‘Was he? I thought Prince Naryskin said otherwise.’
‘You did not believe him?’
‘The powerful create their own truth, which they are able to impose on the rest of us. It is left to us to adapt our truth to theirs.’
‘You cannot be serious, Porfiry Petrovich!’
‘I would expect that the Tsarevich has by now left Petersburg. Whilst I am perfectly at liberty to request his return, only the Tsar may command it. Before I petition the Tsar, let us first find Mizinchikov. Let us also speak to Aglaia Filippovna, if we are able.If those enquiries prove fruitless, then we reserve the right to extend our investigation to include ministers of state and, indeed, heirs to the imperial throne.’
‘Are you not concerned that you are shaping your investigation around the rank of your witnesses?’
‘No, though thank you for voicing that concern. I feel confident that if the Tsarevich had any information to impart concerning the death of Yelena Filippovna, he would have wasted no time in coming forward to volunteer it.’
Virginsky gave a half smile. ‘And yet last night you rebuked Prince Naryskin for allowing him and Count Tolstoy to leave.’
‘Did I? I don’t remember.’ Porfiry let his head loll back and closed his eyes. ‘There is nothing quite like riding through the mist in an open drozhki, do you not think?’
But Virginsky did not answer.
*
At the Naryskin Palace, Dr Pervoyedov stared into the dressing room mirror with a fixed frown, as though dismayed by his own reflection. And well he might be: his hair stood up in untameable clumps and his plaid overcoat had clearly seen better days. No doubt it was the overcoat of a busy man, but that consideration did not mitigate the obscure horror it inspired in all decent people. His face was bland and unprepossessing, distinguished only by the flush of high colour that often occupied it, the result of Dr Pervoyedov’s unfortunate propensity for tardiness, which he sought to rectify by constantly rushing between appointments. It might be said against him that he had two great faults. The first was that of taking on too many duties; the second, that of fulfilling them too conscientiously. Narcissism, however, was clearly not one of Dr Pervoyedov’s faults, and so Porfiry Petrovich thought it was reasonable to assume that something other than his mirror image had caught his eye.
‘So, you have found the smears, Dr Pervoyedov!’
‘Yes indeed, Porfiry Petrovich,’ said Dr Pervoyedov, addressing himself to the magistrate’s reflection. ‘Yes indeed.’
‘And what do you think they are?’
‘Goodness, Porfiry Petrovich! What can you mean by such a question? Are you asking me to hazard a guess?’
‘I would not dream of it.’
‘I am glad to hear it. Ve-ery glad to hear it.’
‘We — that is to say, Pavel Pavlovich and I — wondered if it might not be blood.’
‘That does not surprise me, Porfiry Petrovich. The nature of your work must encourage such sanguinary expectations.’
‘And your work does not?’
A good humoured smile kinked Dr Pervoyedov’s face in the mirror. ‘I make a point of suppressing expectations of any kind. Expectations are not consistent with a scientific outlook.’
‘A scientist is as capable of entertaining expectations as the next man. He merely calls them by different names.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Theories. Hypotheses. What are they if not expectations?’
‘But we always put them to the test.’
‘Good. That is what I want you to do with our … what was it you called them?’
‘Sanguinary expectations.’
‘Are you able to confirm whether the substance smeared on the mirror is blood or not?’
‘Not simply by looking at it, Porfiry Petrovich. There is, as far as I know, only one reliable test for the presence of blood — spectral analysis, as described by Sorby. You may know that it was used successfully in the Briggs murder case in London some years ago.’
‘I had read about it in one of my journals. I would not have asked you to do it, if I did not think it possible.’
‘Really? That is very considerate of you, I must say. Very considerate indeed. I will need to collect a sample and take it back to my laboratory.’
‘Are you able to do that now?’
‘If you wish.’ Dr Pervoyedov retrieved a scalpel and a circle of filter paper from his bag. He folded the paper to form a cone, which he held close to the mirror, beneath a section of one of the smears. ‘The substance, whatever it is, has dried.’
‘That is consistent with the behaviour of blood upon oxidisation, is it not?’ asked Porfiry.
Dr Pervoyedov gave no more than an ambiguous smile in answer to this.
‘So tell me, Dr Pervoyedov, what do you make of our cadaver?’
Dr Pervoyedov turned from the mirror to consider Yelena Filippovna. ‘She is a beauty. Or rather, was.’
‘Is such an opinion consistent with the scientific outlook?’
‘I dare say not. Will I be required to conduct an autopsy?’
‘I have yet to discuss the case with the prokuror. As you know, it will be his decision. In the meantime, I suggest we arrange for the body to be removed to the Obukhovsky Hospital morgue. Would that suit you?’
‘Very much so.’
‘I would also ask you to conduct your spectral test on a substance I detected on one of her rings. The large ruby ring on her right hand, the one turned inward. I have sanguinary expectations regarding it.’
‘It would be my pleasure.’
‘Now, Pavel Pavlovich, shall we visit the invalid? Perhaps it would interest you to accompany us, Dr Pervoyedov?’
‘What is this?’
‘Aglaia Filippovna, the dead woman’s sister,’ supplied Virginsky. ‘She succumbed to a nervous attack last night, which has rendered her unconscious. She revived briefly this morning, but according to the physician attending her, she has sunk into a coma. She is here at the palace.’
‘And how do you expect to interview a patient in a coma, Porfiry Petrovich?’
‘She may come round. In the meantime, I have some questions I would like to ask her doctor. Your presence would be invaluable.’
*
Aglaia Filippovna’s hair lay in a loose black halo over the pillow. There was an eggshell fragility to her head. Her skin seemed as thin as rice paper. Apart from where it veiled her eyes with purple shadows, it was pallid to the point of transparency. Her lips were slightly parted, which gave her face an ugly, unguarded expression. Her body lay as neat and unmoving as a pencil beneath the covers, arms pressed close to her sides, legs together.
The room was in semi-darkness; the drapes were partially drawn, allowing a torpid grey light to intrude without conviction. A fire had been lit in the grate, and its reflected glow filled and enlarged the bedroom, dancing in restless shifts across the ceiling.
A woman on the wrong side of middle age stood by the bed looking down at the invalid with appalled fascination. The woman was so stationary that she appeared almost to be a waxwork. It was conceivable that she had once been beautiful, but she was a long way from her heyday now. Her face had a sunken, sour expression, as if she were sucking on a bitter pill. Her dress was very dark, and in the gloom appeared black, or to have been sewn from a fabric of shadow. She did not look up when Porfiry and the others came into the room.
‘Madam?’
Slowly she lifted her head and revolved her eyes heavily towards Porfiry.
‘Madam, I am Porfiry Petrovich, the investigating magistrate.’
She met this information with a disappointed nod. Her eyes went back to watching Aglaia Filippovna.
‘I take it you are the lady of the house, Princess Naryskina?’
A slow blink seemed intended to confirm this supposition.
‘I wonder, madam, if we might be permitted to talk to the doctor who is responsible for the young lady’s care.’
Princess Naryskina turned to the nurse who was seated by the bed and released her with a prolonged sigh. The nurse hurried from the room with almost unseemly eagerness, as if she could not wait to be free of that torpid gaze.