R. Morris - The Cleansing Flames

‘There is also the letter that I received. The letter taken together with Ordynov’s testimony is conclusive.’

‘An anonymous letter.’

‘Handwriting comparisons strongly suggest it was written by him.’

‘You know that handwriting similarities are not conclusive,’ pointed out Virginsky. ‘And are indeed highly circumstantial. The fact is, there may have been someone else there, unnoticed by the sailors. That someone else may be the writer of the anonymous letter and the person who is connected to the body in the canal. It would be a strange coincidence, but it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that this other person has a similar handwriting style to Kozodavlev. You cannot build a case on conjecture based on the similarities of a number of unsigned writing samples. Any half-decent defence lawyer will tear it to shreds. With all due respect, if I may say so, Porfiry Petrovich, it is your vanity that led you to the offices of Affair , where you promptly found what you were looking for.’

‘Vanity? I — ’

Virginsky pressed on. ‘What if the letter was not written by Kozodavlev, after all? If there was someone else there, the writer of the letter, then we have been wasting our time. We are still wasting our time. If the man from the Winter Canal has nothing to do with Kozodavlev, then he has nothing to do with Affair , or Russian Soil , or the novel Swine . Or Prince Dolgoruky — whoever he may be.’

‘He appears to be a distant cousin of the Tsar’s current mistress,’ observed Porfiry tartly.

‘You wish to drag the Tsar into this?’

Porfiry’s expression was panic-stricken. ‘No! Please God, no! It is simply a curious coincidence. I am confident there is nothing more to it than that. The Dolgoruky family has multitudinous offshoots. Indeed, it is a name claimed by many, even those who have no right to it. Perhaps that is the case here with this Dolgoruky of Trudolyubov’s.’ They carried on walking in silence for some moments. ‘So, Pavel Pavlovich. What would you have us do?’

Virginsky gave an ineffectual shrug.

‘Nothing? Drop the case? Is that what you are suggesting?’

‘I fear that we must wait until we have a positive identification of the victim. Until we know for certain who the man in the canal was, we are chasing phantoms.’

‘But we may never have that.’

‘Then the case may never be solved.’

‘I confess I’m disappointed. I was hoping you were about to propose a wager.’

‘You know I do not gamble, Porfiry Petrovich. Particularly when it is to do with the execution of our professional duties. That is to reduce a matter of deadly seriousness to mere sport, is it not?’

‘Once again, I consider myself justifiably rebuked, Pavel Pavlovich.’

They continued several paces in silence.

‘But Kozodavlev is dead,’ ventured Porfiry at last. ‘And if the fire in which he perished was started deliberately, then that too is murder.’

‘But we have not been assigned to that case,’ Virginsky pointed out.

‘And what of the children? Whoever killed Kozodavlev killed them also.’

Virginsky did not reply. The speed with which the colour drained from his face indicated that Porfiry had touched a nerve.

‘You did not go to the graveside. You did not witness the mother’s collapse. She fell forward. Perhaps it was deliberate — she threw herself. At any rate, she had to be pulled out. The father. . the father’s cries. .’ Porfiry broke off. He lit a cigarette before continuing. ‘Have you ever been to the Zoological Gardens, Pavel Pavlovich?’

Virginsky hesitated before replying, ‘Y-yes.’ He was thinking back to Easter Sunday night.

‘His cries were like the bellow of a wounded beast. Such suffering cannot be borne. The landlady too was in a terrible state.’

‘If she had stayed with the children. .’

‘You will blame her? We must find out who lit that fire, Pavel Pavlovich, and bring them to justice. We promised. We promised Yekaterina Ivanovna — or have you forgotten?’

‘ You promised.’

‘And you gave your promise too, I seem to remember.’

‘But we are not assigned to it.’ There was a despairing quality to Virginsky’s words, as if he was pleading with Porfiry to leave him alone.

Porfiry considered his junior colleague carefully for a few moments. ‘There is something about Kozodavlev that makes you uncomfortable,’ he said. ‘That you do not wish to look into. That is why you shy away from him.’

‘You are wide of the mark this time, Porfiry Petrovich.’ The despair in Virginsky’s voice tipped over into panic.

Porfiry continued to watch him closely. ‘Quite possibly. . dear boy,’ he said quietly, almost tenderly. They had reached the number of the apartment building where one branch of the Dolgoruky family resided. Porfiry looked up at it regretfully. ‘So what is it to be? Do we just go back to the bureau and wait for someone to recognise our corpse?’ He seemed to be waiting for Virginsky’s permission to enter.

‘Now that we are here. .’ began Virginsky sullenly.

It was like a trap springing open. Porfiry was away before Virginsky could finish speaking. He called something over his shoulder that could have been, ‘That’s the spirit!’ But it was lost in the speed of his flight up the steps.

*

The Dolgoruky apartments were, naturally, at the front of the building, looking out on Liteiny Prospect. They were on a grand scale, and seemed to be inhabited, at first sight, exclusively by servants.

As far as Porfiry was able to discover, the extensive household existed to serve the needs of one tiny individual, to whom he and Virginsky were eventually presented. The dowager Princess Yevgenia Alexeevna Dolgorukaya was like the hard kernel of the woman she had once been. Her face was the shape of an almond, and as deeply lined. Her lips were held in a permanent pucker of disapproval — or perhaps it was pain, caused by the severity with which her hair had been parted and pinned. She did not blink. As soon as Porfiry noticed this, he was greatly disconcerted by it. He immediately thought her capable of anything.

Her extremely diminutive stature, which was in inverse proportion to her importance in the household, was exaggerated by the voluminous skirt of her purple satin dress. The widow’s colour seemed to be a vortex of grief into which she was in danger of sinking. She was also dwarfed by a pair of enormous oriental vases balanced precariously on narrow stands and positioned at either side of the golden velvet sofa on which she was perched.

Seated next to her, though at the furthest possible distance on the same sofa, was a young woman working at an embroidery hoop. She was a pretty enough girl, thought Porfiry, though her expression was timid, almost cowed. It did not seem that she was the older woman’s daughter — more that her relationship to her was one of subservience, or indebtedness. At any rate, there was no clear family resemblance, and the companionship with which she provided the Princess did not seem to be freely given. Neither party gave any impression of deriving enjoyment from it.

Porfiry bowed as he introduced himself and Virginsky. The Princess invited them to be seated on a sofa that was positioned at right angles to her own. Somewhat inhibited by the semicircle of attendant maids and footmen, as well as the giant vases, Porfiry cleared his throat to state his business. ‘I regret the necessity of disturbing your peace, Madame. In point of fact, we wish to speak to Prince Konstantin Arsenevich Dolgoruky. Your son, perhaps? Is he by any chance at home?’

‘I know of no one by that name.’

When Porfiry had thought her capable of anything, his imagination had not encompassed this. ‘I beg your pardon? We were assured that this was the Dolgoruky family home, the same Dolgoruky family to which Prince Konstantin Arsenevich belongs. Is that not correct?’