R. Morris - A Razor Wrapped in Silk

The audience broke into uproar.

Porfiry Petrovich looked down at the body of the young woman. She was frozen in an angular pose. Her arms retained the tension with which they had been lashing out at the last moment, acutely bent at the elbows and wrists, fingers splayed to grasp life as it leeched from her. Her head was sharply skewed to one side, as if in the throes of angry denial. She lay half on her side, her body cork-screwed. It seemed she had died writhing to lift herself out of the swamp of blood that encircled her.

As always in these circumstances, Porfiry’s gaze was drawn to the wound. Of course, his interest was professional, but it occurred to him that his choice of profession might have been influenced by a need to confront such sights. Or perhaps it was a profoundly human compulsion, little more than the vulgar urge to gawp at the scene of an overturned carriage. He had merely elevated morbid curiosity into a calling. The morose cast of his musings could be excused by the fact that he had been wrenched from uneasy dreams of his father by the frantic hammering of police officers sent to rouse him. Usually when he dreamt of his parents, the mood of the dream was joyful. These were dreams of reunion that he did not want to end. The simpler familial relationships of childhood were restored and there was only love between them. Whatever complications there had been in life were blissfully forgotten. But this night’s dreams were shot through with an obscure sense of guilt that he couldn’t shake off, but was reluctant to probe.

Undoubtedly, Zakhar’s death had something to do with it.

It was almost as if he took solace in the wound.

It was a deep, neat incision across the full breadth of her throat. The pumping force of life had burst through it, pushing the severed flesh apart. The front of her dress was sodden, the black silk heavily darkened in a sweeping arc that extended below her midriff. Her blood drenched the Turkish rug on which she lay, obscuring the rich reds with its muddy cast. Porfiry saw the wound as a second mouth, its inert lips slightly parted as if it were trying to tell him something. But it spoke only blood.

The body was in a small, windowless room in the basement of Naryskin Palace, close enough to the tiny theatre to serve as a dressing room. Three narrow, elaborately moulded doors on one wall gave onto a wardrobe, which Porfiry had already discovered to be hung with dusty clothes. As far as he could tell from a cursory examination, they were male clothes. The room was furnished with a dressing table, which was cluttered with the accoutrements of stage make-up. Next to it was a small table bearing a wash basin and jug. The water appeared fresh and unused. There were a number of burning candles on both surfaces, adding to the light provided by a hissing gas lamp mounted on one wall. There were two mirrors: one over the dressing table, and another, full length and gilt framed, mounted on the wall opposite the wardrobe. An embroidered screen closed off one corner of the room, with a small sofa placed in front of it. All this was enough to give the room a cramped air.

A bouquet of white camellias, still in the florist’s wrapping, lay on the sofa. The card read: ‘I will always love you, M.’

His gaze still fixed on the wound, Porfiry breathed in deeply. The air was perfumed, though the flowers of course gave off no scent. But Porfiry could discern the smell of the butcher’s slab, the dark odour unstoppered by violence.

The door opened but he did not look round. He knew by the other’s patience that it was Virginsky.

‘It is a long time since those were fashionable,’ said Porfiry, at last looking up from the dead girl. In answer to Virginsky’s quizzically gathered brows, he gestured vaguely at the flowers. ‘Who is M, I wonder?’

‘An officer of the Preobrazhensky Regiment, by the name of Mizinchikov, was seen to have an argument with the dead woman — Yelena Filippovna Polenova. She slapped his face. Several witnesses saw him running away from this room shortly after the dead woman’s sister, Aglaia Filippovna Polenova, raised the alarm. All the witnesses testified independently to the fact that Mizinchikov’s uniform was spattered with blood.’

‘Spattered?’

‘Yes.’

‘That is the word they all used? Independently?’

‘Not necessarily. I am providing you with a digest. You may read the witness statements in full, of course.’

‘And what does … this officer Mizinchikov have to say for himself?’

‘Captain Mizinchikov is not available to be interviewed.’

At this unsurprising information, Porfiry raised his eyebrows showily and blinked his consternation. ‘I understood that the owner of the house — Prince Naryskin, is it not? — had the doors of the palace secured to prevent anyone from leaving before the police arrived.’

‘It seems that Captain Mizinchikov had already effected his escape.’

Porfiry sighed. ‘That is very tiresome of him and will not help his cause when finally we catch up with him. I trust we have put out a description of him. Exceptionally tall, dark-haired, bearded, not particularly good-looking …’

‘How did you know?’ Virginsky’s tone was suspicious rather than amazed.

‘You did say he was an officer of the Preobrazhensky Regiment?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you not observed the practice amongst Russian Guards regiments of selecting recruits according to certain physical attributes? The Semyenovsky Regiment, for example, is known for fair hair and good looks. Whilst the men and officers of the Preobrazhensky tend to be exceptionally tall and dark-haired individuals with beards. I believe they are generally held to be the least handsome of the regiments, by those who notice such things.’

‘I see. I had never noticed. I am not much interested in military affairs.’

‘You should be, Pavel Pavlovich. There are sixty thousand soldiers garrisoned in St Petersburg, making every tenth inhabitant a soldier. If one takes an interest in St Petersburg — as our work demands we must — one must therefore take an interest in military affairs. A passing knowledge of the city’s regiments will aid you considerably in your duties. I presume you have dispatched some men to Kirochnaya, 35. That is his address, is it not?’

‘So I have been informed.’ There was a flinch of annoyance from Virginsky.

‘Naturally. It is the address of the Officers’ House of the Preobrazhensky. Of course, he won’t be there. Even so, I imagine we will at least find some of his fellow officers, who may or may not be able to shed light on his whereabouts.’

Porfiry was peering into the large mirror with his head angled back, evidently to allow himself the best possible view of the interior of his nostrils. ‘I wonder who else the prince has allowed to absent themselves.’ Porfiry was now tentatively fingering a row of transparent whiskers growing out of the top of one ear. ‘When a man reaches a certain age he finds himself faced with an abundance of hair in places he had not expected it.’ He angled his head down to examine the pale stubble that covered his bulbous skull, and pursed his lips in satisfaction. ‘And a dearth of hair in those places he might reasonably hope for it.’

‘I did not take you for a man too much concerned with his own appearance, Porfiry Petrovich,’ remarked Virginsky with a sly smile.

‘Oh, it is not on my own account, you understand,’ threw out Porfiry casually, bending forward to scrutinise something on the surface of the mirror.

‘Not on your own account? Do you mean to say-?’

‘I wonder what that is,’ murmured Porfiry absently, before turning his back on his own reflection. Virginsky took his superior’s place before the mirror and frowned as he scanned its surface, looking for whatever had caught Porfiry’s eye.