The Cleansing Flames (14 page)

In the first place, there was the question of his resistance to opening the trunk the previous night. It would have been a simple matter to have looked inside, thereby confirming one way or another the solution which his dreaming mind had apparently furnished. A simple matter, and not at all irrational, for that was the only logical way to settle the question and restore his mental equilibrium. To confront his unconscious.

The irrational act had been to push the trunk back under his bed without looking inside.

It could only be that his unconscious mind had sensed the connection between Kozodavlev and the hatchet-headed man who had given him the manifesto. But why should that have provoked this strange reluctance? Of course, the answer to that was that opening the trunk and taking out the manifesto would have inevitably drawn Virginsky into the case they were investigating, and not simply as an investigator. His conversation with the hatchet-headed man would have come under scrutiny, as well as his motives and intentions at the time. He would have been forced to reveal far more of himself than he wished to, or was sensible.

The crux of the matter was this: the man had told him that he should look for him in the taverns around Haymarket Square. To pass this on to Porfiry Petrovich was tantamount to informing on him. Virginsky may have been a magistrate, but he was not yet ready to become an informant.

Furthermore, he himself, inevitably, would have been embroiled in whatever plan Porfiry came up with to catch the fellow.

To have opened the trunk and looked inside would have hastened the moment that Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky was finally made to choose between his principles and his conscience; the moment, in short, when he would have to decide who he was.

His principles and his conscience. It was unnerving to think that they were not one and the same. But when he tried to give shape to his principles, he had a vision of marvellous beings – very different from the grubby, venal populace of the day – living in vast communal phalansteries, which his imagination modelled on the Crystal Palace of the Great Exhibition in London. All would be equal. Every need would be met. Hunger, poverty and therefore crime would be at an end. The old institutions of church, marriage and the family would be dismantled. Women and men would be free to think – and love – as they wished. According to the principles to which he ascribed, whatever had to be done to bring about such a future was justified.

The image that his conscience imposed on him was very different. A little girl in a christening gown, her hands loosely folded around a painted egg, her eyes open but unseeing.

Two days later, Porfiry received a telegram from the authorities in Helsingfors. Apprentice Seaman Ordynov confirmed that the mysterious stranger who had watched him and his mates bring the body to the surface of the Winter Canal was the man identified as Kozodavlev in the
Affair
staff photograph.

‘So, Pavel Pavlovich, what do you say now? Kozodavlev was on the bridge. He was there watching, as though he expected the body to come to light now that the ice was melting. Furthermore, we have found the trace of a nihilist manifesto in his apartment. You must at least admit the possibility that he was involved in a revolutionary grouping and was on the verge of informing on it when he was killed.’

‘Of course. It is
possible
.’ Virginsky’s emphasis was intended to suggest that anything was possible.

‘And so, we may look further into his background?’

‘You do not need my permission. I believe we were waiting for the witness identification to come through. And now that we have that, it seems sensible to proceed.’

Porfiry’s face lit up. ‘Let us visit the Slavophiles then!’

*

If – thought Porfiry – one were to choose one’s politics based on the physical attractiveness of the proponents of this or that cause, then the radicals would certainly win out over the Slavophiles. For one thing, the men (for they were without exception male) who comprised the editorial staff of
Russian Era
and
Russian Soil
were markedly older than their counterparts at
Affair
. They were all heavily bearded. Their expressions, stern to the point of forbidding, created the distinct impression that they held a grievance against anyone who dared to cross their threshold. They looked out from the territory of their office on Liteiny Prospect with the same suspicion and hatred with which they looked out from Russia. According to their siege mentality, which was clearly visible in their faces, everything that came in from outside was inevitably evil and had to be repelled.

In other respects, the office was very similar to the one he and Virginsky had visited exactly a week ago. It was basically a domestic apartment converted to a business. There was a central arrangement of desks with hardly any space to move around them.

A facetious thought occurred to Porfiry as he sought to appease the automatic hostility of the room with a deep bow. He knew of many famous men who had begun their careers as radicals, only to become conservatives in later years. Did they, as the more reactionary views took hold on their minds, undergo a physical transformation to match their ideological one? Of course, they would have worked on their beards. But he was thinking of something more fundamental than that: a gradual rearrangement of the structure of their faces, inevitably a contraction, a hardening.

The oldest and most thickly bearded man in the room rose shakily to his feet. He was a frail figure, of slight build. His beard was white and divided into two points. He wore a soft velvet hat on the back of his head, which gave him a strangely bohemian appearance. His eyes were little black points in a luminously pale face. He had a large domed forehead in comparison to which the rest of his face seemed shrunken away. Both eyebrows were steeply arched, one higher than the other, in an expression of permanent quizzicality. ‘How may I help you gentlemen?’ His voice was unexpectedly kindly and welcoming. Porfiry felt at once that he had been unfair to the Slavophiles. If their expressions appeared serious, it was only because they were engaged in a serious business: that of survival, both personal and national.

‘I am looking for Mr Trudolyubov.’

‘I am he. Who might you be?’

‘I am Porfiry Petrovich, an investigating magistrate. And this is my colleague, Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky.’

Trudolyubov’s pinpoint eyes widened slightly in alarm. ‘What is this about?’

‘We are investigating a body found in the Winter Canal. The victim of a murder, we believe.’

‘Good Heavens! What has that to do with us?’

‘Did you recently commission a review for your publication
Russian Soil
of the novel
Swine
?’

‘I did.’

‘The novel was serialised in your other publication,
Russian Era
, was it not?’

‘It’s a common practice.’

‘Yes, of course. I understand,’ said Porfiry smoothly. ‘A practice known as advertisement, I believe.’

Trudolyubov recoiled at the suavely delivered barb.

‘From whom did you commission the review?’

‘From one of our regular contributors.’

‘And the name of this regular contributor?’

‘He prefers to remain anonymous.’

‘But surely you know who he is?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Then how do you communicate with him?’

‘Through an intermediary. An agent, if you like.’

‘And who is this agent?’

‘A gentleman by the name of Prince Dolgoruky.’

‘Prince Dolgoruky? A distinguished name,’ observed Porfiry.

‘The Dolgorukys are an ancient and noble family,’ said Trudolyubov complacently, as if this was somehow to his own credit.

‘The Tsar, I believe, is a friend of Prince Mikhail Dolgoruky.’ Porfiry paused to blink significantly before adding: ‘And his daughter, Yekaterina.’

‘This is a different branch of the family. I am talking about Prince Konstantin Arsenevich Dolgoruky. He is only distantly related to the Tsar’s . . . friend.’

‘How interesting. Does Prince Dolgoruky act in this capacity – as an intermediary or agent – for any other writers whom you publish?’

The aged editor paused before answering, his face atremble. ‘Yes.’

‘And who would that be? Another anonymous writer?’

‘Yes.’

‘Allow me to hazard a guess. Are we talking about the anonymous author of
Swine
, the notorious D.?’

‘That is so.’

Porfiry gave a delighted chuckle. ‘Did it ever occur to you that the writer of the novel and the reviewer of the novel might be one and the same person?’

‘The writer of the novel is D. The writer I commissioned the review from is K.’

‘K. Of course. Yes. D. and K. Clearly two very distinct individuals.’

‘Besides, Prince Dolgoruky assured me –’

‘Prince
Dol
-goruky?’ cut in Porfiry. ‘Perhaps he is himself D.? Though if that were the case, he would certainly have signed the pages “Prince D.,” wouldn’t he?’

Trudolyobov wrinkled his nose at Porfiry’s sarcasm.

‘I believe I have the review you commissioned on me.’ Porfiry fished out the article from inside his frockcoat. ‘Does that look like the work of your fellow K.?’

‘It is certainly more or less what I was expecting.’

‘Would it surprise you to learn that your regular contributor K. also contributes to the radical journal
Affair
under his full name of Kozodavlev?’

‘This is Kozodavlev? Impossible!’ Trudolyubov snapped the paper with the fingernails of one hand.

‘I assure you. I took it from Mr Kozodavlev’s drawer at the offices of
Affair
last week. The handwriting was identified as his by the editor of that journal.’

‘But Kozodavlev is against everything we stand for. He has attacked us in the most vicious terms on numerous occasions.’

‘And yet you wrote to Kozodavlev, soliciting a review of
Swine
. I found your letter in his drawer.’

‘I wrote to every journal I could think of. I knew
Affair
would hate it, of course. I
wanted
them to hate it. That would be the greatest endorsement of the work.’

‘You sought controversy?’

‘I suppose you could say that.’ Trudolyubov’s eyes seemed to twinkle. He looked down at the review again. ‘But Kozodavlev cannot be K.! K. even attacked Kozodavlev, singling him out for the bitterest vituperation.’

‘I believe it was a game he liked to play. Perhaps it was his way of working out the conflicts that buffeted his soul.’

‘But it makes a mockery of all the principles any of us hold, on whatever side.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Porfiry. ‘Have you always held the views you now propound with such force in your publications? Were you not once, in your younger days, in the sway of entirely opposite ideas?’

‘I learnt the error of my ways.’

‘Yes, but you will accept that it is possible for two contrary opinions to reside in the same man?’

‘At different times of his life, perhaps.’

‘But were not the seeds of your current views taking root in your mind at the very time that you were openly expressing sentiments of a decidedly radical tendency? Are not both viewpoints, though on the face of it polar opposites, more closely related than they first appear? Might we not say they are two sides of the same coin? The coin being a sincere and deeply held love of Russia. For it seems to me, if I may say so – I am not a political individual, so my comments may strike you as naive – nevertheless, it does seem to me that the radicals and the Slavophiles are both motivated by a genuine desire to do what is best for Russia. It is just that they disagree as to what that is.’

Trudolyubov thrust the article back at Porfiry. ‘No. I won’t accept that. This is just cynical sport.’

‘He was a professional writer,’ said Porfiry reasonably. ‘He had to place his work where he could.’

‘Was? You just said “was.” Is Kozodavlev the one you fished out of the Winter Canal?’

‘In the first place, I did not myself fish the body out. In the second, no – I do not believe so.’ Porfiry turned to Virginsky. ‘Pavel Pavlovich, do you have the poster?’

Virginsky nodded and took out the folded poster, which he handed to Trudolyubov.

‘This is the body from the Winter Canal,’ explained Porfiry. ‘We have seen a photograph of Mr Kozodavlev – or K., if you prefer – and it is not the same person. However, Mr Kozodavlev
is
missing, and, I regret to say, presumed dead.’

Trudolyubov did not appear to have heard. His gaze was concentrated on the photograph in his hands. ‘What has happened to this poor fellow?’ He spoke in a barely vocalised whisper.

‘He would not have looked like that in life. A chemical reaction has occurred in certain places. It has transformed his flesh into a soapy substance. Please try to ignore that and concentrate on the areas that are not affected. You will notice the pockmarks and the small eyes. They are distinctive features, I think.’

Trudolyubov looked aghast at Virginsky. ‘They would take away God from us. But if you take away God, what are you left with, sir? This.’ He handed the poster back to Virginsky.

‘Do you recognise him?’ asked Porfiry.

Trudolyubov shook his head. ‘So, Kozodavlev is dead too, you say?’

‘It seems he perished in a fire that took hold of his apartment building on Monday night.’

‘How ironic.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘You could say he has only himself to blame. His inflammatory articles without doubt contributed to the unrest and vandalism that has beset our city in recent days.’

‘And yet the articles he wrote for you might have served to counteract it.’

The elderly editor seemed unconvinced.

‘I would be interested in seeing cuttings of the work K. contributed to your publications,’ said Porfiry.

‘I can arrange that. If you provide me with an address, I will send them on for you.’

‘Thank you. Here is my card. Also, I would very much like to meet Prince Dolgoruky.’

‘The family home is not far from here. I seem to remember that it is also in Liteiny Prospect. If you don’t mind waiting, I will have someone look up the address for you.’

‘Most kind.’

Trudolyubov consulted with one of his colleagues, who lifted his head slowly, thrusting his beard in Porfiry and Virginsky’s direction. A moment later the address was handed over.