He must have lost consciousness for a while, because when he opened his eyes he was lying in bed, and Masa was applying something cold to his forehead. The sensation was inexpressibly pleasant. Fandorin thanked him: ‘Arigato’ – and tumbled into oblivion again.
Asagawa and Dr Twigs came. Sergeant Lockston was peering over their shoulders, wearing a broad-brimmed hat instead of his uniform cap. They gazed at Fandorin lying there and said nothing, just glanced at each other.
And then they were replaced by another vision, a sweet one – O-Yumi. Her face was not as beautiful as in waking life – it was pale, haggard and sad, and her unkempt hair hung down on to her cheeks, but Fandorin was still absolutely delighted.
‘It doesn’t matter that you’re not very beautiful,’ he said. ‘Only, please, don’t disappear.’
She smiled briefly, just for a moment, and turned serious again.
The pillow on which the sick man’s head was resting suddenly rose up all on its own and a cup appeared in front of Fandorin’s lips.
‘Drink, drink,’ a sweet voice murmured and, of course, Erast Petrovich drank.
The potion was bitter and pungent, but he looked at the slim hand holding the cup and that helped.
‘That’s good, and now sleep.’
The pillow sank back down.
‘Where were you?’ asked Fandorin, only now realising that he hadn’t imagined O-Yumi. ‘I wanted to see you so much!’
‘A long way away. On the mountain where the magical herb grows. Sleep. Tomorrow your head will hurt even more. That will be the blood vessels purging themselves. You must bear it. And at midday I’ll give you another infusion, and then the pain will pass off, and the danger will be over. Go to sleep. Have a good, sound sleep. I won’t go away until you wake up…’
Then I must not wake up for as long as possible, he thought. What could be better than lying here, listening to that quiet voice?
Never in the day,
Only at night do I hear
Your sweet, quiet voice
A DRAGONFLY’S RAINBOW WINGS
Fandorin woke up soon after dawn, suffering from an agonising migraine. The day before it had been a dull pain, sweeping over him in waves, but now it was as if someone had inserted a large screw into his temple and they kept turning it, turning it. Even though it was already in right up to its head and could go no farther, some implacable force still kept on tightening that screw, and he felt as if his cranium would give way and crack open at any moment.
But even worse was the fact that O-Yumi had disappeared again. When Erast Petrovich opened his eyes, the only person he saw beside the bed was Masa, holding a small basin of ice and a wet towel at the ready. The mistress went away, he explained as best as he could. Before midnight. She put on her cloak and left. She said she would be back and ordered me to prepare ice.
Where had she gone? Why? And would she come back?
His thoughts were agonising. Thanks to them and the icy compresses, he managed to forget about the screw for a while.
His second arrived at half past seven, dressed as befitted the solemn occasion – in a black frock coat, black trousers and a top hat instead of his customary fez. The top hat did not suit the Don’s plump-cheeked face.
The titular counsellor had been ready for some time. His agonised face was as white as his shirt, but his tie was knotted neatly, the parting in his hair glinted sleekly and the ends of his moustache were the very model of symmetry.
Not being entirely convinced of his valet’s acting ability, Erast Petrovich had not explained to him that Tsurumaki had been identified as the major akunin, so Masa greeted the Don with every possible politeness. And the servant was also not aware, thank God, of the purpose of this morning visit, otherwise he would quite certainly have tagged along after his master. He was told to stay at home and wait for O-Yumi to arrive.
They got into a carriage and set off.
‘Everything has been done as planned,’ the Don informed Fandorin in a conspiratorial voice. ‘The rumour has been circulated. It’s a convenient spot for people to spy on events. There will be witnesses, have no doubt about that.’
It was depressing to look at the villain’s ruddy, smiling face, but the titular counsellor made an effort and forced himself to thank Tsurumaki and talk about the weather, which was simply wonderful for the rainy season: overcast but dry, with a sea breeze.
The carriage drove higher and higher along the main road. The seafront and the prim residences of the Bluff had been left behind now, and on all sides there were hills, bushes and sandy paths for healthy walks.
‘They’re here already,’ said Tsurumaki.
Three black figures were standing off to one side of the road, in a round open space surrounded on three sides by thick undergrowth. One of the men removed his hat to wipe his forehead with a handkerchief – from the red locks, Fandorin recognised Bullcox. The second man was wearing a scarlet uniform with a sword, and holding a long bundle under his arm. The third had a Gladstone bag between his feet. No doubt a doctor.
‘Aha, and there is the public.’ The Japanese chuckled contentedly. ‘We have a full house.’
The spot certainly had been well chosen. Although the bushes might appear to conceal the sparring area from prying eyes, the impression of privacy was deceptive. A cliff rose up right above the open space, its top also overgrown with some kind of vegetation, and protruding from the greenery were top hats and bowler hats, and even a couple of ladies’ white umbrellas. If the sun had peeped out from behind the clouds, no doubt there would also have been the glinting of opera glasses.
The public will be disappointed, thought Fandorin, stepping across the grass, which was wet with dew.
Bullcox’s second nodded curtly and introduced himself – Major Ruskin. He also named the doctor – Dr Stein.
‘I have something important to say to Mr Bullcox,’ the titular counsellor said when the major unrolled the piece of silk wrapped around two swords.
The reserve plan was absolutely elementary. Ask Bullcox whether he had broken his wrist recently. Bullcox would say no, he hadn’t. Then expose Tsurumaki publicly, in front of witnesses. Starting with the base deception unworthy of a second, then immediately moving on to the most important part – the accusation of conspiring against Okubo. There was no proof, but the treachery shown by Tsurumaki would set the witnesses against the Japanese and make them hear the vice-consul out. Bullcox might be beside himself with jealousy, but he was a state official and would understand quite clearly the significance of the vice-consul’s declaration. Tsurumaki had not only organised a political assassination, he had attempted to cast suspicion on Britain and its representative. That which was hidden would be revealed, and Bullcox wouldn’t be interested in a duel any more. The audience was in for a disappointment.
If not for his headache and his anxiety about O-Yumi, the titular counsellor would undoubtedly have contrived something more serviceable. The reserve plan, the frail child of a migraine, proved to be no good for anything and crumbled to dust at the very first contact with reality.
‘The Right Honourable Algernon Bullcox warned me that you were capable of something like this,’ Ruskin replied with a frown. ‘No, no. No apologies. The duel will go ahead in any case.’
‘I do not intend to apologise,’ the vice-consul assured him coldly. ‘This is a m-matter of state importance.’
The major’s face set in an expression of dull-witted intransigence.
‘I have received clear instructions. No negotiations between the two opponents. Would you care to choose a sword?’