by R. N. Morris
‘So, who have we here, Ptitsyn?’ Porfiry’s face became duly solemn, indeed pained, as he looked down at the bodies. His eye in passing took in the pools of vomit.
‘The woman is Raisa Ivanovna Meyer. The boy is her son, Grigory.’
Raisa’s body lay face down, partially covering Grisha, as if to shield him. The boy’s face was staring straight up, orange vomit smeared around the uncomprehending O of his mouth. His pupils were unusually dilated as his eyes held on to their final panic.
‘Who discovered them?’
‘The maid. Polina Stepanovna Rogozhina.’
‘And the husband? Dr Meyer, isn’t it? Where was he when this happened?’
‘Working in his study, apparently.’
‘Was he not able to help them? He is a doctor, after all.’
Ptitsyn shrugged. ‘Would you like to ask him yourself?’
‘All in good time.’ Porfiry continued to survey the veranda. ‘Are there any other members of the household?’
‘No. The maid does everything for them.’
‘This is vomit?’
‘Yes. It would seem so.’
‘And that smell?’
‘They crapped themselves - begging your pardon, Your Excellency.’
Porfiry bent down and sniffed the one chocolate remaining in the Ballet’s box. ‘There will have to be a medical examination, of course. But it seems obvious that we are dealing with a case of poisoning here. Whether accidental or deliberate, that is the question we must determine.’
‘You have made your mind up already, Porfiry Petrovich?’ asked Virginsky with a frown.
‘Well, something must have killed them. Some substance has disrupted these organisms to a fatal degree. If it is a case of accidental food poisoning, then it is surely the most virulent and severe incidence that I have ever encountered.’
‘You do not think it is accidental then?’
‘As I said, there will have to be a medical examination.’ Porfiry dropped to the floor and prostrated himself alongside the corpses. Raisa Meyer’s cheek lay on her son’s shoulder. Porfiry looked into her face. It was a singular intimacy, that between the living and the dead, unreciprocated and presumptuous. This woman in life, only hours ago in fact, would not have suffered such proximity, such a probing gaze, from a strange man. Her eyes looked nowhere, and however much he tried he could not make them meet his. The pupils, he noticed, were dilated in the same way as her son’s. He could think - inappropriately, and with a tingle of shame - of only one other situation in which a man attends so closely to, and expects so much from, a woman he doesn’t know. She was wearing make-up, he noticed. The kohl around her eyes was streaked from tears. Her mouth was stretched out of shape by the pull of embrace; the orange mess around it made her resemble an infant after feeding. She would not want to have been seen like this, not for the most fleeting of instants, let alone laid out and displayed. He was touched by the pathetic sprawl of her arms, her fists clenched uselessly, her elbows angled with despair and rage. Her whole body was contorted by a fierce but ineffectual determination.
Porfiry stood up. ‘She was a beauty. Once. I imagine.’
‘Really?’ Virginsky’s surprise seemed almost insulting.
‘Death is always ugly. But I see strength in her. And love. These are qualities I associate with beauty. And remember, a face, a living face, is made up of a succession of fleeting expressions.’ Porfiry made a series of faces to illustrate his point, moving through rapid transitions from respectful solemnity to a buffoonish leer. His face then snapped into an expression of deadpan neutrality. ‘Even the most beautiful of women is capable of looking ugly, at least for an instant, when taken off her guard. And nothing is more prone to take us off our guard than sudden death.’ Porfiry turned his head towards the door leading to the interior of the dacha. ‘We will talk to the maid now.’
‘She’s inside,’ said Ptitsyn. ‘Do you want me to bring her out?’ He was looking down at the havoc on the floor.
Porfiry seemed to consider his question. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘There’s no need for that. Just yet.’
Porfiry paused on the threshold to take in the interior of the dacha. He was aware of the two people seated at opposite ends of the room, the man in an armchair, the young woman on a divan, but he did not turn to either of them until he had finished a slow, systematic scan that seemed to search into every corner. It was a familiar enough setting, a dacha in the chalet style: birch-plank walls, covered with folk art, rag rugs on the floor, old and mismatched furniture, draped throws to conceal the ruptured upholstery. There was an upright piano against one wall, lid lifted, an album of Russian folk songs open on the music rest. The whole was suffused with a soft golden light, which completed the contrived bucolic effect. The heavy tick of a cherry grandfather clock measured out time into stilted units.
He turned his attention decisively to the pale, bespectacled man in the armchair - an archetypal intellectual, slightly built and high browed. ‘Dr Meyer?’
The man looked as though he had just been, or was just about to be, sick. His eyes swam without focus.
‘You have my condolences,’ continued Porfiry.
At last Dr Meyer’s gaze latched on to Porfiry, as if he had only just connected the sounds he had heard with this entity before him. Almost immediately he looked away, it seemed in disappointment: had he expected something more than condolences?
‘This must be a difficult time for you.’
Now Meyer’s expression became suspicious. ‘Who are you?’ His voice was high and harsh.
‘My name is Porfiry Petrovich. I am the investigating magistrate. This is Pavel Pavlovich. He is assisting me.’
‘Why do you offer me your condolences?’
‘Because you have today lost your wife and son.’
‘What is it to you? What do you care?’
‘I am capable of human sympathy.’
‘I know why you are here. I know what you really think. I do not believe in your condolences.’
‘I have a job to do, Dr Meyer. You must understand that.’
Meyer did not reply. He seemed to have lost interest in Porfiry. His eyes flitted about the room as if it was unfamiliar to him.
Porfiry looked at the girl now. He was taken aback to see her scowling ferociously at Meyer. Glancing at Virginsky to have his surprise confirmed, he saw that the younger man’s gaze was locked on her face in bashful appreciation.
Of course! thought Porfiry, she is pretty!
Perhaps she was even beautiful; if so, it was a fiery and forceful beauty. Evidently, she was Virginsky’s type.
She had a proud face; the pride was there in the dark glower she was directing towards the doctor. A long straight nose, deeply recessed cheeks, full lips, quick to pout - how haughty they could be, these peasant girls. Porfiry smiled, thinking of Virginsky’s democratic principles. Was it these that drew him to her, or their opposite: the vestigial sense of aristocratic privilege?
‘You must be Polina?’
Somehow she damped the fire in her eyes. Her expression became shy, self-effacing. Ah! So she can act, this one! She bowed her head and barely managed to meet Porfiry’s eye. He noticed, however, that she flashed a glance at Virginsky. Was that a little smile that played on her lips?
‘It must have been very distressing for you, to find your mistress and the young master like that?’
She nodded tensely, then looked quickly - was it warningly - at Dr Meyer.
‘Perhaps you would care to step outside with me, on to the veranda. There are some questions I would like to ask you concerning what happened when you found them.’
Again Polina looked towards Meyer, though this time it seemed she wanted reassurance from him. But he was lost to her.
‘Outside? Where they are?’
‘Yes. I’m afraid so. It will help if you can show me how things were.’
She rose warily, smoothed her apron with flattened palms and nodded once more. Porfiry
let her lead the way out, noticing another flash of interest pass between her and Virginsky.
Porfiry gestured away the men on the veranda with a single back-sweep of his hand. They shuffled and clumped to the periphery.
‘So, Polina, could you tell me what happened here today?’
The girl’s eye-line dipped down, to the bodies, then swooped away quickly, repelled. She chose to settle her gaze on the comparatively neutral surface of the table. But something troubled her there. The vomit, perhaps, thought Porfiry. Or those sheets of paper, with that strange, tight handwriting on them.
‘I brought the samovar out for Raisa Ivanovna.’
‘I see. What time was this?’
‘Two o’clock. I had not long taken away the lunch things. And Dr Meyer had just come home.’
‘Was Dr Meyer out here on the veranda?’
‘No. He was in his study.’
‘So, Raisa Ivanovna took her tea at two o’clock.’
‘I always bring it out to her at two.’
‘Yes. Good. I see. And what did they eat today? For breakfast, let’s say?’
‘Sour cream and caviar. With coffee.’
‘I see. And did Dr Meyer eat the same?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there any of this sour cream and caviar left?’
‘Do you want some?’ she asked, incredulously.
‘No!’ Porfiry laughed. ‘It’s just that we will need a sample, to have it analysed.’
‘You think I poisoned them?’ Her eyes flashed outrage.
Porfiry threw up his hands. ‘At this stage, all we are trying to do is eliminate possibilities. What did she and her son eat for lunch? Did you prepare lunch?’
‘They had some bread. And pickled mushrooms.’
‘Again, I will need samples if there is any left. Did you have the same lunch?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Dr Meyer?’
‘No. He wasn’t here.’
‘Where was he?’
‘At work. He left for work after breakfast.’
‘But came back just after lunch, and just before you took the samovar out? I see. What else did Raisa Ivanovna and her son eat today, do you know?’
‘The chocolates.’
‘These?’ Porfiry indicated the near-empty box on the table. ‘Where did these come from, do you know?’
‘He brought them for her.’
‘Dr Meyer?’
The girl nodded.
‘They both ate them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you have any?’
‘She offered them to me. But no.’
‘Did Dr Meyer have any of the chocolates?’
The girl shrugged.
‘How long have you been in the Meyers’ employ, Polina?’
She thought for a moment, her large dark eyes rolling upwards as she calculated. ‘Since just before Christmas last.’
‘About six months then.’ Porfiry nodded reassuringly, as though she had given the correct answer. ‘Can you describe to me exactly what happened? You brought the samovar out and -?’
‘Grigory was working away on his copying. He likes to copy from the newspaper. It’s something he does. Did, I mean.’
‘This is his handiwork here?’
Polina nodded as Porfiry bent over to look more closely at the sheets.
‘Interesting.’
‘He is . . . was not . . . Not quite right. In the head. Grisha.’
Porfiry looked at her closely as she struggled to make this pronouncement. He detected a certain element of distaste in her expression.
‘They had no other children, the Meyers?’
Polina shook her head vehemently. ‘He was enough. They didn’t want another like him.’
‘So. You brought the samovar out. Served tea. Oh, did Grisha and Raisa Ivanovna both have tea?’
‘I gave only Raisa Ivanovna tea.’
‘Very well. Carry on.’
‘I went back inside. There was nothing else for me to do out here.’
‘So when did you discover the bodies?’
‘Well, she was screaming.’
‘She was still alive, therefore?’
Polina nodded nervously. She looked to Virginsky for succour. ‘It’s all right, my dear,’ he said. ‘You’re doing very well.’
Porfiry compressed his lips. ‘So, she called for help? And Grisha? Was he still alive at this point?’
Polina’s face rippled with tension. A tight anguished nod came out of the convulsion.
‘What did you do?’
‘I . . . went to fetch Dr Meyer.’
‘Of course,’ put in Virginsky. He reached a hand out towards her to comfort her. Porfiry shook his head forbiddingly. Virginsky moved the hand up to his chin, as though he had always intended to make this self-conscious gesture of thoughtfulness.
‘And what did Dr Meyer do?’
‘Well, you see . . .’ Polina bit her bottom lip uncomfortably. ‘He wouldn’t come.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Not at first. I was hammering on his door for an age. He wouldn’t answer it. I shouted to him as well.’
‘You communicated to him the distress of his wife and son?’
‘Yes!’
‘And he ignored your cries?’
Polina nodded sadly and looked down. Porfiry and Virginsky exchanged significant glances.
‘Let me see if I understand you correctly,’ continued Porfiry. ‘Dr Meyer refused to come to the aid of his wife and child?’
Polina shifted her feet uneasily. ‘Well, I don’t know. It wasn’t exactly that he refused. Sometimes he gets carried away with his work. He doesn’t hear. It’s quite often difficult to get him to come for meals.’
‘To come for meals is one thing. But you were raising the alarm because his wife and child were dying out here. You were hammering on his door. How is it possible he didn’t hear you?’
The girl flinched under the force of Porfiry’s exasperated disbelief. Her expression became resentful.
Porfiry blinked his eyelids rapidly, in a spasm of self-control. He smiled soothingly at the girl. ‘Forgive me if I have frightened you, my dear. I am not such a fearful ogre as I seem.’
Polina smiled, almost sardonically.
‘You’re doing very well, Polya. Now, please, if you would be so good, tell me in your own words what happened when you knocked on Dr Meyer’s door. I would very much like to hear it from you before we talk to Dr Meyer.’
‘He came to the door eventually. But . . . he didn’t seem to understand what I was saying. He seemed. Ill. In himself. His eyes. He couldn’t look at me. His face . . . was blank. There was nothing there.’
‘So, his demeanour struck you as out of the ordinary?’
Polina considered the question, or perhaps she was thinking carefully about her answer. Before she was able to give it, they heard footsteps approach the veranda. Meyer was standing in the doorway. ‘What’s going on here? You can’t talk to her without my permission. I forbid you to talk to her.’
‘My dear sir, I can. And I have,’ said Porfiry. ‘You may go inside now, Polina.’
The maid did not look at the master as she pushed past him, although it seemed that there was, in the tension of his body, a desire to reach out and stay her.
‘Dr Meyer,’ began Porfiry, ‘I understand that you bought these chocolates for your wife?’
‘I buy my wife chocolates every week.’
‘Always from Ballet’s?’
‘It is a habit we have fallen into. Perhaps it was time we broke it.’
Porfiry widened his eyes at the casual cynicism of the remark. ‘Did you eat any of these chocolates yourself?’
‘No.’
‘And neither did your maid. When did you buy the chocolates?’
‘Today.’
‘You came directly home with them?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘
Your maid, Polina, says that she had trouble rousing you from your study.’
‘I was working. When I am working I become lost in my thoughts.’
‘What work, exactly, are you engaged in?’