‘Really?’
‘But how long can this go on? It is intolerable having him under your roof.’
‘If Major Verkhotsev is correct, then this issue will come to a head sooner rather than later, now that another child has been murdered.’
‘And has Verkhotsev come forward with any plan to protect you?’
‘He rather vaguely intimated that he would think of something.’ Porfiry positioned a sheet of Department-headed paper in front of him and charged a pen with ink. ‘I shall inform him of our most recent discovery. In the meantime, I must rely on myself. I cannot expect my personal safety to be as urgent a concern to others as it is to me. And merely pointing out a danger does not oblige the major to preserve me from it.’
Porfiry began to write. To my esteemed colleague, Major Pyotr Afanasevich Verkhotsev …
‘You seem remarkably sanguine,’ observed Virginsky.
‘I suppose I am safe as long as Slava does not know about the latest murder.’ Porfiry recharged his pen, then pointed the nib accusingly towards Virginsky. ‘That is to say, until the newspapers get hold of it.’
Virginsky’s indignation flared momentarily at the provocation. And yet he evidently decided not to rise to the bait: ‘As you yourself observed, a great many people saw the body. Word is bound to get out.’
‘Yes, you’re right,’ said Porfiry, acknowledging Virginsky’s restraint with a smile. ‘Nonetheless, we must be careful of what we say in front of Slava. If we are able to keep him in the dark at least until tomorrow’s editions, I may increase my chances of surviving the night. Besides, it will buy us a little time in which to further our investigations.’ Porfiry put down his pen distractedly. ‘There is someone whom I am most eager to interview.’
*
As Porfiry Petrovich well knew, achieving an audience with the Tsar of all the Russias was not simply a matter of presenting one’s self and one’s visiting card at the Winter Palace. There were official channels to go through. His superiors would have to sanction the interview, which would require Porfiry to enter a formal written submission detailing his reasons for disturbing the autocrat’s serenity. To have the gist of such a submission be ‘because I suspect a member of the Imperial Family of the murder of innocent children’ would not go well with those it was intended to win over.
It was clear that if he were to go ahead with a formal submission, he would need to exercise a degree of circumspection, not to say deception, in its wording. However, entering a specious reason — for example, to say that he wished to divulge to the Tsar information of a politically sensitive nature fit only for his ears — would not necessarily result in the outcome he desired. His ruse was likely to be seen through by those whose place it was to process such applications. Either his request would be denied, without explanation or appeal, or he would be called before a hearing to give an account of himself. In that event, if convinced by his arguments, others would take upon themselves the role of intermediary, seeking to gain for themselves the Tsar’s approval, and his plan would be frustrated. And if he failed to convince, he would succeed only in drawing over himself a cloud of distrust greater even than the one in place already. In addition, to go through official channels would waste valuable time, which Porfiry could ill afford given the potential danger hanging over him.
There was another avenue open to Porfiry: Verkhotsev. Porfiry assumed that his new friend in the Third Section had access to the Tsar. Of course, it had to be borne in mind that Verkhotsev might prove reluctant to share his privilege with another. If Porfiry were to disclose the full extent of his suspicions to Verkhotsev, the danger was that the Third Section would take over the investigation, or, more probably, bury it. What were the lives of a few factory children compared to the honour of the House of Romanov? However, Porfiry had to remind himself that Verkhotsev was Maria Petrovna’s father. He had declared himself to be on the side of the truth. At the same time, he had admitted the existence of elements within the Third Section who, it was to be presumed, were less concerned with the provision of that elusive commodity.
What Porfiry least expected as he chain-smoked his way through one side of his cigarette case, while struggling over the wording of his note to Verkhotsev, was to achieve his goal without doing anything. It seemed that his own desire to see the Tsar was matched by a reciprocal desire on the part of the Tsar. A middle-aged Kammerjunker wearing the order of St Stanislav visited Porfiry’s chambers to present him with a folded paper sealed with the Romanov seal. Porfiry’s heart raced as he studied the familiar double-headed eagle imprinted in the shiny red wax. The precise and sharp-edged image bore little resemblance to the vague blurs that they had seen on the necks of the children. He wondered now if they had been mistaken. True, there did seem to be a certain consistency in the shape and size of the repeated bruise. However, its definition was compromised by the leeching of ruptured capillaries under the skin, a spidery halo disrupting the line. Was it indisputably the impression of the Romanov signet ring, as the imprint before him now so clearly was? Or had he succumbed to the influence of Virginsky and fallen into the old trap? What you go looking for, you will find, as the saying had it.
‘Will you not open it? Your instructions are on the inside, you know.’
Porfiry looked up at the Kammerjunker, whose aristocratic features were set in an expression of indulgent good humour. ‘Come now, the Tsar doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’
Porfiry peeled the brittle encrustation of wax off the paper taking care not to break it.
‘You are like me,’ said the Kammerjunker. ‘Frugal. Why buy sealing wax when you can re-use the Tsar’s?’
‘Indeed,’ said Porfiry, as he opened the document. He read that he was commanded to return forthwith with Prince Shchegolskoy — evidently the gentleman who had delivered the summons — to the Winter Palace for a private audience with Tsar Alexander II.
‘I have a carriage for us outside,’ advised Prince Shchegolskoy. Porfiry slid the detached imperial seal into a drawer, then rose to his feet with a nod of obedience. He would finish the note to Verkhotsev when he returned.
*
Inevitably, the black-lacquered carriage bore the Romanov crest on its doors. The insistence of the design was beginning to haunt Porfiry.
The liveried footmen must have had to cling on for dear life as the carriage thundered beneath the arch of the General Staff Building into Palace Square. Whether it was the ruddy hue of the low October sun, or the sanguinary cast of his own thoughts, Porfiry could not help but see the great red-painted palace as stained in blood. He shook his head to dispel the fanciful idea, recognising once more Pavel Pavlovich’s influence.
Prince Shchegolskoy had kept up an affable patter throughout the journey, playing the part of the professional courtier, at ease with any individual into whose company his emperor’s command thrust him. Possibly not a very bright man, thought Porfiry as he listened to his prattle, he was without doubt happy with his lot, which was little more than that of a glorified messenger boy.
Steering a course through the centre of the square, and thereby almost skimming the Alexander Column, the driver urged his team to a final burst of speed. The horses’ hooves clattered over the swirls of paving stones; Porfiry saw the sparks in his mind’s eye. He noted with alarm that they were galloping towards a closed wrought iron gate in the central arch of three. Prince Shchegolskoy was surely also aware of this circumstance but seemed unperturbed. At the last moment, the gates swung open, operated by unseen hands. Porfiry found himself inside the courtyard of the Winter Palace.
‘I thought it was usual for members of the public to enter the palace from the Neva side,’ Porfiry observed to his companion, as the carriage decelerated sharply to the restraining shouts of the driver.