She Lover of Death: The Further Adventures of Erast Fandorin by Boris Akunin

trembled (it was windy, like the evening before), Columbine gave a chill shudder and recited the final lines of the poem:
The wind, knowing the Beast is near,
Taps on the pane .
     
‘The sated Beast will still be here,
The wind will sob and sigh
But I shall not be in this world.
Oh where am I?
     
    And she sighed. Where are you now, Chosen One Avaddon? Are you happy in the World Beyond?
    ‘That is Nikifor Sipyaga’s d-death poem?’ the quick-witted dandy stated rather than asked. ‘Interesting. Very interesting.’
    The yard keeper told them: ‘There was a beast howling, really. The tenant on the other side of the wall told me. The walls here are flimsy, Your Excellency, nothing to them really. When the police left, the tenant next door came down to see me, out of curiosity. And he told me: at night, he says, someone started howling, eerie it was, going up and down, like he was calling someone or threatening them. And it went on right until dawn. He even banged on the wall – he couldn’t sleep. Thought as Mr Sipyaga had got a dog. Only there wasn’t any dog here.’
    ‘An interesting little flat,’ said the man with dark hair. ‘I can hear some k-kind of sound too. Only not howling, it’s more like hissing. And this intriguing sound is coming from your handbag, Mademoiselle.’
    He turned to Columbine and looked at her with his blue eyes – she couldn’t tell if their expression was sad or happy.
    Never mind, they’ll be frightened in a moment, Columbine thought mischievously.
    ‘From my handbag? Are you sure?’ she asked, feigning surprise. ‘But I can’t hear anything. Well now, let’s take a look.’
    She deliberately lifted up her bag so that it was right under the arrogant stranger’s nose and clicked open the little lock.
    Lucifer didn’t let her down. He stuck out his narrow little head just like a jack-in-a-box, opened his jaws and gave such a hiss! He’d obviously got bored in his dark, cramped lair.
    ‘Holy Mother of God!’ the yard keeper howled, banging the back of his head against the doorpost. ‘A snake! It’s black! And I haven’t drunk a drop!’
    But what a pity – the handsome gentleman wasn’t in the least bit frightened. He inclined his head to one side to take a good look at the snake and said approvingly: ‘A fine little g-grass snake. You’re fond of animals, Mademoiselle? Very laudable.’
    And then he turned back to the yard keeper, as if nothing had happened.
    ‘So, you say the unknown b-beast was howling until dawn. That’s the most interesting thing of all. What’s the neighbour’s name? The one who lives on the other side of the wall. What does he d-do for a living?’
    ‘Stakhovich. He’s an artist.’ The yard keeper kept glancing warily at Lucifer and rubbing the bruise on the back of his head. ‘Young Miss, is he safe? He won’t bite?’
    ‘Of course he will!’ Columbine replied haughtily. ‘Not half he will.’ And she told the Count of Monte Cristo. ‘You’re a grass snake. This is an Egyptian cobra.’
    ‘A Co-bra, very well,’ he drawled absentmindedly, not really listening.
    He stopped by the wall where there was clothing hanging on nails – evidently Avaddon’s entire wardrobe: a pitiful, patched greatcoat and a worn student’s uniform jacket, obviously second-hand.
    ‘So Mr Sipyaga was very p-poor?’
    ‘As poor as a church mouse. Never even tipped a kopeck, not like Your Grace.’
    ‘And yet the flat is not at all bad. Probably thirty roubles a month?’
    ‘Twenty-five. Only it wasn’t him that rented it, how could he have? It was Mr Blagovolsky, Sergei Irinarkhovich, who paid.’
    ‘Who’s he?’
    ‘I couldn’t say. That’s what it says in the accounts book.’
    As she listened to this conversation, Columbine turned her head this way and that, trying to guess exactly where the wedding with Death had taken place. And eventually she found it. There was a severed rope-end hanging from the hook of the curtain rod.
    She