Porfiry said nothing for a moment. ‘You are aware that the body of a man has been found?’
‘Yes. The truculent one told me.’
‘I’m afraid I am going to ask you to undertake an unpleasant duty.’
‘You want me to look at it.’ Lara Olsufevna pinched her mouth minimally.
Porfiry bowed solemnly.
Lara Olsufevna was already on her feet.
Outside, the day flickered with electricity, and a final, vast reverberation shook the sky.
The dark capsule of the police brougham hurtled through the rain, the horses’ necks slanting against the onslaught, their hooves kicking through the hissing spray. The weather snuffed the driver’s whip, as if brooking no rivals to its own immense voice. Huddled in oilskins, the driver raged equally at his team and the heavy drops that hit his face. A muted glow was concentrated in the buildings, the colours of which were strangely intensified.
Inside the carriage, the rain rapped like a thousand fingers on the roof. Lara Olsufevna was seated on her own facing the direction of travel. She looked out of the misted window with a mixture of apprehension and excitement. No doubt she was thinking of the task that lay ahead of her. Porfiry and Virginsky sat opposite, riding the buffetings of the carriage’s suspension, watching her with mild curiosity.
‘Tell me more about Ferfichkin,’ said Porfiry to Lara Olsufevna. ‘You say that he has many enemies.’
‘Oh yes.’ Lara Olsufevna’s impatience suggested this was something any fool knew. ‘It’s true. He had.’ The last word was given pointed emphasis.
‘We don’t know that he is dead yet,’ said Porfiry. ‘I suggest that until that is confirmed we refer to him in the present tense, as one still extant.’
Lara Olsufevna’s shrug was amplified by the jouncing seat.
‘So he lives with you as a tenant? How do you get on with him?’
‘We get along well enough by having nothing whatsoever to do with one another, other than that which cannot be avoided.’
‘But your dealings with him are rather different to most other people’s, are they not?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, he is regularly in your debt rather than the other way round.’
‘He has always paid his rent on time. I have had no complaints on that front.’
‘It’s just as well for you, perhaps, that he is so meticulous in recovering the debts owing to him.’
‘I do not believe it is quite necessary for him to do so with such unfeeling brutality.’
Porfiry nodded. ‘I cannot imagine he makes much of a living reading the psalter at paupers’ funerals.’
‘It was not his only source of income. He took in tailoring repairs, though I myself would never have entrusted a garment to him.’
They rode the rest of the way in silence, feeling the sun’s tentative return uplift the day.
Seagulls over the Neva pierced the air with their shrieks as the brougham pulled up at 2 Gorokhovaya Street. The building, indistinguishable from its neighbours in its geometric monotony, was the home of the main police administrative headquarters for the whole of St Petersburg, and also housed the Admiralty District Police Bureau, station number 1.
Patches of clear sky were appearing now amongst the clouds. All that was left of the storm ran in muddy rivulets along the road. Leaves and refuse were scattered over the glistening pavements. Lara Olsufevna lifted her crinolined skirts to high-step over puddles.
They followed a politseisky to a room at the rear of the building on the ground floor. The windows were shuttered. With the light from the open door, it had the air of a lumber room, provisional, a space of temporary storage and transition. The objects it stored were elongated mounds beneath sheets, laid out on tables.
‘Would it be possible to have more light?’ asked Porfiry.
The politseisky struck a match, at the third attempt, and lit an oil lamp. The flare from the lamp chased the shadows to the edge of the room. ‘We never open the shutters,’ he explained. ‘Now, which one was it you were wanting to see?’
‘The body found in the Summer Garden this morning. An adult male,’ said Porfiry.
‘Ah yes, he’s easy enough to find.’
The politseisky approached a mound which had a curious projection in its sheet towards one end. It was from this end that he drew back the sheet.
The face that was revealed, though immobile, was not in repose. The eyes bulged and the mouth formed a small circle as if articulating an accusation or abuse. The hair and beard were long, grey and matted.
‘That’s him,’ said Lara Olsufevna with the primness that she said everything. She continued looking at the face. ‘Ferfichkin.’
Porfiry too was staring thoughtfully at the dead man’s face. ‘He has one of those faces, does he not? The sort that you are convinced you have seen before. Of course, it is entirely possible that he has crossed my path in the past. It would be as well to check the records.’
‘What is that?’ asked Virginsky, pointing at the tent-like projection in the sheet. His face registered an uneasy determination.
The politseisky lifted the sheet and pulled it down even further. The dead man’s shirt was drenched in blood. The hilt of the weapon that was sunk into his chest stood proud, an inverted crucifix of tempered steel. It appeared medieval, in design at least, made up of simple agglomerations of bossed, banded and cubic forms. Even so, it made an elegant and evocative shape, slender yet solid, modelled after the Christian symbol, but murderous. Ferfichkin’s body lay awkwardly on the table, raised on the side that the dagger was plunged into.
‘It went straight through him,’ observed Porfiry.
The politseisky nodded. ‘There’s not much to him. He’s as skinny as a boy.’
‘The misericorde, or mercy poniard.’ Porfiry tensed a hand towards the weapon, though stopping short of touching it.
‘Undoubtedly a replica. Even so, an expensive item.’ He looked significantly at Lara Olsufevna. She returned his glance without expression. ‘If I understood you correctly, Gorshkov was not a wealthy man?’
‘He could have stolen it,’ answered Lara Olsufevna.
‘Pavel Pavlovich, your thoughts?’
Virginsky seemed startled. ‘It’s possible, I suppose.’
‘But really, why would he bother, though?’ asked Porfiry, wonderingly. ‘He does not need this particular weapon to kill him. He may kill him just as easily by plunging a kitchen knife into his heart. Why risk detection and prosecution for an unnecessary theft, before he has carried out the greater and for him more necessary crime of murdering his enemy?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Virginsky, staring at the dagger hilt crossly.
Porfiry raised an eyebrow at Lara Olsufevna but she declined to comment.
‘The choice of weapon is significant, I think,’ said Porfiry at last. ‘Here is a man who earns his living by plying a needle and it seems that his dying came about as the result of a fatal stitch. He was also a religious man, at least outwardly. But really he was a man who could be said to have profited from the word of the Lord, to have exploited the Christian message for venal gain. Perhaps the cruciform handle that stands out from his heart may be seen as some kind of judgement on that. It is suggestive, is it not?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Virginsky glumly.
‘Of course, it may still be Gorshkov who has passed this judgement on him and you may yet be proven right, Lara Olsufevna. He may indeed have stolen the dagger. We shall have to speak to him, that much is certain. Where may we find him, do you know?’