‘Very well. So be it. The woman was called Ludmila Sperzof. She had married Count Sperzof, a captain in the hussars who was killed during the war against the Turks. The servants of the house were very fond of the captain and hated their mistress: they spoke their minds about her. She was always having affairs with other men, even with hussars serving under him. I was told all sorts of stories: that she had a relationship with so-and-so, that all Smolensk knew, that she didn’t even mark the anniversary of her husband’s death, that sometimes she had two hussars in bed with her at the same time …’
‘Are you sure it wasn’t one of the servants who killed her?’
‘You’re going up in my estimation. I don’t think so. I’ll get to the crime soon but allow me to finish the account of the Sperzof couple. An elderly retainer, a former hussar who served under the captain, gave me to understand that the count, in despair at his wife’s behaviour, blew his brains out. His hussars covered up the deed and the following day they charged with his body, leaving it behind on the battlefield before going back to collect it with full military honours.’
‘So officially it’s the Turks who get the blame and not the sultana … What sort of men did she choose as her lovers?’
‘I didn’t go into that amount of detail but her maidservants were vying with one another to give me the sauciest snippets. The countess was particularly fond of military men, especially those with a violent streak. Incidentally, one night one of them tried to rape a chambermaid.’
Margont was at a loss. ‘Are you sure of the truth of what you were told? Perhaps one of the servants had a grudge against the countess and slandered her.’
Dalero shook his head vigorously. ‘I questioned eight servants and they all said the same thing. The countess often entertained officers and plied them with drink. Sometimes she didn’t even bother to go as far as the bedroom and the meal turned into an orgy. The countess also involved a pretty maidservant with morals as loose as hers and threw her out of the house when she became pregnant.’
‘But surely not all her lovers were military thugs, were they?’
‘Yes, they were. People who behaved normally didn’t interest her. Some tried their luck – because the countess was beautiful and wealthy – but to no avail. Only brutes. The lover she kept the longest, that’s to say three months, was a lieutenant in the dragoons called Garufski. One day he thrashed a manservant because his bathwater had gone cold. On another occasion he hit a female servant and broke two of her teeth.’
Dalero was gripping the pommel of his sabre with his white glove. He was smiling. He looked frightening.
‘I’d like to get my hands on this Garufski.’
Margont scratched the palm of his hand by stroking his day’s growth of beard.
‘Let’s get back to the murderer we’re hunting for. It’s certainly not the same man who killed our Polish woman and this countess.’
‘Well, I’m convinced of the opposite. The victim was riddled with stab wounds. I was told that the Polish woman had received the same treatment. In my opinion, such cruelty is the trademark of the person we’re after. But you’ll see that for yourself.’
The group arrived in front of a large residence whose pastel-coloured facade was black with soot. A grenadier from the Royal Guard who was guarding the entrance stood stiffly to attention. Only Dalero and Margont went inside the house.
‘How did she meet her murderer?’
‘At nightfall, she went out “hunting for a lover” – that was how the servants put it. To avoid being attacked by someone not of her choosing she was escorted by Yvan, a giant muzhik.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this earlier? I absolutely must meet him.’
‘There he is.’
Dalero pointed to a tiny room beneath the stairs. Cubbyhole would have been a better description. A man with an unkempt beard was lying on a straw mattress that took up all the space. He was so tall that his legs hung over his pallet. His cream tunic was bloodstained. He was dead.
‘Yvan was utterly devoted to the countess. He acted as her bodyguard, preventing his mistress from being harassed by men she had thrown out of her bed, and as her “emergency lover” at “slack times”. He lived below the stairs so that he would be woken by anyone going up or down.’
Margont entered the boxroom. He examined the cloak lying on the floor and found a pistol and a hunting knife in one of the pockets. Dalero gazed at the body in disgust. He regarded it in the same way as he would some hideous beast killed in a hunt.
‘So the countess went out last night with Yvan. She must have roamed around before meeting a man who suited her. All three came back here. The servant who saw them return said it was about one o’clock in the morning. The “lucky man” wished to remain anonymous because he was wearing a cloak with a hood that he kept on, even as he went up the stairs.’
‘So he already knew he was going to kill her.’
‘The servant didn’t see the man’s face. All he can say is that he was rather tall.’
‘What about his boots, his hands, his outfit? Did he notice nothing?’
‘No. The countess was talking and laughing. He was not speaking. When the countess went upstairs with someone, no servant was allowed to follow. Yvan would be sleeping in his cubbyhole and woe betide anyone who woke him!’
‘Poor fellow. He was jealous.’
Dalero’s brow furrowed. ‘Jealous of a woman like that? Anyway … the countess often sent her lovers packing after an hour, an old habit dating from the time when her husband would return late after playing cards. The man would then go back downstairs, which would wake Yvan, who would open the door for him. Then the countess would order Yvan to change the dirty sheets …’
‘Yvan was waiting for the guest to depart, since he was dressed,’ Margont remarked. ‘There was no sign of a struggle. Without warning, the murderer thrust the blade of his knife into Yvan’s heart.’
‘Just as with the sentry.’
Margont quickly climbed the steps. When he saw the victim, the face twisted with pain and the body slashed all over, it reminded him of Maria Dorlovna in her coffin. It was the same murderer. There were two new victims and part of his theory had just collapsed.
The countess’s naked body was lying on the bed, in the middle of a large bloodstain. The wounds seemed even more numerous and horrible than on the first victim. Part of the muscles of the forearm had even been sliced through to the bone. To stifle his victim’s screams the killer had done the same as with Maria: the pillowcase had been bitten and torn and was soaked with saliva and blood. Other details seemed to have no apparent significance. The killer had laid opened oysters upon the victim’s slashed breasts. He had heaped nuts on her genitals and smeared mulberries over her face, staining it black with the crushed fruit. Lumps of fat had been left on her stomach. A book had been placed in her left hand, open at a map of Africa. The cover torn from another book with a Russian title had been placed on the left thigh while the pages lay scattered across the floor. Finally, tea leaves had been strewn around her feet.
Captain Dalero had not gone beyond the door frame. Unable to go back because of his sense of duty and unable to go in because of his revulsion, he was literally trapped between cowardice and madness.
Margont guessed what he was thinking and declared: ‘Captain, could you find a servant to translate the titles of these works?’
Dalero could then beat an honourable retreat, which he hastened to do. Margont gathered the books and picked up a few torn-out pages. He studied the bloody footmarks that led from the bed to the bowl of water standing on a table. An old man arrived a few moments later.
‘I translate,’ he declared, with a strong foreign accent.
He examined the book covers that Margont handed to him.
‘Book of maps and military book of war against Turks by Colonel Uchekin. The count liked very much.’
‘Where were they kept?’
‘Drawing room below.’
‘What about the oysters and the fat?’ ‘Kitchen or larder.’
‘Good. So no one must be allowed to go into those rooms until I’ve inspected them. No one, is that
