Porfiry had the impression he was grinning.
The number of the house turned out to be 17. An additional sign indicated that the house belonged to the widow of State Councilor S. P. Ivolgin.
The door, which was to the left of the central caryatid-framed passageway, gave directly onto the street. The maid who opened it was dressed in a neat gray dress with a well-starched apron over it. Her hair was tied up inside a clean white cap. She had an attractive, intelligent face. Porfiry sensed a spirited independence that he could imagine crossing over into pride or even impertinence. Her eyes were questioning without being suspicious. There was a slight impatience in her demeanor that suggested he had dragged her away from some important work. He guessed her age at around thirty.
“Good day,” began Porfiry. “Is this the home of Goryanchikov, the student?”
“Yes?”
“May I speak to Goryanchikov?”
“He’s not here. He hasn’t been here for several days.”
“Have you any idea where he is?”
Porfiry felt himself subject to her scrutinizing gaze.
“I’m Porfiry Petrovich, an investigating magistrate. It is to do with a serious criminal matter.” Porfiry looked away down the street, then back into her undaunted gray eyes. “Perhaps it would be better if I came inside.”
The maid agreed without hesitation, bowing slightly as she closed the door behind him.
Porfiry looked down at a highly polished parquet floor. The hall was warm and comfortably furnished without being ostentatious. Rugs from the Caucases hung on the walls, and one lay on the floor. A faintly spicy smell pleasantly stimulated his nostrils.
“I think you had better talk to Anna Alexandrovna.”
“Your mistress? The Widow Ivolgina?”
“Yes.”
“Of course. But I would like to talk to you first. What is your name?”
“Katya.”
“When was the last time you saw Goryanchikov, Katya?”
“Stepan Sergeyevich. His name is Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov.”
“I see. So when was the last time you saw Stepan Sergeyevich?”
Katya thought carefully before answering. “Four days ago.”
“Is it normal for him not to come home for so long?”
“No. Sometimes we don’t see him for a day or two. But four days is unusual.”
“Did you think nothing of it?”
“I was beginning to think something of it.”
“What were you beginning to think?”
“He’d done a moonlight flit. He owes Anna Alexandrovna a fortune in rent.”
“I see. And what was Anna Alexandrovna’s view?”
“She thought the same. We thought we would never see him again. And that she would never see the money. What’s all this about?” Katya asked abruptly.
“I am afraid Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov is dead.”
Katya’s brows came together in a frown as she took in the news. Then an expression something like horror opened up on her face. “Borya!” she cried.
“Why do you say that?”
“Borya killed him, didn’t he? They had a row. Borya threatened him with an axe. It was shortly before Stepan Sergeyevich disappeared.” Her head was trembling perceptibly.
“What was the argument about?”
“I don’t know. What do men ever argue about?”
Before Porfiry could answer, another female voice called from a room at the back of the halclass="underline" “Katya! What is it, Katya? I need you in here.” The appeal was followed by the muted clatter of pots.
Katya gave Porfiry a quick look that seemed to have something accusing about it, as if he were to blame for bringing all this on them. That glance left him in no doubt of the depth and force of her protective feelings toward her mistress.
A moment later this lady herself came out from the kitchen, her head tilted upward, poised between inquiry and annoyance. When she saw Porfiry, her expression became guarded. She looked to Katya for some explanation. The maid returned a warning but, in contrast to her mistress, seemed unabashed.
Anna Alexandrovna was dressed simply. Her dark hair was neatly pinned. Her face was still youthful, with a flush of color at her cheeks. Hers was a soft beauty, its malleability such that every touch of experience had compromised rather than enhanced it. Looking into her eyes, which she allowed him to do only for a split second, Porfiry saw that she was older than he had first thought. He saw a glance complicated by caution and disillusion. Porfiry remembered Virginsky mentioning a daughter and wondered briefly what kind of a man State Councilor Ivolgin had been; wealthy certainly, judging from the house he had left to her. The same house also hinted at his ambition and even pretension.
“I did not realize we had a visitor,” she said, dipping her gaze below Porfiry’s face. “I was grinding cinnamon. I needed Katya’s help. I didn’t realize…” Porfiry was touched that she was flustered on his account. She brought with her another scent besides the cinnamon, the faint hint of her perfume. Porfiry was aware of how different it was, in intent and effect, from Lilya’s. It was a clean, uncomplicated fragrance.
“This gentleman is a policeman,” said Katya sternly.
“A magistrate. An investigating magistrate,” corrected Porfiry, with an apologetic smile. “Porfiry Petrovich, madam,” he added with a bow.
“What is it about?” asked Anna Alexandrovna anxiously.
“Stepan Sergeyevich,” answered Katya, her voice strained. “He’s dead.”
Porfiry watched the quick transitions of Anna Alexandrovna’s face with interest. It was difficult to be certain about the precise emotion this news inspired in her, but Porfiry felt that genuine grief was part of it.
“I’m afraid that’s not all,” said Porfiry. “Borya-your yardkeeper, I believe-is also dead.” Porfiry glanced guiltily toward Katya.
Anna Alexandrovna shrieked. “Oh, this is terrible! Terrible!” she cried, a hand coming up to her suddenly white face. Katya rushed up to her and embraced her.
Porfiry’s bow was contrite. “There is no easy way to break such news.”
“Oh, poor Borya,” cried Anna Alexandrovna, pulling herself away from her maid’s support. “It’s all right, Katya. I’m all right.” But she staggered as Katya released her. Porfiry held out a hand that was rejected with a shake of the head. “Please, sir…?”
“Porfiry Petrovich,” Porfiry reminded her.
“Please, Porfiry Petrovich, would you accompany me into the drawing room?” She gestured toward a pair of double doors. “There is a samovar there. Katya, will you serve us some tea, my dear?”
The samovar gurgled and hissed agitatedly. Porfiry Petrovich and Anna Alexandrovna turned away from it as though with discretion. She gestured for him to sit on a gold and maroon Russian sofa. As he did so, a gust of wind rattled the panes.
The drawing room was lined in pale blue brocatelle, with gilt work on the rococo moldings. The air was humid with tea-scented steam. Silk curtains of the same blue were draped in swooping sections across three large windows. The light that filtered through cast a milky sheen over Anna Alexandrovna’s dark dress. Within a marble fireplace, short, quick flames peeped shyly out of a mountain of glowing coals.
“It’s such a shock,” said Anna Alexandrovna, looking out of the window, as if she were commenting on the sudden violence of the weather. “How did it happen?”
“I’m afraid it seems as if they were both murdered.”
“No!” She searched his face for a different answer.
“Their bodies were found together in Petrovsky Park.”
“Petrovsky Park?” There was no doubt about it. The mention of Petrovsky Park had startled her. But now her expression became guarded. She leaned back slightly from Porfiry. He watched her expectantly, but she gave nothing more away.
Porfiry accepted a glass of tea from the tray Katya held out to him. He slipped a sugar crystal between his teeth to sweeten it. He placed the glass on the low mahogany table that was in front of the sofa.