‘I think we had better leave,’ he whispered to Nikodim Fomich.
The chief of police frowned. ‘I don’t understand. This is a ruse, is it not? He was not really shot by Virginsky.’
There was a grunt from the bed, which could have been of contradiction or agreement. However, Porfiry did not open his eyes.
Dr Pervoyedov placed a hand on Porfiry’s forehead, frowning at the heat that met his touch. Porfiry murmured incoherently in response.
Turning from the bed, the doctor ushered Nikodim Fomich out of the room with an urgent gesture.
As they came out, the polizyeisky at Porfiry’s door tensed his face into an expression of self-conscious alertness, snapping himself upright in his seat. Nikodim Fomich acknowledged his exemplary watchfulness with an appreciative nod. The policeman stared straight ahead, straining to see enemies of the state in the empty hospital corridor. At any rate, he seemed determined to make it clear that he had no interest in eavesdropping on the conversation of his superiors.
‘Nikodim Fomich, I am very concerned about Porfiry Petrovich’s wound.’
‘What wound?’ Remembering himself, Nikodim Fomich glanced at the police guard and dropped his voice: ‘There is no wound, doctor.’
‘Something extraneous was discharged by the gun. It appears to have grazed his face.’
‘Oh yes, that. But why on earth are you worrying about a tiny graze?’
‘Because I fear it may have become infected. If the infection spreads to his blood, the consequences may be very grave indeed.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘His condition has deteriorated rapidly. The beads of perspiration. The exhaustion. He is becoming feverish.’
‘So, he will have a little fever. He will get over it.’
‘With all respect, Nikodim Fomich, as a physician, I find it impossible to speak with such absolute confidence.’
‘Surely you don’t think he will die?’
Dr Pervoyedov spoke in an urgent, angry whisper: ‘The next twenty-four hours will prove critical. His body may well succeed in fighting off the infection. I don’t wish to be unduly pessimistic. It was simply my intention to warn you that the situation is not perhaps as straightforward as you might think. Porfiry Petrovich is not as young as he once was, or as strong. His addiction to tobacco has weakened his constitution over the years. His chest is far from robust. To succeed in overcoming a general infection, an organism needs to be in the utmost good health.’ Dr Pervoyedov’s voice rose uncontrollably: ‘This reckless plan! What were you thinking?’
Nikodim Fomich avoided the doctor’s gaze, abashed. ‘I certainly did not think there was any danger to Porfiry Petrovich.’
The doctor’s eyes widened incredulously, but before he could answer, they heard Porfiry cry out. ‘Nikodim Fomich! Where is Nikodim Fomich?’
The two men exchanged glances complicated by anxiety and recrimination, before going back inside.
Dolgoruky at peace
The following day, Virginsky noticed a new quality in Varvara Alexeevna’s reserve towards him. It no longer seemed that she was afraid of him. Now he believed he noticed something like contempt in her demeanour towards him. She regarded him, he felt, as one might a marked man. Her replies to his mostly innocent questions concerning household matters were tinged with a mocking tone that seemed to say: Just you wait, my lad. Just you wait.
Kirill Kirillovich lingered over breakfast, and indeed both of them today seemed reluctant to leave him alone in the apartment, so that all three of them were at home when the first visitor of the day called. What struck Virginsky was that whoever it was failed to use the coded knock. The urgent, formless hammering set their hearts racing: What could it mean? Who could it be?
They were somehow shocked to discover that it was Alyosha Afanasevich Botkin, in a state of supreme agitation. The reason for his excitement was quickly revealed: ‘Dolgoruky is dead.’
Varvara Alexeevna, who had revealed her fondness for the Prince — for all his faults — at her husband’s name day, let out a small yelp of horror.
‘Hanged himself,’ continued Botkin ruthlessly. ‘Here. He left this.’ Botkin thrust out a piece of paper which Virginsky recognised as Dolgoruky’s printed confession. There was a handwritten addendum scribbled at the bottom.
Varvara Alexeevna was the first to snatch the sheet. She read it with ferocious concentration. When she had finished, she glared at Virginsky. The contempt he had sensed before had now hardened to hatred. She thrust the confession in his hand. He read: My thanks to the Magistrate-Slayer, who told me what I must do. By the time you read this, I will be at peace. Prince Konstantin Arsenevich Dolgoruky.
‘I don’t know what he means. You know Dolgoruky is a liar. He is lying even in this. I can tell you for certain that this confession omits an important detail of one of his crimes. The child he raped killed herself. That is what drove him to suicide. Nothing that I said to him.’
‘How do you know this?’ asked Kirill Kirillovich.
‘He told me. He showed me this yesterday.’
‘This man,’ began Varvara Alexeevna slowly, ‘is not what he seems. He is a police agent. An infiltrator. I saw him pass a note to a spy who was watching the apartment.’
‘That’s not true!’ But Virginsky’s childish blush betrayed him.
‘He threw a paper dart from the window and it was picked up by the spy. In addition to that, he continues to ask questions like a magistrate. And he acts without any caution, as if he is not afraid of getting caught. Yesterday he went out with the Prince. And he simply left his service uniform out for anyone to see. A man who was really in hiding would not be so careless.’
‘But how can this be?’ wondered Botkin. ‘He shot his superior.’
‘The man survived the attack!’ said Varvara Alexeevna. ‘All I can say is he did not try very hard to kill him.’
Kirill Kirillovich turned a look of sour distrust on Virginsky. Botkin’s expression was one of utter disillusionment.
‘I confess,’ began Virginsky, ‘that my attack on Porfiry Petrovich was intended to be symbolic, rather than necessarily fatal. As I think I have already explained, it didn’t matter to me whether he lived or died. To have shot him in his chambers was enough. My own experience, as an investigator, of gunshot wounds is that death is not always immediate. He may not be dead yet, but that does not mean he will not die soon. As far as I could tell, he lost a lot of blood. For a man of his age and physique and general health, it will be difficult for him to get over that. It is ironic that Dolgoruky yesterday proposed that we should go to the Obukhovsky Hospital to finish him off. I should have agreed. But I was concerned that we had no authorisation from the central committee. If it is so very important to you that Porfiry Petrovich die, I will go there today and make sure of it.’
‘You won’t be able to get within a vershok of him,’ said Kirill Kirillovich. ‘As you well know! For another thing, we do not intend to let you out of our sight. Not until we have heard from the central committee what they want us to do with you.’
‘But what is this about a note?’ demanded Botkin, struggling to process Varvara Alexeevna’s allegations. ‘Who was the man you passed the note to?’
Virginsky looked from one face to another. He saw nothing in any of them that offered hope. ‘It’s true. The man I passed a note to is a spy. And I am an infiltrator. But we are not working on behalf of the police. We are part of another revolutionary grouping. We found out about your group’s activities and it was decided that we ought to investigate. Believe it or not, there are two central committees and it seems that they have nothing to do with one another. Certainly, this is how the situation appears to the foot soldiers on the ground. I have been sent in to infiltrate your people to discover whether you can be trusted, with a view to bringing our groups together and co-ordinating our activities. I must confess that Tatyana Ruslanovna’s belief that there is already a police agent in your midst concerned me greatly, as did Dolgoruky’s erratic behaviour. I communicated as much to my people.’