by R. N. Morris
Porfiry sighed out a cloud of smoke.
Neither man spoke. Porfiry went back to opening his mail as if Virginsky had said nothing remotely of interest to him. Virginsky returned the ring to its box and replaced the lid, though he left the photographs on Porfiry’s desk. He then took out from the inside pocket of his frock coat a folded sheet of paper. ‘I have written my report, based on these findings.’
Porfiry nodded.
‘The burden of my report,’ continued Virginsky, ‘is that circumstantial evidence strongly suggests the possibility that Yelena Filippovna Polenova murdered Dmitri Krasotkin, Artur Smurov and Svetlana Chisova.’
‘For what motive?’
‘I do not speculate as to her motive. That must remain closed off from our enquiry. She is after all dead. And you know the saying, the soul of another is like a dark cellar. However, I would suggest that the deaths of these three children are not unconnected to her own death, and in fact provided her murderer with his motive.’
‘Which is?’
‘To prevent any further killing.’
‘You are suggesting that Yelena Filippovna was subject to uncontrollable murderous impulses and that the only way to curtail her homicidal activities was to kill her?’
‘You may put it like that, if you wish. Mizinchikov loved her but somehow he found out about her crimes. Perhaps she told him herself, to taunt him. Or perhaps this is what lies behind the fact alluded to in Prince Sergei’s testimony, that Yelena Filippovna sought her own death. Guilt, and a horror at her own actions, prompted her to make that grotesque demand. And consider what effect this revelation would have had on Captain Mizinchikov’s mind. To be confronted with such horror, to discover that the woman he loved was a monster. Rage, perhaps, played a part in it. Fear, too. And love. He would not have wanted this horrific truth to get out. Killing her was one way to keep her secret safe. She would never be in a position to reveal it herself, at least.’
‘But why would she kill the children? That is the point past which I cannot get,’ protested Porfiry.
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Virginsky. ‘But I fear that it may have something to do with Maria Petrovna. She is the connection between Yelena Filippovna and the dead children. Did not Prince Sergei say that Maria Petrovna’s school was a cause close to Yelena Filippovna’s heart? Perhaps it held a special place there, but not in the way that Prince Sergei imagined.’
‘All this is dependent on a colossal supposition – no, worse than that, two colossal suppositions. First, that the distinctive marks on the children’s necks were caused by the impression of a ring. Second, that the ring responsible is that worn by Yelena Filippovna. You realise, Pavel Pavlovich, that if either of these suppositions is false, then the flimsy construction of your theory will collapse.’
‘My theory? All I have done is put into words what you yourself suspected when we first saw the marks on the children.’
‘Be that as it may, whoever is to be credited with this theory, it remains unproven, and, frankly, incapable of proof.’
Virginsky appeared sanguine in the face of Porfiry’s objections. ‘For the time being, yes. But as soon as we find Captain Mizinchikov, he will be able to confirm it.’
‘If he chooses to co-operate,’ said Porfiry dubiously. ‘It is conceivable that he would deny such a construction of events, in order to protect the memory of Yelena Filippovna.’
‘But it places his own crime in an entirely different light. You know the way our Russian juries are. Excitable, and sentimental. Above all, inexperienced. No Russian jury would convict him. He will be seen as a saviour of children. If he could be persuaded to see the affair in those terms, with the promise of an acquittal, he may be willing to co-operate.’
‘You have just reminded me of the third questionable supposition upon which your theory is constructed. That Captain Mizinchikov is Yelena’s murderer.’
‘You no longer consider him a suspect?’
‘The bloodstains on the tunic do not condemn him.’ Porfiry waved Dr Pervoyedov’s report. ‘The blood on the tunic did not come from a pumping neck wound. It is far more likely to have come from a lacerated cheek.’
‘But blood from his own face would not have made that pattern,’ insisted Virginsky forcefully. ‘And so much else certainly incriminates him.’ Virginsky paced the room impatiently as Porfiry looked on amused. ‘We need to talk to Mizinchikov!’
‘But we do not have Mizinchikov!’
‘He must be persuaded to hand himself in.’
‘And how do you propose to achieve that desirable goal?’
‘Through the newspapers. If we were to release an account of our discoveries, intimating the nature of consequent hypotheses, hinting too at the leniency that Yelena Filippovna’s murderer may expect …’
Porfiry contracted his lips distastefully as he stubbed out his cigarette. ‘No. Out of the question. It would be utterly irresponsible to publicise such wild and unfounded speculations. I forbid it. Do you understand me, Pavel Pavlovich? I absolutely forbid it.’
Virginsky seemed taken aback by the strength of Porfiry’s reaction. ‘But why? Surely we must use whatever means we can?’
‘And if this theory turns out to be mistaken? Have you stopped to consider what damage may be wrought by the release of such a story, not only upon the reputation of a dead woman, but also on the state?’
‘What has the state to do with this?’
‘The murder of factory children by a woman of high birth? Can you imagine anything more provocative … more inflammatory?’
‘But if it is the truth?’
‘If it is the truth, that would be a different matter. However, until we are in a position to prove or disprove these allegations against a woman who cannot defend herself, we must maintain the most scrupulous discretion. No good can be served by seeking publicity at this stage of the investigation.’
‘I beg to differ,’ said Virginsky stiffly.
Porfiry lit another cigarette and glared at his junior colleague warningly. He held the look for a moment and then turned back to processing his correspondence.
‘You cannot hold back the inevitable,’ said Virginsky darkly.
But Porfiry had not heard. His attention was held by the letter in his hands, hands that were now shaking. A precarious column of ash toppled from the burning cigarette he held between his index and forefinger knuckles. He made no move to clean it up. As he had unfolded the letter – a single sheet of crisp white paper – he saw a length of red silk fall weightlessly onto his desk. Porfiry felt the muscles of his heart contract. There was only one line of writing, a flow of red ink that seemed to be a second thread, cleverly lain on the page. He read: For every child killed by the oppressive machine, we will take the life of one member of the enslaver class.
‘Pavel Pavlovich.’ His voice came thickly, as if it cost him much effort to produce it. ‘You must look at this.’
26
At the banya
‘Slava! Slava! Where is that man?’
It was Porfiry’s turn to pace the room. His steps were short and agitated. His eyes flickered with wild excitement.
He went to the door that led to his private apartment. As he opened it, his eye was caught by the tail end of a movement. It could have been a trick of the light, a shifting shadow created by the opening of the door. Or it could have been another door closing, carefully, noiselessly. A moment later, the door in question – the one to Slava’s room – opened and Slava came out, his face blandly expectant.
‘You called?’
‘Yes. Please fetch the samovar.’
‘I am to serve you in your chambers?’
‘Yes. Bring glasses for myself and Pavel Pavlovich. With lemon. And sugar.’
Slava nodded sharply, then turned towards the kitchen door.
Porfiry waited till he was out of sight before closing the door.
Virginsky was still studying the note, as if it were crammed with words, instead of bearin
g just a single line of text.
‘It changes everything,’ said Porfiry breathlessly. ‘You have to admit it, Pavel Pavlovich.’
‘If it is genuine,’ said Virginsky, turning the sheet over as if he expected to find evidence of trickery on the reverse.
‘Of course it’s genuine! The thread! Who knew about the thread? Other than you and I – and the murderer?’
Virginsky wrinkled his face sceptically. ‘It could be a coincidence.’
‘Are you mad?’ Porfiry began pacing again, impelled by indignation. ‘One does not encounter coincidences such as this! A red thread found on a murder victim – a red thread sent by someone claiming responsibility for that very murder!’
‘Very well. I accept it is not a coincidence. However, it is possible that this has been sent to us by the murderer in order to mislead. To lend the crime a political aspect which it does not in truth possess. Mizinchikov—’
‘Mizinchikov did not write this.’
‘But if he did, it would be a way of deflecting suspicion from himself.’
‘No, no, no – you have it all wrong, Pavel Pavlovich. Let us say, for the moment, that Captain Mizinchikov did kill Yelena Filippovna. You will concede, I think, because you have said as much yourself, that his crime was … well, if not a crime of passion, then something very akin to it. Either he killed her out of jealousy, as we first believed, or out of horror, as your most recent theory speculates.’ Porfiry broke off pacing and narrowed his eyes in concentration. He unconsciously tapped his breast pocket for his cigarette case. Once the ritual of taking out and lighting a cigarette had been completed, he seemed calmer, more reflective. ‘And not simply horror, perhaps. Compassion, too. For her, and for her future victims. But as we have already had occasion to note, those who are driven to such crimes do not normally engage in such evasive strategies as this.’ His eyes darted towards the note that Virginsky was holding.
‘And so you are minded to accept this note at face value?’
‘I am certainly inclined to take it very seriously indeed. I intend to consider its implications as fully as possible.’ Porfiry cocked an ear towards the door to his private apartment, behind which the approaching rattle of the samovar could be heard. ‘Not here, however.’
Porfiry sprang to open the door, blowing smoke back over his shoulder, courteously away from Slava’s face. ‘Ah, there you are. I am afraid that Pavel Pavlovich and I have been urgently called away. You may drink the tea for us, if you wish.’
Suspicion compressed Slava’s face. ‘But you have only just asked for it.’
‘Such is the nature of our work, I’m afraid. Now be a good fellow and take it back to the kitchen, where you may drink it at your leisure.’
‘Where will you be?’ To soften the peremptoriness of his demand, Slava added: ‘Should anyone ask, that is.’
‘No one will ask,’ said Porfiry flatly. ‘And if they should, you are at liberty to say you do not know.’
Slava hesitated, apparently reluctant to go back into Porfiry’s apartment as he had been instructed. He seemed to fear it would place him at a disadvantage.
Porfiry made a shooing gesture with both hands.
Slava closed one eye, sighting Porfiry with the other. At last, he began to back away, though without turning his back on the magistrate, all the time viewing him through a single eye.
‘Good man,’ said Porfiry cheerfully, as he closed the door on him. He then hurried back to his desk and swept the note, the thread and the photographs into a green case file. ‘I think perhaps we should put this beyond the reach of prying eyes.’ He placed the folder in a drawer in his desk, which he locked, pocketing the key. Next he replaced Yelena’s ring in its box, which he held out to Virginsky. ‘Now, Pavel Pavlovich, if you would be so good as to return this ring to the police evidence room, I shall meet you back here in five minutes. There is something I must retrieve from my room before we go.’
*
This object turned out to be a curious conical hat made from beige felt, decorated with appliqué flowers. It was now the only item of clothing that Porfiry was wearing, apart from a pair of hemp sandals and a simple wooden crucifix around his neck.
He made the sign of the cross with the clump of leafy birch twigs in his right hand and stepped into the steam room. He felt his skin liquefy immediately. The wall of heat was almost impenetrable. He had to push himself into it, his whole body rebelling against the madness of that intention. The kick of his heart quickened alarmingly; each pounding thump another moment of his life ticked off. He looked down at his body forlornly. His chest sagged and the skin of his belly strained under the pressure of his paunch. Sweat clung to the translucent down of his body, made visible against the vibrant pink glow of his skin. He turned his head towards Virginsky. Nudity revealed the younger man’s latent athleticism. He was taller, leaner, physically stronger than Porfiry had ever been.
The steam room was quiet but not empty. Porfiry indicated a corner as far away as possible from any others.
They laid their hired towels out on the tiled bench that ran around the wall and sat down at right angles to one another.
‘Why are we here, Porfiry Petrovich?’ Virginsky posed the question with wry indulgence.
‘To sweat.’ Porfiry blinked rapidly. The sweat was flooding his eyes. The hot steam, too, made it difficult to see. ‘The salutary properties of the banya are well-known. I myself particularly value the steam vapour’s efficacy in clearing excess catarrh from my chest and nasal passages. At this time of year, I am prone to pneumonia. Only the banya can keep it at bay. In addition, the heat is cleansing spiritually as well as bodily. I feel the pores of my soul opening up.’ Porfiry closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through both nostrils. ‘Ideas and influences flow more freely through me. And, of course, there is the fact that one is naked. As a newborn babe.’
‘In a pointed hat.’
‘Ha! Naked, one is more aware of one’s humanity.’ With a grunt of exertion, Porfiry cracked the birch whisk down across his distended belly. The pain of the blow melted into the pain of the heat. He felt the boundary of his body open up even more, in an almost transcendent sense of physical dissolution. His wince relaxed into a blissful smile. ‘One feels the dirt and detritus of everyday life slip away. The mind is freed. The body restored. On top of all this, I find it has a palliative effect on my haemorrhoids.’
Virginsky gave a sly smile. ‘So … it was not to get away from Slava?’
Porfiry’s lips puckered out to kiss the steam. He licked the sweat dripping from his upper lip. ‘I can think here,’ was all he conceded. He laid his head back against the wall, eyes closed as he flicked his shoulders lazily with the whisk.
‘Do you not think, Porfiry Petrovich, that the arrival of the note obliges us to involve the Third Section? It does, after all, give the case a political aspect.’
Porfiry’s eyes flashed open. He shook the birch twigs towards Virginsky, striking him lightly on the chest.
‘Well?’ insisted Virginsky, evidently not satisfied with Porfiry’s response.
‘In my experience, the Third Section needs no invitation to involve itself in cases. We will be hearing from them soon enough. If Slava is indeed a spy, he will already have alerted his superiors to all that he knows – and possibly more. He suspects that I am excluding him now from our deliberations. This will provoke a change of strategy from them. I expect an overt intervention. We have come here to buy ourselves a little time.’
‘Do you not ever ask yourself whom are we fighting, Porfiry Petrovich?’
‘I am not fighting anyone,’ said Porfiry. There was a note of wounded innocence in the assertion. ‘There is a lot to consider here, Pavel Pavlovich. Are we really prepared to accuse Yelena Filippovna of murdering three children to whom she has the most tangential of connections, on the flimsiest of circumstantial evidence?’
‘You saw the marks. You saw the ring. It is not fanciful. That bruise is a precise imprint of the emb
lem on her ring – which she wore twisted round in such a way as to inflict just such a bruise.’
‘But the woman is dead. She cannot defend herself against the charge. And as yet, we have no motive.’
‘We must … speak to Maria Petrovna.’ Virginsky’s eyes darted uneasily, as if even he shrank from what he was suggesting.
Porfiry sighed. ‘Even to voice such allegations to someone who was a friend of the deceased is brutal.’
‘Frankly I am surprised at your fastidiousness, Porfiry Petrovich. You have never baulked at brutality before.’
Porfiry met this accusation with a look of mild rebuke. ‘But she is dead, Pavel Pavlovich!’ he insisted.
‘What difference does that make?’
‘She cannot be saved. We can only pray for her soul.’
‘With all respect, it is not our job to concern ourselves with saving people, Porfiry Petrovich. We must only uncover the truth and set in motion whatever judicial process arises from that truth. We are not concerned with souls.’
‘Perhaps you are right.’ Porfiry felt suddenly light-headed. ‘But what if she is innocent!’ He made the cry plaintively. ‘The note does not accuse her directly.’
‘Now it is you who are making a specious assumption, Porfiry Petrovich. You are assuming that whoever wrote the note knows who killed the children. But we cannot even be certain that they are referring to the same dead children. The note speaks only of children killed by the oppressive machine. That could just as easily refer to children dying of malnutrition, unnecessary disease, or factory accidents.’
