The Cleansing Flames

A timid creature

‘May I say something, Porfiry Petrovich?’ began Virginsky, as they walked back along Liteiny Prospect towards the Nevsky Prospect end. ‘And I hope you will not take it amiss.’

Porfiry blinked frantically as he gave consideration to Virginsky’s words. ‘If it is something that I may take amiss, then perhaps it is better not said.’

‘Very well. I will keep my thoughts to myself.’

Porfiry regarded Virginsky out of the corner of his eye, with an indulgent spasm of the lips. ‘Oh dear, Pavel Pavlovich, so easily discouraged? That’s not like you. I worry that you too often keep your counsel these days. It suggests either that you do not trust me, or that you do not trust yourself. I’m afraid to think which horrifies me more. To be honest, I don’t like either much.’

Virginsky frowned thoughtfully. This man — plump, ageing, short-winded, with his preposterously mannered tics, always blinking and smirking as if he were some silly lovesick girl and not a senior investigating magistrate — this man was constantly surprising him. It could only be because he, Virginsky, was constantly underestimating Porfiry Petrovich. He had fallen into the trap again, despite consciously being on his guard against it. And Porfiry, with just a few words and a sly, sidelong glance, had shown that he knew precisely what was going on in Virginsky’s soul.

‘How do you do it, Porfiry Petrovich?’

‘Is that what you were going to say?’

‘No. And you know that it was not.’

‘Very well. “How do I do it?” you ask. “How do I do what?” I ask.’

‘You have an unerring knack.’

Porfiry blinked expectantly.

‘For voicing the very thing that is on my mind.’

‘Oh? And what was that? I’ve forgotten what I said, you see. My memory is not unerring.’

‘You spoke of. . trust.’

‘And you hesitated, just now as you said the word. That is all there is to my knack, such as it is. I pay attention to the little signals.’

‘You feel that there is some loss of trust between us?’

‘Do you?’

‘Our differences. .’

‘Are as nothing. Nothing!’ cried Porfiry, with an emphatic wave of his arm.

‘. . may not be as easy to overcome as you might hope,’ insisted Virginsky.

‘What are you trying to tell me, Pavel Pavlovich? I hope to God it is not what I fear.’

‘I am a man of principles. I am no Kozodavlev.’

‘You judge him too quickly and perhaps too harshly. We do not yet know what has prompted him to act in the way he has.’

‘You defend him. That is because he flattered you in an article.’

‘Please, give me more credit than that. Who knows what lies behind Kozodavlev’s strange. .’ Porfiry pursed his lips as he waited for the right word to come to him.

Virginsky provided it: ‘Hypocrisy.’

Porfiry gave a remonstrative look.

‘What I was going to say,’ began Virginsky again, ‘is that I fear Kozodavlev may be a false trail.’

Porfiry smiled. ‘I am glad you have overcome your reticence. Please continue.’

‘We do not, in point of fact, have anything conclusive linking Kozodavlev to the man in the Winter Canal — the case we are supposed to be investigating, if I may remind you.’

‘We have the word of Apprentice Seaman Ordynov.’

‘Well, yes, we now know that Kozodavlev saw the sailors bring up the body. And that he failed to raise the alarm, as he had said he would. But that does not prove beyond doubt that he knew the man. He may simply have been frightened.’

‘There is also the letter that I received. The letter taken together with Ordynov’s testimony is conclusive.’

‘An anonymous letter.’

‘Handwriting comparisons strongly suggest it was written by him.’

‘You know that handwriting similarities are not conclusive,’ pointed out Virginsky. ‘And are indeed highly circumstantial. The fact is, there may have been someone else there, unnoticed by the sailors. That someone else may be the writer of the anonymous letter and the person who is connected to the body in the canal. It would be a strange coincidence, but it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that this other person has a similar handwriting style to Kozodavlev. You cannot build a case on conjecture based on the similarities of a number of unsigned writing samples. Any half-decent defence lawyer will tear it to shreds. With all due respect, if I may say so, Porfiry Petrovich, it is your vanity that led you to the offices of Affair, where you promptly found what you were looking for.’

‘Vanity? I — ’

Virginsky pressed on. ‘What if the letter was not written by Kozodavlev, after all? If there was someone else there, the writer of the letter, then we have been wasting our time. We are still wasting our time. If the man from the Winter Canal has nothing to do with Kozodavlev, then he has nothing to do with Affair, or Russian Soil, or the novel Swine. Or Prince Dolgoruky — whoever he may be.’

‘He appears to be a distant cousin of the Tsar’s current mistress,’ observed Porfiry tartly.

‘You wish to drag the Tsar into this?’

Porfiry’s expression was panic-stricken. ‘No! Please God, no! It is simply a curious coincidence. I am confident there is nothing more to it than that. The Dolgoruky family has multitudinous offshoots. Indeed, it is a name claimed by many, even those who have no right to it. Perhaps that is the case here with this Dolgoruky of Trudolyubov’s.’ They carried on walking in silence for some moments. ‘So, Pavel Pavlovich. What would you have us do?’

Virginsky gave an ineffectual shrug.

‘Nothing? Drop the case? Is that what you are suggesting?’

‘I fear that we must wait until we have a positive identification of the victim. Until we know for certain who the man in the canal was, we are chasing phantoms.’

‘But we may never have that.’

‘Then the case may never be solved.’

‘I confess I’m disappointed. I was hoping you were about to propose a wager.’

‘You know I do not gamble, Porfiry Petrovich. Particularly when it is to do with the execution of our professional duties. That is to reduce a matter of deadly seriousness to mere sport, is it not?’

‘Once again, I consider myself justifiably rebuked, Pavel Pavlovich.’

They continued several paces in silence.

‘But Kozodavlev is dead,’ ventured Porfiry at last. ‘And if the fire in which he perished was started deliberately, then that too is murder.’

‘But we have not been assigned to that case,’ Virginsky pointed out.

‘And what of the children? Whoever killed Kozodavlev killed them also.’

Virginsky did not reply. The speed with which the colour drained from his face indicated that Porfiry had touched a nerve.

‘You did not go to the graveside. You did not witness the mother’s collapse. She fell forward. Perhaps it was deliberate — she threw herself. At any rate, she had to be pulled out. The father. . the father’s cries. .’ Porfiry broke off. He lit a cigarette before continuing. ‘Have you ever been to the Zoological Gardens, Pavel Pavlovich?’

Virginsky hesitated before replying, ‘Y-yes.’ He was thinking back to Easter Sunday night.

‘His cries were like the bellow of a wounded beast. Such suffering cannot be borne. The landlady too was in a terrible state.’

‘If she had stayed with the children. .’

‘You will blame her? We must find out who lit that fire, Pavel Pavlovich, and bring them to justice. We promised. We promised Yekaterina Ivanovna — or have you forgotten?’

‘You promised.’

‘And you gave your promise too, I seem to remember.’

‘But we are not assigned to it.’ There was a despairing quality to Virginsky’s words, as if he was pleading with Porfiry to leave him alone.

Porfiry considered his junior colleague carefully for a few moments. ‘There is something about Kozodavlev that makes you uncomfortable,’ he said. ‘That you do not wish to look into. That is why you shy away from him.’

‘You are wide of the mark this time, Porfiry Petrovich.’ The despair in Virginsky’s voice tipped over into panic.

Porfiry continued to watch him closely. ‘Quite possibly. . dear boy,’ he said quietly, almost tenderly. They had reached the number of the apartment building where one branch of the Dolgoruky family resided. Porfiry looked up at it regretfully. ‘So what is it to be? Do we just go back to the bureau and wait for someone to recognise our corpse?’ He seemed to be waiting for Virginsky’s permission to enter.

‘Now that we are here. .’ began Virginsky sullenly.

It was like a trap springing open. Porfiry was away before Virginsky could finish speaking. He called something over his shoulder that could have been, ‘That’s the spirit!’ But it was lost in the speed of his flight up the steps.

*

The Dolgoruky apartments were, naturally, at the front of the building, looking out on Liteiny Prospect. They were on a grand scale, and seemed to be inhabited, at first sight, exclusively by servants.

As far as Porfiry was able to discover, the extensive household existed to serve the needs of one tiny individual, to whom he and Virginsky were eventually presented. The dowager Princess Yevgenia Alexeevna Dolgorukaya was like the hard kernel of the woman she had once been. Her face was the shape of an almond, and as deeply lined. Her lips were held in a permanent pucker of disapproval — or perhaps it was pain, caused by the severity with which her hair had been parted and pinned. She did not blink. As soon as Porfiry noticed this, he was greatly disconcerted by it. He immediately thought her capable of anything.

Her extremely diminutive stature, which was in inverse proportion to her importance in the household, was exaggerated by the voluminous skirt of her purple satin dress. The widow’s colour seemed to be a vortex of grief into which she was in danger of sinking. She was also dwarfed by a pair of enormous oriental vases balanced precariously on narrow stands and positioned at either side of the golden velvet sofa on which she was perched.

Seated next to her, though at the furthest possible distance on the same sofa, was a young woman working at an embroidery hoop. She was a pretty enough girl, thought Porfiry, though her expression was timid, almost cowed. It did not seem that she was the older woman’s daughter — more that her relationship to her was one of subservience, or indebtedness. At any rate, there was no clear family resemblance, and the companionship with which she provided the Princess did not seem to be freely given. Neither party gave any impression of deriving enjoyment from it.

Porfiry bowed as he introduced himself and Virginsky. The Princess invited them to be seated on a sofa that was positioned at right angles to her own. Somewhat inhibited by the semicircle of attendant maids and footmen, as well as the giant vases, Porfiry cleared his throat to state his business. ‘I regret the necessity of disturbing your peace, Madame. In point of fact, we wish to speak to Prince Konstantin Arsenevich Dolgoruky. Your son, perhaps? Is he by any chance at home?’

‘I know of no one by that name.’

When Porfiry had thought her capable of anything, his imagination had not encompassed this. ‘I beg your pardon? We were assured that this was the Dolgoruky family home, the same Dolgoruky family to which Prince Konstantin Arsenevich belongs. Is that not correct?’

She repeated her unblinking chant, as if it were the response in an often-repeated liturgy: ‘I know of no one by that name.’

The young woman next to her threw herself from the sofa as if it had suddenly come to life and bitten her. Her embroidery hoop fell to the floor. As she rushed from the room, her skirt, which was almost as voluminous as the Princess’s, brushed the stand of one of the oriental vases and set it rocking. The attendant servants watched mesmerised, as did Porfiry and Virginsky, as the vase tottered and at last toppled. The smash was devastating and magnificent.

No one moved, though all eyes turned on the dowager princess.

Surely now she must blink! thought Porfiry.

But as far as he could discern, she did not.

*

They were shown to the door by an elderly butler by the name of Alexey Yegorovich.

‘You have been with the family for a long time?’ ventured Porfiry.

‘All my life. I was a house serf, freed in the Great Reforms.’

‘And do you know of anyone by the name of Prince Konstantin Arsenevich Dolgoruky?’

‘Of course.’

‘Am I right in thinking he is Princess Dolgorukaya’s son?’

‘Yes.’

‘But she no longer acknowledges him?’

‘Clearly.’

‘And the reason for this has something to do with the young lady who ran most precipitously from the room?’

The butler’s face masked whatever feelings he may have had on the subject. ‘Marfa Timofyevna? I cannot say.’

‘You are very discreet. I commend you for that.’

‘I cannot say because I do not know. I am not privy to the confidences of either Princess Dolgorukaya or Marfa Timofyevna.’

‘But servants talk.’

‘Is it your business to gather the tittle-tattle of parlour maids? I for one pay no heed to it. I advise you to do the same.’

Porfiry acknowledged the rebuke with a series of blinks. ‘What about Prince Dolgoruky? Are you privy to his confidences?’

‘I have known the Prince since he was a babe in arms. I dandled him on my knee. My wife, God rest her soul, was his wet nurse.’

‘He confided in you?’

‘The Prince does not confide in anyone, wholly. Is he in any trouble?’

‘Would it surprise you if he were?’

The old servant did not reply, but his face fell eloquently.

Porfiry smiled. ‘I merely wish to speak to him about a gentleman who is known to be one of his associates.’

‘It is his associates who are to blame!’ said Alexey Yegorovich, forcefully.

‘Yes, of course. He has fallen in with a bad crowd. It often happens. It is this bad crowd that I am interested in. What we must do is separate Prince Dolgoruky from the bad crowd, so that his goodness can be allowed to flourish. Is that not so?’

‘He was not a bad little boy. Very sweet-natured and loving. He doted on my wife. As she did on him.’

‘Then there is certainly hope for Prince Dolgoruky now. What can you tell me about these associates?’

‘He did not generally receive his friends here. They are not such that you would admit into a respectable home.’

‘I see. And he never mentioned any names to you?’

Alexey Yegorovich shook his head doubtfully. ‘He may have. But the names meant nothing to me.’

‘Do you at least know where he is now?’

‘He is not far from here. In fact, he has merely crossed two courtyards.’ The butler looked up and down the hallway conspiratorially. ‘I sometimes take him things. Food. Books. Whatever he asks for that will not be missed.’

Porfiry thought for a moment. ‘I would like to show you some photographs.’

Alexey Yegorovich shook his head blankly at the image of the man taken from the Winter Canal, and in fact looked at Porfiry as if he were mad for showing it to him. The photograph of the staff of Affair provoked a more promising reaction, at least when Porfiry pointed out Kozodavlev.

‘I have seen him once or twice with that man. He may have even brought him to the house. I rather think the Prince considered him to be one of his more respectable friends.’

‘Do you know who he is?’

‘I believe the Prince referred to him as Demyan Antonovich.’

‘Thank you. The man is indeed Demyan Antonovich Kozodavlev.’

The click of a door handle turning drew their attention. The door in question creaked open a few inches, then closed again quickly. Porfiry thought that he had seen two moist, timid eyes peer out.

‘Marfa Timofyevna?’ he whispered to Alexey Yegorovich.

The butler nodded.

‘I would very much like to speak to her. It may help the Prince.’

The butler bowed and crossed to Marfa Timofyevna’s door, knocking gently. The door opened a crack, through which a whispered exchange was passed. At a nod from Alexey Yegorovich, Porfiry and Virginsky were admitted.

The room was tiny, the walls crowded with reproductions of mostly sentimental genre paintings.

Marfa Timofyevna indicated the bed for them to sit upon, but Porfiry declared that the interview need not take long. At that, the young lady swayed uncertainly on her feet.

‘But please,’ relented Porfiry. ‘By all means, you may sit down.’ He watched her solicitously for a few moments. ‘You are not well, Marfa Timofyevna? May we fetch you a glass of water?’

‘Thank you, no. That won’t be necessary. I am a little fatigued, that is all.’ She dabbed her eyes with a minuscule, lace-trimmed handkerchief.

Porfiry and Virginsky both felt awkward standing over the girl. Nodding simultaneously, they settled down on either side of her.

‘I could not help noticing,’ began Porfiry gently, ‘that when we were talking to Princess Dolgorukaya, you left the room in something of a hurry.’

‘Yes.’ Marfa Timofyevna gave a self-mocking smile that entirely won Porfiry over. He could not say which was more touching, its bravery or its fragility.

‘The reason, if I am not mistaken, has something to do with her rejection of her son, Prince Dolgoruky.’

‘I owe everything to Princess Dolgorukaya,’ said Marfa Timofyevna, hotly.

‘Yes, of course. I understand. That makes it very difficult for you to say anything against her.’

‘Is Konstantin Arsenevich in trouble?’

‘No. I merely wish to speak to him about a friend of his. Did he ever introduce you to any of his friends?’

Marfa Timofyevna shook her head quickly, almost violently. For the first time, she turned her eyes directly on Porfiry. ‘It is not what you think.’ She looked away sharply, as soon as she had confided this.

‘Ah, it is interesting that you should say so, as I am not sure what I think.’ Porfiry smiled.

Marfa Timofyevna’s tone darkened. ‘You think that Konstantin Arsenevich seduced me.’

‘And that is not what happened?’

‘I. .’ Marfa Timofyevna bit her lower lip and closed her eyes. She could not bring herself to say any more.

‘Yes, I think I understand,’ said Porfiry, softly. ‘And so, perhaps, you hold yourself responsible for the Prince’s exile from his family home?’

Marfa Timofyevna seemed shocked by the suggestion. ‘No, I. .! Why do you say that?’

‘Then, forgive me, I do not understand. Except that I understand how painful and delicate these affairs are. And that the truth of the matter is often very different to the way it is vulgarly represented. What is left out — quite often — are the feelings. How the heart is stirred. Noble, beautiful — and above all delicate — feelings. But if you take those away, what are you left with? For they are the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth. Without allowing for those feelings, then you are only dealing with a travesty of the truth. A lie, in other words.’

Marfa Timofyevna’s mouth was open in a wondering O. She studied Porfiry’s eyes carefully. ‘I knew what was said about him,’ she said at last. ‘The rumours.’

‘Which were?’ Porfiry asked the question a little too eagerly.

Marfa Timofyevna shook her head impatiently. ‘Oh, that he had seduced many women. That he kept three apartments, with a separate mistress in each. That he had committed crimes.’

‘Crimes?’

‘Yes. And blasphemies.’

‘You knew all this,’ stated Porfiry, his tone confirmatory.

‘I had heard all the rumours. The very worst. I heard them all from him, you see.’

‘From Konstantin Arsenevich?’

‘Yes. He often said such things against himself, as if to frighten me. But I would not be deterred. And so, he arranged for the printing of a manifesto in which he accused himself — and condemned himself — of the vilest crimes. He brought it willingly to me.’

‘How extraordinary.’

‘He told me that every word in it was true. He told me to read it carefully, and if, at the end of reading it, I still loved him, then he would be mine, mine alone, for ever.’

‘And so?’

Marfa Timofyevna gave a sudden startling sob that convulsed her whole body. ‘I was not good enough!’ she gasped.

‘You could not love him,’ said Porfiry flatly.

Marfa Timofyevna squeezed her eyelids tight.

‘May I see this document?’

‘I don’t. . have it. . anymore.’ Marfa Timofyevna’s eyes were glistening. ‘I realise now that he is gone, that I do, I can, I must love him. It is his only hope. And mine.’

‘And what of Princess Dolgorukaya? Does she know of this document? Had she read it? Is that the true reason why she cast him out?’

‘I. .’ Marfa Timofyevna’s eyes widened in recollection of the single most appalling act of her young life. ‘I took it to her.’

‘What has become of it now, do you know?’

‘She destroyed it, of course.’

Porfiry absorbed the news with a flutter of blinking. ‘Can you remember any of the charges that the Prince laid against himself?’

‘You will not hear them from me. You may torture me all you want, but I will not say a word of what was printed on that paper.’

‘My dear young lady — please! — be assured that I have no intention of torturing you!’

‘They were lies anyhow. I realise that now. Lies he had made up to test me. And I failed. Oh, how I failed!’

Porfiry laid a hand consolingly across one of hers. She looked up, startled by his touch. Her eyes implored him for some consoling word. Her face trembled with anguish and despair.

‘If you have a message for him, I will happily convey it,’ Porfiry offered.

Marfa Timofyevna breathed in deeply, drawing herself up fully, only to collapse in defeat on the exhalation. She hung her head and waited for them to go.