A Razor Wrapped in Silk pp-3

by R. N. Morris

  ‘It is perhaps just as well that his body turned up when it did.’ Verkhotsev charged his words with dark significance. ‘Otherwise you might have made an embarrassing blunder, Porfiry Petrovich. At any rate, whether you claim the credit for solving it or not, the case is closed. You must be thankful for that, as well as relieved. Now you are free to concentrate your efforts on bringing Yelena Filippovna’s murderer to justice.’

  ‘Perhaps I will be presented with her murderer in a similarly miraculous way,’ remarked Porfiry with bitter irony. ‘But I am frankly astonished to hear you say that the case is closed. How can the delivery of a corpse outside a police station signal the end of our work? Surely it is merely the prelude to further investigation?’

  ‘You are not seriously intending to go after Murin’s killers? The criminal fraternity has, in this instance, done us and the whole city of St Petersburg a great service. They have delivered justice. Rough justice, admittedly, but justice all the same. And we should be thankful that that depraved individual can no longer harm our children.’

  ‘I confess that I am mystified by this outcome, and by your acceptance of it,’ Porfiry countered with force. ‘I had understood that Murin was a political agitator. Why does a political agitator engage in child murder? Especially when his victims are drawn from the class whose interests he purports to further?’

  ‘Is it not obvious? The ring is the key. His aim was to incriminate the regime. He would have us believe that a Romanov was behind the crimes. And admit it, he very nearly succeeded in convincing you, Porfiry Petrovich.’

  ‘You must be aware that yours is not the only interpretation that the facts permit. But even if what you say is true, I was not aware that the Tsar put his legal reforms in place only for us to surrender the judicial process to criminals. For whoever has murdered this man is a criminal, Pyotr Afanasevich. Be in no doubt about that.’

  ‘But you have no hope of finding his murderer,’ said Verkhotsev flatly. ‘You must see that. The criminal fraternity will close ranks. There will be no witnesses. There will be no leads.’

  ‘You speak with remarkable confidence.’

  ‘This man Murin is no ordinary criminal. He is a revolutionary. As such, he has placed himself outside all society, even the society of criminals. He has no friends amongst them. He is looked upon with contempt — disgust even, considering the foul nature of his crimes. In addition, when all else is taken into account, our criminals — our ordinary criminals — always remain Christians. It is natural that they would look upon the slaughterer of children with the greatest revulsion. In them there is a fundamental decency beneath the layers of acquired dishonesty. How could they tolerate one such as Murin? I vouch you will not find one among their number prepared to assist you in the execution of your justice when they have already meted out their own.’

  ‘It is not a question of my justice. There is only justice. And it is certainly not dispensed by criminals.’

  ‘Our spies in the underworld inform us that criminal society is highly organised. You may be assured that he was tried and found guilty in one of their courts. And that his sentence was duly executed.’

  ‘So, is that the justice you defer to? Because I do not.’

  ‘But the Tsar will be content. St Petersburg will be content. The murderer you have been hunting is disposed of. I urge you to be content too, Porfiry Petrovich.’

  ‘He confessed to a fellow! You expect me to be content with, He confessed to a fellow?’

  ‘I grant you it is somewhat lacking in style.’

  ‘It is not the lack of style that concerns me but the lack of substance. Allow me to present my alternative interpretation of the facts, Pyotr Afanasevich. The four children were not murdered by this Murin. But by someone else. A person whose identity is as yet unknown to me, but whom I presume to be in some way associated with the house of Romanov. Perhaps this individual has been prevailed upon to desist from his murderous activities. And in the meantime this Murin has been delivered up to us. My murderer. Your agitator. It smacks rather too much of killing two hares with one shot, does it not?’

  ‘What are you suggesting, Porfiry Petrovich?’

  ‘Oh, come now, sir! Surely you do not need me to spell it out for you. You gentlemen of the Third Section are more subtle than that. A man who can put on and take off a uniform at will does not need things spelled out for him.’

  ‘I almost feel you are insulting me.’ Verkhotsev made the remark lightly, almost delightedly.

  ‘You came here pretending to be Maria Petrovna’s father!’

  ‘I am Maria Petrovna’s father!’

  ‘In name only. You claimed to be interested in the truth. And yet you have colluded in a charade. This man Murin was not executed by common criminals.’

  ‘And what makes you so certain of that, Porfiry Petrovich?’

  ‘I am not certain of anything. I admit it. That is the way of the Third Section. In the end, no one can be certain of anything.’

  Verkhotsev gave a half-apologetic shrug.

  ‘Your daughter is distraught. She thinks that whoever has been killing those children will come after her.’

  ‘She has nothing to fear.’

  ‘You will tell her that? You will take her hands in yours, look into her eyes, your own daughter’s eyes, and tell her that her fears are at an end?’

  ‘Without hesitation.’

  ‘But how can you be so sure? Do you not at least want to talk to this fellow to whom Murin supposedly confessed? I warn you, Pyotr Afanasevich, if Murin is not the killer, if there is some other person being protected, then there will be more bloodshed. No matter what assurances have been given, such an individual cannot be contained, however watchful his custodians, however noble his family.’

  ‘You are once again venturing into dangerous waters, Porfiry Petrovich. Why, you talk as if you almost wish it were a Romanov who had committed these crimes!’

  ‘That is not true. But I do know that you cannot sweep these things under the carpet.’

  Verkhotsev took a moment to consider Porfiry’s words. ‘Let us talk openly, man to man.’

  ‘There is nothing I would like more.’

  ‘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 un
dermine 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.

  ‘Now, I really must … go,’ said Porfiry, utterly bemused by Slava’s display. ‘I am late for my appointment with the Tsar.’

  ‘You’re going to see the Tsar?’ blurted Slava.

  It seemed for a moment that he was about to ask if he could go with Porfiry, but, to everyone’s relief, even he drew the line at that.

  *

  As a room that was used for the processing of tragedy, the main hall of the Haymarket District Police Bureau was inevitably the scene of emotional disruptions. The station served one of the poorest areas of St Petersburg, though there were pockets of poverty throughout the city that could rival it. Those who were driven to the limits of existence would find they had nowhere else to turn but to crime. Whether they sought to alleviate their lot through prostitution or larceny, these accidental criminals would sooner or later find themselves rounded up and herded into the gas-lit gloom of the main receiving hall. The police who brought them there abandoned them. The clerks who were to process them ignored them. And yet, of course, they were not allowed to leave. Some ventured in voluntarily: the victims of crime, or more rarely its witnesses; sometimes the relatives of those who had gone missing or those who had been arrested.

  Exceptionally, there appeared someone whose presence there, at least at first sight, simply could not be explained; nor could it be ignored.

  The woman clearly fell into that category. Porfiry saw her immediately as he came out of his chambers. She was dressed in male working clothes, several sizes too big for her: the sleeves of the corduroy jacket flapped uselessly over her hands and she continually tripped over the trailing trouser legs. Her hair had been roughly cropped and her face was smeared with soot. There would have been something stagey, almost comical, about her crude attempt to pass herself off as a man, had it not been for the desolate detachment of her eyes and the wild, harsh keening that vibrated in her throat. It would not have been true to say those eyes took in nothing of their surroundings. But i
t seemed as though she saw the world as something to which she could not be reconciled.

  ‘Who is she?’ Porfiry asked of Zamyotov.

  The clerk at his desk half-turned towards her disdainfully. ‘God knows. Some specimen of riff-raff. The tide of human misery washes up all sorts in here. Ask Pavel Pavlovich. He takes an interest in such cases.’

  Virginsky was indeed watching the woman with keen interest, at the head of a small huddle of officials — policemen, magistrates and clerks — who seemed drawn to her distress but unsure of how to react to it. Without doubt it was a disturbance and therefore needed to be curtailed. Compassion for the woman, too, may have stirred in the breasts of some of those watching and that perhaps should have been enough to prompt one of them to intervene. And yet there was something compelling about the spectacle that made them reluctant to end it. At the same time, there was a raw power to the emotion on display that commanded respect. The feeling seemed to be that it had to be allowed to play itself out.

  The first of them to approach her was Virginsky. He did so not in a movement of restraint, but of consolation. His face seemed to implore her, for mercy’s sake, to spare herself. An arm was extended, ready to reach protectively around her shoulder. But the woman backed away from him, her eyes glaring with terror and distrust. Her gaze darted frantically about, seeking a bolt hole. But instead she caught sight of something that only added to her agitation. Her eyes now had the wild panic of a trapped animal. Her keening rose to a sharp shriek of negation. She thrust out an arm in front of her, the drooping cuff of the jacket hardly mitigating the undeniable accusation in the gesture. Porfiry followed the line of her arm. She was pointing out Verkhotsev and his fellow gendarmes, conspicuous in their sky-blue uniforms.

  Verkhotsev’s face was grim. He seemed shaken by the woman’s attention. His companions, however, affected what seemed to Porfiry to be a cynical hilarity. The gendarmes had not been part of the group watching the woman, but had been making their way across the hall, having left Porfiry’s chambers moments before. Something had made them glance towards the woman just as she found them and pointed them out. And they, for some reason, were held frozen by the trajectory of her accusation.