R. Morris - A Vengeful Longing

‘He was stabbed in the heart, Filya. I have told you that already too.’

‘In the heart, yes! That’s what I said!’

‘You said the neck.’

‘Are you trying to trick me? Perhaps you’ll tell me now that Ferfichkin isn’t dead at all, when I killed him with my own hands.’

‘Ferfichkin is dead. He was stabbed through the heart with a poniard. If you really killed him, you should be able to describe the weapon to me.’

‘A poniard, you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘It was a short dagger with a flat blade. The handle was made. . of ivory. . carved in the shape of entwined serpents.’

‘You didn’t kill Ferfichkin, did you, Filya?’

A weight of disappointment seemed to settle on him. ‘I would have done, had someone else not beaten me to it.’ His mood changed again, to one of intense excitement. ‘What a man! I would like to shake him by the hand! Was it you?’

‘No, it wasn’t me.’

‘Of course not. You are a magistrate. Magistrates do not commit murder.’

‘It is hoped not.’ Porfiry smiled. His tone then became serious. ‘Filya, do you remember receiving a letter, an anonymous letter about Ferfichkin?’

‘A letter, you say?’

Porfiry nodded.

‘What does it say?’

‘No, Filya. I want to know if you ever received such a letter.’

‘There were letters.’

‘About Ferfichkin?’

Gorshkov shrugged. ‘There was no one to read them. We used to get Andrei Petrovich to read the letters. But he died. Of the cholera.’

‘What happened to the letters, do you know?’

‘We have no use for letters.’ He stared fierce-eyed at Porfiry. ‘You cannot eat letters.’ He made this statement with surprised force, in the manner of one revealing a profound, but only recently discovered, truth. Almost immediately, he became morose, his expression disappointed, his gaze sealed off.

‘Filya?’

Gorshkov’s eyes darted briefly to the top of Porfiry’s head. ‘Where is your hat?’ he asked sullenly, as if this was a source of great bitterness to him.

‘I don’t have a hat. Not today.’

Gorshkov sighed heavily. ‘You’re a gentleman. You should wear a hat.’

Porfiry smiled gently. ‘Filya, why did you take the knife to your own throat?’

Gorshkov’s gaze locked on to Porfiry’s. ‘I needed more pain.’ After a moment he added: ‘They will not let me have a knife now.’

‘No. That is perhaps wise.’

‘Why? What difference does it make to them?’

Porfiry looked at Dr Zverkov, who was watching the interview with interest. ‘Perhaps none. Although I am sure the doctors here do not wish you to suffer any more than can be helped.’

‘I want to suffer!’ cried Gorshkov. ‘I have suffered all my life! I have nothing if they take away my pain.’

‘I must leave you now, Filya.’

‘Let him come back.’

‘Who?’

‘The one who beat me. I want him to come back. I will foul myself again so that he beats me.’

‘Oh, Filya.’

Gorshkov jumped up from the bed again. ‘I must go to work. They cannot keep me here. They are expecting me at the factory. The foreman is a brute.’

‘You don’t have to go to work any more, Filya. You may rest now.’

Gorshkov’s eyes grew large with panic. He sank back on to the bed. For a moment he continued to stare at Porfiry, then his gaze drifted off to an unknowable place. His hands began to move, seemingly with precision and purpose, as if he were miming some task. He brought them together, then drew them apart. Next, he held his left hand still as he described a straight line past it with his right, which was clenched as if holding something. Further lines and arcs were drawn in the air. Then the hands came together and rose sharply, as an imaginary thing was lifted. Without pause, he began repeating the same actions exactly, like a clockwork automaton.

Porfiry rose from the bed and indicated his readiness to go with a sharp and yet evasive bow.

‘Porfiry Petrovich?’ Virginsky said the name quietly, though with breathless urgency and a questioning intonation. He looked over the edge of his desk at Porfiry, who was stooping beneath the window in front of him, his attention focused on a saucer he was holding in both hands. The saucer contained a viscous golden liquid.

At that moment, Nikodim Fomich came into the room. He took in the situation with an ironic smile, winking at Virginsky. ‘I say, what have you there, Porfiry Petrovich?’

Porfiry met his good-natured enquiry with a preoccupied scowl. ‘Honey.’ He rose to his feet and stood over the saucer, watching it with fixed determination.

‘Honey?’

‘For the flies.’

‘You’re feeding the flies? I should have thought they are flourishing well enough without your encouragement.’

‘The honey is laced with kvas .’

‘I. . see,’ said Nikodim Fomich. He nodded his head and pursed his lips thoughtfully.

‘The flies will eat the honey and become intoxicated. They will then become sleepy and erratic. This will make them easier to catch. And kill.’

‘But why not simply lace the honey with poison?’

‘Ah!’ said Porfiry with a flutter of his eyelids. ‘Where is the sport in that?’ He broke off from his vigil and took his seat behind his desk with a grimace.

Nikodim Fomich settled into the sofa. ‘I am surprised you do not use your psychology on them,’ he said, with another wink to Virginsky, who was watching their exchange with an acutely anguished expression.

‘You always say that, Nikodim Fomich, but it is not my psychology, ’ said Porfiry. ‘And in a way I am. The psychology of a fly is surely very simple. It is dominated by hunger.’

‘So, it’s true what they’re saying.’

‘And what are they saying?’

‘That you have lost your wits, Porfiry Petrovich. That the heat and the flies have finally got to you.’

‘What?’

‘That and the pressure of work. Three murder cases running concurrently, and not a whiff of a solution in any one. Finally, the great Porfiry Petrovich has come face to face with the prospect of failure.’

‘Who is saying this?’

‘No one in particular. It is just a thing one hears. They say you are going round in circles, that you have no leads, that you have wasted valuable time arresting the wrong men, or that you have let the murderers go. Or even that you are more concerned with the drainage provisions of the city of St Petersburg.’

‘No one is saying these things. Apart from you, that is.’

‘I? No. I have. .’ Nikodim Fomich cast about for the appropriate word: ‘ Defended you. I say to your critics that you will surprise us all, that you will amaze us, in fact, with your powers of deduction and your. . psychology. Yes. It is always the psychology that does it in the end. You will produce solutions from thin air, like rabbits from a hat. Is that not so?’

Porfiry did not answer.

‘I’m confident of it. Indeed, I have good money riding on it.’

‘You mean there are wagers on the likelihood of my solving these cases?’

‘One can get very good odds at the moment. You’d better not let me down, my friend.’

‘But this is appalling. And hardly appropriate behaviour for a man in your position, Nikodim Fomich.’

The chief inspector pouted contritely. ‘I merely brought it up to show my absolute confidence in you.’

‘Even so.’ Porfiry gave his friend an admonishing stare. After a moment’s consideration, he added: ‘How much did you bet?’

Nikodim Fomich waved the question away. ‘Please. Let’s not talk about that. I wouldn’t want to put you under any more pressure than you are already. But tell me that you are close to a solution in at least one of the cases. The Meyer case, for instance. You have been working on that the longest.’