R. Morris - A Razor Wrapped in Silk

‘Sadly, yes.’

‘Is it usual for there to be so many children at one time?’

‘I’m afraid it’s not unprecedented — although, yes, we do currently have a higher proportion than is typical.’

‘How did they die?’

‘The children?’

‘Yes.’

‘In different ways.’

‘But you have ascertained a cause of death for each child?’

‘This is an anatomy class. We are not teaching forensic medicine.’

‘But if, for example, a child had died in an horrendous accident, you would notice, would you not? There would be wounds, broken bones perhaps, even ruptured internal organs?’

‘Oh certainly. We get our fair share of those. They are of limited usefulness to the students. The industrial accidents are the worst. The bones are not simply broken, but crushed, sometimes to a fibrous pulp. Picture a shredded banana skin. I’m talking about young bones, of course. The older, more brittle bones simply shatter into fragments, which become embedded in mangled tissue.’

‘I trust the police make allowances for this in the price they ask for such sub-standard goods.’

The professor gave him a severe look over the top of his pince-nez. ‘That does not come into it.’

‘You do not pay the police for the bodies?’

‘We are assured that the money goes to the families. Our payment is made in the form of a charitable contribution.’

‘There are families involved? I understood that the bodies you acquired were unidentified, and therefore unclaimed. Is that not so?’

‘I cannot comment. The police assure us that the money goes to the families. That is how it is put to us.’

‘But wouldn’t a family wish to bury its children?’

‘These are very poor people.’

‘But they are also Christians, are they not? And Russians?’

‘Poverty compels people to do things they would not otherwise countenance. Especially if it is compounded by vice. When a mother will sell her living daughter’s body to a sensualist — for the price of a jug of vodka — how can you suppose that she will scruple to sell the same body when dead to a teaching hospital? We see the ravages of venereal disease in corpses as young as ten.’

‘That is indeed educational. Let us take it then that the money goes to the families. We must trust the police to pass it on.’

At that point one of the students, holding a scalpel aloft in readiness, called out: ‘Professor! What would you have us do with our heads?’

The question provoked widespread hilarity.

Virginsky raised his hand in restraint. ‘I’m afraid I must ask you to call a halt to today’s class. These heads, the heads of the children at least, must not be damaged any further. For the purposes of identification, you understand.’

‘What about the adult heads — you are not concerned with those?’

‘Your students may do what they like to those.’

The professor clapped his hands. ‘Gentlemen, lay down your implements. Those of you working on juveniles, please attach yourselves to another table. We will be working on adult heads only today.’

‘Thank you,’ said Virginsky with a nod of appreciation. ‘Is there somewhere where the children’s heads can be stored for the time being?’

‘Of course,’ said the professor. ‘We have a room for that.’

An image of what such a room must be like forced itself on Virginsky. He closed his eyes to dispel it. But the image remained, together with the certainty that he would be called upon to enter it.

‘I congratulate you on your work, Pavel Pavlovich. This could indeed prove to be a decisive breakthrough.’

Virginsky could not help taking some pleasure from his superior’s approval. However, he acknowledged that his feelings towards Porfiry were at the moment obscurely complicated, and had been ever since Porfiry had returned from Kimri after Zakhar’s death. If he tried to get to the bottom of these feelings, which seemed to be dominated by an angry resentment, he could penetrate no further than the image of Maria Petrovna. Somehow he had the feeling that Porfiry Petrovich was stealthily engaged in the act of taking her from him, although, of course, she was not yet his to be taken.

The door to Porfiry’s private apartment opened and Slava came through carrying a steaming samovar.

Virginsky turned his incredulity on Porfiry. ‘Already?’

Porfiry blinked quizzically at the force of the question. ‘Slava was able to begin his employment immediately. Neither of us could see any reason to delay.’

Virginsky shook his head in dismay.

‘Did I hear someone say there has been a breakthrough?’ said Slava blithely, as he dropped the samovar heavily on Porfiry’s desk in his excitement.

‘Quite possibly,’ said Porfiry, frowning at his new servant’s apparent ineptitude. ‘In the case that Pavel Pavlovich is investigating — the case of the missing boy.’

‘I see.’ Slava’s voice plummeted with disappointment as he hastily poured a glass of tea for his new master. The liquid slopped onto the desk, where Porfiry’s lunch tray remained. Slava dabbed at the spillage with a large grey handkerchief produced from his pocket. ‘I thought you were talking about the case of Yelena Filippovna. That is the case that …’ He seemed to catch himself in his enthusiasm. ‘Everyone is interested in,’ he added, more circumspectly.

‘You were listening at the door,’ accused Virginsky.

Slava did not deign to answer the charge.

‘What we must do,’ said Porfiry, taking the glass from Slava, ‘is seek a positive identification of one of these corpses you have traced to the Medical-Surgical Academy. I suggest we take a conveyance to the Rozhdestvenskaya District forthwith, in order to collect Maria Petrovna. She will be able to tell us for sure whether we have indeed found the boy Mitka.’

‘Maria Petrovna?’ Virginsky loaded the name with challenge.

‘I believe she would be the best person.’

‘You would put her through that?’

‘I see no alternative.’

‘There is another teacher at the school, is there not? A man.’

Porfiry sipped his tea and frowned distractedly.

Slava had not poured a glass for Virginsky, and showed no intention of doing so. But neither did he seem inclined to withdraw, with or without the dirty plates. Virginsky glared at him pointedly, then, admitting defeat, helped himself to tea. It was tepid, he noted with disgust.

‘We do not know that this other teacher knew the boy.’ Porfiry drained his glass in one noisy gulp. ‘Perhaps the other teacher will be willing to make the identification on Maria Petrovna’s behalf. Perhaps she will insist on making it herself. I rather think the latter will be the case, knowing her as I do.’ Porfiry turned to Slava, apparently with surprise. ‘You may clear the lunch things away now, Slava.’

His new servant made no move to obey him. ‘But what about the tunic?’ Slava asked eagerly. ‘Wasn’t he supposed to find out about the tunic?’

‘Ah yes,’ said Porfiry. ‘Thank you for reminding me. In all the excitement, I had almost forgotten about the tunic. Well, Pavel Pavlovich? What did Dr Pervoyedov have to say about the stains on the tunic?’

‘It is blood,’ said Virginsky heavily.

‘Yes. We expected that, I believe. And was he able to distinguish what type of blood it is? Whether venous or arterial?’

There was no doubt it irked Virginsky to have to relinquish his advantage over Porfiry before he had been able to make use of it. ‘What do you think?’

‘Ah no! You cannot embroil me in a wager now! Not now that you are privy to the outcome of his analysis.’

‘I am not seeking to embroil you in anything,’ said Virginsky with an involuntary smile. ‘I do confess, it was not the result I was expecting.’