The Cleansing Flames Part 8

They both watched the older man on his way. When the door had closed behind him, Porfiry looked over his own shoulder before taking out his wallet. 'How much?'

'I shall have to give Timofei Ivanovich something.'

Porfiry peeled off a red ten-rouble bank note.

The librarian's twitching fingers induced a second. Then he s.n.a.t.c.hed the notes away with the alacrity of a hungry peasant.

The Russian Word.

This young man is himself the victim here, driven to a crime that he is at a loss to explain, by the twin evils of poverty and sickness. He deserves not our opprobrium, but rather our pity. Who is really responsible for the deaths of the rapacious p.a.w.nbroker Alyona Ivanovna Kamenya and her unfortunate half-sister Lizaveta? It is not Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, though he wielded the implement that took away their lives. His sickness was to blame. We must allow that he did not choose to be sick. Even his prosecutors will not make that claim. His sickness without doubt derived from the dire exigencies of the life he was forced to lead through poverty. Expelled from the university, bankrupt of funds, delirious from starvation, it is little wonder that he found himself acting in a manner over which he had no control. And so, to answer the question, 'Who is responsible for the deaths of Alyona Ivanovna and Lizaveta Ivanovna?', we must ask, 'Who is responsible for Rodion Romanovich's poverty?' Every man and woman of conscience will know in their hearts the answer to that question. For who is responsible for the poverty of many millions of Russians? Again, it does not need this writer to supply an answer.

As we are addressing men and women of conscience, it goes without saying that every one of them will be appalled by the horrific circ.u.mstances of Alyona Ivanovna and Lizaveta Ivanovna's deaths. It is not our intention to diminish the true horror of these crimes. Merely to identify the true perpetrator. I say again, it is not Raskolnikov. It is the system that created Raskolnikov. It has been scientifically proven that in a system based on true socialist ideals, that is to say one in which the benefits of production are distributed equally throughout society, it will be impossible for crime to exist. One will simply do away with crime at a stroke by changing the socio-economic bases of the state. The sickness and poverty that caused Raskolnikov's crime will be eradicated, and with them Raskolnikov's crime. What need would Raskolnikov have to kill a bloodsucking moneylender when there are no bloodsucking moneylenders to kill, and when, in addition, all his material needs are met?

The logic is irrefutable and must lead, if pursued to its conclusion, to the acquittal of Raskolnikov and to the presence before the bench of other individuals. (I need not name them, when their names are known to all.) Of course, encouraging as some of the recent verdicts of our juries have been, we must admit that the law courts do not always operate in accordance with the dictates of logic. Even if the counsel for the defence were to avail himself of the arguments that we have put forward, there is no guarantee that they will meet with a sympathetic hearing. The chief difficulty in this particular case is that the defendant has already confessed his guilt (would that he had read this article first!). There is, therefore, nothing for the jury to decide, no verdict to deliver. One must only await the sentence. It is too much to hope that a prosecuting judge will be swayed by an essay in The Russian Word. (We know for a fact that many prosecuting judges read The Russian Word; we will not speculate as to their reasons.) However, in the person of one investigating magistrate at least, we feel justified in placing faith. It may surprise the reader to know that we are talking of the very man who hounded Rodion Romanovich into confessing.

We have been struck throughout the preliminaries of the trial by the humanity and tact of this individual's demeanour. We expected a wolf baying for blood. We found a human being sensitive to the plight of a less fortunate brother. The magistrate in question may not appreciate our approval, for we imagine that in official circles, to be praised by The Russian Word signals the end of a promising career. But the truth will out. The truth is that it was this magistrate's official duty to construct the case against Rodion Romanovich. The truth is also that he went so far in the opposite direction as to make certain evidence favouring the defendant available to the defence. Even as we write, he is engaged in advising the defence on the construction of an argument likely to lead to mitigation in sentencing. Granted, all this falls some way short of the ideal. Let us repeat: we are ent.i.tled to demand from the judicial process nothing less than the unconditional acquittal of Raskolnikov; nevertheless, it is a significant step in the right direction, for which P.P. (let us discreetly call our investigating magistrate P.P.) deserves credit.

Porfiry Petrovich allowed himself an inner chuckle. What would Pavel Pavlovich say! To see his old ideological adversary lauded in no less an organ than The Russian Word! For it was true that every time Virginsky had put forward similar views concerning the organisation of society, Porfiry had gently but thoroughly quashed them, counselling a more moderate, practical approach. He had even cautioned his young friend against initiating such debates in the bureau. Without doubt, Virginsky looked upon Porfiry with indulgent contempt, as a weak-livered, intellectually compromised, outmoded liberal. A man whose time had pa.s.sed.

If only he had Virginsky there with him now, to show him the page!

Porfiry tried once more to visualise the journalists who had been present in the courtroom. He must have addressed them after the trial too. It was customary for them to identify themselves and their papers as they called out their questions. But he had no recollection of the occasion. A face floated into his mind, but he did not trust it. He felt that it was his imagination rather than his memory that supplied it.

But at least he had a name now. The article was credited to one D. A. Kozodavlev. Porfiry felt sure that this was one and the same as his anonymous letter writer, if only for a stylistic tic that both letter and article shared. Indeed, in such matters, it was closer to the truth to describe it as a psychological tic.

'Yes, but what makes you so certain?' There was a petulant tone to Virginsky's question, possibly occasioned by the concluding remarks of the article that Porfiry had just shown him.

It had taken a further three red banknotes, as well as completion of a yellow chit, to secure the removal of the relevant edition of The Russian Word from the library. Strictly speaking, a restricted publication could not be removed from the library under any circ.u.mstances. However, the fact that Porfiry had been allowed to view the journal created an anomaly, which was most simply resolved by temporarily removing it from the restricted list. (This was achieved by referring to an earlier version of the restricted list, which did not contain The Russian Word, and which by a bureaucratic oversight had remained in force.) If The Russian Word was not restricted, it followed that he was free to take it out, on completion of a standard yellow chit. The younger librarian had shown remarkable ingenuity in devising these strategies, which together with his willingness to accept bribes, boded well for his future in the service. There was every possibility that he would escape the fate that his aged doppelganger seemed to represent. He would go far, in other words.

Porfiry did not answer Virginsky's question. 'You will notice this, from Kozodavlev's article: "It may surprise the reader to know that we are talking of the very man who hounded Rodion Romanovich into confessing." He is referring to me, of course. But note the phrase, "It may surprise the reader." Now, if we go back to the anonymous letter I received, we will find the following: "It might have surprised you to have read such an account in such a journal." What are we to make of this?' Porfiry did not wait for an answer: 'Here is a man who likes to surprise his readers! I feel sure it is the same writer. Now, all we have to do is track down Mr Kozodavlev. That shouldn't be so hard to do. The Russian Word was suppressed by the government in 1866. If my knowledge of radical journals is correct, the editor Blagosvetlov founded a new journal, Affair, which I believe is still in circulation, is it not, Pavel Pavlovich?'

'I believe so.'

'We need only to make enquiries at the Censorship Office to locate its address. Perhaps you would oblige me by drafting the necessary request, on the correct official chit, please.' Porfiry smiled and batted his eyelids in an attempt to be winning. It was an attempt laden with irony. 'I suggest we begin our enquiries there. Indeed, if we are fortunate, we may even find our Mr Kozodavlev in attendance. I imagine that all the contributors to The Russian Word transferred their allegiance to Affair.'

For some reason he could not explain, Porfiry felt his spirits revive. He felt the renewal of energy that he had hoped for at the onset of spring, and that the fairground had temporarily provided. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he had found himself favourably referred to in a defunct radical journal, though why he should take delight from this baffled him. Porfiry preferred to believe that it was simply the invigorating effect of a genuine lead in the case they were investigating. He was, he realised with pleasure, a hound with a fresh scent in his snout. His energy was the bound of exultation against the leash.

'Stenka Razin'.

The following day, Thursday, 20 April, they received a reply to their enquiries made to the Censorship Office. The editorial offices of Affair were registered at an apartment in 16, Dmitrovsky Lane, under the name of the editor, G. E. Blagosvetlov.

The fine spring weather was strengthening its brief hold on the city and Porfiry was minded to make the most of it while it lasted. He invited Virginsky to accompany him. 'I expect you would like to pay your respects to these radical gentlemen. And besides, with you in tow, they may disclose more than they might otherwise.'

'What do you mean by that?'

'Simply that they will recognise you as one of their own. They will trust you.'

'I shall come with you, of course. It's my duty to do whatever you say.'

'And your pleasure also, no doubt?'

Virginsky hesitated. 'I do not like the duplicitous role in which you seek to cast me.'

'There's nothing duplicitous about it, Pavel Pavlovich. It's simply . . . good psychology.'

'And entirely unnecessary, in my opinion. If Kozodavlev is indeed the writer of the anonymous letter, as seems likely, then naturally he will tell you everything he knows. He approached you in the first place.'

'Ah, but you are forgetting. He is a gentleman who likes to surprise!'

They picked up a drozhki on Sadovaya Street. Along the way, Porfiry sang 'Stenka Razin' into the onrushing air. The sheep-skinned driver was delighted with his fare's performance and joined in enthusiastically. Porfiry slapped Virginsky's thighs to encourage him to sing out too, particularly during the stanza in which Stenka Razin addresses the Volga river. Virginsky maintained a stubborn silence throughout.

'I would have thought that song would be to your taste, Pavel Pavlovich,' said Porfiry, as soon as the drozhki had deposited them. 'The stirring tale of a rebel leader who murders his new bride to prove his devotion to the cause.'

'I do not object to the song. It is the small matter of singing it in an open drozhki that I think indecorous. Particularly as we are magistrates engaged in a murder enquiry.'

'Indecorous? Good Heavens! I didn't realise that you radicals placed such store by decorum.'

'Porfiry Petrovich, kindly refrain from referring to me in that way.'

'In what way?'

'You make light of my political convictions. You use the word "radical" as if it were some great joke. The joke is at my expense. That's why you chose to sing that song, I suppose. You think that this is all very funny. Yet I will remind you, a man is dead. And we have come here in order to discover his ident.i.ty. Furthermore, the political future of our great country is no laughing matter. If I have sincere convictions, it ill behoves you to mock them.'

Porfiry blinked out a face of bewildered innocence. 'You are right, Pavel Pavlovich,' he conceded, after a moment. 'Please forgive me. I cannot explain why my mood is so strangely elated this morning. I will endeavour to conduct myself more . . . decorously from now on.'

'You are still mocking me.'

'I think I am not. Certainly, it is not my intention to mock you. Forgive me for saying so, Pavel Pavlovich, but perhaps the offence is all inside your head.'

'That is another example of your psychology?'

'As I am strangely elated, you are inexplicably p.r.i.c.kly.' Porfiry held a hooked finger to his lips thoughtfully. 'I wonder if our contrasting moods might have a common cause. You have been put out since I showed you the article in The Russian Word yesterday, have you not? I believe my unseemly joviality dates from the same time.'

'It has nothing to do with that.'

'No?'

'I am merely influenced by the gravity of the task in hand.'

'And you are right to be. And I am entirely in the wrong. Once again, I crave your forgiveness.'

Dmitrovsky Lane was a residential back street between Kolokolnaya Street and Stremyannaya Street, tucked away behind Nevsky Prospect. The narrowness of the lane conspired with the height of the apartment blocks to exclude the seasonal light, which seemed tenuous and easily discouraged.

Porfiry located number 16 and strode off, humming 'Stenka Razin' under his breath.

'Please, Porfiry Petrovich!' implored Virginsky, hurrying to keep up with him.

Porfiry stopped dead.

'You are still singing that tune.'

'Am I?'

'Yes.'

'I had no idea. Still, it is a very rousing tune. Tell me, Pavel Pavlovich, do you think our modern-day Stenka Razins capable of such ruthlessness?'

Virginsky shook his head unhappily, not to answer the question, but to dismiss it.

'Now, with one swift mighty motion,' began Porfiry, speaking the words of the folk song. 'He has raised his bride on high, and has cast her where the waters of the Volga roll and sigh. He killed her just to quell the doubts of his men. To show them that he was still a resolute, fearless fighter. That he had not, in the words of the song, become a woman, too.'

'It's just a song.'

'But it makes you think, does it not, Pavel Pavlovich?'

The house porter, a military veteran with a missing arm and a compensatory beard, informed them that they would find Blagosvetlov's apartment on the second floor. 'At the front of the building!' he added with evident disapproval. He seemed to look upon their arrival with a mixture of gratification and impatience, as if he was glad that they had arrived but wondered what had kept them so long.

The door to the apartment was open, revealing a cramped office rather than any kind of living s.p.a.ce. A number of desks had been pushed together in a T formation, the surfaces piled high with papers and books. Bookcases lined the walls, allowing very little room to move around the central arrangement.

Both men and women were seated at the desks, industriously engaged in the various tasks of putting a magazine together. One man was working his way through a pile of correspondence. Another was reading a ma.n.u.script. Two young women were together checking a set of galley proofs. Others were busy writing.

Porfiry was impressed by the relative youth of the journal's staff, but also by their universal attractiveness. But by G.o.d, these radicals are a good-looking lot! he thought facetiously. They were also, he noted, without exception intensely serious. No one spoke to another, each absorbed in his or her occupation. The women were dressed demurely, without ostentation, though their hair was carelessly tended, as if this was a fashion that they especially chose to follow. The men allowed their hair to grow long too, though it had not reached the waywardness of their female colleagues'. In general, the men's suits were in a more parlous state than the women's dresses. He had the sense that with them, threadbare elbows and frayed cuffs were badges of honour.

Porfiry smiled back at a roomful of myopically hostile faces. 'Ladies and gentlemen, I am looking for Mr Kozodavlev. I trust I have come to the right place?'

Someone gasped. Perhaps more than one person. It was certainly very loud.

A strange look pa.s.sed about the room. And settled on a young man at the head of the T's stem. He rose to his feet, as if goaded by the glances of his fellows. 'One moment, please. I will fetch Grigory Elampievich.'

It was now Porfiry and Virginsky's turn to exchange a curious look.

The young man squeezed his way round the desks to slip through a door at the back of the office.

The first thing that struck Porfiry about Grigory Elampievich, when he appeared, was the unusual sensitivity of his eyes. It lent his expression a certain hesitancy, which was accentuated by a slightly weak chin. And yet there was also a burning energy kindling in those eyes. Here was a man, the face suggested, quick to take offence and also, perhaps, quick to act: as the chin receded, the rest of the face was projected forward. With its intensely dark moustache and brows, the face retained a youthfulness that was belied by a sweeping mane of silver hair. It was a handsome face, striking even, certainly holding its own in the roomful of radicals. Indeed, placing the man's age at around fifty, Porfiry decided that he was looking at an archetypal elder of the radical movement, smartly dressed in an immaculate suit and neatly tied bow.

The conflicting hesitancy and energy that Porfiry discerned in Grigory Elampievich's face was also evident in his gait. He came into the room as though he expected to be beaten back, and yet was ready to resist the onslaught.

'You were asking after Kozodavlev?'

'Yes.'

'You do not know?'

'Evidently not.'

'He is dead. That is to say, we believe he is dead. There was a fire at his building the night before last. He was due in the office for a meeting yesterday but did not appear. We became concerned. Kozodavlev is normally extremely reliable. He would always send word if he was unable to make an appointment. We were especially concerned when we heard about the fire. It appears that it was centred on his floor. His apartment was thoroughly destroyed. You may have read about it. A number of people died. Six, in fact. Five of the unfortunates were children. We believe he was the one adult. We have yet to receive any official confirmation, however.'

Porfiry found himself unable to speak.

'We are hoping that our fears may prove groundless,' continued the elder radical. 'But each day that goes by increases the likelihood of his death. We did not see him again today. I have been round to his apartment building. His floor is completely closed off. If he is still alive, he would have approached one of us, his comrades, for somewhere to stay. Naturally, we have made enquiries with the authorities, as journalists as well as friends. It seems that a body was recovered from Kozodavlev's apartment.'

'I did read about the fire,' said Porfiry at last. 'I did not know that it was Mr Kozodavlev's building.'

'You are friends of his? I do not believe we have ever met. I am Grigory Elampievich Blagosvetlov.' The editor of Affair held out his hand.

'I have never met him,' admitted Porfiry. 'He once wrote about me I think in favourable terms. The day before yesterday I believe he wrote to me anonymously, requesting a meeting. If it was him, he did not keep our appointment with good reason, it would seem.'

'Forgive me,' said Blagosvetlov. 'I do not quite understand. How do you know the letter was from him if it was anonymous? And why should Demyan Antonovich have written anything anonymously? Demyan Antonovich Kozodavlev is not a man to write anonymously. He would put his name to whatever he wrote, even if it resulted in him spending the rest of his days in the Peter and Paul Fortress.'

'I am a magistrate,' said Porfiry. 'An investigating magistrate. Demyan Antonovich claimed to have information pertaining to a case I am investigating.'

'Demyan Antonovich? An informant? Impossible. You are mistaken. This letter was not from him.'

'You are familiar with Demyan Antonovich's handwriting?'

Blagosvetlov reluctantly conceded that he was.

Porfiry took out the letter and handed it to him.

As he read, the fiery energy of his eyes prevailed, flooding out in a rush of colour over his cheeks. He thrust the note back at Porfiry in disgust.

'Do you recognise the handwriting? Is it Mr Kozodavlev's?'

It was a question that Blagosvetlov declined to answer.

'Do you know anything about the body recovered from the Winter Ca.n.a.l two days ago?' wondered Porfiry.

'Only what I have read in the newspapers.'

Porfiry turned to Virginsky. 'Pavel Pavlovich, will you kindly show Grigory Elamievich the copy of the poster?'

Virginsky took out and unfolded the erroneous Wanted poster.

'Please ignore the wording. There was a misunderstanding over the text. However, that is the body in question.'