R. Morris - A Vengeful Longing

‘It was not his only source of income. He took in tailoring repairs, though I myself would never have entrusted a garment to him.’

They rode the rest of the way in silence, feeling the sun’s tentative return uplift the day.

Seagulls over the Neva pierced the air with their shrieks as the brougham pulled up at 2 Gorokhovaya Street. The building, indistinguishable from its neighbours in its geometric monotony, was the home of the main police administrative headquarters for the whole of St Petersburg, and also housed the Admiralty District Police Bureau, station number 1.

Patches of clear sky were appearing now amongst the clouds. All that was left of the storm ran in muddy rivulets along the road. Leaves and refuse were scattered over the glistening pavements. Lara Olsufevna lifted her crinolined skirts to high-step over puddles.

They followed a politseisky to a room at the rear of the building on the ground floor. The windows were shuttered. With the light from the open door, it had the air of a lumber room, provisional, a space of temporary storage and transition. The objects it stored were elongated mounds beneath sheets, laid out on tables.

‘Would it be possible to have more light?’ asked Porfiry.

The politseisky struck a match, at the third attempt, and lit an oil lamp. The flare from the lamp chased the shadows to the edge of the room. ‘We never open the shutters,’ he explained. ‘Now, which one was it you were wanting to see?’

‘The body found in the Summer Garden this morning. An adult male,’ said Porfiry.

‘Ah yes, he’s easy enough to find.’

The politseisky approached a mound which had a curious projection in its sheet towards one end. It was from this end that he drew back the sheet.

The face that was revealed, though immobile, was not in repose. The eyes bulged and the mouth formed a small circle as if articulating an accusation or abuse. The hair and beard were long, grey and matted.

‘That’s him,’ said Lara Olsufevna with the primness that she said everything. She continued looking at the face. ‘Ferfichkin.’

Porfiry too was staring thoughtfully at the dead man’s face. ‘He has one of those faces, does he not? The sort that you are convinced you have seen before. Of course, it is entirely possible that he has crossed my path in the past. It would be as well to check the records.’

‘What is that?’ asked Virginsky, pointing at the tent-like projection in the sheet. His face registered an uneasy determination.

The politseisky lifted the sheet and pulled it down even further. The dead man’s shirt was drenched in blood. The hilt of the weapon that was sunk into his chest stood proud, an inverted crucifix of tempered steel. It appeared medieval, in design at least, made up of simple agglomerations of bossed, banded and cubic forms. Even so, it made an elegant and evocative shape, slender yet solid, modelled after the Christian symbol, but murderous. Ferfichkin’s body lay awkwardly on the table, raised on the side that the dagger was plunged into.

‘It went straight through him,’ observed Porfiry.

The politseisky nodded. ‘There’s not much to him. He’s as skinny as a boy.’

‘The misericorde , or mercy poniard.’ Porfiry tensed a hand towards the weapon, though stopping short of touching it.

‘Undoubtedly a replica. Even so, an expensive item.’ He looked significantly at Lara Olsufevna. She returned his glance without expression. ‘If I understood you correctly, Gorshkov was not a wealthy man?’

‘He could have stolen it,’ answered Lara Olsufevna.

‘Pavel Pavlovich, your thoughts?’

Virginsky seemed startled. ‘It’s possible, I suppose.’

‘But really, why would he bother, though?’ asked Porfiry, wonderingly. ‘He does not need this particular weapon to kill him. He may kill him just as easily by plunging a kitchen knife into his heart. Why risk detection and prosecution for an unnecessary theft, before he has carried out the greater and for him more necessary crime of murdering his enemy?’

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Virginsky, staring at the dagger hilt crossly.

Porfiry raised an eyebrow at Lara Olsufevna but she declined to comment.

‘The choice of weapon is significant, I think,’ said Porfiry at last. ‘Here is a man who earns his living by plying a needle and it seems that his dying came about as the result of a fatal stitch. He was also a religious man, at least outwardly. But really he was a man who could be said to have profited from the word of the Lord, to have exploited the Christian message for venal gain. Perhaps the cruciform handle that stands out from his heart may be seen as some kind of judgement on that. It is suggestive, is it not?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Virginsky glumly.

‘Of course, it may still be Gorshkov who has passed this judgement on him and you may yet be proven right, Lara Olsufevna. He may indeed have stolen the dagger. We shall have to speak to him, that much is certain. Where may we find him, do you know?’

‘Pokrovsky’s tenement. The Gorshkovs have the corner of a room there. They live with the widow Dobroselova.’

‘Pokrovsky’s tenement? Where is that, if you please?’

‘You will find it where Yekateringofsky Prospekt meets Voznesensky Prospekt, close to the Yekaterininsky Canal. But I would not go there if I were you.’

‘And why not, pray?’

‘There is cholera there.’

Porfiry nodded slowly as he watched the politseisky cover Ferfichkin’s face.

The morning’s storm, now spent, had swelled the waters of the Yekaterininsky Canal, but contrary to Virginsky’s prediction the Ditch had not yet flooded. Churned by the heavy downpour, the murky darkness of its depths had risen to the surface. The stench that haunted the canal’s twisting course was given fresh virulence.

Virginsky snarled in distaste as he closed the door of the police brougham. Lara Olsufevna looked out at him, self-contained, watchful and vindicated. He shouted to the driver and she was borne away with a jolt. She seemed to shake her head disapprovingly, or warningly perhaps, as he watched her go.

Porfiry looked up at the high dark mass shouldering out the sun. Pokrovsky’s tenement was home to countless souls and yet there was nothing welcoming about it. It seemed more like a prison than a place of refuge. The fabric of the building was decayed and dirty; it was impossible to say how many summers ago it had last been repaired. There were gaps in the masonry around the windows wide enough to slide a hand into. The windows themselves were filthy and broken, in places boarded up. The woodwork had the soft, lustreless look of rotten timber.

‘It has the air of defeat to it, does it not?’ said Porfiry.

‘Of disease, more like.’

‘Well yes. That we know.’ Porfiry glanced briefly at his companion. ‘It troubles you to go inside?’

Virginsky considered Porfiry’s question. ‘No, sir. It angers me. Shall I tell you what is a crime, Porfiry Petrovich? That people in this city are dying of the cholera when the cause of the disease has been understood for over ten years. I’m not afraid of going into this building. I know perfectly well that I can’t contract the disease unless I drink the same water as these poor wretches must. Water that is contaminated with faecal matter. Just as the cause is understood, so too is the means of prevention.’

Porfiry listened with a distracted air. ‘That is. . interesting,’ he said after a moment, but without conviction.

‘You did not hear a word I said!’

‘On the contrary,’ said Porfiry, gazing searchingly into Virginsky’s face. ‘Your words have made a very great impression on me indeed.’