Virginsky slowed and stopped. Had he subconsciously been counting his steps all the time? Somehow, without looking, he knew that they had reached Professor Tatiscev’s door, two hundred and three paces from the southern end of the hallway. A glance at the brass nameplate confirmed his instinct.
Porfiry smiled and made a gesture of encouragement. He was allowing Virginsky the privilege of knocking.
‘Enter!’ As the invitation rang out, Virginsky was taken deeper into his emotional memory. He was once again the student who had not quite put enough work into his essay; whose hand as he reached for the door trembled with dread at the prospect of the imminent tutorial; who was nagged by a perpetual sense that he was squandering the valuable opportunities cast his way. And then something that had not occurred to him until now suddenly deflated his confidence even more: He will not remember me!
But as this new thought sunk in, Virginsky found it strangely liberating. He turned the handle and stepped into the professor’s study.
Everything was as he remembered it: the vaulted ceiling that gave the room something of the feel of a grotto; the two arched windows hung with layers of elaborate drapes; the assortment of bookcases of varying sizes, fitted in willy-nilly, making the accumulation of knowledge seem like a haphazard venture, as perhaps it was; the same paintings and photographs hung on the wall; around them, the same dreary brown pattern of festoons, unchanged apart from being somewhat more faded; and at the centre of it all, the monumental desk, a great slab of mahogany on four square-set pedestals.
Tatiscev was seated at the desk, half-concealed by a console of low bookcases that rose from the front of it. His head was bowed over a large notebook in which he was writing. At last he looked up with a quizzical, distracted frown, half-impatient as if he were expecting a student. Virginsky felt an intense frisson of shock, caused not by how different Professor Tatiscev looked to the last time he had seen him, but how similar. He had always had something of the look of a Russian monk about him, yet he combined long flowing hair, and flat triangular blades of beard, with impeccable European tailoring, invariably from Kincherf’s. Now, that beard was streaked with grey, and the hairline began a little higher up a forehead that had gained in prominence. His figure was still trim and sprightly. His eyes burned with a quick, perceptive energy. He seemed to take in Virginsky’s presence without missing a beat. He did not even need to search his memory before exclaiming, with a jaunty stab of the finger: ‘Virginsky!’
‘That’s correct, sir. I was sure that you would not remember me.’
‘How could I forget you? You were my most. . challenging student.’
‘I hope in a good sense?’
‘Well, I like to be challenged, so any sense is a good sense. But yes, I meant it in the best possible sense. Your questions kept me on my toes.’
Virginsky had the slight suspicion that his old professor had him muddled with someone else. ‘I. . am flattered, sir.’
‘I see you have entered the service.’ Was there a note of disappointment in the question?
‘Yes, sir. I hope to reform it from within.’
This provoked a burst of deep, unrestrained laughter from Tatiscev. Virginsky felt himself blush. ‘Forgive me. I see you are in earnest.’ Tatiscev smiled indulgently. ‘Still and all, it is good to see that your radical spirit remains undimmed.’ He turned his crimped eyes on Porfiry Petrovich. ‘You have brought a friend with you, I see.’
‘This is my superior, Porfiry Petrovich.’
‘I am honoured to meet you, Professor Tatiscev.’ Porfiry blinked pleasurably and bowed his head.
‘So, this is the great investigating magistrate, Porfiry Petrovich.’ Tatiscev rose from his seat and extended a hand.
‘You have heard of me?’
Virginsky tightened his lips in displeasure. To him, Porfiry’s astonishment seemed affected.
‘I am a professor of law,’ said Tatiscev, gesturing for his guests to sit down. ‘I make it my business to follow all the important cases passing through our courts. I think it’s fair to say that you have been associated with many of the most notable, not to say sensational.’
‘I have not deliberately courted sensation.’
‘I was particularly interested in a case of several years ago. That of the former student Raskolnikov. It interested me, amongst other reasons, because I had taught the fellow.’
Porfiry took in the news with two sharp blinks. ‘How interesting. I did not know.’
Tatiscev seemed to detect something recriminatory in Porfiry’s response. ‘In my defence, I would say that I have taught many students who did not go on to become murderers. In fact, by far the majority of those graduating from my classes show no signs of murderous inclinations whatsoever.’
‘So you do not consider yourself responsible for Raskolnikov’s misguided acts?’
‘In all conscience, I can say that I do not.’
‘There are some who would blame you for every crime committed in Russia.’ Porfiry’s tone was bantering. ‘Or perhaps you are not familiar with certain editorials appearing in a number of conservative publications.’
‘The number being two, both of which are edited by the same man. You are talking about Russian Era and Russian Soil, I take it?’
‘I am.’ Porfiry smiled.
Tatiscev dismissed the articles with a sweep of the hand. ‘Have you really come here to talk about libellous innuendo printed in those disreputable Slavophile gutter rags? And, I might add, written by a pseudonymous hack.’
‘Curiously, we have.’
‘We do not take them seriously, of course,’ put in Virginsky.
‘I hope I have made that clear,’ added Porfiry. ‘As far as I can see, there is no substance to the vitriolic attacks, which seem rather to have been prompted by a personal vendetta than any credible political opposition. What interests us is the identity of the author.’
‘I cannot help you there. I have no idea who wrote them.’
‘Oh, but we do.’
Professor Tatiscev gave Porfiry a startled glare. He quickly recovered his composure. ‘How interesting. Are you intending to prosecute him?’
‘I fear it may be too late to do so,’ said Porfiry.
‘What do you mean?’
‘We fear he may be dead. A body was found in the burnt-out wreck of his apartment. A definite identification is impossible. But it seems very likely that it is the man who wrote the attacks on you.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Have you ever heard of a journalist called Demyan Antonovich Kozodavlev?’
‘Kozodavlev? But Kozodavlev would not write for Trudolyubov. He despises everything that man stands for!’
‘So you do know Mr Kozodavlev?’
‘Not personally,’ said Tatiscev quickly. ‘I know of him, of course. I am a great admirer of his work. I subscribe to a number of journals he contributes to. He would never write for Trudolyubov. It is inconceivable.’
‘And yet he did. Under the pseudonym of K.’
‘I don’t believe it!’
‘It can be proven,’ said Porfiry wearily, as if he would rather Tatiscev did not call upon him to do so. He compromised with an appeal to Virginsky: ‘Is that not so, Pavel Pavlovich?’
‘It seems to be the case,’ confirmed Virginsky, heavily.
‘What interests us, and, frankly, why we are here, is the question of why Mr Kozodavlev took it into his head to pen these terrible and baseless attacks on you. Especially if, as you say, you did not know him personally, but only through his work — that is to say, the work he produced under his own name.’
‘I really have no idea.’
‘You described the attacks as libellous. Did you never think to seek redress in the courts? You are a lawyer, after all.’
‘Like you, I did not take them seriously. They were an irritant, but one that it was easy enough for me to ignore. In all honesty, I did not consider that they damaged my reputation, so much as that of the scoundrel who published them. The best action, I decided, was to take no action.’