A Vengeful Longing: A Novel (St. Petersburg Mysteries)

by R. N. Morris

  Yegor smiled in begrudging admiration as he threw back the bolts. No sooner had he turned the handle than the door was pushed back into his face.

  ‘Where is he? Where is that villain?’ A middle-aged man with a cane in one hand bustled past Yegor. His silvered whiskers gleamed against the pink flush of his complexion. His eyes stood out in indignation.

  ‘Be careful who you are calling a villain!’ For all his master’s foibles, Yegor felt instinctively drawn to his defence.

  ‘Let there be no mistake about it. It is Setochkin I am calling a villain. And I will do so to his face.’ By now the irate gentleman was some way down the corridor. He struck each door he passed with his cane as if to beat Setochkin out of cover. ‘Let him come out! Let the coward show himself!’

  ‘By God!’ cried Yegor. ‘You cannot come here buffeting our walls and calling out names. Who do you think you are?’

  ‘I will tell you who I am. I am Ruslan Vladimirovich Vakhramev.’

  At this point one of the doors that Vakhramev had struck opened and a man of about forty-five, still in his dressing gown, appeared, blinking, bleary-eyed.

  ‘What the devil is this all about?’

  ‘This is Setochkin?’ cried Vakhramev incredulously. ‘My God, I had expected a golden Adonis, not this washed-up, bloated monk-fish of a man.’

  Yegor couldn’t help smirking. There was some accuracy to the description; he had to admit his master had seen better days.

  ‘What on earth was Tatyana thinking?’ said Vakhramev.

  ‘Ah!’ said Colonel Setochkin, a look of shame-faced understanding descending on his features. ‘So that’s what this is all about. You are -?’

  ‘I am Vakhramev!’

  ‘Tanya’s father?’

  ‘How dare you let my daughter’s name pass your lips?’

  ‘I fear that it will be very difficult to resolve this matter if I am not permitted to say her name. Perhaps, though, it would be better if you were to come with me into my study. I find it is preferable not to discuss these matters in front of one’s servants.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn about your servants.’

  ‘All the same, sir, if you will be so good as to accompany me, I believe we may settle the affair satisfactorily.’

  ‘You talk of satisfaction?’

  ‘No no no! You are mistaken. I didn’t mean that at all.’

  ‘It is for me to demand satisfaction, not you. Do you understand that?’

  ‘I was not -’ Setochkin forced a smile. ‘Sir, I very much fear that we are getting off on the wrong foot.’

  ‘I cannot be held responsible for that.’

  ‘I was not suggesting that you should be.’

  ‘It was you who began to talk of satisfaction. You cannot pretend to be a man of honour with me.’

  Setochkin’s expression darkened. ‘Be careful, sir. I am a reasonable man. Above all, I pride myself on that. Nevertheless -’

  ‘There is no nevertheless, sir. You have forfeited all right to a nevertheless. You did so the day you seduced my daughter.’

  Setochkin was about to say something, but an unfortunate coughing fit from Yegor just at that moment seemed to put him off his stride. Yegor felt his master’s attention on him and regretted his incontinence. ‘I must insist that we continue this discussion in my study, sir. If only for Tatyana’s sake.’

  Now Yegor felt himself the object of Vakhramev’s disapproving scowl. ‘Very well. Perhaps it would be better, after all.’

  Setochkin held out one arm, allowing Vakhramev to go first. The other man shook his head contemptuously as he walked past.

  Yegor sought his master’s eye again but was refused it. The study door was closed to him. He heard the visitor’s voice rise immediately to a shout. Setochkin was compelled to raise his voice in response. In the resultant clamour, it was difficult to make out any details of the recriminations levelled against Setochkin, or of his rebuttals, however much Yegor strained to listen. But the general drift was clear enough from what he had been privy to already; so when he heard the clump of footsteps coming back towards the door, he relinquished the thrill of eavesdropping and hurried off towards the kitchen.

  He found Dunya with her hands in a bowl of flour and butter. Yegor watched her naked elbows pump, fascinated by the deep T-SHAPED clefts in her bulbous upper arms, and was for the moment distracted from his purpose. Reflections on the weakness of human flesh imposed themselves upon him and an unexpected sympathy for his master’s predicament almost took the pleasure out of sharing what he knew. He blinked and looked away from those fascinating elbows.

  ‘He’s been up to his old tricks again,’ he said dourly.

  Dunya grunted. It was neither encouragement nor forbiddance.

  ‘Some gentleman’s daughter,’ continued Yegor. ‘It will end badly, no question. They’re working themselves up to a duel.’

  The wattle at her throat shook as a register of her contempt.

  ‘It’s a question of honour. That’s what it comes down to.’

  Dunya clicked her tongue in disdain.

  ‘It’s that haughty-looking one. Tatyana. I knew she was trouble as soon as I clapped eyes on her. My, she’s a beauty though. You have to give her that.’

  Dunya snorted, as if she would give her no such thing.

  ‘That’s all very well, Dunya, but you’re not a man. Not a man like the colonel.’

  ‘As he cooked the porridge, so must he eat it,’ said Dunya at last, with great deliberation.

  Yegor nodded at the truth of this. He even opened his mouth to comment on it. But any words he might have produced were taken from him, as was his breath, by a sharp explosive crack in the air. Having once served in the Izmailovsky regiment, he was in doubt as to what it was. ‘Gunshot!’

  Dunya lifted her hands from the bowl, causing the loose skin on her forearms to quiver. Cook and butler looked into each other’s faces, then all at once, Yegor turned towards the door. By the time he reached it, he was running.

  He found Vakhramev with the pistol in his hand. Colonel Setochkin lay face up on the rug, into which he was seeping a dark and prodigal colour. The angles of his arms were like those of a running man, frozen mid-bound. His features were set in a frown of puzzlement.

  ‘You’d better get the police,’ said Vakhramev calmly.

  ‘You’ve killed him!’

  ‘You’d better get the police,’ repeated Vakhramev, rather less calmly. He looked sharply down at the weapon he was holding and mirrored the expression of the dead man, frowning as if at some gross impertinence.

  2

  Lost and found

  ‘Ah, Polya, my dear, how delightful to see you again.’ Porfiry rose to his feet and gestured to the empty chair in front of his desk. ‘So good of you to pay us this visit. You have met Pavel Pavlovich, I believe.’

  Polina wrinkled her brow and regarded Porfiry suspiciously out of the corner of her eye as she sat down. She barely glanced towards Virginsky, who had just risen from the sofa. He sank back into it, withered by her disregard. ‘But I was presented with a summons. I had to come. That’s what the man said.’

  ‘Oh? Did they do that? I am so sorry. I expressed a wish to see you - just to clear up one or two things, you understand - and one of my subordinates’ - Porfiry glanced reproachfully at Virginsky, although in fact he had had nothing to do with issuing the summons - ‘was rather too zealous in executing it.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I wished to see you too.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Yes.’ Some kind of turmoil rippled in the girl’s brow. Porfiry could not shake off the impression that it was affected. ‘Something has been on my conscience.’

  ‘I see.’ Porfiry sat down slowly, not taking his eyes off Polina.

  ‘The master, Dr Meyer . . .’

  ‘Exactly!’ broke in Porfiry, rising to his feet excitedly. ‘That is exactly what I wished to talk to you about! How extraordinary! We were thinking along the same lines. It�
�s all right. He has told us everything. You are blameless.’

  ‘No. Not blameless. I . . .’

  Porfiry sat down again, smiling and blinking his face into a childlike openness.

  ‘Please do not look at me like that. I cannot bear it. You look so trusting. I do not deserve that look.’

  Porfiry pursed his lips and frowned. Polina burst into giggling laughter. She angled her head coquettishly as she looked at Porfiry.

  ‘And now you are making me laugh,’ she said in mock rebuke.

  ‘Perhaps it would be better if you looked at Pavel Pavlovich?’

  Polina cast a desultory glance at Virginsky. ‘No.’

  Virginsky shifted awkwardly between resentment and devastation.

  ‘My dear,’ said Porfiry. ‘I shall try to help you. Dr Meyer confessed that he made advances to you. He led us to believe that you rejected those advances. From his discomfiture, I rather imagined that your rejection was laced with a wholly understandable scorn. You humiliated him. Perhaps you blame yourself for that, but I do not. He tried to take advantage of your relative positions. It was an abuse. Your behaviour was entirely proper.’

  ‘But what if I had encouraged him?’

  ‘In what way might you have?’

  ‘Oh, surely you know how it is? There are looks . . . and sighs. Surely even you have had experience of such things?’

  ‘Of looks and sighs? Perhaps.’ Porfiry’s tone became solicitous. ‘Did you really encourage him?’

  ‘I cannot explain it. I did not like him. I did not like any of them.’

  ‘Sometimes, when one is unhappy, the only thing one can do, the only thing one wants to do, is make others unhappy. It was all the power you had.’

  ‘You are not how I imagined you would be. I thought you would shout at me and bully me. You are not at all like that. You are nicer than that.’

  ‘I am nice, Pavel Pavlovich!’

  There was a growl from the sofa.

  ‘But did he really kill them?’ asked Polina, her face struck with sudden horror.

  ‘I don’t know. What do you think?’ Porfiry gave every indication of being sincerely interested in her view.

  ‘I don’t know. Why would he?’

  ‘To . . . get them out of the way,’ suggested Porfiry, tentatively.

  ‘Yes, but why would he want them out of the way?’

  ‘So that he . . . and you . . .’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Ah, you see. I’m afraid that’s the way it might look. Did you ever, you and he, discuss . . .?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Getting them out of the way.’

  ‘No.’ Polina shook her head emphatically. ‘No, no - never.’

  ‘Of course. I am sorry. One is forced to ask these questions.’

  ‘If he did it, he did it on his own. I had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Do you think him capable of doing it, Polya?’

  ‘No,’ said Polina flatly. ‘Besides, he did not need to kill her. She would not have stood in his way, whatever he had wanted to do. If I had consented, she would have turned a blind eye.’

  Porfiry nodded. ‘What can you tell me about Mr Bezmygin? Did you ever observe Raisa Ivanovna with her friend Mr Bezmygin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were there grounds, do you think, for Dr Meyer to be jealous of their relationship?’

  ‘There were grounds, but he was not jealous.’

  ‘Really? How can you say that with such certainty!’

  ‘Because he did not love her.’ Polina narrowed her eyes and looked into Porfiry’s. ‘I do not believe he killed her. Why would he kill her? She was already dead to him.’

  Porfiry mirrored her expression, screwing his eyes up thoughtfully as he met her gaze. A knock at the door interrupted their silent consideration of each other. Zamyotov came in, breathless with excitement. ‘You are to go to Izmailovsky Prospekt. There has been a murder. A retired colonel has been shot. It is a terrible scandal. A respectable gentleman did it. Lieutenant Salytov is already there.’

  ‘Good heavens, if they know who did it and Lieutenant Salytov is there, why on earth am I required?’ Porfiry still had his eyes on Polina, for whom he wrinkled his eyes and winked. ‘Thank you, my dear. You have given me much to think about. Now, if you will forgive me, it seems that another case demands my attention.’

  ‘A strange coincidence, is it not?’ said Porfiry, affecting a casual-ness that he did not quite pull off. ‘Is this not the very building from which emerged the couple you spoke to? You remember, we were coming back from interviewing Bezmygin. You stopped the driver and ran back. An older gentleman and a young, rather pretty, lady.’

  Virginsky looked up at the apartment building they were about to enter. ‘Mmm, it may have been,’ he said dubiously.

  ‘Who were they?’

  Virginsky hesitated, his mouth open, a protest frozen on his lips. ‘My father,’ he said with dull finality. ‘And his wife.’

  ‘Ah! I wondered if it were so. There was a certain resemblance, you see, between you and the gentleman.’ Porfiry thought for a moment and then added: ‘I wonder if they knew our dead man?’

  Virginsky shrugged, as if he were trying to shake off the suggestion. ‘Is it always like this? You have not finished one case and you must begin another?’

  ‘I’m afraid the criminals of St Petersburg have altogether too little regard for those who must investigate them. They do not adhere to any almanac. Nor do they wait for all pending crimes to be solved before perpetrating their own. They are very bad.’ Porfiry held the door for Virginsky, his face deadpan.

  They climbed the stairs in silence. A politseisky guarding one of the doors on the fourth-storey landing indicated their destination.

  The door was opened by Lieutenant Salytov. The summer did not suit Salytov. With fiery-hair and whiskers, as well as being fair-skinned, the slightest increase in temperature turned his face as red and steaming as a bowl of borscht. He turned his back on them without a word of welcome.

  ‘So Ilya Petrovich,’ Porfiry called after him. ‘What do we have?’

  ‘It seems a clear-cut case.’ Salytov shouted out the words with his usual antagonism. He was used to Porfiry’s habit of overturning all obvious assumptions, and resented it, just as he seemed to resent his role in having to state them. ‘One Vakhramev was admitted earlier this afternoon - no precise time given, but the butler thinks somewhere around three. He was seen to argue with Colonel Setochkin. There was talk of a duel, according to the butler. Vakhramev was demanding satisfaction. Called Setochkin a villain. Threatened him with forfeiture of rights, or some such, according to the butler. Something to do with Vakhramev’s daughter. The two men went alone into Setochkin’s study. About ten minutes later, a shot was heard. Setochkin dead, Vakhramev holding the gun. The local doctor has had a look at him. He has given the cause of death as a single gunshot wound to the heart, subject to a full medical examination, of course.’

  ‘Whose gun?’

  ‘The gun has been identified as belonging to Colonel Setochkin. One of a pair of duelling pistols. The other was still in the case.’

  ‘Where was the case kept?’

  ‘In the same room, Setochkin’s study.’

  ‘In open view?’

  ‘The case was on the colonel’s desk.’

  ‘So Vakhramev could easily have taken the pistol from it. What is Vakhramev’s version of events?’

  ‘You can ask him yourself. I’m sure you will. He’s in here.’ Salytov had his hand on the handle of one of the doors.

  ‘But for now I am asking you.’

  Salytov sighed heavily. ‘He says he didn’t do it.’

  ‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’ said Porfiry.

  Salytov seemed taken aback by the response, and then annoyed, as though he felt he had let Porfiry get the better of him once again.

  Vakhramev was being held in the study, where Setochkin’s body still lay on the rug, a large stain, with a da
rk flowering of matter at its centre, on his chest. Porfiry’s quick scan of the room took in its inhabitant’s tastes.

  The walls were hung with Caucasian rugs over chinois wallpaper, the latter influence echoed in the Chinese peasant figures on the three-panelled shirmochka screen; two Moorish busts, one male, one female, confronted one another from opposite walls, across a Turkish ottoman, an Empire chaise longue and a number of wicker chairs. An interest in Old Muscovy and a fondness for folk art was apparent in a number of the decorations. There was a cluster of icons mounted in the holy corner. A large canvas-covered trunk with wooden ribbing increased the sense of clutter. The lid was thrown open. A melee of random objects - books, map rolls, bundled correspondence, a cavalry officer’s cap, a sabre in its scabbard, a number of stuffed birds - seemed to be frozen in the act of clambering to get out. Porfiry was affected by a strong desire to close the lid on this glimpse of a disordered life.