‘So it wasn’t your intention to challenge him to a duel?’
‘The thought had crossed my mind.’
‘Of course. I find all sorts of thoughts cross my mind. Some of them most unwelcome. One cannot control one’s thoughts. But, tell me, please, just to clear things up, did you act on this particular thought?’
‘In the event, I saw that he was not worth it.’
Porfiry nodded in satisfaction. ‘The butler admitted you, I believe. And were you shown here, directly to the study?’
‘No, Setochkin came out of another room. We. . talked in the hall. Then we came in here.’
‘And what happened then?’
‘I showed him the letter.’
‘Excuse me. What letter is this?’
‘I received a letter informing me of Setochkin’s behaviour.’
Porfiry flashed a glance in Virginsky’s direction. ‘Good heavens. Who was it from?’
‘I don’t know. It wasn’t signed. But the contents seem to have been well informed. He didn’t deny it.’
‘And where is it now, this letter? I would very much like to see it.’
‘I gave it to him. Or rather, I threw it at him. Screwed it up and threw it in his face. It landed on the floor somewhere.’
All eyes shot downwards at the same time.
‘We have searched the room. There was no sign of any such letter, ’ said Salytov.
‘How strange. But we will come back to that later,’ said Porfiry. ‘Please, Ruslan Vladimirovich, would you tell me what happened after you confronted Colonel Setochkin with the letter.’
‘If there ever was a letter,’ put in Salytov.
Vakhramev gave him a stern glance. ‘I left. That is to say, I went out of the room with the intention of leaving the apartment. However, I had taken but three paces when I heard the gun discharge. I ran back immediately. He was lying where you see him now. The gun was on the floor nearby. For some reason I cannot explain, I picked it up. A moment later, Setochkin’s man came in.’
‘It would, you know, be helpful if you could explain why you picked it up.’
‘I couldn’t help myself. I hated him. And, yes, wished him dead. But now that he was, I couldn’t quite believe it. I needed to handle the gun to believe it. I can see it would have been so much better if I hadn’t picked it up.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that,’ said Porfiry, with a thin smile. He blew out smoke and stood up, beginning to search around the room distractedly. ‘There is always this problem of ashtrays.’
‘Filthy habit,’ said Vakhramev.
‘Ah, but I find it essential to thought,’ said Porfiry, stepping over the body to find an ashtray at last on the desk. He took the opportunity to try the door to the balcony. It was locked, the key still in the lock on the inside. ‘And I must think.’ He said the words to himself, gazing deep in thought out of the window, one pane of which was open. The view was of an empty courtyard. He wrinkled his nose at the pungent stink of the soil barrels. After a moment his gaze dropped down to the desk and settled on a nondescript birch-wood case. ‘What happened to the pistol that was fired?’
‘We have it,’ said Salytov.
Porfiry opened the wooden box and looked down at the one remaining pistol, surrounded by the polished accoutrements of charge and discharge, two ramrods, a wooden mallet, bullet mould, brass powder flask, various screws and implements, including an elaborate pair of pincers, all compartmentalised in velvet. Lead spheres, the bullets themselves, nestled like eggs of death. The gun had a rounded walnut butt with a carved grip and damascened trimmings, from which the barrel, with its severely hexagonal cross-section, projected brutally. The inscription inside the hinged lid announced the maker as Alexei Babyakin of Tula. Porfiry thought of this Babyakin, and of the evident care — the craftsman’s love of his craft — that had gone into the making of this handsome and highly covetable object. He wondered if any thought of its ultimate purpose had distracted Babyakin, or whether he had looked upon it purely as a beautiful mechanism. Porfiry closed the box again and turned back to Vakhramev. ‘And so, who shot him, if not you? I imagine you have given it some thought.’
‘Why, I should have thought that was obvious,’ said Vakhramev. ‘He shot himself. Our conversation, and the letter, the irrefutable evidence of his worthlessness, provoked feelings of shame and remorse that overwhelmed him.’
‘Hmm, it is possible, I suppose,’ said Porfiry. ‘Certainly, if you did kill him, it is strange that you did not make any effort to escape. Of course that would have been incriminating in itself. Only a guilty man runs. Or perhaps not. Someone who believes that he might be thought guilty may run too. Conversely, someone who wants to be thought innocent may decide not to run.’ Porfiry gave a little chuckle, seemingly of embarrassment. ‘And as for your holding on to the gun, perhaps that indicates innocence rather than guilt — indeed a touching naivety, if anything. Or. . again. .’ Porfiry smiled almost regretfully as he made the suggestion: ‘It could be the strategy of a man who wants to create the impression of innocence. Or, more simply, you were paralysed by the enormity of what you had done. You had been carried away by wrath. You are a civilised man. It is difficult for you to accept that you gave in to passion so completely. Perhaps your mind has obliterated all memory of the deed. If so, a jury would go easy on you. We would not press for a charge of murder. Manslaughter at worst. A good lawyer would be able to make a case for diminished responsibility. Temporary insanity. There have been many such cases. There are lawyers who specialise in this type of plea. You would be acquitted. I have no doubt. So much so that it is debatable we would even bring a case against you, though of course we must go through the motions. Justice must be seen to be done.’
‘I did not kill him.’
‘I was rather afraid you might say that. You see, it does complicate things for us your saying that.’
‘I cannot help that.’
‘Unfortunately, the position of the wound does not incline me to accept your theory of suicide.’ Porfiry looked down at the body on the floor. ‘We can see that the flesh and material have been pushed inwards, indicating that the bullet entered from the front.’ Porfiry looked at the window and frowned. ‘Nevertheless,’ he continued thoughtfully, ‘I have never yet come across the case of a suicide attempting to shoot himself through the heart. In my experience, those who elect for the pistol as a means of self-annihilation invariably choose to blow their brains out, either by holding the gun to the temple, or inserting the barrel into the mouth. This is the preferred method of the disgraced cavalry officer. I take it you would have informed us had there been anyone else in the room with you during your interview with Colonel Setochkin?’
‘We were alone.’
Porfiry peered tentatively around the back of the screen; then, finally, closed the lid on the trunk, as if he expected to find someone crouched in its lee. Discovering no one there, he looked at Salytov meekly, though he continued to address Vakhramev. ‘Could anyone have entered the study in between the moment you left it and the moment you heard the gunshot? Without your noticing? ’
‘I do not believe it would have been possible. It was only a matter of minutes, and I was in the hall the whole time.’
‘But were you watching the door?’
‘No, admittedly, I had my back to it.’
‘Tell me, was the windowpane open at the time of your interview with Colonel Setochkin?’
‘I didn’t notice.’
‘And the door? Closed as it is now? Locked?’
‘I really have no idea.’
‘But did anyone come into the room afterwards, besides Colonel Setochkin’s manservant — and the police, of course?’
‘No. I was in here all the time. I saw no one else.’
‘You did not see the servant open the window at any time?’
‘No,’ said Vakhramev decisively. ‘So I think it must have been already open.’
‘What about the door to the balcony? Did you see him lock the door?’