A Razor Wrapped in Silk

13 Sanguinary expectations

A fine white mist rose off the Yekaterininsky Canal, as if it were generating obscurity. The vague silhouette of some vehicle, rattling over Kokushkin Bridge without lights, came towards them at speed. It turned out to be an empty drozhki, which Virginsky hailed at the last moment, almost as it was upon them. The driver stood swearing as he reined in his horse. Porfiry Petrovich almost threw himself into the frail cab, which shook under his weight. As always in a drozhki, it was a tight squeeze for the two men, and they sat with Porfiry’s arm around Virginsky back.

‘Will you wish to interview the Tsarevich?’ asked Virginsky, once the horse had settled into its stride.

‘Why should I?’

‘Because he was at the Naryskin Palace last night.’

‘Was he? I thought Prince Naryskin said otherwise.’

‘You did not believe him?’

‘The powerful create their own truth, which they are able to impose on the rest of us. It is left to us to adapt our truth to theirs.’

‘You cannot be serious, Porfiry Petrovich!’

‘I would expect that the Tsarevich has by now left Petersburg. Whilst I am perfectly at liberty to request his return, only the Tsar may command it. Before I petition the Tsar, let us first find Mizinchikov. Let us also speak to Aglaia Filippovna, if we are able.If those enquiries prove fruitless, then we reserve the right to extend our investigation to include ministers of state and, indeed, heirs to the imperial throne.’

‘Are you not concerned that you are shaping your investigation around the rank of your witnesses?’

‘No, though thank you for voicing that concern. I feel confident that if the Tsarevich had any information to impart concerning the death of Yelena Filippovna, he would have wasted no time in coming forward to volunteer it.’

Virginsky gave a half smile. ‘And yet last night you rebuked Prince Naryskin for allowing him and Count Tolstoy to leave.’

‘Did I? I don’t remember.’ Porfiry let his head loll back and closed his eyes. ‘There is nothing quite like riding through the mist in an open drozhki, do you not think?’

But Virginsky did not answer.

*

At the Naryskin Palace, Dr Pervoyedov stared into the dressing room mirror with a fixed frown, as though dismayed by his own reflection. And well he might be: his hair stood up in untameable clumps and his plaid overcoat had clearly seen better days. No doubt it was the overcoat of a busy man, but that consideration did not mitigate the obscure horror it inspired in all decent people. His face was bland and unprepossessing, distinguished only by the flush of high colour that often occupied it, the result of Dr Pervoyedov’s unfortunate propensity for tardiness, which he sought to rectify by constantly rushing between appointments. It might be said against him that he had two great faults. The first was that of taking on too many duties; the second, that of fulfilling them too conscientiously. Narcissism, however, was clearly not one of Dr Pervoyedov’s faults, and so Porfiry Petrovich thought it was reasonable to assume that something other than his mirror image had caught his eye.

‘So, you have found the smears, Dr Pervoyedov!’

‘Yes indeed, Porfiry Petrovich,’ said Dr Pervoyedov, addressing himself to the magistrate’s reflection. ‘Yes indeed.’

‘And what do you think they are?’

‘Goodness, Porfiry Petrovich! What can you mean by such a question? Are you asking me to hazard a guess?’

‘I would not dream of it.’

‘I am glad to hear it. Ve-ery glad to hear it.’

‘We — that is to say, Pavel Pavlovich and I — wondered if it might not be blood.’

‘That does not surprise me, Porfiry Petrovich. The nature of your work must encourage such sanguinary expectations.’

‘And your work does not?’

A good humoured smile kinked Dr Pervoyedov’s face in the mirror. ‘I make a point of suppressing expectations of any kind. Expectations are not consistent with a scientific outlook.’

‘A scientist is as capable of entertaining expectations as the next man. He merely calls them by different names.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Theories. Hypotheses. What are they if not expectations?’

‘But we always put them to the test.’

‘Good. That is what I want you to do with our … what was it you called them?’

‘Sanguinary expectations.’

‘Are you able to confirm whether the substance smeared on the mirror is blood or not?’

‘Not simply by looking at it, Porfiry Petrovich. There is, as far as I know, only one reliable test for the presence of blood — spectral analysis, as described by Sorby. You may know that it was used successfully in the Briggs murder case in London some years ago.’

‘I had read about it in one of my journals. I would not have asked you to do it, if I did not think it possible.’

‘Really? That is very considerate of you, I must say. Very considerate indeed. I will need to collect a sample and take it back to my laboratory.’

‘Are you able to do that now?’

‘If you wish.’ Dr Pervoyedov retrieved a scalpel and a circle of filter paper from his bag. He folded the paper to form a cone, which he held close to the mirror, beneath a section of one of the smears. ‘The substance, whatever it is, has dried.’

‘That is consistent with the behaviour of blood upon oxidisation, is it not?’ asked Porfiry.

Dr Pervoyedov gave no more than an ambiguous smile in answer to this.

‘So tell me, Dr Pervoyedov, what do you make of our cadaver?’

Dr Pervoyedov turned from the mirror to consider Yelena Filippovna. ‘She is a beauty. Or rather, was.’

‘Is such an opinion consistent with the scientific outlook?’

‘I dare say not. Will I be required to conduct an autopsy?’

‘I have yet to discuss the case with the prokuror. As you know, it will be his decision. In the meantime, I suggest we arrange for the body to be removed to the Obukhovsky Hospital morgue. Would that suit you?’

‘Very much so.’

‘I would also ask you to conduct your spectral test on a substance I detected on one of her rings. The large ruby ring on her right hand, the one turned inward. I have sanguinary expectations regarding it.’

‘It would be my pleasure.’

‘Now, Pavel Pavlovich, shall we visit the invalid? Perhaps it would interest you to accompany us, Dr Pervoyedov?’

‘What is this?’

‘Aglaia Filippovna, the dead woman’s sister,’ supplied Virginsky. ‘She succumbed to a nervous attack last night, which has rendered her unconscious. She revived briefly this morning, but according to the physician attending her, she has sunk into a coma. She is here at the palace.’

‘And how do you expect to interview a patient in a coma, Porfiry Petrovich?’

‘She may come round. In the meantime, I have some questions I would like to ask her doctor. Your presence would be invaluable.’

*

Aglaia Filippovna’s hair lay in a loose black halo over the pillow. There was an eggshell fragility to her head. Her skin seemed as thin as rice paper. Apart from where it veiled her eyes with purple shadows, it was pallid to the point of transparency. Her lips were slightly parted, which gave her face an ugly, unguarded expression. Her body lay as neat and unmoving as a pencil beneath the covers, arms pressed close to her sides, legs together.

The room was in semi-darkness; the drapes were partially drawn, allowing a torpid grey light to intrude without conviction. A fire had been lit in the grate, and its reflected glow filled and enlarged the bedroom, dancing in restless shifts across the ceiling.

A woman on the wrong side of middle age stood by the bed looking down at the invalid with appalled fascination. The woman was so stationary that she appeared almost to be a waxwork. It was conceivable that she had once been beautiful, but she was a long way from her heyday now. Her face had a sunken, sour expression, as if she were sucking on a bitter pill. Her dress was very dark, and in the gloom appeared black, or to have been sewn from a fabric of shadow. She did not look up when Porfiry and the others came into the room.

‘Madam?’

Slowly she lifted her head and revolved her eyes heavily towards Porfiry.

‘Madam, I am Porfiry Petrovich, the investigating magistrate.’

She met this information with a disappointed nod. Her eyes went back to watching Aglaia Filippovna.

‘I take it you are the lady of the house, Princess Naryskina?’

A slow blink seemed intended to confirm this supposition.

‘I wonder, madam, if we might be permitted to talk to the doctor who is responsible for the young lady’s care.’

Princess Naryskina turned to the nurse who was seated by the bed and released her with a prolonged sigh. The nurse hurried from the room with almost unseemly eagerness, as if she could not wait to be free of that torpid gaze.

‘Dr Muller is at this moment in the kitchen, enjoying the cook’s hospitality.’ Princess Naryskina’s voice was deep for a woman’s. She spoke with her chin against her collarbone, so that her words seemed choked out. She did not meet anyone’s eyes as she spoke. Perhaps once, her evasive glance had passed for coquettish shyness. In a woman of her maturity, it seemed suspect.

They waited in silence, Porfiry keeping his eyes on this interesting specimen of aristocratic womanhood, watching her with a lively smile.

At last, an elderly and rotund German, who had obviously spent a lifetime enjoying the hospitality of cooks, presented himself with patient equanimity. The dramatic circumstances of his patient’s sudden decline barely disturbed the essential stolidity of his character. He spoke slowly in a heavily accented and lulling monotone. It seemed that upon waking from her first sedated sleep, Aglaia Filippovna had become agitated. Pressed for details of this agitation by Dr Pervoyedov, he described a whole range of extraordinary symptoms, including uncontrollable laughter alternating with equally uncontrollable sobbing, muscular spasms, compulsive wringing of the hands, inarticulate shouting and the voicing of obscenities, all of which he catalogued under the general heading of hysteria. He also revealed that Aglaia Filippovna had ripped off the nightshirt with which she had been provided and run naked through the corridors of the palace. She had once again found her way on to the stage of the now empty theatre only to collapse in exactly the same spot she had the night before. Relieving her bladder where she lay, she had then suffered a seizure which the good Dr Muller had diagnosed as epileptic. He had naturally administered potassium bromide in solution; however, the patient had suffered an unfortunate reaction to the drug and had fallen into a bromide coma. This at least gave the nurse the opportunity to clean her, and, with the assistance of some of the servants, to return her to her bed.

‘Does the patient have a history of epilepsy?’ asked Dr Pervoyedov.

‘Not known.’

‘Is there epilepsy within the patient’s family?’

‘Not known.’

Porfiry ventured a question: ‘When do you expect her to regain consciousness?’

‘Not known.’ It seemed to Porfiry that Dr Muller took unwarranted satisfaction in being able to give the same answer.

‘Would you permit me to examine your patient?’ asked Dr Pervoyedov.

Dr Muller assented with an economical nod of the head.

Dr Pervoyedov peeled open the first of her eyes, revealing a purer turquoise than that of her sister. He bent his head close to hers and gazed into the small startling circle of colour. The eye stayed open when he took his hand away, and failed to track the finger that he moved in front of it. He repeated the examination on the other eye, with the same result. Next he pulled down the covers and lifted a frail arm. After feeling her pulse, he laid the other arm down with delicate precision, as if it were vital that it be replaced in exactly the same position.

‘More. There is more — to see.’

The abrupt bark of the elderly German doctor was startling enough. But when he pulled down the covers in a single and surprisingly energetic sweep, the effect was positively shocking. He did not stop there. He grabbed the lace-trimmed hem of Aglaia Filippovna’s night dress in fingers that now seemed obscenely thick and coarse and yanked it up, high above her waist, exposing her slightly parted legs and pubic hair. Her skin gleamed in the half light.

She did not stir. Her unblinking eyes continued to stare straight ahead. For a moment, no one spoke.

‘I notice it when she naked. See.’ Dr Muller pointed to a criss-cross of lines running up the side of her left leg and continuing past her hip to stop at the side of her abdomen.

‘What are they?’ came Virginsky’s hoarse whisper.

‘Scars,’ answered Dr Pervoyedov. Dr Muller nodded vigorously.

Now that it had been said, Virginsky could see that the lines were cut into her flesh and that they were red. Some of them appeared fresh, glistening crimson against the pallor of her skin. They brought to mind fine threads of silk laid across marble.

‘Who did this?’ Virginsky’s question was shot through with resignation. At that moment, he hated Porfiry Petrovich, for it was Porfiry who had forced him to confront it all, the surface scratches, the gaping wounds, the mangled flesh and bone, the erupted blood. He could almost believe that Porfiry took pleasure from it.

‘She did it to herself.’

Virginsky flinched away from Porfiry’s voice, as if there was something in it that he could not face: the realisation of his own injustice. There had been no hint of pleasure in that voice, only boundless compassion.

‘Cover her up,’ commanded Porfiry. ‘And close her eyes.’

Virginsky felt a surge of relief. His hatred for Porfiry Petrovich had passed.

Porfiry looked up at Princess Naryskina, and Virginsky followed his gaze unthinkingly.

She had not moved. However, the energy that might have gone into movement had instead intensified her unnaturally fixed stare, as it feasted on the network of wounds.