Michael Pearce - Dmitri and the Milk-Drinkers

Novikov shrugged and put down his glass.

‘The top floor now! Would you care to accompany me? At least there won’t be any sewers.’

Dmitri was forced to admit, after half an hour had passed, that Novikov knew his job, or this part of it at least. It wasn’t intelligence, Dmitri decided; it was cunning. Perhaps experience, too. Experience enough to know when a thing mattered and when it did not, cunning to be able to read the mind of the brutalized peasants who provided the bulk of the criminals in Kursk. Dmitri had no such cunning, he knew. He had never met a peasant until he came to Kursk, although they formed two-thirds of the population of Russia. Dmitri was a city-dweller through and through. And that, if he could manage it, was how he meant to stay. The important thing was not to get trapped in the provinces. That was where experience came in, both the judge’s kind of experience and Novikov’s. The experience to know that this was a thing that people higher up would be interested in and take notice of, experience at covering your back. Dmitri was beginning to feel that he could have done with more experience of the latter sort.

‘A glass of tea, Dmitri Alexandrovich?’ suggested Novikov, when they had finished the floor.

Dmitri concurred silently. He had already made up his mind that he would not now search the ground floor himself. Such things, especially the sewers, were best left to the Novikovs.

‘What are you going to do now?’ he asked.

Novikov looked at his watch.

‘Nine o’clock,’ he said. ‘Nothing more tonight. It’s too dark. Tomorrow we’ll search the grounds. Then the park. First thing, though, as soon as it’s light, we’ll have people go through the building again, before the courts open. We may have missed something, you never know. And you wouldn’t want people to come in and find …’

‘Indeed not.’

‘But,’ Novikov went on, ‘I won’t do it myself.’

‘No?’

‘I’ll be in the back yard. I want to have a good look in the mud. Before the wagons start coming. Care to join me, Dmitri Alexandrovich?’ he asked maliciously.

Not at first light but at a decent hour, Dmitri called on the Semeonovs and was shown into the drawing room. A few moments later the Semeonovs joined him.

‘Dmitri Alexandrovich Kameron,’ he said bowing. ‘Examining Magistrate. At your service.’

‘He looks very young!’ said Olga Feodorovna, inspecting him critically.

‘Yes, he does,’ said her husband. ‘I don’t call that good enough! Is that the best they can do?’ he demanded, looking at Dmitri. ‘A man like me deserves something better. Peter Ivanovich at least!’

‘Peter Ivanovich is, indeed, occupying himself with the case, although, of course, formally it is the Examining Magistrate – ’

‘Formally?’ said Semeonov. ‘What do I care about “formally”? Don’t come the petty bureaucrat with me, you young puppy! What’s your name?’ he demanded threateningly.

‘Kameron. As I have just told you,’ said Dmitri, seething.

‘Well, Mr Examining Magistrate Kameron, you can run back to the Court House and tell them I want to see somebody different on the case, someone a bit more senior! I call this an insult. I can see I’m going to have to have a word with someone higher up, not just in Kursk, either. Prince Dolgorukov – ’

‘Kameron?’ said his wife, ‘Did you say Kameron?’

‘I did.’

‘That is not a Russian name.’

‘My God!’ said Semeonov. ‘Are they sending us foreigners now?’

‘They are not,’ said Dmitri, stung. ‘My family has been Russian for two hundred years. My great-great-grandfather served the Tsar – ’

‘Kameron?’ interrupted Olga Feodorovna. ‘What sort of name is that?’

‘Scottish. My great-great-grandfather – ’

‘Served the Tsar, you say? In what capacity?’ interrupted Semeonov.

‘He built the Tsarina’s palace.’

‘Yes, but what rank?’

‘For his services he was admitted to the dvorianstvo. ’

‘Really?’ said Olga Feodorovna.

‘A rank which my family has been proud to retain!’ said Dmitri, fired up.

And would have been prouder still if anything, money for instance, had gone with it.

‘Well, now, look – ’ began Semeonov.

‘Dmitri Alexandrovich!’ said Olga Feodorovna, putting out her hand and smiling sweetly. ‘How kind of you to call! Charmant !’ she said to her husband. ‘But why haven’t you been to see us before?’ she said to Dmitri. ‘My daughter would so like – oh, my daughter!’ she cried, collapsing in tears.

‘Now, now, my dear – ’

‘Madam! Madam!’ cried Dmitri, supporting her to a sofa. ‘You must not give way! Don’t assume the worst! I’m sure she’s all right.’

‘You think so?’ whispered Olga Feodorovna, looking up at him through her tears.

‘I am sure!’ cried Dmitri, carried away.

‘And you will find her?’

‘I will find her! I promise you!’

‘You will? Oh, Dmitri Alexandrovich!’

‘I will search the park myself.’

‘Oh, Dmitri Alexandrovich! You will stay to lunch, won’t you?’

It would have been unsociable to refuse. And over lunch he learned some more about the strange girl who had sought his help in the Court House.

A sweet girl, charming. Dmitri could believe that. Tender, passionate. Good qualities, in Dmitri’s view, especially in women. Serious – serious about what?

‘She used to read,’ said Olga Feodorovna.

And not your French romances, either! Or, at least, not just your French romances.

‘Real books!’ said Semeonov, nodding significantly. ‘Thick ones!’

‘On …?’

Hospitals, said Semeonov. Children, said Olga Feodorovna. The poor.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Semeonov. ‘The poor.’

For some reason Dmitri began to feel depressed.

‘And church,’ said Olga Feodorovna. ‘She used to go to church.’

‘But stopped,’ said Semeonov.

Stopped?

‘A girlish whim!’ said Olga Feodorovna.

When was this?

‘About three months ago,’ said Semeonov.

‘I pleaded with her,’ said Olga Feodorovna. ‘I asked her to think how it would look.’

But she wouldn’t be persuaded?

‘Well,’ said Olga Feodorovna, ‘you know girls.’

Any reason?

‘Doubts,’ said Semeonov.

Doubts? What sort of doubts? Religious ones?

The Semeonovs wouldn’t say that.

‘She was having a difficult time,’ said Olga Feodorovna. ‘You know; girls.’

Dmitri hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about.

‘Moody,’ said Semeonov.

‘Well, yes,’ Olga Feodorovna had to admit, you could say that. A passing phase, though. And didn’t Dmitri Alexandrovich think that made young women more interesting?

Oh, yes, Dmitri was sure of that.

‘I knew you would understand,’ said Olga Feodorovna softly.

It was a pity Dmitri Alexandrovich had never met her.

Dmitri was sure about that, too. In fact, he couldn’t think how it was that he had come to miss her.

‘Well, she didn’t get about much,’ said Olga Feodorovna. ‘I tried to encourage her to, but she preferred to stay at home.’

‘Reading,’ supplemented Semeonov.

‘You see!’ said Olga Feodorovna, making what had once been a pretty moue . ‘Serious!’

Not many friends, then?

‘Only a few,’ Olga Feodorovna conceded. ‘In the best families, of course.’

Men friends?

‘Oh, Dmitri Alexandrovich! We’re not like St Petersburg, you know!’

Nevertheless –

‘Frankly,’ said Semeonov, ‘there’s no one here you’d encourage her to meet.’

‘Except yourself, Dmitri Alexandrovich,’ said Olga Feodorovna, smiling.