‘And thereafter you took her out in the carriage yourself?’
‘Yes.’
‘But when she killed Yelena, she went too far. That was never part of the plan, was it, Apollon Mikhailovich?’
‘One must be prepared to adapt one’s plans.’
‘You adapted admirably. But Aglaia had ideas of her own, did she not? She wanted to incriminate Captain Mizinchikov, to punish him for loving Yelena, whereas you saw that it would
be another opportunity – a tremendous opportunity – to terrorise the state.’
‘Aglaia knew that her sister had placed a razor wrapped in red silk in Mizinchikov’s apartment, goading him to kill her. That gave her the idea of laying a red thread on Yelena’s body. In fact, she laid two – she was excessive in everything she did. I was able to steal one without her noticing. I thought it would come in useful. I didn’t know how, exactly, at the time.’
‘It was just as well that Aglaia collapsed under the strain of her crimes when she did. She was no use to you any more. But now you can use
me
, Apollon Mikhailovich. I understand. I am almost your equal. Notice that I said
almost
. I would not dare to set myself up as your equal. But I am worthy of you, you must see that. I shall be your weapon now, your disciple. It is not enough for me to witness the beginning of the revolution. Let me initiate it. The Tsar sickens me. I have been in his company. I have listened to his nauseating self-justifications. I want only to destroy him. Let me ignite the torch that will destroy the lion. And you, you can escape. You must escape! Russia needs you!’
‘No. It is too late for escape.’ Perkhotin regarded Porfiry narrowly. ‘Do you really wish to do this? No …’ He shook his head dubiously. ‘How can I trust you? This is some trick of yours. Some magistrate’s trick. I must do this myself.’
Porfiry closed in on Perkhotin in three brisk steps, so that he was close enough to scream in his face: ‘Do it then! Do it now, Apollon Mikhailovich. Release the lantern.’
Perkhotin let go. Porfiry swung out his left hand and batted the lantern away from the barrel. It smashed on the ground. The oil spread and ignited. Porfiry was standing in a pool of soft orange flame that lapped at his ankles.
Maria Petrovna leapt to her feet and in one movement drew the shawl from around her shoulders. She spread the garment out and screamed at Porfiry: ‘Out of the way!’ He jumped out of the flames as if he had only just noticed them. Maria Petrovna swept the shawl down to cover the fire. Fedya Vasilevich took off his jacket and threw that down too, but the flames were already out. They were plunged into darkness.
‘You fool!’
Porfiry swung the hand holding the cannonball in the direction of the voice. His hand flailed uselessly through the unresisting air. The momentum of the iron weight was too much for him. The cannonball left his hand and fell, landing almost without a sound, with just a soft swallowing shift of grit. Something granular and pungent filled the darkness, a harder, denser darkness within, an acerbic, invisible mist that clawed at their eyes and caught in their throats.
It was hard to tell for certain but it seemed that Perkhotin had borne the brunt of the dust cloud sent up by the cannonball plummeting into the gunpowder barrel. He was hacking uncontrollably.
‘Fedya! Can you find your way out of here?’ Porfiry felt himself to be blinded. His corneas were stinging with pain. Tears streamed from his eyes. The foreman, however, had been furthest from the barrel, and besides knew the layout of the storeroom better than any of them.
‘I am here,’ came Fedya Vasilevich’s stolid voice. ‘Stick close by me.’
‘No. You go and bring them back for us. It will be quicker.’ The foreman’s footsteps could be heard shuffling slowly away. ‘Masha, are you there?’
‘I am here.’ Her voice was infinite in the darkness, and at the
same time, a tremulous vibration so frail and fine that it barely existed at all.
‘Give me your hand.’
Fingers found fingers. A shock chased along the nerve endings of his skin. Their hands groped desperately, fiercely together, into an interlocking hold. He pulled her to him.
Porfiry heard the door slide open on its runners. The daylight reverberated with a thunderous metallic boom, startling the contents of the storeroom with a wash of silver.
Perkhotin was bent over, coughing, a dim figure in the semidarkness. He straightened up. A curse escaped his lips and he hurtled past Porfiry and Maria, towards the light.
Porfiry released Maria, suddenly embarrassed by the position they found themselves in. ‘I must …’
‘Yes, of course.’ She looked away, abashed. The gesture was ephemeral, gone as soon as it was expressed. Porfiry felt an instant pang of nostalgia for it.
He could not look at her now. He ran towards the daylight.
Outside, he saw Fedya approaching with Virginsky and Ludwig Nobel. Perkhotin was nowhere to be seen.
The door to the munitions workshop was open.
He was just in time to see a jet of flame leap up from the floor as Perkhotin ran through it. The gunpowder dust that covered him ignited instantly. Waves of crackling fire danced over his body, chasing up his legs, consuming his torso, and covering his face.
A scream of pain and rage gurgled in his throat as he thrashed out blindly.
Porfiry called out ‘No!’ but it was too late; he was too far away to intervene.
Perkhotin tripped over a discarded casting mould and fell against the great vat of molten iron that had been left dangling on its chains by the evacuated workmen.
The weight of his body tilted the vat, which would have been unbearably hot in itself.
His screams now were intense but short-lived. A flood of blazing liquid fire covered his face, sending up a plume of smoke. The sizzle of cooked meat mingled with the mineral tang of the workshop.
*
Porfiry closed the door behind him. He met Virginsky’s questioning gaze. ‘He’s dead.’
A blanket had been found for Maria Petrovna, to replace her shawl. The rigours of the experience showed in her eyes. And yet she managed a delicate, complicated smile for Porfiry.
‘What happened in there?’ said Virginsky, indicating the munitions storeroom. He took hold of Porfiry. There was an undoubted edge of sexual jealousy to Virginsky’s question.
‘I behaved rather foolishly and Maria Petrovna came to my rescue. Had it not been for her quick thinking, the storeroom would have gone up in an inferno.’
‘Well, at any rate, it is over now. You are safe.’
Virginsky’s dismissiveness offended Porfiry. ‘If you will permit me, I wish to talk to the young lady who saved my life.’
Virginsky bowed and released Porfiry.
Her eyes darted frantically, as if they wished to escape from his approach.
‘Don’t say anything.’ Her smile had an edge of panic to it. She seemed for a moment very young.
‘In the darkness …’ It surprised me. The strength of feeling. I think perhaps it was the effect of the darkness.’
‘I beg you, Porfiry Petrovich. Say no more.’
‘I have been surprised.’
‘Yes.’
‘We are alive! That is the thing that surprises me most.’
‘It is good to be surprised by life.’ At last she looked up and met his gaze. Her smile was consoling and indulgent, but still not quite all that he had hoped for.
Even so, he could not stem the flow of words. ‘Oh yes, infinitely good. I have been surprised by death too often. My heart … I feel my heart has opened.’
And now her smile was complicated by regret.
Porfiry felt a wave of sickening disappointment. ‘Apollon Mikhailovich met with a terrible accident,’ he said. ‘I do not advise you to view the body.’ He bowed tersely and turned from her.
‘Porfiry!’
He swivelled back to face her.
‘Please.’ Her face was crumpled in despair, slicked with tears. ‘I am sorry. You must understand, it cannot be.
We
cannot be. What happened must remain back there.’
‘I quite agree. You have your life. The school. The children. I have mine. My work is everything to me. Thank you for reminding me. You must find it in your heart to forgive a foolish old man. I was momentarily overcome … by … by
my surprise. Good day, Maria Petrovna.’ He bowed and turned from her again.
He was aware of Virginsky staring into his face, with a strange, intent fascination. And around him, the sounds of industry started up, as the Nobel Metalworking Plant returned to work.
Alexander II came to the Russian imperial throne in 1855. In 1861, he began a series of great reforms, including the liberation of 23 million serfs and the introduction of a fairer judicial system. If the reforms were intended to win over opponents to his regime, they failed. For the radicals, he had not gone far enough. For the conservatives, he should never have started. The first of many attempts on his life took place in 1866. He was finally assassinated in 1881. The day before his death saw the finishing touches put to a new constitution which allowed for an elected parliament – a revolutionary development in autocratic Russia. The new constitution, approved by Alexander II, never saw the light of day. One of the first acts of Alexander III – the tsarevich in this novel – was to suppress it. ‘Thank God, this criminal and precipitous step towards a constitution was not taken,’ he noted.
Novelists occasionally have to ask stupid questions of people who have better things to do with their time than answer them. In the case of crime novelists, the questions are often unpleasant as well as stupid. I would like to thank the following people for generously giving their time to help me find answers to my questions without ever making me feel either stupid or unpleasant: Michael Heavener, Mark Budman, Professor Alan Dronsfield of the Royal Society of Chemistry, and Carlina de la Cova, Ph.D., of the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. It goes without saying that the mistakes are all my own doing.
My debt to F. M. Dostoevsky, the original creator of Porfiry Petrovich, remains immeasurable.
Born in Manchester in 1960, R. N. Morris now lives in North London with his wife and two young children.
A Vengeful Longing
follows
A Gentle Axe
in a series of St. Petersburg novels revolving around the character of Porfiry Petrovich.
Taking Comfort
was published by Macmillan under the name Roger Morris in 2006.
A
GENTLE
AXE
A
VENGEFUL
LONGING
First published in 2010
by Faber and Faber Ltd
Bloomsbury House
74–77 Great Russell Street
London
WC
1
B
3
DA
This ebook edition first published in 2010
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© R. N. Morris, 2010
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ISBN 978–0–571–25428–6