R. Morris - A Vengeful Longing

‘Nikodim Fomich will not be able to extend that operation indefinitely.’

‘The same may be said of your investigation,’ countered Salytov.

Porfiry took refuge in lighting a cigarette.

‘Isn’t it true though, Porfiry Petrovich,’ put in Virginsky brightly, ‘that you have never really explained how the letter Vakhramev took to Setochkin’s was removed from Setochkin’s study? Only Vakhramev was in there with him. He would seem to be the most likely suspect.’

‘I detect a conspiracy against me,’ said Porfiry, his face screwed up into a smile that seemed almost to pain him.

Virginsky and Salytov were evidently startled to find themselves on the same side. Virginsky was the first to try to put some distance between them. ‘Even if what we seem to be saying is true, the writer of these letters is still the murderer, is he not? The recipients, Dr Meyer, Vakhramev, Gorshkov, are merely his weapons.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Salytov, who appeared to be just as eager to differentiate his views from those of the younger man. ‘If Meyer contaminated the chocolates, he committed murder — cold-blooded, premeditated murder — which he has sought to cover up with this story of a mysterious other who bumped into him outside the confectioner’s.’

‘And Rostanev says he is not a bumper-into,’ said Porfiry, with amusement. ‘Did you discover anything else of interest about him, Ilya Petrovich?’

Salytov consulted a small notebook. ‘I talked to some of his neighbours about his habits, which were described as regular. It is generally agreed that he keeps himself to himself. He rarely goes out, except to go to work, and has never been known to have visitors. ’

‘Never?’

‘He is without a single friend in St Petersburg, it seems,’ said Porfiry to Virginsky’s incredulous question. ‘That is dangerous.’

‘And he has no servant,’ Salytov informed them.

‘A man without friends, without even the company of a cook, will inevitably spend too much time with only himself for company. He will get to brooding. He will live in a world shaped only by his own dreams. A world in which he will perhaps see himself as all-powerful — with the power to correct the present and avenge the past.’ Porfiry pursed his lips conclusively.

‘But he is such a funny little man,’ protested Virginsky.

‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ said Porfiry. ‘I wonder, however, how it is possible for him to hold himself so completely aloof from all his neighbours. I can well enough imagine the kind of overcrowded dwelling he resides in. On Gorokhovaya Street, I have no doubt.’

‘Gorokhovaya, 97,’ confirmed Salytov.

‘I expect he has little more than a cupboard under the stairs, or perhaps just the corner of some kitchen. It is when you have such a general promiscuity of lives that the instinct for isolation becomes greatest. But the opportunity is lacking.’

‘He has a room to himself,’ said Salytov. ‘With a bed in it. There is not much space for anything else, I grant you. He keeps all his possessions in boxes under the bed. My God, you should see the number of quills we found. He is at the end of the corridor and the one room next to his is vacant. So I dare say he has all the solitude he desires.’

Porfiry looked at Salytov without speaking for several moments. ‘That is good work, Ilya Petrovich,’ he said at last, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘Now, shall we see if our guests have arrived?’

Behind his wire-framed spectacles, Dr Martin Meyer’s eyes flickered and latched on to Porfiry with a tensioned eagerness that became immediately abashed. His face was fuller than Porfiry remembered it and there was a ruddiness to his complexion that had not been there before. He rose hesitantly from his chair in the waiting area outside Porfiry’s chambers.

‘Dr Meyer,’ said Porfiry, taking the proffered hand. ‘You look. . well.’ It seemed an inappropriate thing to say, as if there was something shameful in the man’s evident good health. But it was the truth.

‘I. . I have been to hell and back,’ said Meyer, glancing down, then straightaway meeting Porfiry’s gaze again. ‘But I have found a way through.’

‘Good.’

‘The Lord came to me in my darkest hour. I sank so low, I was ready to take my own life. I had nothing left to live for, or so I thought. I was poised on the edge of the precipice. And then I heard the words of the Psalm calling me back.’

Porfiry smiled but said nothing.

‘I know that Raisa and Grigory are in a better place.’ The eagerness that had been noticeable in his eyes now seemed closer to fervour. ‘Even the Lord Jesus did not eschew the company of prostitutes and sinners. Did he not allow His feet to be anointed by Mary Magdalene?’

‘You have forgiven her? In your heart?’

‘I had nothing to forgive her for.’

‘If only it hadn’t required such a terrible upheaval to bring you to this realisation.’

‘There is nothing that you can say that I haven’t already thought a thousand times over. It is I who needed her forgiveness. But it is too late for that now. Still, I console myself that we will meet again in that better place.’

‘You have become a true believer, I see. And I took you for a thoroughgoing man of science, an atheist.’

‘I was, and look at the good it did me.’

‘Porfiry Petrovich.’ Porfiry recognised the voice, clipped with the impatience of command, before he turned to face Prokuror Liputin. Next to him, hanging back a little, Ruslan Vladimirovich Vakhramev pulled at his lips contemplatively and avoided meeting anyone’s eye. A change had taken place in him too. His face was just as florid as before, but whereas once this had seemed to be the effect of bluster, there was now a raw quality to the skin, as if shame had worked upon it like a corrosive agent. His silver whiskers, formerly perfectly groomed, had been allowed to go to seed, as it were, and hung limp and lacklustre. His glance had grown more complex, and was meek as well as evasive. In the space of days, he had aged immeasurably.

‘Good day, Your Excellency,’ said Porfiry. ‘And Ruslan Vladimirovich, thank you for coming in.’

Vakhramev nodded minimally in acknowledgement. His eyes darted towards Porfiry, then away, scattering his gaze wildly about.

‘As I understand from the officer you sent to arrest him, he had little if any choice in the matter,’ said Liputin.

‘It was not an arrest; it was a request. I have need of Ruslan Vladimirovich’s assistance. I do not intend to detain you any longer than is necessary. We are just waiting for — ah! And here she is!’

Lara Olsufevna held herself with her accustomed upright bearing as she swept into the bureau, leaving the young politseisky who had brought her trailing. She viewed the men around her with deep suspicion through the pince-nez that saddled her imperious nose.

Porfiry bowed deeply to her; her narrowed gaze made it clear that this cut no ice. ‘Greetings to you, Lara Olsufevna,’ he ventured. Her lips trembled and pursed, perhaps indicating the softening of her distrust. ‘It is my belief that the three people here,’ continued Porfiry, ‘Dr Meyer, Ruslan Vladimirovich, and Lara Olsufevna, have each met, at various times, the individual responsible for the deaths of Raisa and Grigory Meyer, Colonel Setochkin and Yemelyan Antonovich Ferfichkin. Dr Meyer bumped into him outside Ballet’s the confectioner’s. Ruslan Vladimirovich enjoyed the pleasure of this man’s company at a certain farewell celebration in an establishment on Sadovaya Street many years ago.’ Understanding the allusion, Meyer glared at Vakhramev, who looked down, his face flooding with colour. Meyer continued to look at the other man, his expression becoming agitated rather than fierce. A great emotional turmoil seemed to be raging within him. ‘And this lady, Lara Olsufevna, spoke to him at the funeral of a child. I am talking about the Uninvited One. We might also call him Nikolai Nobody. But who exactly is he?’