recognise you as one of their own. They will trust you.’
‘I shall come with you, of course. It’s my duty to do whatever you say.’
‘And your pleasure also, no doubt?’
Virginsky hesitated. ‘I do not like the duplicitous role in which you seek to cast me.’
‘There’s nothing duplicitous about it, Pavel Pavlovich. It’s simply . . . good psychology.’
‘And entirely unnecessary, in my opinion. If Kozodavlev is indeed the writer of the anonymous letter, as seems likely, then naturally he will tell you everything he knows. He approached you in the first place.’
‘Ah, but you are forgetting. He is a gentleman who likes to surprise!’
They picked up a drozhki on Sadovaya Street. Along the way, Porfiry sang ‘Stenka Razin’ into the onrushing air. The sheep-skinned driver was delighted with his fare’s performance and joined in enthusiastically. Porfiry slapped Virginsky’s thighs to encourage him to sing out too, particularly during the stanza in which Stenka Razin addresses the Volga river. Virginsky maintained a stubborn silence throughout.
‘I would have thought that song would be to your taste, Pavel Pavlovich,’ said Porfiry, as soon as the drozhki had deposited them. ‘The stirring tale of a rebel leader who murders his new bride to prove his devotion to the cause.’
‘I do not object to the song. It is the small matter of singing it in an open drozhki that I think indecorous. Particularly as we are magistrates engaged in a murder enquiry.’
‘Indecorous? Good Heavens! I didn’t realise that you radicals placed such store by decorum.’
‘Porfiry Petrovich, kindly refrain from referring to me in that way.’
‘In what way?’
‘You make light of my political convictions. You use the word “radical” as if it were some great joke. The joke is at my expense. That’s why you chose to sing that song, I suppose. You think that this is all very funny. Yet I will remind you, a man is dead. And we have come here in order to discover his identity. Furthermore, the political future of our great country is no laughing matter. If I have sincere convictions, it ill behoves you to mock them.’
Porfiry blinked out a face of bewildered innocence. ‘You are right, Pavel Pavlovich,’ he conceded, after a moment. ‘Please forgive me. I cannot explain why my mood is so strangely elated this morning. I will endeavour to conduct myself more . . . decorously from now on.’
‘You are still mocking me.’
‘I think I am not. Certainly, it is not my intention to mock you. Forgive me for saying so, Pavel Pavlovich, but perhaps the offence is all inside your head.’
‘That is another example of your psychology?’
‘As I am strangely elated, you are inexplicably prickly.’ Porfiry held a hooked finger to his lips thoughtfully. ‘I wonder if our contrasting moods might have a common cause. You have been put out since I showed you the article in The Russian Word yesterday, have you not? I believe my unseemly joviality dates from the same time.’
‘It has nothing to do with that.’
‘No?’
‘I am merely influenced by the gravity of the task in hand.’
‘And you are right to be. And I am entirely in the wrong. Once again, I crave your forgiveness.’
Dmitrovsky Lane was a residential back street between Kolokolnaya Street and Stremyannaya Street, tucked away behind Nevsky Prospect. The narrowness of the lane conspired with the height of the apartment blocks to exclude the seasonal light, which seemed tenuous and easily discouraged.
Porfiry located number 16 and strode off, humming ‘Stenka Razin’ under his breath.
‘Please, Porfiry Petrovich!’ implored Virginsky, hurrying to keep up with him.
Porfiry stopped dead.
‘You are still singing that tune.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes.’
‘I had no idea. Still, it is a very rousing tune. Tell me, Pavel Pavlovich, do you think our modern-day Stenka Razins capable of such ruthlessness?’
Virginsky shook his head
‘I shall come with you, of course. It’s my duty to do whatever you say.’
‘And your pleasure also, no doubt?’
Virginsky hesitated. ‘I do not like the duplicitous role in which you seek to cast me.’
‘There’s nothing duplicitous about it, Pavel Pavlovich. It’s simply . . . good psychology.’
‘And entirely unnecessary, in my opinion. If Kozodavlev is indeed the writer of the anonymous letter, as seems likely, then naturally he will tell you everything he knows. He approached you in the first place.’
‘Ah, but you are forgetting. He is a gentleman who likes to surprise!’
They picked up a drozhki on Sadovaya Street. Along the way, Porfiry sang ‘Stenka Razin’ into the onrushing air. The sheep-skinned driver was delighted with his fare’s performance and joined in enthusiastically. Porfiry slapped Virginsky’s thighs to encourage him to sing out too, particularly during the stanza in which Stenka Razin addresses the Volga river. Virginsky maintained a stubborn silence throughout.
‘I would have thought that song would be to your taste, Pavel Pavlovich,’ said Porfiry, as soon as the drozhki had deposited them. ‘The stirring tale of a rebel leader who murders his new bride to prove his devotion to the cause.’
‘I do not object to the song. It is the small matter of singing it in an open drozhki that I think indecorous. Particularly as we are magistrates engaged in a murder enquiry.’
‘Indecorous? Good Heavens! I didn’t realise that you radicals placed such store by decorum.’
‘Porfiry Petrovich, kindly refrain from referring to me in that way.’
‘In what way?’
‘You make light of my political convictions. You use the word “radical” as if it were some great joke. The joke is at my expense. That’s why you chose to sing that song, I suppose. You think that this is all very funny. Yet I will remind you, a man is dead. And we have come here in order to discover his identity. Furthermore, the political future of our great country is no laughing matter. If I have sincere convictions, it ill behoves you to mock them.’
Porfiry blinked out a face of bewildered innocence. ‘You are right, Pavel Pavlovich,’ he conceded, after a moment. ‘Please forgive me. I cannot explain why my mood is so strangely elated this morning. I will endeavour to conduct myself more . . . decorously from now on.’
‘You are still mocking me.’
‘I think I am not. Certainly, it is not my intention to mock you. Forgive me for saying so, Pavel Pavlovich, but perhaps the offence is all inside your head.’
‘That is another example of your psychology?’
‘As I am strangely elated, you are inexplicably prickly.’ Porfiry held a hooked finger to his lips thoughtfully. ‘I wonder if our contrasting moods might have a common cause. You have been put out since I showed you the article in The Russian Word yesterday, have you not? I believe my unseemly joviality dates from the same time.’
‘It has nothing to do with that.’
‘No?’
‘I am merely influenced by the gravity of the task in hand.’
‘And you are right to be. And I am entirely in the wrong. Once again, I crave your forgiveness.’
Dmitrovsky Lane was a residential back street between Kolokolnaya Street and Stremyannaya Street, tucked away behind Nevsky Prospect. The narrowness of the lane conspired with the height of the apartment blocks to exclude the seasonal light, which seemed tenuous and easily discouraged.
Porfiry located number 16 and strode off, humming ‘Stenka Razin’ under his breath.
‘Please, Porfiry Petrovich!’ implored Virginsky, hurrying to keep up with him.
Porfiry stopped dead.
‘You are still singing that tune.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes.’
‘I had no idea. Still, it is a very rousing tune. Tell me, Pavel Pavlovich, do you think our modern-day Stenka Razins capable of such ruthlessness?’
Virginsky shook his head
Similar Books
