by R. N. Morris
‘The novel was serialised in your other publication, Russian Era, was it not?’
‘It’s a common practice.’
‘Yes, of course. I understand,’ said Porfiry smoothly. ‘A practice known as advertisement, I believe.’
Trudolyubov recoiled at the suavely delivered barb.
‘From whom did you commission the review?’
‘From one of our regular contributors.’
‘And the name of this regular contributor?’
‘He prefers to remain anonymous.’
‘But surely you know who he is?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Then how do you communicate with him?’
‘Through an intermediary. An agent, if you like.’
‘And who is this agent?’
‘A gentleman by the name of Prince Dolgoruky.’
‘Prince Dolgoruky? A distinguished name,’ observed Porfiry.
‘The Dolgorukys are an ancient and noble family,’ said Trudolyubov complacently, as if this was somehow to his own credit.
‘The Tsar, I believe, is a friend of Prince Mikhail Dolgoruky.’ Porfiry paused to blink significantly before adding: ‘And his daughter, Yekaterina.’
‘This is a different branch of the family. I am talking about Prince Konstantin Arsenevich Dolgoruky. He is only distantly related to the Tsar’s . . . friend.’
‘How interesting. Does Prince Dolgoruky act in this capacity – as an intermediary or agent – for any other writers whom you publish?’
The aged editor paused before answering, his face atremble. ‘Yes.’
‘And who would that be? Another anonymous writer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Allow me to hazard a guess. Are we talking about the anonymous author of Swine, the notorious D.?’
‘That is so.’
Porfiry gave a delighted chuckle. ‘Did it ever occur to you that the writer of the novel and the reviewer of the novel might be one and the same person?’
‘The writer of the novel is D. The writer I commissioned the review from is K.’
‘K. Of course. Yes. D. and K. Clearly two very distinct individuals.’
‘Besides, Prince Dolgoruky assured me –’
‘Prince Dol-goruky?’ cut in Porfiry. ‘Perhaps he is himself D.? Though if that were the case, he would certainly have signed the pages “Prince D.,” wouldn’t he?’
Trudolyobov wrinkled his nose at Porfiry’s sarcasm.
‘I believe I have the review you commissioned on me.’ Porfiry fished out the article from inside his frockcoat. ‘Does that look like the work of your fellow K.?’
‘It is certainly more or less what I was expecting.’
‘Would it surprise you to learn that your regular contributor K. also contributes to the radical journal Affair under his full name of Kozodavlev?’
‘This is Kozodavlev? Impossible!’ Trudolyubov snapped the paper with the fingernails of one hand.
‘I assure you. I took it from Mr Kozodavlev’s drawer at the offices of Affair last week. The handwriting was identified as his by the editor of that journal.’
‘But Kozodavlev is against everything we stand for. He has attacked us in the most vicious terms on numerous occasions.’
‘And yet you wrote to Kozodavlev, soliciting a review of Swine. I found your letter in his drawer.’
‘I wrote to every journal I could think of. I knew Affair would hate it, of course. I wanted them to hate it. That would be the greatest endorsement of the work.’
‘You sought controversy?’
‘I suppose you could say that.’ Trudolyubov’s eyes seemed to twinkle. He looked down at the review again. ‘But Kozodavlev cannot be K.! K. even attacked Kozodavlev, singling him out for the bitterest vituperation.’
‘I believe it was a game he liked to play. Perhaps it was his way of working out the conflicts that buffeted his soul.’
‘But it makes a mockery of all the principles any of us hold, on whatever side.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Porfiry. ‘Have you always held the views you now propound with such force in your publications? Were you not once, in your younger days, in the sway of entirely opposite ideas?’
‘I learnt the error of my ways.’
‘Yes, but you will accept that it is possible for two contrary opinions to reside in the same man?’
‘At different times of his life, perhaps.’
‘But were not the seeds of your current views taking root in your mind at the very time that you were openly expressing sentiments of a decidedly radical tendency? Are not both viewpoints, though on the face of it polar opposites, more closely related than they first appear? Might we not say they are two sides of the same coin? The coin being a sincere and deeply held love of Russia. For it seems to me, if I may say so – I am not a political individual, so my comments may strike you as naive – nevertheless, it does seem to me that the radicals and the Slavophiles are both motivated by a genuine desire to do what is best for Russia. It is just that they disagree as to what that is.’
Trudolyubov thrust the article back at Porfiry. ‘No. I won’t accept that. This is just cynical sport.’
‘He was a professional writer,’ said Porfiry reasonably. ‘He had to place his work where he could.’
‘Was? You just said “was.” Is Kozodavlev the one you fished out of the Winter Canal?’
‘In the first place, I did not myself fish the body out. In the second, no – I do not believe so.’ Porfiry turned to Virginsky. ‘Pavel Pavlovich, do you have the poster?’
Virginsky nodded and took out the folded poster, which he handed to Trudolyubov.
‘This is the body from the Winter Canal,’ explained Porfiry. ‘We have seen a photograph of Mr Kozodavlev – or K., if you prefer – and it is not the same person. However, Mr Kozodavlev is missing, and, I regret to say, presumed dead.’
Trudolyubov did not appear to have heard. His gaze was concentrated on the photograph in his hands. ‘What has happened to this poor fellow?’ He spoke in a barely vocalised whisper.
‘He would not have looked like that in life. A chemical reaction has occurred in certain places. It has transformed his flesh into a soapy substance. Please try to ignore that and concentrate on the areas that are not affected. You will notice the pockmarks and the small eyes. They are distinctive features, I think.’
Trudolyubov looked aghast at Virginsky. ‘They would take away God from us. But if you take away God, what are you left with, sir? This.’ He handed the poster back to Virginsky.
‘Do you recognise him?’ asked Porfiry.
Trudolyubov shook his head. ‘So, Kozodavlev is dead too, you say?’
‘It seems he perished in a fire that took hold of his apartment building on Monday night.’
‘How ironic.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘You could say he has only himself to blame. His inflammatory articles without doubt contributed to the unrest and vandalism that has beset our city in recent days.’
‘And yet the articles he wrote for you might have served to counteract it.’
The elderly editor seemed unconvinced.
‘I would be interested in seeing cuttings of the work K. contributed to your publications,’ said Porfiry.
‘I can arrange that. If you provide me with an address, I will send them on for you.’
‘Thank you. Here is my card. Also, I would very much like to meet Prince Dolgoruky.’
‘The family home is not far from here. I seem to remember that it is also in Liteiny Prospect. If you don’t mind waiting, I will have someone look up the address for you.’
‘Most kind.’
Trudolyubov consulted with one of his colleagues, who lifted his head slowly, thrusting his beard in Porfiry and Virginsky’s direction. A moment later the address was handed over.
15
A timid creature
‘May I say something, Porfiry Petrovich?’ began Virginsky, as they wa
lked back along Liteiny Prospect towards the Nevsky Prospect end. ‘And I hope you will not take it amiss.’
Porfiry blinked frantically as he gave consideration to Virginsky’s words. ‘If it is something that I may take amiss, then perhaps it is better not said.’
‘Very well. I will keep my thoughts to myself.’
Porfiry regarded Virginsky out of the corner of his eye, with an indulgent spasm of the lips. ‘Oh dear, Pavel Pavlovich, so easily discouraged? That’s not like you. I worry that you too often keep your counsel these days. It suggests either that you do not trust me, or that you do not trust yourself. I’m afraid to think which horrifies me more. To be honest, I don’t like either much.’
Virginsky frowned thoughtfully. This man – plump, ageing, short-winded, with his preposterously mannered tics, always blinking and smirking as if he were some silly lovesick girl and not a senior investigating magistrate – this man was constantly surprising him. It could only be because he, Virginsky, was constantly underestimating Porfiry Petrovich. He had fallen into the trap again, despite consciously being on his guard against it. And Porfiry, with just a few words and a sly, sidelong glance, had shown that he knew precisely what was going on in Virginsky’s soul.
‘How do you do it, Porfiry Petrovich?’
‘Is that what you were going to say?’
‘No. And you know that it was not.’
‘Very well. “How do I do it?” you ask. “How do I do what?” I ask.’
‘You have an unerring knack.’
Porfiry blinked expectantly.
‘For voicing the very thing that is on my mind.’
‘Oh? And what was that? I’ve forgotten what I said, you see. My memory is not unerring.’
‘You spoke of . . . trust.’
‘And you hesitated, just now as you said the word. That is all there is to my knack, such as it is. I pay attention to the little signals.’
‘You feel that there is some loss of trust between us?’
‘Do you?’
‘Our differences . . .’
‘Are as nothing. Nothing!’ cried Porfiry, with an emphatic wave of his arm.
‘. . . may not be as easy to overcome as you might hope,’ insisted Virginsky.
‘What are you trying to tell me, Pavel Pavlovich? I hope to God it is not what I fear.’
‘I am a man of principles. I am no Kozodavlev.’
‘You judge him too quickly and perhaps too harshly. We do not yet know what has prompted him to act in the way he has.’
‘You defend him. That is because he flattered you in an article.’
‘Please, give me more credit than that. Who knows what lies behind Kozodavlev’s strange . . .’ Porfiry pursed his lips as he waited for the right word to come to him.
Virginsky provided it: ‘Hypocrisy.’
Porfiry gave a remonstrative look.
‘What I was going to say,’ began Virginsky again, ‘is that I fear Kozodavlev may be a false trail.’
Porfiry smiled. ‘I am glad you have overcome your reticence. Please continue.’
‘We do not, in point of fact, have anything conclusive linking Kozodavlev to the man in the Winter Canal – the case we are supposed to be investigating, if I may remind you.’
‘We have the word of Apprentice Seaman Ordynov.’
‘Well, yes, we now know that Kozodavlev saw the sailors bring up the body. And that he failed to raise the alarm, as he had said he would. But that does not prove beyond doubt that he knew the man. He may simply have been frightened.’
‘There is also the letter that I received. The letter taken together with Ordynov’s testimony is conclusive.’
‘An anonymous letter.’
‘Handwriting comparisons strongly suggest it was written by him.’
‘You know that handwriting similarities are not conclusive,’ pointed out Virginsky. ‘And are indeed highly circumstantial. The fact is, there may have been someone else there, unnoticed by the sailors. That someone else may be the writer of the anonymous letter and the person who is connected to the body in the canal. It would be a strange coincidence, but it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that this other person has a similar handwriting style to Kozodavlev. You cannot build a case on conjecture based on the similarities of a number of unsigned writing samples. Any half-decent defence lawyer will tear it to shreds. With all due respect, if I may say so, Porfiry Petrovich, it is your vanity that led you to the offices of Affair, where you promptly found what you were looking for.’
‘Vanity? I –’
Virginsky pressed on. ‘What if the letter was not written by Kozodavlev, after all? If there was someone else there, the writer of the letter, then we have been wasting our time. We are still wasting our time. If the man from the Winter Canal has nothing to do with Kozodavlev, then he has nothing to do with Affair, or Russian Soil, or the novel Swine. Or Prince Dolgoruky – whoever he may be.’
‘He appears to be a distant cousin of the Tsar’s current mistress,’ observed Porfiry tartly.
‘You wish to drag the Tsar into this?’
Porfiry’s expression was panic-stricken. ‘No! Please God, no! It is simply a curious coincidence. I am confident there is nothing more to it than that. The Dolgoruky family has multitudinous offshoots. Indeed, it is a name claimed by many, even those who have no right to it. Perhaps that is the case here with this Dolgoruky of Trudolyubov’s.’ They carried on walking in silence for some moments. ‘So, Pavel Pavlovich. What would you have us do?’
Virginsky gave an ineffectual shrug.
‘Nothing? Drop the case? Is that what you are suggesting?’
‘I fear that we must wait until we have a positive identification of the victim. Until we know for certain who the man in the canal was, we are chasing phantoms.’
‘But we may never have that.’
‘Then the case may never be solved.’
‘I confess I’m disappointed. I was hoping you were about to propose a wager.’
‘You know I do not gamble, Porfiry Petrovich. Particularly when it is to do with the execution of our professional duties. That is to reduce a matter of deadly seriousness to mere sport, is it not?’
‘Once again, I consider myself justifiably rebuked, Pavel Pavlovich.’
They continued several paces in silence.
‘But Kozodavlev is dead,’ ventured Porfiry at last. ‘And if the fire in which he perished was started deliberately, then that too is murder.’
‘But we have not been assigned to that case,’ Virginsky pointed out.
‘And what of the children? Whoever killed Kozodavlev killed them also.’
Virginsky did not reply. The speed with which the colour drained from his face indicated that Porfiry had touched a nerve.
‘You did not go to the graveside. You did not witness the mother’s collapse. She fell forward. Perhaps it was deliberate – she threw herself. At any rate, she had to be pulled out. The father . . . the father’s cries . . .’ Porfiry broke off. He lit a cigarette before continuing. ‘Have you ever been to the Zoological Gardens, Pavel Pavlovich?’
Virginsky hesitated before replying, ‘Y-yes.’ He was thinking back to Easter Sunday night.
‘His cries were like the bellow of a wounded beast. Such suffering cannot be borne. The landlady too was in a terrible state.’
‘If she had stayed with the children . . .’
‘You will blame her? We must find out who lit that fire, Pavel Pavlovich, and bring them to justice. We promised. We promised Yekaterina Ivanovna – or have you forgotten?’
‘You promised.’
‘And you gave your promise too, I seem to remember.’
‘But we are not assigned to it.’ There was a despairing quality to Virginsky’s words, as if he was pleading with Porfiry to leave him alone.
Porfiry considered his junior colleague carefully for a few moments. ‘There is something about Kozodavlev that makes you uncomfortable,’ he said. ‘That you do not
wish to look into. That is why you shy away from him.’
‘You are wide of the mark this time, Porfiry Petrovich.’ The despair in Virginsky’s voice tipped over into panic.
Porfiry continued to watch him closely. ‘Quite possibly . . . dear boy,’ he said quietly, almost tenderly. They had reached the number of the apartment building where one branch of the Dolgoruky family resided. Porfiry looked up at it regretfully. ‘So what is it to be? Do we just go back to the bureau and wait for someone to recognise our corpse?’ He seemed to be waiting for Virginsky’s permission to enter.
‘Now that we are here . . .’ began Virginsky sullenly.
It was like a trap springing open. Porfiry was away before Virginsky could finish speaking. He called something over his shoulder that could have been, ‘That’s the spirit!’ But it was lost in the speed of his flight up the steps.
*
The Dolgoruky apartments were, naturally, at the front of the building, looking out on Liteiny Prospect. They were on a grand scale, and seemed to be inhabited, at first sight, exclusively by servants.
As far as Porfiry was able to discover, the extensive household existed to serve the needs of one tiny individual, to whom he and Virginsky were eventually presented. The dowager Princess Yevgenia Alexeevna Dolgorukaya was like the hard kernel of the woman she had once been. Her face was the shape of an almond, and as deeply lined. Her lips were held in a permanent pucker of disapproval – or perhaps it was pain, caused by the severity with which her hair had been parted and pinned. She did not blink. As soon as Porfiry noticed this, he was greatly disconcerted by it. He immediately thought her capable of anything.
Her extremely diminutive stature, which was in inverse proportion to her importance in the household, was exaggerated by the voluminous skirt of her purple satin dress. The widow’s colour seemed to be a vortex of grief into which she was in danger of sinking. She was also dwarfed by a pair of enormous oriental vases balanced precariously on narrow stands and positioned at either side of the golden velvet sofa on which she was perched.
Seated next to her, though at the furthest possible distance on the same sofa, was a young woman working at an embroidery hoop. She was a pretty enough girl, thought Porfiry, though her expression was timid, almost cowed. It did not seem that she was the older woman’s daughter – more that her relationship to her was one of subservience, or indebtedness. At any rate, there was no clear family resemblance, and the companionship with which she provided the Princess did not seem to be freely given. Neither party gave any impression of deriving enjoyment from it.
