R. Morris - The Gentle Axe

“It is important to establish the truth. You should know that, sir, as the publisher of philosophical works.”

“Anna Alexandrovna is a respectable woman. You have no right to come here with your insinuating questions.”

“How do you know my questions were insinuating? Were you listening at the door?” asked Porfiry with a smile that strained to be pleasant.

“I am not a fool, sir. I can very well imagine the kind of filthy questions you were asking.”

“Believe me, please, when I say that no one regrets the necessity of asking such questions more than I.”

“Then do not ask them.”

“I’m afraid it’s my job.”

“It is not a job for a gentleman.”

“Perhaps not. It is a necessary job, all the same.”

“But to persecute Anna Alexandrovna!”

A thought seemed to occur suddenly to Porfiry. “I wonder, Osip Maximovich, do you believe a gentleman would be capable of murder?”

“There is no saying what any one of us is capable of, I am sure,” Osip Maximovich answered huffily. “It would be absurd to deny that murders have been committed by members of the gentry.”

“But would a gentleman use an axe?” Porfiry’s tone was arch.

“Wasn’t there indeed such a case recently? The student who took an axe to those sisters.”

“But the axe is more a weapon we would associate with the peasantry, do you not agree? More the sort of weapon someone like Borya would choose?”

“I suppose so.”

“I wonder what weapon a gentleman would choose. Or a gentlewoman, for that matter.”

“I take it you have finished questioning Anna Alexandrovna. In which case, may I suggest that it is time that you left?”

“I have one more question and a request. Anna Alexandrovna, do you have any idea how Borya came to be in possession of six thousand rubles?”

“Borya? I do not-” Her eyes flitted in confusion. The color drained from her face. “I have no idea,” she added without conviction, her gaze plummeting.

“He must have stolen it. It’s as simple as that,” said Osip Maximovich. He tried to flash reassurance toward her.

Porfiry made no comment on this theory, except to say, “It is a lot of money.” He watched Anna Alexandrovna closely, noting her discomfiture.

“Have you finished?” asked Osip Maximovich curtly.

“Yes, except for my request. I would like Anna Alexandrovna to write something for me.”

“You really do suspect her! Meanwhile the real murderer-”

“What do you wish me to write?” asked Anna Alexandrovna. Although she spoke decisively, there was once again a fatalistic weight to her voice.

“It really doesn’t matter. My only requirement is that you write it on your own personal stationery.”

“Osip Maximovich,” said Anna Alexandrovna, placing a hand to her forehead. “Will you ring for Katya, please?”

KATYA BROUGHTthe paper on a wooden tray. Immediately Porfiry noticed that the stationery’s lilac shade matched exactly that of the envelope in which the six thousand rubles had been found.

Katya’s step was brisk and disapproving. She did not look at Porfiry. In her wake, held back by her timidity but drawn despite it into the room, was a girl of about thirteen or fourteen. Porfiry saw the imprint of Anna Alexandrovna in her features. But youth made her beauty heedless.

The girl rushed out from behind Katya toward her mother and cried, “Mamma!”

“It’s all right, darling.” Anna Alexandrovna reached an arm around her daughter’s shawled shoulders. She stooped to kiss her forehead, then nodded firmly and released her.

At Sofiya Sergeyevna’s entrance, Osip Maximovich turned his back and moved away to a window. He gave the impression of losing interest.

Katya placed the tray on the low mahogany table from which Porfiry had once drunk tea. There was a pen and a pot of ink on the tray with the paper.

“So I may write anything?” said Anna Alexandrovna, taking her seat on the sofa by the table.

Porfiry bowed.

“But I can think of nothing,” she confessed.

“In that case, may I suggest, ‘Do you remember the summer?’” said Porfiry Petrovich.

Anna Alexandrovna looked up at him questioningly but without reproach. She then looked to Osip Maximovich, only to find he still had his back to her. Her head bowed hesitantly, and she took up the pen. She handed the note to Porfiry. He studied it briefly before pocketing it.

“And so this farce is at an end?” said Osip Maximovich, returning abruptly from the window. “You have all you need?”

“I have all I need from Anna Alexandrovna,” confirmed Porfiry.

“And what have you decided? Is it enough to have her arrested?”

“Not quite.”

“Not quite. I see. Not quite. And do you think it is enough, this ‘not quite’? Do you think it is good enough to justify this persecution?” Osip Maximovich didn’t wait for Porfiry to answer. “And while we are on the subject of your persecutions, would it be possible for me to request the return of the Proudhon translation that you confiscated from Stepan Sergeyevich’s room?”

“I can’t return it yet. I haven’t finished examining it.”

“What is there to examine? It is the translation of a philosophical text. What possible bearing could it have on the case?”

“There are a number of discrepancies in it. Sections in the translation that do not occur in the original.”

Osip Maximovich frowned angrily. “What do you know about discrepancies? What do you know about translating philosophy? It is impossible to do it literally. Stepan Sergeyevich had a genius for interpretive translation.”

“Why is it so important to you to have it back?” asked Porfiry mildly.

“Because it belongs to me!” exploded Osip Maximovich. “And I have found a translator for the rest of it. I wish to know how much Stepan Sergeyevich was able to complete before his death.”

“I will return it to you as soon as I am able. But now I would like to talk to one other member of the household.”

Marfa Denisovna heard the door to her apartment open and close. She didn’t look up from the cards but tightened her warty fingers around the pack.

“So you have come to speak to me at last,” she said. There was something like a smile on the lipless gash of her mouth.

“Do you know who I am?” asked Porfiry Petrovich.

“You’re the one who asks questions.”

Porfiry nodded. “My name is Porfiry Petrovich. I am an investigating magistrate. I am investigating the deaths of Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov and Borya the yardkeeper. As well as the death of another individual called Konstantin Kirillovich Govorov.”

Marfa Denisovna moved the ace of diamonds up to the top.

“How long have you been with the family, Marfa Denisovna?”

The old woman chuckled. “All my life.”

“You were born a serf?”

“Yes. I belonged to Sergei Pavlovich’s father’s estate.”

“And you stayed on after emancipation?”

“Where else would I go? Besides, I had my little Sonechka to look after.”

“Sofiya Sergeyevna?”

“Of course.”

“I’d like to talk to you about Stepan Sergeyevich.” Marfa Denisovna nodded assent. “He owed your mistress money, didn’t he?”

“It didn’t matter.”

“Why do you say that?”

Marfa Denisovna’s hard little body jerked up and down in an overdone shrug.

“It was only money. Some things are more important than money. So he was behind on his rent? But he would pay it when he was able.”

“You suggest some kind of bond between Stepan Sergeyevich and Anna Alexandrovna.”

Marfa Denisovna moved a row of cards, the eight of hearts down to the three of clubs, over to a nine of clubs. She turned over a jack of hearts.