R. Morris - The Cleansing Flames

‘It would be interesting to see the medical examiner’s report on the body found in the bed,’ said Virginsky.

‘Indeed it would, Pavel Pavlovich.’ Porfiry acknowledged Virginsky’s train of thought with a smile. ‘And what question would you most like the medical examination to answer?’

‘Whether he died from the effects of the fire, or whether. .’ Virginsky looked down at the remains of the mattress.

‘Go on.’

‘Or whether he was dead before the fire started.’

‘An interesting question. Though I must say it is an exceedingly difficult issue for a pathologist to settle. So perhaps we should not be too disappointed that we will never see the report.’ Porfiry cast his gaze upwards again, and kept it focused on the ceiling.

‘Heat rises, does it not, Pavel Pavlovich?’

‘Of course.’

‘And with it, specks of soot and other by-products of combustion?’

Virginsky gave his mouth a non-committal tightening.

‘Please, help me move the bed into this corner. The damage here is less. .’ Porfiry broke off, squinting into an area of the ceiling that seemed to have been furthest from the heart of the fire. Virginsky tried to see what had caught the other man’s eye. Porfiry began to push the bed, but it snagged on the damaged boards. ‘If you please, Pavel Pavlovich.’

The two men together manoeuvred the bed to Porfiry’s satisfaction. He kept looking up to compare its position to some point on the ceiling.

‘Your hand please.’ Porfiry held out an arm, and with Virginsky’s assistance climbed onto the metal frame. His quivering legs set off a deafening rattle. The bed seemed to be trying to jump out from beneath him. His torso swayed from side to side wildly. Virginsky pushed manfully against the latent force of Porfiry’s inevitable descent. Porfiry’s free hand flashed up towards the very corner of the room, his fingers snatching desperately. The rash movement hastened the end. Gravity prevailed. The short, plump magistrate toppled onto the taller, thinner one. The two men somehow found themselves sprawled uncomfortably across exposed beams, opposite one another.

‘Got it!’ cried Porfiry triumphantly.

‘What?’

Porfiry opened his palm to reveal a tiny fragment of blackness, smaller than the nail of his little finger, a ragged semicircle, although with one precisely straight side. ‘I don’t know.’ He smiled foolishly at Virginsky. ‘I saw something standing slightly proud on the ceiling. That straight edge seemed peculiar and worthy of investigation.’ Porfiry turned his find over. ‘It appears to be a scrap of paper. Completely charred on one side. But it appears that something is printed on this side. Can you make it out, Pavel Pavlovich? My eyes are not up to it.’

Virginsky hauled himself over and peered into his superior’s hand. ‘It’s just letters.’

‘Yes, but what letters?’ demanded Porfiry roughly.

Virginsky reached out and turned the fragment.

‘Be careful! It’s very fragile,’ warned Porfiry.

The paper was indeed flimsy to the touch. ‘It is this way up, I think,’ said Virginsky. ‘Four rows of letters. G-o. O-f, space m. S-t-i-t. N-o. Go, Of m, Stit, No . It’s obviously a remnant from a larger sheet.’

‘The rest of which was no doubt destroyed in the conflagration.’ Porfiry looked up to the ceiling again. ‘Or recovered by the gendarmes. Which amounts to the same thing, as far as we are concerned.’ With a strenuous grunt, Porfiry heaved himself to his feet. He squinted into his palm, as if he were intent on reading his own fortune. ‘This tiny scrap alone drifted up to adhere to the ceiling.’

‘Surely there’s not enough there to constitute a meaningful clue?’ objected Virginsky. And yet even as he dismissed it, he felt that the wisp of paper might contain the significance Porfiry wished to impart to it. Perhaps it was something to do with the miraculous way Porfiry had plucked it out of the ravages of the fire. Or perhaps it was because the letters that he could make out were so tantalisingly close to meaning something that he could not accept their essential randomness. There had to be a message contained there. It was simply a question of decoding it. And if there was a message, it had to have a bearing on the case. He knew of course that this final piece of reasoning was flawed. Even so, it was hard to resist. Something about those few letters resonated deep within him.

‘But it may be all we have, Pavel Pavlovich. And besides, I am sure that you will be able to make some sense of it.’

‘I?’

Porfiry’s smile made it clear that no thanks were necessary for the generous gift he considered himself to have bestowed.

*

‘Now we must pay our respects next door,’ said Porfiry quietly, as they stepped back out onto the landing.

Virginsky froze. The door to the apartment next to Kozodavlev’s suddenly acquired a monumental presence. Glistening with fresh paint, it appeared to have been recently fitted. But there was something inhuman about its pristine edges. Given all that had happened inside that apartment, it seemed monstrous that someone had thought to repair the door, as if paint and joinery could set those horrors to rights. To Virginsky, the bright new door was a slab of desolation bearing down on him, the emptiness at the centre of the human heart. He did not want to go anywhere near it. ‘Would it not be an intrusion? At this time. . their grief. .’

Porfiry gave him a curious distracted glance, as if he could not understand what Virginsky was saying, or even the language in which he was saying it. ‘We must pay our respects, Pavel Pavlovich,’ Porfiry insisted.

Virginsky did not care to probe his reluctance. Instead, he gave in to a surge of panic-tinged antagonism. ‘All this talk of paying respects . . that is not it at all, Porfiry Petrovich. It is unseemly. An unseemly prurience. All you want to do is goggle at their suffering.’

Porfiry met the accusation with a mild flurry of blinking, the softest of reproaches.

‘Does it not seem odd to you that they have repaired the door?’ said Virginsky abruptly. Now that he had voiced it, his thought of a moment ago struck him as absurd and unfeeling. He felt the need to defend himself: ‘If I had lost five children, I would not have the presence of mind to summon a carpenter to mend a damaged door.’

‘What would you have them do? Besides, the door was most probably paid for by their neighbours. That is the Russian way.’ Porfiry considered Virginsky sternly. ‘It does not mean they loved their children any less just because they have thought to replace the door to their apartment.’

With that, still fixing Virginsky with a recriminatory gaze, Porfiry tapped his knuckles against the controversial door.

It seemed that the old woman who opened up for them was expecting someone else entirely. An expression of joyous relief quickly collapsed into one of disappointment, which in turn sharpened into suspicion. She was wiry and angular, seemingly possessed of a stubborn strength. A black bonnet sat on loose grey curls. Her mourning dress was respectable and respectful.

‘Madame Prokharchina?’ The extremely sceptical emphasis in Porfiry’s voice suggested that he did not for one moment believe she was the lady in question.

‘No, I am Yekaterina Ivanovna Dvigailova. The landlady.’

‘Of course.’ Porfiry gave Virginsky a shaming glance. ‘We are magistrates. We have come to pay our respects to the family.’

Yekaterina Ivanovna regarded him mistrustfully.

‘Out of common human feeling. We read about the tragedy in the newspapers. We felt compelled to pay our respects. This being Thomas Week, you understand. Tomorrow is Radonitsa. We intend to say a prayer for the little ones.’