A Razor Wrapped in Silk by R. N. Morris Page A

conversation with the shovel-bearded man to her right. They were sitting with those who had already been interviewed, but she seemed in no hurry to leave. She left it to others to clamour around Virginsky, demanding to be released. She looked up as Porfiry approached. Her face lit up in recognition and perhaps even pleasure. Porfiry had the impression she had been waiting to speak to him. She rose from her seat, squeezing out along the row. The shovel-bearded man gave Porfiry a look of passing curiosity.
    ‘I did not expect to see you again so soon, Porfiry Petrovich.’
    ‘Nor I you, Maria Petrovna.’
    ‘This is a terrible business.’
    Porfiry nodded gravely.
    ‘Naturally, I will do whatever I can to help.’
    One or two people watched them with half-aroused interest, latching on to any novelty as a relief from their boredom. Porfiry sensed their attention. ‘Perhaps you would care to step outside?’
    They entered the dimly lit corridor.
    ‘May I ask you about Yelena?’
    The name sapped Maria Petrovna’s face of energy and colour. Her eyes shot downwards. ‘Poor Yelena. It’s so horrible.’
    ‘You were good friends?’
    ‘I had not seen her for many years. But we were once close.’
    ‘I am very sorry. Death is always difficult to bear, but the death of one so young, under such circumstances, it touches everyone.’
    ‘Her fiancé must be devastated,’ said Maria.
    ‘Yes, I am sure.’
    ‘When I saw him, he appeared strangely calm.’ Maria Petrovna’s voice became distant.
    ‘Do you know the officer concerned? Captain Mizinchikov?’
    ‘I had never seen him before tonight.’
    ‘And what of Ivan Iakovich Bakhmutov?’
    ‘I do not know that man at all.’
    ‘Can you shed any light on Yelena’s relationship with Captain Mizinchikov?’
    ‘No. I’m sorry. As I said, it is many years since we last spoke. I regret – I greatly regret – that I did not get the chance to speak to her tonight. I only know what Aglaia Filippovna told me.’
    ‘You spoke to Aglaia Filippovna?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘When was this?’
    ‘Before the performance. At the time of the terrible scene in the entrance hall.’
    ‘Ah yes. The slapping.’
    ‘Yes.’ Maria Petrovna’s face was pinched with disapproval.
    ‘Aglaia Filippovna spoke about her sister?’
    ‘Yes. She said that the man called Bakhmutov had once kept her as a mistress and that she was his to dispose of as he wished.’
    ‘I see. Certain things are beginning to make sense. I thank you, Maria Petrovna.’
    ‘Porfiry Petrovich?’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘May I see her?’
    Her eyes oscillated wildly, as if seeking escape from the prospect she had just voiced.
    Porfiry tried to calm them with his own gaze. ‘I do not advise it. Do you want your abiding memory of her to be as she is now, or as she was when you were friends? She has been brutally attacked. These sights have a way of etching themselves on the soul. You are tired. Go home.’
    ‘You don’t understand. There are things I have to say to her.’
    ‘She cannot hear you. Go home. Kneel before the icon and pray for her soul. Give your words to God. He will pass on your message.’
    ‘You are a believer?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Porfiry.
    ‘Even with these sights etched on your soul?’
    ‘I have to believe. If I did not, I would go mad.’
    ‘But what if belief is itself a form of madness? There is no logic in it.’
    ‘On the contrary, it is supremely logical. It is the only thing that makes sense of … of everything.’
    ‘How did he kill her?’
    ‘Her throat was … cut open.’
    ‘Yes. That’s what people are saying. Was there a lot of blood?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘You must let me see her. Spare me the torment of imagining this!’
    ‘To see it is a greater torment.’
    ‘You have seen it.’
    ‘My profession requires me to.’
    ‘And my love … requires … me … to,’ echoed Maria Petrovna, though her final words were almost swallowed by her sobbing.
    *
    Porfiry led her down to the room.