R. Morris - A Vengeful Longing

There were two other chairs. Virginsky took one of them; Porfiry ignored the other and instead began to pace the room. Ptitsyn stood by the door. Meyer winced at the sound of the key turning as it was locked from the outside.

‘How are you, Dr Meyer?’ began Porfiry cheerfully, wrinkling his face into a smile.

‘How do you think I am?’ Meyer twisted his head to follow Porfiry’s restless movement.

‘Yes, yes, of course. This is a very bad situation for you. Your wife and son are dead and. .’

‘And I stand accused of their murder.’

Porfiry seemed surprised by the force of Meyer’s bitterness. ‘I’m afraid so. I presume you maintain that you are not responsible for their deaths?’

‘Of course! I’m not a monster.’ Meyer stared desperately. ‘Anyhow, I can explain it all. I know what happened.’

Porfiry stopped pacing and pulled back the seat next to Virginsky, as if he intended to take it. He did not, however, and by remaining standing he introduced a strange tension into the interview. ‘I am very interested to hear what you have to say.’ Porfiry continued to stand over the doctor, fixing him with an expectant gaze. At last he let go of the chair and began pacing again. ‘Forgive me. At the moment I find it uncomfortable to sit down for long periods. It is better for me to remain on my feet. It makes me rather restless, I confess. I’m sure as a doctor you will understand. Perhaps you will say the exercise is good for me. By the way, you are aware that your friend, Dr Pervoyedov of the Obukhovsky Hospital, has confirmed that Raisa and Grisha were killed by a poison administered via the chocolates you gave her? It was you who gave her the chocolates, was it not? You bought them from Ballet’s that day, I believe.’

‘Yes, that’s true. I–I-I don’t deny it,’ Meyer stammered in confusion.

‘There is no point in denying that which is self-evidently true, my friend.’

Meyer suddenly became excited. ‘But here’s the thing! I remembernow what happened.’ He was almost shouting.

‘Very well. Tell me what happened. But please, try to calm down.’

‘There was a man.’

‘A man?’

‘At the shop. The confectioner’s.’

‘Someone who works there?’

‘No. Another customer. Although, now that I come to think of it, it was outside the shop. I was coming out. I’d just bought the chocolates. He was going in and. . he walked into me. Quite deliberately! Don’t you see? I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but the thing is, you see, I dropped the chocolates. No! I didn’t drop them! He knocked them out of my hand! It was quite deliberate. I see that now. At the time, well, you cannot believe such things. You do not trust the evidence of your own eyes. “Why would anyone do such a thing?” you think. No, it can’t have been so. He can’t have knocked the chocolates out of my hand. I simply refuse to believe that a stranger would do this. And yet. . he did it! Afterwards he was so apologetic, and made such a fuss of retrieving the chocolates for me. What if, what if — this is what I’m thinking — what if he swapped them for another box of chocolates? A poisoned box!’

‘Did anyone else see this encounter?’

‘Oh yes! There were many people on the pavement. It was on the Nevsky Prospekt. Another fellow even tried to pick up the chocolate box but he — the man, you understand — he screamed at him hysterically to leave them be. I thought that most odd, but at the same time, thought nothing of it.’ Meyer frowned. ‘He was very particular — jealous you might almost say — about picking up the box himself.’

‘Can you give us the names of any of these witnesses?’

‘No! Of course not! They were just people on the street. Passers-by. How could I be expected to know their names?’

‘And this man? Was he known to you?’

‘That’s what’s strange about this whole affair! I’ve never seen him before in my life.’

‘Can you describe him?’

‘He was a man. I don’t know, just some kind of man. I didn’t look very closely at him. I found him rather annoying. I do not like to look closely at people who annoy me. I wanted him gone from my sight. I had no idea, at the time.’

‘Why would he do this, do you think, this stranger?’

‘I don’t know! That is to say, I only have one theory.’

‘And what is your theory?’

‘Bezmygin.’

Porfiry broke off his pacing once more. He stood with his back to Meyer.’Who is Bezmygin?’ Porfiry angled his head as he awaited Meyer’s answer.

‘A musician.’

‘And what does Bezmygin the musician have to do with all this?’

‘Why it’s obvious, isn’t it?’

Porfiry turned and transmitted a blank look to Meyer.

‘He put the man up to it.’

‘You will have to help me here. I’m afraid I don’t understand. Why would he do that?’

‘He was in love with Raisa. They played duets together. He even came to visit her sometimes when I was not there. I caught them together once. They denied any impropriety, of course. They were rehearsing for a concert. Ha! But why would he be at the house of a married woman when her husband was absent if not for immoral purposes? I made her break with him completely. In point of fact, she was happy enough to do so. She did not love him. It was all on his side. My wife. . well, my wife is easily influenced. She is weak. He is a flashy gewgaw of a man. She was a woman. It was only natural that there would be some degree of infatuation. But love? No. Never. But this man, this Bezmygin, he is a vain, arrogant man. You have no idea. He didn’t take it well. I believe he has done all this to get even with her, with me. To destroy us. Do you not see?’

‘We will naturally want to talk to this Bezmygin,’ said Porfiry, beginning to pace once more. ‘Do you know where we might find him?’

‘He plays in the private orchestra of Count Akhmatov. I believe he is at the count’s dacha near Petergof. He is little more than a serf. A performing lackey!’

‘But why would he wish to kill your son?’

‘He hated Grigory. To him, Grigory was always in the way. He could never be alone with my wife, you see.’

Porfiry stopped pacing to light a cigarette while he considered what Meyer had said. The doctor looked from Porfiry to Virginsky with desperate expectancy, trying to gauge on which of these two magistrates to focus his appeal. Virginsky’s expression held more promise of sympathy, but he too watched Porfiry in some expectation. Everything, clearly, hung on what the older magistrate decided. For the moment, however, Porfiry seemed interested only in absorbing and enjoying the smoke from his cigarette. His face gave nothing away. At last he nodded, decisively, and said, ‘We will look into it.’ Finally, he took the seat next to Virginsky. ‘At the dacha we found a number of sheets of paper covered in close, neat handwriting, apparently passages copied from the newspapers. All of them seem to be sensationalised accounts of murders or suicides. Rather singular, I think you will agree. Extraordinary, one might almost say. Dr Meyer, do you have any idea who made these copies?’

‘Grigory. It was something he did.’

‘If you don’t mind me saying so, it seems rather a strange hobby for a boy to have.’

‘It was not a hobby. It was a compulsion. Grigory. . was not … he faced particular difficulties.’

‘How would you characterise these difficulties, speaking as a doctor?’

‘As a doctor?’ Meyer seemed surprised by this acknowledgement of his profession. ‘As a doctor, I would characterise them as imbecilic.’

‘And as a father?’

Meyer said nothing. Anguish writhed on his face.

‘He must have been a disappointment to you,’ pressed Porfiry softly, grinding his cigarette out into the tin ashtray on the table.