Dmitri and the Milk-Drinkers

by Michael Pearce

  ‘A male friend, you mean?’

  ‘Well – ’

  ‘No question of that. Her parents are adamant.’

  ‘They would be,’ said Dmitri.

  The judge looked at him.

  ‘You think it’s a possibility?’

  ‘A far likelier possibility than that it’s anything to do with the back yard.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Sure of it. How could there be?’

  ‘Well, of course you’re right. A young lady of respectable family … how could there be? You must be right.’

  ‘Turned round the moment she took a look at it, I would have thought. Walked straight back along the corridor.’

  ‘You think so? But then – ’

  ‘There will be some simple explanation.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. I’m sure you’re right.’ The judge looked at his watch. Still time to get to Avdotia Vassilevna’s for the main course. Even the fish, perhaps. He snapped it shut.

  ‘I’ll leave it to you, then.’

  ‘Leave it?’

  ‘As Examining Magistrate. Do keep me informed.’

  ‘But I thought … You said …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That I was party to the case. And therefore it would be improper for me to act as Examining Magistrate.’

  ‘But you denied that you were party to the case. Didn’t you? I’m merely accepting your word. For the time being.’

  One way or another, thought Dmitri, the bastards always got you.

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you to get on with it. While the scent is hot.’

  Dmitri made a last effort to retrieve his evening.

  ‘Aren’t we being premature, sir? I mean, is there a case? Surely it’s just a matter of continuing with the search? The police – ?’

  ‘Useless. That fool Novikov. No, I’d prefer you to be involved right from the start. Someone bright, with a bit of energy, someone – ’

  ‘Responsible?’

  ‘Yes. Responsible. That’s the word.’

  Sitting alone in the little room the lawyers used as a workroom, Dmitri nursed his wrath. There was plenty of it to nurse; first, wrath against the judge, not just for landing Dmitri in it but also for the general things he stood for and Dmitri stood against: age, seniority, authority, power, privilege, the System; next, wrath against Kursk, which was such a hell of a place that no wonder everything went wrong in it; and, finally, against this silly girl who had got herself lost and mucked up Dmitri’s evening.

  By this time on a normal day the Court House would have been empty. Lawyers, witnesses, defendants would have long departed. The caretakers would have retreated on to their ovens. Only at the back, perhaps, the last wagon would be squelching through the mud, trying to reach the firm crunch of the hard-packed snow outside.

  Tonight there were lamps in all the rooms and people scurrying about everywhere. Novikov was searching the building for the fifth or perhaps sixth time. The dilemma before Dmitri was this: should he assume that Novikov was incapable of doing anything properly, and therefore make a search of the building himself? Or should he take for granted that the girl had left the building long before and was now happily chatting in some comfortable parlour with her girlfriends or, more likely, otherwise preoccupied in some comfortable bed with her boyfriend? The second was obviously the case. The trouble was that if by any unlikely chance it was the first, and the girl was lying stuffed in some corner somewhere, and was later discovered, then it would look bad. It would look bad for the Court House and, more to the point, since the judge had nailed him firmly with responsibility for the investigation, it would look bad for him, Dmitri.

  Search, himself, it would have to be, and, no doubt, while doing it he could find himself a glass of tea in the caretakers’ room.

  Novikov had had the idea before him. He looked up, glass in hand, as Dmitri entered.

  ‘I’m making a personal search,’ he said, warming his backside against the fire. ‘You’ve got to do it yourself. You can’t trust these buggers to do it properly.’

  ‘How far have you got?’ asked Dmitri. ‘Just here?’

  Novikov looked pained.

  ‘The whole of the ground floor,’ he said. ‘Every nook, every cranny, every cupboard, behind every pipe, down every sewer. You need a wash-up after you’ve done that, I can tell you! Ever searched a sewer, Dmitri Alexandrovich?’

  ‘Suits some people more than others,’ Dmitri said coldly. He wasn’t going to be put down by the Chief of Police of a place like Kursk.

  Novikov shrugged and put down his glass.

  ‘The top floor now! Would you care to accompany me? At least there won’t be any sewers.’

  Dmitri was forced to admit, after half an hour had passed, that Novikov knew his job, or this part of it at least. It wasn’t intelligence, Dmitri decided; it was cunning. Perhaps experience, too. Experience enough to know when a thing mattered and when it did not, cunning to be able to read the mind of the brutalized peasants who provided the bulk of the criminals in Kursk. Dmitri had no such cunning, he knew. He had never met a peasant until he came to Kursk, although they formed two-thirds of the population of Russia. Dmitri was a city-dweller through and through. And that, if he could manage it, was how he meant to stay. The important thing was not to get trapped in the provinces. That was where experience came in, both the judge’s kind of experience and Novikov’s. The experience to know that this was a thing that people higher up would be interested in and take notice of, experience at covering your back. Dmitri was beginning to feel that he could have done with more experience of the latter sort.

  ‘A glass of tea, Dmitri Alexandrovich?’ suggested Novikov, when they had finished the floor.

  Dmitri concurred silently. He had already made up his mind that he would not now search the ground floor himself. Such things, especially the sewers, were best left to the Novikovs.

  ‘What are you going to do now?’ he asked.

  Novikov looked at his watch.

  ‘Nine o’clock,’ he said. ‘Nothing more tonight. It’s too dark. Tomorrow we’ll search the grounds. Then the park. First thing, though, as soon as it’s light, we’ll have people go through the building again, before the courts open. We may have missed something, you never know. And you wouldn’t want people to come in and find …’

  ‘Indeed not.’

  ‘But,’ Novikov went on, ‘I won’t do it myself.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I’ll be in the back yard. I want to have a good look in the mud. Before the wagons start coming. Care to join me, Dmitri Alexandrovich?’ he asked maliciously.

  Not at first light but at a decent hour, Dmitri called on the Semeonovs and was shown into the drawing room. A few moments later the Semeonovs joined him.

  ‘Dmitri Alexandrovich Kameron,’ he said bowing. ‘Examining Magistrate. At your service.’

  ‘He looks very young!’ said Olga Feodorovna, inspecting him critically.

  ‘Yes, he does,’ said her husband. ‘I don’t call that good enough! Is that the best they can do?’ he demanded, looking at Dmitri. ‘A man like me deserves something better. Peter Ivanovich at least!’

  ‘Peter Ivanovich is, indeed, occupying himself with the case, although, of course, formally it is the Examining Magistrate – ’

  ‘Formally?’ said Semeonov. ‘What do I care about “formally”? Don’t come the petty bureaucrat with me, you young puppy! What’s your name?’ he demanded threateningly.

  ‘Kameron. As I have just told you,’ said Dmitri, seething.

  ‘Well, Mr Examining Magistrate Kameron, you can run back to the Court House and tell them I want to see somebody different on the case, someone a bit more senior! I call this an insult. I can see I’m going to have to have a word with someone higher up, not just in Kursk, either. Prince Dolgorukov – ’

  ‘Kameron?’ said his wife, ‘Did you say Kameron?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘That is not a Russian name.�
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  ‘My God!’ said Semeonov. ‘Are they sending us foreigners now?’

  ‘They are not,’ said Dmitri, stung. ‘My family has been Russian for two hundred years. My great-great-grandfather served the Tsar – ’

  ‘Kameron?’ interrupted Olga Feodorovna. ‘What sort of name is that?’

  ‘Scottish. My great-great-grandfather – ’

  ‘Served the Tsar, you say? In what capacity?’ interrupted Semeonov.

  ‘He built the Tsarina’s palace.’

  ‘Yes, but what rank?’

  ‘For his services he was admitted to the dvorianstvo.’

  ‘Really?’ said Olga Feodorovna.

  ‘A rank which my family has been proud to retain!’ said Dmitri, fired up.

  And would have been prouder still if anything, money for instance, had gone with it.

  ‘Well, now, look – ’ began Semeonov.

  ‘Dmitri Alexandrovich!’ said Olga Feodorovna, putting out her hand and smiling sweetly. ‘How kind of you to call! Charmant!’ she said to her husband. ‘But why haven’t you been to see us before?’ she said to Dmitri. ‘My daughter would so like – oh, my daughter!’ she cried, collapsing in tears.

  ‘Now, now, my dear – ’

  ‘Madam! Madam!’ cried Dmitri, supporting her to a sofa. ‘You must not give way! Don’t assume the worst! I’m sure she’s all right.’

  ‘You think so?’ whispered Olga Feodorovna, looking up at him through her tears.

  ‘I am sure!’ cried Dmitri, carried away.

  ‘And you will find her?’

  ‘I will find her! I promise you!’

  ‘You will? Oh, Dmitri Alexandrovich!’

  ‘I will search the park myself.’

  ‘Oh, Dmitri Alexandrovich! You will stay to lunch, won’t you?’

  It would have been unsociable to refuse. And over lunch he learned some more about the strange girl who had sought his help in the Court House.

  A sweet girl, charming. Dmitri could believe that. Tender, passionate. Good qualities, in Dmitri’s view, especially in women. Serious – serious about what?

  ‘She used to read,’ said Olga Feodorovna.

  And not your French romances, either! Or, at least, not just your French romances.

  ‘Real books!’ said Semeonov, nodding significantly. ‘Thick ones!’

  ‘On …?’

  Hospitals, said Semeonov. Children, said Olga Feodorovna. The poor.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Semeonov. ‘The poor.’

  For some reason Dmitri began to feel depressed.

  ‘And church,’ said Olga Feodorovna. ‘She used to go to church.’

  ‘But stopped,’ said Semeonov.

  Stopped?

  ‘A girlish whim!’ said Olga Feodorovna.

  When was this?

  ‘About three months ago,’ said Semeonov.

  ‘I pleaded with her,’ said Olga Feodorovna. ‘I asked her to think how it would look.’

  But she wouldn’t be persuaded?

  ‘Well,’ said Olga Feodorovna, ‘you know girls.’

  Any reason?

  ‘Doubts,’ said Semeonov.

  Doubts? What sort of doubts? Religious ones?

  The Semeonovs wouldn’t say that.

  ‘She was having a difficult time,’ said Olga Feodorovna. ‘You know; girls.’

  Dmitri hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about.

  ‘Moody,’ said Semeonov.

  ‘Well, yes,’ Olga Feodorovna had to admit, you could say that. A passing phase, though. And didn’t Dmitri Alexandrovich think that made young women more interesting?

  Oh, yes, Dmitri was sure of that.

  ‘I knew you would understand,’ said Olga Feodorovna softly.

  It was a pity Dmitri Alexandrovich had never met her.

  Dmitri was sure about that, too. In fact, he couldn’t think how it was that he had come to miss her.

  ‘Well, she didn’t get about much,’ said Olga Feodorovna. ‘I tried to encourage her to, but she preferred to stay at home.’

  ‘Reading,’ supplemented Semeonov.

  ‘You see!’ said Olga Feodorovna, making what had once been a pretty moue. ‘Serious!’

  Not many friends, then?

  ‘Only a few,’ Olga Feodorovna conceded. ‘In the best families, of course.’

  Men friends?

  ‘Oh, Dmitri Alexandrovich! We’re not like St Petersburg, you know!’

  Nevertheless –

  ‘Frankly,’ said Semeonov, ‘there’s no one here you’d encourage her to meet.’

  ‘Except yourself, Dmitri Alexandrovich,’ said Olga Feodorovna, smiling.

  ‘When you get on a bit,’ said Semeonov. ‘In your career, I mean.’

  But had there been anyone particular? A tendresse, perhaps?

  ‘Oh, Dmitri Alexandrovich!’ said Olga Feodorovna roguishly.

  ‘No,’ said Semeonov shortly.

  Servants came and cleared the dishes away. Over the coffee, Dmitri said:

  ‘And what exactly was Anna Semeonova doing in the Court House yesterday?’

  ‘A fad!’ said Semeonov, frowning.

  ‘A whim!’ said Olga Feodorovna.

  ‘But what …?’

  ‘She wanted to see a court in action,’ said Semeonov. ‘Well, I ask you!’

  ‘Such a serious girl!’ said Olga Feodorovna.

  ‘It’s all these books she’s been reading. I’m all for giving girls education,’ said Semeonov, ‘but you can go too far.’

  ‘I told her we could receive the lawyers socially,’ said Olga Feodorovna. ‘Only that wasn’t what she wanted.’

  ‘She wanted to go and see,’ said Semeonov. ‘I fixed it up with Smirnov. I didn’t want anything too … well, you know what I mean. She’s only a young girl.’

  ‘Smirnov?’ said Dmitri. ‘That would be contracts, then.’

  ‘I thought that was safest. Nothing too juicy. Smirnov said that it would be so boring she’d never want to go again.’

  ‘I see. So there was nothing specific she particularly wanted to see, it was just the working of the courts in general?’

  ‘She wanted to see the working of justice, she said.’

  In that case, thought Dmitri, why go to the Law Courts?

  2

  Dmitri considered the fact that she was a serious girl a major indictment. He knew what serious girls were like. Especially in Kursk.

  Besides, with her parents’ permission, he’d taken a look in her room and seen the books: heavy, figure-filled stuff and all in German. Dmitri felt guilty about German. Germany was where a lot of the most advanced social thinking was going on and as a committed Westernizer, he should have been keeping himself au courant. He found the German language, however – or, at least, the German language as written by heavy German academics – hard going. So, apparently, had Anna Semeonova. She had persevered, nonetheless. That was another thing that Dmitri held against her.

  The books gave a clue as to the direction of her seriousness. She was not serious about novels, she was not serious about music, she was not serious about ballet. What she was serious about was society. Unless Dmitri was much mistaken, the poor girl had had a fit of politics coming on.

  This threw a different light on things. It knocked on the head, for a start, Dmitri’s favourite theory at the moment (Dmitri had a lot of theories, it was relating them to facts that was the problem), namely, that Anna Semeonova had gone off with a boyfriend. Seriousness and sexuality were, in Dmitri’s view, incompatible. Unless – the thought made him stop in his tracks as he trudged back to the Court House through the remnants of snow – unless having a boyfriend was itself a political act!

  It might be. With parents like the Semeonovs, any daughter could be excused for turning to rebellion; and what better form could rebellion take than running off with an unsuitable boyfriend? It was a sort of inverse of the mother’s position. Psychologically, thought Dmitri, this sounded right; or if not right, at least inte
resting.

  He decided he would pursue the matter with Novikov when he got back to the Court House. He was already sure that the Chief of Police’s searching would not uncover a body. Dmitri was an optimistic fellow at heart and found it hard to believe, in general, that anyone was dead.

  And so it turned out, at least in so far as all the searching that morning, in the park, in the grounds, in the back yard and, again, in the building itself, had failed to produce a body.

  ‘Of course you won’t find a body,’ said Dmitri confidently, ‘because the body walked out.’

  ‘Now, look here, Dmitri Alexandrovich – ’ began the caretaker.

  They were sitting in his room drinking tea. The room was right next to the entrance and he was always in it, always drinking tea, as he pointed out.

  ‘No one gets in or out without me seeing them. What do you think I’m here for?’

  Dmitri had often wondered but wisely refrained from the comment.

  ‘Your attention might have been distracted,’ said Novikov.

  ‘In that case Peter Profimovich would have noticed. Wouldn’t you, Peter Profimovich?’ said the caretaker, turning to his assistant.

  Peter Profimovich grunted.

  ‘There you are!’ said the caretaker. ‘One of us always keeps an eye on the door.’

  Peter Profimovich grunted twice.

  ‘And we would certainly have seen anyone like Anna Semeonova,’ translated the caretaker, ‘because girls like Anna Semeonova don’t go in or out of this door very often.’

  ‘It was a cold day,’ said Dmitri. ‘She might have been well wrapped up.’

  ‘Dmitri Alexandrovich!’ said the caretaker, shaking his head pityingly. ‘Do you think we wouldn’t have seen a figure like that? No matter how it was wrapped up?’

  Peter Profimovich grunted three times.

  ‘In any case,’ said the caretaker, ‘there wasn’t much on yesterday morning and we remember everyone who went through. There was young Nikita, going out to see that girl of his – we always know it’s getting on towards lunchtime when we see her appear at the gate of the park. There was Serafim Serafimovich going out for his usual drink – that was about eleven o’clock. There were a couple of clerks going to fetch things for Peter Ivanovich. There was a woman – ’