R. Morris - The Cleansing Flames

‘You sought controversy?’

‘I suppose you could say that.’ Trudolyubov’s eyes seemed to twinkle. He looked down at the review again. ‘But Kozodavlev cannot be K.! K. even attacked Kozodavlev, singling him out for the bitterest vituperation.’

‘I believe it was a game he liked to play. Perhaps it was his way of working out the conflicts that buffeted his soul.’

‘But it makes a mockery of all the principles any of us hold, on whatever side.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Porfiry. ‘Have you always held the views you now propound with such force in your publications? Were you not once, in your younger days, in the sway of entirely opposite ideas?’

‘I learnt the error of my ways.’

‘Yes, but you will accept that it is possible for two contrary opinions to reside in the same man?’

‘At different times of his life, perhaps.’

‘But were not the seeds of your current views taking root in your mind at the very time that you were openly expressing sentiments of a decidedly radical tendency? Are not both viewpoints, though on the face of it polar opposites, more closely related than they first appear? Might we not say they are two sides of the same coin? The coin being a sincere and deeply held love of Russia. For it seems to me, if I may say so — I am not a political individual, so my comments may strike you as naive — nevertheless, it does seem to me that the radicals and the Slavophiles are both motivated by a genuine desire to do what is best for Russia. It is just that they disagree as to what that is.’

Trudolyubov thrust the article back at Porfiry. ‘No. I won’t accept that. This is just cynical sport.’

‘He was a professional writer,’ said Porfiry reasonably. ‘He had to place his work where he could.’

‘Was? You just said “was.” Is Kozodavlev the one you fished out of the Winter Canal?’

‘In the first place, I did not myself fish the body out. In the second, no — I do not believe so.’ Porfiry turned to Virginsky. ‘Pavel Pavlovich, do you have the poster?’

Virginsky nodded and took out the folded poster, which he handed to Trudolyubov.

‘This is the body from the Winter Canal,’ explained Porfiry. ‘We have seen a photograph of Mr Kozodavlev — or K., if you prefer — and it is not the same person. However, Mr Kozodavlev is missing, and, I regret to say, presumed dead.’

Trudolyubov did not appear to have heard. His gaze was concentrated on the photograph in his hands. ‘What has happened to this poor fellow?’ He spoke in a barely vocalised whisper.

‘He would not have looked like that in life. A chemical reaction has occurred in certain places. It has transformed his flesh into a soapy substance. Please try to ignore that and concentrate on the areas that are not affected. You will notice the pockmarks and the small eyes. They are distinctive features, I think.’

Trudolyubov looked aghast at Virginsky. ‘They would take away God from us. But if you take away God, what are you left with, sir? This.’ He handed the poster back to Virginsky.

‘Do you recognise him?’ asked Porfiry.

Trudolyubov shook his head. ‘So, Kozodavlev is dead too, you say?’

‘It seems he perished in a fire that took hold of his apartment building on Monday night.’

‘How ironic.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘You could say he has only himself to blame. His inflammatory articles without doubt contributed to the unrest and vandalism that has beset our city in recent days.’

‘And yet the articles he wrote for you might have served to counteract it.’

The elderly editor seemed unconvinced.

‘I would be interested in seeing cuttings of the work K. contributed to your publications,’ said Porfiry.

‘I can arrange that. If you provide me with an address, I will send them on for you.’

‘Thank you. Here is my card. Also, I would very much like to meet Prince Dolgoruky.’

‘The family home is not far from here. I seem to remember that it is also in Liteiny Prospect. If you don’t mind waiting, I will have someone look up the address for you.’

‘Most kind.’

Trudolyubov consulted with one of his colleagues, who lifted his head slowly, thrusting his beard in Porfiry and Virginsky’s direction. A moment later the address was handed over.

‘May I say something, Porfiry Petrovich?’ began Virginsky, as they walked back along Liteiny Prospect towards the Nevsky Prospect end. ‘And I hope you will not take it amiss.’

Porfiry blinked frantically as he gave consideration to Virginsky’s words. ‘If it is something that I may take amiss, then perhaps it is better not said.’

‘Very well. I will keep my thoughts to myself.’

Porfiry regarded Virginsky out of the corner of his eye, with an indulgent spasm of the lips. ‘Oh dear, Pavel Pavlovich, so easily discouraged? That’s not like you. I worry that you too often keep your counsel these days. It suggests either that you do not trust me, or that you do not trust yourself. I’m afraid to think which horrifies me more. To be honest, I don’t like either much.’

Virginsky frowned thoughtfully. This man — plump, ageing, short-winded, with his preposterously mannered tics, always blinking and smirking as if he were some silly lovesick girl and not a senior investigating magistrate — this man was constantly surprising him. It could only be because he, Virginsky, was constantly underestimating Porfiry Petrovich. He had fallen into the trap again, despite consciously being on his guard against it. And Porfiry, with just a few words and a sly, sidelong glance, had shown that he knew precisely what was going on in Virginsky’s soul.

‘How do you do it, Porfiry Petrovich?’

‘Is that what you were going to say?’

‘No. And you know that it was not.’

‘Very well. “How do I do it?” you ask. “How do I do what?” I ask.’

‘You have an unerring knack.’

Porfiry blinked expectantly.

‘For voicing the very thing that is on my mind.’

‘Oh? And what was that? I’ve forgotten what I said, you see. My memory is not unerring.’

‘You spoke of. . trust.’

‘And you hesitated, just now as you said the word. That is all there is to my knack, such as it is. I pay attention to the little signals.’

‘You feel that there is some loss of trust between us?’

‘Do you?’

‘Our differences. .’

‘Are as nothing. Nothing! ’ cried Porfiry, with an emphatic wave of his arm.

‘. . may not be as easy to overcome as you might hope,’ insisted Virginsky.

‘What are you trying to tell me, Pavel Pavlovich? I hope to God it is not what I fear.’

‘I am a man of principles. I am no Kozodavlev.’

‘You judge him too quickly and perhaps too harshly. We do not yet know what has prompted him to act in the way he has.’

‘You defend him. That is because he flattered you in an article.’

‘Please, give me more credit than that. Who knows what lies behind Kozodavlev’s strange. .’ Porfiry pursed his lips as he waited for the right word to come to him.

Virginsky provided it: ‘Hypocrisy.’

Porfiry gave a remonstrative look.

‘What I was going to say,’ began Virginsky again, ‘is that I fear Kozodavlev may be a false trail.’

Porfiry smiled. ‘I am glad you have overcome your reticence. Please continue.’

‘We do not, in point of fact, have anything conclusive linking Kozodavlev to the man in the Winter Canal — the case we are supposed to be investigating, if I may remind you.’

‘We have the word of Apprentice Seaman Ordynov.’

‘Well, yes, we now know that Kozodavlev saw the sailors bring up the body. And that he failed to raise the alarm, as he had said he would. But that does not prove beyond doubt that he knew the man. He may simply have been frightened.’