She walked the length of the classroom with brisk steps and closed the door behind her.
‘You have found him? Mitka?’ Her face was drained of colour, her voice breathless.
‘We cannot say for certain.’ Porfiry’s gaze locked onto hers. She did not seek to evade those ice-coloured eyes. ‘A number of children’s bodies …’
Maria put a hand to her mouth to stifle her distress. ‘A number? Oh my God!’
‘That in itself is nothing to be alarmed about,’ said Porfiry. ‘The bodies have come to light at the Medical-Surgical Academy, which routinely receives bodies for teaching and research purposes. I am afraid to say that children die in St Petersburg all the time, for all sorts of reasons. The fact that there are a number of bodies is not significant. The children we are looking for may or may not be amongst them. We need you … to identify them, if you are able.’
‘It doesn’t have to be you,’ put in Virginsky quickly. ‘There is another teacher here, I believe. He could do it.’
‘Apollon Mikhailovich? But he did not teach Mitka.’
‘He will have seen him at the school.’
‘No. It has to be me. You have come to take me there now?’
‘Yes,’ said Porfiry.
‘But you don’t understand,’ began Virginsky, his face contorted with anguish.
Maria held firm. ‘You must allow me a moment to inform Apollon Mikhailovich. He will be able to take the little ones.’
Porfiry and Virginsky stepped back against the wall to allow her to pass along the narrow landing to a closed door at the opposite end. There was a lull in the sounds of construction from downstairs. In the unexpected silence, they heard raised voices coming from behind the door.
Maria paused at the door. ‘That sounds like Father Anfim. Apollon Mikhailovich will insist on goading Father Anfim. And sadly, Father Anfim always rises to the bait.’
She knocked and opened the door to a second classroom. A familiar looking shovel-bearded man was perched on the edge of the teacher’s desk, as if to address the class, but there were no children present. Instead, an imposingly tall and grey-bearded cleric dressed in the long black robe of the Orthodox priesthood was pacing the room. The two men turned to face Maria as she came in, a look of wry amusement on the first man’s face, while the priest’s expression was frozen in thunderous rage. This melted somewhat at the sight of Maria Petrovna, to be replaced by reluctant contrition.
Both the men took in the presence of Porfiry and Virginsky with guarded suspicion. Porfiry narrowed his eyes at the shovel-bearded man in half-recognition.
‘For goodness’ sake, gentlemen. Please moderate your voices. Do you want the children to hear you arguing?’
‘I apologise, Maria Petrovna, for raising my voice.’ Father Anfim’s face was red and strained. He stared stiff-necked at a point on the floor. ‘However, I must tell you that I have been subjected to the most extreme provocation by … this man.’
‘You are shouting again, Father Anfim,’ said Maria, gently.
‘It’s nonsense, of course,’ commented Apollon Mikhailovich Perkhotin, launching himself off the edge of the desk.
‘He says he will take down the icon! And the portrait of the Tsar! He even says he will take down the map! The map of the empire, my good lady! I am here to inform you … it is my duty, as the representative of the Holy Synod charged with the sacred responsibility of ensuring the moral probity of the schools in the Rozhdestvenskaya District … if he carries out just one of these intentions, I will have no alternative … No alternative, I tell you.’
‘But Father Anfim,’ objected Maria, ‘do you see the icon?’ She pointed to the corner from where the icon of the Virgin Mother looked down.
‘Yes,’ admitted the priest.
‘And do you see the portrait of his Imperial Majesty? And the map of Russian territories?’
The priest had to agree that these images were also in place.
‘Well then.’
‘But he says he will take them down!’ spluttered Father Anfim.
‘Did you, Apollon Mikhailovich?’ It seemed to Virginsky that the tone she adopted was the one she would use with a naughty schoolboy.
‘No!’ denied Perkhotin emphatically. ‘The subtleties of my position have been lost on the reverend father.’
An explosion of bluster escaped from the priest’s mouth.
‘Then what did you say?’ asked Maria calmly.
‘I said that there would come a day, before too long, possibly within our lifetime, certainly within the lifetime of the children we teach, when such symbols will not only be taken down, but also will be destroyed.’
‘Is that what you are teaching?’ screeched Father Anfim. ‘It is revolution!’
‘Nonsense. In the first place, I do not teach it. The inevitable cannot be taught. One may as well attempt to teach the tide to come in. Whether one likes it or not, these things will happen. And to observe as much implies neither approval nor its opposite. It is morally neutral.’
‘There!’ cried Father Anfim triumphantly. ‘Condemned by his own words … Morally neutral! It is not your place to be morally neutral, sir. It is your place to teach loyalty to the Tsar … and devotion to God, while you’re at it.’
‘But what about the principles of science?’
‘The principles of the One True Church. That is your priority. You are producing the Tsar’s future subjects. It is your duty to impose most emphatically upon them …’
‘To impose what, father?’
‘A sense of their place in his empire whilst assuring them of his fatherly love for them.’
‘Is it a father’s love that condemns them to a life of hellish drudgery and back-breaking toil out there?’ Perkhotin waved sweepingly at the casement window. The lights of the surrounding factories glowed dimly through the smog.
‘A father’s love may at times appear distant … his visage stern. But if those children place their trust in him … they will find … he will not let them down! Indeed, he is their best hope for protection. Was it not this tsar who lifted the yoke of serfdom? Even you must admit that! Well, now, he applies the same zeal … the same loving diligence … to, to, to …’
‘To what?’
‘To the question of factory regulations.’
‘Another commission that will come to nothing, its findings hidden away in some dusty departmental cupboard.’
‘The Tsar will consider its findings carefully, as he always does.’
‘Before giving his order: Bury it! As he always does.’
‘Please, gentlemen,’ broke in Maria Petrovna desperately. ‘This is fruitless. Father Anfim, you have my assurance that I will never consent to the removal of the icon.’ She spoke at a racing lick, her fluency inspired by necessity. ‘The same goes for the portrait of the Tsar and the map. Not only that, I can assure you that Apollon Mikhailovich agrees wholeheartedly with me on this. Is that not so, Apollon Mikhailovich? Is that not so, Apollon Mikh-?’ The final, repeated question fell away into tears.
‘Maria Petrovna! Whatever is the matter?’ Perkhotin took her hands in his. ‘If I have caused you any distress by my ill-judged remarks …’
‘My dear lady!’ cried Father Anfim, who appeared almost panic-stricken as he pressed in on her. The priest and the teacher jostled to assert their solicitude. ‘Do not upset yourself. I … I … Given your assurances regarding this individual … I accept unreservedly.’
‘Thank you, my friends.’ Maria Petrovna pulled her hands free from Perkhotin’s. ‘I must ask you to forgive my outburst. I assure you, it has nothing to do with either of you. It is simply that I must go with these gentlemen. They are magistrates. They have something they want me to look at.’
‘What’s this?’ Something sharper than concern, a look almost of cunning, pinched Perkhotin’s features as he considered Porfiry and Virginsky.
‘It’s to do with the children. The ones who went missing. There is the question of identification.’
‘I see.’ The words rasped at Perkhotin’s throat.