R. Morris - A Vengeful Longing

I would like, if I may, to add one personal note. I have known Martin Meyer for a number of years, both in a professional and personal capacity. I will only say that I do not believe him capable of murdering his wife and son. This belief, and indeed my declared association with Martin Meyer, is not pertinent to my medical opinion, and should have no bearing on it.

Your humble servant,

Dr P. P. Pervoyedov.

‘The idiot!’ Porfiry threw the letter down, disturbing two flies that were crawling on his desk.

Virginsky snatched the note and scanned it.

Still standing over his desk, Porfiry riffled through the pages of the report impatiently. ‘This is useless. A clever defence lawyer will argue it is inadmissible, because of Pervoyedov’s relationship with Meyer.’

‘But I don’t understand. His findings incriminate Meyer,’ said Virginsky as he finished reading. ‘So, as he says, the friendship is irrelevant. It can be disregarded, surely? Or at least separated off. It is perfectly possible, theoretically, that Pervoyedov could appear as an expert witness for the prosecution and a character witness for the defence.’

‘And in which capacity do you think he would be more likely to carry the jury?’

‘It would have been helpful if he had told you, perhaps,’ said Virginsky, returning the note to Porfiry.

‘Really, these clever men can sometimes be so. . naive. Or perhaps it is not naive at all. Perhaps it is a deliberate attempt to undermine his own findings and so help his friend. The connection alone is enough to ruin everything.’

‘Can you not simply commission another doctor to repeat his tests?’

‘Provided there are enough mice left in St Petersburg, then I suppose it is a possibility, but really it is too aggravating.’ Porfiry cast a dismissive glance over the medical report.

‘Porfiry Petrovich, what if Pervoyedov the character witness is right?’

‘Impossible! These doctors always stick together. There is more than enough evidence to justify bringing in Meyer. Once we have him, and he is away from his sources of comfort, whatever they may be, I feel sure he will crumble. A confession will count for more, as far as a jury is concerned, than confusing scientific evidence. I shall instruct the Shestaya Street Bureau to arrest him.’

‘And that’s it?’

‘What else do you suggest I do?’ Porfiry’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed Virginsky through a cloud of smoke he had just produced.

‘What about the confectioner’s? Should we not investigate the possibility that the chocolates were contaminated at source?’

‘Do you really think that’s likely? What would their motive be?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘It’s hard to imagine what motive any shop could have for poisoning its customers.’

‘Yes, but surely it is a question of eliminating every possible cause, until only one survives.’

Porfiry met Virginsky’s heated insistence with an aggressive flurry of lashes. The younger man blushed. Porfiry expelled more smoke. ‘You mean, a question of going through the motions? And in the meantime, a murderer remains at liberty.’

‘The converse of that is that you may arrest an innocent man.’

Porfiry slammed Pervoyedov’s report down on his desk. ‘Another cursed fly! How are they getting in here?’ He looked up at Virginsky. ‘Pavel Pavlovich, as I have had occasion to remark already, you think and argue like a defence advocate. This is a useful skill for an investigating magistrate to have, although I should warn you against taking it too far. Experience informs me that by far the likeliest explanation in this case is that Meyer has murdered his wife and child. He is a doctor. He has access to toxic materials. I do not think we will have to look far to find a motive.’

‘I am surprised to hear you talk like this, Porfiry Petrovich.’

‘However,’ Porfiry pressed on, the batting of his eyelids increasing emphatically, ‘in order to construct a watertight case against him, we must caulk any chinks. Therefore, I would, as a matter of course, send someone to the confectioner’s on Nevsky Prospekt.’

‘As a matter of course?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then why did you not mention it earlier, I wonder.’

‘It is all part of your training. Another skill you will find useful to possess is the ability to persuade a sceptical superior of your theories.’

‘I see. I thank you, therefore, for the lesson, Porfiry Petrovich.’

‘Not at all.’

Sunlight flashed in the vast window of Ballet’s the confectioner’s, a white blaze that transformed the glass into a field of living energy. Lieutenant Salytov watched his reflection as it was consumed by the glare, his cockaded hat being the last of him to disappear. Ballet’s was on the sunny, even-numbered, side of Nevsky Prospekt. In general, and particularly in summer, Salytov preferred to keep himself to the shady side of the street.

His startled reflection reappeared for an instant. He drew himself up and regarded his ghostly double with a disdain it had the effrontery to reciprocate. For a moment it appeared that he was about to challenge himself to a duel. But then he looked through himself and took in the interior of the shop. Most of the twenty or so tables were empty. Circular, draped in sharp-edged linen, they seemed like miniature suns, with the same relentless brilliance. He spotted only three customers. Sitting on his own at a table by the window was a young man, somewhere in his twenties, of surprisingly impoverished appearance, considering the tariff at Ballet’s. He was reading one of the newspapers that Ballet’s provided for its customers, with a half-drunk cup of coffee on the table before him. At another table, further into the interior, two men were deep in conversation, their heads inclined conspiratorially. Other than that, he couldn’t ascertain anything meaningful about their appearance. The glass flared again, obscuring his view, and he went inside.

As Salytov crossed the floor of the shop, the two men broke off talking and watched him warily. One of the men had a red, pock-marked face and tiny eyes. The other was almost handsome, though his collar was very grubby and he had dark rings around his eyes, as if the grubbiness had spread there.

There was a stout woman serving behind the counter. Her expression, as well as her build, suggested a reluctance to part with the pastries and sweets she was selling.

Salytov looked down at the display of goods in a glass-fronted cabinet, as if he might buy something. ‘The chocolates that you sell, they are made here on the premises?’

‘That is so, sir.’ The woman had a strong German accent; her nationality was possibly significant, it seemed to Salytov.

‘Were you serving here in the shop Saturday last?’

‘I. .?’ She regarded him uncertainly.

‘You must answer my questions.’

‘Yes. I was here. I am here every Saturday.’

‘You have many customers for your chocolates, I imagine?’

She shrugged and at that moment looked over Salytov’s shoulder. Salytov turned around. The two men had risen from their table and were heading for the door. The German woman took up a small pommelled stick and beat angrily on a gong that was on the counter top. The sound of the gong was curiously muted, given the energy she put into striking it. ‘You men! You do not leave without paying. This man is a policeman. He will arrest you.’

The two men stopped in their tracks. The pock-marked one whispered something to his friend, who glared and was about to say something but ran out of the shop instead. The remaining man turned slowly to show a premeditated smile. ‘A simple oversight, Fräulein. You know us. We are friends of Tolya’s. We always pay our way. And if we are temporarily embarrassed, for whatever reason, Tolya is usually magnanimous enough to extend us reasonable credit. Is Tolya in today?’