Porfiry struck a match and lit the gas. He crossed to stand in front of the large mirror, gazing into it, enraptured by his own reflection. He held up a hand as if to wave to himself. ‘Remember the smear of blood on the mirror. The smear of arterial blood.’
‘She was standing in front of the mirror when she was murdered!’
‘Yes. Quite brilliant, Pavel Pavlovich. She was standing in front of the mirror, consulting her reflection, preparing for her performance, when her murderer approached from behind, reaching round with a razor to slit her throat. Her blood sprayed the mirror and drained on to the carpet. The carpet was moved and she was placed upon it, some small distance from the actual spot where she was killed. In the meantime, the mirror was wiped clean. Is all this the work of one person, Pavel Pavlovich?’
‘Possibly not.’
‘Possibly not! Of course not, you mean!’
‘But why? Why go to all this trouble? What does it matter whether she is killed in front of the mirror, or a short distance from it?’
‘It matters a great deal if you wish to create the illusion that she was killed in a particular way by a particular person, a person in fact who had nothing to do with her murder.’
‘Captain Mizinchikov.’
‘Captain Mizinchikov had bloodstains on his tunic. We know from Dr Pervoyedov’s test that the blood there did not come from the wound in Yelena Filippovna’s neck, as that would have produced arterial blood. If we are correct in our reconstruction, and Yelena was murdered from behind while standing at the mirror, the murderer would not in fact be sprayed with blood at all. All the blood would go on the mirror — although some perhaps could have been caught with a towel held in front of the wound. The same towel, or another one, might be used to wipe any obvious spray of blood from the mirror.’ Porfiry turned abruptly to the wardrobe. ‘You remember the drawer that you had difficulty opening? I want you to look in it now.’
‘But it was empty. And if there is anything in it now, it will have been put there since the murder.’
‘Nevertheless, pull the drawer out, if you please. Let us see if it is as troublesome to open as it was the last time you attempted it.’
Virginsky did as he was directed. If anything, the drawer was more resistant than before.
‘All the way out, if you please.’
After several minutes of wrenching and manipulation, the drawer shot out, throwing Virginsky off balance. ‘It’s still empty.’ He displayed the interior of the drawer to Porfiry.
‘Yes, the drawer is empty. But look inside the casing, please.’
Virginsky felt a wave of feeling move softly through him. He could not prevent himself from smiling. They were on the verge of a discovery, he felt sure.
‘There’s something there.’
The towel was neatly folded. He lifted it up carefully, as if it were something precious and fragile. What he wanted to preserve was the precise configuration of the folds.
‘Very interesting,’ commented Porfiry. ‘The towel has not been carelessly stuffed into the space, but rather, it has been meticulously folded. The evidence of a tidy mind, would you not say, Pavel Pavlovich?’
The towel appeared to have once been white, but was now partially and unevenly dyed a dirty rust colour. Virginsky allowed it to fall open, revealing the extent of the staining. With a dark sprawling star in its centre, it was like the flag of some anarchic, blood-thirsty nation unfurled.
‘I knew I could smell blood,’ said Porfiry quietly. He strode over to the embroidered screen in the corner of the room. It came up to his shoulders, and so he was able to peer over it. With an impassive glance to Virginsky he walked behind the screen and ducked down out of sight.
There were footsteps outside the room and a moment later Prince Sergei Naryskin burst in. He looked about, bewildered.
‘Where is he, the magistrate? They told me the magistrate was here.’
‘I am a magistrate,’ said Virginsky, petulantly.
Prince Sergei frowned at the bloody towel in Virginsky’s hands. ‘No, the other one. The little fat one. I say, what do you have there?’
‘Evidence,’ answered Porfiry, his head popping up from behind the screen. ‘May I help you, Prince Sergei?’
‘Why are you here?’
‘We are conducting an investigation.’
‘Have you come to arrest him?’
‘To arrest whom?’
‘My father, of course.’
‘Your father?’
‘Yes.’
‘For what crime?’
‘Murder. He murdered Lena, did he not?’
‘Did he? What makes you say that?’
‘I caught him burning some letters from her. And then I heard him in conversation with Bakhmutov. My father had been Yelena’s lover. He killed her to prevent her marrying me.’
‘You caught him … in conversation … he killed her …’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Your stutter has gone, Prince Sergei. The act of accusing your father has cured you.’
The younger prince blinked out his bemusement. ‘Will you not arrest him?’
‘I cannot be as confident as you that he is the murderer. I rather find that the interesting circumstances you have just revealed provide a more compelling motive for you to murder Yelena Filippovna than for your father. It is also psychologically consistent that you would wish to accuse him of a crime you had committed, as you would blame him for her death, believing that he had somehow forced you to it.’ Porfiry glanced briefly at Virginsky. ‘My experience of such triangles is that the resentment is all on the side of the son.’
‘It is not resentment. He wanted to prevent our union because it horrified him.’
‘He told you that?’
‘He didn’t have to. Surely it must horrify any man to think of his own son lying with his former mistress. It is tantamount to incest.’
‘Had you not already slept with Yelena Filippovna?’
Prince Sergei’s gaze darted away.
‘I see … how unlike Yelena Filippovna. And yet … if she had slept with your father, she might naturally hesitate to consummate her relationship with you. My dear prince, you have interrupted us at a most crucial stage of our investigations and I fear that, through no fault of your own, you have entirely distracted me from my train of thought. The information you have imparted is extremely diverting. Yes, it has diverted me from the course I was set upon.’ Porfiry seemed genuinely at a loss. He cast about the room as if to get his bearings. ‘Of course, our investigations are always disturbed by the unruly intrusion of events. However, increasingly, as I get older, I am finding it more and more difficult to recover from these disruptions. My mind, like my eyes, is not as sharp as it once was. Is that not so, Pavel Pavlovich?’
Virginsky blew out his cheeks in embarrassment. He looked down at the blood-stained towel.
‘Ah, yes, thank you for reminding me. Tell me, Prince Sergei, is Aglaia Filippovna still a guest at the palace?’
‘She is.’
‘And is she still incapacitated?’
‘Indeed. She is in a state of semi-consciousness most of the time. She drifts in and out of a comatose trance.’
‘But she has her lucid moments?’
‘I fear not. In the brief moments when she is capable of speech, she appears utterly confused. My mother has taken to sitting with her. My mother is very devout, you know. She prays for Aglaia Filippovna constantly.’
‘Your mother …? Of course, your mother!’
‘What do you mean by that? My mother feels a great deal of sympathy for the young lady.’
‘I wonder, have you discussed your suspicions regarding your father with your mother?’
‘I did not wish to worry her.’
‘And yet you had no compunction in making your allegations directly to a magistrate?’
‘My conscience will not allow me to keep silent any longer.’
‘In other words, your hatred for your father out-weighed your consideration for your mother.’