‘And yet, in certain matters, this vaporous blind enables us to see more clearly. Do you not agree, Pavel Pavlovich?’
At last Virginsky turned to face Porfiry. ‘You look very pleased with yourself, Porfiry Petrovich. Do you mean to suggest that you have solved the mystery, or should I say mysteries?’
Porfiry’s face sagged with hurt. ‘Your words are charged with a strange, angry sarcasm, Pavel Pavlovich, which I find mystifying. Surely, with you, I have grounds to expect more than the same old jealousy that has marred my relations with other colleagues?’
Virginsky turned sharply away, looking into the fog again.
‘Staring into the fog is a little like watching the flames of a fire,’ continued Porfiry. ‘One may project into it whatever one wishes to see. Or rather, an unacknowledged part of one’s self supplies the visions for one’s conscious mind to apprehend. That is sometimes how we see people too, is it not? The soul of another is like a swirling mist. Impenetrable. And so, rather than going to the trouble of discovering what really lies within it, we project our images on to its surface.’
‘You know I dislike such fanciful comparisons, Porfiry Petrovich. The soul of another is like whatever you want to say it is like. And besides, why must you always be dragging souls into everything? Why bring up souls at all?’
‘I am talking about you and me, Pavel Pavlovich. I fear that the unhappy antagonism which I have detected in your recent demeanour towards me is based upon some misapprehension.’
Virginsky was silent for some time. ‘What are your intentions towards Maria Petrovna?’ he blurted at last.
‘My intentions? With regard to the investigation? Do I intend to arrest her? Is that what you mean?’
‘No. I mean your … intentions. Do you intend to make a proposal?’
‘A proposal?’
‘A proposal of marriage.’
‘Good heavens! I was not aware that I had any such intention! I am astonished by your suggestion that I should. Have I given that impression? You terrify me with your intimations. She is a witness in a current investigation. It would be most improper of me to harbour … intentions.’
‘You do not find her an attractive person?’
‘Undoubtedly. But … what could she possibly see in me?’
‘That’s not the issue. You know my father’s second wife is much younger than he.’
‘I know that.’
‘He stole her from me!’
‘Perhaps she was not yours to be stolen. I only mean to say, one cannot possess people in that way.’
‘You will do the same with Maria.’
‘I was not aware that you and Maria Petrovna were on such terms.’
‘We are not.’
‘I am glad to hear it.’ Meeting Virginsky’s glare of indignation, Porfiry went on: ‘I repeat, she is a witness in an investigation. It would be as improper for you, as it is for me, to allow an affectionate relationship to develop.’
‘And after the investigation is over?’
‘That would be a different matter, of course.’
‘The field would be open to both of us.’
Porfiry’s face froze in dismay. ‘If you wish to express it in that way.’
‘So you do harbour intentions!’
‘My goodness, Pavel Pavlovich! You have certainly followed your vocation in becoming an investigator. Your persistence is fatiguing. I am bound to say you display a talent for extracting confessions that I hope we may soon put to very good use.’
*
The entrance to the Naryskin Palace was lit up by a lantern whose beam dissipated into the fog, rather than cut through it. One by one, the caryatids of the facade began to appear. Here were the extraordinary apparitions Virginsky had been waiting for.
They were admitted by a footman, who appeared startled to see them. To Virginsky’s eye, the interior splendour of the palace was strangely changed. It was almost as if its lustre had been worn away in the weeks since their last visit. When he had first come to the palace, he could not fail to be impressed by its grandeur and scale. His gaze might have been disdainful, but his was a disdain provoked by an acknowledgement of the seductive allure of money. But now, it seemed to Virginsky, the glamour was gone, and so too were the negative sentiments it had inspired. He saw it only as a cold, empty vastness. Its occupants were only to be pitied.
‘Thank you, we will find our own way,’ said Porfiry to the servant. ‘There is no need to trouble your master. We have come only to look at the room in which the unfortunate young lady was murdered.’ With that, he hurried off.
‘Have you not found,’ Porfiry confided over his shoulder to Virginsky as they descended the stairs to the basement, ‘in your experience as an extractor of confessions, that the greater the secret to be revealed, the greater the resistance to revealing it?’
‘With respect, that is an obvious enough remark,’ said Virginsky breathlessly.
‘Perhaps when applied to human subjects. But what about inanimate objects?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Do you remember the drawer in my desk, Pavel Pavlovich? How reluctantly it yielded up Yelena Filippovna’s letters.’
‘There was a simple enough explanation. The letters themselves were causing an obstruction. You must not have been very careful when you placed them in the drawer, Porfiry Petrovich.’
‘Ah, but I always am. I rather think that someone else has been in that drawer and disturbed the letters.’
‘But how? The drawer is always kept locked, is it not?’
‘Yes. And the only key is kept in my coat pocket. But that is not the issue. It is not that drawer that I am thinking about.’
Virginsky frowned uncertainly but resisted the temptation to question Porfiry further. He knew from experience that when Porfiry was in this mood, one wilful mystification would only lead to another.
*
The fundamental change that had been wrought in the room was, of course, immediately obvious: the body of Yelena Filippovna had been removed, as had all traces of the violence perpetrated against her. This absence was chastening. It was a reminder of how quickly the world covered over disruptions in its fabric. Virginsky felt a strange nostalgia for the blood-soaked murder scene. This prim space, scrubbed and polished, seemed almost more of an outrage.
Virginsky sensed something else different, something other than the obvious. But it was only when Porfiry pointed it out that he was able to register it consciously: ‘The rug is in a different place.’
Virginsky stared at the floor and nodded, as though this was something that hardly needed saying. Inside, a heavy pendulum of disappointment swung down. He hated it when Porfiry saw things he did not.
‘It’s below the mirror now, there, against the wall,’ continued Porfiry. ‘It was over here before, away from the mirror, underneath Yelena Filippovna’s body. What does that suggest to you, Pavel Pavlovich?’
‘It has been moved?’
‘Well, obviously it has been moved! I was hoping for something a little more insightful, if you please! Why would whoever restored this room place the rug under the mirror?’
‘Because that is where it belongs?’
‘That’s right, well done. No need to sound so diffident. Whoever brought the rug back to the room automatically placed it under the mirror, where it belongs. Which means?’
‘It was moved when Yelena Filippovna was murdered. By her murderer!’
‘Not quite so fast! By her murderer? Possibly. We cannot say for certain. But it is certainly reasonable to assume that it was by someone who had a hand in her murder. It was under the mirror and it was moved from the mirror. Why?’
‘Because …’ But the promising word did not result in the hoped-for explanation. Virginsky gave a defeated shrug.