A Razor Wrapped in Silk (7 page)

‘I see.’

‘Prince Naryskin – the Naryskin family – is one of those connections she has made through her father.’

‘And what of Yelena Filippovna?’

‘What of her?’

‘Did Maria Petrovna know her?’

‘Yes. I believe so. They were at school together. At the Sm—’

‘Smolny Institute,’ finished Porfiry. ‘How very interesting.’

‘You do not think Maria Petrovna had anything to do with this?’

‘Do I not?’ Porfiry Petrovich met Virginsky’s anxious expression with a bland face and much blinking.

‘Will you wish to speak to her?’

‘I hope that I will have that pleasure before too long.’

‘She is very tired. She has already given a full statement to me.’

Porfiry Petrovich gave no answer to this, or none that Virginsky could understand. He merely rubbed the tops of both ears now with the tips of his index fingers while staring blankly into his junior colleague’s face.

*

Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky knew better than to press the point. He had been working with Porfiry Petrovich for a little over two years now and had become as skilled at divining his superior’s moods as at executing any of his more formal duties as a junior investigating magistrate. He knew that Porfiry Petrovich’s famous capriciousness was an essential part of the mysterious process by which he solved his cases. To attempt to curtail his eccentricity would be futile; as inconceivable as forbidding Porfiry his cigarettes. Certainly it was infuriating, as a colleague, to be on the receiving end of the old man’s puckish behaviour. He really ought to be able to confine such tricks to his dealings with suspects and, at a pinch, witnesses; regrettably he was not. At first it had amazed Virginsky how willing others in the department, including otherwise hardline police officers, were to tolerate Porfiry’s individualism, which, he had noticed, had become more extreme over time. Perhaps there were those who were only waiting for the celebrated investigator to fail. And then all the resentments that had built up over the years, the procedural irregularities, the wounded dignities, the nurtured humiliations, not to mention the ill-judged pranks – all this would be remembered and used against him. His downfall would be swift and irrevocable, Virginsky feared. Everything was permitted, or certainly a lot was overlooked, so long as Porfiry’s record as an investigator remained impeccable. Virginsky wondered how many failures
it would take before the tide turned against him and the chorus of his enemies was heard to cry: ‘You have gone too far this time, Porfiry Petrovich.’

Virginsky watched as the subject of his thoughts with a loud groan lowered his rotund form into a squat beside the dead woman.

‘I’m getting too old for this, Pavel Pavlovich.’

Virginsky was startled by the pronouncement, which seemed uncannily in tune with what he had been thinking.

Porfiry grunted as he re-arranged his legs. The difficulty of the manoeuvre provoked a fit of giggles which, given the proximity of a corpse, struck Virginsky as shockingly inappropriate.

‘Yes, this is not the occupation for an old man.’

‘You are not old, Porfiry Petrovich.’

‘Nonsense. I am old. And getting older. I am staring retirement in the face. Perhaps I should get out sooner rather than later, while my reputation is still intact. Why, whatever is the matter, Pavel Pavlovich?’

‘It is nothing … I … I was only wondering … How do you do it, Porfiry Petrovich?’

‘How do I do what?’

‘It seems almost, sometimes, as though you are able to read minds.’

‘So you were thinking that I am over the hill?’

‘No, not exactly. I was thinking that you have had a long and singularly successful career as an investigator.’

‘Diplomatically put, but it amounts to the same thing. I am yesterday’s man. While you are tomorrow’s. Besides, I have had my share of failure, although I do not look upon it as such. Even failure serves a purpose. We learn from it.’ Porfiry
Petrovich bent over the dead woman, almost pressing his face into the gash at her throat. ‘Damn these tired eyes. Look at me. I have to get so close to see in focus. Of course in so doing I block out the light.’

‘Perhaps you should consider spectacles.’

‘I am not a vain man, Pavel Pavlovich. However, I do not think that spectacles will create the right impression.’

‘But surely it is more a question of practicality than image?’

‘In this occupation, the two are more closely related than you imagine.’ Porfiry was now engaged in moving his head along the dead woman’s torso, rocking side to side from his pelvis in a mechanical linear motion.

‘What about a magnifying glass?’

‘I prefer to have nothing between my eye and the object I am observing. The curvature of a lens distorts reality. The surface distracts us with its glints and motes. Ah, now, when one is looking with the naked eye, however old and defective, one finds things like this!’ Porfiry pinched at the dead woman’s dress and lifted his hand away. Virginsky could see a fine trail of red drawn trembling through the air.

‘What is it?’

‘A thread, I believe. A red silk thread.’

‘How did it get there?’

‘You have an undoubted talent, Pavel Pavlovich, for asking the pertinent question.’ Porfiry sat upright and held the thread high. It was now completely detached from the body. ‘Tell me, did you discover anything interesting about the mirror?’

‘There are a number of smears on it.’

‘What number?’

‘Four.’

‘Thank you. Four smears. I appreciate your precision.’

After a moment’s thought, Virginsky added: ‘They are red. Most likely blood, I should imagine.’

‘Most likely?’

‘It seems a not unreasonable supposition.’

‘And what conclusion do you draw from this not unreasonable supposition?’

‘That someone has wiped the mirror …’

‘Go on.’

‘Clean of blood.’

‘Yes. It would appear so, if your not unreasonable supposition proves to be correct. Wiped clean. With what, I wonder?’

Virginsky looked around sharply.

‘Perhaps in the wardrobe?’ suggested Porfiry. ‘I thought I smelled something in there.’

Virginsky opened the first of the wardrobe doors. He thrust a hand into the hanging garments to part them, moving them along the rail one by one. Next he groped along the bottom of the wardrobe. He repeated the procedure through the other two doors. His movements were brisk and eager, as if he believed the energy of his search would be enough to produce what he was looking for.

In the base of the wardrobe were two large drawers. The first drawer was stiff and came out slowly. It appeared to be empty. When it was extended half way, Virginsky reached inside and ran his hand along every surface, probing the corners with his fingers.

‘Empty,’ he confirmed, pushing the drawer in with difficulty.

The second drawer had a smoother action, and came out without any resistance. It contained several items of pressed linen.

Virginsky closed the wardrobe and turned to Porfiry. His face was crestfallen.

‘Nothing? I must have been mistaken about the smell. Ah well … and so, Pavel Pavlovich, if the mirror was wiped clean, then we must presume that whatever was used to wipe it has been removed from the scene of the crime.’

Virginsky nodded hesitantly; the gesture indicated doubt rather than agreement.

‘Did anything else strike you about the smears of what is, most likely, blood?’

Virginsky was unable to call anything to mind. He watched in painful silence as Porfiry Petrovich wound the thread around his thumb. When the action was completed, Porfiry turned his gaze on Virginsky with a look of mild inquisition. ‘What shape do they make?’

‘They make the shape of the letter M,’ said Virginsky, quickly consulting the mirror.

‘The letter M, indeed.’

‘Rotated forty-five degrees on its axis.’

‘Thank you. Of course it could be a coincidence. If one were to wipe a looking glass, especially in haste, one’s hand would naturally describe a series of Ms.’ Porfiry mimed the action he was describing in the air. ‘Although one could just as easily wipe in a circular motion, in a series of Os.’ He changed the pattern of his mime. ‘Remind me, do we have any suspects whose names begin with O?’

‘No.’

‘Just one, whose name begins with M?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank God I have you with me, Pavel Pavlovich, to remind me of these essential details.’

*

Porfiry took hold of the dead woman’s right hand and turned it, repeatedly examining the palm and back. ‘She struck him, you said? The officer?’

‘Yes.’

Porfiry moved the hand slowly, as if in rehearsal of a slap. ‘It must have hurt.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘The ring on the middle finger is turned so that the stone protrudes inwardly – in the direction of the slap. It is a large and rather pointed cut ruby. There appears to be …’ Porfiry held the dead hand closer to his face, as if he were intending to lick the palm. ‘Something … it could be blood … on the tip.’ He now held and scrutinised each finger separately, paying particular attention to the fingernails. ‘There is not the usual sign of resistance. It seems death came quickly and stealthily to her, perhaps in the guise of a friend.’ He turned his attention to her left hand, which he held and turned as he had the other. ‘Three rings on the right hand, four rings on the left, including what looks like an engagement ring – a cluster of diamonds – on the third finger.’

‘Yelena Filippovna was recently engaged to Prince Sergei Nikolaevich Naryskin.’

‘I see. She also wears a thumb ring on this hand, a gold ring embossed with what appears to be a double-headed eagle.’

‘The imperial symbol,’ supplied Virginsky, his excitement barely contained.

‘The emblem of the house of Romanov, it is true,’ said Porfiry, with determined weariness. He laid the hand down and looked into the dead woman’s face. All the faces of the
dead held the same fleeting secret, and the longing that he felt when he gazed upon them was to share in it. All the dead looked out from her eyes. This was their time, while death was still fresh, before corruption had taken hold: their opportunity to lay their claims upon the living. ‘Did I ever tell you about my father, Pavel Pavlovich?’

‘No.’

‘He was a mining engineer, you know.’

‘I did not know.’

Porfiry Petrovich looked for his father in the dusk-tinged turquoise of her eye.

‘He was murdered.’

‘Good God.’

‘Who found the body?’

Virginsky was momentarily thrown. ‘This body?’

‘Of course.’

‘As far as we can tell, she was found by Aglaia Filippovna Polenova.’

‘The sister of the deceased?’

‘That is correct.’

‘I am puzzled by your uncertainty. As far as we can
tell
?’

‘Yes. We are not able to take a statement from Aglaia Filippovna.’

‘She has disappeared too?’

‘Not exactly. She fell into a dead faint, from which it has been impossible to rouse her. We may surmise that she discovered the body because it was she who raised the alarm and because of the severity of her reaction to her sister’s death. The shock of discovery seems to have unhinged her.’

‘Are you really suggesting that some of the horror of such an
event may be absorbed by a previous viewing? So that if she were not the first to see it, she would not have been so shocked?’

‘No, simply that if someone else had got to her sister first they might have prepared her. Besides, no one else has come forward.’

‘I see. Where is she now?’

‘She has been taken to a guest bedroom here in the palace.’

‘You will ensure that we are notified as soon as she recovers consciousness.’

‘I have already seen to it.’

‘What about this blood-spattered officer, Mizinchikov? Who saw him running away?’

‘A number of servants.’

‘Number?’

‘Two.’

‘A small number.’

‘I have also taken a corroborating statement from one Ivan Iakovich Bakhmutov.’

‘I see. And did any of these witnesses remark on the presence of a bloody cloth about Captain Mizinchikov’s person?’

‘No. But we did not know to put the question when we interviewed them.’

‘Isn’t it something that we might reasonably expect them to remark upon, even without prompting?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘And so, let us see where we may get to merely through an accumulation of suppositions. Let us suppose that the mirror was wiped clean of blood. That act must have produced a bloody cloth. However, we can find no bloody cloth in this room; therefore it must have been removed from the scene.
Captain Mizinchikov was seen running away from the scene of the crime, but he was not seen to have about him any such article – or at least no one remarked upon it. What may we conclude, provided that the first of our suppositions is correct, of course?’

‘That someone else carried the bloody cloth from the room.’

‘That is one possible conclusion, Pavel Pavlovich. Another is that Captain Mizinchikov secreted the bloody cloth about his person somehow. Perhaps the marks that witnesses interpreted as spatters of blood, were in fact evidence of blood seeping through from the inside of his tunic. He hid the offending article inside his clothes, only to have it reveal its presence in this way.’

‘That is hardly the most effective method of disposing of it, as it only succeeds in drawing unwanted attention to him.’

‘True, but we have to accept that the murderer was under intense pressure at this time. He may not have been thinking rationally. Individuals in these situations often improvise from one panic-stricken moment to the next. This is fortunate for the investigator, for it is while they are acting in this way that criminals make mistakes. At any rate, I fear that we will not be able to draw any definite conclusions just now.’

Porfiry was once again staring at the wound on Yelena Filippovna’s throat. It drew his face towards it, as if it exercised a peculiar magnetism.

‘Porfiry Petrovich!’

Virginsky’s sharp warning brought him upright. ‘What is it?’ Porfiry’s voice was thickened with tiredness.