R. Morris - The Gentle Axe

“This gentleman is a policeman,” said Katya sternly.

“A magistrate. An investigating magistrate,” corrected Porfiry, with an apologetic smile. “Porfiry Petrovich, madam,” he added with a bow.

“What is it about?” asked Anna Alexandrovna anxiously.

“Stepan Sergeyevich,” answered Katya, her voice strained. “He’s dead.”

Porfiry watched the quick transitions of Anna Alexandrovna’s face with interest. It was difficult to be certain about the precise emotion this news inspired in her, but Porfiry felt that genuine grief was part of it.

“I’m afraid that’s not all,” said Porfiry. “Borya-your yardkeeper, I believe-is also dead.” Porfiry glanced guiltily toward Katya.

Anna Alexandrovna shrieked. “Oh, this is terrible! Terrible!” she cried, a hand coming up to her suddenly white face. Katya rushed up to her and embraced her.

Porfiry’s bow was contrite. “There is no easy way to break such news.”

“Oh, poor Borya,” cried Anna Alexandrovna, pulling herself away from her maid’s support. “It’s all right, Katya. I’m all right.” But she staggered as Katya released her. Porfiry held out a hand that was rejected with a shake of the head. “Please, sir…?”

“Porfiry Petrovich,” Porfiry reminded her.

“Please, Porfiry Petrovich, would you accompany me into the drawing room?” She gestured toward a pair of double doors. “There is a samovar there. Katya, will you serve us some tea, my dear?”

The samovar gurgled and hissed agitatedly. Porfiry Petrovich and Anna Alexandrovna turned away from it as though with discretion. She gestured for him to sit on a gold and maroon Russian sofa. As he did so, a gust of wind rattled the panes.

The drawing room was lined in pale blue brocatelle, with gilt work on the rococo moldings. The air was humid with tea-scented steam. Silk curtains of the same blue were draped in swooping sections across three large windows. The light that filtered through cast a milky sheen over Anna Alexandrovna’s dark dress. Within a marble fireplace, short, quick flames peeped shyly out of a mountain of glowing coals.

“It’s such a shock,” said Anna Alexandrovna, looking out of the window, as if she were commenting on the sudden violence of the weather. “How did it happen?”

“I’m afraid it seems as if they were both murdered.”

“No!” She searched his face for a different answer.

“Their bodies were found together in Petrovsky Park.”

“Petrovsky Park?” There was no doubt about it. The mention of Petrovsky Park had startled her. But now her expression became guarded. She leaned back slightly from Porfiry. He watched her expectantly, but she gave nothing more away.

Porfiry accepted a glass of tea from the tray Katya held out to him. He slipped a sugar crystal between his teeth to sweeten it. He placed the glass on the low mahogany table that was in front of the sofa.

“Katya informed me that Borya and Goryanchikov-Stepan Sergeyevich, that is-quarreled shortly before Stepan Sergeyevich disappeared.”

“Yes. That’s right. Everyone heard it.”

“Everyone? Who else lives in the house?”

“My daughter, Sofiya. And Osip Maximovich. And Vadim Vasilyevich. However, Osip Maximovich was not here on the day of the quarrel.”

“Who are these gentlemen?”

“Osip Maximovich rents the second floor. Vadim Vasilyevich lodges with him and serves him in the capacity of a secretary. He also has a manservant, Artur.”

“Is there anyone else in your household?”

“Yes, there is Marfa Denisovna. She was Sofiya’s nurse when she was younger. She lives with us still. And Lizaveta, our cook.”

“You have a cook, and yet you were grinding your own cinnamon?” Porfiry teased her.

“There are some jobs I like to do in the kitchen, both because they give me pleasure and because I don’t like to leave them to others.”

Porfiry nodded his understanding and tried to make up for his gentle mockery by blinking repeatedly. Anna Alexandrovna seemed startled. “We will want to speak to everyone in the house,” he said more seriously. “One of my officers will come back this afternoon to take statements.”

“But Osip Maximovich and Vadim Vasilyevich will be at the publishing house.”

“The publishing house?”

“Osip Maximovich is a publisher.”

“I see. You said that Osip Maximovich was not here on the day of the argument. Do you know where he was?”

“He was staying in a monastery in Kaluga province.”

“Optina Pustyn?”

“That’s right. He was on retreat.”

“When did he leave for Optina Pustyn?”

“Oh, weeks before. I mean, possibly two weeks before.”

“Did he go alone?”

“Yes. Vadim Vasilyevich took him to the station and saw him off.”

“But Vadim Vasilyevich was here in the house at the time of the argument?”

Anna Alexandrovna thought for a moment before replying: “I think so, yes. It’s hard to say for sure.”

“And when did Osip Maximovich return?”

“Last night.”

“Only last night? I see. And as for Borya…when did you notice that Borya was missing? Presumably you had noticed that Borya was missing.”

“Yes, of course, but…Borya often disappears. He can go missing for days.”

“He is a drunkard,” put in Katya, whom Porfiry was surprised to discover had not left the room, merely withdrawn into the peripheral gloom.

“Was he drunk when he argued with Stepan Sergeyevich?”

“When wasn’t he drunk?” commented Katya without concealing her disgust.

“Katya!” pleaded Anna Alexandrovna. Her eyes widened in admonition.

“Anna Alexandrovna, can you tell me what Borya and Stepan Sergeyevich argued about?”

“They were always arguing. Stepan Sergeyevich took pleasure in goading Borya. Stepan Sergeyevich was an intellectual. He questioned everything. Borya was a simple man. A man of faith. Everything he believed in, Stepan Sergeyevich ridiculed.”

“But what brought it to a head?”

“I don’t know that it was brought to a head. Why do you say it was brought to a head?” There was evasion in her question.

“Katya informed me that Borya threatened to kill Stepan Sergeyevich.”

“Borya would never kill anyone,” protested Anna Alexandrovna feelingly.

“But would you say this row was any worse than any of the others they had had?”

“Oh, things were said, certainly.”

“What things?”

“Please! How can I be expected to know?”

“Where did the argument take place? Can you tell me that?”

“In the yard. Borya was in his shed. Stepan Sergeyevich was in the yard, shouting into the shed.”

“What was he wearing?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Stepan Sergeyevich, what was he wearing?”

“His shuba, I think. Yes, I’m sure of it. He would have been. He never went out without his shuba on. He was very proud of it. He had it made specially, of course. To fit.”

“That’s interesting. He owed you money, I understand. And yet he could afford to have a fur coat made.”

“From time to time Stepan Sergeyevich would do work for Osip Maximovich. Translations. He was paid most generously. But the money never lasted.”

“I hope you will forgive my next question, but it occurs to me and so I must ask it. That is the way it is with investigations.”

Anna Alexandrovna looked anxious but said nothing.

“How did such a man as Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov come to be living in your house?”

“He came to us when my husband was still alive.”

“I see. It was your late husband’s wish that Stepan Sergeyevich reside here?”

“My husband agreed to it, and so I suppose he must have wished it,” said Anna Alexandrovna.