A Razor Wrapped in Silk

42 The double-headed eagle

‘How extraordinary, Porfiry Petrovich!’ declared Nikodim Fomich. He stared at the magistrate in amazement, as if he could hardly believe his eyes. ‘There’s not a scratch on you! Blessed saints preserve you! There you are, sitting at your desk as if nothing had happened! How you had the foresight to wear that leather collar around your neck, I shall never know.’

Porfiry affected a look of weary disdain. ‘It is metal encased in leather. I must express my gratitude to Major Verkhotsev, who had the greater foresight to equip me with it. I knew that I had delivered a shock to Aglaia Filippovna’s system. For her to hear news of another child murdered in the same manner as she had committed her crimes was simply beyond her comprehension. She had successfully gained mastery over almost every aspect of her physiology, but she could not control her emotions when Princess Naryskina read out the article from the St Petersburg Gazette.’

‘Which you say was written by your manservant Slava?’

‘It would seem so. He was at least the source of the information. At any rate, Aglaia Filippovna’s surprise betrayed her. Only the murderer of the first three children would be shocked to hear that a fourth had been killed. She opened her eyes involuntarily and was met by the sight of the towel that had been used to mop up her sister’s blood. At the same time, she felt my fingers toying at the base of her thumb, at the very place where the ring would have been when she carried out her crimes. I was letting her know that I suspected her.’

‘Without question, it is that that provoked her attack. You brought it on yourself.’

‘It was essential to put some pressure on her, to force her into revealing herself.’

‘But when did you first suspect her?’ The question came from Virginsky, who was at the window, his back to the room. The day was overcast with a heavy quilt of cloud. Virginsky’s voice came heavy with resentment.

‘Once, when we were called to the palace because Aglaia Filippovna had come round briefly, I noticed that she toyed compulsively with her thumb, as if twisting something endlessly round and round. The gesture made no sense to me at the time as we had not yet discovered the children’s remains, with the tell-tale bruises. Indeed, I forgot all about it, until the day that I was summoned to see the Tsar. I noticed that he had the nervous habit of twisting a ring on one of his fingers. Somehow in my mind, the pieces fell into place. I realised that that was what Aglaia Filippovna had been doing, although the ring itself was lacking.’

‘Remarkable,’ declared Nikodim Fomich, who was striding the room delightedly. ‘But then to suspect her of murdering her sister! Could there be a more unnatural crime, or one more difficult to conceive of?’

‘For any normal person, perhaps. But here is a girl who had already murdered her mother.’

‘Good Lord!’

‘Or so I believe. Her father committed suicide, without question. But the circumstances of her mother’s death are less clear. It is conjecture — I accept — but nonetheless it is reasonable to believe that Aglaia Filippovna had a hand in it, especially considering her later career. Mention of her parents’ deaths certainly aroused my suspicions with regard to the violent demise of her sister. To lose a father, a mother and a sister … one has to wonder. One often finds that a suicide in the family initiates a preoccupation with death. It is as if a door is opened. Death becomes familiar. It also gains a certain viability as a solution to one’s problems. Most often, it sets an example that can be followed. In this case, I believe, her father’s suicide triggered a murderous propensity. The tragic event occurred during her adolescence, a period of intense emotional upheaval at the best of times. We can imagine that she loved her father dearly, perhaps jealously. No doubt she blamed her mother for his death, and conceived a way to exact revenge.’

‘Has she confessed to this?’ asked Nikodim Fomich hopefully.

‘No. She has fallen back on her favourite evasive strategy. She is feigning unconsciousness again. Playing dead, we might almost say. Nevertheless, even if we do not go so far as to accuse Aglaia Filippovna of matricide — a charge we will never be able to prove — even so, it is not unreasonable to assume that the double loss of her parents at such an age had a devastating effect on her young psyche. Her sister, too, was thrown into turmoil, as evidenced by her wayward and promiscuous life. We may put it this way: one sought to heal herself through excessive love, the other through excessive hate.’

‘But why?’ demanded Virginsky, crossing to Porfiry’s desk. ‘Why did she kill her sister? Why did she kill the children? Why did she do any of it?’

‘I confess I do not yet have answers to all the questions that this case raises. The most impenetrable question of all is why. I suspect it has something to do with the one individual at the centre of all this.’

‘Maria Petrovna.’

‘Yes. She is the link between the sisters and the dead children. I suggest we call on her at our soonest convenience,’ said Porfiry, rising.

‘Before you go,’ cut in Nikodim Fomich, ‘I have a question which perhaps you can answer. It’s to do with Captain Mizinchikov. How did he get blood on him? Have you worked that out?’

Porfiry directed a display of impatient blinking towards Nikodim Fomich and sighed. ‘That is the only question you have? You have no questions regarding the illicit trade in cadavers conducted by the men under your command? A trade I am told you condone and indeed have engaged in, and which, I might say, considerably hampered our investigation.’

‘Who has told you this?’

‘Lieutenant Salytov. A man you admire for his skill in extracting confessions.’

‘And the primary transgressor in this affair. Did it not occur to you that he may have sought to implicate me in order to deter you from pursuing the matter?’

‘Do you swear to me that you have never profited from the sale of an unidentified and unclaimed body?’

‘There will be an enquiry, Porfiry Petrovich. I am confident that I will be found blameless.’

‘That is not the same thing.’ Porfiry’s voice was leaden with disillusionment. He would not meet Nikodim Fomich’s defiantly cheerful countenance.

‘But what of the blood stains?’ There was a desperate jollity to Nikodim Fomich’s tone. He was trying to win Porfiry over by appealing to his cleverness.

‘Pavel Pavlovich, do you remember the first time we visited Aglaia Filippovna, when Dr Muller lifted her nightdress and showed us the wounds on her leg?’

‘Yes.’

‘I believe she harvested her own blood, and somehow engineered to disseminate it on to Captain Mizinchikov, in order to incriminate him and direct attention away from herself. Nothing in a murder case screams so loudly and distractingly as blood.’

‘Good heavens!’

‘When Captain Mizinchikov entered the dressing room, she held out a hand, pointing at him, almost touching him.’ Porfiry mimed the gesture, reaching his hand towards Nikodim Fomich. ‘What if she had had something concealed in the closed palm of her hand?’

‘Something? What exactly?’

‘It came to me when Princess Naryskina tipped out the contents of her handbag. Although in truth, I think I had an inkling of it from the very beginning of the investigation, from that night at the Naryskin Palace. I went into the theatre and saw a woman spray herself with scent from an atomiser.’

‘An atomiser?’

‘The bulb of an atomiser, adapted to release a coarser jet than usual. It could easily be concealed in the hand.’

‘What happened to it? Why did we not find it?’ said Virginsky.

‘A good question. I have come to the opinion that the emblem of the double-headed eagle has a great significance to this case, though not in the way we formerly imagined. It does not incriminate a member of the Romanov family, as you once suggested, Pavel Pavlovich. Its significance is rather more subtle and almost serendipitous. The use of this particular ring was after all forced on Aglaia Filippovna. Allowing for that, I believe it operates unconsciously to reveal the presence of an accomplice. Do you remember the anonymous note sent with a fine red thread, claiming a political aspect to Yelena Filippovna’s murder? Aglaia Filippovna did not send that. It was her intention to blame Captain Mizinchikov for her sister’s murder, not to credit a political tendency.’ Noticing a questioning frown across Virginsky’s brow, Porfiry went on: ‘Perhaps to punish him for some slight or insult, we cannot know.’

Virginsky’s frown dissipated into an expression of wonder. ‘For loving Yelena! She was jealous of her sister, always jealous of her!’

‘A very interesting supposition, my friend.’ Porfiry smiled for Virginsky, in pointed contrast to the coldness of his expression towards Nikodim Fomich. ‘However, be that as it may, the point is that I discern two contrary wills at work here, that is to say, two heads pointing in opposing directions. For Aglaia Filippovna, the drive to murder always originated in the personal. Her crimes were the violent eruptions of an intense emotional life. In many ways, she was the victim of her own wild and ravening ego. She wrought destruction on everything that opposed her. No wonder that she sought escape in oblivion. We must allow that she is not entirely a monster. Perhaps horror at her ultimate crime, the murder of her own sister, overwhelmed her. On the other hand, I detect in that note a more utilitarian mind at work. A mind capable of recognising the destructive capabilities of a damaged child and exploiting them for its own wider purposes.’ Porfiry’s head jerked sideways as if physically struck by a realisation. The colour drained from his face and his eyes bulged with alarm. ‘Come, Pavel Pavlovich. I fear it is a matter of urgency that we talk to Maria Petrovna.’

*

There was no sign of Maria Petrovna at the school over the carpenter’s shop. They found only one child in her classroom, a girl of about nine years, who was seated patiently on the front bench, a slate on her lap in readiness. She turned to face them with wide, wondering eyes beneath a domed brow.

‘Maria Petrovna?’ demanded Porfiry.

The girl gave a mighty shrug and sighed.

‘Where are all the other children?’

‘Gone.’

‘Why then are you still here, child?’

The girl could only answer with another shrug.

‘Porfiry Petrovich,’ said Virginsky, pointing to the black board. On it was written NO SCHOOL TODAY.

‘You must go home, darling. Can you not read? There is no school today.’

‘She will come back. She will not leave us.’ The girl turned back to face the front.

Porfiry and Virginsky exchanged a look of understanding and left her to her expectancy.

They found the priest, Father Anfim, coming out of the other classroom.

‘Where is Maria Petrovna?’

‘You have just missed her,’ said the priest.

‘And Perkhotin?’

‘He has gone too.’

‘Where have they gone?’

‘I do not know. Neither Maria Petrovna nor Apollon Mikhailovich saw fit to share that information with me.’

‘They left together?’

‘Yes. I arrived for an unscheduled inspection. The two of them pushed past me on the stairs. I came up to find the children running riot in both classrooms. I have just sent the last of them home — apart from that rather simple girl in Maria Petrovna’s classroom, who simply refuses to go. She is convinced Maria Petrovna will return. I never would have expected such conduct from Maria Petrovna. Apollon Mikhailovich is another matter. He is a fowl of different feathers. Him I consider capable of anything.’

‘I share your fears, Father. And unless we find Maria Petrovna, I fear it may be the end for her too. Did she or Perkhotin say anything to you on their way out?’

‘He told me to get out of his damn way. I told him to go to Hell. He laughed and said that was precisely where he intended to go.’

‘I see. And did Maria Petrovna say anything?’

‘She … was more polite. She begged me not to be cross. Nor to be afraid, which I thought extraordinary, I must say. It had not occurred to me to be afraid. She said that something very urgent had come up and she had to go with Apollon Mikhailovich. The life of a friend depended on it, she said.’

‘The life of a friend? What could she have meant by that?’ wondered Porfiry.

‘Where do you think they went?’ Virginsky’s eyes locked on to Porfiry’s. There was a note of touching dependence in his voice. It really did seem that deep down he believed Porfiry capable of answering any question asked of him.

‘Perhaps we will find some clues in Perkhotin’s classroom.’

This answer seemed to satisfy Virginsky, or at least hold his burgeoning panic at bay. Without the animation of the children who cascaded daily into it, the classroom seemed stale as well as still. There was an air of abandonment to it. The figures in the illustrated alphabet on the wall were frozen and mute, giving the impression that the room had been locked into one moment of time.

The priest had followed them into the room and was watching closely as the two magistrates cast about, straining for a significant detail to jump out at them.

A line of text was written on the blackboard, partially smudged as if someone had half-heartedly attempted to erase it; or rather, not so much to erase the words, as to add a flourish to them.

‘Out of the … something, the something?’ read Virginsky, quizzically.

‘Out of the eater, the eaten,’ supplied Porfiry. ‘You must recognise it, Father Anfim.’

‘It is Samson’s riddle to the Philistines,’ confirmed the priest. ‘Out of the eater, the eaten. Out of the strong, the sweet.’

‘Of course. You see, you needn’t have worried. Your atheist Perkhotin was teaching scripture.’

‘I do not believe that!’ blustered Father Anfim.

‘To be honest, neither do I. Do you see that, Pavel Pavlovich? The pattern made by the movement of the eraser across the board? A line moving diagonally up and down in a zig-zag.’

‘The letter M! Just like on the mirror!’

‘I feel certain we have found our accomplice.’

‘Perkhotin?’

‘We know that he taught Maria Petrovna at the Smolny Institute. He must also have made the acquaintance of the Polenov sisters too.’ Porfiry was standing in front of the blackboard, peering into its dust-smeared surface as if into a fog from which he expected figures to emerge. ‘Now all we have to do is work out what he means by this. Samson fought the lion. He ripped it apart with his bare hands. A nest of bees settled inside the lion’s carcass and Samson ate their honey. Is that not the story, Father Anfim?’

‘Yes, that’s correct. Judges, chapter fourteen.’

‘You could take it as a religious text, or equally a revolutionary one. The lion is the state. Samson is the revolutionary fighter, Perkhotin in this case, who brings about a sweet boon through a cataclysmic destructive act.’

‘This does not help us!’ cried Virginsky. ‘It doesn’t tell us where he has taken her.’

‘In these situations, it is imperative to remain calm. We are attempting to navigate the unfathomable pathways of the mind, and of a very peculiar type of mind too. It is possible that, like the two-headed eagle, this message has a double valence. It may be that he has inadvertently betrayed himself in writing this. Or perhaps he has left it here intentionally for us to find. It may be that he wishes to lead us to him. If I am not mistaken about his character, it is dominated by vanity. This is always the case with men such as Perkhotin. School masters, I mean. They put themselves in a position where they are cleverer than everyone around them. I feel he is testing us. Are we clever enough to solve his riddle?’

‘I considered becoming a school master,’ said Virginsky with sullen resentment. ‘If my life had followed a different path — one that did not bring me into contact with you — that may very well have been the career I would have chosen. I do not consider it a profession for the vain. Humility and dedication to service are rather the qualities I would associate with it.’

‘I apologise, Pavel Pavlovich, to you and all school masters. No doubt you are right. No doubt it is my own vanity that induces me to view others through the distorting prism of that defect. I will hazard that there is no vainer class of professional man than the investigating magistrate. And that is why I am determined to solve his riddle. Indeed, I feel that it is already solved in my mind.’

‘So? What is the solution?’

‘The children who were murdered by Aglaia Filippovna … what links them?’

‘They were all pupils at this school?’

‘What else?’

‘They were all factory workers.’

‘Yes. Factory workers. To be more precise, they all worked, in fact, at foreign-owned factories.’

‘That is true. But what of it?’

‘Samson’s riddle. Why think of Samson’s riddle now? Unless a certain address in St Petersburg put Samson’s name into his mind and suggested the riddle, which is particularly apt to his intentions.’

‘Samsonyevsky Prospekt.’

‘Very good, Pavel Pavlovich. Samsonyevsky Prospekt. There is, I believe, a prominent foreign-owned factory that lies between Samsonyevsky Prospekt and the Vyborgskaya Embankment. On Samson’s Quay, in fact.’

‘The Nobel Factory! You think he has taken her there? But why?’

‘Time is of the essence, Pavel Pavlovich. Let us find a drozhki. We can talk on the way.’