by R. N. Morris
Porfiry’s impression, to which the presence of a dead body only contributed, was that the room was over-furnished for its size. At Colonel Setochkin’s feet, a large baize-covered desk was crowded in beneath the window in the far wall. A glass-panelled door next to the window suggested a balcony.
Vakhramev was seated in one of the wicker armchairs, a politseisky positioned next to him. He looked up as Porfiry and Virginsky came in with Salytov. His expression was naturally pensive, although he seemed to will defiance into his features.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Porfiry, taking one of the other chairs. He braced himself as he settled but, seeming to experience no discomfort, breathed out his relief. ‘I have to be careful,’ he said by way of explanation to Vakhramev. ‘You will understand, I think. A gentleman of your age.’ Porfiry cast an accusatory glance at Virginsky. ‘These young ones do not.’ He nodded for Virginsky to sit down too. ‘You are Vakhramev?’
‘Ruslan Vladimirovich Vakhramev.’ Vakhramev’s expression was slightly startled. His chair creaked as he drew himself up proudly.
Porfiry bowed. ‘I am Porfiry Petrovich, the investigating magistrate.I would be grateful to you, sir, if you could tell me what happened here this afternoon. Please take your time. Try not to overlook any detail. It may turn out to be significant.’
‘I have already given a statement.’
‘Yes, yes, I know. It’s tiresome. But it’s important to me that I hear it directly from you. You may think of something that you missed last time. Of course, I apologise for any inconvenience to you.’ Porfiry looked down at the corpse distractedly. He then turned a startled face on Vakhramev, as if the sight of the dead body had reminded him why he was there.
Vakhramev nodded. ‘The mood I was in, I would not have been very surprised if I had killed him. But I did not. You have my word, as a gentleman.’
Porfiry raised a questioning eyebrow. He offered Vakhramev a cigarette, which was declined. Lighting one for himself, he said: ‘Forgive me for asking such a blunt question - sometimes I find it is easier for all concerned if one gets straight to the point - but what was your intention in coming here?’ Porfiry’s face tensed into a smile.
Vakhramev was flustered by the question. ‘I had a right to confront him. I wanted him to know what I thought of him.’
‘And what did you think of him?’
Vakhramev considered his words. ‘I did not think much of him.’
‘So it wasn’t your intention to challenge him to a duel?’
‘The thought had crossed my mind.’
‘Of course. I find all sorts of thoughts cross my mind. Some of them most unwelcome. One cannot control one’s thoughts. But, tell me, please, just to clear things up, did you act on this particular thought?’
‘In the event, I saw that he was not worth it.’
Porfiry nodded in satisfaction. ‘The butler admitted you, I believe. And were you shown here, directly to the study?’
‘No, Setochkin came out of another room. We . . . talked in the hall. Then we came in here.’
‘And what happened then?’
‘I showed him the letter.’
‘Excuse me. What letter is this?’
‘I received a letter informing me of Setochkin’s behaviour.’
Porfiry flashed a glance in Virginsky’s direction. ‘Good heavens. Who was it from?’
‘I don’t know. It wasn’t signed. But the contents seem to have been well informed. He didn’t deny it.’
‘And where is it now, this letter? I would very much like to see it.’
‘I gave it to him. Or rather, I threw it at him. Screwed it up and threw it in his face. It landed on the floor somewhere.’
All eyes shot downwards at the same time.
‘We have searched the room. There was no sign of any such letter, ’ said Salytov.
‘How strange. But we will come back to that later,’ said Porfiry. ‘Please, Ruslan Vladimirovich, would you tell me what happened after you confronted Colonel Setochkin with the letter.’
‘If there ever was a letter,’ put in Salytov.
Vakhramev gave him a stern glance. ‘I left. That is to say, I went out of the room with the intention of leaving the apartment. However, I had taken but three paces when I heard the gun discharge. I ran back immediately. He was lying where you see him now. The gun was on the floor nearby. For some reason I cannot explain, I picked it up. A moment later, Setochkin’s man came in.’
‘It would, you know, be helpful if you could explain why you picked it up.’
‘I couldn’t help myself. I hated him. And, yes, wished him dead. But now that he was, I couldn’t quite believe it. I needed to handle the gun to believe it. I can see it would have been so much better if I hadn’t picked it up.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that,’ said Porfiry, with a thin smile. He blew out smoke and stood up, beginning to search around the room distractedly. ‘There is always this problem of ashtrays.’
‘Filthy habit,’ said Vakhramev.
‘Ah, but I find it essential to thought,’ said Porfiry, stepping over the body to find an ashtray at last on the desk. He took the opportunity to try the door to the balcony. It was locked, the key still in the lock on the inside. ‘And I must think.’ He said the words to himself, gazing deep in thought out of the window, one pane of which was open. The view was of an empty courtyard. He wrinkled his nose at the pungent stink of the soil barrels. After a moment his gaze dropped down to the desk and settled on a nondescript birch-wood case. ‘What happened to the pistol that was fired?’
‘We have it,’ said Salytov.
Porfiry opened the wooden box and looked down at the one remaining pistol, surrounded by the polished accoutrements of charge and discharge, two ramrods, a wooden mallet, bullet mould, brass powder flask, various screws and implements, including an elaborate pair of pincers, all compartmentalised in velvet. Lead spheres, the bullets themselves, nestled like eggs of death. The gun had a rounded walnut butt with a carved grip and damascened trimmings, from which the barrel, with its severely hexagonal cross-section, projected brutally. The inscription inside the hinged lid announced the maker as Alexei Babyakin of Tula. Porfiry thought of this Babyakin, and of the evident care - the craftsman’s love of his craft - that had gone into the making of this handsome and highly covetable object. He wondered if any thought of its ultimate purpose had distracted Babyakin, or whether he had looked upon it purely as a beautiful mechanism. Porfiry closed the box again and turned back to Vakhramev. ‘And so, who shot him, if not you? I imagine you have given it some thought.’
‘Why, I should have thought that was obvious,’ said Vakhramev. ‘He shot himself. Our conversation, and the letter, the irrefutable evidence of his worthlessness, provoked feelings of shame and remorse that overwhelmed him.’
‘Hmm, it is possible, I suppose,’ said Porfiry. ‘Certainly, if you did kill him, it is strange that you did not make any effort to escape. Of course that would have been incriminating in itself. Only a guilty man runs. Or perhaps not. Someone who believes that he might be thought guilty may run too. Conversely, someone who wants to be thought innocent may decide not to run.’ Porfiry gave a little chuckle, seemingly of embarrassment. ‘And as for your holding on to the gun, perhaps that indicates innocence rather than guilt - indeed a touching naivety, if anything. Or . . . again . . .’ Porfiry smiled almost regretfully as he made the suggestion: ‘It could be the strategy of a man who wants to create the impression of innocence. Or, more simply, you were paralysed by the enormity of what you had done. You had been carried away by wrath. You are a civilised man. It is difficult for you to accept that you gave in to passion so completely. Perhaps your mind has obliterated all memory of the deed. If so, a jury would go easy on you. We would not press for a charge of murder. Manslaughter at worst. A good lawyer would be able to make a case for diminished responsibility. Temporary insanity. There have been many such cases. There are lawyers who specialise in this type of ple
a. You would be acquitted. I have no doubt. So much so that it is debatable we would even bring a case against you, though of course we must go through the motions. Justice must be seen to be done.’
‘I did not kill him.’
‘I was rather afraid you might say that. You see, it does complicate things for us your saying that.’
‘I cannot help that.’
‘Unfortunately, the position of the wound does not incline me to accept your theory of suicide.’ Porfiry looked down at the body on the floor. ‘We can see that the flesh and material have been pushed inwards, indicating that the bullet entered from the front.’ Porfiry looked at the window and frowned. ‘Nevertheless,’ he continued thoughtfully, ‘I have never yet come across the case of a suicide attempting to shoot himself through the heart. In my experience, those who elect for the pistol as a means of self-annihilation invariably choose to blow their brains out, either by holding the gun to the temple, or inserting the barrel into the mouth. This is the preferred method of the disgraced cavalry officer. I take it you would have informed us had there been anyone else in the room with you during your interview with Colonel Setochkin?’
‘We were alone.’
Porfiry peered tentatively around the back of the screen; then, finally, closed the lid on the trunk, as if he expected to find someone crouched in its lee. Discovering no one there, he looked at Salytov meekly, though he continued to address Vakhramev. ‘Could anyone have entered the study in between the moment you left it and the moment you heard the gunshot? Without your noticing? ’
‘I do not believe it would have been possible. It was only a matter of minutes, and I was in the hall the whole time.’
‘But were you watching the door?’
‘No, admittedly, I had my back to it.’
‘Tell me, was the windowpane open at the time of your interview with Colonel Setochkin?’
‘I didn’t notice.’
‘And the door? Closed as it is now? Locked?’
‘I really have no idea.’
‘But did anyone come into the room afterwards, besides Colonel Setochkin’s manservant - and the police, of course?’
‘No. I was in here all the time. I saw no one else.’
‘You did not see the servant open the window at any time?’
‘No,’ said Vakhramev decisively. ‘So I think it must have been already open.’
‘What about the door to the balcony? Did you see him lock the door?’
‘No.’
‘And you did not lock it yourself?’
‘No.’
‘So we may assume that the windowpane was open and the door to the balcony was locked at the time of the colonel’s . . . demise?’
‘I think it’s a reasonable assumption,’ agreed Vakhramev.
‘And to go back to our mysterious letter, is it possible that the servant removed it?’
‘I didn’t see him do so,’ said Vakhramev. ‘I suppose it’s possible. My mind was not entirely focused.’
‘Of course . . .’ Porfiry smiled and batted his eyelids to compensate for what was coming. ‘We have only your word that this letter existed.’
‘And that isn’t enough for you?’
‘I personally would be content to accept your word on it. But now we have juries. And there is this new emphasis on evidence.’ Porfiry’s smile became apologetic.
Vakhramev puffed out his cheeks as if he had never heard anything quite so preposterous. Porfiry nodded with sudden grim finality to Virginsky, who frowned back uncertainly.
‘And so, am I to consider myself under arrest?’
‘Not at all, not at all,’ said Porfiry brightly. ‘That is to say, not for the moment. We have yet to speak to the butler.’
The kitchen welcomed Porfiry and Virginsky with a freshly baked aroma that for an instant took all thought of anything apart from bread and meat pies out of their minds. Porfiry paused at the threshold to lose himself in it, his eyelashes fluttering with pleasure.
At last he looked at the two people who were gazing up at him with some bewilderment from the kitchen table.
‘Forgive me. Such smells always take us back to our childhood, do they not? I was somewhere else entirely for a moment. Colonel Setochkin was a fortunate man indeed to have such a cook as you in his household.’
The cook, a large woman with muscular forearms from a lifetime of stirring, beating and folding, wrinkled her face suspiciously. Her eyes gave nothing away.
The butler’s head shook in an unceasing gesture of denial. ‘But who will eat them now?’ he said. ‘There was to have been a party tonight.’ His eyes, beneath bristling eyebrows, were bloodshot and moist. He looked at Porfiry without comprehension.
‘We are the investigating magistrates,’ explained Porfiry. ‘You are?’
‘Yegor.’
‘Colonel Setochkin’s servant?’
Yegor gave a dignified, though trembling, nod. ‘I have been with His Honour for twenty-six years. We served together in the Izmailovsky regiment. I was his batman. When he resigned his commission, I followed him and entered into service as his butler.’
‘Can you tell me what happened today?’
Yegor glared in outrage. ‘He was shot down in cold blood.’ His outrage intensified into fury: ‘By Vakhramev.’
‘You witnessed this?’
‘Witnessed?’ Yegor frowned impatiently. ‘I heard the gun. He had the gun when I got to him.’
‘Where were you when the gun was discharged?’
‘Here in the kitchen, with Dunya.’
‘You are Dunya?’
The woman nodded confirmation, without taking her eyes off Porfiry for one moment, as if he were some exotic creature at the zoo.
Somewhat disconcerted by her gaze, Porfiry continued questioning Yegor. ‘And how long did it take you, after hearing the gun, to get to the study?’
‘Why, it’s only just across the hall. It would have taken me no time at all.’
‘Provided you went immediately.’ Porfiry pointed a finger at nothing in particular, one of his courtroom tics.
‘Of course I went immediately. What else would I do?’
‘You might have hesitated. It would have been reasonable to proceed with caution.’
‘Are you suggesting I was afraid?’
‘Caution is not the same as fear. This Vakhramev . . .’ began Porfiry.
‘He is the murderer.’ Yegor thumped the table. ‘He said he would kill the colonel and he did.’
‘I see. What exactly did he say?’
‘He demanded satisfaction. He was going to fight a duel with the colonel. Obviously, he couldn’t wait. He shot him in cold blood instead. In the back, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘No. Not in the back, as a matter of fact. So they argued?’
Yegor’s eyes bulged. ‘I should say so.’
‘What was it about?’
‘Vakhramev accused my master of seducing his daughter. But if you knew this Tatyana, you would know it was she who had him wrapped around her little finger. She is not as innocent as her father would believe. She is a one. A Russian minx.’
‘When you went into the room after hearing the gunshot, did you see a letter lying on the floor?’
Yegor frowned as he thought back, then shook his head. ‘No. No letter.’
‘You are sure about this? You did not tidy it up, thinking it a piece of litter?’
The cook guffawed, prompting a wounded look from Yegor. He shook his head dejectedly.
‘I see. And you did not take it for any other reason?’
‘I saw no letter.’
‘And did you lock the door to the balcony at that point? To prevent Vakhramev from escaping perhaps?’
‘No. I didn’t think to.’
‘Then that door was already locked. Did you see anybody else enter or leave the room by the other door?’