Free Sister Pelagia and the Red Cockerel by Boris Akunin Page B

It’s just a pity that we don’t have a photograph of the prophet. Manuila had no criminal record, so our department had no excuse for recording his charming features. And his traveling companions are nothing more than that. I’ve ordered them to be locked in a storeroom for the time being, but what sense can I get out of unbalanced creatures like them? They might even lie. Or they themselves could be confused about the dead man’s identity.”
    “What an amazing story!”
    “It certainly is. Not only is it amazing, even more importantly, it’s political.” Sergei Sergeevich became more serious. “The murder of a prophet, especially an immortal one, is a matter of state importance. It will be a huge sensation in all the newspapers, and not only in Russia. Which makes it all the more essential to determine for certain whether this is Manuila or another double.”
    At this point the photographer returned with the string and a short, extremely sharp knife. The investigator called the police constables in from the corridor and gave them strange, indeed blasphemous, instructions.
    “Dress him” (a nod in the direction of the dead man), “sit him on the chair, and tie him on with string. Quickly now!” Dolinin shouted at the suddenly timid men, and explained to the nun: “We have to get the corpse into an identifiable condition. It’s a new method, my own personal invention.”
    While the policemen grunted as they inserted the still flexible limbs of the dead man into his trouser legs and sleeves, Dolinin very deftly ripped the soles off the prophet’s boot with the knife and slit open the tops.
    “There, now,” he said in a satisfied voice, extracting some papers from the ripped leather. He gave them a quick glance and shrugged slightly. He didn’t show them to his confidante, and Pelagia felt awkward about asking, although she was really very curious.
    “Have you got him sitting up?” Sergei Sergeevich asked, turning to the policemen. “The eyes, the eyes. Ah, damn it.”
    The holy sister took a cautious peep—and immediately squeezed her own eyes shut. The eyeballs were hanging down on the dead man’s cheeks, and the sight was beyond all human bearing.
    “The rubber glove from my bag,” the investigator’s brisk voice said. “That’s the way. Excellent, the peepers are back in. Cotton wool. No, no. Two small pieces, and roll them out a bit. Under the eyelids it goes, under the eyelids. Now they’re open, very good … Ah, the cornea has dried out, it’s dull. I’ve got a bottle of nitroglycerine and a dropper in there, give them here … Into the right… into the left… Ugh. Now we’ll comb his hair … and now the wet towel… All done. Open your eyes, Mademoiselle, don’t be afraid.”
    Wincing before she even started, Pelagia took a cautious look and was stupefied. Sitting there on the chair—admittedly in a rather forced pose, with his head hanging to one side—was a gaunt, bearded peasant who looked absolutely alive, watching her with intense, gleaming eyes. He was wearing a shirt, waistcoat, and trousers. His beard and long hair were neatly combed.
    This sudden resurrection of the departed was so unexpected that the holy sister took a step back.
    Sergei Sergeevich laughed contentedly. “There, now we can even photograph Mr. Shelukhin.”
    “What did you call him?” Pelagia asked.
    “That’s the name in his passport.” The investigator read from the document he had extracted from the top of the boot: “Pyotr Saveliev Shelukhin, thirty-eight years of age, religion Orthodox, peasant of the village of Stroganovka, Staritskaya Rural Territory of the Gorodets District in the province of Zavolzhie.”
    “Why, that’s our province!” the holy sister gasped.
    “But I’d heard that Manuila was born in the province of Vyatka. In any case, that was where he began preaching. The Foundlings, by the way, are convinced that their prophet was born in the Holy Land and will soon set out to go