The Cleansing Flames (St Petersburg Mystery)

by R. N. Morris

  ‘The wound is not healing as cleanly as I might have hoped,’ said Dr Pervoyedov, who seemed to be irritated by Nikodim Fomich’s joviality.

  ‘Wound? But I understood the weapon was loaded with blanks?’

  ‘The good doctor has rather made a mess of my face with all his fussing,’ said Porfiry.

  ‘I . . . !’ But Dr Pervoyedov decided against articulating his protest further.

  ‘Exercise more care, Pervoyedov! We must look after this man. He is the jewel in our crown.’ Nikodim Fomich patted Porfiry’s leg solicitously. ‘Now then, what do you think of this? We have received a message. From Pavel Pavlovich, our man in the field. The system you set up has worked, Porfiry Petrovich!’

  Porfiry waved away the compliment.

  Nikodim Fomich handed a much-folded sheet of paper to Porfiry. Porfiry looked briefly at the note but handed it back to Nikodim Fomich almost immediately. ‘Read it to me.’ His hands fell heavily when the note was taken from him and he closed his eyes.

  Nikodim Fomich frowned distractedly at this unexpected reaction but did as Porfiry directed. ‘Have read Dolgoruky’s printed confession. He confesses rape of child. Child subsequently killed self. Dolgoruky makes no mention of suicide in confession. I believe this provides Dolgoruky with motive to kill Pseldonimov: to suppress the confession that he came to regret. Printing press at workshop off Kalashnikovsky Prospect. Also serves as bomb-making factory. Dolgoruky promised to introduce me to 1 known as “Dyavol.” Failed. I believe Dyavol head of cell including Pseldonimov, Rakitin, Dolgoruky, Kozodavlev and three others. My first contact, Botkin. Totsky = “Bazarov” from Affair. And Tatyana Ruslanovna Vakhrameva! (Remember?) If I can meet Dyavol, will find out more. Dyavol is key to it all. We could arrest Dolgoruky for child rape. He will confess. But if he remains at liberty for present he may lead me to Dyavol. Cell is planning major atrocity involving explosives. I need to infiltrate cell further find out what. Some suspicion (of me) by revolutionists. They would be more convinced if P.P. had died! (Consider announcement to that effect? Staged funeral?) If I am discovered, they will kill me. Botkin ruthless, Dolgoruky mad. Totsky angry. Vakhrameva damaged. Dyavol? Worst of all? I sincerely hope that I am not mistaken in the man I have chosen to deliver this message. (However, advise you change man as he is becoming conspicuous.)

  ‘P.S.: Tatiscev lied. Did know Kozodavlev. “Stole” K’s wife many years ago.’ Nikodim Fomich directed his attention expectantly onto Porfiry.

  ‘Pavel Pavlovich has done well,’ declared Porfiry without opening his eyes.

  ‘Shall we raid the workshop?’ asked Nikodim Fomich. ‘Seize the illegal printing press and whatever materiel is there? Virginsky has very helpfully drawn a map of the location.’

  ‘If we do that now, the members of the cell will without doubt vanish into the night. We must allow Pavel Pavlovich to continue his operation.’

  ‘With all respect, Porfiry Petrovich,’ began Dr Pervoyedov, ominously. The doctor had a tendency to formality when agitated. ‘With all respect, I say, would it not be wiser to extract him now before he comes to any harm?’

  ‘Extracting Pavel Pavlovich prematurely will only have the same effect. The terrorists will realise they have had an agent in their midst and, once again, disappear without trace. And so, we have no choice but to ensure Pavel Pavlovich’s further advancement in the movement.’

  ‘You are not thinking – I hope to God you are not thinking this! – you are not thinking of taking up his preposterous suggestion?’

  ‘It may be possible to make an announcement along the lines that he has suggested.’

  ‘You would announce your own death? And would you also stage a funeral? Surely even you would hesitate to perpetrate a prank as tasteless as that.’

  ‘If it were merely a prank, then of course I would have nothing to do with it. And, with any luck, it will not come to that. However, if we time our announcements well, Pavel Pavlovich’s progression within the inner cabal will have reached its conclusion before there is need to go through with any such display.’

  ‘And what will that conclusion be, I wonder? His death?’

  ‘You may not believe this, Dr Pervoyedov, but I tried to talk him out of it, to no avail. I could see that he was determined to get mixed up with these people, with or without my support. I felt it better to put in place a channel of communication, should he need to contact us in an emergency.’ Porfiry’s eyes were still closed as he spoke. His weariness was such that it seemed as if the conversation, rather than his injury, was taking its toll on him.

  ‘You could have forbidden him.’

  ‘In which case, I would have lost him entirely. I fear that I may have half-lost him as it is.’

  ‘Oh? And what do you mean by that?’ said Nikodim Fomich.

  At last Porfiry opened his eyes to look at Nikodim Fomich. ‘I mean that Pavel Pavlovich’s loyalties are, at the best of times, difficult to pin down. The poor boy is deeply conflicted, and fluctuates dangerously in his convictions. If I had forbidden him from proceeding with his plan, I fear that he would have joined the revolutionists in earnest – out of petulance, as it were. He is quite often capable of acting in such an immature way. I sometimes think the only way to understand Pavel Pavlovich is in the light of the difficult relationship he has with his father. He is torn between the desire to assert his independence – in other words, to break free from authority – and his craving for authority’s approval. We may be sure that the same complex medley of emotions is present in the relationships he is forging with the revolutionists. That is to say, he will want to destroy them at the same time as wishing to be accepted by them. That is how he looks on everything – including the department, including me.’

  ‘If what you have said is true, then he is the least suitable individual imaginable to send on such a mission,’ said Dr Pervoyedov.

  ‘I think you will find that similarly contradictory feelings exist in the hearts of us all. Some of us may gravitate to one pole, rather than the other, but the attraction may be transposed at any time – as in a magnet – because the potential for the opposite continues to reside within us. It is good news that Pavel Pavlovich has chosen to communicate with us. Something, I think, must have prompted him to incline to our side in this struggle. I only hope that nothing else occurs to reverse the polarity of his loyalties.’ Porfiry grimaced, as if the idea was physically painful to him. He sank back on his pillows. His eyelids fluttered characteristically and then closed again.

  Dr Pervoyedov saw the beads of sweat forming on Porfiry’s brow. It was clear that the pain the magistrate was feeling now was not intellectual.

  ‘I think we had better leave,’ he whispered to Nikodim Fomich.

  The chief of police frowned. ‘I don’t understand. This is a ruse, is it not? He was not really shot by Virginsky.’

  There was a grunt from the bed, which could have been of contradiction or agreement. However, Porfiry did not open his eyes.

  Dr Pervoyedov placed a hand on Porfiry’s forehead, frowning at the heat that met his touch. Porfiry murmured incoherently in response.

  Turning from the bed, the doctor ushered Nikodim Fomich out of the room with an urgent gesture.

  As they came out, the polizyeisky at Porfiry’s door tensed his face into an expression of self-conscious alertness, snapping himself upright in his seat. Nikodim Fomich acknowledged his exemplary watchfulness with an appreciative nod. The policeman stared straight ahead, straining to see enemies of the state in the empty hospital corridor. At any rate, he seemed determined to make it clear that he had no interest in eavesdropping on the conversation of his superiors.

  ‘Nikodim Fomich, I am very concerned about Porfiry Petrovich’s wound.’

  ‘What wound?’ Remembering himself, Nikodim Fomich glanced at the police guard and dropped his voice: ‘There is no wound, doctor.’

  ‘Something extraneous was discharged by the gun. It appears to have grazed his face.’

  �
�Oh yes, that. But why on earth are you worrying about a tiny graze?’

  ‘Because I fear it may have become infected. If the infection spreads to his blood, the consequences may be very grave indeed.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘His condition has deteriorated rapidly. The beads of perspiration. The exhaustion. He is becoming feverish.’

  ‘So, he will have a little fever. He will get over it.’

  ‘With all respect, Nikodim Fomich, as a physician, I find it impossible to speak with such absolute confidence.’

  ‘Surely you don’t think he will die?’

  Dr Pervoyedov spoke in an urgent, angry whisper: ‘The next twenty-four hours will prove critical. His body may well succeed in fighting off the infection. I don’t wish to be unduly pessimistic. It was simply my intention to warn you that the situation is not perhaps as straightforward as you might think. Porfiry Petrovich is not as young as he once was, or as strong. His addiction to tobacco has weakened his constitution over the years. His chest is far from robust. To succeed in overcoming a general infection, an organism needs to be in the utmost good health.’ Dr Pervoyedov’s voice rose uncontrollably: ‘This reckless plan! What were you thinking?’

  Nikodim Fomich avoided the doctor’s gaze, abashed. ‘I certainly did not think there was any danger to Porfiry Petrovich.’

  The doctor’s eyes widened incredulously, but before he could answer, they heard Porfiry cry out. ‘Nikodim Fomich! Where is Nikodim Fomich?’

  The two men exchanged glances complicated by anxiety and recrimination, before going back inside.

  34

  Dolgoruky at peace

  The following day, Virginsky noticed a new quality in Varvara Alexeevna’s reserve towards him. It no longer seemed that she was afraid of him. Now he believed he noticed something like contempt in her demeanour towards him. She regarded him, he felt, as one might a marked man. Her replies to his mostly innocent questions concerning household matters were tinged with a mocking tone that seemed to say: Just you wait, my lad. Just you wait.

  Kirill Kirillovich lingered over breakfast, and indeed both of them today seemed reluctant to leave him alone in the apartment, so that all three of them were at home when the first visitor of the day called. What struck Virginsky was that whoever it was failed to use the coded knock. The urgent, formless hammering set their hearts racing: What could it mean? Who could it be?

  They were somehow shocked to discover that it was Alyosha Afanasevich Botkin, in a state of supreme agitation. The reason for his excitement was quickly revealed: ‘Dolgoruky is dead.’

  Varvara Alexeevna, who had revealed her fondness for the Prince – for all his faults – at her husband’s name day, let out a small yelp of horror.

  ‘Hanged himself,’ continued Botkin ruthlessly. ‘Here. He left this.’ Botkin thrust out a piece of paper which Virginsky recognised as Dolgoruky’s printed confession. There was a handwritten addendum scribbled at the bottom.

  Varvara Alexeevna was the first to snatch the sheet. She read it with ferocious concentration. When she had finished, she glared at Virginsky. The contempt he had sensed before had now hardened to hatred. She thrust the confession in his hand. He read: My thanks to the Magistrate-Slayer, who told me what I must do. By the time you read this, I will be at peace. Prince Konstantin Arsenevich Dolgoruky.

  ‘I don’t know what he means. You know Dolgoruky is a liar. He is lying even in this. I can tell you for certain that this confession omits an important detail of one of his crimes. The child he raped killed herself. That is what drove him to suicide. Nothing that I said to him.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ asked Kirill Kirillovich.

  ‘He told me. He showed me this yesterday.’

  ‘This man,’ began Varvara Alexeevna slowly, ‘is not what he seems. He is a police agent. An infiltrator. I saw him pass a note to a spy who was watching the apartment.’

  ‘That’s not true!’ But Virginsky’s childish blush betrayed him.

  ‘He threw a paper dart from the window and it was picked up by the spy. In addition to that, he continues to ask questions like a magistrate. And he acts without any caution, as if he is not afraid of getting caught. Yesterday he went out with the Prince. And he simply left his service uniform out for anyone to see. A man who was really in hiding would not be so careless.’

  ‘But how can this be?’ wondered Botkin. ‘He shot his superior.’

  ‘The man survived the attack!’ said Varvara Alexeevna. ‘All I can say is he did not try very hard to kill him.’

  Kirill Kirillovich turned a look of sour distrust on Virginsky. Botkin’s expression was one of utter disillusionment.

  ‘I confess,’ began Virginsky, ‘that my attack on Porfiry Petrovich was intended to be symbolic, rather than necessarily fatal. As I think I have already explained, it didn’t matter to me whether he lived or died. To have shot him in his chambers was enough. My own experience, as an investigator, of gunshot wounds is that death is not always immediate. He may not be dead yet, but that does not mean he will not die soon. As far as I could tell, he lost a lot of blood. For a man of his age and physique and general health, it will be difficult for him to get over that. It is ironic that Dolgoruky yesterday proposed that we should go to the Obukhovsky Hospital to finish him off. I should have agreed. But I was concerned that we had no authorisation from the central committee. If it is so very important to you that Porfiry Petrovich die, I will go there today and make sure of it.’

  ‘You won’t be able to get within a vershok of him,’ said Kirill Kirillovich. ‘As you well know! For another thing, we do not intend to let you out of our sight. Not until we have heard from the central committee what they want us to do with you.’

  ‘But what is this about a note?’ demanded Botkin, struggling to process Varvara Alexeevna’s allegations. ‘Who was the man you passed the note to?’

  Virginsky looked from one face to another. He saw nothing in any of them that offered hope. ‘It’s true. The man I passed a note to is a spy. And I am an infiltrator. But we are not working on behalf of the police. We are part of another revolutionary grouping. We found out about your group’s activities and it was decided that we ought to investigate. Believe it or not, there are two central committees and it seems that they have nothing to do with one another. Certainly, this is how the situation appears to the foot soldiers on the ground. I have been sent in to infiltrate your people to discover whether you can be trusted, with a view to bringing our groups together and co-ordinating our activities. I must confess that Tatyana Ruslanovna’s belief that there is already a police agent in your midst concerned me greatly, as did Dolgoruky’s erratic behaviour. I communicated as much to my people.’

  ‘Why did your group not approach us directly?’ demanded Kirill Kirillovich.

  ‘It is not wise to do anything directly. One simply does not know who to trust. I admit my clandestine behaviour may have backfired. I regret that I was not more open with you, Alyosha Afanasevich, but you must understand that I was obeying the commands of my own central committee.’

  ‘This is all a lie!’ cried Varvara Alexeevna wildly.

  ‘One thing will prove I am telling the truth. The death of Porfiry Petrovich. I sincerely believe it is only a question of time. I urge you to await more news on that front before you dismiss me as a police spy.’

  ‘You seem certain, now, that he will die. You did not before,’ observed Botkin warily.

  ‘In all honesty, I don’t know how he has survived this long.’

  ‘We must consult with the central committee,’ advised Kirill Kirillovich. ‘Our central committee. They will decide what your fate should be. I would not hold out too much hope, if I were you. Even if your story proves to be true, they will not be favourably impressed by the deception you have used.’

  ‘You must take me to see Dyavol. I will talk to him directly and put myself at his mercy. I have things to tell him that I cannot disclose to anyone else. I bel
ieve I know who the spy in your midst is.’

  A startled energy transmitted itself between Botkin, Kirill Kirillovich and Varvara Alexeevna. It was Varvara Alexeevna who spoke for them all: ‘You are accusing one of us! Oh, you are very clever, but you will come unstuck! The truth will come out in the end. We’ll wind in the pail and discover it cracked.’

  ‘Naturally, we will communicate what you have said to the central committee,’ said Botkin. ‘They will decide what is to become of you. I warn you, they do not look kindly on those who would betray the cause.’

  ‘Do what you must do,’ said Virginsky. ‘I have nothing to fear.’

  Botkin nodded sharply and deeply, his head scything the air like an executioner’s blade.

  *

  Kirill Kirillovich stayed with him for the rest of that day, refusing, however, to enter into conversation of any kind. All Virginsky’s questions – ‘When will Botkin be back?’ ‘Has he gone to consult with the central committee?’ ‘How long will it take them to come to a decision?’ And even, ‘Is this how it was with Pseldonimov?’ – were met with resolute silence. There was an element of punishment to this, of course. But Virginsky also got the impression that the other man did not quite trust himself. Either he was afraid that he would give away something that might be useful to a potential enemy of the cause, or that he would be swayed by Virginsky’s persuasive arguments.

  Virginsky expected the central committee to act swiftly. That is to say, he expected the end at any moment. But the hours dragged on, even without Varvara Alexeevna’s ormolu clock to mark them out.

  When Varvara Alexeevna herself returned at the end of her working day, she gave Virginsky a new look. Her usual suspicion was shadowed, for the first time, by something Virginsky recognised as doubt, the source of which seemed to be the copy of the Police Gazette she was clutching. She took Kirill Kirillovich into the bedroom for an urgent conference.