“An alibi!” whispered Dyukovsky, grinning and rubbing his hands.

“Ah!  And why is it there’s blood under your master’s window!”

Nikolashka flung up his head and pondered.

“Think a little quicker,” said the police captain.

“In a minute.  That blood’s from a trifling matter, your honour.  I killed a hen; I cut her throat very simply in the usual way, and she fluttered out of my hands and took and ran off. . . .That’s what the blood’s from.”

Yefrem testified that Nikolashka really did kill a hen every evening and killed it in all sorts of places, and no one had seen the half-killed hen running about the garden, though of course it could not be positively denied that it had done so.

“An alibi,” laughed Dyukovsky, “and what an idiotic alibi.”

“Have you had relations with Akulka?”

“Yes, I have sinned.”

“And your master carried her off from you?”

“No, not at all.  It was this gentleman here, Mr. Psyekov, Ivan
Mihalitch, who enticed her from me, and the master took her from
Ivan Mihalitch.  That’s how it was.”

Psyekov looked confused and began rubbing his left eye.  Dyukovsky fastened his eyes upon him, detected his confusion, and started.  He saw on the steward’s legs dark blue trousers which he had not previously noticed.  The trousers reminded him of the blue threads found on the burdock.  Tchubikov in his turn glanced suspiciously at Psyekov.

“You can go!” he said to Nikolashka.  “And now allow me to put one question to you, Mr. Psyekov.  You were here, of course, on the Saturday of last week?

“Yes, at ten o’clock I had supper with Mark Ivanitch.”

“And afterwards?”

Psyekov was confused, and got up from the table.

“Afterwards . . . afterwards . . .  I really don’t remember,” he muttered.  “I had drunk a good deal on that occasion. . . .  I can’t remember where and when I went to bed. . . .  Why do you all look at me like that?  As though I had murdered him!”

“Where did you wake up?”

“I woke up in the servants’ kitchen on the stove . . . .  They can all confirm that.  How I got on to the stove I can’t say. . . .”

“Don’t disturb yourself . . .  Do you know Akulina?”

“Oh well, not particularly.”

“Did she leave you for Klyauzov?”

“Yes. . . .  Yefrem, bring some more mushrooms!  Will you have some tea, Yevgraf Kuzmitch?”

There followed an oppressive, painful silence that lasted for some five minutes.  Dyukovsky held his tongue, and kept his piercing eyes on Psyekov’s face, which gradually turned pale.  The silence was broken by Tchubikov.

“We must go to the big house,” he said, “and speak to the deceased’s sister, Marya Ivanovna.  She may give us some evidence.”

Tchubikov and his assistant thanked Psyekov for the lunch, then went off to the big house.  They found Klyauzov’s sister, a maiden lady of five and forty, on her knees before a high family shrine of ikons.  When she saw portfolios and caps adorned with cockades in her visitors’ hands, she turned pale.