‘And so? Where does that leave us?’
‘He is no fool. I imagine that he realises the game is up. He must know that his deception has been uncovered. There is little point continuing the pretence. He is exposed as a greater monster than the regime he seeks to overthrow.’
‘Go on.’
‘He has nothing to lose any more. He is not a man to run and hide. He is a man to go out in a blaze of glory.’
‘But why would he take Maria Petrovna with him?’
‘He has shown throughout his career the need to impress young women with his cleverness. There is nothing that flatters his vanity so much as his idolisation in the eyes of young ladies. Perhaps he wishes to persuade Maria Petrovna of the correctness of his actions, to justify himself to her.’
‘You do not think she was involved in this all along?’
‘Only unwittingly. Were she to know the truth, she cannot but be appalled at Perkhotin’s part in Aglaia’s crimes. Her former idol will be transformed into a monster. The effect will be devastating. Everything she has based her life on has stemmed from his teachings.’
‘Why would she go with him?’
‘She may have been acting under duress, though nothing Father Anfim said hinted at that. More likely, she does not yet know the full truth. Perhaps he has revealed Aglaia Filippovna’s guilt, without disclosing his own role in it. She may believe that she is rushing to a meeting with Aglaia Filippovna, and wishes to persuade her to give herself up before any more innocents die. Or perhaps she does know the truth. And Apollon Mikhailovich himself is the friend whose life — or soul — she hopes to save.’
‘What do you think he intends to do?’
‘The story of Samson is instructive, I think. In chapter fifteen of the Book of Judges, we are told that Samson attached burning firebrands to the tails of three hundred foxes, tethering them in pairs, two to a firebrand. I always thought that rather cruel. He released the foxes into the fields of the Philistines, burning their crops in a great conflagration. I wonder if Perkhotin has something similar in mind. The Nobel brothers manufacture a diverse range of engineering products. Including armaments for the Russian state. I have read accounts of their experiments into the development of a new and highly destructive explosive material. They have successfully blown up sections of the Neva, I believe. A crude incendiary device planted in the right part of the factory would result in a far more destructive conflagration than could be achieved by three hundred blindly panicking foxes.’
Virginsky stood in the rocking drozhki and screamed at the driver. ‘Faster! Make the beast go faster!’
*
The Nobel Metalworking Factory was a modern, and in some ways model, factory. It had been in existence for a mere eight years, and so the semi-derelict dilapidation that characterised so many Petersburg factories had not yet taken hold. The Nobel family itself, or rather the members of it who remained in St Petersburg, resided in a mansion that was inside the factory precincts. In fact, their home was attached to the factory and seemed to grow out of it, as if the comfort and leisure of these few individuals was just another product manufactured there. But by choosing to live so close to the source of their wealth, they showed that they were not ashamed of it. On the contrary, it suggested that the pride they might naturally feel towards their home extended to the factory too. It could also be taken as a gesture of solidarity with their employees, or those of them who lived on site in the purpose-built workers’ quarters.
The mansion presented a neo-classical frontage which, together with a stand of trees planted beside it, almost hid the grimier blocks behind. The screen was only partially successful because the trees were now seasonally denuded. There was an ornamental garden in front of it, bounded by a wrought iron fence, with a semi-circular recess reminiscent of the entrance to a park. The productive factory buildings appeared plain and functional, though well-maintained and orderly, laid out at right angles to one another. As an indication of the factory’s rational design, there was only one smoking chimney tower, which peeped over the roof of the palatial facade. Perspective suggested that it was at the rear of the factory precinct, at the furthest possible distance from the Nobel family home.
It was here that Porfiry and Virginsky called, identifying themselves as magistrates and insisting that Ludwig Nobel himself be made aware of a most serious threat to his factory. All this was very hard for the maid to take in. Somewhat panic-stricken, she informed them that Ludwig Immanuelevich was currently at work in the office.
‘Then take us to him, miss! There is not a moment to lose!’ demanded Virginsky. ‘Do you wish to be blown to atoms?’
The question galvanised the timorous girl into action. She led them at a bustling lick through a beech-panelled hall, which had a fresh but sober countenance. There was no real decline in the standard of decor as they passed into the servants’ quarters. In the kitchen, it was not just the hanging pots and pans that gleamed, but every surface, even the freshly-waxed floor.
The kitchen door gave directly on to the factory yard. Now, suddenly, as that door was thrown open, the harsh world of industry clamoured to make itself felt. The day’s activity was in full flow. Haulage carts drawn by teams of colossal drays rattled across the cobbles. Creaking gantries unloaded and loaded the raw materials and finished products that represented the mighty respiration of the plant. In came palettes of coke, ore, sand, limestone and paint. Out went machine parts, pipes, gates, chains, sheet metal, not to mention mysterious unmarked crates, the contents of which could only be guessed at. But this was only a fraction of the goods processed. On the other side of the main factory building was the River Neva, where barges were loaded and unloaded, ferrying goods to and from every corner of the empire. It was here that several years ago Ludwig Nobel’s brother Alfred had discharged a canister containing a chemical formulation of his devising, which had resulted in the displacement of several tons of icy water and the deaths of countless fish.
To Porfiry, there was something vital and energising about all this teeming activity, something also profoundly human.
At the entrance to the office block, the maid left them in the hands of a middle-aged clerk in a black frock coat. His face was unpromisingly lean and officious-looking, and his neck raw from the abrasion of his stiff winged collar; nonetheless, he had the intelligence to grasp the urgency of the situation immediately and hurried off to fetch Ludwig Nobel himself.
‘We are wasting time,’ hissed Virginsky, as they waited for the arrival of that gentleman.
‘You have seen the scale of the factory, Pavel Pavlovich,’ said Porfiry calmly. ‘We cannot possibly guess where Perkhotin might be without help from someone who knows the place well. And who knows it better than the man who built it? Furthermore, if we attempt to search the premises without the owner’s co-operation we will be challenged at every turn. A few words to Ludwig Nobel will save us vital time in the long run, I am confident.’