R. Morris - A Razor Wrapped in Silk

‘No?’

‘And I am curious to know whether it is the result you were expecting.’

‘Given what you have said, I would imagine that Dr Pervoyedov found it to be venous blood. You would naturally have been expecting arterial blood, believing as you do that Captain Mizinchikov is Yelena Filippovna’s murderer.’

‘And you do not believe that?’ The question, enlivened by delight, came from Slava.

Porfiry Petrovich rose from his desk. It could not be said that he rose to any imposing height, but the full bulk of his body was nevertheless impressive. ‘It is time for Pavel Pavlovich and me to be on our way. Be so good as to bring my furs. There is a freezing fog out, by the looks of it.’

*

The school was over a carpenter’s shop, surrounded on all sides by gigantic, smoke-blasted factories. It seemed as unlikely as a flower growing in a wall. Porfiry and Virginsky had driven east in a black departmental carriage, watching the quality of the fog change as they approached the heavily industrial area. Around Stolyarny Lane, the shifts of swirling grey had a wispy ethereal quality, a kind of innocent playfulness. It lifted the heart to wander through them: the squalor of the Haymarket District concealed, it was possible to imagine one’s self transported anywhere. But here, in the Rozhdestvenskaya District, deep within the noose of industry that encircled the city, there was more coal ash than water vapour in the choking curtain through which they had to push. It was a relief to step inside, where the sawdust itch emanating from the workshop seemed by comparison wholesome. As they climbed the stairs, hammer blows and the wheezing of saws gave way to childish voices raised in song.

Kalinka, kalinka, kalinka maya …

Virginsky could hear Maria’s voice underpinning their warbling efforts, deeper, steadier, leading them with unwavering clarity and strength. Her voice at that moment, it seemed to him, was the pure expression of her love for her charges. And how earnestly the children sing! thought Virginsky. They put their souls into it . He could picture their faces clearly, before even he set foot in the schoolroom.

And then he remembered why they had come for her, and where they were intent on taking her.

They had reached the top of the stairs and now he could see her. The door to the schoolroom was open, the scene just as he had imagined it. She was standing by an easel-mounted blackboard, pointing out the words to the song. Her hair was pinned up. She was wearing a simple grey dress with a white apron. He saw that she was utterly absorbed in the song and in the children, of whom there were barely a dozen, seated on two rows of benches, their slates on their laps.

Perhaps the song would never come to an end, and she would never look up and see them, and they would not have to take her there.

But she caught sight of them before the song was ended. Her face was instantly sapped of the energy and enrapt joy that her absorption in the music lesson had lent it. Her voice faltered momentarily, before she rallied herself to deliver one last chorus. She no longer pointed out the words but pumped her arms and stamped her feet in a stationary march. The beat of the song fell in with the hammering of nails downstairs. A beaming smile was splayed across Maria Petrovna’s face. Her head turned from side to side like a mechanical doll’s, driven by the song and the carpenter’s hammer. Roused by her display of enthusiasm, the children strained their voices to match hers. The song ended with a resounding shout, which collapsed into a voluble babble of excited chatter.

‘Silence!’ called Maria Petrovna, with a finger to her lips. The children obeyed instantly, though the pounding from the workshop continued recalcitrantly. Maria softened the abruptness of her command with a smile of appreciation at their obedience. It occurred to Virginsky that if he were one of her class, he would do whatever she asked of him on the promise of that smile.

‘Now then, children,’ she continued. ‘You see I have written the words to the song here. I have to talk to these gentlemen …’ Twelve faces swung round as one to get a look at Porfiry and Virginsky. Porfiry raised his hand to the level of his chin and waved his fingers with a simpering smile. Virginsky frowned. ‘While I am talking to them, I want you to copy down the words. Please get on with your work. I shall not be long.’

She walked the length of the classroom with brisk steps and closed the door behind her.

‘You have found him? Mitka?’ Her face was drained of colour, her voice breathless.

‘We cannot say for certain.’ Porfiry’s gaze locked onto hers. She did not seek to evade those ice-coloured eyes. ‘A number of children’s bodies …’

Maria put a hand to her mouth to stifle her distress. ‘A number? Oh my God!’

‘That in itself is nothing to be alarmed about,’ said Porfiry. ‘The bodies have come to light at the Medical-Surgical Academy, which routinely receives bodies for teaching and research purposes. I am afraid to say that children die in St Petersburg all the time, for all sorts of reasons. The fact that there are a number of bodies is not significant. The children we are looking for may or may not be amongst them. We need you … to identify them, if you are able.’

‘It doesn’t have to be you,’ put in Virginsky quickly. ‘There is another teacher here, I believe. He could do it.’

‘Apollon Mikhailovich? But he did not teach Mitka.’

‘He will have seen him at the school.’

‘No. It has to be me. You have come to take me there now?’

‘Yes,’ said Porfiry.

‘But you don’t understand,’ began Virginsky, his face contorted with anguish.

Maria held firm. ‘You must allow me a moment to inform Apollon Mikhailovich. He will be able to take the little ones.’

Porfiry and Virginsky stepped back against the wall to allow her to pass along the narrow landing to a closed door at the opposite end. There was a lull in the sounds of construction from downstairs. In the unexpected silence, they heard raised voices coming from behind the door.

Maria paused at the door. ‘That sounds like Father Anfim. Apollon Mikhailovich will insist on goading Father Anfim. And sadly, Father Anfim always rises to the bait.’

She knocked and opened the door to a second classroom. A familiar looking shovel-bearded man was perched on the edge of the teacher’s desk, as if to address the class, but there were no children present. Instead, an imposingly tall and grey-bearded cleric dressed in the long black robe of the Orthodox priesthood was pacing the room. The two men turned to face Maria as she came in, a look of wry amusement on the first man’s face, while the priest’s expression was frozen in thunderous rage. This melted somewhat at the sight of Maria Petrovna, to be replaced by reluctant contrition.

Both the men took in the presence of Porfiry and Virginsky with guarded suspicion. Porfiry narrowed his eyes at the shovel-bearded man in half-recognition.

‘For goodness’ sake, gentlemen. Please moderate your voices. Do you want the children to hear you arguing?’

‘I apologise, Maria Petrovna, for raising my voice.’ Father Anfim’s face was red and strained. He stared stiff-necked at a point on the floor. ‘However, I must tell you that I have been subjected to the most extreme provocation by … this man.’

‘You are shouting again, Father Anfim,’ said Maria, gently.

‘It’s nonsense, of course,’ commented Apollon Mikhailovich Perkhotin, launching himself off the edge of the desk.

‘He says he will take down the icon! And the portrait of the Tsar! He even says he will take down the map! The map of the empire, my good lady! I am here to inform you … it is my duty, as the representative of the Holy Synod charged with the sacred responsibility of ensuring the moral probity of the schools in the Rozhdestvenskaya District … if he carries out just one of these intentions, I will have no alternative … No alternative, I tell you.’