Perhaps the boy was better off dead; he had been spared a life of misery and toil, that much was certain. Things were supposed to be better now; the Tsar had made them all free men. But such freedom meant little when you were enslaved by poverty.
And yet something within Fedya rebelled against these thoughts. He looked again into the face, and again touched the cold flesh, laying his hand against the boy’s cheek.
‘Poor bastard.’ He wheezed the eulogy hoarsely and shook his head.
*
‘Do you see the marks, Pavel Pavlovich?’ Porfiry was squatting on his haunches over the dead boy. As he leant back to allow Virginsky a clear sight of the neck, his body trembled violently, apparently with the strain of maintaining his balance in an awkward position.
‘Are you quite well, Porfiry Petrovich? You seem a little shaken.’
‘No,’ answered Porfiry tersely. ‘The marks, Pavel Pavlovich,’ he barked to Virginsky. ‘Concentrate on the marks. They are the same as the others, are they not?’
‘They appear to be.’
Porfiry held up a hand to Virginsky who hauled him to his feet. ‘Are we to infer that Yelena Filippovna is the murderer of this child?’
‘That is patently absurd.’
‘It is at least unlikely. We have not yet ascertained the time of death, but from the state of the body it does not seem that the boy has been dead long. Certainly Yelena Filippovna has been dead longer.’
‘I accept that Yelena Filippovna did not kill him.’
‘But the marks? The marks correspond to the motif on her ring, do they not?’
‘There is no need to be facetious. I understand the point you are making well enough. If she did not kill this boy, as she clearly did not, then there is a possibility that she did not kill the others.’
‘It is to be regretted that an account has already been published contradicting that possibility.’
‘How many times must I tell you, Porfiry Petrovich, that I had nothing to do with the release of that information?’
‘It was not information. It was speculation.’ Porfiry’s face was stern. He looked away from Virginsky, as though dismissing him.
‘You are angry with me, but it is unfair of you.’
‘For God’s sake, Pavel Pavlovich! There are more important matters to attend to than your hurt feelings.’ Porfiry gestured down to the dead child. ‘Do you realise what this means?’
‘Yes. That Yelena is not the killer.’
‘But what else? Remember the note. “For every child killed by the oppressive machine, we will take the life of one member of the enslaver class.” Is this not another child killed by the oppressive machine?’
‘You think that a revenge murder will follow?’
‘We cannot keep this out of the newspapers. Too many people have seen the body.’ Porfiry watched a politseisky handle a group of labourers whose curiosity had drawn them out of the shed. Fear made them compliant and the single politseisky easily kept them back. A superstitious awe required them to crane their necks past him for a sighting of the body, but that seemed to be enough for them. It was as if the prospect of death sent them back to work rather than the intervention of the policeman. ‘Besides, news of this murder may not need to find its way into the St Petersburg Gazette for the sender of that note to know about it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Major Verkhotsev assures me that Slava is not a Third Section spy. He suggests a rather less pleasant possibility.’
‘Which is?’
‘He may be a member of a revolutionary grouping that is intent on carrying out a conspicuous assassination. Possibly he is connected to whoever sent the note.’
‘Why do you not arrest him?’
‘The Third Section is involved now. Major Verkhotsev will not allow me to terminate Slava’s employment, let alone arrest him. He is anxious that we do not arouse his suspicions.’
‘But in the meantime,’ said Virginsky, hotly, ‘as soon as Slava finds out about this latest victim, your life is endangered. We must keep the news from him.’
‘I am rather afraid that Major Verkhotsev would have us do the opposite. I believe he wishes to provoke Slava into making an attempt. Until he does, we have no evidence against him.’
‘But what if he is successful?’
‘I am touched by your concern, Pavel Pavlovich. However, I would ask you not to give the matter another moment’s thought. It may turn out that Major Verkhotsev is entirely mistaken. It certainly would be a bold assassin who dares to strike against an investigating magistrate in his own place of residence. You have met Slava. Does he strike you as one capable of such a coup? I think not. If he impresses one at all it is only by virtue of his ineptitude. Now, let us put these thoughts behind us and find out what we can about this poor unfortunate.’
Porfiry approached the politseisky who had been controlling the crowd. ‘You were the first officer on the scene, is that correct?’
‘Yes, your honour.’
‘Who is he, do we know?’
‘One of the foremen identified him as Innokenty Zimoveykin, your honour. Patronymic unknown, most likely on account of him being a bastard. He was a worker here at the Baird plant.’
‘Age?’
The politseisky shrugged. ‘Who can say? Twelve? Thirteen at the most, I would have thought.’
‘I see. Very good.’ Porfiry called to Virginsky: ‘We have a name. That is something.’
A sudden harsh shout drew attention to an auburn-haired man in a black tailcoat who was striding towards them wearing a stovepipe hat. His short legs pumped out like pistons encased in tweed. ‘You men, back to work. I don’t pay you to stand around gawping all day.’ His face was set in an angry scowl that was not softened by a set of stiff mutton-chop whiskers. ‘You!’ he barked at Porfiry. ‘I take it you are in charge here. How much longer do you intend to allow this macabre sideshow to continue? Cannot you see the disruptive effect it is having on my workforce?’
Porfiry bowed in a conspicuous display of courtesy. ‘To whom do I have the honour of speaking?’
‘My name is Smith, Charles Smith. I am the director of the Baird plant.’
‘You speak Russian exceedingly well, Mr Smith, if I may say so. Without a trace of an accent.’
‘That’s no compliment. I was born here and brought up speaking it. My mother is Russian. My father English. That’s by the by. Who might you be?’
‘I am Porfiry Petrovich, Investigating Magistrate. This is my colleague, Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky. You will be aware that we are investigating the murder of one of your employees.’
‘Murder? You have determined already that a murder has been perpetrated?’
‘I am at a loss otherwise to explain the marks of strangulation around the boy’s neck.’
‘Marks?’ Smith looked darkly down at the dead boy. The truculence had gone from his voice. He sounded almost cowed. ‘Just like the other children.’
‘That is correct,’ said Porfiry. ‘The marks here are similar to others we have found.’
‘I thought she was dead, the woman you suspected of killing them. That’s what it said in the paper.’
‘Was the boy known to you?’
‘I employ eight hundred and fifty-nine workers. I cannot be expected to know them all personally.’
‘But he was very young, was he not? Surely he must have been one of your youngest labourers?’
‘What of it? I assure you he is legally employed. I know my obligations under factory law.’
‘Of course. I do not doubt it. I merely meant to suggest that his extreme youthfulness would have rendered him conspicuous. Unless it is the case that you employ many as young as him.’