A Razor Wrapped in Silk (44 page)
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Your stutter has gone, Prince Sergei. The act of accusing your father has cured you.’
The younger prince blinked out his bemusement. ‘Will you not arrest him?’
‘I cannot be as confident as you that he is the murderer. I rather find that the interesting circumstances you have just revealed provide a more compelling motive for
you
to murder Yelena Filippovna than for your father. It is also psychologically consistent that you would wish to accuse him of a crime you had committed, as you would blame him for her death,
believing that he had somehow forced you to it.’ Porfiry glanced briefly at Virginsky. ‘My experience of such triangles is that the resentment is all on the side of the son.’
‘It is not resentment. He wanted to prevent our union because it horrified him.’
‘He told you that?’
‘He didn’t have to. Surely it must horrify any man to think of his own son lying with his former mistress. It is tantamount to incest.’
‘Had you not already slept with Yelena Filippovna?’
Prince Sergei’s gaze darted away.
‘I see … how unlike Yelena Filippovna. And yet … if she had slept with your father, she might naturally hesitate to consummate her relationship with you. My dear prince, you have interrupted us at a most crucial stage of our investigations and I fear that, through no fault of your own, you have entirely distracted me from my train of thought. The information you have imparted is extremely diverting. Yes, it has diverted me from the course I was set upon.’ Porfiry seemed genuinely at a loss. He cast about the room as if to get his bearings. ‘Of course, our investigations are always disturbed by the unruly intrusion of events. However, increasingly, as I get older, I am finding it more and more difficult to recover from these disruptions. My mind, like my eyes, is not as sharp as it once was. Is that not so, Pavel Pavlovich?’
Virginsky blew out his cheeks in embarrassment. He looked down at the blood-stained towel.
‘Ah, yes, thank you for reminding me. Tell me, Prince Sergei, is Aglaia Filippovna still a guest at the palace?’
‘She is.’
‘And is she still incapacitated?’
‘Indeed. She is in a state of semi-consciousness most of the time. She drifts in and out of a comatose trance.’
‘But she has her lucid moments?’
‘I fear not. In the brief moments when she is capable of speech, she appears utterly confused. My mother has taken to sitting with her. My mother is very devout, you know. She prays for Aglaia Filippovna constantly.’
‘Your mother … ? Of course, your mother!’
‘What do you mean by that? My mother feels a great deal of sympathy for the young lady.’
‘I wonder, have you discussed your suspicions regarding your father with your mother?’
‘I did not wish to worry her.’
‘And yet you had no compunction in making your allegations directly to a magistrate?’
‘My conscience will not allow me to keep silent any longer.’
‘In other words, your hatred for your father out-weighed your consideration for your mother.’
‘That is a despicable way of putting it. Was it not my civic duty?’
‘To betray your father?’
‘I believed he was Yelena’s murderer.’
‘Given what you have said today, does it not occur to you that your mother too had a motive for killing Yelena Filippovna?’
‘Surely not!’
‘Will your mother be with Aglaia Filippovna now? Perhaps we should pay a visit on the invalid and her nurse.’
‘You will say nothing of my father’s affair with Yelena. It will destroy her.’
‘One cannot know in advance what it may or may not prove necessary to say,’ said Porfiry. He stretched up to stem the gas, plunging them into gloom. ‘You will bring the towel with you, Pavel Pavlovich.’
The room was as gloomy as it had always been. It was lit only by the slumbering glow from the open hearth, which was reflected in fitful waves across the ceiling.
It seemed to Virginsky that Aglaia Filippovna’s hair had gained in strength and substance at the expense of every other aspect of her physicality. It sprawled around her head, no longer a halo but now wild, raging flames of intense blackness. The pallor of her skin matched the luminosity of the crisp white bed linen. Her hands lying on the folded-over sheet seemed transparent. Her face grew out of the pillow that her head rested on. Beneath the covers, her body appeared thinner and straighter than ever, merely a long wrinkle in the counterpane.
Princess Yevgenia Andreevna Naryskina maintained her bedside vigil, though she was seated now. A chair had been placed for her exactly on the spot where before she had stood. Her eyes seemed deeper-set than Virginsky remembered, their hungry energy receding physically into her head. She looked up briefly at their entrance, taking in the apprehension in her son’s face, and reflecting it back with a nervous excitement. The sight of the blood-stained towel added to her agitation, but she did not linger on it. It was always to the girl on the bed that her gaze returned, although the nature and intent of that gaze was difficult to interpret. The most obvious construction
was that it was a look of solicitude, but Virginsky couldn’t shake off the impression that she sought to hold Aglaia Filippovna captive with her gaze. Despite her son’s anxieties, Virginsky doubted that there was anything that could be said to the princess that could destroy her or even surprise her. Those eyes had seen much, and foresaw the rest, it seemed to him.
‘Good day, Madam Princess,’ began Porfiry briskly. ‘And how is the patient today?’ He leaned over the bed, and in a movement that seemed almost scandalous, so unpredicted was it, took Aglaia Filippovna’s hand in his own.
Princess Naryskina tucked her chin against her collarbone to squeeze out: ‘The same as ever.’
‘She revives occasionally, is that not so?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘And always the first thing she sees is your face. At the sight of which she promptly falls back into a trance!’
‘It is not exactly like that. We try to get some nourishment into her. And tend to her other needs. Besides, I am not always here. I cannot say if she revives when I am not. The nurse tells me she does, now and then.’
‘Of course. It has often occurred to me how easily we might have solved this case if only we had been able to get a meaningful testimony from Aglaia Filippovna before now. What keeps her locked inside this inner prison? Surely it can no longer be the action of the bromide poisoning?’ Porfiry paused, his face opening up expectantly. Virginsky was dimly aware that Porfiry was all the time toying with Aglaia Filippovna’s hand, his fingers moving incessantly, obsessively among hers; but somehow one did not care about this, he realised. It was Porfiry Petrovich’s ice-coloured eyes, his lashes blond to the
point of transparency, that demanded attention. In that moment, his gaze was captivating, hypnotic.
‘I wonder, madam, if you will assist me in a psychological experiment. I take it you wish to see the young lady recover from the debilitating condition to which she is in thrall?’
Porfiry’s eyes held and compelled the princess.
‘I have no knowledge of psychology,’ she protested, though in truth it was more a surrender of will than a protest.
‘There is no need to worry about that. We are all in some degree psychologists, are we not? Besides, the role I wish you to play is very simple.’ Porfiry produced a folded newspaper clipping from a pocket. ‘Please read aloud the passage marked, if you would be so kind.’
He passed the slip of newsprint to the princess.
Virginsky sensed that with her static demeanour and shadowy dress, she was more comfortable on the periphery of events, hardly seen, or if noticed at all, soon ignored. Perhaps this was what had drawn her to the side of Aglaia Filippovna and why she was so riveted by the girl’s unmoving form. Her fascination was not without a touch of envy. To be invited now into the centre of this momentous incident – a murder investigation – to be asked to participate, and not simply witness, it was almost too much for her. Her consternation bordered on panic. She fumbled in her reticule, spilling its contents with a yelp of dismay onto Aglaia Filippovna’s bed. Virginsky looked away from the spillage as though from something indecent, though he noticed that Porfiry was unashamedly goggling at the items. Such was the greed in Porfiry’s eye that it appeared he longed to handle the objects. It was only his reluctance to release Aglaia Filippovna’s hand that prevented him, it seemed.
Despite his initial tact, Virginsky now found himself following Porfiry’s example. He assessed the displayed contents of her reticule dispassionately, with an almost academic interest, as though they were exhibits in some diminished museum of femininity: a tortoiseshell comb, a porcelain cologne bottle with atomiser ball, a silver compact, and a lorgnette, also of tortoiseshell. It was apparently this last object that Princess Naryskina was looking for. She scooped everything else back into the reticule, including, inadvertently, the newspaper cutting, which she then only found by once again emptying the reticule.
Prince Sergei rushed to his mother’s side to help her replace the contents. ‘M-mother!’
Virginsky noted that the prince’s stutter had returned.
At last the princess was ready to begin the task. She unfolded the paper and held the lorgnette up to her face, moving it backwards and forwards to find the focal point.
‘Before you begin, madam,’ said Porfiry. He turned to Virginsky. ‘Pavel Pavlovich, may I have a word in your ear.’
Virginsky stooped, allowing Porfiry to whisper something that must have been extremely shocking, to judge by Virginsky’s glare of incredulity. Porfiry nodded emphatically.
Porfiry now addressed Princess Naryskina. ‘Now, madam, please don’t be alarmed, whatever happens. Especially do not be alarmed by what Pavel Pavlovich is about to do, which may indeed strike you as alarming.’ Porfiry nodded to Virginsky.
Virginsky moved to stand behind the princess. Suddenly he stretched his arms out, reaching over the princess’s shoulders, and let the towel unfurl in front of her face. He was careful not to touch her person; even so, their proximity had the awkwardness of enforced intimacy. He felt like a hairdresser
might. The bloody towel added a bizarre twist. Prince Sergei stared in mute indignation. It seemed the arrangement was so outlandish it had robbed him of the power of speech entirely.
‘Now madam, if you are ready, please read the passage I have marked.’
Princess Naryskina cleared her throat thickly and tucked her chin against her collarbone. Her unnaturally deep, choked voice intoned: ‘The body of Innokenty Zimoveykin, 13, was discovered within the precincts of the Baird Shipbuilding and Machine Works, where he was employed as a labourer. This brings to four the number of child murders perpetrated in the city in recent weeks, death in each case being rendered by strangulation.’
It was here that Virginsky saw Aglaia Filippovna’s eyes start open. As Princess Naryskina continued reading, the two intense circles of turquoise flashed towards the bloody towel. The eyes widened. At the same time, Aglaia Filippovna’s hand came to life, struggling to pull itself free of Porfiry’s hold.
Her eyes swivelled briefly up to meet Porfiry’s.
‘Aglaia Filippovna, don’t be afraid. My name is Porfiry Petrovich. I am an investigating magistrate. I know everything, my dear. Everything. I am here to help you get better.’ Virginsky noticed that he was still toying incessantly with her hand, in particular turning an imaginary nut around an imaginary thread at the base of her thumb.
Aglaia Filippovna’s eyelids snapped to over the glorious colour of her irises, as if withholding something precious from the undeserving. The tension that had come into her body left it. She seemed to be lost to them again.
‘What did that p-pantomime achieve?’
‘It’s too early to say for sure,’ confessed Porfiry. ‘You may take the towel away now, Pavel Pavlovich. And, thank you, madam, for your assistance. You have helped me more than you can know. More than even I had hoped.’
‘Is that it?’ Prince Sergei voiced the question that was foremost in Virginsky’s mind. Porfiry’s experiment seemed to have ended in anti-climax. The same soft amber ripples flitted across the ceiling. Virginsky wondered if he had imagined the colour of her eyes.
That evening, Porfiry invited Virginsky to dine with him at Domenika’s on Nevsky Prospekt. He could not face going back to his apartment. A confrontation with Slava was overdue, but Porfiry had too much else on his mind to relish that prospect. And the thought of dining alone depressed him. Besides, he liked his young colleague. That said, he was not in the mood to talk over the events of the day, and he knew that that was what Virginsky would naturally wish to do. Porfiry felt unusually on edge. He craved distraction. He had a sense of the case as a vast but fragile lattice-work. Each of the pieces that comprised it was a supposition resting on an assumption. Somewhere at the base of it, perhaps, was a firm and irrefutable kernel of evidence. But so much had been built on so little that he could not now distinguish fact from speculation. If just one piece proved to be faulty, the whole edifice would collapse. He knew that what he should do was subject this mental construction to scrutiny, to see if it held up. But all he wanted to do was eat and drink, and afterwards, perhaps, divert himself with a game of billiards. He found the clack and clatter of balls from the billiard room comforting, and was saddened when the gypsy players struck up.
‘Is this a celebration, Porfiry Petrovich?’
‘What do we have to celebrate?’ Porfiry could not keep the weariness out of his voice as he shouted over the music.
‘
I know everything!
Were not those your words to Aglaia Filippovna? So you have worked it out? You have solved the mystery?’
‘Ah, but perhaps that was simply part of my psychological experiment.’
‘
Perhaps
? How can you speak of your own actions with such uncertainty? Surely you know what was in your own mind?’
