Free The Coronation by Boris Akunin Page A

it belonged to the governor general’s adjutant Prince Glinsky, a dainty young man with a pretty face like a girl’s. The common folk have a saying about his kind: ‘’Tis a pity he’s not a wench, at least he could wed.’ The prince was standing in front of Fandorin, leaning down and carefully studying the retired official’s slim, tidy moustache. Glinsky’s own moustache was waxed – I could see that quite clearly now – and I think his lips were painted. But what was so surprising about that?
    ‘No, sir, I do not use f-fixative,’ Fandorin replied politely, looking up at the young man and not making the slightest attempt to move away.
    ‘My God, what eyelashes you have!’ the adjutant sighed. ‘I think I would give absolutely anything for long black eyelashes like that, curved at the end. Is that your natural colour?’
    ‘Absolutely natural,’ Erast Petrovich assured him no less amiably.
    At this point I interrupted this outlandish conversation and invited the state counsellor to follow me.
    It is amazing, but on finding himself face to face with such a large number of members of the royal family, Erast Petrovich Fandorin betrayed not the slightest sign of discomfiture. The light but perfectly respectful bow that seemed to be addressed to all present but at the same time primarily to His Majesty would have done credit to a plenipotentiary ambassador extraordinary from some great power.
    Kirill Alexandrovich, who had only just been extolling Fandorin’s virtues, began abruptly, without any words of greeting, in what I thought was a rather hostile manner: ‘Tell us what you know about Doctor Lind and about this whole business in general.’
    Fandorin inclined his head as if to indicate that he understood the request, but what he said was not at all what they were expecting. The gaze of his cold blue eyes slid across the faces of the men sitting there and halted on the sheet of paper lying in the middle of the table.
    ‘I see a l-letter has arrived. May I familiarise myself with its contents?’
    ‘I warned you what an impudent beggar he is!’ Simeon Alexandrovich exclaimed indignantly, but Fandorin did not even glance in his direction.
    Kirill Alexandrovich took no notice of what he had said either.
    ‘Yes, Georgie, read the letter out loud. Every word is important here.’
    ‘Yes, yes,’ His Majesty put in. ‘I would like to hear it again too.’
    With an air of disgust, Georgii Alexandrovich picked the sheet of paper up off the table and began reading out the message, which was written in French:
Messieurs Romanovs ,
I offer you an advantageous arrangement: a little Romanov prince weighing ten kilograms for a little Count Orlov weighing 190 carats. The exchange will take place tomorrow, and do not take it into your heads to palm me off with a fake – I have my own jeweller. If you accept, give your reply at precisely noon from the semaphore apparatus at the Alexandriisky Palace. If you do not accept, the prince will be returned to you immediately. In pieces.
    Yours sincerely,
Doctor Lind
PS I enclose the code for the light signal.
    I had just begun to pour His Majesty’s coffee, and I froze with the coffee pot in my hand, in my shock even spilling a few drops on to the floor, which had never happened to me before. The monstrousness of the letter had exceeded my very worst fears. His Highness in pieces? Oh my God, my God!
    ‘What semaphore is this?’ That was the only thing that interested Fandorin in this nightmarish missive.
    It is improper to ask questions in the presence of His Majesty, but not only did the sovereign react indulgently to such a flagrant violation of etiquette, he actually replied himself, with his distinctive unfailing courtesy: ‘An old light semaphore. Installed on the roof of the palace in my great-grandfather’s time, and during my grandfather’s reign it was fitted with electric lights for use in the dark and during overcast weather. Light signals sent from the