Staggering like a drunk, Porfiry walked straight into a boy pushing a handcart of pastries for sale. He had finished his potatoes and was hungry for something else to consume, but the child got away from him, perhaps frightened off by his uncontrolled bulk. At the same time, his nostrils caught the scents from a nearby gingerbread and oranges stall. He was tempted by the cries of the ice seller: 'Ice! Ice! Chocolate, vanilla, coffee and rose! Who will taste my delicious ice?!' But in the end he settled on a gingerbread man each for himself and Virginsky. The younger man took the biscuit with a quizzical frown.

The next stall along sold puppets and dolls. Virginsky shook his head warningly at Porfiry, who seemed unduly interested in the goods on display.

'Are you quite well, Porfiry Petrovich?'

'What do you mean?'

'First you buy gingerbread men, now you are casting longing glances at these childish trifles. I fear you have reverted to some infantile stage of your existence.'

Porfiry gave a heavy sigh. 'Perhaps I am trying to recapture my lost youth. Can you blame me for that? Or it may be that I'm simply trying to get the smell of death out of my nostrils.' He craned his head towards some cherubs carved from wax, hanging from a willow branch. 'It amounts to the same thing, does it not?' He held out a hand towards one of the cherubs, and set it spinning. 'Even here I am reminded of what I seek to escape. It could be made from Dr Pervoyedov's adipocere, could it not?' Turning from the stall with a wistful smile, he surveyed the balagan booths, ready to make his choice at last. 'Pulchinella!' he announced, happily, and set off with renewed energy.

'Must we?' complained Virginsky, hurrying to keep up. 'I confess I can never make any sense of these shows.'

'That is because you are watching with the wrong part of your mind. You approach it too rationally. It is not your fault. It is the fault of your generation, and it applies to everything you do.'

'I am surprised to hear you, of all people, decry the use of too much rationality.'

'You're right, Pavel Pavlovich. I place great store by rationality. But it is like a muscle. One must exercise it, for sure. But one must also rest it from time to time.'

It was a pantomime show, presented on the platform of a makeshift wooden theatre. The actor playing Pulchinella was dressed in the traditional white costume, his face half-covered by a black mask. The performance had reached the part where Pulchinella in his peculiar high, rasping voice has announced his intention to marry. It seemed that a bride had been selected for him, a ninety-nine-year-old woman, living for some reason in the Semyenovsky Regiment.

'It makes no sense,' complained Virginsky. But Porfiry, like the other spectators, was delighted when the promised bride did not materialise and instead Pulchinella was attacked by a dog.

A seemingly random succession of characters came onto the stage in succession, to be attacked and fought off by Pulchinella. The action was chaotic. It culminated in the appearance of a devil, who it seemed had come to claim the incorrigible Pulchinella. A fight ensued, of course, ending with Pulchinella riding the devil like a horse. It was at this point, just as the drama was coming to its bewildering end, that Petrushka entered the stage.

'Why?' cried Virginsky, in exasperation. 'I ask you in all seriousness, Porfiry Petrovich, what purpose is served by his entrance? Why do we need Petrushka when we have Pulchinella? And why now, when the thing is nearly over?'

Porfiry waved away the objection.

'He is entirely superfluous to the drama!' But Virginsky appeared to be the only member of the audience who objected to Petrushka's appearance, for it was met with frenzied cheering by all around.

A canvas screen dropped down behind the actors, on which was depicted an enormous devil's head, with an open mouth. One by one, the cast climbed through the hole, apart from Pulchinella, who was pulled through by the hands of the others, resisting to the last.

A rendezvous with no one.

Porfiry found the following letter waiting for him back at his chambers: Dear Sir, I have chosen to write to you because of your involvement several years ago in the case of the student who murdered the old woman and her sister. Covering the case as a journalist, I was obliged to attend the trial, where I was favourably impressed by the humane way you conducted the prosecution, as I believe I made clear in the account I wrote for a certain publication at the time. Indeed, it might have surprised you to have read such an account in such a journal.

I have an interesting story to tell you. Some sailors went swimming in the Winter Ca.n.a.l. Five men jumped in, but six men came out. How could that be?

If you would like to know the answer to this riddle, meet me at the Summer Garden, near the northern entrance, at three o'clock, today. It is my favourite time to visit the Summer Garden, when the statues emerge from their winter coffins. I would prefer not to visit you at your chambers because there are spies in every government department. If I am seen there it will mean certain death for me.

Of course, if this letter falls into the wrong hands, I will be dead by the time you come to meet me. Therefore I have greater cause than usual to hope that we shall meet this afternoon. How will you know me? Do not fear. I will know you. Please come alone. I'm afraid this must be one of those tiresome anonymous letters, of which I am sure you receive far too many.

'Is it genuine?' asked Virginsky.

Porfiry handed the letter over to the younger magistrate. 'It appears to be. The letter bears yesterday's date. It was written and sent before the newspapers appeared. I think we may have found our mysterious onlooker.'

'He is a journalist, or so he claims. Perhaps he learnt about the incident professionally?'

'He mentions the number of sailors, which I do not believe was given in the information we released to the newspapers.'

'That's true,' conceded Virginsky. 'So you will go to meet him?'

'Of course.'

'Alone?'

'Is that not what he requests?'

Virginsky frowned. 'Do you have any idea who he is? He claims to know you.'

'I hope I shall find out soon enough,' said Porfiry.

He saw the padlocked chains from a distance. Both of the high, elaborate gates in the northern fence were secured. It should not have surprised him but it did. The Summer Garden was, of course, closed. It was that time in late April when visitors were kept from the park in order to allow the ground to recover from the thaw. Had his anonymous correspondent forgotten this? Possibly, though the letter had not explicitly said that they should meet inside the park, merely 'near the northern entrance'.

Porfiry approached the railing with a sinking heart. He had been looking forward to a stroll along the tree-lined avenues and had purposely arrived with a few moments to spare. The pink granite of the columns in which the gates were set seemed flushed by the glow of spring. The sun also sparkled in the golden embellishments to the wrought iron, almost compensating him for his exclusion. He peered through two vertical bars. The paths were indeed sodden, justifying the temporary closure. The grey wooden boards that protected the statues from the winter frost had already been removed, though the statues were still swathed in white sheets. There was something unmistakably eerie about the rows of enshrouded figures on podiums. They seemed to hold the potential for movement, as if they were simply waiting for the wrappings to be taken off, before springing to life. Porfiry must have been in a morbid frame of mind, for he added the thought: And wreaking havoc. It was not clear to him why the latent beings beneath the sheets should choose havoc-wreaking above any more harmless activity.

Checking his fob-watch, he saw that he was early for his appointment. He did not wish to draw attention to himself by loitering, so he decided to walk a circuit of the perimeter, striking off in the direction of the Summer Palace. The proximity of that modest palace, little more than a large house in fact, reminded him that he was very close to the spot where, almost exactly six years ago, Dmitry Karakozov had made his attempt on the Tsar's life.

He wondered whether this momentous event had played a part in his correspondent's choice of meeting place, consciously or otherwise.

Porfiry thought back to the trial of Raskolnikov, without doubt the murderous student referred to in the anonymous letter. The courtroom had been crowded with the gentlemen of the press, scrutinising his every word and even gesture. That was to be expected: Raskolnikov's crime, sensational enough in itself, had been interpreted as having a wider significance. It had been seen as a symptom of the nihilistic disease that was corrupting the younger generation at the time, and that had, if anything, become more virulent in the years since. Karakozov's a.s.sa.s.sination attempt had been made the following year. How the state dealt with Raskolnikov was to be seen as a litmus test for how it would deal with all its malcontent young men. Too much leniency would provoke the reactionaries; excessive severity would incite the radicals.

As always in Russia, a matter of justice had become a political battleground: Porfiry had found himself caught in the middle.

He tried to picture the journalists' faces. Had there been one among them whom he could identify as the writer of that letter? One man in whose eyes he had noticed a particular sympathy, the beginnings of a bond perhaps?

It seemed so long ago now. And at the time, he remembered, he had made a conscious effort to block out their faces, not to mention their pencils, sharpened for blood, hovering over their notebooks. If he had thought too much about what the press were going to write about him, he could not have done his job. He concentrated instead on the humanity of the young man whose terrible error had brought him to that courtroom. Yes, his error was grievous, his crimes appalling. But he was still a man. A human heart beat within his breast. He possessed a soul, one that had become infected with ideological disease admittedly, but a soul nevertheless. A soul capable of being saved. Indeed, it was the duty of all those older, wiser heads charged with the administration of justice judges, prosecutors, defence attorneys, all it was their duty to work together urgently to bring about this salvation. Porfiry had come to believe that Raskolnikov's soul was nothing other than the soul of Russia's youth. If they turned their back on him, they turned their back on a whole generation on the future, in fact.

And so, with this thought in mind, he had called for clemency. He had joined with those who urged that the accused be treated with compa.s.sion, as one suffering from a mental derangement.

In short, he had not called for the maximum sentence. Further, he had himself brought to light many of the strange psychological contradictions in the case that had helped to convince the jury of Raskolnikov's insanity and had so led to mitigation in sentencing.

Which of those journalists, he now wondered, would have viewed this conduct with approval? Porfiry paused in his circuit. He closed his eyes and tried once again to bring their faces to mind. Nothing. However, he felt sure that he would immediately recognise the individual should he come towards him now. He opened his eyes and looked about him hopefully. There were not many people about (why would anyone come to the Summer Garden when it was closed?), but none of the faces he saw struck a chord.

Porfiry took the letter from his pocket. The line he wished to consult was, 'It might have surprised you to read such an account in such a journal.' What could the writer have meant by that? he wondered.

He folded the letter along its creases and returned it to his pocket. He had not yet completed his circuit and was still early for the meeting; nevertheless, he turned and headed back to the northern gate.

He looked expectantly into the faces of everyone who approached, including the women, and even, rather foolishly, the children. Not once did he feel any glimmer of recognition. More to the point, it was clear that no one recognised him.

Sudden activity within the park drew his attention: the squeak of a handcart being pulled around by couple of workmen in long artisan's waistcoats. Porfiry was unduly excited to see that they were about to take the covers off the statues. He watched as they picked away at the first of the sheets, pulling it away to reveal a female figure, in the cla.s.sical style, semi-naked but nondescript. An allegory. Porfiry had to admit he was disappointed. She did not leap from the podium and run along the main avenue, her laughter tinkling stonily like dropped pebbles. Porfiry smiled at the fanciful image, which his imagination further embellished with the fantasy of the two workmen giving chase. In reality, the men simply busied themselves with folding up the redundant sheet, which they placed in the handcart, before moving on to the neighbouring sculpture.

Porfiry studied the statue that had been uncovered, wondering what the allegorical figure represented. She was depicted holding some kind of weapon, a rod or a sword of some kind. Of course, Porfiry realised, that was the fasces, the bundle of rods that symbolised the state's authority, a symbol also as he well knew, being a magistrate of its summary judicial power. Ah yes, he had contemplated this figure before, somewhere, if not here; drawn to it, perhaps, because of its particular relevance to him. She was Nemesis.

Porfiry consulted his watch again. It was now a quarter past the hour. He looked about him, his expectancy turned to unease, remembering another sentence in the letter. 'If this letter falls into the wrong hands, I will be dead by the time you come to meet me.'

He would give it till four o'clock, he decided.

Chits.

When Porfiry returned to his chambers later that afternoon, he found a small crowd of his colleagues already gathered there. As he entered the room, the mood of excitability that was clearly prevalent changed instantly. Everyone fell conspiratorially silent, regarding him with a mixture of glances, some guilty, others amused, but most pitying. He noticed, however, that they were unanimous in avoiding his eye.

He hung his coat on the stand without saying a word. Facing the room again, he acknowledged Nikodim Fomich's presence with an unsmiling nod. The chief of the Haymarket District Police Bureau received the greeting with a wince. His was the most pitying expression of all.

Also there was Virginsky, together with the clerk Zamyotov, as well as a number of other magistrates and clerks. There were about eight or nine men in all; perhaps not enough to truly const.i.tute a crowd, but when he had first entered, their frenzied activity and agitated shouts had given the impression of a much larger gathering. Besides which, his chambers were not large.

One or two of the men thought it best to make their escape at this moment, almost tiptoeing out of the room. The remnant a.s.sembled suspiciously around his desk. They seemed to be united in their determination to prevent him from seeing whatever was on it.

Porfiry looked enquiringly to Virginsky for an explanation.

'There has been a slight mishap. An administrative error, one might say.'

'It was his fault,' put in Zamyotov, quickly.

'That's not entirely true, Alexander Grigorevich, and you know it!' countered Virginsky.

'An easy enough mistake to make,' smoothed Nikodim Fomich, ever the genial uncle.

'What has happened?' enquired Porfiry.

'It is to do with the poster,' began Virginsky. 'Technically, Imperial State has done an excellent job, considering the time in which they managed to produce the posters. The reproduction of the photograph is excellent.'

Porfiry took a step forward. The men shielding his desk bristled and closed ranks.

'Please, stand aside.'

No one moved, although one man felt compelled to cough.

'If I may first explain,' offered Virginsky. 'There has been a misunderstanding. The system, if you like, caught us out.'

'Us?'

'Very well, it caught me out, if you prefer. It appears I may have filled in the wrong chit. However, I must say in my defence that I filled in the chit with which Alexander Grigorevich supplied me.'

'It was up to you to check it,' insisted Zamyotov.

'Yes, I was remiss in not looking more closely at the wording.'

'The colour. The colour should have told you.' Zamyotov shook his head mercilessly.

'And so, which chit did you fill in?' wondered Porfiry.

'I . . . well . . .' Virginsky reached behind him and held up a copy of the poster.

It was printed on flimsy newsprint, tangy with the smell of fresh ink. Porfiry recognised the strange doll-like face staring out as that of the victim. The pockmarks were somewhat less defined in the photograph, but noticeably there, especially on the forehead. The most conclusive distinguishing feature, for Porfiry at least, was the blank-eyed presence of death. And it was that that rendered the poster's solitary word, printed in large block type, so absurd.

'Wanted?' read Porfiry.

'Yes, I apparently filled out the chit for a Wanted poster . . .'

'Pink,' interjected Zamyotov, with condemnatory terseness.

'Instead of for an Information Concerning poster.'

'Lilac.'

'Did you not specify any other wording?' asked Porfiry.

'Well, yes, actually, I did. I detailed the circ.u.mstances surrounding the finding of the body, the possible time of his disappearance we believe, do we not, that he must have been deposited in the ca.n.a.l last year, just before or at the onset of winter? It must have been already cold, although not quite freezing, judging by the preservation of the body. I explained too about the changes to his appearance that had been wrought by the process of adipoceration. I drew particular attention to the pockmarks, and the unusually small size of the eyes. And I asked for anyone who might have any information regarding such an individual to make their presence known at their nearest police bureau.'

'Why did this wording not find its way onto the poster?'

'It seems that Imperial State ignored it, as it was not relevant to a Wanted poster, it being a Wanted poster chit that I had filled in.'

'You must take more care in future, Pavel Pavlovich. You know how important it is to pay attention to details when dealing with the bureaucracy.' Porfiry took the poster from Virginsky. 'Nevertheless, this will do. At least it will serve to publicise his face.'

'Are you not concerned that it will make us look rather . . . foolish?'

'I am more concerned that we find this man's killer, as soon as possible. Reprinting the poster will only occasion delay.'

Virginsky gave a quick consultative glance to some of the other magistrates, who nodded back encouragingly. 'But is there not the possibility that it may deter some individuals from coming forward? Friends of this man may not be willing to offer information if they think it is in connection with his arrest, whereas they might be very happy to help in tracking down his murderer.'

'But surely everyone will realise that he is dead? And that we cannot want to arrest a dead man?'

'We were talking about this before you came in, Porfiry Petrovich,' said Nikodim Fomich. 'I am afraid the prevailing view was that the poster will only confuse the public.'

A chorus of a.s.senting murmurs reinforced the Chief Superintendent's words.

Porfiry gave the poster back to Virginsky with a defeated air. 'Hold on to this copy, but return the rest to Imperial State. Perhaps they can print up a patch to be pasted over the offending word. And this time, Pavel Pavlovich, please take care to fill out the correct chit.'

'I am not sure what the correct chit is for a patch,' admitted Virginsky forlornly.

'Alexander Grigorevich will be able to advise you.'