Sister Pelagia and the White Bulldog (40 page)

Tikhon Ieremeevich wiped his forehead with his massive, clawlike hand and took another sip of water.

“And when I went into his room in the morning, I noticed that his cloak was wet—it had started to rain just before dawn. But even then I didn’t think that it was important. Several days went by and they found the headless bodies, and Vladimir Lvovich immediately began talking about Zyt sacrifices. He turned out to know so much about their beliefs and customs—I was simply amazed. Well, and I was glad, of course. What a wonderful turn things had taken, just as if we had ordered it.”

The speaker paused and raised one hand.

“No, I will not distort the truth now. I want everything to be as open as at confession. I felt the worm of suspicion gnawing at me from the very beginning. Things were working out far too smoothly, I thought. As if the devil himself had dealt our hand. The idea that Vladimir Lvovich himself had planted the headless bodies never entered my head, of course. It is only now, when everything has come together and I remember about Sytnikov, and about the empty room, and about the wet cloak…and the artist, too; it’s clear now how he arranged everything. He plied Murad with drink himself; no one else could have done it. To make sure I did not get under his feet, so that I would wander around the taverns all night, trailing after Murad like a little dog. I think that even then Vladimir Lvovich was intending to blame the murders on Murad if anything went wrong. Otherwise, why did he need the tripod?” Tikhon Ieremeevich pointed at the material evidence. “It could have been done more simply somehow. And Vladimir Lvovich has great strength; he only looks puny, but he is sinewy, and when he gets into a fury—God help you if you get in his way. And then toward the end he stopped trying to conceal things from me altogether. After the investigative experiment, when the young woman Telianova began threatening him openly, he turned as dark as thunder. He walked around his room, thinking, and then suddenly said: ‘I’m going out for a while before bed. And if anyone calls or asks for me, tell them that I’m already asleep.’ He didn’t get back until early in the morning. Soaking wet, covered in mud—”

Tikhon Ieremeevich’s testimony was suddenly interrupted in the most outrageous and indecorous fashion.

Sensing that the guards had relaxed their vigilance, Vladimir Lvovich vaulted easily, even gracefully, over the barrier and flew at his unfaithful henchman, dealing him a swingeing blow to the ear, then knocked him to the floor and clutched his throat tight in his small but tenacious hands.

The guards dashed to Spasyonny’s rescue and a most unedifying scene ensued, so that the session had to be declared suspended.

WHEN THE TRIAL reconvened, the accused were seated separately, with Bubentsov sitting between two guards and wearing chains on his wrists. The inspector’s appearance was not in the least synodical: He had a substantial bruise on his forehead, his collar was ripped, his eyes were gleaming feverishly—in short, he looked a genuine Satan.

Tikhon Ieremeevich had fared even worse. His ear was swollen, bulging out from the side of his head, his nose resembled a beetroot (Bubentsov had even managed to seize hold of it with his teeth), and the worst thing of all was that the victim of the assault could not speak anymore, for Vladimir Lvovich’s iron fingers had crushed his throat. That is, Tikhon Ieremeevich had made an attempt to speak, but his hoarse gasps had proved entirely incomprehensible, and the chairman had decided not to prolong his sufferings, especially since the case was turning out to be quite clear.

As he was preparing to issue his instructions to the members of the jury, the judge asked, more for the sake of form than anything else, whether anyone present was in possession of any other information that could be of assistance to the prosecution or the defense.

At that very moment a court officer handed him a small scrap of paper. The judge read it, raised his eyebrows in astonishment, and with a shrug of his shoulders declared: “Another witness has come forward. It is Sister Pelagia Lisitsyna. By law I am obliged to allow her to speak. Do you wish to speak in support of the prosecution?”

He peered around the hall over the top of his spectacles, trying to spot someone rising from their seat.

There was a buzz in the hall, because the witness had risen to her feet behind the judge, from the chairs for especially distinguished guests.

The little figure in black was greeted with a murmur of discontent. Everyone was thoroughly tired from sitting for so long through such powerful emotions, and what more could there possibly be to add now? In any case, the accused would not receive anything more than hard labor for life, and he would not be let off with anything less. Even the bishop shook his monk’s headdress in disapproval, evidently considering that his spiritual daughter had succumbed to the temptation of idle vanity.

PELAGIA LISITSYNA’S SPEECH may not have been long, but it was of extreme importance to the outcome of the trial, and therefore we shall adduce it verbatim and in full, for this purpose temporarily abandoning our narrative and entrusting it to the impartial minutes of the trial. The stenographer at the trial was Leonid Krestovozdvizhensky, the son of our dean and a very capable young man, for whom many foretold outstanding achievements in the field of literature. However, he drew up the minutes in a most conscientious fashion, without any embellishments—apart from including several comments in his enthusiasm, and so making this official document somewhat reminiscent of a play. But let it remain so. As for ourselves, we shall merely add that during her address Sister Pelagia spoke in a very quiet voice, so that many people in the back rows could not hear everything.

And so we shall start from the point at which the witness, having pronounced the words of the oath, begins her own testimony.

Lisitsyna:
Gentlemen judges and of the jury, Bubentsov did not commit the murders of which he is accused.

Noise and shouts in the hall. Obvious agitation among the jurors.

Chairman:
An interesting statement. But then who did?

Lisitsyna:
Bubentsov, of course, is a villain. His Grace the bishop described all that quite correctly. But he is not a murderer. The Vonifatievs and Arkadii Sergeevich and Naina Georgievna and her maid were all killed by that man there. He also tried to kill me twice, but God spared my life.

She points at the accused Spasyonny. He tries to shout something, but cannot because of his wounded throat. Loud noise in the hall.

Chairman:
[
ringing his bell
] What grounds have you for making such a statement?

Lisitsyna:
May I first explain why Bubentsov is not the murderer? This business with the heads—it always bothered me that although Naina Georgievna gave Bubentsov hints and even threatened him, he showed no signs of concern and only enflamed her further with his disdain. Why would he wish to play with fire like that? He only had to say a single word to her and she would have become as meek as a lamb. I could not understand it. On the other hand, in such a terrible business, the princess would not have protected anyone apart from Bubentsov, and it was clear from her entire manner that she knew something special about him. And today, when His Grace drew our attention to the fact in demonstrating the groundlessness of the suspicions cast on Murad Djuraev, I suddenly recalled the words that Naina Georgievna spoke on that last evening, as Bubentsov was preparing to leave after the investigative experiment. ‘The same cloak. The same cap. How it gleamed in the moonlight.’ Nobody present at the time understood those words, and they were all accustomed to the princess’s predilection for expressing herself mysteriously. But now it is as if a veil has been lifted from my eyes. When Naina Georgievna said that, Bubentsov was already walking toward the door, and she saw him from the back. Do you understand?

Chairman:
I do not understand a thing. But continue.

Lisitsyna:
But you must see! I see very clearly now how it all happened. On the night when the Vonifatievs were killed, she was strolling through the garden. Perhaps she was hoping that Bubentsov would come out, but by that time he had already cooled toward her, since he was now counting on insinuating himself into the company of Tatishcheva’s heirs without Naina Georgievna’s assistance. Or perhaps she simply could not sleep, overcome by an understandable agitation. Then suddenly she sees Bubentsov there among the trees, or rather she sees his silhouette: the cloak, the familiar cap. She probably saw him from a distance, otherwise she would certainly have called out to him. Bubentsov was behaving in such a mysterious way that the young woman decided not to betray her own presence and follow him. I do not know if by this time the murderer had already thrown the bodies into the River, but Telianova undoubtedly saw him bury the heads. Being an impressionable girl with a tendency to fantasize, she no doubt took this incredible scene for some kind of secret ritual. Or she simply froze to the spot in horror—which is only natural in such circumstances. It was in precisely this condition—of numb horror—that I discovered her when I arrived in Drozdovka three days later. Naina Georgievna zealously preserved the secret of the burial place, for which she even had to kill the white bulldogs that were so dear to her own grandmother’s heart, but the princess’s feelings for Bubentsov were in a state of total confusion. However, when Vladimir Lvovich appeared once again and announced the beginning of an investigation directed against the bloodthirsty pagan believers, Naina Georgievna imagined that now she understood her beloved’s plan: It was monstrously daring and breathtakingly inhuman. That was the occasion when she spoke about the Demon. No doubt this satanic toying with people’s fates seemed to her an art far more intoxicating than the theater or painting. She is not the first to have fallen victim to this temptation.

Chairman:
This is all very plausible. But why have you decided that the culprit must be Spasyonny?

Lisitsyna:
He himself told us that he asked Sytnikov about the visiting merchant. And we only have Spasyonny’s word that he took up the conversation at Vladimir Lvovich’s request. At the same time, although Bubentsov is mired up to his eyes in debt, thirty-five thousand is not the kind of money that would save him. People in town say that Bubentsov has debts of hundreds of thousands. Would he really have soiled his hands for the sake of a sum that is so insignificant by his standards? Spasyonny is quite a different case. For him thirty-five thousand is an entire fortune. And apart from his own enrichment, he had another goal: to assist his patron in his career and to rise alongside him. And so he did not sever the heads simply in order to cover his tracks, but with a farsighted plan in mind, and one that worked excellently. Perhaps Spasyonny even prompted Bubentsov’s idea of making use of the headless bodies for the Zyt case. [
Agitation in the hall.
] Tikhon Ieremeevich is a man of exceptional prudence. In committing each of his crimes, he took precautions. When he set out to kill the Vonifatievs, he took his superior’s cloak and cap—as a precaution. Just in case someone might see him. And someone did! And on the night of Poggio’s murder, it was probably Spasyonny who plied Murad Djuraev with drink. It was no problem for him to absent himself for an hour while the Circassian was drinking in one of the taverns.

Chairman:
To say “It was no problem” is not proof.

Lisitsyna:
You are right, Your Honor. But if you will permit me…[
She walks over to the table of material evidence and picks up the photographic tripod, then carries it across to the accused Bubentsov.
] Vladimir Lvovich, will you hold out your hands please. [
The accused Bubentsov sits without moving, looking at Lisitsyna. Then he extends his shackled hands over the barrier.
] Try to grasp the tripod in your fingers. You see, gentlemen? He has small hands. He simply could not have had a strong enough grip on this weighty tripod to strike a blow of such great force. From which it is perfectly obvious that he did not kill Arkadii Sergeevich Poggio.

Loud noise in the hall. Cries of: “Ah, but that’s right!” “Well done, little nun!” and the like. The chairman rings his bell.

Lisitsyna:
Permit me one more demonstration. [
She takes the tripod over to the accused Spasyonny.
] And now, Tikhon Ieremeevich, why don’t you try?

Spasyonny hastily conceals his hands, which were previously lying on the barrier, behind his back. Many people in the hall leap to their feet. The chairman rings his bell.

Lisitsyna:
The stand is so large that an ordinary man can hardly get his fingers around it, but Mr. Spasyonny has exceptionally large hands. For him the task presented no difficulty…. And I have one more request to make of the court. Would it be possible to conduct a physical examination of Mr. Spasyonny? Specifically to examine his right hip and thigh. You see, when the sack was thrown over my head in the park at Drozdovka, I stuck my knitting needles into my attacker’s leg twice. Rather deeply. There ought to be four puncture marks left.