Sherlock Holmes in Russia Read online

  ‘Nothing has been touched since the count left,’ said the young widow, leading us into a fairly large study. There were bookcases all round the walls, massive furniture, armchairs covered with dark yellow hide. Holmes stopped and silently examined the room. I, too, examined everything with great curiosity, seeking to penetrate whatever mystery was concealed here.

  Evidently, the count had a wide range of interests. Several works on a wide range of subjects by famous scholars lay on the desk. A naval globe stood on a large stand in one corner. Maps of different countries hung on stands, with handwritten notes on some of them, probably in the count’s own handwriting.

  But what attracted most attention was the back wall of the study. A huge, fluffy carpet, evidently of Indian make, covered the entire wall. Over it, different weapons were arranged in beautiful order. The weapons consisted of ancient arrows, bows, quivers, tomahawks, shields of rhinoceros hide, halberds and boomerangs. Between them were unusual little axes with long handles, the official swords of the English, French and German navies, Japanese weaponry, revolvers, and different sorts of firearms, many of which were official weapons of various armed forces.

  In the corner, touching the edge of the carpet, there were two tall, though not very deep cupboards with inlaid decorations. Inside them stood largely scholarly books.

  Sherlock Holmes, having made a superficial examination of the study, began a detailed examination of the papers on the desk. The side drawers were unlocked, but held nothing out of the ordinary.

  Once he had finished with the desk, Holmes began to examine the floor. He moved the furniture, shelves, poked about under the bookcases with a stick, bringing out papers and all sorts of rubbish.

  He examined every bit of paper with especial interest. Suddenly, he gestured me to come close. ‘Please look at this,’ he said, handing me a torn envelope. This was an ordinary envelope, of average shape and size, addressed to the count from Calcutta. The address was written in English. The handwriting was poor, but the writing instrument had been pressed hard on the paper. There was a British colonial stamp. But what hit the eye was a strange seal on the envelope. It was elliptical in shape, just over an inch in length. In the middle, there were three left legs, with long lines below the knees on every single one.

  ‘What does this seem to you?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘A very strange seal,’ was all I could say.

  ‘And you find nothing about it to tie it to the count?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing.’

  ‘There were three of them,’ said Holmes, deep in thought.

  ‘Three of whom or what?’ I asked.

  ‘Three people with scars on their left leg,’ Holmes answered seriously. ‘Those long lines across the legs evidently stand for scars. But then, the late count also had a scar on his leg—’

  For a minute he was deep in thought, then suddenly exclaimed, ‘Tadjidi!’

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked in surprise.

  ‘Oh, it’s all fully come back to me. In India, my dear Watson, there is a small tribe called Tadjidi. They live not far from Bombay, and are distinguished by their bloody rites. Blood accompanies every rite of passage in their lives. At birth, the baby’s ears and nostrils are pierced for decoration. Bride and groom, on marriage, have symbolic signs of loyalty cut into their skin. At burial, the widow is burnt alive on a pyre, and so on. There is a ritual, which consists of an oath not to reveal mutual secrets. Those who undergo this ritual of mutual secrecy have to cut long and deep gashes on their left leg. The count had been in Bombay at some point and it is very likely that he is bound by oath with two other people, of whom at least one belongs to the Tadjidi tribe.’

  Holmes placed the envelope in a notebook and resumed his searches.

  For some time he stood before the cupboards examining the inlays, looking at the cupboards from all sides. Next he tried to open the drawers in the desk that were locked, using the master keys he always carried with him. He failed and stepped back. ‘Well, enough for today,’ he said and went up to the countess. ‘Before leaving, I have a question.’

  ‘I am at your service,’ answered the young woman. She had paid minute attention to his every word.

  ‘What was your maiden name?’

  ‘Benaliradjewa,’ she answered.

  Sherlock Holmes and I both looked at her in amazement.

  ‘What an unusual surname?’ muttered Holmes. ‘You and the count carried different surnames and till his letter arrived, couldn’t you have guessed he was not your father?’

  ‘Strange, isn’t it,’ said the countess. ‘I was far too naïve, and I’d never heard the count addressed by his surname, only by his first name and patronymic. I just assumed we had the same surname. The other pupils didn’t seem to know anything. The headmistress probably knew, but said nothing.’

  ‘Aha!’ mumbled Holmes and made his farewells.

  VIII

  Leaving the countess, we strolled along Bolhovsky Street, booking into a hotel. Holmes asked for stationery and sat down to write letters to someone. He then went to the post office and when he came back, said to me, ‘My dear Watson, there’s night work for us today and every day this week. I hope you’ll agree to accompany me, if only to be a witness to the solution of one of the most mysterious murders ever committed.’

  ‘That would give me great pleasure,’ was my reply.

  ‘Splendid!’ Holmes nodded his head. ‘In the meantime, we must find a library or a reading room which not only subscribes to English newspapers but keeps them for reference.’

  We went out in search of such an institution. But wherever we went, either English newspapers were unavailable or they were only kept for a year or two at most. Holmes was in despair.

  But in one of the libraries we were advised to look up an elderly Englishman called Dewlay, who had spent most of his life in Oriol. He had been a chemist, and then opened a chemical dye works, which allowed him a good income. We got the address and made our way to him. Very soon, quite unceremoniously, we introduced ourselves to him, much to his joy.

  When we told him what we needed, old Mr Dewlay nodded smugly. ‘Oh, in rereading our old newspapers, I find consolation in this barbaric land,’ he said with pride. ‘I’ve been getting The Times for twenty-eight years, and not a single page is missing.’

  His apartment was in the same courtyard as his dye works. He took us there, introduced us to his wife and had the old newspapers brought to us.

  The Times newspapers for each year were neatly arranged separately, which made Holmes’s search so much simpler. Holmes thought for a moment and asked for those newspapers which had come out nineteen, twenty and twenty-one years ago.

  Our gracious host ordered whisky and soda and we helped ourselves to an Englishman’s favorite tipple, while Holmes delved into the yellowed newspapers.

  Over an hour passed. And then Sherlock Holmes joyfully struck the heap of newspapers with the palm of his hand. ‘That’s it!’ he exclaimed happily. ‘Come here, my dear Watson. Let me show you something very unusual, even though this newspaper is all of twenty years old.’

  I hastened to his side.

  ‘In your opinion, my dear Watson, who could our beautiful client possibly be?’

  ‘The countess?’ I asked, my curiosity excited.

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘How am I to know?’ I shrugged my shoulders.

  ‘I expect you to say, a poor girl of mixed race, adopted by the count.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Sherlock Holmes smiled enigmatically. ‘It would be a great mistake to think that,’ he answered. ‘Just imagine, Watson, that in her own homeland hers was a much higher status, and that she would have been infinitely richer, despite being a countess here, than the count’s fortune.’

  ‘Damn me, if I follow what you are saying!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘All this I discovered very simply,’ said Holmes imperturbably. ‘Surely, Watson, in listening to the countess’s account of her origins, you must
’ve sensed considerable strains and gaps.’

  ‘Of course I have,’ I admitted. ‘But, then, what can a woman say who knows nothing about herself and can only describe her past from someone else’s account.’

  ‘You are quite right,’ Holmes agreed. ‘But doesn’t that mean that whoever told her of her past, lied. If he hadn’t lied, her story wouldn’t have suffered from such defects.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘That’s just it! Listening to the countess, it immediately occurred to me that the greatest doubt came over me only when she gave her maiden name, Benaliradjewa. Isn’t it strange, to give such a name to a child who is to be taken away to Russia, baptized and given a Russian education? Besides, the surname is a genuine one; it wasn’t made up. I remember too well the name which resounded up and down India in its time. And here it is again. Let me read something to you from days gone by ‘

  Holmes lifted a yellowing newspaper sheet and read:

  Telegram from the colonies.

  India. Bombay.

  The local population is tremendously upset by a particularly audacious theft which took place not far from Bombay from the palace of the rajah, Ben-Ali. Ben-Ali, much respected by all, famed for his riches and influence over the local population, went hunting, leaving his year-old daughter at home. Rajah Ben-Ali, a handsome man, is married to an Englishwoman from a good family. This is why Irra’s skin is more European than Indian. Irra, an only daughter, was worshipped by her family. When Ben-Ali was setting off for the hunt, Irra and her nurse were walking in the palace vicinity. When the nurse and baby hadn’t returned for some time, the alarm was raised. The nurse was found by the roadside, stabbed to death in her bosom. The baby had vanished. Now a full alarm was raised. Thousands of horsemen and men on foot were sent out in all directions, but in vain. Irra had vanished. The rajah returned, widened the search and offered a huge reward for his daughter’s return, but to no avail. The British police joined in the search.

  Sherlock Holmes lowered the newspaper and looked at me.

  I was visibly upset.

  ‘And you think—’ I began, but Holmes interrupted me.

  ‘Little Irra, daughter of Rajah Ben-Ali, kidnapped twenty years ago near Bombay, is found. The sole heiress of one of the richest men in India has become a Russian countess.’

  Holmes fell deep into silent thought. Then, ‘Indeed, my dear Watson, we have to act with great care. There is a mystery attached to the life of this young woman and our task is to resolve it.’

  Having spent a half-hour in the company of Mr Dewlay, we bade farewell to our cordial host and left.

  IX

  But we didn’t return to our hotel. Outside, Holmes seemed to consider something. ‘First of all, we have to fortify ourselves with a good portion of roast beef or something else. Let’s find a restaurant, Watson, before night falls.’

  We found a restaurant, where we ordered cold roast beef and fried chicken with rice. Our appetite satiated, Holmes turned to me, ‘I shall ask you, my dear Watson, to spend the night at the home of the countess. Say nothing of our discovery. Watch the yard and street with great vigilance. I am off to the cemetery, and shall join you at the countess’s in the morning. She will have to tell the servants that you are a close relation of her husband and that you come from some other town.’

  We parted. I carried out Holmes’s instructions to the letter. For some reason, it did appear to me that the countess was being watched, and I advised her to change her bedroom for the time being, to the other end of the apartment. She did as I suggested and moved into a small sitting room, which only opened into a second one.

  At eleven she retired. I switched off all the lights, tested the locks and placed myself on watch. I took off my shoes and moved silently from room to room, diligently watching the yard and street.

  I wasn’t the only one doing guard duty. Outside, there were two sizable Alsatians that could have handled a bear. During the day, they were chained up, while at night they were let loose. They let nobody pass, except the count, countess and the cook, who fed and chained them up or released them as necessary.

  I passed from room to room, looking out for anything suspicious. The street was like any street. An occasional late passer-by disturbed the silence and finally all was still. Dawn began to break and carts from the villages broke the stillness on their way to market. Morning, and the town took on its usual appearance.

  Holmes appeared at eight. I could see from his face that he had achieved nothing. I reported that I, too, had seen nothing. He announced, however, that he was persevering with his original plan and suggested we catch up on our sleep at our hotel.

  No point in describing the next four days in detail. They were all the same. Holmes spent day and night at the cemetery, while I stayed in the apartment of the countess. She acceded to Holmes’s advice not to leave the house, confining herself to a brief turn round the yard.

  X

  Came Saturday. It was the fifth day of our uninterrupted watch, and I felt somewhat tired. Evening approached. All these days I had only slept in fits and starts. It was with less than pleasure that I looked forward to another sleepless night. Moreover, the young countess was beginning to look as if she was weary of our futile efforts. She had even begun to scoff at Sherlock Holmes’s genius. Yet more and more her voice held notes of sadness.

  That evening she read some French novel and retired early. I was about to switch off the lights, when I suddenly heard her voice. ‘Mr Watson! Mr Watson!’ she cried out anxiously.

  I hastened into the sitting room beside her bedroom. She stood in the middle of the room, pale and trembling, dressed in a pale blue housecoat which she had hastily thrown on.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I asked.

  ‘Were you in my bedroom?’ she asked, looking me in the eye.

  ‘Whatever for?’ I asked in surprise.

  ‘What about Mr Holmes?’ she asked.

  I shrugged. ‘Mr Holmes was here at the break of dawn today. He merely said a few words to me and left immediately,’ I said.

  ‘And nobody, but nobody else, entered the house?’

  ‘I can confirm that.’

  She raised her beautiful hand and proffered me a small unsealed envelope. ‘In that case, you may be able to explain what this letter means and how it came to be on the pillow on my bed.’

  Bewildered, I accepted the letter. The address was typewritten.

  ‘Countess,’ wrote its anonymous author, ‘although you don’t know me, nonetheless I am your friend. Circumstances, which came about because of your husband’s trust in me, have entangled me in your family secrets. I beg of you, by all that’s sacred, please listen to me. You are in the most terrible danger. Don’t leave the house, not by so much as a step. Not even in the yard. And always carry a weapon. Just in case, beware even of the servants. I know that some detective is living in your house. Please tell him to be more careful and not show himself so openly at windows. He can watch over you just as well with dimmed lights and drawn curtains. Have courage. All will be for the best. Your well-wisher.’

  I had hardly opened my mouth to say something, when I was shaken to hear a noise at my back. The countess screamed and held on to a chair for support. I turned quickly. Sherlock Holmes was standing in the doorway, a look of glee on his face.

  ‘Dear God, how you frightened me!’ exclaimed the countess, recognizing him.

  ‘Forgive me, but there was an important reason why I came in without ringing the doorbell,’ he answered.

  ‘But how did you manage to get in?’ wondered the countess.

  ‘No need for any special talent,’ answered Holmes with a shrug. ‘My friend Dr Watson does not possess the talent of a detective. Here he is guarding the house, yet he left a window open in the corridor. Anyone could get in easily from the street.’

  I was too disconcerted to say anything.

  XI

  ‘There we are, then!’ exclaimed the countess. ‘At least I now know who entered th
e house and slipped a letter on my pillow. Mr Holmes, you did that most skillfully.’

  A puzzled look appeared on Holmes’s face. ‘Do I take it that you are insinuating I was here and slipped you a letter surreptitiously?’ he asked.

  ‘So you weren’t here?’ the countess asked sarcastically.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d let me have a look at the letter,’ Holmes said, a solemn note in his voice.

  I handed him the letter. Holmes examined every line carefully, then looked again through a magnifying glass and for some reason even gave it a lick with his tongue.

  The countess and I watched him with curiosity.

  ‘Whoever wrote this letter, wept over it,’ he said suddenly.

  The full meaning of this sentence hadn’t penetrated when suddenly Holmes looked at the countess fixedly and said slowly, ‘This letter was written by … your husband.’

  A piercing scream burst from the young woman’s bosom. And if I hadn’t managed to get to her side in time to support her, she would have collapsed on the floor.

  It took some minutes to calm her. As soon as she had recovered, she asked, ‘My husband? My God! For God’s sake, explain immediately what you mean by that.’

  ‘Nothing more or nothing else than that he is alive, that nobody cut him into pieces,’ said Holmes speaking with great clarity.

  The countess pressed one hand to her heart and with the other frantically seized Holmes by the hand, ‘It can’t be! For God’s sake … it’s about time you told everything.’

  ‘First of all, calm yourself and sit down,’ Holmes said.

  The countess obeyed and sank into a chair in agitation.

  ‘And so, listen,’ Holmes began speaking seriously. ‘I don’t know the details, but I shall relate the whole course of events to you in general terms as I am sure they happened. Watson, do listen, but at the same time watch the street. Extinguish the lights and let’s move to the dining room. And so, I begin,’ he started again as soon as his instructions had been followed and I had sat down by the drawn curtains, while he and the countess sat down beside me. ‘Unlike the count, I see no reason to make a secret of your origins. Twenty years ago, you, the year-old daughter of the famous Rajah Ben-Ali was kidnapped by three evildoers, one of whom was the count himself.’