Dmitri and the Milk-Drinkers
Michael Pearce
Witty and irreverent, this is the first in an irresistible crime series set in Tsarist Russia in the 1890s from the award-winning Michael Pearce.Tsarist Russia in the 1890s. Dmitri Kameron, a young lawyer, must deal with the disappearance of a well-connected young woman. She has been shipped off to Siberia, in one of the prison wagons outside the Court House. But is this a bureaucratic bungle or something more calculated?On a journey to the furthest outposts of Russia, Dimitri’s search becomes horribly complicated. To unearth the truth in a treacherous world of Russian officialdom he is forced to make some strange allies, not least among them the redoubtable Milk-Drinkers…
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First published in Great Britain in 1997 by Collins Crime
Copyright © Michael Pearce 1997
Michael Pearce asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008259358
Ebook Edition © MARCH 2013 ISBN: 9780007483082
Version: 2017-09-12
Contents
Cover (#u0975ff1a-d74b-53bf-a050-adcf2df59ee6)
Title Page (#u5bff4a0d-d474-54bf-b738-9f0dbee37d10)
Copyright (#u4d59369f-332c-5a51-9aca-1592437c8db8)
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Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Michael Pearce (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
1 (#ulink_3231b4d3-2bdd-517d-800e-fd4d3c89ae53)
Dmitri Kameron, Examining Magistrate, was walking along the corridor of the Court House when a woman came out of a door ahead of him.
‘Help me, please!’ she said.
Dmitri, a sympathetic young man fresh from law school and therefore lacking the consciousness of his dignity seen in the provinces as proper to his post, paused politely.
The girl was fair and well spoken; a bit above the run of women usually seen in Kursk, never mind the Court House, and Dmitri was impressed.
Later, he came to think he had been intended to be.
‘Could you take me to the yard, please? I need some air.’
‘Of course!’
He offered her his arm. Things, thought Dmitri, were improving.
‘I felt faint,’ she said.
‘Oh, it’s stifling in the Courtroom. They haven’t caught up with the fact that it’s spring yet. The heating’s still going full blast. And then, of course, there are so many people.’
‘I felt faint,’ she said again.
‘A breath of fresh air will put you right!’
But would she find it in the yard? There would be horse-shit everywhere, prisoners coming and going who, after long confinement, smelled worse than the horse-shit, the rank tobacco of the guards, and the dubious smell that came from the open drains. He had been meaning to speak about that to someone ever since he came, but the rooms used by the lawyers were at the front of the building and it was easy to forget what went on at the rear.
He stopped abruptly.
‘I wonder – might it not be better if we went out by the front door? The air would be fresher. We could go for a walk in the park.’
And sod the case he was working on! They’d called the interval hadn’t they? Well, they’d just have to wait.
‘No, no, please! The yard!’
‘Are you sure? I could – ’
‘Quite sure.’
She walked determinedly on.
In the yard it was as bad as he had feared. The carts had come for another convoy and their heavy wooden wheels had churned the usual mud of the yard to a deep bog into which the horses sank up to their fetlocks. The drivers were finding it impossible to turn the carts and everywhere men were shouting and swearing and there was a continuous spray of mud.
‘Honestly – ’ Dmitri began.
‘I’ll be all right. Really!’
He looked around for somewhere she could stand.
‘This will be all right. Truly! But could you fetch me some water, please?’
He left her standing in the doorway while he went to find the water. There was a well in the yard, but he certainly was not going to wade across to that. He tried some of the rooms nearby and did indeed find a pail of water which might have been intended for drinking. But he couldn’t find a cup and had doubts about the water anyway, so went on further. In the end he had to go all the way back to the lawyers’ chambers at the front of the building before he could find a respectable cup and some trustable water.
When he came back he found her gone. It had taken him some time and no doubt she had got bored waiting. All the same he felt a little aggrieved.
‘But you were the last person who saw her!’ said Peter Ivanovich accusingly.
‘Surely not. The ushers – ’
He remembered now, however, that the corridor had been empty. All the courts had been in session and the ushers preoccupied with their duties.
‘Someone in the yard – ’
No one in the yard. Everyone very keen to distance themselves as far as possible. They had all been busy with the carts – Dmitri Alexandrovich had seen for himself – and had had no time to notice anything. Had Anna Semeonova gone into the yard anyway? When Dmitri Alexandrovich had last seen her she had been standing in the doorway. Was it likely that a decent, well-bred girl like Anna Semeonova would go out with all that filth, with all that language – Excuse me, Your Honour? A thick veil of mud lay over everything.
Well, it was unlikely, everyone had to admit. Far more likely that she had simply retraced her footsteps and gone out the front of the building, to get a breath of air in the park, perhaps –
‘I suggested that,’ said Dmitri.
‘Well, there you are, then – ’
Only she hadn’t. Or at least the porters on the door swore blind that she hadn’t.
‘Do you think we wouldn’t notice if a girl like Anna Semeonova walked out of the door?’ they said indignantly. ‘Truly, Your Honour – ’
‘Yes, but were you there, you oafs? Off for a drink – ’
They denied this fervently; and, indeed, there was some independent evidence that they had been at their posts the whole of the morning. Had they just missed her, then?
‘Anna Semeonova? A girl like that? Not a chance, Your Honour.’
The park? Had she been seen in the park? Was there anyone …? Yes, indeed, there were several people who had been in the park the whole time. Old Olga, selling sunflower seeds on her traditional pitch, Ivan Feodorovich sweeping the paths, a young clerk from the Court offices (and what was he doing out there? A woman, no doubt!) A woman it was, and she was produced, all tearful. Yes, Your Honour, she had been there all morning, well, not all morning, she was a respectable working girl, but just that part of the morning, only a few minutes, well, yes, the whole of the second half of the morning – it was such a lovely morning, Your Honour, quite spring-like – and she hadn’t seen the young lady. Yes, she would have recognized her. She used to see her in the church. Such a lovely coat she would wear, fur trimmings on the lapels, white, black, white, black –
‘For Christ’s sake, shut that woman up!’ said Peter Ivanovich with increasing irritation. Because he was getting nowhere. Incredible as it might seem, a respectable young woman, from one of the best local families, had simply disappeared. And, what was worse, she had disappeared from the Court House itself.
‘It makes us look damned stupid,’ the senior judge said to the Chief of Police. This was late in the afternoon and the girl had still not been found. They had searched the building not once but three times and were about to begin again.
‘She must be here somewhere!’ said the Chief of Police, Novikov. ‘I mean, it stands to reason.’
‘What would you know about reason?’ said the senior judge sharply. Normally he got on quite well with Novikov. Indeed, when there was no one better available, he sometimes played cards with him. But that was probably a mistake. It encouraged slackness. Give these people an inch and they would take a mile. Get off their backs for just one second and they were bloody useless.
And if anyone was bloody useless it was this damned man Novikov. You’d think anyone would be able to find a girl in a building if they set their mind to it. If they had a mind, that was. He gave Novikov a black look. Six hours! The girl had gone missing at about eleven o’clock and it was now past five o’clock. It would soon be dark. What if they hadn’t found her by then? Her father was already here and was beginning to talk about the Governor. Well he didn’t mind that too much. He was an old friend of the Governor himself. But Pavel Semeonov was also mentioning Prince Dolgorukov and that was different. Dolgorukov had influence in the places that mattered; not least in the Ministry of Justice, where the patterns of judges’ careers were decided. Moreover, since the assassination of the previous Tsar and with the swing back to sterner measures, his power had grown sharply. He was definitely the coming man; and the judge, who had built his whole career on his talent for allying himself with coming men, was anxious to avoid a false step now. Especially over something as ridiculous as this!
Something must be done; and, since the population of Kursk seemed to be composed entirely of imbeciles and slackers, he would have to do it himself. He glanced at his watch. Six o’clock! He was due at Avdotia Vassilevna’s in half an hour, but that would have to wait. He would miss the zakuski, which was a pity, for Avdotia Vassilevna had a flair for hors d’oeuvres. But sacrifices had to be made. He was damned, though, if he would miss the lamb cutlets; not for something as piffling as this.
He rang the bell on his desk. He would begin with that nincompoop who had, apparently, actually seen the girl, the only one, at any rate, in the whole of Kursk daft enough to admit he had seen her and then, the fool, somehow mislaid her.
‘Fetch Examining Magistrate Kameron,’ he directed.
Dmitri had also had ideas about how he was going to spend the evening. This was Thursday and along with other intellectual exiles from the capital he normally foregathered at the house of Igor Stepanovich to discuss the contents of the latest national periodicals. Tonight they were going to discuss an article in the most recent number of the New Contemporary. The article was unlikely to be very contemporary by the time it reached Kursk nor the journal very new, having been passed around the members of the group until they had all read it; but, reading it, they felt they were in touch with the latest ideas that were swirling around the capital. This was important as otherwise in the provinces you soon felt quite out of things. It was especially important to Dmitri, who had absolutely no intention of burying himself in a hole like Kursk for any longer than he could help.
There was, too, an added attraction this evening. Until quite recently the group had consisted entirely of men. This was less out of principle – in the group they were all advanced thinkers and, now that emancipation of the serfs was out of the way, saw the emancipation of women as the next great step – than out of necessity. The fact was that there was a shortage of intelligent women in Kursk. This was not their fault, as Igor Stepanovich pointed out: it merely reflected the general lack of educational provision for girls. Given such provision, in a few years young women would be able to talk on equal terms with young men. Even in Kursk.
The point was well made, and conversation was moving on to the general question of what form the education of women should take when Pavel Milusovich’s sister, Sonya, interrupted. The conversation was taking place in the family’s drawing room. She said that education was nothing to do with it. She had not been to university, she pointed out, but surely no one would deny that she had twice the brains of her brother. This was all too evidently true, and the argument stalled for a moment or two. Why, demanded Sonya, should she be excluded from the meetings of the group?
‘You’re not being excluded,’ said Igor Stepanovich. ‘It’s just that you wouldn’t be happy if you came.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Sonya.
‘You’d be on your own,’ said Igor.
‘So?’ said Sonya.
Igor couldn’t immediately think of a reply. Another of the group, Gregor Yusupovich, said that it wouldn’t look good. Other people were not as liberated as they were and if she was the one woman in a group of men it would prejudice her chances of marriage. Sonya said that, on the contrary, she thought it would improve them.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘why does there just have to be one?’
‘We’re back to where we started,’ said Igor. ‘You’d be all right,’ he conceded, ‘but the truth is there aren’t any other – ’
‘How about Vera?’ said Sonya.
‘Vera Samsonova?’
‘You can’t say she’s not educated. She studied at St Petersburg. And she passed her exams first time!’ added Sonya maliciously.
‘Yes, but would she come?’ asked Igor, affecting nonchalance. ‘She’s always seemed to me – ’
‘I’ll ask her,’ said Sonya.
And had.
She would be there this evening. Dmitri had no great hopes. He had seen her from a distance. Tall. And thin. Flat as a board. Straight up, straight down. Front and back. Bright, no doubt. No one who had taken the Advanced Women’s Courses in the Faculty of Natural History could be a fool. They had been about the only route by which women could qualify to be a medical doctor. You had had to be pretty bright to get in, and very bright to stay on, because the professors had deliberately made it hard to. There had been a lot of hostility towards the course, not just from the medical profession but from the university. And from the Government. They’d taken the first chance they could to close the courses down, a casualty, like so many others, of the backlash against reform following the assassination of Tsar Alexander.
He had met some of the women once, although the course itself had been closed by the time he got there. Very determined, the women had seemed. In fact, that was the trouble. Too determined. They seemed to go through life with clenched teeth.
From what he’d heard, Vera Samsonova was a bit like that. Spiky. No soft edges. All the same, he had been mildly intrigued at the prospect of meeting her.
And now, just as he was putting on his hat and coat, this bloody fool of a judge wanted to see him!
‘There are things’, said the senior judge severely, ‘that a young lady of good family should not see. And the Court House yard is one of them!’
‘She wanted to see it!’ protested Dmitri. ‘She was going there anyway.’
‘Could you not have diverted her?’
‘I tried, but she insisted.’
‘You should have tried harder.’
‘She wanted a breath of air!’
‘But why go to the back yard for it? Why couldn’t you take her out the front? The park … the flowers …’
‘There aren’t any flowers yet. They’ve only just cleared the snow away.’
‘The air is wholesome at least,’ said the judge, irritated, ‘and you couldn’t say that was true of the yard.’
‘She wanted to go there!’
‘I find that hard to believe. Would any respectable young woman want to go there, knowing what she might see? No,’ said the judge warmly, ‘what she wanted was just a place where she could get some fresh air. You chose to take her to the back yard and therefore it is in considerable measure your fault.’
‘Fault! She asked me to show her the way and I showed her!’
‘She placed herself under your protection.’
‘Nonsense! All she did was ask – ’
‘A young woman?’ said the judge incredulously. ‘Distressed? Sees what she takes to be a respectable young man? An official of the Court, no less? Asks – quite properly – for assistance? If that is not placing herself under your protection, I’d like to know what is!’
Dmitri counted to five before replying and then, as that did not seem to be working, to ten.
‘I could quite reasonably have restricted myself to pointing out the way,’ he said at last. ‘In fact, I chose – ’
‘Ah!’ said the judge triumphantly. ‘Chose!’
‘To walk along the corridor with her. No question of legal responsibility arises.’
‘Her father,’ said the judge grimly, ‘is a friend of the Governor. He moves in high circles in St Petersburg. An intimate of Prince Dolgorukov. Through him he has access to the Tsar. And you think no question of responsibility will arise?’
Oh ho, thought Dmitri. So that’s the way the wind’s blowing!
‘I refuse to admit any personal responsibility in the matter,’ he said quickly.
‘Much good that will do you!’ said the judge cuttingly. ‘Much good,’ he added gloomily, ‘it will do any of us.’
‘Oh, come sir!’ said Dmitri. ‘Things are not as bad as all that! There is probably some quite simple explanation for the girl’s disappearance. Met a friend, perhaps, and gone off for a walk – ’
‘In the dark?’ asked the judge, looking out of the window. ‘She’d have been back by now. No,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘we’ve tried all that. Checked on her friends, the shops, her hairdresser – ’
‘A friend she wishes to keep secret, perhaps?’
‘A male friend, you mean?’
‘Well – ’
‘No question of that. Her parents are adamant.’
‘They would be,’ said Dmitri.
The judge looked at him.
‘You think it’s a possibility?’
‘A far likelier possibility than that it’s anything to do with the back yard.’
‘You think so?’
‘Sure of it. How could there be?’
‘Well, of course you’re right. A young lady of respectable family … how could there be? You must be right.’
‘Turned round the moment she took a look at it, I would have thought. Walked straight back along the corridor.’
‘You think so? But then – ’
‘There will be some simple explanation.’
‘I hope you’re right. I’m sure you’re right.’ The judge looked at his watch. Still time to get to Avdotia Vassilevna’s for the main course. Even the fish, perhaps. He snapped it shut.
‘I’ll leave it to you, then.’
‘Leave it?’
‘As Examining Magistrate. Do keep me informed.’
‘But I thought … You said …’
‘Yes?’
‘That I was party to the case. And therefore it would be improper for me to act as Examining Magistrate.’
‘But you denied that you were party to the case. Didn’t you? I’m merely accepting your word. For the time being.’
One way or another, thought Dmitri, the bastards always got you.
‘Well, I’ll leave you to get on with it. While the scent is hot.’
Dmitri made a last effort to retrieve his evening.
‘Aren’t we being premature, sir? I mean, is there a case? Surely it’s just a matter of continuing with the search? The police – ?’
‘Useless. That fool Novikov. No, I’d prefer you to be involved right from the start. Someone bright, with a bit of energy, someone – ’
‘Responsible?’
‘Yes. Responsible. That’s the word.’
Sitting alone in the little room the lawyers used as a workroom, Dmitri nursed his wrath. There was plenty of it to nurse; first, wrath against the judge, not just for landing Dmitri in it but also for the general things he stood for and Dmitri stood against: age, seniority, authority, power, privilege, the System; next, wrath against Kursk, which was such a hell of a place that no wonder everything went wrong in it; and, finally, against this silly girl who had got herself lost and mucked up Dmitri’s evening.
By this time on a normal day the Court House would have been empty. Lawyers, witnesses, defendants would have long departed. The caretakers would have retreated on to their ovens. Only at the back, perhaps, the last wagon would be squelching through the mud, trying to reach the firm crunch of the hard-packed snow outside.
Tonight there were lamps in all the rooms and people scurrying about everywhere. Novikov was searching the building for the fifth or perhaps sixth time. The dilemma before Dmitri was this: should he assume that Novikov was incapable of doing anything properly, and therefore make a search of the building himself? Or should he take for granted that the girl had left the building long before and was now happily chatting in some comfortable parlour with her girlfriends or, more likely, otherwise preoccupied in some comfortable bed with her boyfriend? The second was obviously the case. The trouble was that if by any unlikely chance it was the first, and the girl was lying stuffed in some corner somewhere, and was later discovered, then it would look bad. It would look bad for the Court House and, more to the point, since the judge had nailed him firmly with responsibility for the investigation, it would look bad for him, Dmitri.
Search, himself, it would have to be, and, no doubt, while doing it he could find himself a glass of tea in the caretakers’ room.
Novikov had had the idea before him. He looked up, glass in hand, as Dmitri entered.
‘I’m making a personal search,’ he said, warming his backside against the fire. ‘You’ve got to do it yourself. You can’t trust these buggers to do it properly.’
‘How far have you got?’ asked Dmitri. ‘Just here?’
Novikov looked pained.
‘The whole of the ground floor,’ he said. ‘Every nook, every cranny, every cupboard, behind every pipe, down every sewer. You need a wash-up after you’ve done that, I can tell you! Ever searched a sewer, Dmitri Alexandrovich?’
‘Suits some people more than others,’ Dmitri said coldly. He wasn’t going to be put down by the Chief of Police of a place like Kursk.
Novikov shrugged and put down his glass.
‘The top floor now! Would you care to accompany me? At least there won’t be any sewers.’
Dmitri was forced to admit, after half an hour had passed, that Novikov knew his job, or this part of it at least. It wasn’t intelligence, Dmitri decided; it was cunning. Perhaps experience, too. Experience enough to know when a thing mattered and when it did not, cunning to be able to read the mind of the brutalized peasants who provided the bulk of the criminals in Kursk. Dmitri had no such cunning, he knew. He had never met a peasant until he came to Kursk, although they formed two-thirds of the population of Russia. Dmitri was a city-dweller through and through. And that, if he could manage it, was how he meant to stay. The important thing was not to get trapped in the provinces. That was where experience came in, both the judge’s kind of experience and Novikov’s. The experience to know that this was a thing that people higher up would be interested in and take notice of, experience at covering your back. Dmitri was beginning to feel that he could have done with more experience of the latter sort.
‘A glass of tea, Dmitri Alexandrovich?’ suggested Novikov, when they had finished the floor.
Dmitri concurred silently. He had already made up his mind that he would not now search the ground floor himself. Such things, especially the sewers, were best left to the Novikovs.
‘What are you going to do now?’ he asked.
Novikov looked at his watch.
‘Nine o’clock,’ he said. ‘Nothing more tonight. It’s too dark. Tomorrow we’ll search the grounds. Then the park. First thing, though, as soon as it’s light, we’ll have people go through the building again, before the courts open. We may have missed something, you never know. And you wouldn’t want people to come in and find …’
‘Indeed not.’
‘But,’ Novikov went on, ‘I won’t do it myself.’
‘No?’
‘I’ll be in the back yard. I want to have a good look in the mud. Before the wagons start coming. Care to join me, Dmitri Alexandrovich?’ he asked maliciously.
Not at first light but at a decent hour, Dmitri called on the Semeonovs and was shown into the drawing room. A few moments later the Semeonovs joined him.
‘Dmitri Alexandrovich Kameron,’ he said bowing. ‘Examining Magistrate. At your service.’
‘He looks very young!’ said Olga Feodorovna, inspecting him critically.
‘Yes, he does,’ said her husband. ‘I don’t call that good enough! Is that the best they can do?’ he demanded, looking at Dmitri. ‘A man like me deserves something better. Peter Ivanovich at least!’
‘Peter Ivanovich is, indeed, occupying himself with the case, although, of course, formally it is the Examining Magistrate – ’
‘Formally?’ said Semeonov. ‘What do I care about “formally”? Don’t come the petty bureaucrat with me, you young puppy! What’s your name?’ he demanded threateningly.
‘Kameron. As I have just told you,’ said Dmitri, seething.
‘Well, Mr Examining Magistrate Kameron, you can run back to the Court House and tell them I want to see somebody different on the case, someone a bit more senior! I call this an insult. I can see I’m going to have to have a word with someone higher up, not just in Kursk, either. Prince Dolgorukov – ’
‘Kameron?’ said his wife, ‘Did you say Kameron?’
‘I did.’
‘That is not a Russian name.’
‘My God!’ said Semeonov. ‘Are they sending us foreigners now?’
‘They are not,’ said Dmitri, stung. ‘My family has been Russian for two hundred years. My great-great-grandfather served the Tsar – ’
‘Kameron?’ interrupted Olga Feodorovna. ‘What sort of name is that?’
‘Scottish. My great-great-grandfather – ’
‘Served the Tsar, you say? In what capacity?’ interrupted Semeonov.
‘He built the Tsarina’s palace.’
‘Yes, but what rank?’
‘For his services he was admitted to the dvorianstvo.’
‘Really?’ said Olga Feodorovna.
‘A rank which my family has been proud to retain!’ said Dmitri, fired up.
And would have been prouder still if anything, money for instance, had gone with it.
‘Well, now, look – ’ began Semeonov.
‘Dmitri Alexandrovich!’ said Olga Feodorovna, putting out her hand and smiling sweetly. ‘How kind of you to call! Charmant!’ she said to her husband. ‘But why haven’t you been to see us before?’ she said to Dmitri. ‘My daughter would so like – oh, my daughter!’ she cried, collapsing in tears.
‘Now, now, my dear – ’
‘Madam! Madam!’ cried Dmitri, supporting her to a sofa. ‘You must not give way! Don’t assume the worst! I’m sure she’s all right.’
‘You think so?’ whispered Olga Feodorovna, looking up at him through her tears.
‘I am sure!’ cried Dmitri, carried away.
‘And you will find her?’
‘I will find her! I promise you!’
‘You will? Oh, Dmitri Alexandrovich!’
‘I will search the park myself.’
‘Oh, Dmitri Alexandrovich! You will stay to lunch, won’t you?’
It would have been unsociable to refuse. And over lunch he learned some more about the strange girl who had sought his help in the Court House.
A sweet girl, charming. Dmitri could believe that. Tender, passionate. Good qualities, in Dmitri’s view, especially in women. Serious – serious about what?
‘She used to read,’ said Olga Feodorovna.
And not your French romances, either! Or, at least, not just your French romances.
‘Real books!’ said Semeonov, nodding significantly. ‘Thick ones!’
‘On …?’
Hospitals, said Semeonov. Children, said Olga Feodorovna. The poor.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Semeonov. ‘The poor.’
For some reason Dmitri began to feel depressed.
‘And church,’ said Olga Feodorovna. ‘She used to go to church.’
‘But stopped,’ said Semeonov.
Stopped?
‘A girlish whim!’ said Olga Feodorovna.
When was this?
‘About three months ago,’ said Semeonov.
‘I pleaded with her,’ said Olga Feodorovna. ‘I asked her to think how it would look.’
But she wouldn’t be persuaded?
‘Well,’ said Olga Feodorovna, ‘you know girls.’
Any reason?
‘Doubts,’ said Semeonov.
Doubts? What sort of doubts? Religious ones?
The Semeonovs wouldn’t say that.
‘She was having a difficult time,’ said Olga Feodorovna. ‘You know; girls.’
Dmitri hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about.
‘Moody,’ said Semeonov.
‘Well, yes,’ Olga Feodorovna had to admit, you could say that. A passing phase, though. And didn’t Dmitri Alexandrovich think that made young women more interesting?
Oh, yes, Dmitri was sure of that.
‘I knew you would understand,’ said Olga Feodorovna softly.
It was a pity Dmitri Alexandrovich had never met her.
Dmitri was sure about that, too. In fact, he couldn’t think how it was that he had come to miss her.
‘Well, she didn’t get about much,’ said Olga Feodorovna. ‘I tried to encourage her to, but she preferred to stay at home.’
‘Reading,’ supplemented Semeonov.
‘You see!’ said Olga Feodorovna, making what had once been a pretty moue. ‘Serious!’
Not many friends, then?
‘Only a few,’ Olga Feodorovna conceded. ‘In the best families, of course.’
Men friends?
‘Oh, Dmitri Alexandrovich! We’re not like St Petersburg, you know!’
Nevertheless –
‘Frankly,’ said Semeonov, ‘there’s no one here you’d encourage her to meet.’
‘Except yourself, Dmitri Alexandrovich,’ said Olga Feodorovna, smiling.
‘When you get on a bit,’ said Semeonov. ‘In your career, I mean.’
But had there been anyone particular? A tendresse, perhaps?
‘Oh, Dmitri Alexandrovich!’ said Olga Feodorovna roguishly.
‘No,’ said Semeonov shortly.
Servants came and cleared the dishes away. Over the coffee, Dmitri said:
‘And what exactly was Anna Semeonova doing in the Court House yesterday?’
‘A fad!’ said Semeonov, frowning.
‘A whim!’ said Olga Feodorovna.
‘But what …?’
‘She wanted to see a court in action,’ said Semeonov. ‘Well, I ask you!’
‘Such a serious girl!’ said Olga Feodorovna.
‘It’s all these books she’s been reading. I’m all for giving girls education,’ said Semeonov, ‘but you can go too far.’
‘I told her we could receive the lawyers socially,’ said Olga Feodorovna. ‘Only that wasn’t what she wanted.’
‘She wanted to go and see,’ said Semeonov. ‘I fixed it up with Smirnov. I didn’t want anything too … well, you know what I mean. She’s only a young girl.’
‘Smirnov?’ said Dmitri. ‘That would be contracts, then.’
‘I thought that was safest. Nothing too juicy. Smirnov said that it would be so boring she’d never want to go again.’
‘I see. So there was nothing specific she particularly wanted to see, it was just the working of the courts in general?’
‘She wanted to see the working of justice, she said.’
In that case, thought Dmitri, why go to the Law Courts?
2 (#ulink_f6b4b336-a962-5782-9c33-1c9c7cc3e91d)
Dmitri considered the fact that she was a serious girl a major indictment. He knew what serious girls were like. Especially in Kursk.
Besides, with her parents’ permission, he’d taken a look in her room and seen the books: heavy, figure-filled stuff and all in German. Dmitri felt guilty about German. Germany was where a lot of the most advanced social thinking was going on and as a committed Westernizer, he should have been keeping himself au courant. He found the German language, however – or, at least, the German language as written by heavy German academics – hard going. So, apparently, had Anna Semeonova. She had persevered, nonetheless. That was another thing that Dmitri held against her.
The books gave a clue as to the direction of her seriousness. She was not serious about novels, she was not serious about music, she was not serious about ballet. What she was serious about was society. Unless Dmitri was much mistaken, the poor girl had had a fit of politics coming on.
This threw a different light on things. It knocked on the head, for a start, Dmitri’s favourite theory at the moment (Dmitri had a lot of theories, it was relating them to facts that was the problem), namely, that Anna Semeonova had gone off with a boyfriend. Seriousness and sexuality were, in Dmitri’s view, incompatible. Unless – the thought made him stop in his tracks as he trudged back to the Court House through the remnants of snow – unless having a boyfriend was itself a political act!
It might be. With parents like the Semeonovs, any daughter could be excused for turning to rebellion; and what better form could rebellion take than running off with an unsuitable boyfriend? It was a sort of inverse of the mother’s position. Psychologically, thought Dmitri, this sounded right; or if not right, at least interesting.
He decided he would pursue the matter with Novikov when he got back to the Court House. He was already sure that the Chief of Police’s searching would not uncover a body. Dmitri was an optimistic fellow at heart and found it hard to believe, in general, that anyone was dead.
And so it turned out, at least in so far as all the searching that morning, in the park, in the grounds, in the back yard and, again, in the building itself, had failed to produce a body.
‘Of course you won’t find a body,’ said Dmitri confidently, ‘because the body walked out.’
‘Now, look here, Dmitri Alexandrovich – ’ began the caretaker.
They were sitting in his room drinking tea. The room was right next to the entrance and he was always in it, always drinking tea, as he pointed out.
‘No one gets in or out without me seeing them. What do you think I’m here for?’
Dmitri had often wondered but wisely refrained from the comment.
‘Your attention might have been distracted,’ said Novikov.
‘In that case Peter Profimovich would have noticed. Wouldn’t you, Peter Profimovich?’ said the caretaker, turning to his assistant.
Peter Profimovich grunted.
‘There you are!’ said the caretaker. ‘One of us always keeps an eye on the door.’
Peter Profimovich grunted twice.
‘And we would certainly have seen anyone like Anna Semeonova,’ translated the caretaker, ‘because girls like Anna Semeonova don’t go in or out of this door very often.’
‘It was a cold day,’ said Dmitri. ‘She might have been well wrapped up.’
‘Dmitri Alexandrovich!’ said the caretaker, shaking his head pityingly. ‘Do you think we wouldn’t have seen a figure like that? No matter how it was wrapped up?’
Peter Profimovich grunted three times.
‘In any case,’ said the caretaker, ‘there wasn’t much on yesterday morning and we remember everyone who went through. There was young Nikita, going out to see that girl of his – we always know it’s getting on towards lunchtime when we see her appear at the gate of the park. There was Serafim Serafimovich going out for his usual drink – that was about eleven o’clock. There were a couple of clerks going to fetch things for Peter Ivanovich. There was a woman – ’
‘Ah!’ said Dmitri and Novikov. ‘A woman!’
‘Who wasn’t a bit like Anna Semeonova.’
‘Disguise?’ hinted Dmitri.
‘She’d have to disguise her height as well,’ said the caretaker caustically. ‘She was about half the height of Anna Semeonova. And her hair. Anna Semeonova is a true blonde, a real Russian, you might say, whereas this girl’s hair was as dark as a Tatar’s. Which is not surprising,’ said the caretaker, ‘since that’s what she was.’
Peter Profimovich laughed.
Dmitri refused to be put off.
‘You saw her face?’
‘We certainly did. Both of us. That’s right, isn’t it?’ he appealed.
Peter Profimovich grunted.
‘Cheekbones and all,’ said the caretaker. ‘If she was Anna Semeonova then I’m Tsar of Russia!’
‘You watch out!’ said Novikov. ‘We don’t want that kind of talk!’
‘Saving His Reverence!’ added the caretaker, crossing himself automatically.
‘Anyone else?’ demanded Dmitri.
‘I’ve checked them all,’ said Novikov seriously.
‘She must have gone out the back, then,’ said Dmitri.
‘Dmitri Alexandrovich!’ The caretaker bent over, convulsed. ‘Forgive me, Dmitri Alexandrovich, but you don’t know what you’re saying! There’s mud a foot deep – ’
‘I saw it!’ snapped Dmitri.
‘There’s guards on the gate, there’s soldiers everywhere. And then there are all those brutes! A respectable girl like Anna Semeonova? Forgive me, sir, you’ve got to be joking!’
‘She couldn’t have gone through the gate,’ said Novikov positively. ‘The guards would have seen her.’
‘And don’t tell me they wouldn’t have remembered!’ said the caretaker, with a knowing wink at Peter Profimovich.
‘Shut up!’ said Dmitri. ‘Well, I don’t know how she did it,’ he said to Novikov, ‘but I’m sure that’s what she did. Because what else could have happened?’
‘It’s true,’ admitted Novikov, ‘she’s got to be either here or not here.’
‘She’s somewhere else,’ said Dmitri. ‘And almost certainly with someone else. Which brings us to the question of friends. I’ve been talking to her parents and got a list.’
He showed it to Novikov.
‘You’re the Chief of Police. Where would you suggest I made a start? I’m looking especially for a political connection.’
‘Political?’ said Novikov doubtfully. He looked at the list. ‘I don’t think you’ll find that any of these are what you might call political. They’re all quite respectable.’
And that was basically the problem with Larissa Philipovna. She would have been so much happier talking about ponies than about politics. She seemed to Dmitri to be unbelievably young. How she could be an intimate of someone as poised and elegant as Anna Semeonova (who was improving all the time in his recollection), Dmitri could not think. If the image that Anna Semeonova had left with him was that of an ice-cool nordic heroine, the picture that her friend presented was that of a puppy in pigtails.
She received him, perched anxiously on the edge of her chair, in what her mother irritatingly referred to as ‘the salon’. Oh, yes, (wide-eyed) she was Anna Semeonova’s friend, her very closest friend. They saw each other all the time. They visited each other’s houses almost every other day. Or used to. They wrote verses in each other’s albums. Would Dmitri Alexandrovich care to …?
Dmitri winced and handed the book back.
Used to?
Well, yes. Just the last week or two, or perhaps it wasn’t even weeks but months, they hadn’t seen quite as much of each other. Anna Semeonova was studying.
Studying? What?
Books. Larissa Philipovna lowered her voice. This was serious; indeed, possibly more than serious: grave. Terribly difficult ones. She had shown some to her once and Larissa Philipovna had not been able to understand a word. Even Anna Semeonova herself had found them difficult. She had said so.
Then why had she taken to reading them?
Oh, it was because she was so very clever. She wanted to know about things. And why things were the way they were.
Politics?
Politics! Larissa Philipovna was aghast. No, no, definitely not! Anna Semeonova wasn’t that kind of girl, not that kind of girl at all! Larissa Philipovna was sure –
‘All right, all right,’ said Dmitri. ‘I just wondered. Now, tell me, was there anyone she liked to talk to about all the reading? Any new friends, perhaps?’
Well, there was that new doctor, Vera Samsonova –
‘Ah, Vera Samsonova?’ said Dmitri, pricking up his ears.
She had gone to her once to ask her about something in a book she had been reading.
‘Something medical?’
‘It was to do with numbers,’ said Larissa Philipovna hesitantly.
Ah!
‘The Health Question?’ Larissa Philipovna put forward, emboldened.
‘I see. And Anna Semeonova called on her, did she?’
‘Yes. And she was very nice. She told her everything she wanted to know and a lot more besides. And she said she could come again if she wanted. And I think she did go again. Only …’
‘Only what?’
‘Only I don’t think that makes Vera Samsonova a friend, does it, Dmitri Alexandrovich? Not a real friend, the way Anna and I are friends? I mean, she’s so much older. She couldn’t be, could she?’
Blue eyes looked up trustingly at Dmitri.
‘Not a real friend,’ said Dmitri, and immediately kicked himself. Why had he let her wheedle that out of him?
‘I know,’ breathed Larissa Philipovna.
‘There are different kinds of friendship,’ he said sternly.
‘Oh, yes!’ said Larissa Philipovna.
This examination was not going the way he had intended.
‘Tell me about her friends,’ he said firmly. ‘Did she have a boyfriend, for instance?’
‘Oh, Dmitri Alexandrovich!’ she cried, and collapsed in a fit of giggles.
The door at the end of the room opened slightly. It was that bitch of a mother, he was sure.
Nettled, he moved closer to Larissa Philipovna. She was not altogether unattractive. Or, at least, she wouldn’t be in about ten years’ time. Physically, that was. Mentally, of course …
‘Dmitri Alexandrovich!’
‘Would you care for some tea, Dmitri Alexandrovich?’ said the bitch of a mother, coming definitely into the room.
Vera Samsonova, tracked down at last to the small room she used as a dispensary, regarded him unwelcomingly.
‘Yes?’
Dmitri declared himself.
‘I’m sorry I missed you last night,’ he said.
‘You didn’t miss me. I didn’t go.’
‘I thought that Sonya – ’
‘She asked me. I wasn’t free.’
‘Oh.’
‘In any case, I probably wouldn’t have gone.’
‘Oh, that’s a pity. Why not, may I ask?’
‘I think such gatherings are a bit beside the point,’ said Vera Samsonova. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Beside what point?’ asked Dmitri cautiously.
‘If you’re looking for intellectual involvement you’re not going to find it there.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. The people are very agreeable – ’
‘Agreeable,’ said Vera Samsonova, ‘but not very interesting.’
‘Considering that we live in Kursk – ’ Dmitri began.
‘It’s not where they live,’ said Vera Samsonova, ‘it’s the kind of people they are. Dilettante. And naturally they want to talk about dilettante-ish things.’
‘Art?’ said Dmitri, annoyed. ‘Culture? Where Russia is going?’
‘Perhaps the subjects are not dilettante,’ Vera conceded. ‘It’s just the way they are talked about.’
‘Ah, well, there I agree with you – ’
‘In terms of generalities. You ask where Russia is going; not what it ought to be doing about sewage.’
‘Sewage!’
‘Yes, sewage. And farming and engineering and taxation – ’
‘Taxation!’
‘Taxation.’
‘Boring!’ said Dmitri, rallying.
‘Real!’ said Vera Samsonova defiantly.
‘Absolute nonsense!’
‘You see?’ said Vera. ‘Prejudiced!’
‘Not prejudiced at all,’ said Dmitri: ‘rational. And surely these things can be discussed rationally. That’s the point of our gatherings.’
‘You’ve got the wrong people there,’ said Vera. ‘You ought to have surveyors and agronomists – ’
‘Sewage experts?’
‘Certainly.’
‘You’ll be saying doctors next!’
Vera considered. Then, unexpectedly, her face dimpled and broke into a smile. Up till now, Dmitri had attributed to her all the charm of a pair of scissors.
‘Well, perhaps not doctors. At least, not the kind of doctors we have in Kursk!’
‘There you are! Come and give us a chance to argue your points.’
‘Maybe. It would certainly be better than arguing them here. Now, look, I’ve got work to do. Haven’t you?’
‘I’m doing it,’ said Dmitri, injured. ‘I’m here on business.’
‘You are? Well, it’s a pretty relaxed kind of business compared with mine, I can tell you. Or perhaps it’s just that our approaches are different. You prefer a more general one. What was it exactly that you came for?’
‘I came to ask about Anna Semeonova.’
Vera Samsonova put down the burette she had been holding and turned to give him her full attention.
‘Has she been found?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Well, I suppose that’s good news in a way. I was afraid – ’ she gave a slight shake of her shoulders – ‘that the next time I might see her was when she was brought here.’
‘Do you have any particular reason for fearing that?’
‘No.’
‘She might just have run away.’
‘She might.’
‘If she had, would that surprise you?’
‘Would it surprise me?’ Vera Samsonova considered. ‘No, to the extent that she is an independent girl and capable of independent action. Yes, to the extent that she would have had to have had a reason.’
‘And you don’t know of one?’
‘No. Was there one?’
‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you.’
‘Well, I’m not the person to ask. I only know her slightly. She’s come to see me once or twice recently to ask me about something that she’s been reading.’
‘Which was?’
‘Oh, it was a book about infantile mortality. A bit out of date. But there were some comparative statistics she couldn’t understand – not the numbers, but the medical terms used.’
‘Nothing political?’
‘Political?’ Vera Samsonova stared at him.
‘Well, I just wondered. She disappeared from the Law Courts, you see, where she had been to watch a case being tried, and I wondered what had taken her there. Her parents thought mere idle curiosity, but I wondered …’
‘What did you wonder, Dmitri Alexandrovich?’
‘If it was an interest in justice.’
‘And that makes it political?’
‘Sometimes.’
Vera Samsonova was silent. Then she said:
‘We did not talk about that, Dmitri Alexandrovich. We talked about medical terminology. But, yes, in so far as the terminology was to do with perinatal mortality and the statistics were to do with comparisons between Russia and other countries and between rich cities like Moscow and poor ones like Kursk, yes, questions of justice were implicit, and, yes, if you press the questions far enough they do require answers which in the end are political. Was that what you wanted to ask me, Dmitri Alexandrovich? Because if it was, you’ve had your answer and now I suggest you leave.’
‘Don’t get annoyed!’ said Dmitri.
‘Well, I am annoyed, because it sounds as if you’re trying to get me to incriminate myself.’
‘I’m not,’ said Dmitri. ‘It’s just the way lawyers talk. Or, at least, Examining Magistrates talk.’
‘It’s the assumptions that lie behind what you say!’
‘I’m not assuming anything. I’m trying to find out what happened to Anna Semeonova. At first I thought something dreadful must have happened. But if it had, I think by now we would have found the body. So perhaps she went off of her own accord. But why and where to? Or, rather, who to? A boyfriend? But everyone assures me that is not so. Some other friend, then? We have been round them all. And in the end, Vera Samsonova, I have come to you.’
‘I hardly count as a friend.’
‘That will be a relief to Larissa Philipovna. But since it is clear that Anna Semeonova did not come to you, it means that we have once again drawn a blank, in that respect at least. But perhaps you can help me in another way. I ask myself why she could have gone off. Now, you and everyone else say that she is a serious girl; and she was at the Law Courts. Might there not be a connection between that and her disappearance?’
‘Why did you ask me about politics?’
‘Because that could be the connection.’
‘You think she has run off to be a revolutionary?’ said Vera derisively.
‘Well, young people from good families do sometimes go off these days. Not to become a revolutionary but to work for a cause. Giving out literature, addressing meetings, organizing with others – ’
Vera Semeonova shook her head.
‘Anyone less likely to become a political activist than Anna Semeonova,’ she said firmly, ‘you never saw. For that kind of thing you require a degree of hardness, perhaps, even a degree of hate. Anna Semeonova wasn’t like that at all. She was a sweet, gentle girl, full of sympathy for others.’
‘All right,’ said Dmitri, ‘perhaps I’ve got it wrong. I don’t know the girl, I’ve hardly even spoken to her. Let me try something else on you; you said she was full of sympathy for others. Is it possible that she could have gone off in some daft quixotic way to work for the poor? In a monastery, perhaps – no, not monastery, her parents said she’d gone off the Church, but something like that?’
‘A sort of personal “Going to the People”?’ asked Vera, interested.
She was referring to the great movement of some years earlier which had sent hundreds of idealistic young people out into the countryside to work for the improvement of the poor; an initiative that the poor had not universally appreciated.
‘That sort of thing,’ said Dmitri, who had sided with the poor on this matter.
‘She said nothing to me,’ said Vera.
‘Oh, well …’
But Vera was thinking.
‘It’s a long shot,’ she said, pulling a prescription pad towards her, ‘but I can give you the name of a family. I mentioned them to her once – it was the last time she came – when we were talking about the way in which conditions contribute to infant mortality. You know, drunken father, ignorant mother, poverty, dirt, dozens of children already. Anna could hardly believe some of the examples I gave. She asked if there was anyone I knew whom she could go and see, so I told her about the Stichkovs. She wouldn’t come to any harm, the man is always unconscious and the woman is warm and kindly, quite motherly, really, in fact, far too much so – ’
Dmitri felt oppressed by the sheer fecundity. One babe was at Mrs Stichkov’s breast, two, hardly bigger, at her feet. Elsewhere in the room there appeared to be three more infants and there were certainly at least two outside. From time to time one of the children at her feet hauled himself up Mrs Stichkov’s skirt and applied himself to her free breast.
‘It’s food, after all,’ said Mrs Stichkov, ‘and there’s not much of that about with Ivan not working.’
Ivan was certainly not working. He was stretched on his back in a far corner of the room snoring loudly. Even at this distance, Dmitri could smell the vodka.
‘He doesn’t work much,’ Mrs Stichkov acknowledged.
Except, thought Dmitri, when he roused himself to perform his conjugal duties, which appeared to be pretty frequently.
‘Not since he’s hurt his back,’ supplemented Mrs Stichkov.
‘Ah, he’s hurt his back?’
‘Carrying the loads. He can’t carry a thing now. Not even the water. You need a man for that, the buckets are that heavy! Anna Semeonova tried to help me once, but she couldn’t even lift the pail, not when it was full. You need a man, really, and she’s just a slip of a girl.’
‘She tried to help you, did she?’
‘Yes, Your Excellency. She said, “It’s not right, not with you expecting and all.” But I said, “Lots of things are not right, and if I don’t do it, who will?” “I will,” she said, and she tried, but, bless her, she couldn’t even lift it. “You look after Vasya”, I said, “and I will do it.” “It’s not right,” she said, “not with your time so close,” and she just stood there. And then Marfa Nikolaevna came along and said, “No, it’s not right. That idle man of hers ought to do it, but he won’t lift a finger.” She’s got a sharp tongue, that woman has. “I’ll find someone, Mrs Stichkov,” she said. And off she goes and comes back with one of the men from her place. Mind you, he wasn’t that much better than Anna Semeonova, nor much bigger, neither, not with him being a Jew. Still, what do I care about that. I said to Ivan, “At least he gave me a hand, which is more than can be said for some people – ”’
Mrs Stichkov shifted the baby from one breast to the other, gently detaching the other child as she did so.
‘– And then he gives me a cuff!’ she said cheerfully. ‘I don’t mind, it’s not much of one – he can hardly stand up, he’s that drunk – but Anna Semeonova gets very angry. I can see she’s going to say something, so I say quickly: “Don’t mind him, love, it’s just his way!” But she doesn’t like it, I can see that, and she goes out, and a little later I hear her talking to Marfa Nikolaevna. Which is all very well, I’m not saying that the woman is wrong, but you have to watch out with her. Sometimes it’s better to let things rest easy. But she won’t, you see, she’s always got to out with it, and when it’s man and wife, it doesn’t pay to meddle.’
Over in the corner, Ivan moved loudly. Mrs Stichkov looked at him lovingly.
‘You don’t always know what a marriage is like,’ she said, ‘not from outside. Especially not if you’re a single woman. “What does she know about it?” I say to Anna Semeonova. But Anna Semeonova stands there cold and unforgiving. “You’re too forgiving, Mrs Stichkov,” she says. “Sometimes those outside can see better.” But then, she’s another, isn’t she? Single?’
‘I believe so,’ said Dmitri.
‘She won’t be for long,’ said Mrs Stichkov. ‘Not a girl like her. So pretty! A real Russian! And rich, too. Or so Ivan says. “Stay on the right side of her,” he says, “and it’ll be worth a rouble or two.”’
‘She’s never said anything about having a boyfriend, has she?’ said Dmitri, still diligent to eliminate options.
‘Boyfriend?’ Mrs Stichkov chuckled. ‘She’s not found out yet what it is men carry inside their trousers! A real innocent! “And it’s best if she stays like that,” I said to Marfa Nikolaevna, “so don’t you go putting any of your ideas in her head!”’
‘What sort of ideas?’ said Dmitri.
Mrs Stichkov looked vague.
‘Ideas,’ she said.
Dmitri tried again.
‘This Marfa Nikolaevna,’ he said, ‘what sort of woman is she?’
‘She’s got a sharp tongue. Everyone knows that! There’s hardly anyone who’s not felt the rough edge of her tongue at some time or another. That’s why it is no one will have her. And that, of course, only makes her sharper. “It’d be a blessing,” I say to Ivan, “if some man would take that girl down in the fields some time.” “Well, no one’s going to do that,” says Ivan, “not unless it’s one of her own kind.” You’d think one of them would, wouldn’t you? She’s not bad-looking.’
‘What are these ideas you say she has?’
‘It’s not ideas,’ said Mrs Stichkov, ‘it’s what she says!’
‘And what does she say?’
‘Oh, about the land and all that.’
‘What about the land?’
‘She says it oughtn’t to be owned by anyone. “You can’t have that,” I said, “that’s silly. You can’t just leave it lying around!” “No, no,” she says, “that’s not it. Everyone would own it together, it would belong to everybody.” “The peasants wouldn’t like that,” says Ivan. “They think it should all belong to them.” “That’s because they don’t know any better,” she says. “Well, you go and tell them that,” says Ivan, “and see where it gets you!” “That’s just the trouble,” she says; “people won’t listen! And because they won’t listen, the rich can get away with anything.” “You want to watch that kind of talk, my girl,” says Ivan, “or else you’ll be in trouble.” So then she shuts up, she knows she’s gone a bit too far.’
‘Was that the kind of thing she was talking about with Anna Semeonova?’
‘She just talks,’ said Mrs Stichkov. ‘Out it all comes! Just like mother’s milk,’ she said, looking fondly down at the baby, now replete and blotto on its mother’s lap.
The houses were on the edge of town and just beyond them were open fields, still white with snow, and occasional clumps of birch trees, their branches heavy with ice. Dmitri contemplated the prospect and shuddered. Not for him the great open space of Russia, the steppe that poets sang about; for him the great open boulevards of St Petersburg, and that was exactly where he meant to be as soon as he could escape from this dump.
Back up to his left was a tanner’s yard and the smell of the yard hung over the whole area. The acrid fumes irritated his eyes and caught at his chest in a way that he did not understand until he saw the empty drums piled at the tannery gates. Chemicals were used in the yard’s processes. Little yellow rivulets ran down from the yard into the fields, colliding on the frozen surface of a small stream. Further along the stream the ice was broken and ducks, strangely discoloured, were swimming. Further along still, two women were filling pails to take up to their houses. Was this where Mrs Stichkov came to fetch her water? Where Anna Semeonova had tried to help her?
Of an impulse he went over to the two women. They put down their pails and watched him approach: a visitor from Mars.
‘I wonder if you could help me,’ he said, saluting them. ‘I’m trying to find Marfa Nikolaevna’s.’
They looked at him rather oddly. Then one of them gathered herself.
‘The tailor’s is over there,’ she said, pointing.
‘Thank you.’
He looked down at the pails. The water in them was yellowish. And, now he came to look at it, everything was yellowish. The mud was yellowish, his boots were yellowish, the broken ice on the stream was yellowish, a duck clambered out and waddled towards him and that, too, damn it, was yellowish on its underfeathers.
‘This water is not fit for drinking,’ he said sternly.
The women shrugged.
‘It’s all the water there is, Your Honour,’ said one of them.
‘You should go up beyond the yard,’ he said.
‘It’s much further,’ said one of the women quietly.
‘You should think of your children!’
‘Lev Petrovich should think of our children,’ said one of the women bitterly.
‘Lev Petrovich?’
‘He owns the yard.’
‘Someone should speak to him.’
‘Marfa Nikolaevna did,’ said the woman, ‘and see where it got her!’
‘I will speak to him.’
‘Thank you, Your Honour,’ said the other woman. ‘That may help.’
‘It won’t help,’ said the first woman dismissively. ‘He’ll just take it out on us. Thank you, Your Honour,’ she said to Dmitri. ‘It’s kindly meant, I know, but sometimes it’s best to leave things alone.’
‘Well, I’ll see … and this Marfa Nikolaevna, you say, went to see him?’
‘Yes, Your Honour.’
‘And got nowhere?’
‘She speaks too bitter,’ said the second woman.
The other woman turned on her.
‘Not this time. She spoke real civil. Agafa Sirkova was listening at the door and she said she couldn’t get over how polite she was. Not that it made any difference. He threw her out just the same.’
‘Her reputation went before her,’ said the second woman. ‘That was the trouble.’
‘It would have been the same whoever had gone.’
‘Well, that’s very true, and that’s why it’s best to leave these things alone, as you yourself were saying to this gentleman only just now.’
‘But Marfa Nikolaevna, I gather, was not one to leave things alone?’ said Dmitri.
The first woman gave a little laugh.
‘You could say that,’ she said. ‘Yes, you could certainly say that! She was a bit of a firebrand. She wasn’t one of us, Your Honour. She came from the steppes. Those Tatars, they light up at anything.’
‘Well,’ said Dmitri, ‘all this is not really my concern. I am hoping she might be able to help me on something else. The tailor’s, you say?’
As he left, he was aware again that they were looking at him rather oddly.
The snow on this side of the stream, between the houses, had become a sea of mud, through which his boots squelched noisily. Great, discoloured puddles lay everywhere. Half in one of them, half out, he could see a rat lying on its back, its body still and contorted, its feet in the air, the underside of its belly tinged with yellow. The fumes from the tannery made him cough and reach for his handkerchief. This was definitely not the place for a young woman like Anna Semeonova; nor, frankly, was it much of a place for a promising young Examining Magistrate.
Dmitri pushed open the door and went in. The room was full of women sewing. It was so dark that he was amazed that any of them could see.
‘I’m looking for Marfa Nikolaevna,’ he said.
A man in a skull cap came forward.
‘Marfa Nikolaevna?’ he said, with a worried expression on his face. ‘But, Barin, she is no longer here.’
‘No longer here?’
‘She hasn’t been here for, oh, over three weeks now. Not since they came and took her away.’
‘Where is she now?’ said Dmitri harshly.
‘Her case came up yesterday,’ said the tailor, ‘in the District Court at Kursk.’
3 (#ulink_94a3c86e-47c3-51ee-9f9f-b61342ef90f9)
The following morning, Anna Semeonova had still not been found.
‘It’s bad,’ said Peter Ivanovich. ‘First, because she’s a nice girl. I’ve known her since she was six. At that time she looked like a dumpling and everyone was afraid she was going to take after her father. Recently, though, she has thinned out and is becoming a beauty like her mother. Second, because her father blames us. Thirdly, because so does everyone else.’
Dmitri was always irritated by the Presiding Judge’s pedantic habit of enumerating his points.
‘She did, after all, disappear from the Court House,’ he pointed out.
‘I know; very inconsiderate of her,’ said Peter Ivanovich. ‘Why couldn’t she have disappeared from her home? We would still have been blamed, but we wouldn’t have looked quite as stupid. And now I’m afraid they will send someone down from St Petersburg.’
‘To take charge of the case?’
Dmitri wasn’t sure that he liked this. It was his case; and thus far in his career he had not been assigned so many that he could afford to be blasé. This was, actually, if you included the ridiculous affair of the old woman and the cow, only his second case. And were they now going to take even that from him?
‘We must resist,’ he said sternly.
Peter Ivanovich looked at him pityingly.
‘Tell me how you get on’, he said, ‘as Examining Magistrate in Siberia. Let me talk to you as a father, Dmitri Alexandrovich: obstruct, but do not resist. That is the first rule of bureaucracy. Besides,’ he said, ‘they won’t take over the case. They will leave you in charge. So that you can be blamed if things go wrong. That is the second rule of bureaucracy: make sure that responsibility always lies elsewhere.’
The advice of a master, thought Dmitri. Peter Ivanovich was wrong, however. The first rule of bureaucracy was surely to keep your mouth shut; which Dmitri was grimly trying to do.
‘The answer is, of course,’ continued Peter Ivanovich, ‘to solve the case yourself before they get here. How are you getting on, incidentally?’
He listened to Dmitri’s account of yesterday’s inquiries.
‘Interesting,’ he commented. ‘Who would have thought it? A girl like Anna Semeonova – getting herself mixed up with such people!’
‘I’m not sure how far she is mixed up with such people,’ said Dmitri. ‘That’s one of the things I wanted to ask Marfa Nikolaevna.’
‘Ask her, by all means,’ said Peter Ivanovich generously, ‘although I doubt if it will help you much.’
‘I would if I could,’ said Dmitri, frowning. ‘But there’s been a bit of a mix-up.’
‘Another one?’ said Peter Ivanovich. ‘Oh dear! These people! What is it this time?’
‘They can’t trace her.’
‘Come, come!’ said Peter Ivanovich. ‘She was in court the day before yesterday, wasn’t she? And surely she was not acquitted?’
‘Oh, no. She was sentenced, all right. It’s what happened afterwards that’s not clear.’
‘It’s as clear as daylight,’ said Peter Ivanovich. ‘She was a political prisoner, wasn’t she? Then she would have been sent back to prison to await transportation.’
‘So one would have thought. But the prison denies readmitting her. And there’s a complication. Some of the prisoners that day were sent directly to join the Siberian convoy.’
‘Well, perhaps that’s what happened to her, then,’ said Peter Ivanovich patiently.
‘They’ve checked the lists,’ said Dmitri, ‘and they can’t find her.’
‘They’ve made a mistake. It’s always happening. A clerical error. Either there or at the prison. Get them to check it again!’
‘I have. There’s no record in either place of a person of that name.’
‘There must be! She must be either in the one place or in the other. Either in prison or in the convoy. She can’t be still in the Court House, can she?’
‘Well, no.’
‘I mean, you’ve searched the place thoroughly, haven’t you? For that other girl?’
‘Novikov has searched the place,’ said Dmitri, learning fast. ‘Thoroughly, he says.’
‘Well, then!’
‘So she must be either in the prison or with the convoy. Unless …’
‘Yes?’
‘She’s disappeared. Like the other one,’ said Dmitri with emphasis.
‘Oh, my God!’ said Peter Ivanovich, clapping his hands to his head.
‘If this woman has indeed disappeared,’ said Peter Ivanovich coldly, ‘I hold you responsible.’
‘Me, Your Honour?’
The Chief of Police reeled back.
‘You’re responsible for security arrangements, aren’t you?’
‘Only in the Court House, Your Excellency! Only in the Court House!’
‘But that’s where she’s disappeared from.’
‘Ah, but did she, Your Honour?’ said Novikov, recovering quickly. ‘Did she? Perhaps she escaped as the carts were going back to the prison – ’
‘She’s not on the carts list,’ said Dmitri.
‘Or from the convoy – ’
‘She’s not on their list, either.’
‘She must be! She must be!’
‘What are these lists?’ asked Peter Ivanovich.
‘At the end of the sessions the Clerk of the Court prepares a list of all those sentenced,’ said Dmitri. ‘From it, an assistant clerk compiles two separate lists, one for the officer in charge of the prison carts, one for the officer in charge of the convoy. The prisoners are assembled in the yard and assigned to one set of carts or the other on the basis of the consolidated list. As they get to the carts their names are checked against those on the separate lists. Marfa Nikolaevna’s name appears on the consolidated list, but not, so far as I can tell, and I’ve asked both the Prison Administration and the Convoy Administration, on either of the separate lists.’
‘They must have made a mistake,’ said Novikov.
‘Exactly what I said!’ said Peter Ivanovich.
‘I got them to check,’ said Dmitri.
‘Ah, yes, Your Honour, but it will be different if I ask them. Saving Your Honour’s presence, but they won’t have bothered much for someone new like yourself. Let me have a word with them, Your Excellency,’ said Novikov, turning to Peter Ivanovich, ‘and I’ll soon sort this out.’
‘Do so; and don’t take too long about it, either. One can’t have people disappearing from the Court House. Really, one begins to feel quite nervous!’
Novikov returned, beaming, before the lawyers had finished their lunch.
‘There you are, sir, what did I tell you? Sorted it out in no time! A simple mistake, sir, as you supposed.’
He put a piece of paper on the table before Peter Ivanovich and smoothed it flat.
‘There you are, Your Excellency!’ He pointed with a stubby forefinger. ‘That’s what you want!’
Peter Ivanovich adjusted his pince-nez.
‘Is it?’
‘I know, sir. You’re having difficulty. And not just you alone, sir. Everyone else. That’s how the misunderstanding arose. No one’s fault, sir, except for that fat clerk who’ll be feeling the toe of my boot up his fundament if he doesn’t take more pains next time.’
Peter Ivanovich looked again.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said doubtfully.
‘Not convinced, Your Excellency?’ Novikov chuckled. ‘Well, that doesn’t surprise me. In fact, it’s what I told myself. An old fox like His Excellency will want something more than that, I said. And quite right, too! So I did a bit of nosing around and, as luck would have it, who should I come upon but young Stenka. Come in, lad!’ he called out into the corridor.
A fresh-faced young soldier appeared hesitantly in the doorway.
‘Come in, lad. His Excellency won’t bite you. Now, you come in and tell His Excellency what you told me.’
The young soldier cleared his throat nervously.
‘I was on the carts,’ he began.
‘That very afternoon,’ interjected Novikov.
‘Yes, right, that afternoon. The women’s cart, as it fell out. Well, I don’t mind that, I mean, you never know what you might see, and you’re not going to have any trouble, are you? I mean, not any real trouble. They say things, of course, you’ve got to put up with that, but I know how to handle that. I just say: “You bloody shut up or you’ll taste the butt of my gun!”’
‘The cart, lad, the cart,’ put in Novikov hastily.
‘Yes, right, the cart. Well, there weren’t many of them that afternoon, not women, I mean. Only a few for us. So I’ve got a bit of time, and I see this girl. A real Russian beauty, she is. Oh ho, I think, I’ll bet you’ve got a nice pair of apples, and I give her a pinch as she goes by. Well, she jumps about half a verst. “What’s your name my beauty?” I say. She doesn’t answer, so I go to the sergeant and I say: “See that one there? What’s her name?” “What do you want to know for?” he says. “A taste comes before a feast,” I say. “Well,” he says, “there’s not going to be much of a feast for you, my lad, because she’s going straight on to the main convoy and you’re going to be stopping here.” “Never mind that,” I say. “What’s her name?” He looks at his list. “Shumin,” he says. “Marfa Nikolaevna Shumin.”’
‘Shumin?’ said Peter Ivanovich. ‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Pretty sure, sir. But I’m dead sure about the “Marfa”. My own sister’s named Marfa, it’s a bit of a family name. “That’s a good omen,” I said to myself. “She’s almost one of the family, like.”’
Novikov looked at Peter Ivanovich.
‘Satisfied, sir?’
‘There seems no doubt about it,’ Peter Ivanovich conceded.
‘That’s what I thought, sir, once I’d talked to Stenka. The name by itself, I said, won’t be enough to convince Peter Ivanovich. But a witness, an honest witness – well, that’s a different matter!’
‘Happy, now?’ said Peter Ivanovich, looking at Dmitri.
‘Not very.’ Something was troubling him. In what the guard had said. He dismissed it for the moment. ‘This was the convoy, was it?’ he said to Stenka. The soldier nodded. ‘That means she’s halfway to Siberia by now. How am I going to question her?’
‘Not very easily,’ said Peter Ivanovich. ‘Unless you care to go after her.’
Novikov gave a great guffaw.
‘That’s a good one!’ he said, nudging Stenka. The soldier, not entirely understanding, but dutiful, joined in.
Peter Ivanovich allowed himself a slight smile.
‘I’m afraid our young colleague is one for the psychological,’ he said.
‘Psychological, Your Excellency?’
‘It’s the latest fashion in the Law Schools. These days, Grigori Romanovich, we mustn’t just look at the facts, we must look at the motives behind the facts.’
‘It’s getting a bit deep for me, sir.’
‘Me, too. If a dog bites a man, why ask for its motive?’
‘Why, indeed, Your Excellency?’ said Novikov, guffawing again.
‘Not only motives,’ said Dmitri, ‘but circumstances.’
It was coming to him now. Not just in what Stenka had said, but in what the women at the tannery had said.
‘Ah, circumstances!’ said Peter Ivanovich.
‘What circumstances are there, then, Dmitri Alexandrovich?’ said Novikov, mock innocently. ‘Finding out how it is that someone can’t read someone else’s writing?’
He gave Peter Ivanovich a wink. The Presiding Judge responded with a thin little smile.
‘Finding out who was actually put on the convoy,’ said Dmitri. He turned to Stenka. ‘A real Russian beauty, you said?’
‘That’s right, Your Honour.’
‘Fair?’
‘As straw in summer.’
‘A Tatar?’
‘Tatar?’
‘Marfa Nikolaevna was Tatar.’
‘This girl was no Tatar,’ said Stenka uneasily.
‘What are you saying?’ said Peter Ivanovich sharply.
‘Not saying; wondering,’ said Dmitri. ‘Whether the right woman was put on the cart.’
Whereas the woman put on the cart had been fair, almost silvery blonde in the characteristically North Russian way, Marfa Nikolaevna, they eventually established, was dark. It took them some time because although she had been tried in the Court House, she had not been tried in a regular court. As a political prisoner, she had appeared before a Special Tribunal of the Ministry of the Interior. The Ministry held its Tribunals in the same building as the ordinary Law Courts, but this was purely for convenience and the two administrations were quite separate. Peter Ivanovich could not, then, go directly to the Clerk of the Courts as he would otherwise have done, nor could he have an informal word with the lawyers involved since, despite the reforms of the eighties, out in the provinces political prisoners were not legally represented. Peter Ivanovich certainly knew the officer who had presided over the Tribunal that day – they met socially – but as a matter of protocol they never discussed each other’s affairs. Judges in Russia, following the assassination of Tsar Alexander, had learned discretion.
It was with a certain diffidence, therefore, that Peter Ivanovich inquired about Marfa Nikolaevna.
‘All I need to know about is her looks,’ he said to Porfiri Porfirovich, the officer who had chaired the Tribunal on the day that Marfa Nikolaevna had been sentenced.
‘Her looks?’ said Porfiri Porfirovich incredulously.
‘Yes. Whether, for instance, she is fair or dark?’
‘Dark,’ said Porfiri. ‘But – ’
‘A real Russian beauty?’
‘Hardly. A Tatar.’
‘I was afraid so,’ said Peter Ivanovich, sighing heavily.
‘What is this?’ said Porfiri.
‘A possible case of…’ Peter Ivanovich didn’t know what it was a possible case of. ‘Mistaken identity,’ he tried.
Porfiri Porfirovich’s eyebrows shot up.
‘On our part,’ said Peter Ivanovich hastily. ‘Or, at least, not on our part; possibly on the part of the Convoy Administration.’
But the Convoy Administration, too, came under the Ministry of the Interior and Porfiri Porfirovich’s eyebrows stayed raised.
‘Or, most likely of all,’ said Peter Ivanovich, adapting with the speed born of long years in the Russian judicial system, ‘it simply fell between stools.’
‘What fell between stools?’
‘This – this confusion.’
‘I can see that you are confused, Peter Ivanovich,’ said Porfiri sharply; ‘but over what?’
Peter Ivanovich was forced to tell him all.
‘The trouble is,’ he concluded, ‘the Marfa Nikolaevna who was sentenced was dark, while the Marfa Nikolaevna who got on to the cart was fair. And definitely not a Tatar.’
‘Simple,’ said Porfiri Porfirovich. ‘The sergeant gave him the wrong name.’
‘Yes,’ said Peter Ivanovich unhappily, ‘that’s what we thought. At first. But then we checked. There were only five women that day in the political cart and the soldier, Stenka, remembers them all. None of them were Tatar. Three of them were in their fifties, whereas this Shumin woman was – ’
‘In her thirties.’
‘Exactly. And of the other two, one was nursing a baby and the other was, well, blonde in the Russian style. So where is the real Marfa Nikolaevna?’
‘In the prison. She must have been put in the wrong cart.’
‘We have been to the prison. We have checked all the prisoners who were readmitted that day. None of them’, said Peter Ivanovich, ‘is Marfa Nikolaevna.’
Porfiri Porfirovich frowned.
‘Are you sure? Quite sure? Who did the checking? You can’t rely on the prison officers.’
‘Novikov,’ said Peter Ivanovich. ‘He went over there and checked them personally.’
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