‘We have no record of ever receiving anyone by that name. And neither do you, by the way.’ The remark was made lightly, almost cheerfully. There was no sense of threat in it.
Major Verkhotsev seemed to be aware of the difficulty this would cause Virginsky. He sensed the need for explanation: ‘It may surprise you to learn this, but I am considered a liberal, you know.’
Virginsky gave a cynical shrug.
‘Ask my daughter.’
Virginsky bristled at the mention of Maria Petrovna.
Major Verkhotsev smiled with satisfaction at the effect his last sally produced. ‘Yes, Maria Petrovna and I are as one on many issues.’
‘She does not condone the murder of state witnesses.’
‘No one has been murdered. Whatever wild conclusions you have leapt to concerning the fate of this — what did you say his name was?’
‘Rakitin. You know full well.’
‘Yes. Rakitin. Rest assured that, as so often, it is not as you imagine. Perhaps Mr Rakitin wished to disappear. And perhaps we aided him in the accomplishment of his wishes. Perhaps he found himself superfluous to events, and so took himself off. One simply does not know.’
‘You know.’
Major Verkhotsev tapped an index finger impatiently on the table. ‘Yes, I am quite the liberal,’ he continued, as if they had not talked about Rakitin at all. ‘I keep up with all the liberal papers, and even some of the radical ones.’
‘I’m sure you do.’
‘Oh no. It’s not like that. I don’t do it to keep an eye on them, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I read them because they interest me. Genuinely. I find myself sympathetic to many of the views expressed.’ Verkhotsev crossed to another table at the side of the room, on which a number of newspapers and journals were laid out. ‘Take this, for example. In this week’s Spark.’
Prayer for an Investigating Magistrate
Knowledge of the worst that men can do
Opened your eyes to the best in them.
Zones of darkness you dared to enter,
Observing with an eye informed by ruth.
Dwelling there you saw not monsters but brothers;
A light you shone into their souls, discovering
Virtue lives alongside vice; hope neighbours hate;
Love beds down with lust; joy succumbs to fear’s embrace.
Eternal God, the judge of all, we beseech you,
View with equal compassion our brother’s soul.
‘Of course, it’s just a bit of doggerel by someone who never knew him. And it reads rather too much like an epitaph, for my liking. Still and all, it is rather affecting. I wonder who wrote it,’ said Major Verkhotsev. ‘It is not credited to anyone. But quite an extraordinary stance for such a radical-leaning publication to take, do you not think? I was particularly struck by the overtly religious tone. A prayer indeed! And when you consider that most radicals believe that Porfiry Petrovich was the victim of a justifiable revolutionary attack. .’
‘Kozodavlev,’ said Virginsky. There was a sense of wonder in his voice.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Kozodavlev wrote it. If you look at the first letter of each line.’
Major Verkhotsev retrieved the paper and scanned the lines of the poem eagerly. ‘Good Heavens! But I thought he died in the fire?’
‘Yes, that is what he wanted us to think. But, obviously, it was the man they sent to kill him who died.’ Virginsky shook his head in begrudging admiration. ‘What Is to Be Done?’
‘Well, of course, we will make enquiries with the newspaper.’
‘No. I meant the book. What Is to Be Done? by Chernyshevsky. Have you never read it?’
‘Of course, Lopukhov’s hat! Well I never. But this is not quite the same, is it? I mean, in What Is to Be Done? a deception was perpetrated, but no one died. Lopukhov’s hat was fished out of the water with a bullet hole in it and from that the authorities concluded he had committed suicide. By the by, I always objected to the stupidity of that episode. It is highly implausible on so many counts. But here, five children perished, as well as the unknown individual found in Kozodavlev’s apartment.’
‘Yes, although in Kozodavlev’s defence, it is probably fair to say that he was desperate in the extreme. This man intended to kill him. Somehow, he managed to get the better of him, but he knew that Dyavol would never let it rest there. He would send another assassin, and another, if necessary. He saw an opportunity to make his enemy believe that he was the one who had perished in the fire, which was after all what Dyavol was expecting to hear. And so, in order to render the dead man unidentifiable, he set the fire, disguising himself as his attacker to make his escape.’
‘Dyavol? The Devil is involved in this?’
‘I mean Tatiscev. That was what our people called him.’
Major Verkhotsev laid down the paper and rolled one of his moustaches thoughtfully. ‘You know, we are always on the lookout for clever young men here in the Third Section. If it should prove problematic for you to return to the Department of Justice, our door is open. I imagine it will not be the same working there without Porfiry Petrovich.’
‘He is not dead yet!’
‘You do not have to make a decision now. Think about it. In the meantime, my wife and I — and Maria Petrovna, of course — would be delighted to see you at one of our at-homes soon. If you have a moment, I shall find you a card.’
‘You mean I am free to go?’
‘Of course. You have given a satisfactory account of yourself.’
Virginsky seemed stunned. ‘But what if I were to tell you that I really did wish the Tsar dead?’
Major Verkhotsev had found the card with the address of his family residence. He held it out to Virginsky. ‘There you are. We are at home every Thursday.’
‘Did you not hear what I said?’
Major Verkhotsev smiled. ‘Evidently not.’ He held out a hand to Virginsky. ‘Until we meet again, Pavel Pavlovich, goodbye.’
‘Will I be safe? From Dyavol?’
‘You mean Tatiscev?’
‘I don’t know. Dolgoruky claimed that he was haunted by a devil. Perhaps the same will happen to me now. They blamed me for Dolgoruky’s death, you know. Which means I must also be responsible for his mother’s. And if Porfiry dies. .’
‘You have nothing to fear from Tatiscev. His main concern now will be to flee the country.’
‘And from the Devil?’
‘My dear fellow, you’re one of the new generation. A rationalist. A young man with a scientific outlook. You must simply tell yourself that devils do not exist.’
Virginsky ran a hand over his face. ‘I will try.’
Major Verkhotsev nodded encouragingly. ‘That’s the spirit. Now, I imagine you wish to go straight to see Porfiry Petrovich? He is at the Obukhovksy Hospital. I will have you taken there.’
‘If it is permitted, I would rather walk. Alone.’
‘Yes, of course. But, please, don’t do anything silly on the way. I don’t want to be fishing your hat out of the river.’
‘I’m not wearing a hat.’
Major Verkhotsev smiled. ‘Just as well.’
*
The Fontanka river stretched out in front of him between parallel embankments, unnaturally straight, like a vast bolt of fabric unrolled. It was a shimmering cloth, made up of many subtle colours. In the peaks of its rippling surface, an incarnadine glow danced over oily depths. The river seemed somehow wider than he remembered it, as if the quality of distance had changed in the period of his strange confinement. Everything now was further away, it seemed; in particular, the barriers that divided the city had increased. And at its heart, of course, the city was emptier now, immeasurably emptier.
Across the river he saw the peculiar pseudo-medieval construction of the Mikhailovsky Castle, now the School of Engineering. He thought of the sons sent there by their fathers to acquire a useful profession, imprisoned in that red fortress by vicarious ambition. And yet, somehow, he envied them the certainty and security that such a start in life promised. He wondered if there was a young man standing at one of its windows, viewing him with an equal but opposite envy.