by R. N. Morris
‘Maria Petrovna, I for one do not believe that Yelena Filippovna killed the children. That account does not represent the official position of my department. I cannot say how it found its way into the newspaper. I can only say that I regret it very much.’
Powerful, conflicting emotions pulled at the muscles of her face, leaving them ravaged. ‘Then it is not over.’
‘No,’ said Porfiry. ‘We have found another child. I am sorry, but we have to know whether he was a pupil here.’
The cry came from deep within her, a throbbing shift of anguish painfully disgorged. ‘You want me to go with you … to see!’ Her face was taut with horror.
‘No,’ said Porfiry gently. ‘That will not be necessary in this instance. We already have a positive identification of the body. All we need to know from you is if the boy was a pupil here. His name was Innokenty Zimoveykin.’
‘Innokenty?’ The wild careening of her eyes was all the confirmation they needed. ‘Why are they killing my children? It is because of me, isn’t it? I am to blame. I am to blame for all this. If I had not started the school, none of this would have happened. If they mean to hurt me, why don’t they just kill me? Perhaps they will. When they have killed all the children, they will come for me.’
Her voice had risen to an almost hysterical wail. The door to the second classroom opened and Perkhotin emerged, his face drawn with solicitude. He took in Porfiry and Virginsky with a quizzical frown. His fingers pulled anxiously at his great shovel beard, which seemed to have gained in mass since the last time Porfiry had seen it. ‘My dear Maria Petrovna, whatever is the matter?’
‘Innokenty,’ sobbed Maria. ‘Innokenty is dead.’
Perkhotin’s face was instantly drained of any remaining colour. His eyes stood out in shock. ‘No, that is not possible. I mean to say, how can it be? I had read in the paper that the police suspected Yelena Filippovna.’
Maria jerked her head violently in denial. ‘Yelena … is innocent.’
‘Is it the same as the others?’ Perkhotin demanded of Porfiry. ‘I mean to say, was he strangled? Were there the same marks?’
‘Yes. So far as we know, the details are the same in this case as with the other children.’
‘How extraordinary. We had hoped it was all over. It was shocking to read the charges against Yelena Filippovna, but at least it meant an end to it, or so we hoped.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Porfiry. ‘You taught Yelena Filippovna too, did you not? At the Smolny Institute, I believe.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ confirmed Perkhotin.
‘And her sister Aglaia?’
‘Yes. How is Aglaia?’
‘She suffered a terrible shock which her nervous constitution was not strong enough to withstand. It seems to have induced an onset of epilepsy. Added to that, she reacted adversely to the medication her doctor prescribed and sank into a coma from which she only periodically emerges.’
‘They have suffered so much, the sisters.’
‘You are referring to the deaths of their parents?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened to them, do you know? It is unusual for both parents to die prematurely.’
‘Their deaths are related, tragically. The father killed himself over some scandal. He shot himself, I believe. He was a military man. And then, I’m afraid to say, the mother also committed suicide … whether her heart was broken or her mind unhinged, I cannot say.’
Porfiry was unable to quell a fit of startled blinking. ‘That is an extraordinary tragedy.’
Perkhotin nodded his agreement gravely.
‘One cannot help wondering what effect it had on the girls. There were no other siblings?’ wondered Porfiry.
‘No.’
‘And what ages were they when their parents died?’
‘I cannot say for certain …’
‘Yelena was sixteen,’ cut in Maria. ‘Aglaia must have been fourteen, or perhaps fifteen.’
‘You were closest to Yelena?’ Porfiry narrowed his eyes into what seemed a calculating expression. His voice was compassionate though.
Maria nodded wordlessly, her lips pressed tightly together, as if she feared what she might say.
*
Soon after returning to his chambers, Porfiry was visited by Lieutenant Salytov, his blasted face shadowed by something that might have been contrition. He was not able to meet either Porfiry’s or Virginsky’s gaze.
‘There has been another child found, I hear.’
‘Yes,’ answered Porfiry. ‘Fortunately, the first politseisky on the scene was an honest man. It did not occur to him to seek to profit from the discovery. Do you have any information for me?’
‘Yes. I have spoken to my man. The boy Mitka was found on the Yekaterininsky Canal embankment, near the Kammeny Bridge.’
‘Very well. You may go.’
Lieutenant Salytov clicked his heels and spun around.
‘This muddies the waters, Pavel Pavlovich,’ said Porfiry as soon as Salytov was out of the room. ‘Kammeny Bridge is over two versts from the Nevsky Cotton-Spinning Factory.’
‘What of it?’
‘Innokenty was found at his place of work. I had hoped for a pattern to emerge.’
‘They were both pupils at the school,’ offered Virginsky.
‘Yes, that is something, I suppose. But the discrepancy in the location of the bodies, one killed and left where he works, the other transported halfway across the city, is troubling.’
‘Perhaps it was simply a question of circumstances. The children were killed as and when opportunity allowed, the bodies discarded in a similar manner, according to opportunity. It may be wrong to read too much into it.’
‘That is our job, Pavel Pavlovich. To read too much into everything. We must operate on the assumption that everything is significant. Unfortunately, we do not have sufficient information about the location of the other bodies to determine whether there is a pattern to their disposition, and whether Mitka’s body or Innokenty’s is the exception to it.’
The door to Porfiry’s chambers opened and Slava came in bearing Porfiry Petrovich’s lunch tray. Porfiry and Virginsky exchanged a significant glance.
‘What is this?’ said Porfiry, as the tray was set in front of him.
‘Your lunch.’
‘Yes, I see that. But what is it?’
‘It is a meat pie. I would have thought that was evident.’
‘A meat pie? I cannot eat a meat pie.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Today is Wednesday, a fast day. I am allowed only bread, vegetables and fruit.’
‘No. Today is Thursday. I brought you your fasting meal yesterday.’
‘No, yesterday you brought me a meat pie, which I ate. So even if today is Thursday, I will forego this meat pie as a penance. Take it away.’
‘Very well,’ said Slava uncertainly. ‘Am I to bring you some bread and fruit instead?’
‘There is no need to bring me anything.’
‘But you must eat.’
‘Do not concern yourself.’
‘You have stopped confiding in me,’ observed Slava darkly as he lifted the tray.
‘It is not a question of that. You are my domestic servant. It is inappropriate for you to involve yourself in my investigative work.’
Slava looked ominously from Porfiry to Virginsky, as if he suspected them of a conspiracy. ‘You will regret excluding me in this way.’ With that he pushed the tray back through the door, disappearing into Porfiry’s private apartment.
‘Good heavens, Pavel Pavlovich! Was that a threat?’
‘Do you really think he is dangerous?’
‘I do not know what he is.’
‘He seems so … ridiculous.’
‘It would be easy to underestimate him.’
Virginsky smiled to himself. ‘That is what is said of you, Porfiry Petrovich.’
‘Really?’
‘But how long can this go on? It is intolerable havi
ng him under your roof.’
‘If Major Verkhotsev is correct, then this issue will come to a head sooner rather than later, now that another child has been murdered.’
‘And has Verkhotsev come forward with any plan to protect you?’
‘He rather vaguely intimated that he would think of something.’ Porfiry positioned a sheet of Department-headed paper in front of him and charged a pen with ink. ‘I shall inform him of our most recent discovery. In the meantime, I must rely on myself. I cannot expect my personal safety to be as urgent a concern to others as it is to me. And merely pointing out a danger does not oblige the major to preserve me from it.’
Porfiry began to write. To my esteemed colleague, Major Pyotr Afanasevich Verkhotsev …
‘You seem remarkably sanguine,’ observed Virginsky.
‘I suppose I am safe as long as Slava does not know about the latest murder.’ Porfiry recharged his pen, then pointed the nib accusingly towards Virginsky. ‘That is to say, until the newspapers get hold of it.’
Virginsky’s indignation flared momentarily at the provocation. And yet he evidently decided not to rise to the bait: ‘As you yourself observed, a great many people saw the body. Word is bound to get out.’
‘Yes, you’re right,’ said Porfiry, acknowledging Virginsky’s restraint with a smile. ‘Nonetheless, we must be careful of what we say in front of Slava. If we are able to keep him in the dark at least until tomorrow’s editions, I may increase my chances of surviving the night. Besides, it will buy us a little time in which to further our investigations.’ Porfiry put down his pen distractedly. ‘There is someone whom I am most eager to interview.’
*
As Porfiry Petrovich well knew, achieving an audience with the Tsar of all the Russias was not simply a matter of presenting one’s self and one’s visiting card at the Winter Palace. There were official channels to go through. His superiors would have to sanction the interview, which would require Porfiry to enter a formal written submission detailing his reasons for disturbing the autocrat’s serenity. To have the gist of such a submission be ‘because I suspect a member of the Imperial Family of the murder of innocent children’ would not go well with those it was intended to win over.
It was clear that if he were to go ahead with a formal submission, he would need to exercise a degree of circumspection, not to say deception, in its wording. However, entering a specious reason – for example, to say that he wished to divulge to the Tsar information of a politically sensitive nature fit only for his ears – would not necessarily result in the outcome he desired. His ruse was likely to be seen through by those whose place it was to process such applications. Either his request would be denied, without explanation or appeal, or he would be called before a hearing to give an account of himself. In that event, if convinced by his arguments, others would take upon themselves the role of intermediary, seeking to gain for themselves the Tsar’s approval, and his plan would be frustrated. And if he failed to convince, he would succeed only in drawing over himself a cloud of distrust greater even than the one in place already. In addition, to go through official channels would waste valuable time, which Porfiry could ill afford given the potential danger hanging over him.
There was another avenue open to Porfiry: Verkhotsev. Porfiry assumed that his new friend in the Third Section had access to the Tsar. Of course, it had to be borne in mind that Verkhotsev might prove reluctant to share his privilege with another. If Porfiry were to disclose the full extent of his suspicions to Verkhotsev, the danger was that the Third Section would take over the investigation, or, more probably, bury it. What were the lives of a few factory children compared to the honour of the House of Romanov? However, Porfiry had to remind himself that Verkhotsev was Maria Petrovna’s father. He had declared himself to be on the side of the truth. At the same time, he had admitted the existence of elements within the Third Section who, it was to be presumed, were less concerned with the provision of that elusive commodity.
What Porfiry least expected as he chain-smoked his way through one side of his cigarette case, while struggling over the wording of his note to Verkhotsev, was to achieve his goal without doing anything. It seemed that his own desire to see the Tsar was matched by a reciprocal desire on the part of the Tsar. A middle-aged Kammerjunker wearing the order of St Stanislav visited Porfiry’s chambers to present him with a folded paper sealed with the Romanov seal. Porfiry’s heart raced as he studied the familiar double-headed eagle imprinted in the shiny red wax. The precise and sharp-edged image bore little resemblance to the vague blurs that they had seen on the necks of the children. He wondered now if they had been mistaken. True, there did seem to be a certain consistency in the shape and size of the repeated bruise. However, its definition was compromised by the leeching of ruptured capillaries under the skin, a spidery halo disrupting the line. Was it indisputably the impression of the Romanov signet ring, as the imprint before him now so clearly was? Or had he succumbed to the influence of Virginsky and fallen into the old trap? What you go looking for, you will find, as the saying had it.
‘Will you not open it? Your instructions are on the inside, you know.’
Porfiry looked up at the Kammerjunker, whose aristocratic features were set in an expression of indulgent good humour. ‘Come now, the Tsar doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’
Porfiry peeled the brittle encrustation of wax off the paper taking care not to break it.
‘You are like me,’ said the Kammerjunker. ‘Frugal. Why buy sealing wax when you can re-use the Tsar’s?’
‘Indeed,’ said Porfiry, as he opened the document. He read that he was commanded to return forthwith with Prince Shchegolskoy – evidently the gentleman who had delivered the summons – to the Winter Palace for a private audience with Tsar Alexander II.
‘I have a carriage for us outside,’ advised Prince Shchegolskoy. Porfiry slid the detached imperial seal into a drawer, then rose to his feet with a nod of obedience. He would finish the note to Verkhotsev when he returned.
*
Inevitably, the black-lacquered carriage bore the Romanov crest on its doors. The insistence of the design was beginning to haunt Porfiry.
The liveried footmen must have had to cling on for dear life as the carriage thundered beneath the arch of the General Staff Building into Palace Square. Whether it was the ruddy hue of the low October sun, or the sanguinary cast of his own thoughts, Porfiry could not help but see the great red-painted palace as stained in blood. He shook his head to dispel the fanciful idea, recognising once more Pavel Pavlovich’s influence.
Prince Shchegolskoy had kept up an affable patter throughout the journey, playing the part of the professional courtier, at ease with any individual into whose company his emperor’s command thrust him. Possibly not a very bright man, thought Porfiry as he listened to his prattle, he was without doubt happy with his lot, which was little more than that of a glorified messenger boy.
Steering a course through the centre of the square, and thereby almost skimming the Alexander Column, the driver urged his team to a final burst of speed. The horses’ hooves clattered over the swirls of paving stones; Porfiry saw the sparks in his mind’s eye. He noted with alarm that they were galloping towards a closed wrought iron gate in the central arch of three. Prince Shchegolskoy was surely also aware of this circumstance but seemed unperturbed. At the last moment, the gates swung open, operated by unseen hands. Porfiry found himself inside the courtyard of the Winter Palace.
‘I thought it was usual for members of the public to enter the palace from the Neva side,’ Porfiry observed to his companion, as the carriage decelerated sharply to the restraining shouts of the driver.
‘That is only in the case of state ceremonials. You are here on private business. The Tsar’s private apartments are best approached by this entrance.’ Prince Shchegolskoy smiled and added an afterthought: ‘There are over one thousand and fifty rooms in the Winter Palace. One can waste a lot of time if one does not choose
one’s entrance advisedly.’
The carriage came to a halt. The door was opened and the steps pulled down by a footman. Prince Shchegolskoy gestured for Porfiry to lead the way.
As he climbed down, Porfiry glanced about to take in his surroundings. A cluster of denuded trees in the centre gave the courtyard a desolate air, although unusually for a St Petersburg building the inner walls maintained the columned and corbelled grandeur of the façade. In the great Winter Palace, it seemed, there was to be no discrepancy between outer and inner glory.
Prince Shchegolskoy steered him towards a high arched doorway in the nearest wall. A rifle-bearing Cossack stood to one side at the prince’s nod.
They crossed the threshold into a grand entrance hall, littered with marble and emblazoned with gilt mouldings on white. Porfiry looked up, his gaze drawn by towering columns, and saw a magnificent frescoed ceiling. Celestial beings peeped out through pink clouds fixed to a sky of Mediterranean azure.
‘One thousand and fifty rooms?’ whispered Porfiry, though the echo of his voice cascaded back to him louder than the original. ‘Are they all on this scale?’
The prince merely smiled in reply.
A massive double staircase ahead of them folded itself around a triple arched passageway. The prince led Porfiry up the left arm of the stairs. Porfiry was cowed by the echoes of their footfalls. It seemed that the palace was a giant sounding box, amplifying everything that happened within it.
The landing at the top led on to a long hall. A river of ultramarine carpet flowed over the parquet floor, until it was dammed by a closed door in the far distance.
As they walked along the gallery, Porfiry’s eye was drawn by one or other of the paintings, which seemed to provide glimpses into other worlds, worlds of strange, classically attired heroes in highly charged poses, or of mysterious landscapes, or lifeless still lives. The surfaces glowed with intense colour. They both seduced and repelled him. What had these scenes to do with the Russia that began outside the palace walls?
