The Gentle Axe

A Well-Ordered Household

The following morning, as he had promised, Porfiry Petrovich called for Virginsky. He brought with him a pair of laborer’s boots. They were not brand-new but they were in good condition.

Virginsky sat on the edge of his bed and looked down at the boots between his feet. His toes poked out of threadbare stockings. The nails were overgrown and yellow. The skin in places burned an angry red.

“Why have you brought me these?”

“You are in need of a stout pair of boots.”

“I am in need of many things. Do you consider it your duty to provide me with it all?”

“I need your help. I want you to come with me to the house in Bolshaya Morskaya Street.”

“I told you enough to find it, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but I think it will be interesting for you to come.”

“Is this part of your investigative technique?”

“You’re very suspicious. Are you studying law, by any chance?”

“I was. I hope one day to resume my studies. When my finances allow it.”

“And have you considered what you will do when you’ve graduated?”

“I imagine I will be a lawyer. An advocate in the new courts.”

“So you believe in the rule of law?”

“I believe I will be able to exonerate the guilty as well as the next fool.”

“You’re not so cynical as all that.”

“What else is one to do with a law degree?”

“You could be a magistrate. An investigating magistrate.”

“In that case I’ll be performing the opposite function. Incriminating the innocent.”

Porfiry smiled indulgently. “I take it back. You are a cynic.”

Virginsky put one foot tentatively into a boot. “It’s too loose.”

“You could put extra stockings on.”

“Do you have extra stockings with you too?”

“Of course not. Surely you…?”

“I am wearing all the clothes I own.”

“It’s not necessary for you to live in this way.”

Virginsky ignored the remark and tried the other foot. “Where did you get these boots from?”

“Where do you think?”

“I think they came from a dead man.”

Porfiry pursed his lips with amusement.

“They’re not too bad after all,” said Virginsky, standing.

They walked north along Gorokhovaya Street. The Admiralty spire glinted ahead of them, a fine gold blade piercing the bright sky, like the memory of an inescapable crime in the city’s heart. The great thoroughfare glistened and smoked. Huge apartment buildings squatted on either side, presenting rows and rows of windows diminishing into the distance. Porfiry had a sense of all the lives lived out behind those blank panes. For some, such vistas brought to mind a theater backdrop. But for Porfiry, the city’s uniform facades were more like an impenetrable stone curtain. The tragedies took place behind rather than in front of them.

Virginsky smirked with private amusement as his boots pushed firmly through the recent layer of snow.

“What is it?” asked Porfiry.

“Oh, nothing. Except you have bought me for a pair of boots. That is how cheaply I have bartered my soul. Not that I have a soul.”

“You don’t believe in the soul?”

“I didn’t say that. I just said I didn’t have one. But no, seeing as you asked, I don’t believe in the soul. Or in God. Or the devil. Or any of that superstitious rot. Just as well really. If Mephistopheles himself were to come before me with an offer, I don’t reckon much for my chances of holding out.”

“So you compare me to Mephistopheles? But it’s not a question of selling your soul. You want to find out who killed your friends, don’t you? And you talk of becoming a lawyer. Really, you can’t be both a nihilist and a practitioner of law. Your position is fraught with contradictions.”

“Yes. Which is another reason why I despise myself.”

“Do you like your boots?” asked Porfiry after they had walked another few paces.

“I like the fact that they don’t let in the snow.”

“That is a perfectly reasonable position.”

“Tell me,” began Virginsky with some diffidence.

“Yes?”

“Am I not a suspect?”

Porfiry thought for a moment, then replied, “I don’t have a suspect yet.”

“Let’s say I am a suspect. Does it not complicate the issue, involving me in the investigation like this?”

“Let’s say you are a suspect. I will learn something from watching you react to the people in the house where Goryanchikov and Borya lived.”

“So I am a suspect?”

Porfiry gave his pursed smile again.

“This is a game to you,” said Virginsky accusingly.

“But let’s say you’re not a suspect. I much prefer to say you’re not a suspect. Even so, both victims were known to you. It is possible that the murderer is also someone known to you, perhaps someone who lives in the house, who may be there this morning. Your presence may provoke an interesting revelation. Oh, by the way, I may as well ask you this. It could save me a lot of trouble. Do you have any idea who could have killed them?”

“Do you think I would have kept it to myself if I knew?”

“Of course not. But you once said Goryanchikov had many enemies. How about Borya?”

“The only enemy Borya had was Goryanchikov. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“Not really. Whoever killed them wanted to make it look like Borya had killed Goryanchikov and then killed himself. I expect I shall hear much about how the two men hated each other.”

“It’s true, though.”

“Last night I went to Fräulein Keller’s,” said Porfiry abruptly. Virginsky faltered in his step. Porfiry watched him. “The boots?” asked Porfiry blandly.

“They’re still a little loose.”

“Your friend Lilya wasn’t there. It’s Fräulein Keller’s opinion that she’s found herself a rich protector.”

“Is that how it is?”

“If you believe Fräulein Keller.”

“Why are you so sure that Lilya has something to do with this?”

“I’m not. But Lilya herself presented me with a small mystery. The mysterious Konstantin Kirillovich.” Again Porfiry watched Virginsky closely. “It is a coincidence that Lilya should come to our notice the night before an anonymous note was received alerting us to the two bodies in Petrovsky Park. A coincidence that I should see Lilya at Lippevechsel’s Tenements when I came over to see you yesterday. As an investigator, one learns to mistrust coincidences. I discover she is known to you. And you, I’m afraid, are the only person I have so far whom I can link to the two dead men. So Lilya is also linked.”

“But it’s all nonsense. It means nothing. It could lead you nowhere.”

“Yes. But so far it’s all I have to go on.”

“Besides, there are lots of other people who knew them both. It’s just you haven’t met them yet.”

“Today I hope to rectify that,” said Porfiry, as he came to a halt. They had reached Bolshaya Morskaya Street. “Now then. Seven, seventeen, or seventy? Which is it? I wonder.”

“It’s that one,” said Virginsky. He pointed out a pink house in a three-story terrace on the other side of the street. The building was recently built, within the last twenty years. It was highly ornamented with lion’s-head relief panels set into the stonework, ionic pilasters on the second story, and even caryatids-massive female sculpted figures-framing the passageways that led to the courtyards behind.

“An elegant building,” commented Porfiry, though his voice lacked the warmth of approval. “Who would have thought it was home to two victims of murder? Perhaps the caryatids provide a clue. I always think of murder victims when I see the stone inhabitants of Petersburg.”

“That’s very fanciful of you.”

“No doubt. It must be something to do with my occupation. Too many unsolved cases, I’m afraid. I seem to see the dead appealing for justice everywhere I look. And yet their faces seem strangely calm, do you not think? As if they are reconciled to their fate.”

“Who could be reconciled to such a burden?”

“You mean the burden of supporting the upper stories?” asked Porfiry with a smile.

“I mean the burden of being a woman. They are women, aren’t they?”

“These ones are. One does see men, of course. Technically, the male figures are atlantes. Shall we go in?”

Looking from the house to Virginsky, Porfiry noticed that the student’s face showed signs of sudden agitation.

“You can’t force me to.” His eyes were fixed on the pink house, but his head was leaning backward as if subject to a force of repulsion.

“My dear friend, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Well then, I won’t do it. I’ve brought you here. I’ve pointed it out. That’s enough.” The force of repulsion acted now on his whole body. He began to edge away from Porfiry. The next moment he turned on his heels and broke into a wide-paced run. Without slowing his step, he called over his shoulder, “Boots! Excellent!”

Porfiry had the impression he was grinning.

The number of the house turned out to be 17. An additional sign indicated that the house belonged to the widow of State Councilor S. P. Ivolgin.

The door, which was to the left of the central caryatid-framed passageway, gave directly onto the street. The maid who opened it was dressed in a neat gray dress with a well-starched apron over it. Her hair was tied up inside a clean white cap. She had an attractive, intelligent face. Porfiry sensed a spirited independence that he could imagine crossing over into pride or even impertinence. Her eyes were questioning without being suspicious. There was a slight impatience in her demeanor that suggested he had dragged her away from some important work. He guessed her age at around thirty.

“Good day,” began Porfiry. “Is this the home of Goryanchikov, the student?”

“Yes?”

“May I speak to Goryanchikov?”

“He’s not here. He hasn’t been here for several days.”

“Have you any idea where he is?”

Porfiry felt himself subject to her scrutinizing gaze.

“I’m Porfiry Petrovich, an investigating magistrate. It is to do with a serious criminal matter.” Porfiry looked away down the street, then back into her undaunted gray eyes. “Perhaps it would be better if I came inside.”

The maid agreed without hesitation, bowing slightly as she closed the door behind him.

Porfiry looked down at a highly polished parquet floor. The hall was warm and comfortably furnished without being ostentatious. Rugs from the Caucases hung on the walls, and one lay on the floor. A faintly spicy smell pleasantly stimulated his nostrils.

“I think you had better talk to Anna Alexandrovna.”

“Your mistress? The Widow Ivolgina?”

“Yes.”

“Of course. But I would like to talk to you first. What is your name?”

“Katya.”

“When was the last time you saw Goryanchikov, Katya?”

“Stepan Sergeyevich. His name is Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov.”

“I see. So when was the last time you saw Stepan Sergeyevich?”

Katya thought carefully before answering. “Four days ago.”

“Is it normal for him not to come home for so long?”

“No. Sometimes we don’t see him for a day or two. But four days is unusual.”

“Did you think nothing of it?”

“I was beginning to think something of it.”

“What were you beginning to think?”

“He’d done a moonlight flit. He owes Anna Alexandrovna a fortune in rent.”

“I see. And what was Anna Alexandrovna’s view?”

“She thought the same. We thought we would never see him again. And that she would never see the money. What’s all this about?” Katya asked abruptly.

“I am afraid Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov is dead.”

Katya’s brows came together in a frown as she took in the news. Then an expression something like horror opened up on her face. “Borya!” she cried.

“Why do you say that?”

“Borya killed him, didn’t he? They had a row. Borya threatened him with an axe. It was shortly before Stepan Sergeyevich disappeared.” Her head was trembling perceptibly.

“What was the argument about?”

“I don’t know. What do men ever argue about?”

Before Porfiry could answer, another female voice called from a room at the back of the hall: “Katya! What is it, Katya? I need you in here.” The appeal was followed by the muted clatter of pots.

Katya gave Porfiry a quick look that seemed to have something accusing about it, as if he were to blame for bringing all this on them. That glance left him in no doubt of the depth and force of her protective feelings toward her mistress.

A moment later this lady herself came out from the kitchen, her head tilted upward, poised between inquiry and annoyance. When she saw Porfiry, her expression became guarded. She looked to Katya for some explanation. The maid returned a warning but, in contrast to her mistress, seemed unabashed.

Anna Alexandrovna was dressed simply. Her dark hair was neatly pinned. Her face was still youthful, with a flush of color at her cheeks. Hers was a soft beauty, its malleability such that every touch of experience had compromised rather than enhanced it. Looking into her eyes, which she allowed him to do only for a split second, Porfiry saw that she was older than he had first thought. He saw a glance complicated by caution and disillusion. Porfiry remembered Virginsky mentioning a daughter and wondered briefly what kind of a man State Councilor Ivolgin had been; wealthy certainly, judging from the house he had left to her. The same house also hinted at his ambition and even pretension.

“I did not realize we had a visitor,” she said, dipping her gaze below Porfiry’s face. “I was grinding cinnamon. I needed Katya’s help. I didn’t realize…” Porfiry was touched that she was flustered on his account. She brought with her another scent besides the cinnamon, the faint hint of her perfume. Porfiry was aware of how different it was, in intent and effect, from Lilya’s. It was a clean, uncomplicated fragrance.

“This gentleman is a policeman,” said Katya sternly.

“A magistrate. An investigating magistrate,” corrected Porfiry, with an apologetic smile. “Porfiry Petrovich, madam,” he added with a bow.

“What is it about?” asked Anna Alexandrovna anxiously.

“Stepan Sergeyevich,” answered Katya, her voice strained. “He’s dead.”

Porfiry watched the quick transitions of Anna Alexandrovna’s face with interest. It was difficult to be certain about the precise emotion this news inspired in her, but Porfiry felt that genuine grief was part of it.

“I’m afraid that’s not all,” said Porfiry. “Borya-your yardkeeper, I believe-is also dead.” Porfiry glanced guiltily toward Katya.

Anna Alexandrovna shrieked. “Oh, this is terrible! Terrible!” she cried, a hand coming up to her suddenly white face. Katya rushed up to her and embraced her.

Porfiry’s bow was contrite. “There is no easy way to break such news.”

“Oh, poor Borya,” cried Anna Alexandrovna, pulling herself away from her maid’s support. “It’s all right, Katya. I’m all right.” But she staggered as Katya released her. Porfiry held out a hand that was rejected with a shake of the head. “Please, sir…?”

“Porfiry Petrovich,” Porfiry reminded her.

“Please, Porfiry Petrovich, would you accompany me into the drawing room?” She gestured toward a pair of double doors. “There is a samovar there. Katya, will you serve us some tea, my dear?”

The samovar gurgled and hissed agitatedly. Porfiry Petrovich and Anna Alexandrovna turned away from it as though with discretion. She gestured for him to sit on a gold and maroon Russian sofa. As he did so, a gust of wind rattled the panes.

The drawing room was lined in pale blue brocatelle, with gilt work on the rococo moldings. The air was humid with tea-scented steam. Silk curtains of the same blue were draped in swooping sections across three large windows. The light that filtered through cast a milky sheen over Anna Alexandrovna’s dark dress. Within a marble fireplace, short, quick flames peeped shyly out of a mountain of glowing coals.

“It’s such a shock,” said Anna Alexandrovna, looking out of the window, as if she were commenting on the sudden violence of the weather. “How did it happen?”

“I’m afraid it seems as if they were both murdered.”

“No!” She searched his face for a different answer.

“Their bodies were found together in Petrovsky Park.”

“Petrovsky Park?” There was no doubt about it. The mention of Petrovsky Park had startled her. But now her expression became guarded. She leaned back slightly from Porfiry. He watched her expectantly, but she gave nothing more away.

Porfiry accepted a glass of tea from the tray Katya held out to him. He slipped a sugar crystal between his teeth to sweeten it. He placed the glass on the low mahogany table that was in front of the sofa.

“Katya informed me that Borya and Goryanchikov-Stepan Sergeyevich, that is-quarreled shortly before Stepan Sergeyevich disappeared.”

“Yes. That’s right. Everyone heard it.”

“Everyone? Who else lives in the house?”

“My daughter, Sofiya. And Osip Maximovich. And Vadim Vasilyevich. However, Osip Maximovich was not here on the day of the quarrel.”

“Who are these gentlemen?”

“Osip Maximovich rents the second floor. Vadim Vasilyevich lodges with him and serves him in the capacity of a secretary. He also has a manservant, Artur.”

“Is there anyone else in your household?”

“Yes, there is Marfa Denisovna. She was Sofiya’s nurse when she was younger. She lives with us still. And Lizaveta, our cook.”

“You have a cook, and yet you were grinding your own cinnamon?” Porfiry teased her.

“There are some jobs I like to do in the kitchen, both because they give me pleasure and because I don’t like to leave them to others.”

Porfiry nodded his understanding and tried to make up for his gentle mockery by blinking repeatedly. Anna Alexandrovna seemed startled. “We will want to speak to everyone in the house,” he said more seriously. “One of my officers will come back this afternoon to take statements.”

“But Osip Maximovich and Vadim Vasilyevich will be at the publishing house.”

“The publishing house?”

“Osip Maximovich is a publisher.”

“I see. You said that Osip Maximovich was not here on the day of the argument. Do you know where he was?”

“He was staying in a monastery in Kaluga province.”

“Optina Pustyn?”

“That’s right. He was on retreat.”

“When did he leave for Optina Pustyn?”

“Oh, weeks before. I mean, possibly two weeks before.”

“Did he go alone?”

“Yes. Vadim Vasilyevich took him to the station and saw him off.”

“But Vadim Vasilyevich was here in the house at the time of the argument?”

Anna Alexandrovna thought for a moment before replying: “I think so, yes. It’s hard to say for sure.”

“And when did Osip Maximovich return?”

“Last night.”

“Only last night? I see. And as for Borya…when did you notice that Borya was missing? Presumably you had noticed that Borya was missing.”

“Yes, of course, but…Borya often disappears. He can go missing for days.”

“He is a drunkard,” put in Katya, whom Porfiry was surprised to discover had not left the room, merely withdrawn into the peripheral gloom.

“Was he drunk when he argued with Stepan Sergeyevich?”

“When wasn’t he drunk?” commented Katya without concealing her disgust.

“Katya!” pleaded Anna Alexandrovna. Her eyes widened in admonition.

“Anna Alexandrovna, can you tell me what Borya and Stepan Sergeyevich argued about?”

“They were always arguing. Stepan Sergeyevich took pleasure in goading Borya. Stepan Sergeyevich was an intellectual. He questioned everything. Borya was a simple man. A man of faith. Everything he believed in, Stepan Sergeyevich ridiculed.”

“But what brought it to a head?”

“I don’t know that it was brought to a head. Why do you say it was brought to a head?” There was evasion in her question.

“Katya informed me that Borya threatened to kill Stepan Sergeyevich.”

“Borya would never kill anyone,” protested Anna Alexandrovna feelingly.

“But would you say this row was any worse than any of the others they had had?”

“Oh, things were said, certainly.”

“What things?”

“Please! How can I be expected to know?”

“Where did the argument take place? Can you tell me that?”

“In the yard. Borya was in his shed. Stepan Sergeyevich was in the yard, shouting into the shed.”

“What was he wearing?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Stepan Sergeyevich, what was he wearing?”

“His shuba, I think. Yes, I’m sure of it. He would have been. He never went out without his shuba on. He was very proud of it. He had it made specially, of course. To fit.”

“That’s interesting. He owed you money, I understand. And yet he could afford to have a fur coat made.”

“From time to time Stepan Sergeyevich would do work for Osip Maximovich. Translations. He was paid most generously. But the money never lasted.”

“I hope you will forgive my next question, but it occurs to me and so I must ask it. That is the way it is with investigations.”

Anna Alexandrovna looked anxious but said nothing.

“How did such a man as Stepan Sergeyevich Goryanchikov come to be living in your house?”

“He came to us when my husband was still alive.”

“I see. It was your late husband’s wish that Stepan Sergeyevich reside here?”

“My husband agreed to it, and so I suppose he must have wished it,” said Anna Alexandrovna.

Porfiry blinked excessively again as he took in the tension in her expression. At last he said: “I would like to search Stepan Sergeyevich’s room. And also to have a look in Borya’s shed. Did Borya have an axe?”

“Yes, of course. He had many axes.”

“Of course, what yardkeeper doesn’t have a good collection of axes! Even so, it is useful to have it confirmed. Especially as I expect that I will find one of his axes missing.”

“He killed him with the axe!” cried Katya.

“An axe is involved in these crimes, that’s true,” said Porfiry, turning to Katya. “But I’m curious to know why you are so convinced that Borya killed Stepan Sergeyevich. I have not said that.”

“And Borya was murdered too, Katya.” Anna Alexandrovna appealed to Porfiry: “You did say that they were both murdered?”

“Apparently.”

“Was it with the axe?” pressed Katya.

Porfiry smiled but didn’t answer. “Perhaps you would show me to Stepan Sergeyevich’s room?” He placed the glass on the tray and stood up.

Porfiry stooped to enter the room, a tiny space with sloping walls in the apex of the house.

“It’s very cramped,” he observed to Katya, who had shown him up.

“Stepan Sergeyevich was comfortable enough,” she answered from the doorway. There was not room for them both inside. “He didn’t need anywhere bigger. He never complained.”

Porfiry took in the details of the dead man’s lodging: the child-sized bed tucked beneath the eaves, the desk and single chair, both sawed off at the legs. The other furniture consisted of an enormous-seeming ottoman and an ornately carved trunk of dark wood. Through a small dormer window he looked down on Srednyaya Meshchanskaya Street. The sky was darkening. It seemed that there was a blizzard thickening in the air. But the room was warm: the heat of the house rose into it. Unlike the highly varnished parquet of the lower apartments, the floor was of rough boards. The room was clean, however. Porfiry looked around for an icon on the white-painted walls but did not see one.

On the desk, there was a neat pile of paper and an open book. Porfiry lifted the book to glance at the cover. It was the first volume of Proudhon’s Philosophie de la misère.

“The Philosophy of Misery,” said Porfiry aloud. The book was open on page 334. A phrase from the middle of the page, underlined in red ink, drew his attention: “J’insiste donc sur mon accusation.” Porfiry returned the book to the desk. He picked up the top sheet from the pile of paper. He saw that it bore-written in a flamboyant hand and also in red ink-a Russian translation of the page he had just glanced at. In it, the phrase “I insist therefore on my accusation” was also underlined. In the Russian version, the words immediately following this were: “The father of Faith will be the destroyer of Wisdom.” Startled by the strange statement, he checked the original French text. There, after the underlined phrase, he read: “Sous le régime aboli par Luther et la révolution française, l’homme, autant que le comportait le progrès de son industrie, pouvait être heureux…” The Russian translation of this phrase-“Under the regime abolished by Luther and the French Revolution man could be happy in proportion to the progress of his industry…”-came only after the interpolation concerning the father of Faith.

Porfiry placed the sheet back on top of the pile and turned to Katya with a smile. “And you keep it tidy for him. It seems to me Anna Alexandrovna runs a well-ordered household. She is a good mistress, I would say.”

“The best.”

“Tell me, did anything else unusual happen on the day of the argument? Did Goryanchikov or Borya have any visitors, for example?”

“There was a boy,” answered Katya with surprise.

“A boy? What boy is this?”

“I don’t know. I had never seen him before. It was strange. He insisted on seeing Stepan Sergeyevich. And on his way out he called on Borya in his shed. Soon after that they had their argument. And soon after that Stepan Sergeyevich went out.”

“Wearing his shuba?”

“Of course…as Anna Alexandrovna has said.”

“And how soon after Stepan Sergeyevich went out did you notice that Borya was missing?”

“Well, of course, the yard needed clearing. We couldn’t open the door for the snow. We had to ask Osip Maximovich’s man Artur to do it for us. He wasn’t happy about that, I can tell you. Considers himself above such tasks.”

“And who has kept the yard clear for you in Borya’s absence?”

“Anna Alexandrovna has come to an arrangement with one of the neighbors’ yardkeepers. He sometimes helps us out when Borya goes missing.”

“This boy interests me. Was he a friend of Anna Alexandrovna’s daughter perhaps?”

“No!” cried Katya, outraged at the suggestion. “He was a scruffy little urchin. Sofiya Sergeyevna would have nothing to do with the likes of him. Besides, he was only about ten years old.”

“And how old is Sofiya Sergeyevna?”

“She was thirteen at her last birthday.”

“I see. Tell me more about this boy. Did you speak to him?”

“I answered the door to him. And I would have shut the door in his filthy face too if Stepan Sergeyevich hadn’t come down and seen him.”

“Did Stepan Sergeyevich know the boy?”

“I don’t think so. But he heard him asking for him by name.”

“So he had the boy admitted and brought him up here to his room? How long did the boy stay?”

“Not long. Ten minutes at the most. If that.”

“Does Stepan Sergeyevich give lessons as a tutor?”

“Not anymore. And this boy was not the sort of boy to have lessons. He had a stupid face.”

“You took against the boy, I can see.”

“He left a trail of dirty footprints throughout the house. It was a job to get them out.”

“And what about Stepan Sergeyevich? Did you like Stepan Sergeyevich?”

The question went unanswered.

“Katya?”

“One should not speak ill of the dead.”

“He was a difficult man to like, though, wasn’t he?”

“He was a devil.”

“Do you know a friend of Goryanchikov’s called Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky?”

“I believe there is a gentleman of that name who visited from time to time.”

“Did he visit on the day of Goryanchikov’s disappearance?”

“No. However, it’s strange you mentioned it…He called to visit Stepan Sergeyevich yesterday.”

“Yesterday? What time was this?”

“It was late. Very late. Anna Alexandrovna and her daughter had both gone to bed. He knocked the whole house up.”

“And he asked to see Stepan Sergeyevich?”

“He demanded to be admitted to his room.”

Porfiry fumbled in his pockets for his enameled cigarette case. A severe frown from Katya deterred him from opening it. Nonetheless, in this instance, he found the touch of it stimulating enough.

OUTSIDE, Porfiry finally lit the cigarette he craved. The blizzard he had seen massing from Goryanchikov’s room had blown itself out. But the courtyard had already been cleared. Porfiry felt sorry for Borya, whose death had been so quickly and easily compensated for, as if erased beneath a snowfall.

Inside the yardkeeper’s shed it was as if the objects of his life were shaping themselves around the fact of his death, around his physical absence. There was an old paint-spattered wooden chair, its seat worn and polished by many sittings. It was crammed in next to a folding card table, the baize threadbare and stained. The samovar on it seemed to possess an air of mournful disappointment. Chipped cups milled around it without purpose. The sawdust had settled on the floor, around an assortment of bricks and logs. The bottom of a barrel was propped up against one of the shed’s sides. Life continued only in the cobwebs that grew heedless over the tools and tins of his occupation.

Porfiry backhanded a line in the air, a conjurer’s gesture, as he checked off the row of hanging axes. But of course, he did not need to do this. He could see perfectly well where the missing axe should be. He could judge too, from its position in the hierarchy of axes, that its size matched that of the bloodied axe found on Borya.

He stared at the gap and wondered at the mind that had chosen this axe over the three others hanging there. The second-smallest axe had been taken. The chances were that it was snatched in haste. But even so, some exercise of intent must have been involved, whether conscious or unconscious. Why, for example, was the smallest axe not taken, which would surely have been more convenient? The axe, or rather the absence of this particular axe, had to point at something. It was in precisely such a detail that the killer would betray himself.

Porfiry brought his hand back and in the air drew a vertical line up and then back down the gap formed by the missing axe. He realized that he had crossed himself. His hand came to rest on a small birch box that lay on the shelf beneath the axes. He picked up the box and discovered that it was locked.

In an upstairs apartment, seated alone at a card table, Marfa Denisovna looked down at hands disfigured by warts. She laid out the cards for a game of solitaire. She accepted the fall of the cards in the same way as she had accepted her warts, and all the other things sent by God. Without pleasure or complaint.

Marfa Denisovna was sixty-six, as old as the century. It was a convenient coincidence, because if she ever forgot her age, she only had to ask the year.

Deep peach-stone whorls lined her face. She lacked lips entirely and showed as little as possible of her eyes. Her body was wiry and compact. There was not much to her physically, but she was far from frail. The passage of time had worn away all softness from her, leaving a human kernel. Her shoulders were draped in an enormous black shawl. A delicate lace bonnet seemed out of place on her tightly pinned-up, almost metallically hard gray hair.

She did not look up as Anna Alexandrovna came in.

“Has he gone?”

“Yes.”

“Who was he?”

“An investigator.”

“What did he want?”

“They have found Stepan Sergeyevich and Borya.”

Marfa Denisovna moved the ace of spades up.

“Dead. They are both dead.” Anna Alexandrovna’s voice was distant and empty.

Marfa Denisovna moved the seven of hearts across, placing it on the eight of clubs.

“Marfa Denisovna? Did you hear me?” Now there was an edge of panic to the younger woman’s voice.

“I heard you.”

“He asked about the argument.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him what I had to.”

“So. Stepanushka is dead. Poor Stepanushka. Ah well, it was meant to be. God did not look favorably on his life. His deformity was a punishment.”

“But why should he have been punished? It was not his sin.”

“He was not the only one punished.” Marfa Denisovna laid down the cards and spread out her fingers. There was not one that was without a wart. In places the clusters of nodules distorted the shape of the finger. It had not escaped Marfa Denisovna’s notice that her affliction made it harder for her to place her hands together in prayer. She picked up the cards again and dealt out the next three.

“They will be back. The authorities. A policeman will come to take statements from us all,” said Anna Alexandrovna hurriedly.

Marfa Denisovna at last looked up at Anna Alexandrovna, though with eyes that were barely visible. “I have always taken good care of this family. You need not be afraid on my account.”

“I’m not afraid.”

Marfa Denisovna continued playing in silence. At last she said, “I took care of things before, didn’t I? And I will take care of things again. God’s will be done.”