding her breasts to keep them down, and also that she ate with such appetite in order to keep herself round enough to make her hips seem in proportion to the rest of her body.    It was a grand act, and a successful one too!

"There is only a mere eight inches of difference between us, Mr. Fandorin, and you and I both know that is true," Peaches concluded.  Fandorin was still blushing, and I was trying to not imagine how the lieutenant had managed to discern such exact specifications as to their differences.  

"Vienna has many very talented dress-makers," Erast Petrovich murmured, and not without a tone of petulance to his voice.  I very nearly smiled at his tart retort. 

"Have they? How nice," La Pêche retorted coldly.   "Won't it look curious for a military man to visit a dress shop?"

"Perhaps you c-could buy your wife a gift?"  Erast replied, almost pleading at this point.

"Maybe one for your mistress as well," I interjected, finishing every last bite of food on my plate.  Fandorin had watched me eating.  He picked up one of his eggs between his knife and fork, and pushed it gently onto my breakfast platter.  He started buttering biscuits, handing them to me one at a time.  Before I knew it, he had managed to give me most of his unfinished breakfast, and this left me wondering about the things that Mother Nature bids us to do—protect, provide, defend, adore—that we have no control over.  What actions do I perform, which my unconscious nature drives me to do, that I have no control over?   Is my complex deception a complete charade?  Do I give myself away with every gesture, every nuance, every action, every deed?    

"That is enough, Mr. Fandorin.  I will consider your advice," La Pêche cut him off briskly.  "He's watching you again," he added in a conspiratorial whisper, his anger vanishing behind humor. 

"Who is?" Fandorin asked.

"The waiter," La Pêche dropped his voice even further.  He reached up and brushed an imaginary crumb from Fandorin's thin moustache.   "I have always wanted one of those."

"A waiter?" I asked, giving the lieutenant a kick in the shins under the table.   Said waiter was about to faint where he stood, mesmerized by the sight of Fandorin and La Pêche flirting and bickering away in public the way they were.    When La Pêche had caressed Fandorin's cheek, the waiter had pined audibly. 

"A moustache.  You know, another ten years or so, and I might manage a very respectable one all on my own," the lieutenant teased.  These frank words made Fandorin laugh again. 

"Are you still hungry?  Shall I ask for another plate for you two?" Erast Petrovich wondered, watching us both eat. 

"You could ask that young man for the moon.  He'd find a way to bring it," La Pêche mused.  "What a pretty boy you are, Mr. Fandorin, and so very lucky.  The world itself at your beck and call, all because of your face."

"Very lucky," I agreed with La Pêche, waving for the waiter to approach.

"What do you mean, all because of my face?  I am not without my talents," Fandorin retorted to our snide comments about his handsome mug.   He was clearly defensive, in fact. 

Epilogue

"Dear me!  Max!  I'm so glad you're finally awake," Fandorin whispered, eyes glued in his binoculars and slender body stretched taut towards the window.  Snow flakes blew around wildly beyond the glass panes.   He was surrounded on the chair by a furry blanket.  There was  a cup of black coffee on the table.  On the arm of the chair rested a small notebook filled with neat handwriting, pencils, and his ever-present jade beads.   It was a very personal nest of objects. 

"Why didn't you rouse me!?" I wondered out loud as I realized what Fandorin was staring at down below.   Radespeller had his work table filled with implements that would have made the Moscow anti-revolutionary squad squeal with delight and anticipation, especially Kostov.  While I had been asleep last night, Mr. Radespeller had been a very busy anarchist. 

"I tried!  You c-called me 'liebchen', tickled my chin, and went b-back to sleep.   I assumed you must be dreaming," Fandorin mused with a pert smile.

"Is that at all safe?" I whistled, covering my blush by sticking my face to the cold window panes.  

"One false move, and our c-case is over sooner than we might hope," Erast Petrovich whispered to me, handing over the binoculars.  He stood up from his nest and walked around to stretch his limbs and get his blood flowing. 

"What is Monsieur L'Anarchist building?" I asked, putting myself down in the same spot he had been keeping warm for the last four hours.  His coffee was still warm.  I hoped there was more in the kitchen.  Fandorin hurried back to the chair in order to collect his beads and notebook, both of which he tucked away in his frock coat.   Five in the morning, and he was immaculate as always.   He didn't look like he had spent the night in a chair doing surveillance on dangerous international terrorists. 

"I am particularly keen to have a b-better look at the bomb he's concealing inside that book, but the Molotov cocktails and the 'bread baskets' are quite well crafted.  He is a natural at this—a  p-prodigal chemical prodigy p-perhaps?" 

"Should you be smoking?" I asked as Fandorin produced a small, thin cigar and started to light a match.  He smirked a little and offered me his case.  I shook my head no.  A woodsy smell began to fill the room as he lit his cigar and paced about. 

"Could he mean to attack the library?  One of the universities?  Why is he making such a variety?"  Fandorin speculated. 

"Don't be daft.  Those are demonstration models," I scolded.

"How can you be sure?"

"They are to show to the new recruits, no doubt.  He meets with them every month on the first Friday—his growing Crna Ruka."

"Dear me.  This is quite serious."

"Is that….am I….what is your valet doing on the roof over there?" I sputtered.  Fandorin puffed out smoke, and narrowed his eyes.  I handed him the binoculars, and he watched through them with an annoyed frown. 

" 'G-going out for groceries'?  That silver-tongued devil.  Wait till he gets back here!"

"We do need groceries," I hinted, taking the glasses back from him.  Fandorin sat down on the chair next to mine, and slipped into a good pair of boots, having abandoned his dress shoes and spats for more sensible winter footwear. 

"I will venture out and see if the m-merchants have begun to open their doors yet."

"Don't forget the sausages—weisswurst!  Weisswurst!" I urged. 

"Mm hm," he hummed.

"And that sweet mustard," I shivered with delight and my stomach growled.

"Of course."

"Get the bread at Hoffmans!"

"Of course."

"If at all possible…." I began.   I could feel his dangerous, frosty gaze on me and I stopped.   Fandorin finished wrapping up in his muffler, gloves, and coat and headed for the door, whispering to himself.

"Hoffmans.  Weisswurst.  Sweet mustard.   Weisswurst.  Sweet mustard.  Hoffmans.  Miso.  Nori.  Umeboshi.  Congee.  Miso.  Nori.  Umeboshi.  Congee."

"Whatever that is," I called as he opened the door.  "Don't mix it up with the weisswurst."

"Shush, or I shall forget something important!  Hoffmans, bread, eggs, weisswurst, sweet mustard, miso, nori, umeboshi, congee," Fandorin murmured in reply as he closed the door behind himself.   

Mirinova's once-cozy apartment felt dark and empty without Erast Petrovich there.   I suddenly wanted him back as soon as possible!   I leaned my face to the window to get another look at him.

A minute later, Fandorin emerged from the bottom of the apartment building.   He lifted his face to the falling snow.  Was he checking to see if I was watching him? Quickly I moved back out of view.  He could never see me from this angle, although I could see him perfectly.  I wondered for a moment if he might be trying to catch snowflakes on his tongue, and I steeled myself for the strange possibility.  Instead, Fandorin put his hands on his hips and angrily bellowed foreign words to the half-dark, morning sky.   In the trees to his right, the sleeping birds jolted up off their perches and dashed in all directions away from him. 

On the opposite roof, Erast Petrovich's valet leapt into the air in surprise.   Poor Masa nearly lost his footing as he raced for the fire escape.  He slid confidently down all the sections of the interconnected metal ladders, and then he dropped the last ten feet unaided, landing with the grace and ease of the snowflakes flying all around.   

Fandorin was waiting for Masa on the next corner, sucking on his slim cigar and scowling.   Masa sidled up to his master, bowing his head.  He didn't seem fearful of Fandorin, but more sheepish that he had been caught in the act of creeping up on Radespeller when he had been expressly instructed not to harm our anarchist.  When Masa was mere inches away, Erast Petrovich reached out and flicked the tip of Masa's nose with one finger, then he shook the same pointer at his disobedient valet.  Masa grinned, then leaned closer to say a few words.  Erast Petrovich started to laugh.  He ruffled Masa's hair, and the valet hurried off ahead of him along the deserted sidewalk.    

I could still smell Fandorin's cigar smoke in the air around me.  It was a pleasant aroma that lingered in the nose—it smelled of wet trees, of fire, of ancient spices.  Hunger coursed through my lonely soul as I nestled my way into his warm, furry blanket and inhaled the very scent of him.   I wondered if Fandorin would mind if I finished his coffee while he was gone?  It would be a sin to let it go to waste, wouldn't it?  I cradled the delicate china cup in my palm and sniffed the fragrant elixir.  I brought the cup to my lips, all the while thinking that this was where Fandorin's lips had been as well. 

I had to write my report to Prince Dolgorukoi, but I had no idea where to begin.  I needed to write to Valentine, but that idea scared me more than ever.  My thoughts were all aflutter, just like my traitorous heart.  I wished Father Gavril could be here so I could talk to him.  He would know what I should do.  I had to keep my mind on my case, but all I could think about was Erast Petrovich, and when he would return to our hideaway. 

Le Fin

© 2008 to spinner

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