‘No!’ cried Porfiry. ‘Will you go from accusing a dead woman to making unspeakable allegations against the Tsarevich?’
Dim shapes stirred in the hot mist. The murmurs of outrage and excitement were audible.
‘Our first loyalty is to the truth, Porfiry Petrovich. Now, thanks to the Tsar’s own reforms, no one is above the law.’
‘But it always comes back to this question of why. Why would the Tsarevich murder these children?’
‘I do not insist that it is he. It could be any member of the family.’
‘You will exclude the Tsar, I trust!’
Virginsky rippled his brows. ‘To come back to your question — why would anyone? Perhaps there are some crimes concerning which the question of motive is irrelevant.’
‘Not satisfactory, I’m afraid, Pavel Pavlovich. There is always a motive, however twisted, petty, or tenuous. The motive never justifies the crime, never fully explains it. And we may divine something else at work within the criminal’s mind, whether it be sickness or …’ Porfiry looked away from Virginsky. ‘Some other influence,’ he added reticently, almost sheepishly. Virginsky narrowed his eyes, noting the evasion. ‘But the criminal himself will always provide a motive, in which he believes, categorically.’
‘Is it not sometimes the case that a criminal will provide more than one motive, and that often they are contradictory?’
‘Sometimes the criminal is the last person to understand his own motivation. However, that does not mean that we, as investigators, must forego the attempt to understand. If we give up insisting on a motive, then …’ Porfiry stared into the steam. He had the fleeting sense that it swirled in an infinite abyss, that there was nothing behind it, and therefore nothing behind anything.
‘Then what?’
Porfiry’s expression as he sought Virginsky’s eyes was despairing. ‘Then we have opened the door to moral chaos.’
‘That door is already open,’ answered Virginsky glibly. ‘You know as well as anybody that man is an irrational creature.’ When Porfiry made no reply but stared in mute indignation, Virginsky added: ‘And evil. You were going to say the word yourself, were you not? You drew back at the last moment because you understood that it undermined your argument.’
‘What do I care about arguments!’
‘In that case, you were afraid.’
‘No!’
‘Well then, it was to maintain your position. You do have your position, Porfiry Petrovich: that man, even the vilest criminal, is capable of salvation. You cannot allow that there may exist a man who is irredeemably evil. A man, for example, who would kill children just for the sport of it.’
‘On the contrary. I know such men exist. I have met them and talked to them. And listened to their motives.’
‘Did you manage to save any of them?’ Virginsky could not keep the sarcasm out of his question.
Porfiry closed his eyes and shook his head minutely.
‘No,’ confirmed Virginsky, relentlessly. ‘If you accept that such men exist, then logic insists that they may be found within any social class. Within any family. You can hardly believe that the propensity to evil may be contained by social boundaries.’
‘Enough!’ Porfiry began to thrash himself energetically with the birch whisk.
‘What do you intend to do?’
Porfiry Petrovich lifted the conical hat from his head and looked inside it, as if he expected to find the answer to Virginsky’s question there. ‘We must do our job. That is to say, we must slowly and methodically gather evidence.’ He restored the hat to its former position and met Virginsky’s challenging look blankly. ‘As far as the deaths of the children are concerned, we have hardly begun to scratch the surface. It is certainly too early to jump to conclusions.’
‘You think that is what I have done?’
Porfiry held out the birch whisk, as if it were an olive branch. ‘I think you are in need of this.’ When Virginsky did not take it, Porfiry shrugged and settled back into the heat.
*
After losing himself in the melting heat of the banya, the subsequent plunge into an icy pool restored the edges of his being with the vicious shock of a thousand slaps landing simultaneously. Once again his heart hammered out alarm. There was something reckless, almost self-destructive, about the rate of its pummelling. Porfiry felt the stab and twist of new pains. He tasted his own mortality. More than that, he sensed his heart at the edge of capacity. And yet, strangely, it seemed to gain strength from this forcible reminder of its own frailty.
Drying himself briskly with the threadbare towel, Porfiry acknowledged a new energy in his muscles, a lightness to his bones, and a mental clarity that he had not experienced for a long time. He felt almost sorry for Virginsky at the sight of the younger man’s sullen, graceless movements. His limbs seemed to be weighed down with unhappiness.
‘Who are you fighting, Pavel Pavlovich?’
Virginsky gave Porfiry a guarded look as he held his towel in front of himself defensively.
‘Did you not ask me that question earlier?’ explained Porfiry. ‘I am intrigued to know how you would answer it.’
‘The criminals, of course,’ said Virginsky.
Porfiry laughed appreciatively. ‘Correct answer! Well done!’
Porfiry continued to pat himself dry. ‘There is much work still to do. Difficult work. This is a murky business. And it is set to become even murkier. Other agencies and interests are sure to get involved, if they are not already. We need to know who our friends are, for it will be far from easy to discern our enemies.’ Porfiry sensed Virginsky shrink back under the force of his scrutiny. ‘I need to know that I can count on you, Pavel Pavlovich.’
Virginsky’s mouth tightened pensively. Neither man said a word as they dressed.
*
Back in his clothes, Porfiry’s skin felt not just cleansed but renewed.
They took a carriage north along Liteyny Prospekt. There was a moist chill to the air, which was heavy with the threat of snow. But their naked exposure to the extremes of the bath house had fortified them for whatever shocks the climate held. Both men fixed their gaze on the District Courthouse as they rattled past it. The solid square building, with its high arched windows, like wide-open eyes searching out the truth, seemed to be the physical embodiment of an ideal.
Porfiry caught the challenge brimming in Virginsky’s look. ‘We must place our faith in it, Pavel Pavlovich,’ he said gently.
Virginsky blinked and shook his head as if he had been roused from a deep reverie. His brow contracted into a questioning frown.
‘Progress,’ continued Porfiry, ‘the progress of Russia, is taking place in there, through the exercise of legality. The judicial process, Pavel Pavlovich, the open examination of evidence, the presenting and arguing of cases, without prejudice or fear … progress. Adversarial dispute … progress. Cases heard before a jury … progress. And we — you and I — we are the agents of progress. Simply by doing our job, by investigating crimes, gathering evidence, pursuing leads, interviewing suspects — in so many ways are we taking Russia forward. We do not need a revolution, Pavel Pavlovich. The change you desire will come about simply by virtue of us doing our job.’
‘That is what you believe.’ Virginsky’s emphasis sought to distance him from Porfiry’s optimism.
‘Yes.’
‘But the tsar who gave this licence may just as easily take it away.’
‘He cannot. Besides, he does not want to.’
‘Perhaps not now, not today, not this tsar.’
‘Is that what lies behind your suspicions of the Tsarevich? Fear of a reactionary backlash?’
‘Do you consider me so naive?’
‘It is not naivety, Pavel Pavlovich. On the contrary, it shows a sophisticated understanding of the power with which our office is invested. However, to bring a charge against an individual for political reasons would be an abuse of that power.Anyone who did so would be guilty of perpetrating an injustice. I trust you would agree with that?’