‘I’m amazed you can even suspect me,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Very strange!’
‘Don’t play the innocent, old bean!’ Polugradov told him. ‘No one’s going to suspect you without good reason, and if they do then they must have reasons!’
‘But whatever the reasons, however strong the evidence, you must be humane in your reasoning. I’m incapable of murder… do you understand? I simply couldn’t… So, how much is your evidence worth?’
‘Well, well!’ exclaimed the deputy prosecutor with a wave of the arm. ‘These educated criminals are a real pain in the neck: you can din things into a peasant’s head, but you just try and talk to these fellows! – “I’m incapable”, “humane” – they’re all going in for psychology these days!’
‘I’m not a criminal,’ Urbenin said, ‘and I must ask you to be more careful in your choice of words!’
‘Oh, do shut up, old bean! We’ve no time to apologize to the likes of you or listen to your complaints! If you don’t want to confess, then don’t, only please permit us to consider you a liar.’
‘As you wish,’ Urbenin growled. ‘You can do what you like with me… you’re in charge…’ He waved his arm apathetically and looked out of the window. ‘It’s all the same to me anyway,’ he continued, ‘my life’s ruined…’
‘Listen, Pyotr Yegorych,’ I said. ‘Yesterday and the day before you were so grief-stricken that you could barely keep on your feet, you could hardly answer briefly and to the point. Today, on the other hand, you seem to be positively flourishing – relatively speaking, of course – and you’re even indulging in resounding phrases. In fact, grief-stricken people aren’t usually very talkative, but not only are you being terribly long-winded, you’re even airing your petty grievances now. How do you explain such a sharp turnaround?’
‘How would you explain it?’ Urbenin asked, sarcastically screwing up his eyes at me.
‘I explain it by the fact that you’ve forgotten your part. After all, it’s difficult to keep up play-acting for long: either one forgets one’s part or one gets bored with it…’
‘That’s a typical lawyer’s invention!’ laughed Urbenin. ‘And it does honour to your resourcefulness. Yes, you’re right. I’ve undergone a big change.’
‘Can you explain it?’
‘Of course I can, I’ve no reason to conceal the fact. Yesterday I was so shattered and overwhelmed by grief that I thought I might take my own life… or that I’d go mad. But last night I thought better of it. It struck me that death had freed Olga from a life of debauchery, that it had wrested her from the filthy hands of the idle rake who’s ruined me. I’m not jealous of death, as long as Olga is better off in death’s clutches than the Count’s. This thought cheered me up and gave me strength. Now I’m not so heavy at heart.’
‘Neatly thought out,’ Polugradov said through his teeth and swinging one leg. ‘He’s not short of a reply!’
‘I feel I’m speaking sincerely and I’m amazed that educated men like yourselves can’t distinguish between sincerity and pretence! Besides, prejudice is all too powerful an emotion – it’s difficult not to err under its influence. I understand your position, I can imagine what will happen when they start trying me after they’ve accepted your evidence. I can imagine them taking my brutish face and my drunkenness into consideration. Well, I don’t have a brutish appearance, but prejudice will have its way…’
‘Fine, fine, that’s enough,’ said Polugradov, leaning over his papers. ‘Off with you now.’
When Urbenin had left we began questioning the Count. His Excellency attended the examination in his dressing-gown and with a vinegar compress on his head. After making Polugradov’s acquaintance he sprawled in an armchair and began his statement.
‘I’m going to tell you everything, right from the start. By the way, what’s that president of yours, Lionsky, up to these days? Hasn’t he divorced his wife yet? I bumped into him when I was in St Petersburg. Gentlemen, why don’t you order yourselves something? A drop of brandy always adds a little cheer to a conversation… yes, I’ve no doubts at all that Urbenin is guilty of this murder.’
And the Count told us everything that the reader already knows. At the prosecutor’s request he told of his life with Olga down to the very last detail and in describing the charms of life with a pretty woman he became so carried away that several times he smacked his lips and winked. From his statement I learnt one very important detail that the reader doesn’t know about. I discovered that when Urbenin was living in town he perpetually bombarded the Count with letters. In some of them he cursed him, in others he begged for his wife to be returned, promising to forget all the insults and infamy. The poor devil grasped at these letters like straws.
After questioning two or three coachmen, the deputy prosecutor ate a hearty dinner, reeled off a whole list of instructions for me and departed. Before driving off he went to the outbuilding where Urbenin was being detained and told him that our suspicions as to his guilt had become a certainty. Urbenin waved his arm despairingly and asked permission to attend his wife’s funeraclass="underline" this was granted.
Polugradov had not been lying to Urbenin. Yes, our suspicions had become certainties, we were convinced that we knew who the murderer was and that he was already in our hands. But this certainty didn’t stay with us for long!
XXVI
One fine morning, just as I was sealing a parcel for Urbenin to take with him to the town prison, I heard a dreadful noise. When I looked out of the window an engaging spectacle greeted my eyes: a dozen brawny youths were dragging one-eyed Kuzma out of the servants’ kitchen. Pale and dishevelled, his feet firmly planted on the ground and unable to defend himself with his hands, Kuzma was butting his assailants with his large head.
‘Yer ’onner, please go and sort it out, ’e don’t wanner go,’ the panic-stricken Ilya told me.
‘Who doesn’t want to go?’
‘The murderer.’
‘Which murderer?’
‘Kuzma… it’s ’im what done the murder, yer ’onner. Pyotr Yegorych’s suffering for what ’e ain’t done. I swear it, sir!’
I went outside and made my way to the servants’ kitchen, where Kuzma, having detached himself from those robust hands, was distributing clouts right and left.
‘What’s all this about?’ I asked, going over to the crowd.
I was told something strange and unexpected.
‘Yer ’onner, it’s Kuzma what murdered ’er!’
‘They’re lying!’ howled Kuzma. ‘God strike me down if they’re not lying!’
‘Then why did you – you son of the devil – wash away the blood if yer conscience is clear? You wait, ’is ’onner’ll sort it all out!’
When he was passing the river, Trifon the horse dealer happened to notice that Kuzma was hard at work washing something. At first Trifon thought that he was washing linen, but on closer inspection he saw that it was a tight-fitting coat and a waistcoat. This struck him as strange: cloth garments are never washed.
‘What are you doing?’ shouted Trifon.
Kuzma was taken aback. After an even closer look Trifon noticed reddish-brown spots on the coat.
‘I guessed immediately that it must be blood… I went into the kitchen and told ’em all there. They kept watch and that night they sees ’im hanging out the coat to dry in the garden. Well, ’e were scared stiff, ’e were. Why should ’e go and wash it if ’e were innersent? Must be crooked if ’e were trying to ’ide it. Racked our brains we did and in the end we hauls ’im off to yer ’onner. As we dragged ’im along he jibbed, like, and spat in our eyes. Why should ’e jib if ’e weren’t guilty?’