R. Morris - A Razor Wrapped in Silk

Virginsky said nothing but looked resentfully across at the tunic, which was draped over Porfiry’s desk. Even without a Guards officer in it, the article succeeded in attaining a certain swagger.

‘Ah yes, the man in the white tunic. Of course, it was not Mizinchikov,’ continued Porfiry blithely, again beginning to re-bandage his hand. ‘A fugitive from the law — and a deserter to boot — would not draw attention to himself in such a way. Singing for alms, you say?’

‘It was not Mizinchikov,’ confirmed Virginsky with a display of impatience. ‘This man was older than Mizinchikov. And from the look of him, had been living rough for quite some time. Years, I would say. It’s strange, beneath the grime, he had surprisingly regular features. In his time, I expect he was capable of cutting quite a figure. He had the face of an actor — of a leading man gone to seed.’

‘Really? How interesting. And his hair? What colour was his hair?’

‘Difficult to tell. It was very dirty.’ Virginsky was staring at Porfiry’s dressing as he said this.

‘Dark?’

‘No. It was the colour of dirty straw.’

‘So, an ageing, once good-looking man with blond hair. No, that does not sound like a young officer of the Preobrazhensky Regiment, does it?’ Porfiry let out a wheezing chuckle. ‘The likelihood is that Captain Mizinchikov exchanged clothes with this beggar soon after making his escape from the Naryskin Palace. We are looking for a beggar, Pavel Pavlovich. Or rather, a Guards officer in a beggar’s garb.’

‘There is no shortage of beggars in St Petersburg.’

At that moment, the clerk Zamyotov, in his usual manner, barged in without knocking. Virginsky was relieved to have some other object upon which to focus his gaze. ‘A communique from the Obukhovsky Hospital.’ Zamyotov held the buff-coloured envelope out towards Porfiry from the doorway, making no effort to cross the room to hand it to him. Virginsky took it from him and opened it.

‘Dr Pervoyedov writes to inform you that the substance taken from the mirror is indeed blood.’

‘I see,’ said Porfiry, striding from the window to take the letter, his preoccupation with the bandage forgotten. ‘Arterial blood, no less. Whereas the blood on the ring is venous.’

‘Is that significant?’

Porfiry mimed slashing his own throat. ‘Arterial.’ He then slapped himself on the face. ‘Venous.’

‘So the blood on the mirror is hers, most likely. And the blood on the ring is his. Just as we suspected.’

‘It would seem so. And now it occurs to me, Pavel Pavlovich, that it would be expedient to have Dr Pervoyedov apply his new contraption to analysing the stains on the front of this tunic.’

‘What else could they be but blood?’ said Virginsky. ‘They certainly look like blood.’

‘Do they? Could they not equally be soup? Or rust? Or red wine?’

‘No, not red wine,’ insisted Virginsky, with almost petulant force. ‘That is not the colour of red wine. Neither is it borscht. And although they are rust-coloured, they could not be rust. Whatever caused these stains was liquid when it hit the tunic. The most likely explanation is blood. But as you say, Dr Pervoyedov will be able to confirm it.’

‘Yes. And shall we take bets on whether it is arterial or venous?’

‘I am not a gambling man, Porfiry Petrovich,’ said Virginsky, his cold disapproval on the edge of self-righteousness.

‘Pity.’ Porfiry seemed to notice for the first time that Zamyotov was still lurking by the door, like a porter waiting for a tip. ‘Was there something else, Alexander Grigorevich?’

‘He’s here.’

‘Who is here?’

‘The new man. Your … servant . I have interviewed the applicants. My recommendation is waiting to see you.’

‘I see.’ Porfiry looked down at the louche, seedy sleeve around his hand. ‘Yes. Perhaps now would be as good a time as any to see him.’

Zamyotov was gone from the room before Porfiry had finished the sentence. A moment later, a young man with pomaded hair came in. He was dressed in a respectable enough jacket and clutched a well-brushed black bowler in both hands. One of his eyebrows appeared to be permanently arched, which gave his face an ironic expression. This seemed, however, to be due purely to an unfortunate disposition of features, and could not be held against him. Porfiry made a conscious effort to overlook it. He could not, however, ignore the small nick in the man’s left earlobe, evidence of a piercing.

‘Good day,’ said Porfiry, taking the individual in with a nod. ‘And you are?’

The young man was looking around Porfiry’s chambers with a quick, hungry eye. When he caught sight of the stained tunic, a jolt of excitement shook his head back perceptibly. Remembering himself, he gave Porfiry an enquiring glance. It was a look to which his asymmetrical eyebrows were especially suited. A moment’s thought produced the name: ‘Svyatoslav. You may call me Slava.’ After a further hesitation, he added, ‘Your honour.’

‘Slava, very good. Your full name?’

‘Svyatoslav Andreevich.’

‘Svyatoslav Andreevich — ye-es ?’

‘Svyatoslav Andreevich Tushin.’

‘Thank you, Svyatoslav Andreevich. And what experience do you have as a gentleman’s gentleman?’

Slava seemed a little taken aback by the question, as if it were the last question he had expected. ‘I have given my references to the other one,’ he said in some irritation, pointing vaguely out of the door.

‘I’m sure they are satisfactory. I merely wished to talk to you about it. To chat, one might say. Your previous employer was …?’

‘Count Drozdov.’

‘Count Drozdov. A titled gentleman, goodness. I am afraid that working for a lowly public servant such as myself will be something of a step-down for you.’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘That’s just as well. And why was your employment with Count Drozdov terminated?’

‘He hanged himself. Out of shame. You must have read about it in the Gazette ?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘You would have remembered if you’d read it. The account was brilliantly done.’

‘I see. One question occurs to me …’

‘What was he ashamed of?’ supplied Slava quickly, his superior eyebrow jumping even higher.

‘I have no wish to pry into that.’

‘I would have thought that would have been of interest to a man like you.’ Slava again cast an eager glance around the room. ‘Given your occupation, I mean to say.’

‘It is of no interest to me whatsoever. I merely wonder how Count Drozdov was able to supply a reference when …’ Porfiry allowed the sentence to trail off delicately.

‘He wrote it before he did himself in.’

‘That was indeed considerate of him. One might even say excessively considerate.’

‘I could see the way it was headed. The scandal affected him badly. For a man of honour like that, there was only one way out. I took the liberty of troubling his Excellency for a reference, just in case my suspicions were borne out by events, as sadly they were.’

‘And that was very perspicacious of you.’

Slava shrugged. ‘And not a moment too soon. I got it off him the very day he put the halter round his neck.’

Porfiry cleared his throat. ‘By whom were you employed before Count Drozdov?’

‘Before Count Drozdov?’

‘Yes.’

‘Prince Shch.’

‘That is an unusual name.’

‘It was not his full name, of course.’

‘Would you care to confide his full name?’

‘It was a long time ago,’ said Slava carelessly.

‘And what happened to Prince Shch? Not another suicide, I trust?’

‘He died of a wasting disease.’