A Razor Wrapped in Silk

by R. N. Morris

  ‘If whoever wrote the note fulfils his promise, we are facing a bloodbath – in which all the victims will be highborn.’

  ‘A revolution, in other words.’

  Porfiry stirred the vaporous air in front of his face with the birch whisk, as if to see more clearly.

  ‘If Yelena Filippovna did not kill these children then someone else did. Someone wearing a Romanov ring. Possibly – it is not beyond the bounds of possibility – a member of the Imperial Family. Perhaps you now regret allowing the Tsarevich the opportunity to make his escape to the Crimea?’

  ‘No!’ cried Porfiry. ‘Will you go from accusing a dead woman to making unspeakable allegations against the Tsarevich?’

  Dim shapes stirred in the hot mist. The murmurs of outrage and excitement were audible.

  ‘Our first loyalty is to the truth, Porfiry Petrovich. Now, thanks to the Tsar’s own reforms, no one is above the law.’

  ‘But it always comes back to this question of why. Why would the Tsarevich murder these children?’

  ‘I do not insist that it is he. It could be any member of the family.’

  ‘You will exclude the Tsar, I trust!’

  Virginsky rippled his brows. ‘To come back to your question – why would anyone? Perhaps there are some crimes concerning which the question of motive is irrelevant.’

  ‘Not satisfactory, I’m afraid, Pavel Pavlovich. There is always a motive, however twisted, petty, or tenuous. The motive never justifies the crime, never fully explains it. And we may divine something else at work within the criminal’s mind, whether it be sickness or …’ Porfiry looked away from Virginsky. ‘Some other influence,’ he added reticently, almost sheepishly. Virginsky narrowed his eyes, noting the evasion. ‘But the criminal himself will always provide a motive, in which he believes, categorically.’

  ‘Is it not sometimes the case that a criminal will provide more than one motive, and that often they are contradictory?’

  ‘Sometimes the criminal is the last person to understand his own motivation. However, that does not mean that we, as investigators, must forego the attempt to understand. If we give up insisting on a motive, then …’ Porfiry stared into the steam. He had the fleeting sense that it swirled in an infinite abyss, that there was nothing behind it, and therefore nothing behind anything.

  ‘Then what?’

  Porfiry’s expression as he sought Virginsky’s eyes was despairing. ‘Then we have opened the door to moral chaos.’

  ‘That door is already open,’ answered Virginsky glibly. ‘You know as well as anybody that man is an irrational creature.’ When Porfiry made no reply but stared in mute indignation, Virginsky added: ‘And evil. You were going to say the word yourself, were you not? You drew back at the last moment because you understood that it undermined your argument.’

  ‘What do I care about arguments!’

  ‘In that case, you were afraid.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Well then, it was to maintain your position. You do have your position, Porfiry Petrovich: that man, even the vilest criminal, is capable of salvation. You cannot allow that there may exist a man who is irredeemably evil. A man, for example, who would kill children just for the sport of it.’

  ‘On the contrary. I know such men exist. I have met them and talked to them. And listened to their motives.’

  ‘Did you manage to save any of them?’ Virginsky could not keep the sarcasm out of his question.

  Porfiry closed his eyes and shook his head minutely.

  ‘No,’ confirmed Virginsky, relentlessly. ‘If you accept that such men exist, then logic insists that they may be found within any social class. Within any family. You can hardly believe that the propensity to evil may be contained by social boundaries.’

  ‘Enough!’ Porfiry began to thrash himself energetically with the birch whisk.

  ‘What do you intend to do?’

  Porfiry Petrovich lifted the conical hat from his head and looked inside it, as if he expected to find the answer to Virginsky’s question there. ‘We must do our job. That is to say, we must slowly and methodically gather evidence.’ He restored the hat to its former position and met Virginsky’s challenging look blankly. ‘As far as the deaths of the children are concerned, we have hardly begun to scratch the surface. It is certainly too early to jump to conclusions.’

  ‘You think that is what I have done?’

  Porfiry held out the birch whisk, as if it were an olive branch. ‘I think you are in need of this.’ When Virginsky did not take it, Porfiry shrugged and settled back into the heat.

  *

  After losing himself in the melting heat of the banya, the subsequent plunge into an icy pool restored the edges of his being with the vicious shock of a thousand slaps landing simultaneously. Once again his heart hammered out alarm. There was something reckless, almost self-destructive, about the rate of its pummelling. Porfiry felt the stab and twist of new pains. He tasted his own mortality. More than that, he sensed his heart at the edge of capacity. And yet, strangely, it seemed to gain strength from this forcible reminder of its own frailty.

  Drying himself briskly with the threadbare towel, Porfiry acknowledged a new energy in his muscles, a lightness to his bones, and a mental clarity that he had not experienced for a long time. He felt almost sorry for Virginsky at the sight of the younger man’s sullen, graceless movements. His limbs seemed to be weighed down with unhappiness.

  ‘Who are you fighting, Pavel Pavlovich?’

  Virginsky gave Porfiry a guarded look as he held his towel in front of himself defensively.

  ‘Did you not ask me that question earlier?’ explained Porfiry. ‘I am intrigued to know how you would answer it.’

  ‘The criminals, of course,’ said Virginsky.

  Porfiry laughed appreciatively. ‘Correct answer! Well done!’

  Porfiry continued to pat himself dry. ‘There is much work still to do. Difficult work. This is a murky business. And it is set to become even murkier. Other agencies and interests are sure to get involved, if they are not already. We need to know who our friends are, for it will be far from easy to discern our enemies.’ Porfiry sensed Virginsky shrink back under the force of his scrutiny. ‘I need to know that I can count on you, Pavel Pavlovich.’

  Virginsky’s mouth tightened pensively. Neither man said a word as they dressed.

  *

  Back in his clothes, Porfiry’s skin felt not just cleansed but renewed.

  They took a carriage north along Liteyny Prospekt. There was a moist chill to the air, which was heavy with the threat of snow. But their naked exposure to the extremes of the bath house had fortified them for whatever shocks the climate held. Both men fixed their gaze on the District Courthouse as they rattled past it. The solid square building, with its high arched windows, like wide-open eyes searching out the truth, seemed to be the physical embodiment of an ideal.

  Porfiry caught the challenge brimming in Virginsky’s look. ‘We must place our faith in it, Pavel Pavlovich,’ he said gently.

  Virginsky blinked and shook his head as if he had been roused from a deep reverie. His brow contracted into a questioning frown.

  ‘Progress,’ continued Porfiry, ‘the progress of Russia, is taking place in there, through the exercise of legality. The judicial process, Pavel Pavlovich, the open examination of evidence, the presenting and arguing of cases, without prejudice or fear … progress. Adversarial dispute … progress. Cases heard before a jury … progress. And we – you and I – we are the agents of progress. Simply by doing our job, by investigating crimes, gathering evidence, pursuing leads, interviewing suspects – in so many ways are we taking Russia forward. We do not need a revolution, Pavel Pavlovich. The change you desire will come about simply by virtue of us doing our job.’

  ‘That is what you believe.’ Virginsky’s emphasis sought to distance him from Porfiry’s optimism.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But the tsar who gave this licence may just as easily ta
ke it away.’

  ‘He cannot. Besides, he does not want to.’

  ‘Perhaps not now, not today, not this tsar.’

  ‘Is that what lies behind your suspicions of the Tsarevich? Fear of a reactionary backlash?’

  ‘Do you consider me so naïve?’

  ‘It is not naivety, Pavel Pavlovich. On the contrary, it shows a sophisticated understanding of the power with which our office is invested. However, to bring a charge against an individual for political reasons would be an abuse of that power.Anyone who did so would be guilty of perpetrating an injustice. I trust you would agree with that?’

  Virginsky grunted his reluctant assent.

  ‘You cannot bring about a just society through injustice. In the same way that you cannot reach the truth through lying – though many are seeking to do exactly that.’

  The carriage drew up outside the Surgical-Medical Academy just as the first fine particles of snow began to swirl in the grey.

  ‘By doing our job, Pavel Pavlovich. Carefully, meticulously, patiently.’ With that Porfiry forced himself out of the carriage, like a cork popping from a bottle.

  27

  I. P. S.

  ‘You have come back?’ Professor Bubnov held the expression of distaste that he had worn all the way across the foyer.

  ‘Yes,’ said Porfiry, his eyes flickering coyly as though he believed Professor Bubnov’s exclamation had been prompted by irrepressible joy. ‘We went away. And now we have come back.’

  ‘I see.’ Professor Bubnov touched the tip of one finger delicately to his lips. ‘This is about the initials.’

  Porfiry gave an unconvincing performance of surprise. ‘Ah yes, the initials! How kind of you to remind us. Have you had any success in interpreting them?’

  ‘I know nothing about the meaning of any initials.’ Professor Bubnov seemed to be picking his words advisedly. ‘However, there is a man here who may be able to shed some light on them.’

  ‘Where is this marvellous luminary? You must take us to him immediately.’

  ‘He is not a luminary. He is a very lowly individual.’ If Professor Bubnov understood Porfiry’s pun he gave no indication of enjoying it. ‘Smerdyakov is a porter of sorts. It is his job to receive the bodies from the police.’

  ‘Then he truly is the man to clear up the mystery.’

  They were taken to a large storeroom at the rear of the academy, with wide double doors of an unloading bay open to the elements. A cloud of tobacco smoke hung over a screened-off area in one corner. Professor Bubnov approached the screen, seemingly to converse with the smoke. Eventually, a man dressed in a peasant’s belted shirt and high boots, with a pipe clamped between his teeth, stepped out of the booth. He had a lean, strangely bent face, his long jaw being at an angle to the rest of his head. His eyes were pinpricks of cunning. He took a moment to get the measure of Porfiry and Virginsky before approaching them.

  ‘You want to talk to me?’

  ‘You take receipt of bodies that are brought here by the police?’ Smerdyakov flashed a glance back towards the professor, who was in the process of vanishing beneath Smerdyakov’s smoke trail.

  ‘A-aye?’

  ‘Could you explain to me what happens? The police bring the bodies here … ?’

  ‘A-aye?’

  ‘And you record the receipt in the ledger book?’

  ‘No.’ Smerdyakov was startlingly emphatic in his denial. ‘I am not the one who writes in the book.’

  ‘But you do make some kind of record?’

  ‘I fill in a chit.’

  ‘I see. And the chit goes with the body to the morgue?’

  ‘A-aye?’

  Porfiry experienced a strange surge of gratification at the return of the equivocal refrain.

  ‘What details are recorded on the chit?’

  ‘You know. The standard ones.’

  ‘Please be more specific. I’m afraid I don’t know at all.’

  ‘Sex. Age.’

  ‘You are qualified to determine the age?’

  ‘I have a go.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Date. Time.’

  ‘And the details you put on the chit are subsequently entered into the ledger book?’

  ‘A-aye?’

  ‘Who is responsible for that?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Aye. I mean, yes.’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘No. Very well. What about the initials?’

  ‘Initials?’

  ‘Each entry in the ledger has a set of letters in one column. Professor Bubnov was not able to tell us the meaning of those letters. He rather thought you would be able to.’

  There was a stirring in the smoke. Smerdyakov determinedly refused to turn towards it. ‘Did he now?’

  ‘Yes. Are these letters taken from your chit?’

  ‘Maybe they are.’

  ‘I see. And if they were, what possibly could they mean?’

  ‘That’s who we got it from. For settling up, you see.’

  ‘Who you got it from? You mean to say they are the initials of the individual policeman supplying a particular corpse?’

  ‘A-aye?’

  ‘And the payment is made to the individual policeman, not to the force as a whole, or the station from which he comes.’

  ‘A-aye?’

  ‘Who pays them? Not you?’

  ‘No. Not me.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  ‘The bursar’s office. The chit goes to the bursar’s office. They present themselves for payment.’

  ‘It’s all very organised.’

  ‘It has to be.’

  ‘You receive a lot of bodies in this way?’

  ‘The students must have their corpses.’

  ‘The policemen who supply the corpses are all known to you?’

  ‘Maybe?’

  ‘If we were to get the ledger now, you would be able to tell us the identity and station of every officer entered in there?’

  ‘Ah! If I may intervene here.’ Professor Bubnov stepped forward from the cloud of smoke that half-enshrouded him. ‘I am afraid to say that the ledger has gone missing.’

  ‘Missing? How can this be?’

  ‘We have searched everywhere for it. I fear … it may have been … stolen.’

  Porfiry’s rage expressed itself in the mute and frantic snapping of his eyelids. ‘But why?’

  The professor gave a forlorn shrug.

  ‘I will tell you why. To prevent the information it contains coming into my hands. By God, I was a fool not to take the book when I had a chance. I misjudged you, professor. I thought I was dealing with a decent man, a man of humanity and compassion. I believed if I gave you a little latitude you would do the right thing. How wrong I was! My God! Do you not realise? This is murder we are investigating – the murder of three innocents – and all you are concerned about is protecting your sources of supply!’

  ‘But I know nothing about the disappearance of the ledger,’ protested Professor Bubnov lamely.

  ‘I know nothing, I know nothing! It’s always the same with you moral cowards. Be under no illusions, I hold you responsible for this, sir.’

  ‘We have turned the Academy upside down.’

  ‘You were the last person to have the ledger in his possession. You knew the importance of the book to the investigation. Don’t think you’ll get away with this. If the book does not turn up, you may face a charge.’

  ‘I cannot produce the book, sir. It is out of my hands.’

  ‘I want a name. Tell him to give us a name, or you will be arrested.’

  ‘But you don’t understand. It was the police. The police themselves came for it.’

  Porfiry’s eyes widened as he took this in. After a moment his expression contracted into a threatening glower. ‘That will not help you. Let me explain something. I am independent of the police. The police cannot protect you from me. From the law. My God, how it shames me as a Russian to be having this discussion. Tell him to
give me a name or you’ll suffer the consequences.’

  Professor Bubnov bowed assent.

  ‘You, Smerdyakov,’ snapped Porfiry. ‘I. P. S.? Who is I. P. S.?’

  ‘That’ll be Salytov. Lieutenant Ilya Petrovich Salytov. Of the Haymarket District Police Bureau. The one with the face.’

  Porfiry placed a hand over his eyes, as if to still their frenzied blinking, and groaned.

  28

  A representative of the Third Section

  The St Petersburg Gazette, Thursday, 17 October 1870

  INVESTIGATORS EXAMINE LINK BETWEEN MURDERS

  DEAD BEAUTY SUSPECTED OF HORRIFIC CRIMES

  Magistrates investigating the disappearance of three child factory workers, Dmitri Krasotkin, Artur Smurov and Svetlana Chisova, are considering the possibility that they were murdered by the society beauty Yelena Filippovna Polenova, herself the victim of murder, as reported in these pages on the 2nd instant.

  The outlandish theory hinges on the discovery of mysterious bruises on the necks of three juvenile remains, which have been positively identified as belonging to the missing children. Magistrates are of the opinion that these bruises correspond closely in shape and size to the design of a ring worn by the dead woman. It is supposed that, for reasons known only to herself, Mademoiselle Polenova strangled the children to death, and in the process of so doing, left the imprint of her ring on their innocent necks.

  As of yet, no one has been charged with the murder of Yelena Filippovna, although magistrates have appealed for Captain Konstantin Denisevich Mizinchikov, a deserter from the Preobrazhensky Regiment, in whose apartment an incriminating razor was found, to come forward and give an account of his conduct, at the Naryskin Palace, on the 1st instant, being respectively the location and date of Mmelle Polenova’s demise.

  A source at the Department for the Investigation of Criminal Causes has revealed that whoever killed Mmelle Polenova may have done so to prevent the slaughter of future innocents. If this is indeed the case, it is to be expected that such an individual would be treated with great sympathy by investigating magistrates. We urge the killer to hand himself over to the authorities, not only for the good of his own soul, but for the peace of mind of the entire city.