The Cleansing Flames (St Petersburg Mystery)

by R. N. Morris

  ‘What is yours?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The name that your friends have given you? I take it they do not call you Alyosha Afanasevich.’

  ‘No. To my friends, I am Hunger.’

  ‘Hunger?’

  ‘It is not a reference to physical hunger, to the hunger of appetite, but rather to my hunger for the revolution.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Mine is the hunger of the flame.’

  ‘Yes. Quite. But why then are we going to a name-day party?’

  ‘Because it is not a name-day party.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘A pretext.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ Virginsky nodded his approval. His eyes widened as if in excitement, but he said nothing, and indeed kept silent for the rest of the way.

  *

  Alyosha Afanasevich led them to a four-storey stone apartment building at the corner of Kuznechny Lane and Yamskaya Street. The neighbourhood was noticeably run-down. Not surprisingly: the Moskovskaya District was a predominantly working-class area, with a high proportion of peasant workers, migrants from the villages. Somehow, the dreariness of the area reflected the fact that the majority of its inhabitants were men living without women.

  The nearby shops were all shuttered up, reminding Virginsky that there was also a significant Jewish population in Moskovskaya District. It was Friday, the Sabbath. While many of the shops on Nevsky Prospect might keep late hours tonight, those in Moskovskaya would not.

  A few steps led down to the entrance of the building, below the level of the street. The porter nodded Alyosha Afanasevich in, as if he were a regular visitor.

  They took the stairs up to the second floor. In truth, the interior of the building was better kept than Virginsky had been led to expect from the air of general neglect outside. The doors of the apartments they passed were all closed, presenting blank, demure rectangles of respectability. Perhaps they were the apartments of Jewish families, devoutly observing the Sabbath within. But even the door to the apartment they were visiting was closed.

  ‘This doesn’t look like the apartment of someone who is celebrating a name day,’ Virginsky observed, as they waited for Hunger’s complicated series of knocks to be answered. He thought he could detect the murmur of voices within, tense rather than celebratory. ‘If you wish to construct a pretext, you should do so more carefully.’

  ‘We cannot afford to admit all and sundry.’

  ‘Then it is clearly not a Russian party.’

  ‘It is intended to be an intimate gathering of close friends.’

  The door began to move, drawing Virginsky’s attention. He felt the thump of apprehension in his chest, sensing that he was standing at the threshold, not simply to an apartment in the Moskovskaya District but to a formless and irresistible abyss – to the future, in other words.

  The face that greeted him, if such a look of hostility and suspicion could be said to be any kind of greeting, was elusively familiar to him. After a moment’s concentration, he recognised the young ‘Bazarov’ who had discussed the physiology of the heart with Porfiry Petrovich at the office of Affair. Without opening the door to its full extent, the young man turned sullenly to Virginsky’s companion. ‘This man is a magistrate. Why have you brought him here? Have you betrayed us, Botkin?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  Virginsky was struck by the fact that ‘Bazarov’ had used neither Alyosha Afanasevich nor Hunger in addressing the man.

  ‘In the first place,’ continued Virginsky’s companion, ‘I of course know that he is a magistrate. That is the very reason why I have brought him here. In the second place, you know better than to address me by that name.’

  ‘Are you not Botkin?’

  ‘Don’t compound your stupidity with insolence!’

  ‘If you have brought this magistrate here, then presumably you think you can trust him. And if you trust him, you will not object to him knowing your real name, Alyosha Afanasevich Botkin.’

  ‘And what if I tell him your name?’

  ‘I dare say he already knows it. He was at the office the other day.’

  ‘I don’t know your name,’ said Virginsky to the young man.

  ‘He is rather naive,’ explained Botkin. ‘Touchingly so, at times.’

  ‘And so you think you will be able to manipulate him?’

  ‘It is not a question of that. He wishes to help the cause.’

  The young man regarded Virginsky sceptically, his expression slightly pained. ‘I shall have to ask Kirill Kirillovich. It is his name day, after all.’

  ‘That has nothing to do with anything, as you well know,’ said Botkin.

  ‘There are important people here. It is said that we are to be visited by a member of the central committee. Though, of course, none of us will know who he is.’

  ‘How do you know that I have not brought him?’ Botkin now treated the young man to the sarcastic smile he had practised on Virginsky.

  The young man’s expression grew unpleasant as he considered Virginsky afresh. ‘Make up your mind. Either he is a new recruit who wishes to help the cause, or he is an important personage on the central committee. Which is it to be?’

  ‘Let us in,’ said Botkin, pushing at the door.

  When it came to it, the young man did not resist. He let the door go with a strangely girlish laugh. ‘On your head be it,’ he threw out as he turned his back on them.

  They followed him into an entrance hall with a number of doors coming off it. One door stood open, revealing a carelessly furnished drawing room where the assembly was already gathered, about twenty guests in all. The conversation was subdued, and in fact ceased completely as they entered. Virginsky was surprised to see women as well as men there. He thought he recognised some other faces from the office of Affair. Certainly he had the sense that he was recognised, and that the faces that were turned on him were far from welcoming.

  A lean, somehow slovenly looking woman of about forty was handing out tea, which she served from a samovar on an oval table draped with a threadbare cloth. She bustled about the room with a sarcastic joviality, suggesting that she resented the presence of these guests in her apartment. She was taking great delight in keeping up the pretence of a name-day celebration. A man of about the same age as her, balding and anxious, rose from a sofa and approached Botkin. His face was careworn, brows pulled down in a permanent frown.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Kirill Kirillovich, may I introduce Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky. A magistrate who wishes to perform a great service for the movement.’

  ‘Can you trust him?’

  Botkin did not reply, except to crank up the angle of his lopsided leer, as if to say that it did not matter to him one way or the other if Virginsky could be trusted or not.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ demanded Kirill Kirillovich indignantly.

  ‘Can I trust you? Can you trust me? Can he trust us? I mean to say, my dear Kirill Kirillovich, that trust is not an absolute. It is always relative, always provisional, never stable. Trust, whatever it is, is a highly volatile substance. I am not even sure it exists at all. And so, there is no meaningful answer to the question you asked. One must act as if there is trust between us, otherwise we could get nothing done. Still and all, at the same time, one must never lower one’s guard. In essence, trust no one. Do not even trust yourself, Kirill Kirillovich.’

  ‘That is absurd. More of your mysticism, Alyosha Afanasevich. You know that there is to be an important personage here tonight? I trust that nothing untoward will occur.’

  ‘How do you know that there will be someone here tonight?’

  ‘Why, you yourself told me!’

  ‘Exactly. Therefore, I hardly think you need to issue such warnings to me.’ Botkin scanned the room. ‘Our people are all here, I see.’

  ‘We are still awaiting Dolgoruky.’

  Virginsky cocked his head sharply at the name. ‘Prince Dolgoruky is coming tonight?’r />
  ‘We do not recognise such titles,’ answered Kirill Kirillovich. ‘But yes, Dolgoruky is expected. Do you know him?’ His frown darkened as he considered Virginsky.

  ‘I have . . . met him. His name came up in connection with a case I was investigating.’

  ‘And are you here investigating a case?’ asked Kirill Kirillovich.

  Before Virginsky could answer, the woman handing out tea thrust a cup into his hand. ‘Everyone must have tea! If this is to be a proper Russian name day. Any friend of my husband’s is a friend of mine.’

  Kirill Kirillovich’s frown changed its tenor in the presence of his wife. It seemed to go from something fierce and disapproving to a look of helpless despair. ‘Varvara Alexeevna, this is not necessary, as you know.’

  ‘Oh but it is, Kirill Kirillovich,’ insisted his wife. ‘We must create the semblance of a true name day, in the event of a police raid. At any rate, it is your name day. And we have guests. Why should I not give them tea?’

  ‘Let us get on with it,’ said Botkin. ‘Dolgoruky is late. We cannot wait for ever.’

  Kirill Kirillovich gave a sharp nod of assent. ‘I for one am anxious to begin.’

  Just as this was decided, there was an exuberant rap on the door.

  ‘Dolgoruky,’ said Kirill Kirillovich sourly.

  ‘He does not even use the entry code!’ complained Botkin.

  ‘That is how we may know it is Dolgoruky.’

  ‘If he will not trouble to learn the code, then he must not be admitted,’ declared Botkin. ‘We must teach him the discipline that he is incapable of instilling in himself.’

  ‘Not admit the Prince!’ cried Varvara Alexeevna, bustling past them to the door. ‘It will be a sorry party without the Prince.’

  25

  The girl with the broken laugh

  An explosion of laughter accompanied Dolgoruky’s entrance to the apartment. Virginsky waited tensely for his appearance in the drawing room. He was suddenly aware that he had sobered up completely. At that moment, it seemed unlikely to him that he would ever drink vodka again.

  Prince Dolgoruky stepped into the room with a faintly mocking smile on his face, as if he was struggling to take the whole thing seriously. It was also apparently impossible for him to suppress entirely the aristocratic disdain with which he habitually greeted everything – and everyone – he encountered. There was no sign of the tormented side of his Byronic nature, the devil-haunted individual Virginsky had briefly glimpsed at their last encounter.

  Dolgoruky was accompanied by a much younger woman. Whether they had arrived together by accident, or whether Dolgoruky had brought her with him, was not clear. An instinct for jealousy inclined Virginsky to prefer the former explanation. Virginsky felt that he had seen the woman’s face before. Perhaps she simply conformed to a type that was becoming familiar to him. She was physically attractive, although not in an easy or approachable way. There was something guarded and even aloof about her gaze, which was accentuated by an unusually long neck. He was sure he had not seen her at the offices of Affair. It was some time before that, perhaps long ago. He had the sense that she had changed enormously since the last time he had seen her, and that she would not have appreciated being reminded of it. He sensed the wariness in her assessment of him, and the flicker of alarm when something like recognition showed on her face. She was someone he had encountered in his official duties, he felt sure of that.

  In the event, he was denied the opportunity of giving it any further thought. Dolgoruky approached him with a jabbing finger. ‘I know this man. He is a magistrate. Did you know that, Kirill Kirillovich?’

  ‘Yes. Botkin brought him here.’

  ‘Botkin? Is this wise?’

  ‘He is sympathetic to the cause. He wishes to help us. A magistrate could be very useful to us.’

  ‘He was snooping around asking questions about Kozodavlev. Leastways his superior was. A most eccentric individual. He claimed I did not interest him!’

  Virginsky sensed Botkin and Kirill Kirillovich regard him with a new and dangerous interest. ‘It’s true,’ he confessed. ‘We were investigating the death of Kozodavlev, in connection with a body found in the Winter Canal. The body of Pseldonimov. The secret information I gave to you, Alyosha Afanasevich, relates to that case. The fact of the matter is that we are no longer working on it. It has been taken from us. As I told you, Rakitin is in the hands of the Third Section. I have never hidden from you my position as a magistrate. On the contrary, I have shared with you useful information acquired through that position.’

  ‘The information he gave me was, in fact, of limited usefulness.’ There was a chilling finality to Botkin’s utterance. It had the ring of a sentence being pronounced.

  ‘You see what you have done!’ cried Kirill Kirillovich, in sudden panic. ‘What kind of a man you have brought here! You have put us all in danger.’

  Virginsky felt as if the room was closing in on him. Many of the guests had risen from their seats. They were pressing forward in response to their host’s shrill cries. He noticed a vindicated smile on the face of the young man who had admitted them.

  ‘What do you propose we do with him?’ asked Botkin darkly.

  ‘That is a question for you to answer,’ bleated Kirill Kirillovich. ‘You brought him here.’

  Virginsky felt that his fate was being decided, and that the decision would not go his way.

  ‘Wait!’ It was the voice of the woman who had entered with Dolgoruky, clear and naturally authoritative. She seemed to turn the mood of the gathering with just one word. ‘Let me ask you outright: What are you proposing? That we kill this man and dispose of his body?’

  Now that she had expressed the matter with such chilling and almost gleeful directness, it seemed that the others began to back away from the idea. They were suddenly desperate for her to talk them out of it.

  ‘Let me tell you, if that is what you’re thinking, you are no worse than a gang of common criminals. We did not instigate the revolution in order to give men like you the licence to commit violent acts. Yes, we will be ruthless when the time comes. We will strike, and we will strike hard. If a head needs cutting off, I will be first in line with an axe. But we must choose our targets carefully. An ill-considered attack, prompted by panic, and executed without due diligence, can only serve to bring us to the attention of the authorities.’

  She broke off to consider Virginsky. A wrinkle of distaste upset the balance of her face. ‘This man may be a police agent, but I doubt it. Really, would even our police be so stupid as to send a serving magistrate to infiltrate a revolutionary grouping? I have had some experience of spies and informers, you know. In Paris, during the Commune. Invariably, it turns out to be the one you would least suspect. If you want to find the agent amongst us – and yes, you may be sure that there is already an agent amongst us, and has been long before this young man’s appearance – there is no great mystery to it. You simply look for the man who most exemplifies the common stereotype of a revolutionist. Botkin is more likely to be a police spy than him. Or Totsky,’ she added, as if to lessen the implicit accusation she had made against Botkin. The afterthought caused the young ‘Bazarov’ to blush, indicating to Virginsky that he was the Totsky she had referred to. ‘The police – or the Third Section, or whoever wishes to infiltrate us – would naturally want their agent to fit in, not to stand out, as this fellow so pitiably does. Why, he did not even bother to get out of his service uniform!’

  Her observation, facetiously made, provoked mocking laughter from the other guests. With it, the tension was released.

  The young woman had possibly saved Virginsky’s life. He sought out her eyes gratefully. It seemed at first that she was avoiding him, but when their eyes did meet, her expression was not what he had expected, or hoped for. There was the cast of something unmistakably unpleasant there, something indistinguishable from contempt. She looked away from him quickly. Her gaze had now acquired a constantly drifting restlessn
ess that took Virginsky more concretely back into his memory. For now he was certain that they had met before, and he remembered under what circumstances too. Now that he was able to place her, he realised that his intuition had been correct: she was very much changed.

  ‘I would also say,’ she continued, addressing the room at large, ‘that the way to ensure the loyalty of those we recruit to our cause is not through terror but through education. When people understand what we are fighting for, when they share not only our convictions but also the fervour with which we hold them, we need not fear that they will betray us.’

  Virginsky could hardly believe this was the flippant, cynically knowing girl he had met once before, the spoilt daughter of a lecherous father, the girl with the broken laugh, whose dangerous appetite for experience had brought her close to ruin. There was no note of cynicism in her voice at all now, and in her eyes no hungry glimmer, no desperate seeking after men’s attention. ‘Let us say,’ she went on, speaking with a calm, unforced confidence, knowing that she could hold the room through her words alone, ‘that there is here amongst us one who has come with the intention of spying on us. If, after an evening in our company, he has not converted wholeheartedly to our cause and volunteered to spy on his former masters on our behalf – well, then, we are sorry revolutionists. You might even say we would deserve to be informed against! For every word we utter is a revolutionary act. Therefore, we must make our every word count and carry the fight with us wherever we go. Comrades, to kill one who has come amongst us is a sign of our failure, as much as his disloyalty. It must only ever be done as a last resort.’

  ‘But you do not deny that force may be used when necessary?’ It was Botkin who asked the question.

  ‘There! You see!’ cried the young woman exultantly. Only now did Virginsky detect a sign of the nervous excitement that had once dominated her behaviour. She laughed, and it was the same broken laugh he remembered. ‘How he seeks to entrap me! How like a spy!’