R. Morris - A Vengeful Longing

‘But what if I had encouraged him?’

‘In what way might you have?’

‘Oh, surely you know how it is? There are looks. . and sighs. Surely even you have had experience of such things?’

‘Of looks and sighs? Perhaps.’ Porfiry’s tone became solicitous. ‘Did you really encourage him?’

‘I cannot explain it. I did not like him. I did not like any of them.’

‘Sometimes, when one is unhappy, the only thing one can do, the only thing one wants to do, is make others unhappy. It was all the power you had.’

‘You are not how I imagined you would be. I thought you would shout at me and bully me. You are not at all like that. You are nicer than that.’

‘I am nice, Pavel Pavlovich!’

There was a growl from the sofa.

‘But did he really kill them?’ asked Polina, her face struck with sudden horror.

‘I don’t know. What do you think?’ Porfiry gave every indication of being sincerely interested in her view.

‘ I don’t know. Why would he?’

‘To. . get them out of the way,’ suggested Porfiry, tentatively.

‘Yes, but why would he want them out of the way?’

‘So that he. . and you. .’

‘No!’

‘Ah, you see. I’m afraid that’s the way it might look. Did you ever, you and he, discuss. .?’

‘What?’

‘Getting them out of the way.’

‘No.’ Polina shook her head emphatically. ‘No, no — never.’

‘Of course. I am sorry. One is forced to ask these questions.’

‘If he did it, he did it on his own. I had nothing to do with it.’

‘Do you think him capable of doing it, Polya?’

‘No,’ said Polina flatly. ‘Besides, he did not need to kill her. She would not have stood in his way, whatever he had wanted to do. If I had consented, she would have turned a blind eye.’

Porfiry nodded. ‘What can you tell me about Mr Bezmygin? Did you ever observe Raisa Ivanovna with her friend Mr Bezmygin?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were there grounds, do you think, for Dr Meyer to be jealous of their relationship?’

‘There were grounds, but he was not jealous.’

‘Really? How can you say that with such certainty!’

‘Because he did not love her.’ Polina narrowed her eyes and looked into Porfiry’s. ‘I do not believe he killed her. Why would he kill her? She was already dead to him.’

Porfiry mirrored her expression, screwing his eyes up thoughtfully as he met her gaze. A knock at the door interrupted their silent consideration of each other. Zamyotov came in, breathless with excitement. ‘You are to go to Izmailovsky Prospekt. There has been a murder. A retired colonel has been shot. It is a terrible scandal. A respectable gentleman did it. Lieutenant Salytov is already there.’

‘Good heavens, if they know who did it and Lieutenant Salytov is there, why on earth am I required?’ Porfiry still had his eyes on Polina, for whom he wrinkled his eyes and winked. ‘Thank you, my dear. You have given me much to think about. Now, if you will forgive me, it seems that another case demands my attention.’

‘A strange coincidence, is it not?’ said Porfiry, affecting a casual-ness that he did not quite pull off. ‘Is this not the very building from which emerged the couple you spoke to? You remember, we were coming back from interviewing Bezmygin. You stopped the driver and ran back. An older gentleman and a young, rather pretty, lady.’

Virginsky looked up at the apartment building they were about to enter. ‘Mmm, it may have been,’ he said dubiously.

‘Who were they?’

Virginsky hesitated, his mouth open, a protest frozen on his lips. ‘My father,’ he said with dull finality. ‘And his wife.’

‘Ah! I wondered if it were so. There was a certain resemblance, you see, between you and the gentleman.’ Porfiry thought for a moment and then added: ‘I wonder if they knew our dead man?’

Virginsky shrugged, as if he were trying to shake off the suggestion. ‘Is it always like this? You have not finished one case and you must begin another?’

‘I’m afraid the criminals of St Petersburg have altogether too little regard for those who must investigate them. They do not adhere to any almanac. Nor do they wait for all pending crimes to be solved before perpetrating their own. They are very bad.’ Porfiry held the door for Virginsky, his face deadpan.

They climbed the stairs in silence. A politseisky guarding one of the doors on the fourth-storey landing indicated their destination.

The door was opened by Lieutenant Salytov. The summer did not suit Salytov. With fiery-hair and whiskers, as well as being fair-skinned, the slightest increase in temperature turned his face as red and steaming as a bowl of borscht. He turned his back on them without a word of welcome.

‘So Ilya Petrovich,’ Porfiry called after him. ‘What do we have?’

‘It seems a clear-cut case.’ Salytov shouted out the words with his usual antagonism. He was used to Porfiry’s habit of overturning all obvious assumptions, and resented it, just as he seemed to resent his role in having to state them. ‘One Vakhramev was admitted earlier this afternoon — no precise time given, but the butler thinks somewhere around three. He was seen to argue with Colonel Setochkin. There was talk of a duel, according to the butler. Vakhramev was demanding satisfaction. Called Setochkin a villain. Threatened him with forfeiture of rights, or some such, according to the butler. Something to do with Vakhramev’s daughter. The two men went alone into Setochkin’s study. About ten minutes later, a shot was heard. Setochkin dead, Vakhramev holding the gun. The local doctor has had a look at him. He has given the cause of death as a single gunshot wound to the heart, subject to a full medical examination, of course.’

‘Whose gun?’

‘The gun has been identified as belonging to Colonel Setochkin. One of a pair of duelling pistols. The other was still in the case.’

‘Where was the case kept?’

‘In the same room, Setochkin’s study.’

‘In open view?’

‘The case was on the colonel’s desk.’

‘So Vakhramev could easily have taken the pistol from it. What is Vakhramev’s version of events?’

‘You can ask him yourself. I’m sure you will. He’s in here.’ Salytov had his hand on the handle of one of the doors.

‘But for now I am asking you.’

Salytov sighed heavily. ‘He says he didn’t do it.’

‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’ said Porfiry.

Salytov seemed taken aback by the response, and then annoyed, as though he felt he had let Porfiry get the better of him once again.

Vakhramev was being held in the study, where Setochkin’s body still lay on the rug, a large stain, with a dark flowering of matter at its centre, on his chest. Porfiry’s quick scan of the room took in its inhabitant’s tastes.

The walls were hung with Caucasian rugs over chinois wallpaper, the latter influence echoed in the Chinese peasant figures on the three-panelled shirmochka screen; two Moorish busts, one male, one female, confronted one another from opposite walls, across a Turkish ottoman, an Empire chaise longue and a number of wicker chairs. An interest in Old Muscovy and a fondness for folk art was apparent in a number of the decorations. There was a cluster of icons mounted in the holy corner. A large canvas-covered trunk with wooden ribbing increased the sense of clutter. The lid was thrown open. A melee of random objects — books, map rolls, bundled correspondence, a cavalry officer’s cap, a sabre in its scabbard, a number of stuffed birds — seemed to be frozen in the act of clambering to get out. Porfiry was affected by a strong desire to close the lid on this glimpse of a disordered life.