“Do you think he is the murderer?”
Porfiry smiled and now fluttered his eyelids. He took out and lit a cigarette. “Now, Dr. Pervoyedov, what were you saying about your discoveries?”
“Ah. I understand. Yes, yes, of course. I am merely the physician. You are the investigator.” Dr. Pervoyedov shook his head ruefully. He moved along the workbench and opened a drawer set beneath its surface. “It’s true, I have discovered something interesting,” he said, taking out a cardboard file.
Porfiry nodded encouragement.
Looking down at his notes, Dr. Pervoyedov continued: “Well, let us start with the big fellow.”
“Borya.”
“Yes, yes. Indeed. You remember I drew attention to the absence of bruising around the neck. That naturally made me suspicious. When examining the lungs, I noticed that although the lungs themselves appeared to be healthy, the covering of the lungs was inflamed. And then, when I came to test the stomach contents-”
“What did you find?” interrupted Porfiry eagerly.
“Vodka. A hell of a lot of vodka in there. That of course masked the smell.”
“The smell of what?”
“Of prussic acid.”
“I see.”
“Yes. The test for prussic acid was positive. A deep and rather beautiful blue.”
“He was poisoned.”
“It appears so.”
“How was it administered, do you know?”
“I’m inclined to think it was in the vodka.”
“His own flask was full,” mused Porfiry.
“Exactly. The vodka in his stomach could have been given to him by person or persons unknown.”
“Who then strung him up on the tree in an attempt to make it look like suicide. I wonder if the line of bruising around his abdomen has anything to do with that?”
“Very likely, Porfiry Petrovich. Very likely.”
“Excellent work, Doctor. And what about Goryanchikov?”
“I am more or less certain that the wound in the head was administered post-mortem.”
“The lack of blood over his face led me to suspect as much. How did he die, then? Was he poisoned too?”
“I have detected no traces of any known poison. However, sections of the lung parenchyma reveal ductal overinsufflation consistent with asphyxia. And I retrieved something very interesting from his larynx.” The doctor held up a small feather, taken from the file.
Porfiry crossed to where the trolley had stopped its glide. He bent down and stared into the first of the jars. Goryanchikov’s head stared back at him, its mouth and the mouthlike wound in its forehead gaping in supplication. “Someone held a pillow over his face,” said Porfiry.
Beneath the Milliner’s Shop
Virginsky trudged through the wet snow lying along the southern Fontanka bank, heading northeast. The sprawl of the Apraxin Market lay ahead of him, across the frozen river. The ice seeped into his soul from his feet, through his gaping uppers.
It would be so easy to end it all. One letter to his father was all it required. If the old man knew what misery he was living in, he would be sure to send him some money. There would be no need to grovel for forgiveness, or-even more unthinkable-grant it. Merely to explain the facts, that was all that was required.
Father,
You are my father. I am your son. I am badly in need of new shoes. I have no money for food or rent.
Your son,
Pavel.
That was all that needed to be said. Perhaps he could add, in a spirit as it were of magnanimity:
We will talk of other things at another time.
Yes, that seemed to hint at reconciliation. He was throwing out a few crumbs of hope to the old man, without committing himself to any concessions or admissions.
But of course, he knew that he would never write the letter.
Perhaps the investigator was right. He was too proud after all. He often felt himself humiliated, especially in his present circumstances. The two things went together, he believed: a heightened sensitivity to humiliation and excessive pride. If only he could shake off them both. Independence of means was the only way to do it, and a letter to his father would not help him there. He could not bear to owe his father anything, not now, not after all that had happened. If he could not have independence of means, he would at least have independence of spirit or, failing that, independence of behavior. No one would tell him what to do.
He imagined composing a different letter to his father:
Sir,
You are not my father. I am not your son. I am badly in need of a new pair of shoes. I have no money for food or rent. And yet I want nothing from you. If you choose to send me money, that will be your decision. I do not ask for it. I do not expect it. I shall not consider my self in your debt. If you choose not to send me money, it will be for the better. I will not think of you again and ask you to do the same regarding me.
Yours,
The human entity who is known by the name Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky without acknowledging kinship to any other man bearing that name (i.e., you).
How he hated his name.
Of course, there was another way to end it all. It had been in his mind all along. Simply to lie down in the snow now and wait for the cold and hunger to do their work. The end would come soon enough, and there would be no pain.
It was a comforting fantasy, but he kept on walking. He realized he was walking away from the investigator’s damnable jars and all that they entailed.
He was suddenly certain that the whole ridiculous, tawdry mess had gone on long enough. It was time to bring it to an end; and what was more, he would do it by the second of the two means he had considered. But first there were matters to attend to. He hastened his step as he turned onto Gorokhovaya Street, crossing the Fontanka by the Semenovsky Bridge.
It was dark by the time he reached Sadovaya Street.
He walked with his head bent down, not meeting any face, looking only at his shoes kicking through the sludge. It was easy to imagine that those feet did not belong to him. He didn’t feel the cold anymore, nor his exhaustion, his hunger, or his pain. His certainty of purpose had overridden everything.
He had to see Lilya.
But it was harder than he had imagined to find the milliner’s shop. Admittedly, he had hoped that a mysterious force would draw him straight to it. The one other time, long ago, that he had been there, it had been dark and he had been drunk. He was as good as blindfolded. When he had fled from it, he quickly became lost in this city, which had never truly been his home.
He was aware of a presence ahead of him. His cowed glance took in a dark, bulky figure. He had a sense of a dim orange glow bobbing around it and then soaring up into the darkness. A streetlamp flared and lit the workman beneath. In his refusal to look the city’s lamplighter in the eye, Virginsky recognized a puzzling mixture of defiance, humility, and fear. The lamplighter passed on into the darkness at Virginsky’s back, leaving a trail of illumination. The transformation wrought by his restless wick was so sudden and complete that it was difficult to believe in it. Virginsky felt himself to be entering a realm of deception. His instinct was to shun it. But to speak to Lilya-as another, more urgent imperative demanded-he had to press on into the light, crunching diamonds underfoot.
He knew from Lilya that Fräulein Keller’s establishment was on Sadovaya Street, but where exactly she had never revealed. She didn’t like to talk about the place, to the extent that she had begged him never to mention it.
He thought he remembered a side entrance to the shop he was looking for, and iron steps there leading down to the basement. None of the shops he saw now had that configuration.
He heard voices. A group of young cavalry officers, already in their cups, were exchanging ribald jokes. The deceptive light glinted coldly on the buttons and decorations of their greatcoats. He recognized in their voices and their leering grins the same harsh appetite that had once drawn him to Fräulein Keller’s, in the company of a similar group. Perhaps, he conjectured, they were heading to that very place now! He hung back before following them.