eliminate the smell of drink.
In defiance of the schedule, the Sturgeon sailed past the mooring at Ust-Sviyazhsk without stopping and dropped anchor at the district town, standing at some distance from the dock. The first mate was dispatched in a lifeboat to contact the authorities.
An hour later the passengers in the cabins on the starboard side saw the boat come gliding back out of the evening mist swirling above the river. It was crammed with people, mostly in uniforms, but there were also some civilians.
The person who arrived to conduct the investigation was no mere police officer, not even a superintendent. That is, of course, the new arrivals did include a superintendent and other ranks, including even the commander of the district police force, but none of those was the most important individual. That person was a lean gentleman in civilian garb. His keen, intelligent eyes glinted coldly through his pince-nez, his narrow hand occasionally stroking his wedge-shaped beard. A university badge glinted on the lapel of his frock coat.
The civilian turned out to be a hugely important official, a member of the Council of the Ministry of the Interior. His name was Sergei Sergeevich Dolinin. It was later ascertained from local police officials that His Excellency had been traveling around the province of Kazan on an important tour of inspection. When he heard that a murder had taken place onboard a steamship of the Nord Line, he had expressed a desire to head the investigation in person.
Sergei Sergeevich himself, in a conversation with His Reverence Mitrofanii (whom he had felt it his duty to visit immediately upon discovering such an important individual on the passenger list), accounted for his zeal by the exceptional importance of the victim’s identity:
“Our Mr. Manuila here had a history of serious scandal. I can assure you, Bishop, that this will cause a sensation throughout the whole of Russia. Of course, if…” At this point Dolinin paused and appeared to leave something unsaid. What he meant by “if” remained unclear.
Pelagia, who was with Mitrofanii at the time, had the impression that when the investigator mentioned a sensation throughout the whole of Russia, his eyes glinted. But what of it? For a man in state service, ambition was a pardonable sin, and possibly not even a sin at all, for it encouraged zeal.
It seemed very probable that Sergei Sergeevich’s visit to the prelate was not paid out of courtesy, but for a completely different reason, one of a practical nature. In any case, no sooner had Dolinin concluded his outpourings of respect than he turned to Pelagia and said briskly: “You must be the nun who discovered the body? Excellent. With His Reverence’s permission”—a brief bow in Mitrofanii’s direction—“I must ask you, Sister, to accompany me to the scene of the crime.”
And that was how Pelagia came to be one of the small number of people in that nauseating cabin that reeked of blood and eau de Cologne.
If not for that smell, if not for the presence of the mutilated body, observing Sergei Sergeevichs professional work would have been an undiluted pleasure. He started by rapidly jotting down a plan of the cabin in his notebook, questioning the holy sister all the time as he did so: “Was the corner of the rug turned up? Are you certain? Was the window raised to exactly this level? Are you certain? Was the bedspread lying on the floor?”
He was pleased with the positive clarity of the answers he received and even praised her: “You’re an exceptional witness. An excellent visual memory.”
Glancing at the investigator’s sketch, which looked rather unusual, Pelagia asked in turn: “What is that?”
“That’s called a field sketch,” Dolinin replied, tracing rapid lines with his pencil. “A diagram of the scene of the crime. This here is the scale, in meters. The letters indicate the points of the compass, that’s essential. Since this is a ship, the place of
In defiance of the schedule, the Sturgeon sailed past the mooring at Ust-Sviyazhsk without stopping and dropped anchor at the district town, standing at some distance from the dock. The first mate was dispatched in a lifeboat to contact the authorities.
An hour later the passengers in the cabins on the starboard side saw the boat come gliding back out of the evening mist swirling above the river. It was crammed with people, mostly in uniforms, but there were also some civilians.
The person who arrived to conduct the investigation was no mere police officer, not even a superintendent. That is, of course, the new arrivals did include a superintendent and other ranks, including even the commander of the district police force, but none of those was the most important individual. That person was a lean gentleman in civilian garb. His keen, intelligent eyes glinted coldly through his pince-nez, his narrow hand occasionally stroking his wedge-shaped beard. A university badge glinted on the lapel of his frock coat.
The civilian turned out to be a hugely important official, a member of the Council of the Ministry of the Interior. His name was Sergei Sergeevich Dolinin. It was later ascertained from local police officials that His Excellency had been traveling around the province of Kazan on an important tour of inspection. When he heard that a murder had taken place onboard a steamship of the Nord Line, he had expressed a desire to head the investigation in person.
Sergei Sergeevich himself, in a conversation with His Reverence Mitrofanii (whom he had felt it his duty to visit immediately upon discovering such an important individual on the passenger list), accounted for his zeal by the exceptional importance of the victim’s identity:
“Our Mr. Manuila here had a history of serious scandal. I can assure you, Bishop, that this will cause a sensation throughout the whole of Russia. Of course, if…” At this point Dolinin paused and appeared to leave something unsaid. What he meant by “if” remained unclear.
Pelagia, who was with Mitrofanii at the time, had the impression that when the investigator mentioned a sensation throughout the whole of Russia, his eyes glinted. But what of it? For a man in state service, ambition was a pardonable sin, and possibly not even a sin at all, for it encouraged zeal.
It seemed very probable that Sergei Sergeevich’s visit to the prelate was not paid out of courtesy, but for a completely different reason, one of a practical nature. In any case, no sooner had Dolinin concluded his outpourings of respect than he turned to Pelagia and said briskly: “You must be the nun who discovered the body? Excellent. With His Reverence’s permission”—a brief bow in Mitrofanii’s direction—“I must ask you, Sister, to accompany me to the scene of the crime.”
And that was how Pelagia came to be one of the small number of people in that nauseating cabin that reeked of blood and eau de Cologne.
If not for that smell, if not for the presence of the mutilated body, observing Sergei Sergeevichs professional work would have been an undiluted pleasure. He started by rapidly jotting down a plan of the cabin in his notebook, questioning the holy sister all the time as he did so: “Was the corner of the rug turned up? Are you certain? Was the window raised to exactly this level? Are you certain? Was the bedspread lying on the floor?”
He was pleased with the positive clarity of the answers he received and even praised her: “You’re an exceptional witness. An excellent visual memory.”
Glancing at the investigator’s sketch, which looked rather unusual, Pelagia asked in turn: “What is that?”
“That’s called a field sketch,” Dolinin replied, tracing rapid lines with his pencil. “A diagram of the scene of the crime. This here is the scale, in meters. The letters indicate the points of the compass, that’s essential. Since this is a ship, the place of
Similar Books
