by R. N. Morris
They watched him go in some trepidation.
‘Should someone not -?’ began Natalya Ivanovna anxiously.
‘No. He would take it as an insult.’ Porfiry smiled tensely. ‘Please, do sit down.’
Virginsky’s father and stepmother took the brown sofa. Virginsky, taking his cue from Porfiry, remained standing.
‘So tell me,’ began Porfiry, the tension in his smile easing. ‘How much longer are you staying in St Petersburg?’
‘Well, my son tells me I mustn’t consider leaving,’ said Virginsky’s father quickly, again with pointed humour. ‘Which is all very well, although he does not also tell me how I am to meet the continued expense of the hotel.’
‘Perhaps if you had chosen a less expensive hotel in the first place,’ muttered Virginsky.
‘What was that?’
Natalya Ivanovna reached out a hand to soothe her husband.
‘I am sure there will be no need to detain you longer than is necessary. It is unfortunate that you have been tangled in this messy business. If you wish, we could clear up a few things now?’ Porfiry’s face registered surprise, as if the thought had only just occurred to him.
‘I would be glad to.’
‘Your son tells me that you were a pupil at the Chermak High School in Moscow.’
‘What? What has that got to do with Setochkin?’
Porfiry ignored the question. ‘How did you meet Setochkin? It was not at Chermak High School.’
‘Of course not. I told you, he was a . . . business associate of mine.’
‘A business associate, yes. But if you will forgive me, that doesn’t tell me where or how you met him, only in what relationship he stood to you.’
‘Does it matter where I met him? One meets people. One is introduced. One becomes acquainted. It is a normal enough occurrence, I would have thought.’ The elder Virginsky’s tone was pleading rather than recalcitrant.
Porfiry bowed slightly with fluttering eyelids. ‘Do you remember a boy at Chermak School called Golyadkin?’
‘Golyadkin? Gol-yadkin?’ Virginsky’s father frowned doubtfully.
‘He was in the year below you,’ put in Virginsky flatly.
‘What? How do you know that?’ Startled, Virginsky’s father swivelled his gaze between his son and the magistrate.
Porfiry picked up the question: ‘The name Golyadkin came up in an interview with another . . . gentleman, one Vakhramev. Do you know him?’
‘No.’
‘Or his daughter, Tatyana Ruslanovna?’
‘No.’
‘But Golyadkin? Do you remember Golyadkin?’
‘Perhaps I do remember the name. That’s all. It was such a long time ago.’
‘You have not seen Golyadkin more recently, since leaving Chermak School?’
‘Certainly not. I hardly remember him at all.’
Porfiry nodded thoughtfully. ‘It would help us greatly if you could try to remember him a little.’
‘Of course, I wish to help you as much as I am able. Golyadkin, you say? You must understand that my memories of my schooldays are not happy. I have tried as much as I might to put them behind me. There was a certain brutality of mind amongst the masters, which transmitted itself to some of the boys. I was myself guilty of it at times, much to my shame. It is far worse, in later life, to look back on one’s self as the perpetrator rather than the victim of injustice. It was a school of bullies and the older boys had little to do with the younger ones except to terrorise them. Naturally, there were those, either lacking in the necessary stature or malevolence, or possibly simply intelligence, who were inevitably and eternally the recipients of such attentions. Golyadkin, I do not think was one of those. I would have remembered him if that were the case. I find I have the faces of the unhappy ones etched upon my conscience and I do not associate that name with any of those.’ His narrative faltered. Natalya Ivanovna laid her hand consolingly on his arm. He patted it appreciatively and smiled at her alone. ‘There was one boy in particular. Yes, he was from the year below, a quite unfortunate boy, sallow-faced, weakly, he was always sickening for something, or pretending to. I imagine that it was nothing other than misery that he was suffering from. He sought escape from his tormentors in the infirmary. He had a particular terror of heights, I remember. And one day a few of his classmates blindfolded him and took him to an attic window from which they forced him to climb out on to the roof - there was a flat roof adjacent to this particular window I remember. They walked him to the edge of the flat roof and removed his blindfold. Then left him there. His screams filled the school grounds and stay with me even now. Of course, he was punished severely for his misdemeanour.’ Natalya Ivanovna shifted uneasily. Her husband avoided her eyes; his smile trembled into weakness, unable to console or explain. ‘That was not Golyadkin, though, I am sure of that. I cannot remember the boy’s real name but it was not Golyadkin. Everyone called him “Nobody”.’
‘Nobody?’ Porfiry shot a glance at Virginsky.
‘Yes. Nikolai Nobody. The son of No One. I wonder whatever became of him.’
‘Is it possible, do you think, that Golyadkin was one of his abusers?’
‘Golyadkin, Golyadkin . . . it really is so hard to remember, but I suppose it’s possible. You see, what you have to bear in mind is that each of us was known by a particular nickname, not always a flattering one, I have to say. My own was “Vomit”. I once had the misfortune to vomit in a corridor when I was coming down with a bout of fever, you see.’ There was a small sympathetic sound from Natalya Ivanovna. ‘It only happened once, quite early on in my time at the school, but I was never allowed to forget it in all the years I was there. The chief tormentor of this Nobody was known by the name of “Worms”, I seem to remember.’
‘Worms? How disgusting,’ said Natalya Ivanovna.
‘I think it was in reference to angling. It was his passion.’ Virginsky’s father narrowed his eyes as if looking into the distance, and spoke as if he dimly saw the boy in question approach. ‘It was all he ever talked about. His parents had a dacha by a lake, and apparently he would spend the whole of the summer holidays in a boat on that lake with only his worms for company. Hence the nickname.’
He paused. The hiatus in his narrative was filled by a light metallic rattle. There was a heavy clank against the inner door, then silence. Porfiry sprang to the door and opened it. Zakhar staggered forward, surprised by his release. He was bearing a tray with the metal teapot from the samovar and china, which he came dangerously close to losing.
‘Thank you, Zakhar. You may put it on my desk. I will serve us.’
This last information was received with a wince, as if it pained him greatly to be denied the pleasure of serving, which was after all his due. He shook his head as he withdrew into the apartment.
‘Dear Zakhar, what would I do without him?’
‘Do you not find it humiliating to be waited on by another human being?’ asked Virginsky with unexpected ferocity. ‘Besides which, there is the question of his age. He seems rather past it to me.’
‘As to the former question, I confess that I do not. The demands of my office make it rather a necessity. And that which is necessary . . .’
‘Yes, yes - is always right,’ said Virginsky impatiently.
Porfiry hesitated and gave Virginsky a slow questioning gaze. ‘Quite. But yes, his advanced age is a great concern to me. It has come upon him with alarming rapidity, it seems to us all. I have tried to talk to him of retirement but he broke down in tears.’
‘Perhaps they were tears of joy,’ said Virginsky drily.
‘I think not. His position means everything to such a man. It is his purpose as well as place in life. Take it away and he is left with nothing.’
‘Such a man!’ Virginsky spat out contemptuously.
‘Yes, such a man,’ Porfiry insisted with an indulgent smile as he handed a teacup to Natalya Ivanovna. She and her husband were watching the exchange with startled fascination, li
ke spectators at a scandalous play.
‘How is such a man different from you or me?’
‘He is not different at all. That is precisely my point. I include myself in the category of such men. I am a public servant. I live to serve. I cannot contemplate a future beyond service.’
‘You will move to the country and live out a long and happy retirement,’ said Virginsky’s father, with childlike optimism. ‘Away from all these sordid concerns,’ he added, with a note of rebuke.
Porfiry bowed acknowledgement of the wish.
‘Do people not murder one another in the country?’ asked Virginsky.
‘Well, yes. But it is usually a simple matter. A quarrel between peasants.’ Virginsky’s father looked to Porfiry for support as he took his tea from him.
‘Wherever there are human beings there is criminality,’ said Porfiry. ‘Even amongst gentlefolk.’
‘But surely not?’ protested Natalya Ivanovna.
‘I’m afraid so.’ Porfiry offered her the sugar bowl, which she regarded for a moment in horror. She recovered herself enough to place a large crystal on her saucer with the tongs, before putting it between her teeth with her fingers. ‘I have encountered criminals with every distinction of rank, every privilege of wealth, every advantage of education,’ continued Porfiry. ‘Indeed, all that they have lacked is moral compunction.’
Virginsky could not help looking at his father, who met his gaze then looked down sharply.
Natalya Ivanovna drank her tea through the sugar crystal. It seemed she sensed the tension and meaning of the silent exchange between her husband and stepson. She swallowed hurriedly and said, ‘You are referring to this fellow Golyadkin, are you not?’ She cast solicitous glances at her husband. ‘You believe he may be Colonel Setochkin’s murderer?’
‘Golyadkin cannot be Colonel Setochkin’s murderer, I am afraid. He himself died in a boating accident some years ago.’ Porfiry sipped from his tea. He closed his eyes for a moment, complacently almost, then suddenly stared over his cup, which he held to his mouth without drinking from it.
‘What is it?’ said Virginsky.
Porfiry lowered the cup slowly. He smiled but said nothing, basking in the speed of his eyelids’ oscillation. Instead he directed a mildly enquiring glance to Virginsky’s father.
He appeared discomfited by the magistrate’s attention. ‘But I don’t understand what all this has to do with Setochkin,’ he complained. ‘There is really nothing connecting Setochkin with Chermak School.’
‘Nothing?’ challenged Porfiry. ‘Apart from the fact that his murderer may have attended there?’ Porfiry sucked his tea up noisily and continued to watch Virginsky’s father with a greedy eye.
A distant rumble of thunder at first startled, then relieved, and, finally, depressed them.
3
Misericorde
The savagery of the storm cowed them. Hurled from a booming sky, the rain pelted the windowpanes in an angry fusillade. They could hear it hammering on the roof too, as if its rage was directed against them personally. The air was chill now; a stealthy gloom had taken away every memory of the sun.
Porfiry joined Virginsky at the window and watched the rain streak through the charged darkness. A flash of brilliance lit up the devastated patch of the city before them. Across the Yekaterininsky Canal, its surface frantic with motion, the tenement buildings behind the Haymarket seemed to shiver and flinch in the glare. Hunched figures on the embankments were momentarily frozen in their dash towards doorways. Another flash, a second later, and they had disappeared.
‘If this keeps up, the Ditch will flood,’ said Virginsky, as if he took pleasure from the prospect.
Virginsky’s father’s voice behind him reminded Porfiry of his guests. ‘It will be impossible to get a cab, of course.’
‘Oh, but you mustn’t think of going in this,’ said Porfiry turning, though in truth he was ready for them to go. He craved a cigarette and there was work to be done. In effect, it amounted to the same thing.
Virginsky’s father smiled weakly and cast an eye at the hostile weather. It seemed that he had merely been voicing a wish, the unattainability of which he well understood. There was resignation in his face and posture. ‘So . . . it seems we are imprisoned by the storm.’
‘I for one am glad of the rain,’ said Natalya Ivanovna firmly. ‘It will lighten the oppression in the air. I hope it will freshen the generally noxious atmosphere of the city too.’
‘Indeed,’ said Porfiry. ‘If I may say so, you have not chosen to visit St Petersburg in its pleasantest season. Most people in fact choose to vacate the city in the summer.’
‘Those who can afford to,’ said Virginsky.
‘We had little choice in the matter,’ admitted Virginsky’s father. ‘The business that brought us here was pressing.’
‘Your business with Colonel Setochkin, you mean?’ said Porfiry.
Virginsky’s father’s eyes stood out with distaste. ‘So, we are back to that, are we?’
‘Will you be pursuing the sale of the land through another agent, now that Colonel Setochkin is dead?’ Porfiry tried to make the enquiry sound casual.
‘He was not my agent in any formal sense. He was merely an individual who was facilitating a transaction. But no, to answer your question. The need for the sale is no longer pressing.’
‘How fortunate!’ said Porfiry warmly. ‘That is good news.’ A moment later Porfiry’s expression clouded. ‘This change in circumstances, it would not have anything to do with Colonel Setochkin’s death, would it?’
‘Really!’ cried Virginsky’s father, rising to his feet. ‘That is the most despicable suggestion I have ever heard. Storm or no storm, I will not remain here to be subjected to this innuendo. Come along, Natalya Ivanovna.’ He took his wife’s teacup and placed it with his own on the tray. ‘Unless, sir, you are intending to formally arrest me?’
‘Not at all,’ said Porfiry, who gave every impression of being baffled by the outburst. ‘But really, I cannot let you go out into that storm. At the very least, allow me to give you some umbrellas. You would be amazed how many get left here.’
‘He once gave me a dead man’s boots,’ remarked Virginsky as Porfiry fussed to fetch two umbrellas from a stand by the door.
Virginsky’s father took his with a look of indignation, as if this represented the final insult. Perhaps his son’s comment had prejudiced him against any gift from the magistrate. ‘And may we consider ourselves free to leave St Petersburg?’
‘You may consider yourselves free to do whatever you wish,’ said Porfiry with a slight bow.
‘This came.’
Porfiry watched the receding figures of Virginsky Senior and Natalya Ivanovna. They crossed the floor with stiffened gait, carrying umbrellas tightly furled like grudges. Other figures cut across them, some steaming from the drenchings they had just received. Then the couple was lost to him, absorbed by the loose congress of the receiving hall.
He looked down at the letter Zamyotov had thrust at him. He took it uncertainly. It bore the crest of the Ministry of Internal Affairs, Department of Public Health. He looked into Zamyotov’s face in amazement. ‘We’ve had a reply!’
‘Contain your excitement,’ said Zamyotov.
The brief, though beautifully scripted, note was signed by one A. I. Rostanev.
Re: Yekaterininsky Canal adjacent to Stolyarny Lane.
Your letter regarding the above has been investigated. No action was deemed necessary.
Porfiry read the lines again. An astonished rage rushed through him, rising quickly to his face. ‘No action necessary!’
‘I told you it was a waste of time,’ said Zamyotov, attending to a thread on the cuff of his frock coat.
‘This is outrageous.’ Porfiry rapped the paper with the nails of one hand. ‘Investigated? What do they mean? Nobody has been here. No one has talked to me.’
‘Ah,’ said Zamyotov, becoming uncharacteristically shame-faced. ‘I believe
an official from that department did come here. But you were out.’
‘But that’s no good. He needed to talk to me. He should have come back. He should have made an appointment.’
‘It was the day young Virginsky started,’ Zamyotov offered, almost as an excuse. Virginsky shifted awkwardly, as if he felt himself implicated in the failure. ‘Word had just come in of that double poisoning,’ continued Zamyotov. ‘The German woman and her son. You dashed off and missed him by a matter of minutes.’
‘She was not German,’ said Porfiry studying the official letter as if he believed some meaning other than the obvious would make itself apparent. ‘She was married to a German.’