Dmitri and the One-Legged Lady

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First published in Great Britain in 1999 by HarperCollinsPublishers

Copyright © Michael Pearce 1999

Michael Pearce asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780008259488

Ebook Edition © JUNE 2017 ISBN: 9780008257279

Version: 2017-09-04

‘This series continues to be the most delightful in current detective fiction’

GERALD KAUFMAN, Scotsman

‘Pearce … takes apart ancient history and reassembles it with beguiling wit and colour’

JOHN COLEMAN, Sunday Times

‘Irresistible fun’

Time Out

‘The Mamur Zapt’s sly, irreverent humour continues to refresh the parts others seldom reach’

Observer

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by Michael Pearce

About the Publisher

‘Try the Missing Persons Bureau,’ said Dmitri coldly.

‘Missing Persons?’ said the Father Superior. ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘You said someone was missing.’

‘Not some one, some thing! The One-Legged Lady.’ He looked incredulously at Dmitri. ‘You’ve not heard of her? An icon.’

Dmitri knew, at least, what icons were. This was not surprising because nearly every house in Russia had one. It was usually situated in the opposite corner from the door so that you saw it as soon as you entered. The Church said that it was to remind you that you were forever under God’s protection. Dmitri said that since this was Russia and Church and Tsar were hand in glove, it was to remind you that someone was always keeping an eye on you. Anyway, as you went in at the door, there it was opposite you, usually a face under a tin plate, of some saint or other, looking you accusingly in the eye. It always reminded Dmitri of his difficult grandfather.

‘Not just an icon,’ said the Father Superior with emphasis: ‘the icon. The Holy Icon of the One-Legged Lady of Kursk. The most famous icon in the province.’

He looked hopefully at Dmitri. Without luck. To Dmitri, icons and monasteries – and Father Superiors, for that matter – belonged to the Dark Ages.

‘You’d better fill in a form,’ he said unenthusiastically.

The Father Superior stood for a moment looking down at him. Then he said:

‘Is there anyone more senior here? Boris Petrovich, for example?’

Boris Petrovich was the Procurator and Dmitri’s boss.

‘I’m afraid he’s dining at the Governor’s this evening.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said the Father Superior. ‘I’m dining there myself.’

‘This icon of yours,’ said Dmitri, swiftly reviewing his position, ‘it’s gone missing, you say?’

‘Stolen,’ said the Father Superior. ‘From the Monastery last night.’

Dmitri pulled a pad towards him.

‘Value?’

‘It is a holy object,’ said the Father Superior.

‘No value,’ wrote Dmitri.

He had a niggling feeling, however, that something remained to be said.

‘Famous, did you say? What is it famous for?’

‘Performing miracles.’

‘Oh, yes?’

Dmitri put down his pen.

‘What sort of miracles?’ he said sceptically.

‘Well, it’s transformed the finances of the Monastery for a start.’

This, admittedly, was the kind of miracle in which Dmitri could believe.

‘How?’

‘By inducing thousands of people to come and see her. Including,’ said the Father Superior, ‘Mrs Mitkin.’

Mrs Mitkin was the Governor’s wife.

‘Perhaps I had better take a look,’ said Dmitri.

‘Didn’t I tell you,’ said the Father Superior, ‘that it performed miracles?’

The sun came up and turned the snow pink. The ice crystals began to sparkle. Far off towards the horizon there Was another, larger, more continuous sparkle which became a flash of gold.

Gradually, the Monastery came into view. The flash came from a huge gold onion sitting on top of it. All around were subsidiary onions and scaly pineapples. They rose out of a pink-and-blue striped roof, beneath which were walls so white that they seemed an extension of the snow. The gold was very newly golden and the pink and blue so fresh that it almost leaped off the roof at you. The Monastery, thought Dmitri, must have rich patrons.