A Vengeful Longing: A Novel (St. Petersburg Mysteries)

by R. N. Morris

  ‘It is true.’

  ‘Have you seen him? Did you set eyes on his cold corpse?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘He was murdered. Stabbed through the heart.’

  ‘Miracle!’

  ‘It is known that you argued with Ferfichkin, over the money for your daughter’s funeral.’

  ‘Nastya!’ The sorrow crashed over him like a wave.

  ‘You were heard to threaten his life.’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Did you kill him, Filya? You need not be afraid to tell me.’

  ‘Kill him?’ Gorshkov held out his hands in front of him and seemed to tighten them around an invisible neck. ‘Of course I killed him. I strangled the life out of him with my own hands.’

  ‘But as I have already said, Ferfichkin was stabbed to death.’

  ‘Yes!’ Gorshkov’s eyes widened gleefully. ‘After I had strangled him, I stabbed him. I took the kitchen knife and stuck it through his neck. I twisted the knife till the blade snapped off.’ He mimed this action too.

  ‘He was stabbed in the heart, Filya. I have told you that already too.’

  ‘In the heart, yes! That’s what I said!’

  ‘You said the neck.’

  ‘Are you trying to trick me? Perhaps you’ll tell me now that Ferfichkin isn’t dead at all, when I killed him with my own hands.’

  ‘Ferfichkin is dead. He was stabbed through the heart with a poniard. If you really killed him, you should be able to describe the weapon to me.’

  ‘A poniard, you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was a short dagger with a flat blade. The handle was made . . . of ivory . . . carved in the shape of entwined serpents.’

  ‘You didn’t kill Ferfichkin, did you, Filya?’

  A weight of disappointment seemed to settle on him. ‘I would have done, had someone else not beaten me to it.’ His mood changed again, to one of intense excitement. ‘What a man! I would like to shake him by the hand! Was it you?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t me.’

  ‘Of course not. You are a magistrate. Magistrates do not commit murder.’

  ‘It is hoped not.’ Porfiry smiled. His tone then became serious. ‘Filya, do you remember receiving a letter, an anonymous letter about Ferfichkin?’

  ‘A letter, you say?’

  Porfiry nodded.

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘No, Filya. I want to know if you ever received such a letter.’

  ‘There were letters.’

  ‘About Ferfichkin?’

  Gorshkov shrugged. ‘There was no one to read them. We used to get Andrei Petrovich to read the letters. But he died. Of the cholera.’

  ‘What happened to the letters, do you know?’

  ‘We have no use for letters.’ He stared fierce-eyed at Porfiry. ‘You cannot eat letters.’ He made this statement with surprised force, in the manner of one revealing a profound, but only recently discovered, truth. Almost immediately, he became morose, his expression disappointed, his gaze sealed off.

  ‘Filya?’

  Gorshkov’s eyes darted briefly to the top of Porfiry’s head. ‘Where is your hat?’ he asked sullenly, as if this was a source of great bitterness to him.

  ‘I don’t have a hat. Not today.’

  Gorshkov sighed heavily. ‘You’re a gentleman. You should wear a hat.’

  Porfiry smiled gently. ‘Filya, why did you take the knife to your own throat?’

  Gorshkov’s gaze locked on to Porfiry’s. ‘I needed more pain.’ After a moment he added: ‘They will not let me have a knife now.’

  ‘No. That is perhaps wise.’

  ‘Why? What difference does it make to them?’

  Porfiry looked at Dr Zverkov, who was watching the interview with interest. ‘Perhaps none. Although I am sure the doctors here do not wish you to suffer any more than can be helped.’

  ‘I want to suffer!’ cried Gorshkov. ‘I have suffered all my life! I have nothing if they take away my pain.’

  ‘I must leave you now, Filya.’

  ‘Let him come back.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The one who beat me. I want him to come back. I will foul myself again so that he beats me.’

  ‘Oh, Filya.’

  Gorshkov jumped up from the bed again. ‘I must go to work. They cannot keep me here. They are expecting me at the factory. The foreman is a brute.’

  ‘You don’t have to go to work any more, Filya. You may rest now.’

  Gorshkov’s eyes grew large with panic. He sank back on to the bed. For a moment he continued to stare at Porfiry, then his gaze drifted off to an unknowable place. His hands began to move, seemingly with precision and purpose, as if he were miming some task. He brought them together, then drew them apart. Next, he held his left hand still as he described a straight line past it with his right, which was clenched as if holding something. Further lines and arcs were drawn in the air. Then the hands came together and rose sharply, as an imaginary thing was lifted. Without pause, he began repeating the same actions exactly, like a clockwork automaton.

  Porfiry rose from the bed and indicated his readiness to go with a sharp and yet evasive bow.

  6

  A litigious man

  ‘Porfiry Petrovich?’ Virginsky said the name quietly, though with breathless urgency and a questioning intonation. He looked over the edge of his desk at Porfiry, who was stooping beneath the window in front of him, his attention focused on a saucer he was holding in both hands. The saucer contained a viscous golden liquid.

  At that moment, Nikodim Fomich came into the room. He took in the situation with an ironic smile, winking at Virginsky. ‘I say, what have you there, Porfiry Petrovich?’

  Porfiry met his good-natured enquiry with a preoccupied scowl. ‘Honey.’ He rose to his feet and stood over the saucer, watching it with fixed determination.

  ‘Honey?’

  ‘For the flies.’

  ‘You’re feeding the flies? I should have thought they are flourishing well enough without your encouragement.’

  ‘The honey is laced with kvas.’

  ‘I . . . see,’ said Nikodim Fomich. He nodded his head and pursed his lips thoughtfully.

  ‘The flies will eat the honey and become intoxicated. They will then become sleepy and erratic. This will make them easier to catch. And kill.’

  ‘But why not simply lace the honey with poison?’

  ‘Ah!’ said Porfiry with a flutter of his eyelids. ‘Where is the sport in that?’ He broke off from his vigil and took his seat behind his desk with a grimace.

  Nikodim Fomich settled into the sofa. ‘I am surprised you do not use your psychology on them,’ he said, with another wink to Virginsky, who was watching their exchange with an acutely anguished expression.

  ‘You always say that, Nikodim Fomich, but it is not my psychology, ’ said Porfiry. ‘And in a way I am. The psychology of a fly is surely very simple. It is dominated by hunger.’

  ‘So, it’s true what they’re saying.’

  ‘And what are they saying?’

  ‘That you have lost your wits, Porfiry Petrovich. That the heat and the flies have finally got to you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That and the pressure of work. Three murder cases running concurrently, and not a whiff of a solution in any one. Finally, the great Porfiry Petrovich has come face to face with the prospect of failure.’

  ‘Who is saying this?’

  ‘No one in particular. It is just a thing one hears. They say you are going round in circles, that you have no leads, that you have wasted valuable time arresting the wrong men, or that you have let the murderers go. Or even that you are more concerned with the drainage provisions of the city of St Petersburg.’

  ‘No one is saying these things. Apart from you, that is.’

  ‘I? No. I have . . .’ Nikodim Fomich cast about for the appropriate word: ‘Defended you. I say to your critics that you will sur
prise us all, that you will amaze us, in fact, with your powers of deduction and your . . . psychology. Yes. It is always the psychology that does it in the end. You will produce solutions from thin air, like rabbits from a hat. Is that not so?’

  Porfiry did not answer.

  ‘I’m confident of it. Indeed, I have good money riding on it.’

  ‘You mean there are wagers on the likelihood of my solving these cases?’

  ‘One can get very good odds at the moment. You’d better not let me down, my friend.’

  ‘But this is appalling. And hardly appropriate behaviour for a man in your position, Nikodim Fomich.’

  The chief inspector pouted contritely. ‘I merely brought it up to show my absolute confidence in you.’

  ‘Even so.’ Porfiry gave his friend an admonishing stare. After a moment’s consideration, he added: ‘How much did you bet?’

  Nikodim Fomich waved the question away. ‘Please. Let’s not talk about that. I wouldn’t want to put you under any more pressure than you are already. But tell me that you are close to a solution in at least one of the cases. The Meyer case, for instance. You have been working on that the longest.’

  ‘I have my theories.’

  ‘I knew it! You are the man for theories.’

  ‘To begin with, I now believe all three cases are connected.’

  ‘What? The latest as well? I knew you had connected the first two - the letters and all, even though there was no letter found in the case of Setochkin. So is there an anonymous letter involved in this latest case too?’

  ‘Not as far as we know. A search of the Gorshkovs’ corner in their rotting basement has turned up nothing. No, it is not the presence of a letter that inclines me to this view but a number of other factors. To begin with, the murder weapon.’

  ‘But the murder weapon is different in each case.’

  ‘Exactly!’

  Nikodim Fomich’s expression clouded. ‘My friend, I fear you have been pushing yourself too far. You cannot connect cases simply because they are different. Why, you’d have all the murders on our books pieced together like a jigsaw puzzle, if that were so. And our entire casebook solved by the arrest of one man! It’s madness, you must see that.’

  ‘They are superficially different, but fundamentally the same. Each weapon, I feel, has been deliberately chosen because of its significance to the murder victim.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘The chocolates, poisoned. A tarnished sweetness. It seems appropriate, does it not, for a woman who once made her living as a prostitute? Setochkin, a dissolute retired officer, a gentleman of little honour, shot with his own duelling pistol, a weapon of honour. Suggestive, is it not? And Ferfichkin, the tailor who exploited the Bible for gain, stitched through the heart with a cruciform dagger. It is all, quite clearly, indicative of a consistent psychology at work.’

  ‘There! You see!’ cried Nikodim Fomich to Virginsky. ‘I told you there would be psychology in it.’

  ‘Furthermore, I have now had a chance to read the witness statements compiled by the Eastern Admiralty District Police Bureau. On the night before Ferfichkin’s body was found, a man answering his description was seen to bump into a number of people. He was evidently drunk. It was after one such collision - with a man who has not yet come forward - that he fell to the ground; it was assumed in a drunken stupor. Now, if you remember, according to Dr Meyer’s testimony, someone bumped into him coming out of the confectioner’s, at which point he believes the poisoned chocolates were substituted for those he had bought.’

  ‘What are you saying? That this bumping-into is important?’

  ‘It is the beginnings of a pattern.’

  ‘But there was no bumping-into in the Setochkin case,’ protested Nikodim Fomich.

  ‘No, not that we know of,’ admitted Porfiry.

  ‘It is all very . . .’ Nikodim Fomich brought his clenched hands together in the air, then wiggled his fingers as his hands drifted apart. ‘Tenuous.’

  ‘I can see how it would seem so to you, but to me these patterns are quite as concrete as any piece of physical evidence. Vakhramev’s journal provides a link between the Setochkin and the Meyer cases - the visit to the brothel. There are two instances of collisions between pedestrians, which in turn link the Ferfichkin and the Meyer case. So indirectly, Ferfichkin is also linked to Setochkin. When you add to these correspondences the significant weapon choices, we begin to discern a presence, and to suspect a definite personality at work.’

  ‘Yes, but who? That is the question.’

  ‘I - I think I may be able to shed some light on that.’ It was Virginsky, his voice tremulous with the import of what he was saying. He blushed as the eyes of the older men turned on him. ‘I was trying to tell you, Porfiry Petrovich, when Nikodim Fomich came into the room.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Porfiry. ‘You may tell us now.’

  ‘As you suggested, I paid a visit to Archives.’ Virginsky spoke quickly, breathlessly. ‘It was you who said you recognised the dead man’s face. There was indeed a case file with Ferfichkin’s name on it. It seems that Yemelyan Antonovich was a highly litigious man. He has sought to bring a host of private suits against many individuals. It started when he was in domestic service. It is an interesting case in itself. He accused his master of slander, it seems, because the gentleman complained, as masters are wont to do I believe . . .’ Virginsky gave Porfiry an abashed look before continuing ‘. . . that Ferfichkin was torturing him. And so Ferfichkin claimed that he was being slandered as a torturer. A report was made, but no proceedings taken. The gentleman’s name was struck from the record at his request. However, for Ferfichkin, it was the beginning of a career of litigation, mostly for perceived slander, or the recovery of debt.’

  ‘This is all very interesting,’ said Nikodim Fomich. ‘But could you hurry up and get to the point.’

  ‘Well, the point is, I found a name, one of Ferfichkin’s recent debtors, a man for whom he had sewn a fur collar on to an overcoat. ’

  ‘Yes, yes. And what is the name, dear boy?’ urged the chief inspector.

  ‘Rostanev,’ said Virginsky. ‘Axenty Ivanovich Rostanev.’

  ‘Rostanev?’ Porfiry frowned. Then his face lit up with realisation. ‘Rostanev! No, I don’t believe it! Surely not?’

  ‘Who is Rostanev?’ asked Nikodim Fomich.

  ‘My nemesis!’ said Porfiry, rising from his desk and rushing over to Virginsky.

  ‘He is described in the record as a civil servant,’ added Virginsky, the excitement rising in his voice.

  ‘So! Do you have the letter?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Virginsky, sorting through the papers on his desk. ‘I retrieved it from Alexander Grigorevich. When I saw the name, I thought I would check the handwriting. You will see.’ He handed Porfiry the terse note that had come from the Ministry of Internal Affairs, Department of Public Health.

  ‘It could be, it could be,’ Porfiry repeated, as if seeking to convince himself of something he doubted.

  ‘What is it?’ Nikodim Fomich heaved himself from the sofa to join them. He read the note that Porfiry thrust in his hand. ‘“Re: Yekaterininsky Canal adjacent to Stolyarny Lane. Your letter regarding the above has been investigated. No action was deemed necessary.” I see that it is signed A. I. Rostanev. But what of it?’

  ‘Now the letter that was sent to Dr Meyer,’ said Porfiry, impatiently. ‘Do you have it, Pavel Pavlovich?’

  Virginsky handed him this document.

  Porfiry snatched the other letter back from Nikodim Fomich and compared the two. ‘There are similarities, definite similarities. But I dare say there are many clerks who could produce an identical hand. Nevertheless, it certainly makes our Mr Rostanev a candidate. ’

  ‘There is one other thing,’ said Virginsky, ‘which I have only just now discovered. In fact, it was this that I was checking when Nikodim Fomich . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes, you have already mentioned that I am responsible for dela
ying your interesting disclosures. There is no need to delay them further yourself.’

  ‘I checked the pupil lists of the Chermak Private High School. If you remember, we were interested in classmates of the individual mentioned in Vakhramev’s journal, a certain Golyadkin. We were hoping to identify the mysterious individual who went with Golyadkin, Vakhramev and Devushkin to the brothel where Raisa Meyer worked. There was no Rostanev in Golyadkin’s class; however, the name did occur in the list of pupils five years junior to Golyadkin. Rostanev, A. I.’ Virginsky pointed to the name on the relevant list. ‘And just now,’ he continued breathlessly, ‘I happened upon an instance of the name in Ballet’s order book. The address is given as “care of the Ministry of Internal Affairs, Chernyshov Square”.’