R. Morris - A Vengeful Longing

‘And what is necessary is right.’

Porfiry blinked in a self-conscious display of patience. ‘One must overcome one’s misgivings. Besides, what we may find may prove Ruslan Vladimirovich’s innocence, or at least support it. If that is the case, then I am sure he will forgive us this. . intrusion.’

Virginsky raised his eyebrows sceptically.

Another door led off from the drawing room, which Porfiry tried now. ‘Ah! This I imagine is Tatyana Ruslanovna’s room,’ said Porfiry, stepping through the doorway.

‘What are you doing?’ cried Virginsky. ‘There is no need to go in there, surely?’ But Porfiry did not hear him, or at least did not acknowledge him, so he had no alternative but to follow.

Virginsky was somehow surprised to see the omnipresent wallpaperhere too, as if he expected Tatyana Ruslanovna to impose her personality more forcefully on her living space. Indeed, at first he was at a loss to understand why Porfiry had assumed this was the daughter’s room, unless it was the subtly invasive perfume. But then he saw the toys, the large doll on the bed, the doll’s house on the floor, the rocking horse in one corner.

‘And she wonders why they treat her like a child,’ said Porfiry. ‘She is a strange, contradictory creature, do you not agree? Fascinating, but dangerous. Is she really as worldly as she would have us believe? And why does she cling to these relics of her childhood? Perhaps she grieves the passing of it more than she acknowledges.’

‘She is neither child nor woman,’ said Virginsky, absent-mindedly running one hand over the smooth surface of the room’s stovepipe. It was as if by this touch he believed he could possess her life.

Now Porfiry was opening another door, which faced the one they had entered by. ‘And here it is. Her father’s study. Everything is connected. Room connected to room. Life connected to life. That is the way in St Petersburg.’

Virginsky felt a sudden firmness in the beating of his heart at their proximity to their object. Something too disturbed him about the juxtaposition of rooms.

Now the insistent wallpaper struck Virginsky as an infestation. He was repelled by it. He saw its straight lines and unvarying angles as the imposition of an unfeeling authority, of which the study was undoubtedly the source. No wonder she rebelled against him , he thought.

A icon of the Redeemer looked down from one corner.

On the desk was a large leather-bound Slavonic Bible. Porfiry moved briskly to it, crossed himself, and heaved it open. He turned the rough-edged, thick pages eagerly. At last he held up a small key. His smile was triumphant. ‘It was chapter seventeen.’ Virginsky was beset by a strange dread.

Porfiry sat down at the desk to try the key in the left-hand drawer.

‘Do you really want to see what is written in those diaries?’ asked Virginsky, voicing his dread.

Porfiry hesitated and looked at him questioningly. ‘We have no choice.’

‘But think of her reading them. I cannot help feel that it is these diaries that have made her the way she is. That have corrupted her.’

Porfiry nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes. They may have played a part.’

‘I find myself exceedingly reluctant to know what is written there,’ confessed Virginsky.

‘Sometimes one must be forced to do what one most desires,’ said Porfiry, looking up at him with a strange expression.

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Virginsky. He felt the heat of his rage in his face.

Porfiry didn’t answer immediately. He turned back to the Bible and flicked through the pages, looking for a passage. ‘Here we are. Paul’s first letter to the Thessalonians. Chapter five, verse two. Sami bo vy izvestno vestye, yako den Gospoden, yakozhe tat v noshchi, tako priidet. Which, if my understanding of Church Slavonic is correct, can be translated as “For you know perfectly well that the word of the Lord comes as a thief in the night”.’

‘Your point?’

‘My point is that even subterfuge may result in good.’

‘But this feels. . despicable.’

‘It is not just the perpetrators of crimes that we must pit ourselves against. Sometimes those who are wholly innocent present us with our greatest obstacles — and challenge. We must use every means — stealth, cunning, even deceit — against them. For you may be assured that they will use the same against us.’ Porfiry Petrovich pulled open the drawer sharply. ‘Even the innocent. For though they may be innocent of the crimes we are investigating, they know themselves to be guilty of others, which in their own hearts they may feel to be far worse.’

‘How can you know this?’

‘Because I am human myself.’ Porfiry’s hand probed the back of the drawer and produced another small key, seemingly identical to the first. With this he unlocked the right-hand drawer. ‘These secrets that Ruslan Vladimirovich has locked away with three keys

. .’ Porfiry pulled out the third key now, a long, fine-shafted object cast in brass. ‘What a burden they must place upon his soul.’

‘But why not destroy the journals? Isn’t he laying himself open always to their discovery?’

‘Because they are his soul. How could a man bear to destroy a part of his soul? However base, however humiliating, he must find a way to acknowledge it, if only to himself. Have you ever had the dream of standing before a crowded room of people, as though to deliver a lecture, only to look down and discover yourself naked? I wonder if this dream does not represent some deep-seated wish, not for literal humiliation in this way, but for our true natures to be revealed. Of course, it can never be.’ Porfiry’s tone as he said this was almost regretful.

‘You think Vakhramev will welcome this discovery?’

‘It will be very painful to him, for sure. Particularly when he realises that his daughter has been exposed to the details of his immorality.’

Virginsky’s face opened in the shock of realisation. ‘Unless. . unless he wanted her to find it.’

Porfiry’s brows shot up. He pursed his lips approvingly. ‘We’ll make an investigator of you yet, Pavel Pavlovich.’

There were two bookcases in the room. One was glass-fronted, but turned out to be unlocked. At first glance, the books it contained seemed to be innocuous. There were a few novels, various works of history, including Shcherbatov’s six-volume History of Russia . Pushkin was in evidence, as well as Levshin’s Russian Tales and the fables of Krylov. Virginsky also noticed Bishop Rudneyev’s Russian Library . By far the majority of the books it contained were homilies and saints’ lives and other books of a religious bent.

The second bookcase appeared to be entirely open, without even glass doors. But when Porfiry tried to extract one of the many identical and unmarked books, his fingers slipped uselessly over the unmoving spines. Porfiry’s face lit up appreciatively. ‘Ah! They are false! She could have mentioned that detail. Now, let me see. It must be here somewhere.’ His probing fingers discovered one spine near the centre that swung out as though on a hinge, revealing a keyhole. Porfiry smiled to Virginsky as he fitted the key.

The spine-covered doors swung open on rows of genuine spines, almost all in the same maroon cloth binding. ‘I see Vakhramev is a collector of Priapos editions,’ said Porfiry, shaking his head.

Six kid-bound notebooks on the bottom shelf broke the uniformity. Porfiry crouched down and pulled them out.

Virginsky watched the magistrate scan the pages devouringly. ‘Yes. Journals. All thoughtfully dated.’ Porfiry handed the first notebook to Virginsky as he finished with it. Virginsky gave one shake of the head, like a horse troubled by flies, and stared, appalled, back at Porfiry. Then he opened the book that had somehow found its way into his hands.