A Razor Wrapped in Silk

by R. N. Morris

  Deep down, Fedya knew that it was something other than the morning gloom that kept him in his bunk longer than his fellows. The darkness around him was mirrored by a deeper darkness inside him. He knew his body. He knew his bones. Something had taken root there. Something that pulled at his lungs with hooks and turned the screws on a bench clamp fixed to his spine. His days in the workshop were numbered, he knew. And, much as he hated it, if he had no place there, he had no place anywhere.

  He was worn out. He was dying.

  Loose bundles of mist rolled and disintegrated over the black river, the Bolshaya Neva as it was called at this point. Fedya hawked and spat into the water before continuing his reluctant slouch towards the shed.

  At first sight, it looked like a bundle of rags had been discarded in the lee of the shed. But no, he knew that it was not that, even as he willed his perception towards such an interpretation. Straightaway, the sickening lurch of his heart informed him: it was a body. The body of a child, judging by its size. A child discarded as carelessly as a bundle of rags. The head was towards him, the face hidden by a piece of sacking, but Fedya could see the child’s hands, the fingers curled into tight blue fists. He lurched towards it, his own hand trailing along the wall for support. He slumped down and lifted the sacking. His heart pounded wildly at the first shock of what was revealed. The eyes stared horrifically, the pale blue irises surrounded not by white, but by an intense blood-filled red. It seemed like a devil was staring out at him from inside that dead boy. Unable to look into those eyes any longer, Fedya closed the lids with his fingertips. And in the cold touch of death, he felt his own future. With his eyes closed, the boy’s humanity was restored to him. He was no longer a devil, just a child, a fellow worker, judging by his clothes, a brother. Fedya saw that the boy was about the same age that he had been when he had first been put to work in the Carr and Macpherson plant on Vasilevsky Island.

  Perhaps the boy was better off dead; he had been spared a life of misery and toil, that much was certain. Things were supposed to be better now; the Tsar had made them all free men. But such freedom meant little when you were enslaved by poverty.

  And yet something within Fedya rebelled against these thoughts. He looked again into the face, and again touched the cold flesh, laying his hand against the boy’s cheek.

  ‘Poor bastard.’ He wheezed the eulogy hoarsely and shook his head.

  *

  ‘Do you see the marks, Pavel Pavlovich?’ Porfiry was squatting on his haunches over the dead boy. As he leant back to allow Virginsky a clear sight of the neck, his body trembled violently, apparently with the strain of maintaining his balance in an awkward position.

  ‘Are you quite well, Porfiry Petrovich? You seem a little shaken.’

  ‘No,’ answered Porfiry tersely. ‘The marks, Pavel Pavlovich,’ he barked to Virginsky. ‘Concentrate on the marks. They are the same as the others, are they not?’

  ‘They appear to be.’

  Porfiry held up a hand to Virginsky who hauled him to his feet. ‘Are we to infer that Yelena Filippovna is the murderer of this child?’

  ‘That is patently absurd.’

  ‘It is at least unlikely. We have not yet ascertained the time of death, but from the state of the body it does not seem that the boy has been dead long. Certainly Yelena Filippovna has been dead longer.’

  ‘I accept that Yelena Filippovna did not kill him.’

  ‘But the marks? The marks correspond to the motif on her ring, do they not?’

  ‘There is no need to be facetious. I understand the point you are making well enough. If she did not kill this boy, as she clearly did not, then there is a possibility that she did not kill the others.’

  ‘It is to be regretted that an account has already been published contradicting that possibility.’

  ‘How many times must I tell you, Porfiry Petrovich, that I had nothing to do with the release of that information?’

  ‘It was not information. It was speculation.’ Porfiry’s face was stern. He looked away from Virginsky, as though dismissing him.

  ‘You are angry with me, but it is unfair of you.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Pavel Pavlovich! There are more important matters to attend to than your hurt feelings.’ Porfiry gestured down to the dead child. ‘Do you realise what this means?’

  ‘Yes. That Yelena is not the killer.’

  ‘But what else? Remember the note. “For every child killed by the oppressive machine, we will take the life of one member of the enslaver class.” Is this not another child killed by the oppressive machine?’

  ‘You think that a revenge murder will follow?’

  ‘We cannot keep this out of the newspapers. Too many people have seen the body.’ Porfiry watched a politseisky handle a group of labourers whose curiosity had drawn them out of the shed. Fear made them compliant and the single politseisky easily kept them back. A superstitious awe required them to crane their necks past him for a sighting of the body, but that seemed to be enough for them. It was as if the prospect of death sent them back to work rather than the intervention of the policeman. ‘Besides, news of this murder may not need to find its way into the St Petersburg Gazette for the sender of that note to know about it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Major Verkhotsev assures me that Slava is not a Third Section spy. He suggests a rather less pleasant possibility.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘He may be a member of a revolutionary grouping that is intent on carrying out a conspicuous assassination. Possibly he is connected to whoever sent the note.’

  ‘Why do you not arrest him?’

  ‘The Third Section is involved now. Major Verkhotsev will not allow me to terminate Slava’s employment, let alone arrest him. He is anxious that we do not arouse his suspicions.’

  ‘But in the meantime,’ said Virginsky, hotly, ‘as soon as Slava finds out about this latest victim, your life is endangered. We must keep the news from him.’

  ‘I am rather afraid that Major Verkhotsev would have us do the opposite. I believe he wishes to provoke Slava into making an attempt. Until he does, we have no evidence against him.’

  ‘But what if he is successful?’

  ‘I am touched by your concern, Pavel Pavlovich. However, I would ask you not to give the matter another moment’s thought. It may turn out that Major Verkhotsev is entirely mistaken. It certainly would be a bold assassin who dares to strike against an investigating magistrate in his own place of residence. You have met Slava. Does he strike you as one capable of such a coup? I think not. If he impresses one at all it is only by virtue of his ineptitude. Now, let us put these thoughts behind us and find out what we can about this poor unfortunate.’

  Porfiry approached the politseisky who had been controlling the crowd. ‘You were the first officer on the scene, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, your honour.’

  ‘Who is he, do we know?’

  ‘One of the foremen identified him as Innokenty Zimoveykin, your honour. Patronymic unknown, most likely on account of him being a bastard. He was a worker here at the Baird plant.’

  ‘Age?’

  The politseisky shrugged. ‘Who can say? Twelve? Thirteen at the most, I would have thought.’

  ‘I see. Very good.’ Porfiry called to Virginsky: ‘We have a name. That is something.’

  A sudden harsh shout drew attention to an auburn-haired man in a black tailcoat who was striding towards them wearing a stovepipe hat. His short legs pumped out like pistons encased in tweed. ‘You men, back to work. I don’t pay you to stand around gawping all day.’ His face was set in an angry scowl that was not softened by a set of stiff mutton-chop whiskers. ‘You!’ he barked at Porfiry. ‘I take it you are in charge here. How much longer do you intend to allow this macabre sideshow to continue? Cannot you see the disruptive effect it is having on my workforce?’

  Porfiry bowed in a conspicuous display of courtesy. ‘To whom do I have the honour of speaking?�
��

  ‘My name is Smith, Charles Smith. I am the director of the Baird plant.’

  ‘You speak Russian exceedingly well, Mr Smith, if I may say so. Without a trace of an accent.’

  ‘That’s no compliment. I was born here and brought up speaking it. My mother is Russian. My father English. That’s by the by. Who might you be?’

  ‘I am Porfiry Petrovich, Investigating Magistrate. This is my colleague, Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky. You will be aware that we are investigating the murder of one of your employees.’

  ‘Murder? You have determined already that a murder has been perpetrated?’

  ‘I am at a loss otherwise to explain the marks of strangulation around the boy’s neck.’

  ‘Marks?’ Smith looked darkly down at the dead boy. The truculence had gone from his voice. He sounded almost cowed. ‘Just like the other children.’

  ‘That is correct,’ said Porfiry. ‘The marks here are similar to others we have found.’

  ‘I thought she was dead, the woman you suspected of killing them. That’s what it said in the paper.’

  ‘Was the boy known to you?’

  ‘I employ eight hundred and fifty-nine workers. I cannot be expected to know them all personally.’

  ‘But he was very young, was he not? Surely he must have been one of your youngest labourers?’

  ‘What of it? I assure you he is legally employed. I know my obligations under factory law.’

  ‘Of course. I do not doubt it. I merely meant to suggest that his extreme youthfulness would have rendered him conspicuous. Unless it is the case that you employ many as young as him.’

  ‘No, not many. We don’t have much use for the really young ones, unlike the textile factories. They lack the strength to operate the heavy machinery our industry requires. However, it is useful to have a number of agile shrimps about the place. They can get inside the machines for cleaning and oiling and such like.’ Smith looked down at the bundle of interrupted childhood. ‘I dare say I have seen his face about the place,’ was all he was prepared to concede.

  ‘Do you concern yourself at all with their education?’ It was Virginsky from whom this question came, his voice bitter and accusatory.

  Smith turned his head sharply from the dead boy and took in the junior magistrate with a coolly assessing glance. ‘They receive all the education they require on the job. What’s the point of teaching them the extent of the empire when all the empire they will see is the inside of the workshop?’

  Virginsky seemed stunned into silence by the answer. A flood of colour rushed into his cheeks. Porfiry resumed the questioning, adopting a light conversational tone. ‘I have heard of some factory owners building schoolhouses for their child labourers. That has not been a course of action that the Baird plant considered?’

  ‘You are right.’

  ‘May I ask why not?’

  ‘I am not aware that we are obliged to.’

  ‘Some owners go beyond their obligations,’ suggested Porfiry, with a strained smile. He sought to keep his composure by a flurry of blinking.

  ‘I am not the owner. I am answerable to the board. I could not build a schoolhouse even if I wanted to – if the board did not agree to it.’

  ‘Has such a proposal ever come before the board?’

  ‘No, it has not. We limit ourselves to the discussion of strictly business matters.’

  ‘You do not consider the education of your workforce to be a business matter? Might it not have a beneficial effect on productivity, for example?’

  ‘Quite the contrary. It would only foster discontent and agitation. We have enough trouble with agitators as it is.’ Smith turned sharply to address a fresh cluster of workers who were gathering to view the body. Their faces were pinched with fear. ‘Nothing to see here. Back to work.’ Smith swept his hand upwards to shoo them. Their fear sharpened into hostility but they backed off, albeit slowly, as if making a point of going in their own good time. ‘The more that lot are taught their letters,’ confided Smith to Porfiry, ‘the more of them can read those infernal pamphlets. Destroy everything! That is the latest clarion call, I believe. Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous?’

  ‘And yet,’ answered Porfiry thoughtfully, as if he were speaking the words as they occurred to him, without fully grasping where they would lead him. ‘And yet … a society founded on the wilfully maintained ignorance of its largest constituent class, the class on which it depends for its material well-being – such a society, surely, is doomed to failure?’

  ‘I do not concern myself with society. I concern myself with output,’ answered Smith emphatically, and with a certain grim pleasure. ‘And, frankly, I am surprised to hear you, a magistrate, an upholder of the Tsar’s law, mouth such imbecilities. Why, you are talking like a nihilist! Like a student!’

  ‘I am surprised to hear it myself,’ admitted Porfiry, with a questioning look towards Virginsky. ‘But there is something about the sight of these dead children that stirs these sentiments to the surface of my consciousness. All the victims have been child factory workers like him. Indeed, is it not true, Pavel Pavlovich, that all were employed by foreign-owned – or substantially foreign-backed – factories?’

  ‘That is true,’ confirmed Virginsky.

  Porfiry turned a mildly reproving gaze on to the factory director. It was met with an indignant glare. ‘Is that what lies behind this? An attempt to blacken foreign capital? Someone would seek to turn the Russian public against honest men like me?’

  ‘It is another connection. All such connections are inevitably suggestive to the investigator. I fear it will be suggestive to the public too. It is almost as if the mighty industrial machine that powers the empire demanded their deaths. Poor Innokenty was sacrificed to feed the demon.’

  ‘Fanciful nonsense,’ barked Smith. ‘Worse than the other bilge you spouted.’

  ‘Why, then, were they killed, Mr Smith? Can you tell me that?’

  ‘Agitators. It’s all the work of agitators, I’ll wager. Now then, if you have no further questions for me, I will leave you to your … investigations. I have a factory to run.’ With a terse nod, he turned on his heels and stomped away.

  ‘A charming example of the modern capitalist,’ observed Porfiry.

  ‘I believe we will make a radical of you yet, Porfiry Petrovich.’

  Porfiry sighed as he took out his enamelled cigarette case. ‘More and more, Pavel Pavlovich, I find myself longing for the quiet life. That’s all.’

  ‘Oblomov.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right.’ Porfiry lit a cigarette. He watched his exhaled smoke rise slothfully, wisps of pale grey merging with the heavier grey of the sky. All around him, the factory chimneys churned out plumes of black smoke from the furnaces of the plant. He had the sense of the world burning itself up in a frenzy of production and consumption. He turned the cigarette in his fingers and studied it, as if the solution to the crimes he was investigating was contained within its burning paper. ‘Miller brand,’ he observed. ‘Didn’t one of the children work at the Miller tobacco factory?’

  ‘Yes. Svetlana,’ confirmed Virginsky.

  ‘Perhaps I should change to a Russian brand. I used to smoke Russian cigarettes but the manufacturer went out of business. We Russians are not natural entrepreneurs, I fear. We lack the necessary energy, perhaps.’

  ‘We are a nation of Oblomovs, sleeping our way to ruin.’ Virginsky’s tone was condemnatory. ‘Do you now believe there is a political aspect to these murders, too?’

  ‘It would help us to know where the other children were found, in relation to their workplace. Damn Salytov and his venal fellows. I hope to God there is nothing more than illicit profiteering to their involvement in these cases.’

  ‘How do we proceed?’

  ‘I fear we must make enquiries at the Rozhdestvenskaya Free School.’

  ‘You believe Innokenty was a pupil there?’

  Porfiry threw down his cigarette, although it was barely halfwa
y smoked, and ground it into the frozen earth with his heel. He turned and walked away without answering Virginsky’s question.

  31

  The Kammerjunker

  ‘I have a fearful presentiment.’ Maria Petrovna’s voice was bleak, her face drained of colour. She closed the classroom door as a wave of volubility crashed over the handful of children arrayed on the benches. ‘Your appearance is always associated in my mind with the most dreadful of sights. I pray for once that you have come with good news, or simply out of friendship.’

  Porfiry winced and Virginsky bowed his head, but neither found the words to disabuse her. She was determined anyhow to forestall them in the delivery of their message. Her eyes glistened and a sudden fire rushed to her cheeks, a bitter recollection all at once chasing out any friendly sentiments. ‘I read what they said about Yelena in the newspapers.’ Her voice was grim and recriminatory now. ‘Do you really believe that? Are you honestly accusing her of murdering those children? You did not know her as I did! Is it not enough that she has been cut down by an assassin? Now you must destroy her memory with these vile accusations! How convenient for you, to blame those crimes on a dead woman, who can no longer defend herself and has no champion to protect her memory. Now you can declare your case closed without the necessity of having to prove it. How convenient – and contemptible!’ Maria Petrovna trembled with the force of her anger. And then, suddenly, it seemed to leave her. Her head sagged, as a violent sob convulsed her frame. ‘I’m sorry,’ she relented. ‘I know you must have your reasons. The news came as a great shock to me. That she could have committed such terrible crimes. She must have hated me very much. I can think of no other reason why she would have attacked my children.’