The Cleansing Flames

Dolgoruky at peace

The following day, Virginsky noticed a new quality in Varvara Alexeevna’s reserve towards him. It no longer seemed that she was afraid of him. Now he believed he noticed something like contempt in her demeanour towards him. She regarded him, he felt, as one might a marked man. Her replies to his mostly innocent questions concerning household matters were tinged with a mocking tone that seemed to say: Just you wait, my lad. Just you wait.

Kirill Kirillovich lingered over breakfast, and indeed both of them today seemed reluctant to leave him alone in the apartment, so that all three of them were at home when the first visitor of the day called. What struck Virginsky was that whoever it was failed to use the coded knock. The urgent, formless hammering set their hearts racing: What could it mean? Who could it be?

They were somehow shocked to discover that it was Alyosha Afanasevich Botkin, in a state of supreme agitation. The reason for his excitement was quickly revealed: ‘Dolgoruky is dead.’

Varvara Alexeevna, who had revealed her fondness for the Prince — for all his faults — at her husband’s name day, let out a small yelp of horror.

‘Hanged himself,’ continued Botkin ruthlessly. ‘Here. He left this.’ Botkin thrust out a piece of paper which Virginsky recognised as Dolgoruky’s printed confession. There was a handwritten addendum scribbled at the bottom.

Varvara Alexeevna was the first to snatch the sheet. She read it with ferocious concentration. When she had finished, she glared at Virginsky. The contempt he had sensed before had now hardened to hatred. She thrust the confession in his hand. He read: My thanks to the Magistrate-Slayer, who told me what I must do. By the time you read this, I will be at peace. Prince Konstantin Arsenevich Dolgoruky.

‘I don’t know what he means. You know Dolgoruky is a liar. He is lying even in this. I can tell you for certain that this confession omits an important detail of one of his crimes. The child he raped killed herself. That is what drove him to suicide. Nothing that I said to him.’

‘How do you know this?’ asked Kirill Kirillovich.

‘He told me. He showed me this yesterday.’

‘This man,’ began Varvara Alexeevna slowly, ‘is not what he seems. He is a police agent. An infiltrator. I saw him pass a note to a spy who was watching the apartment.’

‘That’s not true!’ But Virginsky’s childish blush betrayed him.

‘He threw a paper dart from the window and it was picked up by the spy. In addition to that, he continues to ask questions like a magistrate. And he acts without any caution, as if he is not afraid of getting caught. Yesterday he went out with the Prince. And he simply left his service uniform out for anyone to see. A man who was really in hiding would not be so careless.’

‘But how can this be?’ wondered Botkin. ‘He shot his superior.’

‘The man survived the attack!’ said Varvara Alexeevna. ‘All I can say is he did not try very hard to kill him.’

Kirill Kirillovich turned a look of sour distrust on Virginsky. Botkin’s expression was one of utter disillusionment.

‘I confess,’ began Virginsky, ‘that my attack on Porfiry Petrovich was intended to be symbolic, rather than necessarily fatal. As I think I have already explained, it didn’t matter to me whether he lived or died. To have shot him in his chambers was enough. My own experience, as an investigator, of gunshot wounds is that death is not always immediate. He may not be dead yet, but that does not mean he will not die soon. As far as I could tell, he lost a lot of blood. For a man of his age and physique and general health, it will be difficult for him to get over that. It is ironic that Dolgoruky yesterday proposed that we should go to the Obukhovsky Hospital to finish him off. I should have agreed. But I was concerned that we had no authorisation from the central committee. If it is so very important to you that Porfiry Petrovich die, I will go there today and make sure of it.’

‘You won’t be able to get within a vershok of him,’ said Kirill Kirillovich. ‘As you well know! For another thing, we do not intend to let you out of our sight. Not until we have heard from the central committee what they want us to do with you.’

‘But what is this about a note?’ demanded Botkin, struggling to process Varvara Alexeevna’s allegations. ‘Who was the man you passed the note to?’

Virginsky looked from one face to another. He saw nothing in any of them that offered hope. ‘It’s true. The man I passed a note to is a spy. And I am an infiltrator. But we are not working on behalf of the police. We are part of another revolutionary grouping. We found out about your group’s activities and it was decided that we ought to investigate. Believe it or not, there are two central committees and it seems that they have nothing to do with one another. Certainly, this is how the situation appears to the foot soldiers on the ground. I have been sent in to infiltrate your people to discover whether you can be trusted, with a view to bringing our groups together and co-ordinating our activities. I must confess that Tatyana Ruslanovna’s belief that there is already a police agent in your midst concerned me greatly, as did Dolgoruky’s erratic behaviour. I communicated as much to my people.’

‘Why did your group not approach us directly?’ demanded Kirill Kirillovich.

‘It is not wise to do anything directly. One simply does not know who to trust. I admit my clandestine behaviour may have backfired. I regret that I was not more open with you, Alyosha Afanasevich, but you must understand that I was obeying the commands of my own central committee.’

‘This is all a lie!’ cried Varvara Alexeevna wildly.

‘One thing will prove I am telling the truth. The death of Porfiry Petrovich. I sincerely believe it is only a question of time. I urge you to await more news on that front before you dismiss me as a police spy.’

‘You seem certain, now, that he will die. You did not before,’ observed Botkin warily.

‘In all honesty, I don’t know how he has survived this long.’

‘We must consult with the central committee,’ advised Kirill Kirillovich. ‘Our central committee. They will decide what your fate should be. I would not hold out too much hope, if I were you. Even if your story proves to be true, they will not be favourably impressed by the deception you have used.’

‘You must take me to see Dyavol. I will talk to him directly and put myself at his mercy. I have things to tell him that I cannot disclose to anyone else. I believe I know who the spy in your midst is.’

A startled energy transmitted itself between Botkin, Kirill Kirillovich and Varvara Alexeevna. It was Varvara Alexeevna who spoke for them all: ‘You are accusing one of us! Oh, you are very clever, but you will come unstuck! The truth will come out in the end. We’ll wind in the pail and discover it cracked.’

‘Naturally, we will communicate what you have said to the central committee,’ said Botkin. ‘They will decide what is to become of you. I warn you, they do not look kindly on those who would betray the cause.’

‘Do what you must do,’ said Virginsky. ‘I have nothing to fear.’

Botkin nodded sharply and deeply, his head scything the air like an executioner’s blade.

*

Kirill Kirillovich stayed with him for the rest of that day, refusing, however, to enter into conversation of any kind. All Virginsky’s questions — ‘When will Botkin be back?’ ‘Has he gone to consult with the central committee?’ ‘How long will it take them to come to a decision?’ And even, ‘Is this how it was with Pseldonimov?’ — were met with resolute silence. There was an element of punishment to this, of course. But Virginsky also got the impression that the other man did not quite trust himself. Either he was afraid that he would give away something that might be useful to a potential enemy of the cause, or that he would be swayed by Virginsky’s persuasive arguments.

Virginsky expected the central committee to act swiftly. That is to say, he expected the end at any moment. But the hours dragged on, even without Varvara Alexeevna’s ormolu clock to mark them out.

When Varvara Alexeevna herself returned at the end of her working day, she gave Virginsky a new look. Her usual suspicion was shadowed, for the first time, by something Virginsky recognised as doubt, the source of which seemed to be the copy of the Police Gazette she was clutching. She took Kirill Kirillovich into the bedroom for an urgent conference.

Soon after this, Botkin returned. The three of them came together into the main room, bearing down on Virginsky with the angry glowers of wolves that had been cheated of their prey. ‘It seems you have been granted a reprieve,’ said Botkin. ‘According to the late edition of the Police Gazette, your magistrate’s condition has deteriorated sharply. The central committee has decided to await the outcome of your attack before determining your fate. If he dies, you will be hailed as a hero of the revolution.’

‘And if he lives?’

‘If I were you, I would pray that he dies. And that his death is verifiable.’

‘And in the meantime, I am to be treated like a convict?’

‘Of course. Or, to be more exact, like a condemned man who has received a stay of execution.’ The old sarcastic smile settled once more on Botkin’s lips, like an animal that had been driven from its lair at last returning.