by A J Allen
Berezovo, Northern Siberia
The Mayor’s wife was not alone in her belief that Modest Andreyevich Tolkach, the administrator of Berezovo’s public hospital, was capable of committing – had indeed committed – murder. It was an opinion shared by most of the people of the town despite there being no evidence to support the charge. On the contrary, on the night of his wife’s death by poisoning, Tolkach had been sitting in the dining room of the Hotel New Century, toasting Nikolai Alexeyevich Dresnyakov’s health upon the occasion of the schoolmaster’s name day. Besides Tolkach the guests had included Father Arkady, the librarian Maslov and many others who had stopped at the schoolteacher’s table to pay their respects. At the hurried inquest that had followed the discovery of the wretched woman’s body, they had all vouched that Tolkach had never left the table. Yet, long after Madame Tolkachaya’s corpse had been consigned to the shabby plot beyond the northern boundary of the churchyard, the rumours persisted. People began to whisper that Colonel Izorov was unconvinced; that the circumstantial evidence was too strong. It was assumed (erroneously) that Tolkach was a medical man and was therefore used to handling dangerous drugs; poisons that could not be traced at an ordinary post-mortem examination. It was well known that the husband and wife had been known to quarrel in public. Had there been another woman? And hadn’t there been bruises on the body? Signs of a struggle, no doubt!
The rumours grew as the gossips’ imaginations, fuelled by half-remembered accounts of similar cases, were allowed to run free. Some whispered that, as with Bluebeard, the deceased woman had not been his first or even his second wife, and that all the former Mesdames Tolkachayas had died in mysterious circumstances, and that was why he had moved to Berezovo. Or that the dead woman had not been his wife at all, but the daughter of a wealthy and powerful Tobolsk family, whom he had seduced and made his mistress and that the reason he had come to Berezovo had been to escape her father’s vengeance. That Madame Tolkachaya had been fabulously rich and had refused to give him more than a meagre allowance. It was even suggested – the most unlikely of all rumours – that having poisoned his wife, Tolkach had been able to bribe Dr. Tortsov to look the other way.
Tolkach had carried on with his daily duties as best he could as the clouds of suspicion gathered over his head. The Chief of Police summoned him to a private interview once, and then a second time. Throughout it all, the hospital administrator maintained a polite and sociable exterior, demonstrating as best he could by his demeanour his innocence of the crime of uxoricide. The most serious charge that could be levelled against him was one of extreme contributory negligence: a charge to which he had already admitted his guilt.
“If only the store cupboard had not been left unlocked,” he told Colonel Izorov sorrowfully. “She seemed so much better in herself… a tragic accident… tragic…”
The colonel had been sceptical but, in the end, he was allowed to go free. After all, who were his accusers and where was their proof? As a hospital administrator facing criminal charges arising from the death of a patient, Tolkach had the right to call for expert lawyers retained by the ministry to conduct his defence; even to ask for a committee of inquiry with full rights of summoning witnesses to the provincial capital. Those gentlemen would make short work of hearsay and conjecture. The case could take years to come to court and there was no guarantee of success: everyone knew how these public officials stuck together and closed ranks.
Inevitably, when the case was closed, some said that Modest Tolkach had had a lucky escape from the gallows. He did not see it that way. Modest Tolkach did not hold with luck, at least not as a boon from a divine providence. Luck, he believed, was made and not given. If pressed on the point he would concede that such things as ‘fortuitous chance meetings’ and ‘golden opportunities’ did exist, although he would maintain that taking pains to be in the right place at the right time more often had a lot to do with influencing a successful outcome to events. But ask him about luck and he would frown and shake his head. In his mind, the concept was too similar in nature to its exact opposite – a predetermined existence – to be an acceptable belief for a modern man, especially one who burned to be a man of note. In either case, there seemed little point in trying to progress in life if one’s efforts were dictated by supernatural forces. Luck was a crutch used by lesser beings to explain away their failures; like God or a belief in the malevolence of the state.
This was not a personal philosophy designed to endear him to his fellow citizens, many of whom regarded him as a stranger who had somehow succeeded in outwitting the whole town and was now laughing at their stupidity. Berezovo’s hospital administrator did not mind: he would willingly exchange popularity for influence any day of the week.
From an early age, Modest Tolkach had realised that the crib into which he had been born would bring him neither noble title nor easy preferment. Determined that if he could not be counted amongst the ranks of great men – the personages he regarded as men of note – then his best policy was to enter the service of those who were. As soon as he could, he had left his humble birthplace and enlisted as a drummer boy in the Sibirsky, remaining with the regiment for nearly fifteen happy years. Although never rising above the rank of corporal, the drummer boy had been content to serve what he saw, even then, to be his apprenticeship; bribing his way into a safe billet within the commissariat and then leaving it only to become the colonel’s batman. Alone amongst his contemporaries who had joined the colours at that Fair day, he had never seen a shot fired in anger nor endured a day’s sickness or punishment. When eventually the colonel retired from the regiment and had been appointed Head of the Provincial Health Service, Tolkach had promptly obtained his own papers and followed his superior officer as his secretary into the more turbulent and uncertain waters of civilian life.
It had taken almost a year of bullying and cajoling to establish his authority within the provincial headquarters. Twelve months of carefully sifting the documents that daily landed upon his desk so that his master could be protected from the more revealing details of his fiefdom. In all this time, he never once lost sight of where his direction lay. Men of position and power were to be cultivated; favours granted; influence widened; horizons extended. He gained access to the offices of other functionaries like himself; secretaries and assistant secretaries who advised their masters and who drew up the final drafts of important documents. Amongst them he discovered the same spirit of free enterprise that he had known in his days at the army commissariat. Effortlessly, he had kept himself afloat in this bureaucratic demi-monde for a further six years, jealously protecting his master’s interests from his desk in the ante chamber; acting both as guardian and adviser. In return, he had been rewarded with a standard of living far beyond the expectations of his lowly birthright, enabling him to acquire a lease on a modest house in the suburbs, a respectable pony and trap and finally (a mixed blessing, this, he was later to realise) a wife.
Such expenses, even the last, were easily met. Manufacturers of medical supplies submitting tenders for provincial contracts were not unwilling to provide a small commission to guarantee their acceptance. Builders of local and regional hospitals and those concerned with their maintenance were not slow to attach attractive inducements to their estimates. Doctors paid their licence fees. Medical colleges wishing a favourable quinquennial report contributed an unofficial capitation fee. Insurance schemes made ‘presentations’. Even those independently minded citizens who, tiring of the delay in official action, banded together in a spirit of self-help to defray the cost of such works were made to understand that centres of medical excellence must be regularly inspected by a recognised official of the ministry, and that concomitant with such a duty arose the inflated expense of his visit.
Knowing that corruption is tolerated only for as long as the money is generously spread around, Tolkach took care that his master received a reasonable share of each donation and that he acknowledged that he was doing so. A lesser man might have
taken all and fallen, but the ex-corporal was scrupulous and too circumspect for such a temptation. As a result, when the day came for his superior once again to retire from his post on a government pension, Tolkach had been ready. Anticipating that the colonel’s successor would bring his own man with him, he had had himself appointed as the new hospital administrator for the district of Berezovo.
The choice of a backwater such as Berezovo had not been made at random. By systematically misleading the previous hospital administrator about the size of his budget, he had seen to it that the district had been underfunded for years while a large reserve fund had been created in the accounts, which he was now able to bring to life. His appointment as the district’s new hospital administrator by the Provincial Medical Board had been robustly advocated by the informal network of secretaries and assistant secretaries whose support he had canvassed through generous lunches, cunningly laced with passing reminders of dealings that would cause them nothing but misfortune if ever they should come to the attention of the Imperial Medical Inspectorate. At the same time, he had persuaded the board to grant him a degree of autonomy that was to become the envy of other districts, arguing that in view of the vast distances involved and the single medical practitioner available (one Dr. V.I. Tortsov) the administration for the area should henceforth be centred at Berezovo, and that as the hospital administrator he should have full authority to initiate whatever works he deemed necessary. The board, befuddled and bedazzled by such machinations, capitulated to his demands making only two provisos: that the cost of maintaining a medical practice in Berezovo would henceforth be met by the hospital and not by the board; secondly, that the district accounts were to be submitted annually to Tobolsk. Beyond that, he was his own master. He could go to Berezovo, or to the Devil, if he wished.
Within a month of the colonel’s retirement, Tolkach had sold the lease on his house and had taken the broad road north. But, although Modest Tolkach now found himself at last in a position where all things were possible, and where the prizes for which he had laboured so hard for so long were now within his reach, his wife had not appreciated this victory. A pale, taciturn woman, Madame Tolkachaya up this point had appeared to be in every sense a ‘lesser being’. Tolkach regarded her as uncomplaining, unassertive and without a single visible achievement to her credit. So she had appeared while they had lived in Tobolsk, and so he expected her to be in Berezovo. It was a misjudgement that was to prove fatal.
While she had lived in the city, Madame Tolkachaya had been content to remain subservient to her husband’s wishes. However, the prospect of spending the rest of her life in such inhospitable surroundings as those in which she now found herself filled her with dismay. She began to become more outspoken: criticising first the guests that had come to quiz the new arrivals, then her neighbours, and finally Tolkach himself. When he had beaten her she had merely become morose and had refused to leave the house, spending her days staring out of the window, scowling at passersby. As he began spinning his new web over the town, she saw for the first time what kind of man her husband was.
Prior to the arrival of the new hospital administrator, Berezovo’s hospital had consisted of two large and airy public wards: the ground floor housed the male patients, the upper floor being reserved for the female patients. With the increased budget, Tolkach was able to close down the upper ward and convert it into four private sick rooms, moving the female patients downstairs and erecting wooden partitions in the lower wards so that the rules of decency could be observed. Inevitably, such alterations meant that a few of the patients had had to be sent home but, as he pointed out to Dr. Tortsov, the terminally ill felt more comfortable within the bosom of their families rather than to lie neglected in a distant hospital. Once the wards on the upper floor had been redecorated, they were reserved for those of the townspeople who were prepared to pay a little extra for their comfort and privacy. Meanwhile, the cubicles in the general ward on the ground floor were still available to the ordinary people and those sustained by the charity of the Church; though at a slightly increased expense, since the cost of the renovations had to be met.
So much was common knowledge amongst the townsfolk, and more than sufficient to make the newcomer unpopular amongst the poorer citizenry. Only Tolkach’s wife knew that when he had put out the work to tender, he had taken care to be overheard by the less favoured competitor, Tachmanov, to the effect that the price he was looking for was around 800 roubles. It was no surprise, therefore, that this was the exact amount submitted on the builder’s estimate of works. The other competing builder, Belinsky, having a better head for business, had submitted an estimate for only 600 roubles, in addition to which he added a further 75 roubles as a mute ‘contribution to hospital funds’. It was Belinsky who was awarded the contract, but it had been Tachmanov’s estimate that had been forwarded with the annual accounts to Tobolsk.
Madame Tolkachaya watched and despaired as her husband happily pocketed not only the 75 roubles but also the extra two hundred, at the same time diminishing the size of the hospital he was charged to administer. Suspecting that the future held nothing for her except disgrace, ruin and, in all probability, imprisonment, she attempted to run away and was brought back. Tolkach beat her again, but it was no use. She began to starve herself and to pray for her release. When it did not come, she attempted to take her life by cutting her wrists with her husband’s razor and had been saved only by Tolkach’s prompt action and the skill of Dr. Tortsov. Carried unconscious from her home, she had been taken to one of the upper rooms in the hospital where she lay for three days, refusing to either eat or drink. No form of protection was overlooked to ensure her safety. By day, her arms were kept by her side in thick restraining straps, to prevent her tearing off the bandages; by night, a nurse was hired to watch over her as she slept. When, on the fourth day, she still refused to take any sustenance, Tolkach ordered the doctor to feed her by force.
For five days she had endured this enforced feeding before relenting. She called weakly for her husband, whom she had previously refused to see. Only Tolkach would know what she had said in their last conversation. How she had begged him for a divorce and was told that such a thing was out of the question; a woman did not leave a man of Tolkach’s stature. How she had threatened that if he would not give her her freedom, she would expose him for the swindler he was or die in the attempt. He in turn had promised her that if she did not change her mind, that she either would never leave the hospital or, if she did leave, it would be under an order of confinement to the Provincial Mental Asylum at Tiumen.
Later one of the orderlies remembered hearing the sound of a blow and Tolkach’s raised voice. Another orderly recalled how the administrator had seemed dazed and preoccupied as he gave the order to remove the straps and dismiss the evening nurse. His wife was to be left alone, the door of her room was to remain locked at all times. No one was to excite her with conversation. She was to remain in solitary confinement in order to allow her to rest and her mind to heal. Later, as he was leaving for Dresnyakov’s party at the hotel, he told one of the orderlies to check to see if his wife was asleep. On being informed that she was standing in the corner of her room weeping copiously, he had shrugged and had left the hospital. Later that night Madame Tolkachaya had taken her own life.
At the inquest, nobody could remember how the store cupboard in the room had come to be unlocked; nor could Dr. Tortsov be certain as to how much carbolic acid she had swallowed. The contusions on her upper arms were consistent with the pressure caused by the restraining straps. Besides these and the burns around her lips, there were no other external injuries or signs of violence. The deceased had left no note.
Such, then, was the true history of how Tolkach’s wife met her end, and the origin of the sinister reputation that the hospital and its administrator had gained amongst the townsfolk. Technically innocent, he was shunned wherever he went. People felt uncomfortable meeting his gaze. Amongst the business class, his new prof
it-making schemes found no takers. Indeed, he was being judged as vaguely financially unsound; which was perhaps the unkindest cut of all.
As the months passed, Modest Tolkach became used to evenings empty of callers; the nervousness of the bank teller as he counted out his money; the way conversation faltered when he entered a shop. The hospital administrator had bided his time. He knew small towns; he had been brought up in one. Soon there would be another scandal and the tragic circumstances of his wife’s suicide would be forgotten. All he had to do was to keep his head and wait. He knew that one day the call would come; an awkwardly phrased invitation to have a drink at the hotel, perhaps, or a letter inviting him to a social event in aid of the Church of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary. All the same, he had been surprised to receive without preamble the engraved card requesting his company for dinner at the Pobednyevs’ that evening. Turning the matter over in his mind, he had reached no useful conclusion as to what service the Mayor believed he could offer. When the time for him to leave his house, he noted that the Mayor had not sent his sleigh to fetch him. With a characteristic shrug of his shoulders he told himself that it was still early days. Neither had the desultory conversation during the meal itself yielded any clues. As the sole guest, trapped between the disapproving mien of Madame Pobednyeva and the gross eating habits of her husband, the Mayor, Tolkach waited patiently for the uncomfortable meal to finish.
At last the Mayor pushed back his chair, gave a satisfied belch and motioned his guest to follow him into what he was fond of calling his ‘private study’. Thankful to escape his hostess’s basilisk stare, Tolkach did as he was bid and found himself in a small room cluttered with furniture. Waving him towards a chair, Pobednyev began rummaging in the bottom drawer of a dilapidated roll-top desk that occupied one corner of the room. Having removed a handful of documents, which he rid himself of by the simple expedient of dropping them to the floor, the Mayor drew out a half-empty bottle of brandy and an unopened box of cigars which he produced from behind his back for Tolkach’s inspection in a manner that reminded his guest of a parlour conjuror.