by R. N. Morris
‘There are other details.’
‘So you have hinted. Perhaps if you shared these details with me, I could set your mind at rest regarding them too.’
‘They cannot be divulged. The case is at a critical point.’
‘Then you have me at a disadvantage. Will you at least inform me what you intend to do?’
‘Regarding?’
‘Regarding my connection with Setochkin.’
‘I fear that I may have no choice but to notify Porfiry Petrovich of it. I advise you, Father, not to leave St Petersburg.’
Virginsky’s father said nothing. Instead, he waved his son from the room, with a sharp, upward flick of his hand, and averted his gaze to the window where the blithe summer light streamed in.
Porfiry held one hand over his nose and mouth as he hurried over Kokushkin Bridge towards Stolyarny Lane, dipping his head into the noxious air of the canal. He felt the foulness against his eyes and blinked away the moisture that sprang to meet it. The rising arch of the bridge seemed to be shaped by a repulsion for what passed beneath. The pink-hued granite embankments that it spanned were streaked with dark stains, pointed fingers of filth around a slovenly tidemark. In the stone’s permeability he saw the city’s weakness. Here the stone was subtly, but inescapably, breached and into it seeped the water’s malign influence, the turgid darkness Porfiry glimpsed and flinched from.
The thought came to him: Everything is connected.
Embankments linked by bridges, canals connecting rivers, rivers encompassing islands, islands coupled by bridges. . and over this matrix was superimposed the network of buildings and courtyards, connected by passageways. You could cross the city on foot through the courtyards of apartment buildings.
As he stepped off the bridge, his head still stooped, eyes half-closed, he felt his shoulder hit by the weighted momentum of another human being coming in the opposite direction. Half-turned by the impact, his pardon already begged, he looked up to see Dr Meyer, buffeted and dazed.
‘It’s you,’ said Meyer.
‘Yes.’
‘They let me go.’
‘I know. I ordered it.’
‘But you were the one who had me arrested.’
‘Yes. I am afraid that is sometimes necessary. Before we can apprehend the guilty, we must process the innocent.’
‘Process. That is an interesting euphemism.’
‘What will you do now, Dr Meyer?’
‘I don’t know. Work. There is always work.’
‘Yes. I find that is the case.’
‘You know,’ said Meyer. ‘I loved her once.’
‘I know.’
‘I mean, she was everything to me. It is true that recently. .’ Meyer frowned at the dirty canal. ‘It is difficult to talk of these things.’
‘Yes,’ said Porfiry.
‘And Grigory.’ Meyer looked up at the investigator in puzzlement. ‘They were all I had. And now they are gone.’
‘What about. . Polina?’
‘No,’ said Meyer, simply and sharply.
Porfiry nodded. ‘You have your work. Your work is important.’
‘Yes,’ said Dr Meyer. His tone was strange and distant, as if he were thinking of something else entirely, some new thought that had suddenly captivated him. ‘My work is important.’
A residue of despondency from his encounter with Dr Meyer dogged Porfiry as he climbed the stairs to the Haymarket District Police Bureau. As he opened the door to the bureau itself, the din of human crisis and confusion, of people pushed to the edges of tolerance, was released, and other smells and other despondencies mingled with those he had brought with him. Of course, there were those who held themselves aloof from this, who remained silent and impassive and unmoving, who simply waited, with either meek or cunning eyes, as they calculated their fate.
The voice of one man cut through it all.
Lieutenant Salytov’s reflex rage against the daily intrusion of humanity was part of the rhythm of the bureau, especially in the summer. They would come, in all their untidy, unruly variety, the wicked, the indigent, the worthless, victims and villains alike, and he, outraged at their presence, indignant at his own inability to hold them back, would produce from somewhere deep inside himself his snarling, half-strangled commands. And the more he shouted, the less attention they paid him. He may as well have issued orders to the flies that competed for air in the sweltering hall. Of course, this was a lesson that Salytov never learnt.
Porfiry knew from weary experience the difficulty of trying to conduct his own work, which amounted to nothing more or less than thinking, during one of Salytov’s summer storms. This was not to say that he required, or even desired, absolute silence: the answering voice of another, whether an imagined other in his head or, preferably, a physical other in the room with him, was the vehicle by which his thought progressed, stoked of course by the endless supply of cigarette smoke. But now Porfiry felt the looming of a blank despair. He felt it pointless even to go into his chambers, where only the ripening stench from the Ditch and an insidious plague of flies awaited him. He even experienced a sympathetic intimation of Salytov’s anger, and looked about him for an object on which to vent it.
Zamyotov was at his counter, sorting files, his face set in its habitual expression of detached superiority.
‘Alexander Grigorevich.’ Porfiry dispensed with his usual efforts to win over the head clerk. He felt a sense of liberation at the brusqueness of his tone. ‘Have we received a reply to my letter about the Yekaterininsky Canal yet?’
Zamyotov looked up slowly, his startled disdain suggesting that all the impertinence was on Porfiry’s side. He said nothing.
‘I cannot be expected to work in these conditions,’ continued Porfiry, unwisely, he knew.
‘And I cannot be expected to do anything about it.’ Zamyotov looked down dismissively.
‘I merely asked you whether you were in receipt of a response from the authorities concerning my complaint.’
‘Correct me if I am wrong, Porfiry Petrovich, but is it not the case that you make the same complaint every year? You know as well as I do how long it takes for the department responsible to process such complaints. If previous years are anything to go by, I am confident that we will receive a response, but not before the Yekaterininsky Canal has frozen over. By which time, of course, it will no longer be a problem.’
‘You will inform me as soon as the official response comes in.’
‘My my, it seems this weather is affecting everyone’s — ’
‘In the meantime, I wish to send a telegram to the Caucasus,’ said Porfiry sharply, cutting in on Zamyotov’s pert remark. He handed Zamyotov a slip of paper. ‘The details are here. You will arrange it.’ Just at this point, there was a blazing outburst from Salytov. ‘Something must be done about that man,’ said Porfiry, turning his back on Zamyotov.
‘Nikodim Fomich, what on earth is the matter?’
It almost seemed as though another man was sitting in the chief superintendent’s place. The features of this double bore some superficial resemblance to those of the good-natured, almost buffoonish man Porfiry knew. He had always considered Nikodim Fomich to be handsome, and yet a wrathful, snarling ugliness was deep-etched into the face before him now. Porfiry couldn’t help wondering if this was the true Nikodim Fomich. In the shock of seeing his friend like this, his own ill temper was forgotten.
‘He’s done it again.’
‘He?’
‘Who else? Salytov.’
‘Ah! It is Salytov that I have come to speak to you about. Have you heard the uproar that he is creating in the receiving hall?’
‘Not again? He is quite incorrigible. After this other trouble, I would have thought he might prefer to exercise a little restraint.’
‘What other trouble?’
‘The boy from the confectioner’s,’ said Nikodim Fomich with heavy distaste. ‘Salytov will not let go of the idea that he is in some way responsible for the M
eyer poisonings. He persists in the idea that he is a political agitator. For whatever reason, he has been persecuting the boy. Without my authorisation, of course. We have received a complaint from the boy’s employer. You know that Ballet’s supplies confectionery to the Imperial Court? Salytov is threatening to close down the shop again. Imagine!’
‘The man is a loose cannon,’ exclaimed Porfiry, ‘as I have had occasion to remark on numerous occasions.’
‘Indeed. And one day he will go off in our faces.’ Nikodim Fomich shook his head gravely.
‘What will you do?’
‘I have already reprimanded him, but it seems to make no difference. He shows no contrition, rather almost open defiance, bordering on insubordination. I am intending to put it all in a report. It will go before the disciplinary board.’
‘They say you needn’t be afraid of a barking dog,’ said Porfiry. ‘But I’m not so sure. Let’s hope that the board views the matter with sufficient gravity.’
‘I fear this may be the extinguishing of old Firecracker.’
‘It is not as if he hasn’t been warned,’ said Porfiry, rather primly. He took out a cigarette and lit it. He welcomed the stimulative effects of the smoke, familiar and manageable when compared to the formless agitation of the day that he hoped to banish. He studied the end of his cigarette, then flashed a sly, almost shamefaced look at Nikodim Fomich. ‘However. .’ he began, then broke off. ‘No, no, it’s too ridiculous.’
‘What?’ snapped Nikodim Fomich.
‘What if there is something in it, though?’ said Porfiry. He gave every impression of being appalled by the suggestion he had just made.
‘Are you mad?’ Nikodim Fomich’s expression darkened even more. ‘Or is this another of your pranks, Porfiry Petrovich?’
‘I’m quite serious, and, as far as I am able to say, sane. I rejected Ilya Petrovich’s idea previously because the simpler explanation seemed to be that Dr Meyer was responsible for the deaths of his wife and son. Now, as you know, that does not seem likely. The investigation has opened out. We cannot afford to rule out any line of enquiry.’
‘But surely it is preposterous! A revolutionary cell at a confectioner’s! ’
‘You’re right. I’m sorry I mentioned it.’ Porfiry continued smoking. He licked his upper lip apprehensively. ‘But what if this Tolya and his associates were, at some time in the future, able to poison the chocolates of the Imperial household?’
‘I have to warn you, Porfiry Petrovich, that I am in no mood for such jokes.’
‘And what if that happened and we were found to have ignored Salytov’s warnings?’ Porfiry insisted.
‘But I thought you were pursuing the possibility of a connection between the Meyer poisoning and the Setochkin case?’ Nikodim Fomich’s voice was strained with exasperation. ‘Were you not interested in the link provided by this mysterious guest? I rather thought you believed him to be the murderer in both cases. Is he then linked to the confectioner’s too? Is he a political agitator? How do the deaths of Raisa and Grigory Meyer and Colonel Setochkin further his cause?’
‘I don’t know. At present we know nothing about him. He is as unquantifiable as the X on one side of an algebraic equation. I feel very strongly that this figure is significant. But I cannot prove it. Therefore, it is reasonable to consider every possibility.’
‘And yet you have ruled out Meyer.’
‘Dr Meyer did not murder his wife and child. I can tell you that from having talked to the man. On the other hand, I can tell you nothing about the Uninvited One, other than the fact that he visited a brothel fourteen years ago in the company of Ruslan Vladimirovich Vakhramev, on which occasion he had sex with Raisa Meyer. But I have not looked into his eyes. I have not listened to the timbre of his voice. I do not even know his name, though I know where to look for it.’
‘And where is that?’
‘I have received from the Ministry of Education a list of the private boarding schools in Moscow. We have sent for their records for the years Golyadkin would have been of high-school age. Given that his age when he died this year was forty-seven, I have asked for the records for the years between 1833 and 1845.’
‘But that will be like looking for a needle in a haystack. And how will you know the name when you see it?’
‘I am not sure that I will. Unless the name occurs in some other context related to one or other of these cases.’
‘And if you find such a recurrence, you will have found your murderer?’
‘Possibly. At the very least, I will have found another connection. ’
‘Or another meaningless coincidence. Allow me to remind you of something, Porfiry Petrovich. One usually solves algebraic equations through the exercise of logic, not wild guesswork.’
‘But, in criminal investigations, logic is only one of the tools that we may use.’
‘Surely you are not advocating the use of guesswork too?’
‘Not guesswork,’ said Porfiry, placing the cigarette to his lips. After exhaling, he continued: ‘I would not call it that. But sometimes one is drawn towards certain irrational ideas. One must explore them.’
‘What other random coincidences are you investigating?’
‘None, for the moment. And I am not sure that I agree quite with your description of coincidences as random. I have often found that when such an individual as the Uninvited One begins his work, connections, correspondences and, yes, coincidences, begin to occur. They are merely the outward manifestations — the symptoms, if you will — of a murderous pathology visiting itself on the social organism. Of course, the danger is that one sees a pattern where there is none. How is one to distinguish the significant from the contingent? For example, Dr Meyer visited a lunatic asylum at which Tolya’s mother was once an inmate. Perhaps, as Pavel Pavlovich would have me believe, that is the connection I should be pursuing. However, one must be methodical. Investigate one possibility, rule it out, then move on to the next.’
‘In other words, this is all you have to go on.’ The chief superintendent’sshoulders began to shake in mirthless laughter.
‘I’m glad to see that your humour has improved, Nikodim Fomich.’
‘There is nothing like the misfortune of others to cheer one up.’
Porfiry frowned, as if hurt by his friend’s easy callousness. ‘Regarding Lieutenant Salytov, perhaps we should assign resources to investigate the confectioner’s on an authorised basis? A round-the-clock surveillance of the suspect individuals might be advisable.’
‘He acted without my authorisation! That would be to reward him. Really you are quite impossible, Porfiry Petrovich. You come in here up in arms against him, and now here you are taking his side.’
‘One must be flexible. Of course, we could simply communicate his suspicions to the Third Section and allow them to take over.’
‘Do you really wish to involve those snakes?’
‘If there is a secret plot against the state, they are the correct office to deal with it.’
‘I don’t like them. They make me nervous.’
‘Why, Nikodim Fomich? Surely you have nothing to fear from them?’
‘No more than you, Porfiry Petrovich.’ Nikodim Fomich gave his friend a wounded look. ‘I disapprove of their methods. There is too much reliance on dirty tricks.’
‘They would claim that their methods are necessary, especially since the assassination attempt on our beloved Tsar. They are fighting the enemies of our way of life, men — and women — who have shown themselves prepared to stop at nothing.’
‘Yes, yes, I understand all that. Even so. .’
‘Perhaps you will find that you have no choice. Once this goes before the disciplinary board, they may well decide that Salytov’s suspicions require further investigation. Indeed it could possibly end in a commendation for him.’
‘You cannot be serious, Porfiry Petrovich?’
Porfiry shrugged. ‘Who knows what view they will take of the matter.’
/> ‘Then what do you suggest I do?’
‘You must do whatever you feel is necessary.’
‘I do so hate it when you say that, Porfiry Petrovich.’ Nikodim Fomich seemed once again to have been possessed by his bad-tempered double. He resolutely avoided Porfiry’s eye.
9
Golyadkin’s classmates
As Martin Meyer’s foot pressed down on the first board of the veranda, the empty dacha groaned in protest. The veranda had been cleaned, the wrought-iron chairs set right and replaced around the marble-topped table. Polina. Meyer’s glance skimmed across the table towards the door, as if expecting it to open, wife and son coming out to meet him. But, of course, he had to cross the devastated space himself and place his own hand on the door to open it.
As he entered the interior of the dacha, an alien silence confronted him. It was as if the house had stopped breathing. The silence unsettled him; he felt it as something malign and unfathomable. He cast his gaze about as if looking for it. And then, he saw it — or rather the source of it: the grandfather clock, which stood, unwound, untended, a film of dust dulling its cherry wood surface; dumbstruck, emanating the silence that judged him.
He stood unmoving in the centre of the room, listening. At last, he began to hear the small sounds that possessed the dacha in the absence of humanity: the scratching of mice, the scuttling of insects, the clicks and creaks of the timbers adjusting to the sun’s transit through the day. The wooden cottage acted like a sounding box, picking up and amplifying these sounds until he, in the centre of it, shook with their reverberations.
The convulsion released him from his fearful immobility. He walked the length of the room, each footfall a hammerblow on the past, irreversible. His steps took him only to the piano, the lid still lifted, the album of folk songs open on the music rest. The keyboard seemed to possess a strange resilience; he had the feeling that the keys would not yield to his touch were he to lay his fingers on them. But a kind of horror prevented him from trying. The instrument had always been hers, and so much represented her that it had taken on the significance of her remains. To press a key would have felt like a desecration. He did not have the right, no one had, he least of all. Besides, he couldn’t play, had no feeling for music at all.
