‘All this is dependent on a colossal supposition — no, worse than that, two colossal suppositions. First, that the distinctive marks on the children’s necks were caused by the impression of a ring. Second, that the ring responsible is that worn by Yelena Filippovna. You realise, Pavel Pavlovich, that if either of these suppositions is false, then the flimsy construction of your theory will collapse.’
‘My theory? All I have done is put into words what you yourself suspected when we first saw the marks on the children.’
‘Be that as it may, whoever is to be credited with this theory, it remains unproven, and, frankly, incapable of proof.’
Virginsky appeared sanguine in the face of Porfiry’s objections. ‘For the time being, yes. But as soon as we find Captain Mizinchikov, he will be able to confirm it.’
‘If he chooses to co-operate,’ said Porfiry dubiously. ‘It is conceivable that he would deny such a construction of events, in order to protect the memory of Yelena Filippovna.’
‘But it places his own crime in an entirely different light. You know the way our Russian juries are. Excitable, and sentimental. Above all, inexperienced. No Russian jury would convict him. He will be seen as a saviour of children. If he could be persuaded to see the affair in those terms, with the promise of an acquittal, he may be willing to co-operate.’
‘You have just reminded me of the third questionable supposition upon which your theory is constructed. That Captain Mizinchikov is Yelena’s murderer.’
‘You no longer consider him a suspect?’
‘The bloodstains on the tunic do not condemn him.’ Porfiry waved Dr Pervoyedov’s report. ‘The blood on the tunic did not come from a pumping neck wound. It is far more likely to have come from a lacerated cheek.’
‘But blood from his own face would not have made that pattern,’ insisted Virginsky forcefully. ‘And so much else certainly incriminates him.’ Virginsky paced the room impatiently as Porfiry looked on amused. ‘We need to talk to Mizinchikov!’
‘But we do not have Mizinchikov!’
‘He must be persuaded to hand himself in.’
‘And how do you propose to achieve that desirable goal?’
‘Through the newspapers. If we were to release an account of our discoveries, intimating the nature of consequent hypotheses, hinting too at the leniency that Yelena Filippovna’s murderer may expect …’
Porfiry contracted his lips distastefully as he stubbed out his cigarette. ‘No. Out of the question. It would be utterly irresponsible to publicise such wild and unfounded speculations. I forbid it. Do you understand me, Pavel Pavlovich? I absolutely forbid it.’
Virginsky seemed taken aback by the strength of Porfiry’s reaction. ‘But why? Surely we must use whatever means we can?’
‘And if this theory turns out to be mistaken? Have you stopped to consider what damage may be wrought by the release of such a story, not only upon the reputation of a dead woman, but also on the state?’
‘What has the state to do with this?’
‘The murder of factory children by a woman of high birth? Can you imagine anything more provocative … more inflammatory?’
‘But if it is the truth?’
‘If it is the truth, that would be a different matter. However, until we are in a position to prove or disprove these allegations against a woman who cannot defend herself, we must maintain the most scrupulous discretion. No good can be served by seeking publicity at this stage of the investigation.’
‘I beg to differ,’ said Virginsky stiffly.
Porfiry lit another cigarette and glared at his junior colleague warningly. He held the look for a moment and then turned back to processing his correspondence.
‘You cannot hold back the inevitable,’ said Virginsky darkly.
But Porfiry had not heard. His attention was held by the letter in his hands, hands that were now shaking. A precarious column of ash toppled from the burning cigarette he held between his index and forefinger knuckles. He made no move to clean it up. As he had unfolded the letter — a single sheet of crisp white paper — he saw a length of red silk fall weightlessly onto his desk. Porfiry felt the muscles of his heart contract. There was only one line of writing, a flow of red ink that seemed to be a second thread, cleverly lain on the page. He read: For every child killed by the oppressive machine, we will take the life of one member of the enslaver class.
‘Pavel Pavlovich.’ His voice came thickly, as if it cost him much effort to produce it. ‘You must look at this.’
26 At the banya
‘Slava! Slava! Where is that man?’
It was Porfiry’s turn to pace the room. His steps were short and agitated. His eyes flickered with wild excitement.
He went to the door that led to his private apartment. As he opened it, his eye was caught by the tail end of a movement. It could have been a trick of the light, a shifting shadow created by the opening of the door. Or it could have been another door closing, carefully, noiselessly. A moment later, the door in question — the one to Slava’s room — opened and Slava came out, his face blandly expectant.
‘You called?’
‘Yes. Please fetch the samovar.’
‘I am to serve you in your chambers?’
‘Yes. Bring glasses for myself and Pavel Pavlovich. With lemon. And sugar.’
Slava nodded sharply, then turned towards the kitchen door.
Porfiry waited till he was out of sight before closing the door.
Virginsky was still studying the note, as if it were crammed with words, instead of bearing just a single line of text.
‘It changes everything,’ said Porfiry breathlessly. ‘You have to admit it, Pavel Pavlovich.’
‘If it is genuine,’ said Virginsky, turning the sheet over as if he expected to find evidence of trickery on the reverse.
‘Of course it’s genuine! The thread! Who knew about the thread? Other than you and I — and the murderer?’
Virginsky wrinkled his face sceptically. ‘It could be a coincidence.’
‘Are you mad?’ Porfiry began pacing again, impelled by indignation. ‘One does not encounter coincidences such as this! A red thread found on a murder victim — a red thread sent by someone claiming responsibility for that very murder!’
‘Very well. I accept it is not a coincidence. However, it is possible that this has been sent to us by the murderer in order to mislead. To lend the crime a political aspect which it does not in truth possess. Mizinchikov-’
‘Mizinchikov did not write this.’
‘But if he did, it would be a way of deflecting suspicion from himself.’
‘No, no, no — you have it all wrong, Pavel Pavlovich. Let us say, for the moment, that Captain Mizinchikov did kill Yelena Filippovna. You will concede, I think, because you have said as much yourself, that his crime was … well, if not a crime of passion, then something very akin to it. Either he killed her out of jealousy, as we first believed, or out of horror, as your most recent theory speculates.’ Porfiry broke off pacing and narrowed his eyes in concentration. He unconsciously tapped his breast pocket for his cigarette case. Once the ritual of taking out and lighting a cigarette had been completed, he seemed calmer, more reflective. ‘And not simply horror, perhaps. Compassion, too. For her, and for her future victims. But as we have already had occasion to note, those who are driven to such crimes do not normally engage in such evasive strategies as this.’ His eyes darted towards the note that Virginsky was holding.
‘And so you are minded to accept this note at face value?’
‘I am certainly inclined to take it very seriously indeed. I intend to consider its implications as fully as possible.’ Porfiry cocked an ear towards the door to his private apartment, behind which the approaching rattle of the samovar could be heard. ‘Not here, however.’