Sister Pelagia and the White Bulldog (34 page)

“What, you mean that she served the devil?” asked the bishop, astonished.

“Nothing of the sort, Your Grace, what devil? She served love.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Why, of course,” said Pelagia with a disrespectful wave of her hand, as if she were talking to herself. “A passionate young woman, imaginative, pining away with her unspent feelings. Spoilt ever since she was a child, exceptional and also cruel. She was living as if in a dream; she loved the only decent man in her circle, Shiryaev. She talked to him of beauty and things eternal. She dreamed of becoming an actress. She would have carried on living like that until she was an old maid, because Marya Afanasievna is a lady of sound health and Shiryaev would have stayed at Drozdovka until she died—he would never have left and never have asked for her hand. From his point of view that would have been immoral—to coerce those who are dependent on you. The problem is that he is too scrupulous a man. He loved Naina Georgievna passionately, but he made no attempt on her innocence. But he should have done,” the nun added in a low voice. “And then she might still be alive.”

“Now just you stop that propaganda for fornication,” said the bishop, calling his spiritual daughter to order. “And don’t get so distracted—talk to the point.”

“Then suddenly Poggio appeared, a man from a different, more exciting life. And he had no scruples. He turned the young woman’s head and seduced her. And I expect it was not difficult—she could hardly have been more ready for it. She forgot her dreams of acting and decided she wanted to be an artist. But by the time I arrived at Drozdovka, Paris and the palette had been forgotten, and Poggio had been dropped. Naina Georgievna was gloomy and taciturn, acting mysteriously and speaking in riddles. I even thought that she was not in her right mind. And in fact she was not. If she was prepared to kill the dogs, if she could decide to end her grandmother’s life just like that—and she really did almost send the old woman to her grave—that means she really had fallen in love, and her love had no bounds, it was so powerful that it displaced all her other feelings.”

“With whom, Bubentsov?” asked the bishop, scarcely able to keep pace with Pelagia’s fleet thought. “But he only paid passing visits to Drozdovka. Although, he is a past master when it comes to women. Of course, he could have debauched her, and apparently he did. But what has this to do with the Vonifatievs?”

“It is very simple. That evening, when the sale of the forest took place, Sytnikov had been at his neighbors’ house first. He drank tea on the veranda and talked about the merchant and the forthcoming deal. At that time Bubentsov was staying there, and he and Donat Abramovich had a quarrel about the customs of the Old Believers—I was told about all of this. Then, after Sytnikov left, offended—”

“Yes, yes!” Mitrofanii interrupted her excitedly. “Of course, let me finish! The young girl, in love and most likely already seduced (Bubentsov had visited Drozdovka previously, after all), was strolling around the garden at night. Either her aroused passion would not let her sleep or she was waiting for the object of her adoration to return. She saw him disposing of the bodies and imagined it was some kind of satanic ritual, and Bubentsov was Satan himself. And since she loved him boundlessly, she decided also to join the army of Satan! She threw herself on this devil’s chest and swore—”

“Oh, Your Grace, what sort of wild imaginings are these?” said the nun, fluttering her hands at him. “You should write novels for the magazines. She did not swear anything to him; I have no doubt she felt numb with horror and gave no sign that she was there. Many times she dropped hints to him in my presence—now I understand what they meant, but Bubentsov only smiled and shrugged. He evidently could not imagine that she knew everything. And she could hardly have taken him for Satan then, on the night of the crime. At first she was probably confused; she did not know what to think or what to do. But a woman’s love is capable of justifying anything at all. I remember that Naina Georgievna said ‘Love is also a crime,’ emphasizing the word ‘also.’ That was what she was thinking of…She decided to protect the man she loved. That was why she put poison in the dogs’ food. I saw when Bubentsov arrived, I was there at the time, I saw how she looked at him at first: very strangely, almost with loathing. But everything suddenly changed when he started talking about the Zyt case. I was amazed when I noticed it—Naina Georgievna seemed transformed. She grew lively, she blushed and started looking at Bubentsov in a different way—with pure, adoring admiration. She realized why it had been necessary to sever the heads. Instead of being terrified and recoiling from him in horror, she was enraptured. It turned out that her beloved was not a simple robber, but a man of ambition on a gigantic scale who toyed with people like a genuine demon. That was what she meant by the words: ‘Vladimir Lvovich, I was not mistaken about you.’ She even quoted from Lermontov’s
Demon,
and when he started talking about the death threats and the police guard, she hinted to him: ‘The best protection is love.’ She was telling him that she would be his faithful helper and protector, but he did not understand her.” Pelagia sighed sadly. “A woman, a real woman, self-sacrificing and impetuous in love.”

“Don’t you dare to sigh about a love of that sort,” said Mitrofanii, frowning. “There is no such love for you anymore. It has died, your love. And in its place you have been given a different Love, a Love supreme. And you have a different Beloved, much finer than the former one. You are a bride of Christ. Remember that.”

The sister smiled gently at His Grace’s severe tone.

“Yes, I have been more fortunate with my Beloved than poor Naina. The fact that he is a villain, a criminal, the devil incarnate—she forgave him all that. But she did not forgive him what no woman can ever forgive: failure to love. Even worse than that—cold, insulting indifference. I am surprised at Vladimir Lvovich, Your Grace. It is quite clear that he is well used to exploiting the weaker sex in all his schemes, and we must assume that he understands the hearts of women very well. How could he have failed to spot the danger from Naina Georgievna and be so careless about it? At first he needed her for something—perhaps because of some complicated plans to do with the old widow’s legacy. Then afterward he probably realized that he could manage without Tatishcheva’s granddaughter. Or else he found Naina too exhausting, with her frenzied passion and love of histrionic declarations. But one way or another Bubentsov drove the young woman to the very edge. And that alone makes it clear that he did not suspect how much she knew and for the time being regarded her hints as no more than an expression of her love of melodramatic posturing. At Olympiada Savelievna’s soirée, Bubentsov saw one photograph that alarmed him very seriously. Just another picture, it was called ‘Rainy Morning.’ A quiet corner of the park after the rain: grass, bushes, an aspen tree—nothing special. None of the other visitors to the exhibition even paid any attention to this unpretentious study; there were other pictures there that made far more of an impression. But what if sooner or later someone were to look more closely at this dangerous photograph? It had to be destroyed, and that could only be done by resorting to some diversionary maneuver to send the investigation off in the wrong direction.”

“What was there in this picture that was so terrible?”

“I assume that it showed the same aspen under which the heads were buried, but photographed the morning after the double murder. The aspen was already doomed, because its roots had been severed by the sharp mattock, but it had not withered yet and still looked alive. But the most important thing is that the mattock itself was leaning against the little tree, where it had been forgotten by the murderer. Or perhaps it was lying in the grass nearby—I don’t know. One of the inhabitants or long-term guests at Drozdovka could have noticed this strange detail, connected it with the unaccountable withering of the aspen, remembered about the trampled lawn and the way Zakusai was killed—and come to conclusions that were dangerous for the criminal.”

“I see, I see,” said the bishop with a nod of his head. “And what happened to the mattock afterward?”

“Perhaps the murderer came back for it that afternoon and put it back in its place. Or, even more likely, Naina Georgievna did it.”

“And so Bubentsov killed Poggio and wrecked the entire exhibition all because of this photograph?”

“Yes, no doubt about it. Of all the pictures and the plates, the only one to disappear was ‘Rainy Morning.’ The scandalous pictures of Telianova naked were of no interest to the criminal. But the scandal was useful to Bubentsov: It cast clear and obvious suspicion on Shiryaev.”

“Now I can see that that is exactly the way it all happened,” said Mitrofanii, inclining his head to one side as he ran through everything to make sure that it all fitted and apparently satisfying himself that it did. “But in deciding to kill Telianova, Bubentsov was taking a tremendous risk. Shiryaev could not have been suspected of that murder—he was being questioned at the police station at the time.”

“But Shiryaev had already been cleared of any suspicion of killing Poggio, when Naina Georgievna announced that Stepan Trofimovich spent the entire night with her. Bubentsov was obliged to take the risk, because during the experiment Naina Georgievna made it perfectly clear to him that she knew everything and would no longer protect him. Do you remember when I told you how she threatened to pay back her debts? And she would have repaid them, because she had freed herself of her demonic obsession and wished to serve the demon no longer. Either her patience was exhausted or her pride had been pricked. Or perhaps she had made a choice—for Stepan Trofimovich. But she had played with fire for too long. Bubentsov could not leave her alive, not even for one more day. So he killed her. And the maid with her. What does someone’s little life matter to a ‘spirit of exile’ like that?”

“And he almost killed you, too,” the bishop said in a low voice full of dread, and his gaze blazed brightly enough to light a candle from it.

“Yes. And not just once, but twice.”

Pelagia sighed and told His Grace about the incident at Drozdovka after she had seen the bishop to the gates of the park and was walking back along the alley, when someone had tried to strangle her.

“I did not tell anyone about it at the time, since it would have just played into Bubentsov’s hands. He would have blamed the Zyts again. What a perfect gift for the synodical investigators—an attack on a nun. Just the evening before, Bubentsov had been talking about how the Zyts threw sacks over their victims’ heads on deserted roads. Now it is clear who attempted to strangle me and why. Do you remember when I exposed Naina Georgievna in front of everyone and I said that I would not stop there?”

“Yes, I remember,” said the bishop with a nod. “You said that there was some mystery here that needed to be solved.”

“That was stupid of me, careless,” sighed Pelagia, and, lowering her eyes modestly, she added: “Apparently Bubentsov must have had a high opinion of my abilities, since he decided to remove the danger.”

Mitrofanii thundered ominously: “God is merciful and he forgives malefactors all sorts of evil deeds far worse than this. But I am not God, only a sinful man, and for you I shall grind Bubentsov to dust. You just tell me, can we act according to the law here, or do we have to seek out other means? After all, you did not see who attacked you on either occasion, and so there is no proof.”

“Only circumstantial evidence.”

Pelagia felt sufficiently restored to sit up on the bed. The bishop put some cushions behind the nun’s back.

“We have three crimes that are clearly connected: first Vonifatiev and his son were killed, then Arkadii Sergeevich Poggio, then Naina Telianova and her maid,” the sister began explaining. “For reasons already mentioned, Bubentsov is among the suspects in all three cases. Correct?”

“He was not the only one involved in all these events,” the bishop objected. “Also present at Drozdovka and the two gatherings at Olympiada Savelievna’s house were Shiryaev, Pyotr Telianov, Sytnikov, and that other one, the rhymester, what’s his name…Krasnov! They might have had reasons of their own for killing the Vonifatievs. And the other two killings were committed out of the fear of being discovered.”

“Correct, father. Only Pyotr Georgievich cannot be included, because on the day when the man came to Sytnikov to sell him the forest, the young master was not at Drozdovka; he had still not come back from town. I remember that I was told that. As for Krasnov and Sytnikov, they could have killed Vonifatiev, of course. The former if only for the sake of the thirty-five thousand. The latter…Well, let us assume he quarreled about something with his guest. But that will not hold up, Your Grace, because the princess would not have protected either Krasnov or Sytnikov.”

“Agreed. But what about Shiryaev?” the bishop asked, largely for form’s sake.

“You have forgotten, father. We have already established that Stepan Trofimovich could not have committed the murders in Varravkin cul-de-sac because he was still under arrest.”

“Yes, yes, that’s right. And so no one apart from Bubentsov could have committed all three murders?”

“That is the conclusion. Only not three murders, but five,” Pelagia corrected him. “The first and the last crimes were both double murders. After a careful analysis, the only person who remains under suspicion is Vladimir Lvovich. Remember also that on the night of Poggio’s murder the inspector was entirely alone—Murad Djuraev was wandering around the taverns, completely drunk, and the secretary Spasyonny was trying to make the rowdy ruffian see reason. Might Bubentsov himself possibly have fed his servant drink, knowing what it would lead to?”