R. Morris - A Razor Wrapped in Silk

‘You suspect the Tsarevich, why not say it?’

‘I certainly would like to put some questions to the Tsarevich, but so far that has not been possible. I was granted an audience with the Tsar, however. That was a gracious condescension on His Majesty’s part, for which I am grateful, but perhaps it served a purpose of his own.’

‘Which was?’

‘To impress me. And thereby to control me.’

‘You are too modest. I am sure the Tsar knows you are not a man to be controlled.’

‘He said he found me something of an imbecile.’

‘Ah! A certain bluntness of discourse is one of the more regrettable aspects of autocracy, even amongst its most liberal examples. I am sure you were soon able to convince him of your mental acuity.’

‘I cannot say. But when I brought up the question of the Tsarevich-’

‘You brought up the Tsarevich?’

‘Naturally. That was primarily my purpose in seeing the Tsar.’

‘Your purpose? My good fellow, the Tsar summoned you.’

‘Ah, but I wanted to see him too.’

‘Well, go on. What did he say?’

‘He expressed the opinion that the Tsarevich was more likely to kill him than anyone else. At any rate, he quite firmly blocked my request for a meeting with the Tsarevich. He said he would speak to his son himself.’

‘Murder has certainly been a Romanov family tradition, I grant you that. But only ever as a political tool, limited exclusively to family members to ensure a desired transition of power. His Majesty is surely right. There has never been any precedent for the random murder of innocent children.’

‘But what if it is not random? What if it is political?’

‘Then we come back to Murin!’

‘What if it is an attempt to undermine the Tsar? To show him as incapable of protecting his children, no longer the Father Tsar?’

‘We are agreed! That is indeed how I see it. Murin!’

‘No. It is not Murin who is behind it. It is …’

‘The Tsarevich? But that is absurd! Why does he need to bring down his father? He knows he will inherit the empire one day. All he has to do is await his father’s death.’

‘But by then it will be too late. His father will have taken the country even further along the path of reform, towards full democracy. He will have surrendered the autocrat’s power before his son had any chance to wield it.’

‘But upon what are your suspicions of the Tsarevich based? The fact that he was at the Naryskin Palace the night Yelena Filippovna was murdered? At a gala event in honour of the school the victims attended? It is tenuous in the extreme, Porfiry Petrovich. Were there not many other people there too? Will you suspect them all?’

‘The ring.’

‘The ring! Murin had a ring! Yet it is not enough to persuade you that he was the murderer. I take it you have measured the motif on the ring?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘One fifth of a vershok by one tenth.’

‘Is that or is it not an appropriate size to cause the marks on the children’s necks?’

‘It would be. However, the ring was on his little finger! A ring worn on the little finger would leave no mark on the children’s necks!’

Verkhotsev was visibly thrown. He turned to glare angrily at his subordinates, each of whom, in turn, shifted disconsolately under the force of his disfavour. ‘He … must have moved it,’ Verkhotsev offered weakly to Porfiry, without meeting his gaze.

‘It would not fit on his thumb. It barely fitted on his little finger. Must have been quite a struggle to push it on — eh, gentlemen? It was not his ring, after all.’

‘Now, now. You have no grounds to make such an assertion.’

‘You handled Yelena Filippovna’s ring! You must have somehow taken it and substituted it with another.’

‘That is a very serious allegation. I examined the ring right here in front of you. Will you honestly say that you saw me substitute it?’

‘No, I did not see that. You’re right. But there is something you are withholding from me. I know it. That is what I don’t like.’

‘Very well, I will tell you something about Yelena Filippovna’s ring, and perhaps then you will trust me more. The Tsarevich is involved. You are right to suspect him of something, although not of murder. He gave Yelena Filippovna that ring. She had a habit of demanding a ring from each of her lovers. Yes, the Tsarevich loved her, quite hopelessly. And she did not love him back — can you believe that? So, there you have it. The one thing, perhaps, that you did not suspect him of, love. That is why he fled the Naryskin Palace after her murder. He was heartbroken. Simply heartbroken.’ Verkhotsev’s voice grew choked with emotion. Then a sudden pragmatic clarity descended. ‘And of course he wished to avoid a scandal.’

‘It is a strange kind of passion that is so careful of its reputation,’ observed Porfiry waspishly.

‘You forget, he is next in line to the imperial throne. He is not free to love as other men may.’ Verkhotsev ran a finger along one of his moustaches. ‘So, what will you say to His Majesty?’

‘I shall simply and factually report what has occurred. That a body has been dumped-’

‘You will use that word?’

‘Discarded, then. I have made a note of the wording on the sign. I shall be interested to hear what the Tsar has to say about it. His Majesty has personally taken over the supervision of the case, you know.’

Verkhotsev allowed a wry smile to flicker on his lips. ‘There is nothing exceptionable in that. We are all his servants, exercising his will, agents and instruments of his authority. If he should deign to involve himself directly in our activities from time to time, it is merely to make manifest the truth behind our own illusions of power. It is not ours, but his.’

Porfiry blew out his cheeks.

‘And if the Tsar should decide that the case is closed, will you remonstrate with him as you have with me?’

‘One does not remonstrate with the Tsar.’

‘You are wise to take that view.’

Porfiry shook his head impatiently.

‘There is one other matter that I wished to speak to you about, Porfiry Petrovich. The matter of your own safety. I take it that the individual we were discussing did not make an attempt against you last night?’

‘As you see, I passed the night unharmed.’

‘I am glad to hear it, though if you remember that is as I predicted. Now that the news of the latest child’s murder has been reported, I fear that the danger against you is heightened. I would urge you to take all precautions. With that in mind, I have brought something for you. Consider it a gift.’

Verkhotsev nodded to the gendarme on his right. The officer looked into a dispatch bag that he was carrying and retrieved a parcel wrapped in brown paper and string, which he handed to his major. Verkhotsev in turn passed it to Porfiry, who rose from his seat with a bow to receive it. It was about the size and weight of a small dish. Before Porfiry could unwrap it, the door to his private apartment opened and Slava came through. Major Verkhotsev raised an enquiring eyebrow and Porfiry nodded. Verkhotsev gave a warning shake of the head over the parcel and even went so far as to lift his hand to signal restraint.

Slava appeared taken aback by the sight of the gendarmes. It seemed for a moment that he was going to turn on his heels and run, but he held his ground. A sullen cast fell over his features, however.

‘What is it, Slava?’ demanded Porfiry.

Slava frowned as if he were puzzled by the question. ‘Oh … did you want anything?’

‘Did I want anything?’

‘I’m your servant. I was merely trying to … serve.’

‘No.’

Slava sucked the nail of his right index finger and nodded pensively.