by R. N. Morris
They reached the door at the end of the blue carpet, which opened on to a second identical gallery.
‘Are you sure we chose the most convenient entrance?’ asked Porfiry.
‘Oh yes!’ replied the prince delightedly.
Beyond that gallery was a staircase that led down to a vast circular room over which an immense rotunda ceiling floated. Light filtered in through a central round window of frosted glass. A colonnade ran around the periphery of the room. Here Porfiry got his first sight of other people: two men in military uniform, generals, were engaged in a hushed, bowed conference by one of the blood red columns. They broke off and watched in silence as Porfiry and the prince crossed the great marble-tiled floor.
There were doors all the way around the circumference. Porfiry heard one close somewhere to his left with a reverberating click. The door the prince selected led to a shorter enfilade gallery, at the end of which was a brass-lined door guarded by two Cossacks.
‘His Imperial Majesty’s private apartments begin here,’ said Prince Shchegolskoy.
*
The man whom Porfiry knew as Svyatoslav Andreevich Tushin, or Slava, stooped to press his ear to the connecting door between the magistrate’s private apartment and his chambers. He heard no sound. It was possible that the magistrate was working alone, in silence. Slava tapped gently on the door. When no response came, he tentatively pushed the door open and stepped through.
The room was empty but still he would have to act quickly. The magistrate might return at any moment, or the self-important clerk Zamyotov might come in with correspondence.
He dashed across to the desk and tried the drawers. Locked. As they had been the last time he had tried them. It really did seem that the magistrate was wise to him.
The green desk leather was clear of all clutter, apart from a writing set and a single sheet of official paper, placed at an angle to the edge, as if abandoned in a hurry. Slava picked it up and read:
To my esteemed colleague, Major Pyotr Afanasevich Verkhotsev,
I am writing to inform you of a further tragic development in the case that concerns us both. The body of another child was discovered this morning at the Baird Shipbuilding Plant in the Kolomenskaya District of St Petersburg. The child in question was a worker at the factory, a boy, aged approximately 13 years, by the name of Innokenty Zimoveykin. The distinctive mark which we discussed at our last meeting was in evidence on his neck. Clearly, Yelena Filippovna cannot be his murderer. Moreover, it is my belief that this new circumstance further calls into question her involvement in the earlier murders.
The draft ended there but Slava had read enough. He placed the sheet back on the desk and tiptoed back towards the door that led to Porfiry Petrovich’s private apartment.
32
An audience with the Tsar
The accommodation on the other side of the brass-lined door was on an altogether more human, and even intimate, scale. Porfiry had the real sense of entering living quarters, that is to say, within which memories accumulated, ordinary human complications were created and tidied away; a place where fires were lit against the cold, meals eaten, naps stolen, where arguments stormed and doors were slammed. It could have been the St Petersburg apartment of any well-to-do gentleman, although perhaps the floors were polished, the dust chased away, the carpets beaten more frequently than in most.
Prince Shchegolskoy’s fist was poised inches from the surface of a door panelled in two colours of wood. What seemed to give him pause was the sound of raised voices – or rather, one raised voice – from within. A moment later the door flew open and Porfiry was surprised to see a man he recognised as the elder Prince Naryskin flee the room, his face flushed and drawn. Prince Naryskin seemed equally surprised to see Porfiry there. He met the magistrate’s questioning gaze with a look of startled outrage, and then brushed past without a word of greeting.
Prince Shchegolskoy’s knuckles now fell superfluously against the open door. ‘Your Majesty, I have the magistrate Porfiry Petrovich to see you.’
That sense of intimacy was even more in force in the room Porfiry now entered. The Tsar’s study was crammed with a very particular kind of clutter: the photographs and portraits of the people who made up his life. A multitude of faces looked out from every square inch of the wall, frames butting against frames. There were even portraits hung on the back of the door, which Prince Shchegolskoy now pulled behind him as he left. Heavy green drapes were suspended above a pair of alcoves; Porfiry noticed paintings of battle scenes hung within them, as well as a sideboard piled high with folders and official papers: the glories and burdens of state stashed together.
The Tsar sat behind the furthest of the desks, his uniform dripping with braid and medals. Enormous epaulettes squatted on his shoulders. A broad sash of lustrous turquoise silk ran diagonally across his chest. Despite these trimmings of power, the face that looked up at Porfiry was remarkably human. This was just a man, a man like any other, struggling to comprehend and control the world around him. To bolster his confidence he had surrounded himself with images of his family and friends. To inspire the awe of others, he had dressed himself in an imposing costume. But Porfiry was struck most by the thought that his head was slightly small for his body, although not to the extent that Peter the Great’s had been. He also found himself unduly fascinated by the Tsar’s moustaches, which were kept long. They curled away from his face with a kind of unruly waywardness, as if – for all the things this man could bend to his will – his own facial hair refused to do his bidding. Porfiry was reminded of Gogol’s tale of the nose.
‘What are you smirking at?’ The Tsar asked the question uncertainly, looking down at himself to check that every detail of his personal appearance was perfectly in order.
‘I beg your pardon, Your Majesty. I was not aware of …’
‘You were undeniably smirking at something.’
‘I am sorry. I cannot explain it. Except to say that for some reason I found myself thinking of one of Gogol’s stories.’
‘They tell me you are the most brilliant investigator in St Petersburg. You seem to me to be something of an imbecile.’
‘The truth, I dare say, lies somewhere in between, Your Majesty.’
The Tsar’s face remained fixedly blank for a moment, then opened up into abrupt laughter. The laughter somehow failed to touch his eyes, which seemed infected with a perpetual wariness. ‘Well, we will have to make do with that, I suppose. Do you smoke?’
The Tsar opened a jewel-encrusted box on his desk. Porfiry breathed in the heady waft of dormant tobacco suddenly released.
‘Yes, thank you, Your Majesty.’
‘Good man.’ The Tsar sat back as he breathed in the first draught of his own cigarette. ‘You may sit down.’
The study was filled with a profusion of empty chairs, as if the Tsar preferred the possibility of company to the reality of it. However, there were no doubt times when this room was crowded with ministers of state, jostling for a seat.
Porfiry bowed his gratitude and took a seat on the other side of the Tsar’s desk.
‘You are investigating the murders of those unfortunate children.’
‘That is correct, Your Majesty.’
‘I know it is correct. I am not in the habit of uttering statements that are not correct.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘This is a case that touches me deeply.’ Here the autocrat struck his chest with one clenched hand. ‘As head of state, I am father to all the empire’s children. Indeed, I look upon all my subjects as my children. Can I not protect my children? That is what they will say about me now.’
‘Your Majesty, I am sure that no one would dare—’
‘Oh, they dare!’ His head shook in a tremor of self-righteousness. ‘Now they dare to say anything of me. I can do no right by them. Of course, to continue the analogy, fathers are always misunderstood by their children.’ The Tsar paused to reflect on this, then burst out bitterly with: ‘
What do they want from me? Did I not free the serfs?’
‘The noble act of a generous heart.’
‘And what were the thanks I got? I didn’t go far enough, said the radicals. I went too far, said the conservatives. And the nihilists started shooting!’
‘I fear, Your Majesty, that discontent is the natural state of mankind.’
‘I am not free! I am not content!’ There was a note of personal hurt in the Tsar’s voice. His eyes for a moment lost their wariness and became wistful. ‘But do you hear me complaining?’
Porfiry suppressed the urge to answer in the affirmative. He bowed his head solemnly instead and said nothing.
‘And then there are the law courts. You’re a magistrate. You know what goes on there. Every trial is reduced to an indictment of the state, which is to say of me, because I am the state. It is not poor Ivan’s fault he stole the loaf of bread, it is the Tsar’s for making him hungry. That’s what they do with the freedom I gave them! I have a good mind to take it back.’
‘I am afraid, Your Majesty, you cannot take freedom back once you have given it.’
The Tsar regarded Porfiry with a steady, dangerous gaze. ‘And now this. These children. I will be blamed for this, without doubt.’
Porfiry took a moment to hold and savour a lungful of smoke, which saved him from the necessity of speaking.
‘How is your investigation progressing? You suspected that woman, I believe. Yelena Filippovna, was that not her name?’
‘No, no, no. I never suspected her. That was an erroneous story that somehow found its way into the newspapers.’
‘Really? How extraordinary. How on earth did that happen, do you know?’
Porfiry raised both arms in a despairing shrug. ‘Tittle-tattle. It may have been something that was discussed. All sorts of theories are discussed in the course of an investigation.’
‘Yes, but there must have been something linking Yelena Filippovna to those children? Something that led you to consider her as a possible murderer?’
‘There were a number of things, in fact. But everything linking her to the deaths was highly circumstantial.’
‘Please be more specific. It is essential I know everything about the case.’
‘It is?’
‘Yes. I intend to take over the supervision of the case personally. You will report to me. Is that clear?’
‘Your Majesty, surely you have other more pressing duties?’
‘There is nothing more pressing than the welfare of my children. When this case is solved and the perpetrator brought to book, you will let it be known to what extent I aided you in its solution. Until then you will say nothing of our meeting to anyone, in case … you are unsuccessful.’
‘You wish to take over the investigation?’
‘Not at all. I merely wish to take credit for it. It is not quite the same thing. Everything, of course, relies on a successful outcome. I am relying on you, Porfiry Petrovich. My children are relying on you. You must catch this monster before any more are killed.’
‘That is my earnest desire, Your Majesty.’
‘So, what led you to suspect this society woman?’
Porfiry had the sense that he was being tested. Perhaps the Tsar knew more than he was letting on. He felt the need for caution. ‘Before I answer that question, Your Majesty, I would be grateful if you would answer one from me.’
‘What’s this? Are you interrogating me, your tsar?’
‘This is a delicate matter. I merely wish to be sure of something before I proceed.’
‘I don’t like the sound of this. Very well. Ask your question.’
‘Did you know Yelena Filippovna Polenova?’
‘Did I know her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Am I somehow now a suspect in your investigations? Do you realise how impertinent your question is?’
‘As I came in, Prince Naryskin was leaving your study. You will know that Yelena Filippovna was murdered at the Naryskin Palace.’
‘And so I am implicated? I was not there!’
‘You were not, although your son was.’
‘What has this to do with the children? I brought you here to discuss the children.’
‘One of the things linking Yelena Filippovna to the murdered children was a ring she wore on her thumb. We found marks on the children’s necks that correspond to a design embossed on the face of that ring.’
‘Yes, I have heard of this ring.’ The Tsar missed a beat, before explaining: ‘They mentioned the ring in the newspaper.’
‘The newspaper did not mention that the design in question is the emblem of the House of Romanov. The double-headed eagle.’
This information did not seem to surprise the Tsar. His response to it came quickly, without undue thought, as if rehearsed. ‘I know nothing of the existence of this ring.’
‘But what of your son? Might he have given the ring to Yelena Filippovna?’
‘I cannot speak for the Tsarevich.’ The Tsar crimped his brows angrily. ‘This line of investigation will not result in the desired outcome, that is to say, the discovery of the children’s murderer. I command you to abandon it. Besides, as you have now admitted, you no longer suspect Yelena Filippovna. And so her possession of this ring is irrelevant. You must concentrate your efforts on solving the murders of these innocents and forget all about this ring. I would not be surprised, in fact, if the ring was not what you imagine it to be.’
‘I don’t quite understand, Your Majesty.’
‘Anyone may make and sell a ring bearing the emblem of a double-headed eagle – it implies no direct contact with myself or any member of my family.’
‘Very true, Your Majesty. However, I fear that the symbolism may still have a bearing on the case. The latest victim bears the mark too. He cannot have been killed by Yelena Filippovna. But indubitably he was killed by someone. Either by someone who inadvertently wore a Romanov ring, not realising that it would leave an imprint. Or by someone who wishes to generate a rumour that a series of children have been mercilessly killed by a Romanov. In short, Your Majesty, the case may yet prove to have a political aspect.’
‘There will be no rumour. You will see to it. If I do hear of any rumour, I will hold you accountable.’
Porfiry felt the tightening of a vice around his heart. ‘Naturally I shall do all in my power to keep the specific design of the ring out of the newspapers, while continuing to pursue a vigorous investigation. However, it is in the nature of rumour—’
‘Do not seek to make excuses in advance. Oh, I understand your trepidation. You are right to feel it. You will incur my most violent displeasure should this detail find its way into common currency. I understand too that you are concerned because – by your own admission – there is one in your department privy to the secrets of the case who is in the habit of talking to newspapermen. A loose tongue is more dangerous than a loose cannon. I warn you, your toleration of this person reflects badly on you, Porfiry Petrovich. If you have any suspicions as to who it might be, I advise you to come down heavily on them. Crush them, if necessary. There are rooms in the Peter and Paul Fortress where such a disloyal individual may be held indefinitely, at least until you have solved the case, free from their destructive involvement.’
‘I confess that I have no clear suspicions at this moment.’ Porfiry did not look at the Tsar as he said this.
‘Then form some. It cannot be so difficult. Your suspects are limited to those who know of the distinctive bruises on the children’s necks and also of the ring found on Lena’s thumb.’
‘Lena?’
‘Yelena Filippovna, I mean. I am beginning to think quite fondly of her now that I know she is not a murderer.’
‘But you did not know her when she was alive?’
The Tsar gave no indication of hearing the question. ‘I shall help you if you like. Let us run through the names of your staff and you will provide me with character sketches. I will be able to tell, I am sure, who is t
he most likely to betray the confidence of your office.’
Fortunately for Porfiry Petrovich there was a knock at the door. He had no wish to engage in this tedious exercise with the Tsar, and besides, his suspicions, he always felt, were his own affair.
Prince Shchegolskoy poked his head around the edge of the door. ‘The Foreign Minister is here to see you, Majesty. The situation in the Balkans requires your urgent attention.’
‘Ah yes, of course. I am afraid, Porfiry Petrovich, that I cannot offer you my assistance, after all. Affairs of state, you understand. If only my detractors could see how hard I work, would they attack me so? There is not a man among them who would willingly shoulder the burden I bear. My life is not my own.’
Porfiry gave a tense smile, which he hoped expressed his sympathy.
‘And remember,’ continued the Tsar, bringing his fist down heavily on his desk. ‘Clamp down and crush the snake in the grass. A room in the Fortress awaits. It may just as easily be put at your disposal if you fail to find another to occupy it.’
‘I will bear that in mind, Your Majesty.’ Porfiry stubbed out his cigarette in a heavy onyx ashtray on the Tsar’s desk and rose to his feet. ‘I am grateful to you for the condescension you have shown in assisting me in my enquiries. May I ask one final question, Your Majesty?’
The Tsar looked uncertainly towards Prince Shchegolskoy. ‘Please be so good as to ask the Foreign Minister to wait.’
‘Very good, Your Majesty.’ The prince backed out of the room, bowing as he went.
The Tsar turned expectantly to Porfiry Petrovich.
‘How am I to communicate with you, Your Majesty? You said that you wish to supervise the conduct of this case. If you are to do so, you must be kept informed.’
‘You are to present yourself here at this time every day to brief me on the progress of the case. Prince Shchegolskoy will supply you with a pass that will allow you access to the palace and my private quarters.’
