R. Morris - A Vengeful Longing

When the music finished, he turned a face in which fear and hopefulness were combined to pathetic effect towards the lounging aristocrat, who did not deign to open his eyes or acknowledge the end of the piece in any way. Virginsky also discerned in the conductor’s meek and suppliant expression a stifled hatred that were it ever to be released would result in an explosion of violent passion.

‘Well, Yakov Ilyich,’ began Count Akhmatov at last, for it was surely he reclining on the sofa. ‘The noise your rabble produces reminds me of the female pudenda, heavenly bliss in close proximity to utter filth and degradation.’

There was a titter of amusement from the players.

‘Thank you, Your Excellency.’ Yakov Ilyich smiled uneasily.

Count Akhmatov kept his eyes closed, but his arms swept magisterially about him, trailing the loose sleeves of his dressing gown. ‘Don’t thank me, you fool. I’m insulting you! Don’t you even have the wit to know when you are insulted?’

Yakov Ilyich shrugged and mugged for the orchestra. By such small acts of insubordination, he asserted his freedom from the tormentor on the sofa.

The butler who had shown Porfiry and Virginsky in cleared his throat loudly and walked over to Count Akhmatov. After the flunky had whispered something in his ear, Akhmatov sat up sharply and turned a blue imperious gaze on the visitors. ‘Magistrates from St Petersburg! For Bezmygin!’ he shouted, in mock alarm. ‘You cannot arrest Bezmygin. He is a scoundrel and a philanderer, but he is my best player. Arrest one of them instead!’ Count Akhmatov pointed to a pair of flautists, little more than boys, who seemed as unhappy to be in his orchestra as he was to have them there. ‘In fact, you may arrest the whole of the woodwind section, but not Bezmygin. I am holding a masked ball tonight. I cannot do without my Bezmygin.’

‘Your Excellency,’ protested Porfiry, mildly, ‘we have not come to arrest Bezmygin, merely to talk to him.’

‘What is in your basket?’

‘Food.’

‘You have come to invite him on a picnic?’

‘Not exactly, sir.’

Count Akhmatov regarded first Porfiry then Virginsky with open, almost offensive curiosity, like a schoolboy inspecting snails. He seemed particularly interested in Virginsky, perhaps sensing his hostility and wanting to provoke it more.

‘Very well, you have my permission to talk to him.’ Virginsky bristled at that ‘permission’ and the count allowed himself a small smile of triumph. He rose from the sofa, swishing his sleeves about him. ‘I shall retire to the orangery. My auditory senses are worn out. Yakov Ilyich, you will be busy this afternoon, I think. There is much work to be done, but you are the man to do it, of that I have no doubt. Now then, where is that young wife of yours? We must do our best to keep her entertained while you are occupied. It is the least we can do. It would not do for one so pretty to be bored. Though how a booby like you won such a wife, I’ll never know.’ With that, Akhmatov padded out of the ballroom, his slippers flapping mocking applause as he went.

‘Which of you is Bezmygin?’ Porfiry called out, when the emotional wake of the departed aristocrat had cleared from the room.

The man who occupied the position of first violin tilted back his head and looked down superciliously. There was arrogance in his posture, but also a kind of sly wariness that undermined it. Perhaps it was this contradiction, the hint of vulnerability in his soft, dark eyes, that made him attractive to women. To Virginsky, he had the look of the Lothario who expects the husband to burst in at any moment. He laid down his instrument and stepped down from the platform. His gait was stiff and self-conscious. He held himself away from Porfiry and Virginsky as he approached them.

‘What is this about?’ Behind him, the orchestra master tapped his baton on his music stand and called out bars for the woodwind players.

‘You are Bezmygin?’ demanded Porfiry.

The musician nodded confirmation.

‘We have come to talk to you about Raisa Ivanovna Meyer.’

An unpleasant smirk contorted Bezmygin’s face. ‘What has she done? Murdered that insufferable philistine of a husband of hers?’

‘No. In fact, I am afraid to say that she is dead and it seems someone has murdered her.’

The shock of receiving this news seemed to knock some of the stuffing out of Bezmygin’s pose. It struck Virginsky as genuine. He remembered his own experience of how Porfiry used such revelations as psychological tools to prise out the truth.

‘Poor Raya,’ said Bezmygin.

‘Dr Meyer seems to think you might have had something to do with it.’

‘That’s ridiculous!’

‘Is it true you were having an affair with Raisa Ivanovna?’

‘I deny that.’

‘My friend, you may deny it and yet it may also be true,’ observed Porfiry. ‘Her husband’s view is that when she broke off the affair, your pride was wounded and you determined to exact revenge.’

‘He’s a fool. This would be laughable if it weren’t. .’ Bezmygin broke off.

‘You were often at her house. Alone with her, when her husband was not there.’

‘Yes. We were putting together some pieces for a soirée. She. . was a gifted accompanist.’ Sudden anger flared in Bezmygin’s eyes. ‘I cannot believe you have come here to ask me these questions. I should have thought it quite obvious that her husband killed her out of jealousy.’

‘Did he, then, have grounds to be jealous?’

‘No! Except that she was bored with him. The man is a philistine and a morphine eater who had no appreciation of her talents. Besides, he was having an affair with the maid, Polina. Did he tell you about that?’

Porfiry and Virginsky exchanged a glance. ‘No, he did not,’ said Porfiry.

‘Well, it’s true. Raisa told me about it.’

‘So relations between Dr Meyer and his wife were strained?’ asked Porfiry.

‘I should say so. He had turned away from her. The man had a heart of ice.’

‘As far as you know, was there any specific reason for the deteriorationin their relations, other than her friendship with you?’

‘Our friendship had nothing to do with it. It was all to do with a letter he received.’

‘A letter? Who was it from?’

‘It was anonymous, apparently. The thing upset her terribly. Really, there are some quite malicious people in the world. Live and let live is what I say. But it seems there are those who hold to a different philosophy.’

‘Did she tell you what was in the letter?’

‘No. She wouldn’t go into the details. But it was pretty spiteful stuff, I should think, judging by the effect it had.’

‘You think the contents concerned Raisa Ivanovna?’

‘All I know is that after he received it, Meyer would have nothing to do with his wife, not in the normal way of married couples, if you take my meaning. If you ask me, he was looking for an excuse. And, anyway, it didn’t take long for him to fall into the arms of his wench.’

‘When did he receive this letter, can you say?’

‘Two or three months ago.’ Bezmygin shrugged his shoulders uncertainly. ‘I think it was about then that she first spoke to me of it.’

‘This is all very interesting,’ said Porfiry. ‘If true.’

‘Of course it’s true! You have only to find the letter. He would not destroy it, though she begged him to.’

Porfiry pursed his lips distractedly, then it seemed as though he had remembered something. ‘Tell me, what were your feelings towards Grigory, the Meyers’ son?’

‘Pity, mostly. Why? What has Grigory got to do with this?’

‘Whoever killed Raisa Ivanovna, also killed him,’ said Virginsky, and he wondered why he had wanted to be the one who broke this news to Bezmygin.