OUR police captain, Mihail Makarovitch Makarov, a retired

lieutenant-colonel, was a widower and an excellent man. He had only

come to us three years previously, but had won general esteem, chiefly

because he "knew how to keep society together." He was never without

visitors, and could not have got on without them. Someone or other was

always dining with him; he never sat down to table without guests.

He gave regular dinners, too, on all sorts of occasions, sometimes

most surprising ones. Though the fare was not recherche, it was

abundant. The fish-pies were excellent, and the wine made up in

quantity for what it lacked in quality.

    The first room his guests entered was a well fitted billiard-room,

with pictures of English race horses, in black frames on the walls, an

essential decoration, as we all know, for a bachelor's

billiard-room. There was card playing every evening at his house, if

only at one table. But at frequent intervals, all the society of our

town, with the mammas and young ladies, assembled at his house to

dance. Mihail Makarovitch was a widower, he did not live alone. His

widowed daughter lived with him, with her two unmarried daughters,

grown-up girls, who had finished their education. They were of

agreeable appearance and lively character, and though everyone knew

they would have no dowry, they attracted all the young men of

fashion to their grandfather's house.

    Mihail Makarovitch was by no means very efficient in his work,

though he performed his duties no worse than many others. To speak

plainly, he was a man of rather narrow education. His understanding of

the limits of his administrative power could not always be relied

upon. It was not so much that he failed to grasp certain reforms

enacted during the present reign, as that he made conspicuous blunders

in his interpretation of them. This was not from any special lack of

intelligence, but from carelessness, for he was always in to great a

hurry to go into the subject.

    "I have the heart of a soldier rather than of a civilian," he used

to say of himself. He had not even formed a definite idea of the

fundamental principles of the reforms connected with the

emancipation of the serfs, and only picked it up, so to speak, from

year to year, involuntarily increasing his knowledge by practice.

And yet he was himself a landowner. Pyotr Ilyitch knew for certain

that he would meet some of Mihail Makarovitch's visitors there that

evening, but he didn't know which. As it happened, at that moment

the prosecutor, and Varvinsky, our district doctor, a young man, who

had only just come to us from Petersburg after taking a brilliant

degree at the Academy of Medicine, were playing whist at the police

captain's. Ippolit Kirillovitch, the prosecutor (he was really the

deputy prosecutor, but we always called him the prosecutor), was

rather a peculiar man, of about five and thirty, inclined to be

consumptive, and married to a fat and childless woman. He was vain and

irritable, though he had a good intellect, and even a kind heart. It

seemed that all that was wrong with him was that he had a better

opinion of himself than his ability warranted. And that made him

seem constantly uneasy. He had, moreover, certain higher, even

artistic, leanings, towards psychology, for instance, a special

study of the human heart, a special knowledge of the criminal and

his crime. He cherished a grievance on this ground, considering that

he had been passed over in the service, and being firmly persuaded

that in higher spheres he had not been properly appreciated, and had

enemies. In gloomy moments he even threatened to give up his post, and

practise as a barrister in criminal cases. The unexpected Karamazov

case agitated him profoundly: "It was a case that might well be talked

about all over Russia." But I am anticipating.

    Nikolay Parfenovitch Nelyudov, the young investigating lawyer, who

had only come from Petersburg two months before, was sitting in the

next room with the young ladies. People talked about it afterwards and

wondered that all the gentlemen should, as though intentionally, on

the evening of "the crime" have been gathered together at the house of

the executive authority. Yet it was perfectly simple and happened

quite naturally.

    Ippolit Kirillovitch's wife had had toothache for the last two

days, and he was obliged to go out to escape from her groans. The

doctor, from the very nature of his being, could not spend an

evening except at cards. Nikolay Parfenovitch Nelyudov had been

intending for three days past to drop in that evening at Mihail

Makarovitch's, so to speak casually, so as slyly to startle the eldest

granddaughter, Olga Mihailovna, by showing that he knew her secret,

that he knew it was her birthday, and that she was trying to conceal

it on purpose, so as not to be obliged to give a dance. He anticipated

a great deal of merriment, many playful jests about her age, and her

being afraid to reveal it, about his knowing her secret and telling

everybody, and so on. The charming young man was a great adept at such

teasing; the ladies had christened him "the naughty man," and he

seemed to be delighted at the name. He was extremely well-bred,

however, of good family, education and feelings, and, though leading a

life of pleasure, his sallies were always innocent and in good

taste. He was short, and delicate-looking. On his white, slender,

little fingers he always wore a number of big, glittering rings.

When he was engaged in his official duties, he always became

extraordinarily grave, as though realising his position and the

sanctity of the obligations laid upon him. He had a special gift for

mystifying murderers and other criminals of the peasant class during

interrogation, and if he did not win their respect, he certainly

succeeded in arousing their wonder.

    Pyotr Ilyitch was simply dumbfounded when he went into the

police captain's. He saw instantly that everyone knew. They had

positively thrown down their cards, all were standing up and

talking. Even Nikolay Parfenovitch had left the young ladies and run

in, looking strenuous and ready for action. Pyotr Ilyitch was met with

the astounding news that old Fyodor Pavlovitch really had been

murdered that evening in his own house, murdered and robbed. The

news had only just reached them in the following manner:

    Marfa Ignatyevna, the wife of old Grigory, who had been knocked

senseless near the fence, was sleeping soundly in her bed and might

well have slept till morning after the draught she had taken. But, all

of a sudden she waked up, no doubt roused by a fearful epileptic

scream from Smerdyakov, who was lying in the next room unconscious.

That scream always preceded his fits, and always terrified and upset

Marfa Ignatyevna. She could never get accustomed to it. She jumped

up and ran half-awake to Smerdyakov's room. But it was dark there, and

she could only hear the invalid beginning to gasp and struggle. Then

Marfa Ignatyevna herself screamed out and was going to call her

husband, but suddenly realised that when she had got up, he was not

beside her in bed. She ran back to the bedstead and began groping with

her hands, but the bed was really empty. Then he must have gone out

where? She ran to the steps and timidly called him. She got no answer,

of course, but she caught the sound of groans far away in the garden

in the darkness. She listened. The groans were repeated, and it was

evident they came from the garden.

    "Good Lord! just as it was with Lizaveta Smerdyashtchaya!" she

thought distractedly. She went timidly down the steps and saw that the

gate into the garden was open.

    "He must be out there, poor dear," she thought. She went up to the

gate and all at once she distinctly heard Grigory calling her by name,

Marfa! Marfa!" in a weak, moaning, dreadful voice.

    "Lord, preserve us from harm!" Marfa Ignatyevna murmured, and

ran towards the voice, and that was how she found Grigory. But she

found him not by the fence where he had been knocked down, but about

twenty paces off. It appeared later, that he had crawled away on

coming to himself, and probably had been a long time getting so far,

losing consciousness several times. She noticed at once that he was

covered with blood, and screamed at the top of her voice. Grigory

was muttering incoherently:

    "He has murdered... his father murdered.... Why scream, silly...

run... fetch someone..."

    But Marfa continued screaming, and seeing that her master's window

was open and that there was a candle alight in the window, she ran

there and began calling Fyodor Pavlovitch. But peeping in at the

window, she saw a fearful sight. Her master was lying on his back,

motionless, on the floor. His light-coloured dressing-gown and white

shirt were soaked with blood. The candle on the table brightly lighted

up the blood and the motionless dead face of Fyodor Pavlovitch.

    Terror-stricken, Marfa rushed away from the window, ran out of the

garden, drew the bolt of the big gate and ran headlong by the back way

to the neighbour, Marya Konndratyevna. Both mother and daughter were

asleep, but they waked up at Marfa's desperate and persistent

screaming and knocking at the shutter. Marfa, shrieking and

screaming incoherently, managed to tell them the main fact, and to beg

for assistance. It happened that Foma had come back from his

wanderings and was staying the night with them. They got him up

immediately and all three ran to the scene of the crime. On the way,

Marya Kondratyevna remembered that at about eight o'clock she heard

a dreadful scream from their garden, and this was no doubt Grigory's

scream, "Parricide!" uttered when he caught hold of Mitya's leg.

    "Some one person screamed out and then was silent," Marya

Kondratyevna explained as she ran. Running to the place where

Grigory lay, the two women with the help of Foma carried him to the

lodge. They lighted a candle and saw that Smerdyakov was no better,

that he was writhing in convulsions, his eyes fixed in a squint, and

that foam was flowing from his lips. They moistened Grigory's forehead

with water mixed with vinager, and the water revived him at once. He

asked immediately:

    "Is the master murdered?"

    Then Foma and both the women ran to the house and saw this time

that not only the window, but also the door into the garden was wide

open, though Fyodor Pavlovitch had for the last week locked himself in

every night and did not allow even Grigory to come in on any

pretext. Seeing that door open, they were afraid to go in to Fyodor

Pavlovitch "for fear anything should happen afterwards." And when they

returned to Grigory, the old man told them to go straight to the

police captain. Marya Kondratyevna ran there and gave the alarm to the

whole party at the police captain's. She arrived only five minutes

before Pyotr Ilyitch, so that his story came, not as his own surmise

and theory, but as the direct conformation by a witness, of the theory

held by all, as to the identity of the criminal (a theory he had in

the bottom of his heart refused to believe till that moment).

    It was resolved to act with energy. The deputy police inspector of

the town was commissioned to take four witnesses, to enter Fyodor

Pavlovitch's house and there to open an inquiry on the spot, according

to the regular forms, which I will not go into here. The district

doctor, a zealous man, new to his work, almost insisted on

accompanying the police captain, the prosecutor, and the investigating

lawyer.

    I will note briefly that Fyodor Pavlovitch was found to be quite

dead, with his skull battered in. But with what? Most likely with

the same weapon with which Grigory had been attacked. And

immediately that weapon was found, Grigory, to whom all possible

medical assistance was at once given, described in a weak and breaking

voice how he had been knocked down. They began looking with a

lantern by the fence and found the brass pestle dropped in a most

conspicuous place on the garden path. There were no signs of

disturbance in the room where Fyodor Pavlovitch was lying. But by

the bed, behind the screen, they picked up from the floor a big and

thick envelope with the inscription: "A present of three thousand

roubles for my angel Grushenka, if she is willing to come." And

below had been added by Fyodor Pavlovitch, "For my little chicken."

There were three seals of red sealing-wax on the envelope, but it

had been torn open and was empty: the money had been removed. They

found also on the floor a piece of narrow pink ribbon, with which

the envelope had been tied up.

    One piece of Pyotr Ilyitch's evidence made a great impression on

the prosecutor and the investigating magistrate, namely, his idea that

Dmitri Fyodorovitch would shoot himself before daybreak, that he had

resolved to do so, had spoken of it to Ilyitch, had taken the pistols,

loaded them before him, written a letter, put it in his pocket, etc.

When Pyotr Ilyitch, though still unwilling to believe in it,

threatened to tell someone so as to prevent the suicide, Mitya had

answered grinning: "You'll be too late." So they must make haste to

Mokroe to find the criminal, before he really did shoot himself.

    "That's clear, that's clear!" repeated the prosecutor in great

excitement. "That's just the way with mad fellows like that: 'I

shall kill myself to-morrow, so I'll make merry till I die!'"

    The story of how he had bought the wine and provisions excited the

prosecutor more than ever.

    "Do you remember the fellow that murdered a merchant called

Olsufyev, gentlemen? He stole fifteen hundred, went at once to have

his hair curled, and then, without even hiding the money, carrying

it almost in his hand in the same way, he went off to the girls."

    All were delayed, however, by the inquiry, the search, and the

formalities, etc., in the house of Fyodor Pavlovitch. It all took time

and so, two hours before starting, they sent on ahead to Mokroe the

officer of the rural police, Mavriky Mavrikyevitch Schmertsov, who had

arrived in the town the morning before to get his pay. He was

instructed to avoid raising the alarm when he reached Mokroe, but to

keep constant watch over the "criminal" till the arrival of the proper

authorities, to procure also witnesses for the arrest, police

constables, and so on. Mavriky Mavrikyevitch did as he was told,

preserving his incognito, and giving no one but his old

acquaintance, Trifon Borissovitch, the slightest hint of his secret

business. He had spoken to him just before Mitya met the landlord in

the balcony, looking for him in the dark, and noticed at once a change

in Trifon Borissovitch's face and voice. So neither Mitya nor anyone

else knew that he was being watched. The box with the pistols had been

carried off by Trifon Borissovitch and put in a suitable place. Only

after four o'clock, almost at sunrise, all the officials, the police

captain, the prosecutor, the investigating lawyer, drove up in two

carriages, each drawn by three horses. The doctor remained at Fyodor

Pavlovitch's to make a post-mortem next day on the body. But he was

particularly interested in the condition of the servant, Smerdyakov.

    "Such violent and protracted epileptic fits, recurring continually

for twenty-four hours, are rarely to be met with, and are of

interest to science," he declared enthusiastically to his

companions, and as they left they laughingly congratulated him on

his find. The prosecutor and the investigating lawyer distinctly

remembered the doctor's saying that Smerdyakov could not outlive the

night.

    After these long, but I think necessary explanations, we will

return to that moment of our tale at which we broke off.