A Razor Wrapped in Silk

by R. N. Morris

  ‘Why was the Tsarevich here? His political position is well known. I do not see him as a natural supporter of such a cause.’

  ‘The wellbeing of all his future subjects is naturally close to his heart.’

  ‘So he was here as a benefactor?’

  ‘What other capacity could there be?’

  ‘I wondered if he had an interest in any of the performers. Yelena Filippovna, for example.’

  ‘Your line of questioning is impertinent,’ said the elder Prince Naryskin.

  ‘And insulting,’ added the younger.

  ‘But I am afraid it is necessary, and permissible. Under the new laws, even the Tsarevich could be brought before a court to testify.’

  ‘Preposterous.’

  ‘I am surprised, sir,’ Porfiry confided to the elder prince. ‘I would have taken you for a supporter of the Tsar’s reforms.’

  ‘And so I am, but I had not imagined that it would be used as a means to harass one’s friends.’

  ‘It is not a question of harassing. However, if we are to fulfil our duties as investigators, we must be permitted to ask what questions we will of whomsoever we wish.’

  ‘Surely you have asked all the c-c-questions you need?’ cut in the younger prince heatedly. ‘All you have to do is c-c-catch Mizinchikov and then you will have your murderer.’

  ‘No doubt. But to investigate a crime properly one must understand what led up to it, which requires us to take statements from everyone involved.’

  ‘But the Tsarevich is not involved.’ The elder Prince Naryskin charged his assertion with absolute authority. ‘And it is nothing short of treasonable of you to suggest that he is.’

  ‘His presence here involves him.’

  ‘Then, sir, I say that he was not here, and whoever says that he was is a liar.’

  ‘Ivan Iakovich Bakhmutov says that he was here.’

  ‘All you need to know about that man is that he was born a Jew. He has changed his name and his religion. Burnstein, that’s his true name. Can you trust such a man?’

  ‘He describes himself as a friend of the Tsarevich’s.’

  ‘Nonsense. The Tsarevich would never be on friendly terms with a Jew. You know that.’

  ‘You will swear, under oath, that the Tsarevich was not here?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But you just admitted to me a moment ago that he was!’

  ‘Be careful what you accuse me of, sir. A magistrate may be stripped of his office. And then he is just a man. It becomes a case of one man’s word against another’s. And indeed, of a gentleman’s word against a Jew’s.’

  ‘I have a feeling you are about to tell me that you count the Tsar amongst your closest friends.’

  ‘Of course. That goes without saying.’

  Porfiry turned to the younger prince. ‘Prince Sergei Nikolaevich, allow me to express my deepest condolences. Please believe me when I say that I shall devote all my energies and all the resources at my disposal to apprehending the murderer of your fiancée.’

  ‘M-m-mi-zinchikov.’

  Porfiry inclined his head respectfully. ‘The questions I ask may be painful, but be assured that they are framed only with that purpose in mind.’

  ‘It will not bring her … back.’

  ‘Why – do you believe – did Captain Mizinchikov kill Yelena Filippovna?’

  ‘I c-c-cannot say.’

  ‘Jealousy perhaps? Was he in love with her too?’

  ‘His … way of loving … was not … not … civilised.’

  The answer prompted Porfiry to look again at the younger prince. ‘Had she given herself to him?’

  ‘How d-dare you suggest such a thing!’

  ‘How long had you been engaged?’

  ‘We announced our engagement two … days ago.’

  ‘Two da-a-ays ago?’ Porfiry drew out the word in a singsong. ‘Forgive me. Before that she was … unattached?’

  ‘We were very much in love.’

  ‘But she had other lovers.’ Porfiry did not frame it as a question. It was a private thought voiced.

  ‘I must protest!’ put in the elder Prince Naryskin. ‘Have you come here with the express purpose of driving a knife into the open wound of my son’s grief?’

  ‘No,’ answered Porfiry almost thoughtfully. ‘Rather, my purpose is to learn the truth. Before two days ago, Yelena Filippovna was not engaged to your son. I wish to know if she was amorously involved with anyone else at that time.’

  ‘M-m-mizinchikov,’ spat out the younger prince. ‘She was engaged to Mizinchikov. She broke it off to become engaged to me.’

  ‘One day she was engaged to Captain Mizinchikov, the next day she was engaged to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you. You see, it was painful but necessary. Now I am able to understand more clearly why Captain Mizinchikov might have killed Yelena Filippovna.’

  ‘What difference does it make why he did it? He did it. That’s all you need to know.’

  ‘A jury may need to know more, however,’ concluded Porfiry with a strained bow.

  *

  ‘These skin-deep liberals are worse than the reactionaries.’ Porfiry’s remark, made under his breath as the door to the red drawing room closed behind them, drew a look of surprise from Virginsky. Before he could reply, however, the door re-opened and the younger Prince Naryskin followed them out. The rigours of the evening showed in his face, which had a rawness to it, as if it had been struck repeatedly. His eyes, though, seemed possessed of a cold resolve.

  He closed the door carefully and drew himself upright.

  ‘This is where it g-gets you.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Porfiry.

  ‘My father’s … liberal ideas. He is regretting them now. The Tsar is to blame for much. His insane and unnecessary reforms … he has opened a Pandora’s … box.’

  ‘There are many who share that view, I believe.’

  ‘The labouring c-c-classes need flogging, not education.’

  ‘You were not yourself a supporter of Maria Petrovna’s school?’

  ‘I allowed myself to be … p-p-persuaded to lend my support.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Lena. She was at school with Maria Petrovna. Although she had not seen her for many years, she had followed her philanthropic … c-career. I believe that she saw it as a way of making amends, to involve us all in supporting this project.’

  ‘For what did she have to make amends?’

  ‘I don’t know. For her life, perhaps. It was strange. This seemed to be a … c-c-cause very … c-close to her heart, although she was reticent about renewing her a-c-c-quaintance with Maria Petrovna. She seemed to want to work behind the scenes.’

  ‘Although tonight she was to have taken the leading role on the stage, was she not?’

  ‘Yes, well, that was d-different. She always did love theatrics. As for this evening, I was against it … from the beginning. I knew it would end … b-badly.’

  ‘But surely you did not know it would end with Yelena Filippovna’s death?’

  ‘She had asked for it.’

  ‘Good heavens, Sergei Nikolaevich! Think what you are saying! Can you be serious?’

  ‘I mean it c-c-quite literally. In fact, she demanded it. She asked me to k-k-kill her. Two days ago. And when I refused, when instead I asked her to marry me, she … she must have made the same demand of M-m-mm … of him.’

  ‘Mizinchikov?’

  ‘She was a troubled and unhappy woman. I … foolishly … be-believed I c-c-could make her happy.’

  ‘She wanted to die?’

  ‘It was the only freedom left to her.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Why do you say that?’

  ‘She was a woman.’

  ‘But not all women are driven to desire their own deaths.’

  ‘Not all are as c-c-consummately … logical as Lena.’

  ‘She sounds to have been an extraordinary woman. But tell me, why di
d you not say this just now?’

  ‘I did not want my father to n-n-know. He has always been against my engagement to Yelena. It has been his c-c-custom to blacken her name to me. I did not want to allow him this final triumph.’

  Porfiry angled his head sharply as he considered the prince. He gave a slow nod. ‘I see. Yes. I think I can understand that.’ To Virginsky, he added: ‘Pavel Pavlovich, can you understand that?’

  Virginsky gave a dismissive grunt.

  ‘We are all sons,’ said Porfiry, finger-drawing a loop in the air to link them. ‘Now tell me, how is her sister – Aglaia Filippovna, is it not?’

  ‘The doctor has sedated her. It is important that she rests.’

  ‘Her testimony will hold the key to this case, it is clear.’

  ‘I only hope that the shock has not destroyed the balance of her mind. She was not the most stable of individuals, even before this.’

  ‘I take it that the family have been informed? She should have her mother with her,’ said Porfiry. ‘Perhaps it would be as well for us to talk to the parents?’

  ‘There is no family. Their parents are both d-dead.’

  Porfiry rocked backwards as he took in the information. ‘Tragedy upon tragedy. We shall leave her to her physic-induced oblivion. It is perhaps the last peace she will know in this world. Pavel Pavlovich, I fear that there is little more we can do here tonight.’

  ‘What about the rest of the witnesses?’

  ‘Everyone from whom we have taken a statement may be allowed to go home.’

  ‘You do not wish to cross-examine them yourself?’

  ‘I am content to rely on the statements you and others have taken.’ A terse impatience accelerated Porfiry’s words. And then he was left all at once stooped and exhausted. ‘There is a limit to the suffering one can endure in a single day.’

  9

  A repellent curiosity

  The audience and performers were held together in the candy box theatre. Most had been interviewed once by now and were impatient to be gone.

  A stale bodily smell hung in the room. As Porfiry entered, he saw a woman spray cologne from an atomiser to dispel it.

  At his side, Virginsky drew himself up in preparation to addressing the room. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. ‘Would those of you who have already been interviewed please take a seat on the left hand side of the auditorium and those of you yet to be interviewed on the right.’ Virginsky indicated the relevant directions with clear arm gestures. ‘Once I have confirmed that I have your statement, you may go.’

  This announcement was met with a mixture of ironical cheering and despondent jeers. It prompted a flurry of movement, the crowd’s weariness temporarily dispelled by the novelty of having something to do.

  As the witnesses moved about, Porfiry scanned the auditorium and was surprised to see the man he was looking for dressed in the garb of a butler, sitting on the edge of the diminutive stage as if it were an upturned crate. He regarded the activity around him with a bored detachment. The unexpected servant’s livery was not the only change that had come over him. The slight, boyish man had filled out into a barrel-shaped figure. His face too was fuller and fleshier. Whereas once it had appeared smooth and unnaturally youthful, it was now so deeply lined that the effect was equally unnatural. There was still something childlike about his features, but he looked like a child who had aged prematurely, through some strange disease. He held a cigarette in an ebony holder, and watched, engrossed, as the swirls of smoke rose and drifted from its burning tip.

  ‘Prince Bykov?’

  The prince looked up vacantly, the tedium of the night instilling a glazed stupefaction into his face. The sight of Porfiry galvanised him. He sat up sharply. Something like panic flashed in his eyes. ‘You?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I am the investigating magistrate. A woman has been murdered. Of course, you know that.’

  ‘How could I not. She ruined my play.’

  ‘That was very thoughtless of her.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I know. I shouldn’t say such things. It is callous and unfeeling of me. But I am an artist. I make no apologies for that. Artists are above the norms of morality.’

  ‘It is very dangerous of you to make such admissions to a magistrate.’

  ‘Surely you do not suspect me of involvement in this lurid crime? To begin with, there is the question of taste.’ Prince Bykov screwed his face into a wrinkled clump of disgust. ‘Besides, I was on stage at the time.’ The prince held his arms outstretched to indicate his costume. ‘I might also say that I had no motive. Indeed, I had every motive to keep her alive, at least until the end of my play.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Oh, I would happily have murdered her then. Yelena’s beauty was extraordinary. But her talent was rather less than average. And her temperament, frankly, appalling. The last few weeks have been a torture for me.’

  Porfiry smiled indulgently. ‘I was interested in the title of your play. The Vanished Lover. I wonder, did you ever go to Switzerland?’

  Prince Bykov gave a start, then looked the magistrate up and down with a new interest. Somehow what he saw seemed to relax him perceptibly. ‘You have a good memory, Porfiry Petrovich. I did indeed go to Switzerland.’

  ‘And did you find … what you were looking for?’

  ‘No. And so, I am back in Petersburg.’

  Porfiry smiled distantly and nodded. ‘Your friend – Ratazyayev … that was his name, was it not?’

  ‘Again, I congratulate you on your memory.’

  ‘Whatever became of him, I wonder?’

  ‘I have no idea. He vanished from my life without a trace. I have given up looking for him now.’

  ‘When you stop looking for something is often when you find it.’

  ‘Is that a proverb?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It should be.’

  ‘However, they do say wild ducks and tomorrow both come without calling.’

  Prince Bykov snorted smoke appreciatively. ‘Yes, a wild duck. That’s Ratazyayev all right.’

  Prince Bykov’s smile became wistful. ‘The thing is, I no longer wish to find him. I certainly do not wish him to head my way. A bird may be known by its flight, you know. He flew … away.’ Prince Bykov made a fluttering sweep with the hand that held the cigarette, trailing smoke. ‘And so, by that act of his, for the first time, I truly knew him.’

  The pain this knowledge had entailed filled the prince’s eyes with moisture, and Porfiry found himself blinking in sympathy, although his own eyes were, he was sure, quite dry.

  *

  As he was leaving the theatre, Porfiry caught sight of Maria Petrovna deep in conversation with the shovel-bearded man to her right. They were sitting with those who had already been interviewed, but she seemed in no hurry to leave. She left it to others to clamour around Virginsky, demanding to be released. She looked up as Porfiry approached. Her face lit up in recognition and perhaps even pleasure. Porfiry had the impression she had been waiting to speak to him. She rose from her seat, squeezing out along the row. The shovel-bearded man gave Porfiry a look of passing curiosity.

  ‘I did not expect to see you again so soon, Porfiry Petrovich.’

  ‘Nor I you, Maria Petrovna.’

  ‘This is a terrible business.’

  Porfiry nodded gravely.

  ‘Naturally, I will do whatever I can to help.’

  One or two people watched them with half-aroused interest, latching on to any novelty as a relief from their boredom. Porfiry sensed their attention. ‘Perhaps you would care to step outside?’

  They entered the dimly lit corridor.

  ‘May I ask you about Yelena?’

  The name sapped Maria Petrovna’s face of energy and colour. Her eyes shot downwards. ‘Poor Yelena. It’s so horrible.’

  ‘You were good friends?’

  ‘I had not seen her for many years. But we were once close.’


  ‘I am very sorry. Death is always difficult to bear, but the death of one so young, under such circumstances, it touches everyone.’

  ‘Her fiancé must be devastated,’ said Maria.

  ‘Yes, I am sure.’

  ‘When I saw him, he appeared strangely calm.’ Maria Petrovna’s voice became distant.

  ‘Do you know the officer concerned? Captain Mizinchikov?’

  ‘I had never seen him before tonight.’

  ‘And what of Ivan Iakovich Bakhmutov?’

  ‘I do not know that man at all.’

  ‘Can you shed any light on Yelena’s relationship with Captain Mizinchikov?’

  ‘No. I’m sorry. As I said, it is many years since we last spoke. I regret – I greatly regret – that I did not get the chance to speak to her tonight. I only know what Aglaia Filippovna told me.’

  ‘You spoke to Aglaia Filippovna?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Before the performance. At the time of the terrible scene in the entrance hall.’

  ‘Ah yes. The slapping.’

  ‘Yes.’ Maria Petrovna’s face was pinched with disapproval.

  ‘Aglaia Filippovna spoke about her sister?’

  ‘Yes. She said that the man called Bakhmutov had once kept her as a mistress and that she was his to dispose of as he wished.’

  ‘I see. Certain things are beginning to make sense. I thank you, Maria Petrovna.’

  ‘Porfiry Petrovich?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘May I see her?’

  Her eyes oscillated wildly, as if seeking escape from the prospect she had just voiced.

  Porfiry tried to calm them with his own gaze. ‘I do not advise it. Do you want your abiding memory of her to be as she is now, or as she was when you were friends? She has been brutally attacked. These sights have a way of etching themselves on the soul. You are tired. Go home.’

  ‘You don’t understand. There are things I have to say to her.’

  ‘She cannot hear you. Go home. Kneel before the icon and pray for her soul. Give your words to God. He will pass on your message.’

  ‘You are a believer?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Porfiry.

  ‘Even with these sights etched on your soul?’