An old woman, dressed in black, stared up at them with clouded, unblinking eyes. Her skirts were soaked in the water that surrounded her seat. She was motionless. Her face possessed a strangely beatific expression.
‘Good day, Grandmother,’ said Porfiry. His voice reverberated, as if it were startled by itself. She did not react to his greeting. So fixed was her stare that he thought for a moment that she was dead, but a girlish giggle warbled unexpectedly in her throat. ‘Are you the widow Dobroselova, by any chance?’
This time the girlish giggle came out strangled and distorted. It could have been intended to express amusement, but there was a mechanical emptiness to it that horrified.
‘She may be deaf,’ said Virginsky. ‘As well as blind.’
‘Widow Dobroselova?’ shouted Porfiry. The whole cellar rang with his voice.
The old woman’s mouth stretched open revealing a few cherished remnants of teeth. ‘Is that you, Dobroselov?’
‘My name is Porfiry Petrovich.’
‘Oh, Dobroselov!’ She chuckled indulgently. Her misty eyes opened wide on nothing. ‘You and your games.’
‘I assure you, madam, I am Porfiry Petrovich and I am a magistrate. We are looking for the factory worker Gorshkov. It is our understanding that he lives in the basement here.’
‘Get away with you, Dobroselov!’ The old woman gave a flick of the wrist.
Porfiry straightened up and looked at Virginsky.
‘She is. . mad?’ asked the younger man tentatively.
‘Can you blame her?’ murmured Porfiry. He surveyed the rest of the room and the other human figures in it, bodies curled around their misery on bare mattresses, or sitting slumped over empty tables. He estimated that there were about twenty people visible, though he sensed the presence of many more hidden in the shadows at the edges, beyond the arches. Undoubtedly, only the oldest and most infirm would remain in the flooded cellar when the day outside was dry and warm.
The pulsating sound continued, identifiable now as weeping. It seemed to be all around them.
An old man sitting at a table lifted his head from sprawled arms and looked at them. His face was gaunt and sallow, but his gaze was firm, hostile even. Dressed in the overalls of a labourer, he seemed worn out by the effort of sitting up. His head was massive on puny shoulders. ‘What do you want with Gorshkov?’ The voice that addressed them was harsh-edged, as if every word was dredged from a corrosive pool of bitterness.
‘We are magistrates,’ said Porfiry. ‘If you know where Gorshkov is, it is your duty to tell us.’
‘Oh, I know where he is,’ said the old man, wheezing out a dry, empty laughter.
‘Where then?’
‘You just missed him. They came for him this morning.’
‘Who came for him?’
‘Your lot. The police. And a doctor.’
‘I see. And why was that?’
‘He was raving. Worse than raving. He had a knife. Threatened to kill anyone who came near. He had his wife, Nadezhda, by the throat. We all thought he was going to kill her. Then at the last minute he turned the knife on himself. Slashed his own neck. They carted him off then.’
‘Was he dead?’
‘The doctor patched him up. Mind you, he fell bleeding in the water here, so he might die yet.’
‘Where did they take him?’
‘Where do they take all the mad ones?’
‘To the house at the eleventh verst,’ said Virginsky, in something like wonder.
The old man nodded.
‘I presume it was the loss of his children that drove him mad?’ said Porfiry.
‘His moods were never good.’
‘Where is his wife now?’
The old man gestured towards the arched darkness. ‘She’s not long for this world,’ he said. ‘It was out of mercy that Gorshkov meant to kill her.’ He then allowed his head to slump down on his arms once more.
They made their way kicking through the water in the direction he had indicated. The sound of weeping became more focused and it seemed that they were moving towards its source.
Porfiry’s hand reached up and touched the brickwork of the arch as he stooped to pass beneath it. He felt a repulsive cold clamminess and withdrew his hand immediately, wondering what had possessed him to touch it in the first place.
In the thickened gloom he could just make out a bundled form on the bed, from which the jagged sobs emanated. The smell in this part of the basement was particularly foul.
‘Nadezhda?’
The bundle stirred. A tremulous moan came from it.
‘Is there no light in here?’ asked Porfiry gently.
There was a more agitated movement from the bed; limbs broke away from the bundle and thrashed about.
‘Not even a candle?’
The moan became a wail. ‘No candle for my baby!’
‘There there, Nadezhda. I will light a candle for your baby. I will go to St Isaac’s Cathedral and light a candle for her soul. What was she called?’ As he spoke, Porfiry reached into a pocket with one hand.
‘Anastasya.’
‘A beautiful name.’ A match flared in Porfiry’s hand. ‘There. For Anastasya.’ In the fragile glow he saw the woman’s agonised face, her mouth locked in a grimace of pain. He saw her body crumple and fold as she drew her legs up around the pain. The dark cast of her flesh, as though bruised from a lifetime of beatings, was clearly visible. He held the dying match to his own face, allowing her to see the smile which he hoped was reassuring. He believed he saw her face relax, if only for a moment.
‘Anastasya Filippovna,’ said Nadezhda.
‘Your husband is Filipp Gorshkov?’
‘Filya!’ The name was uttered as a cry of despair as the match expired. ‘Filya is gone. I am alone. I have been left to die alone.’
‘You’re not alone, Nadya. I am here with you.’ Porfiry bent down and reached into the darkness. He found a hand, in which was clasped an object made of soft, padded fabric. He searched for the other hand. It was as damp as the wall he had touched, but feverishly hot. He wondered if it was the same impulse in operation: the need to know, rather than the desire to console.
‘She should be in a hospital,’ said Virginsky at his back.
‘No!’ cried Nadezhda.
‘It’s all right, Nadya,’ said Porfiry, squeezing her hand gently.
She murmured something, the words inaudible. Her eyes closed and she drifted away from them, the tension falling out of her body. Porfiry continued holding her hand. ‘I wonder, has any doctor been in here?’
‘I very much doubt it,’ said Virginsky.
‘The thought of hospital inspires terror in her. In her mind, it is not a place one returns from.’
‘One thing’s for certain. She will not last long here.’
Porfiry leant forward decisively. ‘You will help me. We will take her to the Obukhovsky Hospital. Dr Pervoyedov will see her.’
‘And what of all the others who are dying in this building, Porfiry Petrovich? And those dying in other buildings? How will your sentimental gesture help them?’
‘But to do nothing in the face of her suffering — is that what you advocate?’
‘Far from it, as you well know. I advocate action, urgent and comprehensive action. Coming here, seeing this, you must surely see that it is necessary. And as you have said yourself, Porfiry Petrovich, that which is necessary can only be right.’
‘But the action you advocate will not save her.’
‘Porfiry Petrovich, I fear nothing may save her.’
Porfiry was silent for a moment. ‘Come, help me lift her,’ he said at last. He could not interpret Virginsky’s silence in the darkness.
They lifted her by the armpits. As they peeled her body from the bed, there was a sound like a wheel turning in a bog. They raised her to a seated position and swung her arms around their shoulders.
‘On the count of three,’ said Porfiry. They braced themselves as they reached the final number, only to discover that the woman had barely any weight at all. She almost flew from the bed. She moaned and tossed her head.