Read Online Sister Pelagia and the Red Cockerel by Boris Akunin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Boris Akunin
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piece of a hundred-ruble bill in his hand. That’s the only possible explanation. As for why he did it—I’d rather not think about that.”
The investigator fixed the nun with a perplexed stare, paused for a little while, and shook his head. “What crazy nonsense. No, no, Sister, you’re mistaken. I think it happened differently. You have no idea how hard these so-called ‘prophets’ and ‘elders’ are to do away with. There’s some genuinely diabolical kind of energy smoldering inside them, and killing anyone possessed like that is no easy matter. I remember an instance from the time when I was still a court investigator. I was handling the case of the murder of a certain prophet of the Skoptsy sect. His spiritual sons very nearly took his head clean off him with an axe, it was left hanging by a single scrap of skin. Well, the prophet, just imagine, carried on running around the room and waving his arms for another minute. Blood spurting out of him like a fountain, his head bobbling about behind his shoulders like a rucksack, and he’s still running. How do you like that? It must have been the same with our Manuila here. The razin thought he’d killed him and stopped in the middle of the cabin to count the banknotes. But the dead man suddenly came to life and made a dash to get his money back.”
“With a hole like that in his head? With his brain damaged?” the doctor said doubtfully. “But then, all sorts of strange things do happen. The physiology of premortem convulsions has been too little studied by science.”
Pelagia did not argue—Sergei Sergeevichs explanation appeared more convincing than her own. So it seemed that this “puzzle” had been solved after all.
But others soon came to light.
The passenger in number thirteen
“AS YOU WISH, but even so, he still pulled up the dead man’s shirt,” said Pelagia. “Did you notice the folds? They ran down from the chest in the form of a letter V. If he had fallen, they wouldn’t have been like that.”
“Really?” Dolinin looked at the dead body, but owing to the modest nun’s good offices the shirt had been pulled down, so that no folds remained.
That did not put the holy sister off her stride. “You can look afterward, in the photographs. So it turns out the killer wasn’t at all horrified by what he had done; what he wanted was definitely to mock his victim. It takes a special personality type to act like that.”
Sergei Sergeevich looked into the meticulous witness’s eyes with extraordinary intensity. “I can sense you have some reason for saying that. Do you have any grounds for suspecting anyone?”
The investigator’s astuteness made the holy sister lower her eyes. She had no grounds for suspicion, there was no way she could have. But the abominable prank to shame the dead body and, even more so, the eyeballs that had come out of their sockets had reminded her of another trick of a similar character. Should she tell, or would that be wrong?
“Well, then?” said Dolinin, pressing her.
“It’s not really a suspicion,” the nun said, and hesitated. “It’s just that there is a certain gentleman traveling onboard … tall, with a long mustache, wearing thigh boots. And he has a glass eye. I’d like to know who that man is.”
The investigator looked at Pelagia from under his eyebrows, with his head lowered, as if he were trying to read in her face what she had left unsaid. “Tall, long mustache, in thigh boots, with an artificial eye?” he said, repeating the description and turned to the captain. “Is there someone like that?”
“There is, sir, in cabin number thirteen. Mr. Ostrolyzhensky, he has a ticket from Nizhni to Kazan.”
“In thirteen?”
Dolinin turned rapidly on his heels and went out. The others exchanged glances, but refrained from any exchange of opinions. The captain poured some water from a carafe, wiped the edge of the glass with his handkerchief, and drank voraciously. Then he poured himself
The investigator fixed the nun with a perplexed stare, paused for a little while, and shook his head. “What crazy nonsense. No, no, Sister, you’re mistaken. I think it happened differently. You have no idea how hard these so-called ‘prophets’ and ‘elders’ are to do away with. There’s some genuinely diabolical kind of energy smoldering inside them, and killing anyone possessed like that is no easy matter. I remember an instance from the time when I was still a court investigator. I was handling the case of the murder of a certain prophet of the Skoptsy sect. His spiritual sons very nearly took his head clean off him with an axe, it was left hanging by a single scrap of skin. Well, the prophet, just imagine, carried on running around the room and waving his arms for another minute. Blood spurting out of him like a fountain, his head bobbling about behind his shoulders like a rucksack, and he’s still running. How do you like that? It must have been the same with our Manuila here. The razin thought he’d killed him and stopped in the middle of the cabin to count the banknotes. But the dead man suddenly came to life and made a dash to get his money back.”
“With a hole like that in his head? With his brain damaged?” the doctor said doubtfully. “But then, all sorts of strange things do happen. The physiology of premortem convulsions has been too little studied by science.”
Pelagia did not argue—Sergei Sergeevichs explanation appeared more convincing than her own. So it seemed that this “puzzle” had been solved after all.
But others soon came to light.
The passenger in number thirteen
“AS YOU WISH, but even so, he still pulled up the dead man’s shirt,” said Pelagia. “Did you notice the folds? They ran down from the chest in the form of a letter V. If he had fallen, they wouldn’t have been like that.”
“Really?” Dolinin looked at the dead body, but owing to the modest nun’s good offices the shirt had been pulled down, so that no folds remained.
That did not put the holy sister off her stride. “You can look afterward, in the photographs. So it turns out the killer wasn’t at all horrified by what he had done; what he wanted was definitely to mock his victim. It takes a special personality type to act like that.”
Sergei Sergeevich looked into the meticulous witness’s eyes with extraordinary intensity. “I can sense you have some reason for saying that. Do you have any grounds for suspecting anyone?”
The investigator’s astuteness made the holy sister lower her eyes. She had no grounds for suspicion, there was no way she could have. But the abominable prank to shame the dead body and, even more so, the eyeballs that had come out of their sockets had reminded her of another trick of a similar character. Should she tell, or would that be wrong?
“Well, then?” said Dolinin, pressing her.
“It’s not really a suspicion,” the nun said, and hesitated. “It’s just that there is a certain gentleman traveling onboard … tall, with a long mustache, wearing thigh boots. And he has a glass eye. I’d like to know who that man is.”
The investigator looked at Pelagia from under his eyebrows, with his head lowered, as if he were trying to read in her face what she had left unsaid. “Tall, long mustache, in thigh boots, with an artificial eye?” he said, repeating the description and turned to the captain. “Is there someone like that?”
“There is, sir, in cabin number thirteen. Mr. Ostrolyzhensky, he has a ticket from Nizhni to Kazan.”
“In thirteen?”
Dolinin turned rapidly on his heels and went out. The others exchanged glances, but refrained from any exchange of opinions. The captain poured some water from a carafe, wiped the edge of the glass with his handkerchief, and drank voraciously. Then he poured himself
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